On Pollyannas, Sore Asses, Illnesses, and IronMAJ

It was the Best of Times; it was the Worst of Times.

OK, Dickens references are admittedly played-out. Let's just say it's been a Good News/Bad News kinda week.

Good News: I rounded out the highest-volume training week of my life last week with 12+ miles of running, 5500 yards of swimming, and 140 miles of cycling - and, best of all, because I'd been increasing volume gradually, eating enough protein, recovering and sleeping, and cutting back on booze and caffeine (almost completely), I ended the week without mishap.

Or so I thought.

Bad News: Sunday night through Tuesday morning my temperature skyrocketed and my body ached. TMFI alert: the area where two lumpy bruises had sprouted (presumably saddle sores, because they seemed merely ingrown hairs a few weeks ago) was now red and swollen all over like a baboon's bottom. On Monday, the doctor declared them infected saddle sores and I laid home two days with antibiotics trying to break the fever.

Wednesday rolled around, and Good News: the swollen area was "softer" and the fever was gone. Bad News: now there was a new, sore, red, swollen spot on the front of my left thigh near my hip and a weird rash on my right arm that the doc hasn't even seen. She put me on a different antibiotic, told me she didn't have to drain it (good news), but then scrunched up her face (bad news), explained that this is progressing very "strangely," added something about cellulitis, shook her head and sent me for bloodwork.

Bad News: I forgot my insurance card. Good(?) News: they have it on file because I'm there getting blood drawn so often.

So here I sit, on my new antibiotic, contemplating one of my prescription painkillers, preparing for another Epsom salts soak, and it is impossible not to think something I have promised not to think as much, or blog about anymore: What next?, Why me?, and, When will it stop?   I mean, I can't get just a few bumps that go away with new shorts, time off, and antibiotic ointment.  No, I have to be the one who gets the weird shit that keeps me home from work, bottomless, for days - and may derail IronMAJ altogether. 

Plain and simple, I am tired.  I am tired of being the sick person, tired of going on and off prescriptions, tired of getting stuck with needles, tired of feeling sick. (And this is just the physical stuff. Forget financial, emotional, professional.)   So part of me asks, Meggan, why do you even try at all? It would be so much easier to simply throw in the towel.  After all, things MAY not get better. There's an equal chance they may actually get worse.  

I know what you're probably thinking right now. You're thinking, that's not a very good attitude, or don't act like a victim, or (most commonly) you need to think positive thoughts.

But being positive is much more than just being a Pollyanna, going around blowing sunshine up everyone's ass all the time about if you think it, it will happen (don't get me wrong, I believe that, too).  Being positive is knowing that the best may happen, but that the worst also might.  It's understanding that it's not how we deal with the best of times that shows our strength, it's how we handle the worst.

No, things might not get better.  But that's exactly why you can't give up.  You can't give up, because then it wins. And if it wins - it being the universe, luck, the illness, whatever - then instead of a 50% chance things won't improve - there is no chance.

So what do you do? 

You ask why me, what next, when will it stop, and why don't I just give up?

And then you fight even harder.

So, what's the best that could happen?  A week or so off the bike and possibly out of the water (no way in hell am I wearing a swimsuit bottom around that poor sore lump right now!)  And the worst that could happen?  I have to give up the century and possibly the 5k swim.  But even that doesn't mean I can't run (reasonably, once the infection clears a bit).  I've already completed most of the swim and most of the cycling portion of the IronMAJ.  I've already gone almost 100 miles.  I have almost swam almost 3.  I've already gone farther than I've ever gone in my life.

And there is still a Rock'n'Roll Marathon in Savannah in November.  (As I love to say . . . that 26.2 miles ain't gonna run itself.)

Things may get better.

They may get worse.

Either way, I'm going to come out swinging.

Rock'n'Roll.

The futile search for perfection continues.

Comedy of errors or disaster? You decide.

By all measures, last night should have been the perfect training night. I left work right at 5; traffic was great and I was home before 6. (My temporary commute of 20+ miles each way is killing me, but I'm making the most of it, flip-flopping between packing every night so I can hit the Y here and going straight home for my outdoor rides.) I had decided to ride in my neighorhood and lift weights at my complex's gym to keep my schedule streamlined and get to dinner and in bed before 10. There was still light out, but I had my clip-on flashing beacon for the later part of the ride. When I pulled into my driveway, I was pumped, ready to slap on my shorts and run, because everything inside my house was packed and ready to go.

Except my house keys.

After several panicked moments of digging through my purse, I realized that, after Tuesday night's workout, I had left them in my swim bag (my locker key is on the same key ring). I made a panicked call to my ex-husband (now roommate) to find out when he was going to be home to let me in. Not until much later, he told me. Like, 8 or 9 later. NOT GOOD. 9 or 10 is when Meggan needs to be in bed. Lack of sleep has seriously hindered my training in the past, and I really need to catch up on it, because I frequently find myself unable to sit up straight by Friday afternoon. What's my next option? I thought. Try to sneak in the garage?

Perfect!

Nope. My garage door opener was not working. Which meant I was dead in the water. That phone call and a quick run to CVS for a couple of Clif bars and some batteries set me back nearly an hour, destroying my chances of working out and eating before bedtime. (Bear in mind that we have an exterior-access keypad, but my ex-husband has the owner's manual and never bothered to look up how to re-set the code or find the manual for me so I could do it. Just like the fridge and freezer aren't working and he hasn't fixed them. Just like he didn't have the lock repaired on the front door. Just like the re-key didn't quite take on one of the doors and he hasn't had it fixed. Just like he hadn't fixed both garage door openers when all they needed was batteries.) Anyway. I basically puttered around until he came home, then sent a panicked e-mail to The Elf about my schedule.

I guess I'm so used to being self-educated, trained and coached that I keep overthinking everything. Maybe this goes along with the compulsive tendencies that manifest themselves in my disordered eating, but I worry about everything, and training is no exception. In fact, training is an even greater concern some times. Perhaps the heightened sensitivity is in direct proportion to the relevance I've placed on this goal (the completion of my first 70.3, something I've never even dreamed possible, but finally see within my grasp, thanks to my coach and the IronDawn and the last few years of training and the support of you guys). There are really two parts to my biggest training-related fears: the things I can control, and the things I can't. I know it is irrational to fear things I can't control, but I do. My GREATEST fear, every day, is what happens if I can't make my workout(s) today?!!! This inevitably leads to Oh my God! I will have to miss FL HIM!!!

This is illogical. First of all, 2008 FL HIM is not the last 70.3 I will ever enter. I missed my first marathon (Mercedes, Birmingham, mountains, February) and ended up training better and being more prepared for Philly later in the year (flatter, cooler, November, more things to do.) And, it seems like common sense that, when my schedule is tight, doing anything on my training schedule is better than doing nothing, but I didn't realize that completely until The Elf reminded me at the beginning of the season. Then I felt like . . . DUH . . . Meggan . . . you've always felt that way about working out. For example, every day I park in the farthest parking spot and take the stairs to/from my 2nd story office (no exceptions!) Second, I have lots of health problems, right now I have some drama, and I'm in between two sides of town commuting 50 miles a day or more. So there is a LOT I can't control. Worrying about it does nothing but stress me. And stress does nothing but destroy the quality of my training. (AND my life, but training is my favorite part of my life right now.)

As far as the things I can control? One thing I'm doing, starting today, is putting my gym locker key and my house key on different key rings, so if I ever leave my gym locker key in one of my workout bags my house keys are not stuck somewhere inside with it! I'm also carrying a "laundry" bag with me, so no matter where I am, I don't have to take my pre-packed swim and gym bags inside - I just take the dirty stuff to/from the house. Then the only thing I will have to "take" from home is my bike and fresh shorts/tops/pants, whatever.

The moral of the story? The search for perfection is futile. Continually striving for it will only set me up for dissapointment and/or failure. I can only reach for the best I can do. I can only give as much as I can give. Whatever isn't in my control - and even I'm not in my own control some times - is also beyond my knowledge. All I can do is deal with it as it comes and steer around it the best I can.

I am, after all, at the helm of this ship.

Consistency in Times of Chaos

I know what you're thinking by now.

Where is this crazy b*$&h?

I haven't seen her in weeks.

Months, maybe.

What the hell is her deal?

Is she still blogging?

Is she still working?

Is she still training?

Is she even breathing?

******************************************************

The answer to every single one of the questions above (with the exception of the first) is, absolutely, undoubtedly, resoundingly:

YES.

I am still here. Living, breathing, working, blogging - yes, even training. I am trying to do EXACTLY what the Elf tells me.

As always, I'm struggling.

******************************************************

The truth is, I've been doing a lot of sacking up and living dangerously the past few months, and it hasn't turned out quite as planned, or expected, or even dreamed. When I initially blogged about growing the proverbial pair and learning to take the proverbial bull by the horns in my life, I truly had no idea what I was in for. I should have known that my newly discovered vim, vigor and spunk could lead me down a treacherously twisting, daringly dramatic and somewhat scary path when the entry in question frightened even the Great Gutsy Tea-inator. But, in true Meggan Ann fashion, I threw caution to the wind, nonchalantly dismissed concerns, and surged boldly forward.

The result?

It's going to sound like a made-for-TV movie, and you're probably not even going to buy it all, but here goes. Since I made that initial entry on December 2 (a little over two months ago), I have:

• Started dating again and acquired a boyfriend
• Had the cops called on New Beau by my ex-husband
• Got kicked out of my house by my ex-husband and his mother
• Kept trying to train
• Moved into a very shitty, cheap extended-stay hotel in a bad part of town
• Spent what seemed like aeons with negative bank statements because of the displacement
• Kept trying to train
• Had ex-husband refuse to help with the overdraft charges
• Had to drop out of class because of the stress
• Gained at least 15 pounds back because I could only eat the cheapest, shittiest food possible for months (goodbye, Whole Foods - hello, Mickey D's . . . *barf* )
• Kept training
• Had a bladder infection and 3 different GI issues (not to give you TMI, but I've spent the better part of 2008 with diarrhea. I'm calling stress on that one.)
• Lost my job
• Finalized my divorce - but was late on the way to the hearing because it took me nearly two hours to get through traffic because not only did two different fender-benders happen right in front of me, Orlando had a tragic pedestrain accident on I-4
• Kept training
• Drank too much
• Begun closing proceedings on my townhouse
• Had to re-do my first base week twice
• Had to re-do my first test week twice
• Had my closing postponed 3 times
• Got a new job
• Kept training
• Learned I suck at heart rate monitors
• Wrenched my knee falling in a pair of fuck-me pumps
• Broke up with new boyfriend
• Accepted my ex-husband's offer to move back in so I could keep my bank accounts positive
• Now have piles of laundry to do to remove the stench of old-hotel, ex-smoker-dwelling from my clothing
• Kept training

Jesus help us. God and Baby Jesus help us.

I swear, though, that it's all completely unfalsified. (Is that even a word? Who cares. You should know by now that Megganese is not necessarily English anyway.)

So, that's the scoop on the poop. Yesterday's workout was a swim, but I find myself frequently swapping Mondays for Fridays as my off days because I had to move out of the craphole apartment (could not afford it any longer.) Through all of the madness, I've kept training. Now that I'm back in a clean, free place and I am getting settled in a new job, I am looking forward to being able to follow my training schedule to the letter.

Tonight's mission, should I choose to accept it? Run, unpack and do laundry.

This blog will self-destruct in 5 seconds.

By the way . . . my ass hurts from getting back into aero.

The best-laid plans of mice and Meggan

Some times I get really, really sleepy. It's kind of hard to stay awake. I have to remind myself: your body is fighting to keep you from passing out all the time, keep your heart beat going the right way, keep the fluid and grains in your inner ears all settled, and you're borderline narco. (Oh yeah, let's not forget the injured legs and the fact that sleepiness is also a side effect of all the meds I take.)

Anywho, Tuesday night I was exhausted, so I decided I would sleep yesterday morning - after all, an extra day of rest can't hurt the legs, right? So I slept. While getting ready, though, I was seized by an utterly unexplainable fit of guilt. I was running late to work, but I spent 5 extra minutes packing a runnning clothes. I went home at lunch and grabbed my shower kit and a towel in case I got a chance to shower in between work, running and class. I cut my lunch short so I could leave work a few minutes early. Then on the way, I started to hear reports about hail, and I took the backroads because the weather had traffic so backed up on the interstate. Despite my efforts, I got to campus 10 minutes before the class started. (That's just enough time to pee, grab a pita for dinner, and get to the classroom on time.) Even though I had made a conscious decision not to work out, even though I was dressed in my running clothes and it was mother nature's fault I didn't get in a run, I felt guilty for the rest of the night.

Amazingly enough, I wasn't feeling too tired when I got home from class, but I gave myself permission to sleep if I needed it this morning. I woke up at 6am, hit snooze, and fell back asleep. I awoke briefly at 6:30, hit snooze again and went back to sleep. Then I woke up just before 7, and I realized something was wrong.

Wait a minute. Snooze is only 10 minutes. How can I hit snooze twice and snooze for an entire hour? And why didn't I hear the radio? I got up and inspected the radio. Turns out, I had never hit snooze. My body had just woken up and gone back to sleep on its on. Creepy.

It appears I still had the alarm set for 7am (that's when I wake up on rest days) and not 6 (when I wake up on short workout days). I was supposed to go to work early today anyway, because I have to leave in time for my massage, which is at 6 on the other side of town (and which takes me an entire hour to get to). So, even though I made a conscious decision not to work out if I was tired, even though I didn't know the alarm was set wrong, even though I needed to get to work early anyway, I've been guilty for the rest of the day.

I know I can run again. I did it this week. Very soon, I will be back on track with full time training. Half of me doesn't want to rest so I don't have to start over from scratch, and the other half is begging me to take advantage of the downtime and rest. Yet, when I do, I feel just plain guilty.