Flashback Friday: A Collection From Old Blogs

Small sweet victories

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

Sometimes it's not the elephants in life that make everything worthwhile - sometimes it's the itty-bitty, teensie-weensie pleasures. Like a nice, fluffy down pillow and a hot water bottle on a cool night. A warm, heady kiss; a bold, rich glass of red wine; unexpected laughter and water lapping at the edges of a rocky shore. A soft, clear day with a dry, almost crackling breeze and a perfectly transulcent blue sky; the whisper of change on the air and electric energy in your stepwhen you're thinking creatively. The silence of a blissfully quiet and unoccupied stretch of hours spent in unplanned meditation; even a wrong turn that makes a drive last a little longer than expected when a good song is playing.

That's the kind of weekend I've had. Oh, there were plenty of elephants. But I managed to nibble through most of them. Enough of them to come away from a grueling 48 hours of work with my head still on straight. Enough to learn a few lessons and earn a few compliments. Enough to connect with some old friends and make some new.   All the stress aside, I felt like a human being . . . not a human doing. And yes, next weekend I'll be running a marathon, and yes, 26.2 miles and 3 days in a big city alone and a first-class flight are all well and good . . . and huge. And I'm sure I'll be very satisfied and proud of myself when it's all over.

But sometimes the sweetest victories are the smallest.

-circa 2007

Almost a Marathon, Part Deux

FIRST: HUUUUUUUUUUGE apologies for my non-visitation of your bloggies, my friends. I am a bad, slack-ass e-friend. I promise to do better over the next few weeks. PROMISE!

So, here I am, at the Tides Waterfront Hotel in Melbourne, Florida, on the eve of my second marathon.


This marathon is spiritually (if not statistically) significant for me. While I learned a lot from Philly, as a person and an athlete, I was not going through as many personal crises and had more time to focus on self-awareness and self-awakening as I wandered the streets of Philly alone. Now there's the financial crisis, my health crises, emotional crises and recent "breakup." (Sure, we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend, but when you go from someone's 'baby' to nothing, it hurts.) Of course, all of this was starting around the time I did Philly, and my marriage was falling apart, but I felt so hopeful and alive when I was there, like an explorer cracking open a map to an exciting, if not frightening, foreign world.


Melbourne is only an hour away from home, the weather and the people are the same I've always known, and I'm already alone, so it's not like I'm doing anything different.


But that is also advantageous, I suppose. My hotel is only 1 mile from the start of the race, so I have only 1 mile to walk to the start, no trains or cabs to catch, and I can sleep until 5am - hell, let's be honest, 5:30 if I want. I have more experience, a better strategy, and some amazing friends. Tomorrow's weather is going to start in the 50s and be clear, end up in the high 60s (read: no freezing rain!), my sinusitis is not even A QUARTER as bad as it was before Philly, and I'm down 19 pounds now, so I'm almost the size I was for that race.

Without further adieu, some random facts about this race . . .

1. This is the FIRST race I've ever broken in. There's never been a Melbourne and the Beaches Marathon before.
2. Bill Rodgers is here. It's a Master's Championship race.
3. The toilet paper holder here is at an angle and the TP keeps slipping off the holder.
4. Of course I'm wearing red. Red is my Power Color.
5. I'm number 1594. This number means nothing to me. But I don't care. I have my lucky gloves, lucky necklace, and a lot of personal angst that I hope will fuel me through 6 hours of running.
6. I was just told 1594 breaks down to the number 10 in numerology, which means a leader or pioneer with timeless freedom from limitations and eternal conscious energy. WHOA.
7. This marathon has four bridge crossings. Not 1, not 3, but FOUR. It's a two-loop 13.1-mile course, which is both frustrating and encouraging. At least I can use mental "markers" to help me get through rough spots instead of searching ahead, wondering what's next.
8. I am following the same strategy I started with, a run/walk plan. This is based partly on my Philly experience. If I hadn't stopped to pee and lost my pace group, the run/walk strategy could have taken me to a finish an hour and a half sooner, if not an hour.
9. Bondi Bands, baby! I got a pink one that says 26.2, a red one that says TRI GIRL, and a snazzy patterned one with other colors on it.

Tonight I've got a couple songs going through my head. And, as we all know, this has a lot to do with tomorrow's marathon.

Try a little help from my friends



and


I’ve got another confession my friend

I’m no fool
I’m getting tired of starting again
Somewhere new
Were you born to resist or be abused?

I swear I’ll never give in

I refuse
Is someone getting the best, the best, the best, the best of you?


And the beat goes on . . .


You'll notice this title is "almost a marathon," not "almost a marathon-ER" as it was for Philly. Well, duh. That's because I already AM a marathoner. As bad as tomorrow could be, even if I were to give up (which we all know I'm not), nothing and no one can take away from me that I'm already capable of covering 26.2 miles, or work out for 6-9 hours straight, on my own will alone.


And now we're going to cover an exercise we use in Positive Psychology. It's called What's the Worst That Could Happen? (It's also called What's the Best That Could Happen?) Basically, this is a Self-Induced, Big Fat Reality Check. What you do is this: when something (or things) really bother(s) you, you sit down and ask yourself: What's the Worst That Could Happen? You have to get as ridiculous as possible. Preposterous, out of control, impossibly horrible. To the point where you're in tears laughing because you KNOW that there is no way in HELL (or heaven) that a SINGLE part of what you're thinking could happen.


For example, about my relationships, I could say: "Well, the guy doesn't want to date me." No, worse than that. "NO guy wants to date me." No, worse than that. "No one wants to be around me." Then you eventually end up dying alone from some non-existent flesh-eating disease that you contracted because you got chase across country by man-eating mosquitoes because no one wanted you around and you giggle yourself into a coma.

Come on, REALLY.


Then you ask yourself: What's Most LIKELY To Happen? The answer will always - and I mean ALWAYS - fall somewhere in the middle. "I meet someone better, eventually." Ok, moving on.

The next step is to consider What's the BEST That Could Happen? Again, you have to get outlandish. Think of something from one end of the spectrum to the other. The best is, he misses me and wants to start things back up. No, better - I come home tomorrow and he pops by with flowers to celebrate my race and apologize. No, BETTER! He proposes. NO, BETTER! He ends up being from an enormously wealthy family and offers for me to go back to college and get my PhD. No, BETTER! He buys me my own planet and I end up being GODDESS of the ENTIRE GALAXY!


Heh. I'm laughing just typing this.


Coming back to the middle now: What's Most LIKELY To Happen? He realizes he lost a good girl and feels like an ass.


Ok, now let's apply this philo to the race but I'll spare you my pendulum-swinging and tell you what I got when I came back to the middle . . . What's Most Likely to Happen is that I have a very hard, somewhat painful race but end up beating my time from Philly, crying at the finish line, hurting for a few days and feeling like a ROCK STAH!


Wrap it up. I'll take it.

Good night. Tomorrow I'll have lots more to say.

4am comes really early, slacking, skydiver your pants are on fire

I'm sitting here eating a lowfat breakfast sandwich with some hashbrowns (basically shredded 'taters cooked in nonstick spray), thinking about the past few weeks.

For starters, I'm down 17 pounds: the baby weight plus 10. I'm wearing clothing I haven't worn in almost 2 years. It feels so good to get close to my normal size again - and, even better, that I've done it gradually and healthfully. Appearances are often deceiving, too - it might shock you to know that, during my most disordered periods of eating, I was NOT the thinnest I've ever been. I think everyone conjures up images of a sickeningly frail anorexic waif when you mention the term eating disorder. Even bulimics are expected to look emaciated. The truth is - and you might wanna back off now if you're even slightly grossed out by the topic of bulimia, but you know I can't be anything but unflinchingly honest - you can't always purge as much as you binge. And I can eat insane amounts of food with the best of 'em. So I am actually thinner when I'm just following my normal healthy habits. I'm still going to WW, mostly to support my friend now because I just needed the kickstart back to logging my food and eyeballing portion sizes.

Second, can you believe that my dumb ass actually thought this weekend was my marathon? HAHAHAHA! It's next weekend. I looked at the calendar wrong. Good thing, too, because I'm sooo not ready.

And that brings me to one of my chief concerns: I wonder when I'll ever be able to train properly for a marathon? Hell, for any race. This time I didn't even get in a 20-miler. My schedule had TWO. Some times this thought keeps me up at night. (I'd better figure it out, considering I want to do 26.2 in every state before I die, right?) It seems like everything holds me back - work, my health, my own fuck-ups. IronDawn once told me that I should do a better job of controlling the things that are in my power (sleeping enough, drinking too much, etc.), since there are so many factors outside my control that affect my training. I hate to say she's right YET AGAIN, but . . . . she's right, yet again. And it makes me feel like a fraud. Remember Philly? I feel that way again. Like I'm not a real athlete. I'm just a wannabe. I'm a fake. Skydiver, your pants are on fire/And the rest of your clothes is glowin'/And for some strange reason, your nose is growin' . . .

And yet, for whatever reason, the desire persists. Some people would say you obviously don't want to do it that badly if you're not making a better effort. Well, that's not true - I can't always control the effort I make. Some people would say just the fact that you try makes you more fit and healthy than the average person. But that's not true - there are many people a lot fitter than I am because they work out harder, more consistently, or both. What I want, what I need, is somewhere in between those two. It's that ever-fleeting BALANCE.

Not a shock that someone recovering from 2 separate disorders is searching for balance, right?

This is my 3rd consecutive week of getting up at 4am "like in the old days." And yes, 4am comes really early, but it hasn't been anywhere near as rough as I'd expected. Except for days like today. Today I just wanted to pack it in. I knew I couldn't keep up for the 3000+ yard swim with the club so I opted for a run. 5mi, I told myself, and then I'd head to the Y for a couple easy thousand yards.

I walked the dog 1 mile.
I ran barely 2.
I hopped on the trainer and spun aimlessly for a few minutes.
I walked the dog again.
I went to Wal-Mart for an iron and some ingredients for the birthday potluck at work.

And that's where I am now.

New Guy is even more incredible than when last reported, but I'm trying not to get too excited about it.

Philly Thumbnails are Here!

Here are a few thumbnails of my Philly photos.
Don't ask me why I'm so excited about the half.
Most crazy people have tinfoil hats. I have a cape.





Damn right, I'm a marathoner. (And now you know why I don't wear my glasses at races.)
Actually, it's 6:48 something. Still bad, but hey.

Perspective

I have come to believe that a post-race report is as important as (if not more important than) a race report. Your mindset immediately after the race is not unlike your mindset during the race. By that, I mean that all the tricks your mind plays on you during the race - in that last 10k of a marathon, for example - all those demons continue to dance around behind your eyes for a good 24-72 hours post-completion. (In my case, those demons are always: You're too slow. You're too weak. Everyone else is better than you. You can't make it. You're not a runner - you're a phony.) Once those little bastards are effectively terminated and Race Crank has gone away, you gain the p-word.

Perspective, that is.

It happens when those demons - which are emotions - dissipate (as they always do), and logic takes their place.

My dad had this saying when I was growing up: "There are no victims, only volunteers." This is a relatively logical statement from a very logical guy. The older I get, the more relevant this is to my life, and my racing life in particular. But it didn't click until after the race and the Race Crank was over. Of course, no one forced me to run a marathon. Of course, no one forced me to get sick several times over my training cycle. Of course, no one forced me to walk off and on for the last 8 miles. Of course, no one forced me to wear a skirt that day. Of course, no one forced me to party like a college kid several times over the course of the few months preceding the marathon. No one's forcing me to go to school while I work. And no one's forcing me to practice better nutrition strategies, either.

Now that I'm effectively "on the other side," I can clearly see my Philadelphia experience for what it was and I realize that my expectations were WAY too high.

Succinctly:
1. I knew from the beginning that I was doing this marathon "just to finish."

Because of or directly related to this:
2. I tacked it onto a long season of training that had already included 12 races - 4 completed triathlons and 4 completed road races - including a 5k PR and a half marathon on one of the sickest days of my life.
3. I did not alter my daily lifestyle or nutrition - other than the day before the race - to prepare.
4. Beforehand, I was aware that I may or may not complete the race, especially since this has been a particularly difficult season for my mental and physical health.

In conclusion . . .
The result I received was in direct proportion to, if not BETTER than, the planning and effort dedicated to the task. Logically . . . I was lucky just to finish. And I *did* finish. Against some pretty incredible odds.

I've never been the fastest runner in the pack. I'll never be the fastest runner in the pack. I've known this. Which is why I'm not racing anyone else . . . just myself.

Which, in my book, means I won.

Again.

We always knew I was a weiner.

Philly Race Report: Skydiver, Your Pants Are on Fire

First, the last of the dinner pics.

No one would mistake me for a marathoner.

I am not one of those women upon whom one's gaze falls admiringly, instantly assessing a high level of ability, skill, or ease of movement. My friend D., perhaps, with her lean, athletic build and explosive energy and trim waist - and her self-coached Ironman debut (around 14 hours, to boot). Or my co-worker, M., who, even when running, cannot hide the grace and confidence in her leggy, gazelle-like movements (and who was once dissapointed that, after taking a year-long hiatus from racing, she was able to manage *only* a 10-minute mile). They are the type of women at whom people would nod appreciatively, remarking, somewhat awstruck, "Now she's a marathoner."

But not me.

I am short, with bulky, overdeveloped gymnast's legs, and tiny hands, and an abundance of curves - not all of them in the right places. My speech, my laughter, my gestures are all clumsy, staccato, and spontaneous.

No one would mistake me for a marathoner.

But I am.

And it is not for those other people that I am a marathoner. And, certainly, no one else will ever be a marathoner for me. As I struggled through the last 10k of the Philadelphia Marathon, I was unable to contain my (unsurprisingly) spontaneous bursts of tears when the last of the volunteers and spectators offered an encouraging, "Good job, marathoner! You're almost there."
I looked behind me to see who they were talking to. The gap between me and the other stragglers was very wide. There was no one else in sight.

Did she just call me "marathoner"?


I could call Philadelphia "The Marathon That Almost Wasn't." I could bite Stephen's title and say it was "A Tale of Two Halves," because I moved quickly and easily (for me) through the first half and then completely disintegrated during the second. But it's more appropriate to share some of the lyrics to the Buck 65 song that was running through my head from miles 19-26, because it pretty accurately states how I felt for those few hours. Let's just say they were . . . surreal. When I say I was BOPpin' through Philly, I mean strictly Back-of-Packin' it. Not dancing.

Skydiver, your pants are on fire
And the rest of your clothes is glowin'
And, for some strange reason, your nose is growin, my skin is crawlin'

Everybody's chin is fallin'

Jaws are droppin' left and right

Lost cause, you came like a thief in the night
With nice white teeth and a tight ass

And long conversation
Fascinating feeling to spend months in your company
I never felt uncomfortable, not even with my clothes off
Chillin so hard, my ass almost froze off
Everybody shows off and wants to look presentable
But the fact of the matter is accidents are preventable

They are. Could I have waited for a shorter porta-potty line so that I wouldn't lose, and then waste my energy trying to catch, the friends I'd made in the 5:30 pace group? Definitely. Could I have eaten more - which I should have learned by now from my later-half struggles at other long races? Yep. Could I have worn tights like my instincts suggested? Sure. Could I have stopped at some point? Uh-huh. Could I have taken my medicine before the race? Yes. Would it would have made me sleepy? You betcha. Would it have prevented some other issues? Possibly. But even when I felt, looked and sounded like I was on the Death March, even when my breath was failing me because the congestion was clogging my lungs and my dizzy spells were coming on so strong that I was staggering as I wrapped myelf in the foil blanket so kindly handed to me by a volunteer, I didn't stop. I don't know what kept me going, because I already felt like a loser. Maybe it was determination. Maybe it was defeat. Maybe it was shame. Maybe it was insanity. Maybe it was a little of all of them. But as the busses kept coming by me, dragging off the DNF'ers, I kept saying "no," to their offers to take me in.

A little voice inside my head told me, don't you even think about leaving this course unless someone has to carry you off against your will. Another little voice argued, you're going down, just deal with it. Better to go down in a warm bus than on asphalt. Concussions ain't pretty.

A volunteer walked up on his bike with a 13-year-old who was doing his first marathon, also walking, struggling. I couldn't even do what you're doing, he told me. I can't even tell you how much respect I have for people who can.

Maybe it helped. At mile 26, I tossed off the foil blanket. Even though I had taken a picture with it at mile 24 - me, always with the self-deprecating humor, even while on the Death March, paused to pose, hold out my foil blanket like a cape and fake a cheesy smile. I didn't want that blanket in my finish photo. From out of somewhere way down inside me I kicked up a last little bit of energy I didn't know I had, and I ran the last 2/10 of a mile into the finish - and at a remarkably strong pace. Which made me wonder, where the f%*$& was that energy when I needed it? I could have finished 2 hours ago.

06:48:46. Hardly a time to be proud of. I had been crying off and on since Manayunk, but only at mile 26 did it turn into a full-on sobfest, except for those few moments when they put the medal around my neck and I had to pull it together for appearance's sake. But, once I passed them, I had to stop several times on the way to the food tent and pull out of people's way because I was bawling, hiding my face in my jacket, leaning against a fence for support. I wasn't sure if I was crying because I was so dissapointed in myself or so relieved that I finished. The volunteer that walked his bike in with me and the 13-year-old came over to give me a high five. I think what you did was amazing.

But I didn't feel amazing.

I walked in the freezing rain to catch a cab - no way was I walking the extra distance for the train. His fare was ludicrous, because I was staying near the airport, and it meant I had to run upstairs to get him more money, which I could barely do, since I could barely move. I turned the heat on high in my room, and it took me 20 minutes of boiling my fingers, literally, under water too hot for the rest of me to stand in, just to feel the tips of them again. It was 5pm before I could feel my heels and toes. I had a raging fever, had yet to eat anything but bananas, my pretzel, and Boost, and only the $100 change fee and the thought of forfeiting my first-class seat pushed me to crawl out of bed and get to my flight.

Oddly enough . . .

All of this is not enough to scare me away. Even as I am thinking of those last few horrible miles, I am mentally celebrating the huge PR that undoubtedly awaits me at my next few marathons. Unlike my half-marathon debut, 2:45, which I have yet to beat, my marathon time will only get better as my training gets more advanced and my triathlons also get longer. I'm thinking about how I can't wait to get out of Orlando, how nice it will be to have the season changes and the elevation changes and to be able to train in different weather besides 90 degrees or greater with 80 percent humidity or greater. I am sitting at home, wondering why it's not acceptable to go out in public in pajamas, especially for the test I must study for and take tonight - and then drag myself to class afterwards - boy, am I going to bomb that test! I'm visiting the doctor tomorrow to make sure I didn't develop bronchitis, hypothermia, pneumonia (or some other -itis or -ia I haven't heard of).

My legs are a little sore, but much less than after my Oly. Actually, what hurts worst are my ankles, achilles and feet. Weird. No, that's not true. What hurts the worst is my pride. Because I thought I was better. Faster. Stronger. And I wasn't.

But I am a marathoner.

BOOK ME, DAN-O!!!!

Philly is officially booked. Hotel, flight, everything. I AM SET.

WEEK 18, MARATHON WEEK PLAN:

• Monday: Rest - DONE!
• Tuesday: 3 miles and strength - MISSED!
• Wednesday: 4 miles - neeed sleeeeep
• Thursday: 4 miles - gonna try for it tomorrow
• Friday: Rest - Travel. Get to Philly in early AM. Rest for a bit. Take the train into town. See some sights.
• Saturday: Rest - Meet up with Julio and Kathy from the Higdon forums around 1:30 to hit up the race expo. Dinner at Maggiano's with the Higdonites at 3:30p
• Sunday: RACE

I'm sick as hell. I've worked 9-12-hour days for the last 10 days, partying and studying like a college kid, and the result is a bad cold. Tomorrow I'm going to spend my day in my payamas, studying, making my packing list, and sleeping as much as I want. I may go out and get a map of the Philly area to help me plan my explorations, or celebrate my trip by getting an outfit for it . . . but as shitty as I feel right now, I doubt I'll be leaving the house for much more than food. I'm not even worried about my training runs. I just want to get plenty of sleep so I can make it through the race.

It's been a helluva week. I've been so occupied by all the crap going on that I haven't even been able to get psyched up for all the crap that's yet to GO on. Next weekend, I celebrate T-Day with my parents, the following weekend is my birthday and then . . . the monthlong celebration of me is over. The IMOF hasn't been going exactly as I planned . . . but I kinda wouldn't trade it.

Forrest, where are my f'ing chocolates?

All right, a little alliteration appreciation . . . .

Laughing, learning, loving: in the life of the most marvelous Ms.Meggan Ann, these are the premiere priorities. If you're not daringly doing a dash of those three things (simultaneously is superior!), you're not living lustily. And lusty living is far finer and more fabulous than boring being!

I never thought I'd ever say that I'm glad the IMOF is almost over . . . . but I kinda am. I should have listened to Luis when he read my giant list of IMOF plans and told me, "I got tired just reading that. I can't take it."

Week 1 was off to a dazzling start . . . intrigue, action, mystery, booze - what more can you ask for? Par for the proverbial course . . . of course. Week 2 escalated into a full-on frenzy when a project at work got out of hand and had me working about 80 hours . . . and then Friday night's official IMOF Kickoff, which was hi-la-ri-ous and FA-NTA-BULOUS! (Did you expect any less?!!)

Now I'm taking my Monday test on Thursday, I'm just now finishing the gruntwork of El Proyecto, I'm behind on my taper week runs, I'm behind on my research, and I STILL - yes, STILL - haven't booked my hotel for Philly. It's like every single aspect of my life has aligned to bring me the maximum amount of action possible for the IMOF.

HOLY HANNAH!

Forrest Gump was wrong - life is not like a box of chocolates. It's like a f'ing 18-wheeler with no jake brake rolling down Pike's Peak. Thanks a lot, jackass. I was expecting chocolate and I got diesel fuel.

Tonight? Well, I'm writing while dining, then taking a rest, because I promised Das Nate we'd hit up Buck65 at Phat'n'Jazzy at The Social. And God knows I'd be collapsing right now if it weren't for my friends holding me up, so when they say "I'm dragging you out!", you better believe I snap to attention! One vow I made: to never forget how lucky I am to have the people in my life that are in it. -I'm sure I could have elucidated much more eloquently. ;)-

The lamp that lights my mind is filled with fractures, and from behind some of them shines the me I was before. I figured I'd left her some years ago, but she appears every now and then . . . at times like these . . . and I have to remind myself that she is not me, and I am not she.

There is a great difference between settling and settling down.

Leaving

Some times I'm in Mexico in my mind
I'm sitting on the water, watching the sun go down
I am . . .

The time changed.
When the alarm goes off now, I easily slide out of bed, lace my shoes, and leave. Which is fortunate, because leaving is something at which I seem to excel.

And everyone is laughing, now
But, instead, I grieve
Cause I know, some day soon, I gotta leave . . .

I don't even bother with my iPod this morning. I need some transcendental meditation. No sounds but my pulse, my breathing, and all those introspective demons rolling around in my brain. Those bastards make quite the racket these days.

So I'm leaving
I am . . .

I am barely up. The sun isn't up at all. I can see some walkers on the other side of the street, and I am halfway muttering to myself. Is it a chant? A mantra? Just thoughts? Am I singing to myself?

You say that you don't understand who I've become
Well, static vision's never been my claim
Would you believe it if I said we never had to be?
That what we had together was the change?

I hit the one-mile mark, the fog still rolling out over the golf course. Very Poe. I expect The Raven to quoth Nevermore from hole three - the hole where I scored my first par as well as my first hole-out for a decent score.

And somehow we couldn't see it
So somehow we couldn't leave it . . . .

The lights run in my favor and I don't really have to stop. Nice. I keep drinking, my breath feels ragged, I must be dehydrated. Did I have enough water yesterday? I have to keep my voice clean. I have a few hours of v/o work this week.

It's going to be a big day. But it's always going to be a big day when you're me.

And I
Wasn't planning my escape
I wasn't planning our demise
I wasn't planning anything for certain - I wasn't, just hurtin'

Why isn't it like this for most of the year? I feel like I'm sailing through the air, although my knees are a bit stiff from my 4-hour workout on Sunday. I look up to the oaks along hole 17. I smile and soak in their breath as they exhale.

But the time I've spent away
Has helped me realize
I can't go on believing
That I wasn't always leaving . . . .

I smile and soak up my own energy as I exhale. I'm a Zen Zombie now. I thank my fingers, toes and feet for funtioning. I thank my groin, hip flexors, calves for not hurting. My eyes for seeing, my heart and lungs for repeatedly circulating my blood and breath and pain and enlightenment.

I've been on the verge most all of my life
Praying for the moment, hoping for anything at all

What's my turnaround? That's right, Cantrell. Like Duke. Like Blu. There are other runners headed toward me now. The sun is rising. They're all men. They all wave. Runners - such a friendly lot.

Fading in and out of cognizence
Falling in and out of competence
Waiting for the tears to fall

I wonder if any of them is having the experience I'm having, or if it's just another sweat session for them. Are they out of their body the way I'm out my mind? Yoga is the only other place I can feel what I'm feeling right now. Now the ladies are out. They wave too.

Waiting for the tears to fall

What I'm feeling is the kind of peace one can only feel when there is no peace. When everything inside is at war.

And leaving
I am . . . .

words and music (c) 2003 MAJ

Catching Up

I somehow managed to recover from my downward spiral. I have been feeling relatively well and enjoying myself outside of training and school. Most importantly, I've been meeting my mileage goals nearly dead-on. The time change is helping, too - my body is thinking it's 6:15 when the alarm goes off at 5:15,

The only two things I haven't done are book a hotel and keep up my cross-training. Well, I'm not going to introduce anything wacky till Philly's over. Keep up the strength/flex, keep this last week and my race week on track, and as soon as the marathon is done and my continuation/rest plan is in place, it's back to all 3 sports.

'Cause I've decided I'm not turning 30 - I'm turning Iron. Which means I need to put the hustle on next year's training program so I can really reap the rewards for the following year!

You have to pay to play.

We interrupt this blog to announce something very exciting: Linae, Andy and TriTurtl are now officially Iron, all coming in with times well under the cutoff. I am so, so, so proud of and inspired by you. Enjoy the achievments and keep coming back for more. Thanks for your support and encouragement this year - although you were training for THE BIG SHOW, you all never hesitated to check in on me while I piddled around with short races. MUCHO LOVE! YOU ROCK!!!!!!

Ever since I first started running and lifting weights, back when I was 16 or so, I had this philosophy: you have to pay to play. (It probably stems from my mom's old orders: "if you're sick enough to stay home from school, you're sick enough to tell your friends you can't come play.") Well, I follow that philo to this day. There's nothing wrong with staying up late or partying the night before a key workout - so long as I understand that I still have to do the workout. Knowing how shitty I'll potentially feel the next morning can some times reduce the shenanigans I get into that night.

And, some times it won't.

Saturday night, it clearly didn't. What started out as an innocent night of sushi and sake ended up going terribly wrong. Let's just say there was lots of yelling and making asses of ourselves, a lot of talk about sex - including ex sex, my least favorite variety to discuss. There were tons of drunk texts - most of them so dirty I refuse to share WITH ANYONE, but the funniest and most embarrassing one was not only raunchy, but I actually forgot what I was texting about AND TOOK THE TIME TO TEXT THAT to the textee. Despite asking for my phone to be taken away from me. We played Wii Bowling and Wii Tennis and - here's how you know we were high as kites - we did it as we SANG BRITNEY songs. Then I hit a drive-through on the way home to try to soak up the booze with grease - because that always works, right? - effectively eliminating the 1000-calorie deficit yesterday's 11-miler created.

Oh, it was ugly. No, it was what my dad would call "oogly," which in dad-ese is several levels worse than ugly itself.

But, my philo is my philo - it's not just a rule, it's more like a credo. So, not only did I get up at 6:15 on Sunday and run 11 more miles, I also did a 90-minute ashtanga yoga class immediately after. It hurt like a mofo. The yoga saved my life - no lie - but the run hurt like crazy. I still managed to run exactly one minute faster than Saturday's run, though. Weird. This week's planned mileage before I had my setbacks was 29 miles; I made it to 25. I have to tell you, I think that is a damn fine accomplishment. Maybe it's nothing special, considering how slow I was, and considering that a "real" runner would have made this a 30-35-mile week, but for everything I've been through *and* considering this is going to be my first marathon, I'm very pleased with myself. It was a wonderful way to round out a crazy weekend.

The karmic twist to this story? Now the keys on my phone don't all work, so it is impossible to text. Someone's trying to tell me something.

Running: good for your soul AND your ass

This entry is dedicated to four women in my non-running life who've been instrumental to the maintenance of my positive outlook and who have continuously inspired me with their dedication to their dreams. As I pushed through 11 miles on this absolutely beautiful Saturday morning, thinking of what each and every one of them has endured, conquered and given me took me through the last 6 miles on heart alone. (I only had 200 calories to go on. Believe me, I needed it.)


One of them married the love of her life - her high school crush - even though many of us warned her about the improbability or impossibility of the union (even good ol' cynical me). She's been with him for years, now has beautiful children, and is getting ready to write her first book - something she's always wanted to do. One of them survived a battle with cancer at an early age and continues to live her life witout regard for convention, developing her unique style while she searches for the right time, place and way to make her dream of being an artist come true - and she does it as a single mother, facing obstacles you and I can't dream of. One of them refuses to buy into society's notion that she has to marry and have kids to be successful, fulfilled and happy. While working to put herself through grad school and raise my nephew, she taught me the value of standing up for yourself - even when it means others may not like you for doing it - and to never forget that you're fabulous . . . dammit. And the last made it through a rough divorce, at about the same age I'm going through mine, and lived to tell the tale: not only is she the epitome of kindness, grace and beauty, she never once succmbed to cynicism or bitterness. In fact, she found love again and she will marry her true soulmate in just a few weeks.

Fina, Shay, Karime and Ashley - I hope you all recognize these tiny bits of each of your stories as seen through my eyes. I wouldn't be me without what you've contributed to my life, and I love you all for your inspirational existence and never failing support. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for all the laughter and beauty you've brought into my life. I hope to be thanking you for many years to come.


IronDawn always says: "Some people spend all their life chasing their dreams . . . the rest of us run them down and beat them into submission." Yep, that's pretty much me. These are elevation maps of my 11-mile route. (I thought it was 12, but my Nike+ kit is so off, I can't trust it, and I thought I was faster than I was.) Suffice it to say, I track my splits - you know, my per-mile times - for every single mile I do. If that's not beating your dreams into submission, I don't know what is. (And I am actually one of the LEAST anal-retentive runners I know.)

I was smiling, bopping to my music, loving the breeze on my face. A dude ran by me, smelling of sunscreen, which reminded me that I forgot to put mine on . . . by the way, what was up with frowny chick? Doesn't she know there's a runner's code? You see a fellow runner, you at least grunt or snort in their direction . . . no matter how bad you're hurting. I mean, flip me the bird, hoc a loogie on me, or grimace in something that looks like it's trying to be a smile . . . if you can't even manage one of those, then you don't deserve to call yourself a runner!

This week's goal: 29 miles. I'll probably hit 23 after a ten-miler tomorrow.

Anyway, we've come to the conclusion, and in some ways the topic, of today's mindless chattering . . . my dreams. Yeah, we all know I want to be Dr. Ironman, but let's get real. I've always sought fitness goals for either asthetic purposes or measurable gains: never both. And I've decided that I'm done with that. I'm the fittest I've ever been - and I realized after a conversation this week that I don't even look like it. When I was only 15.96% body fat, by contrast, I wasn't all that fit. Well, I'm done. It's time to unite those goals. I'm going for beauty AND brawn. So, take a good look at this picture, because it's the last time you'll see me this size.

And that's all I have for right now. But you know me. I can't keep my mouth shut for long, so this ain't the last you'll hear of me.

They're gonna hafta remove me. Cause I ain't goin' nowhere.

There's a reason why most running coaches and experts suggest that you shouldn't run any distances close to marathon distance unless you're running an actual race, and it has nothing to do with science, medicine, or even superstition. It's because nobody actually wants to run that goddamn far unless there's a medal, free beer and a cheering crowd waiting for them at the end.

Today I went for the longest run of my life. (So far.) The original plan was 20 miles, but weeks and weeks ago I had reduced it to anywhere from 18-20 because of my recent illness and lack of training. My super-secret, dream-it-anyway, overambitious goal, though, was 22 (1 warmup, 1 cooldown, 20 running). How did it turn out? Well, I'm going to start referring to this as the "Van Gogh" run. Because it was so perfectly surreal, not because I cut off an ear. Although, at some points I wanted to cut off something. Start here if you want the words; scroll to the end to see it by the numbers. (I know you numbers people. I know how you work.)

I figured it would take roughly 4-4.75 hours to complete 20 miles - about an 11-minute-mile pace with a 2-minute walk break each mile. I felt so good I abandoned my 5/2-10/2-5/2 plan and just went for 2-minute walks every mile. (Keep this part in mind, 'cause we'll come back to it later.) When I left home, it was drizzling. Believe it or not, I was pleased, because I knew it would be cooler - besides, I've already run 13.1 miles in mud and full-on rain, so at this point there ain't a whole lot that can phase me. (As Tea says, "tears do not compromise my strength." Amen, sista. Likewise rain, ankle-deep mud. Likewise poo and pee. Likewise vomit.) Anyway, I had my iPod loaded with my favorite songs and shuffled the order so that I'd get a nice "surprise" with each one. I'd just re-calibrated my distance tracker on my Nike+ kit, and I'd already confirmed my route with GMap Pedometer. I wore my contacts so I could use my awesome Smith sunglasses, and also because my contacts don't provide vision as sharp as my glasses do, so they help me "detach" a bit from my mind, which is important for a thinker like me on a long run. I was armed with 2 salt pills and 2 Gus in my little clip-on Gu pouch, extra ibuprofen, a house key, $20 cash, my i.d.,and a 24-ounce Polar bottle full of water. It seemed to take a little long for the voice to tell me, "One mile completed," but I shrugged. No use counting pennies when you have 21 miles to go.

21, I thought. Blackjack. Blackjack in the rain? I've done that before - and on marathon-crossover training week, too. It must be a sign. (Of course, that was on two wheels, but it was my body providing what my dad would call the "go-juice.") Well, if that wasn't enough of a sign, around mile 3, I glanced down at the sidewalk and saw that someone had lost a playing card - something you usually don't see unless you're in a big city. Three of diamonds, to be exact. Mile 3? 3 of diamonds? Coincidence? I think not! (We'll come back to this, too.)

I decided to add a mile or two to my route so I wouldn't have to do my planned "additional loop" at the end. (I'm one of those people who hates having to "tack on" a mile or two - I like to get close to home, do my little cool-down walk, and go straight inside. It's a mental thing, but still.) I decided around mile marker 5 to run through my parents' old neighboorhood. It looked a lot different - their once-beautiful yard was trashed, and some dude was working on his heavy-duty pickup in the driveway. Hood up and all, he started checking me out, even gave me a too-friendly "hello." I wanted to yell at him, "I grew up in that house, jackass!" But I didn't - I just kept on moving. Then I was chased up a hill by a scraggly-looking Pek that, from behind, was so unkempt I couldn't tell whether it was a cat or dog. Good news? On mile 5, I'd already "gotten out of my head."

I seemed to be going much faster than the 15-minute mile my tracker told me, and I had lost my second Gu. Nonetheless, I wasn't too worried, because the shopping center 1/2-mile away had a GNC. It was only when I had to stop for Gatorade because the shopping center no longer had a GNC that I knew something was REALLY wrong with my iPod tracker. By mile 13, my watch showed 3:38. My body is getting a little too detached from my mind, I thought. That's impossible. Even my slowest 14-mile time is 3 hours flat, and it was telling me I had taken almost 40 minutes more to go one mile less. But, at this point, there was nothing I could do.

Until I couldn't find a place that had water and I had to buy Gatorade for the SECOND time during the run.

Now, my GI system is VERY sensitive. I cannot handle a lot of sugar and HFCS. I don't even buy food if corn syrup or hydrogenated oils are listed anywhere on the labels. I use Clif shot and salt pills, and the ONLY gel that doesn't make me want to puke is Gu brand, especially Vanilla Bean - that's the best one for Meggan Ann's tummy. So I was desparate to call my husband and ask him to track my route and make sure I wasn't going too far, because I was starting to get rumblies in my tumbly. I couldn't find pay phones, though, and panic began to set in. How far had I gone? 14 miles? 18? I didn't really know. Because I had "added on," and because I don't have a GPS unit to carry on, I was clueless. Worse still, I grabbed a Powerbar with Gatorade #2, only to realize when I got outside that it was a "trail mix bar" put in the wrong box. Meaning more HFCS and sugar. I shuffled about a half a mile, dejected. To my chagrin, my 4.2-hour playlist had re-started. Even more to my chagrin, the sugar and HFCS had done their job.

ALERT! ALERT! ALL SYSTEMS CODE BROWN! REPEAT, ALL SYSTEMS CODE BROWN!

I have "stage fright" (hate to go #2 in public), but this was so bad that I couldn't make any fast movements, so I HAD to find a place to go. 7-11 behind me? - ain't goin' back. Next 7-11? 1.5 miles. Then I finally made it to 7-11 #2 and couldn't cross the road to get there because the light wouldn't work in my favor. So, I stayed on my side of the road and shuffled along to an Einstein's Bagels, thinking I'll get some coffee while I'm there to perk me up. When I got in the bathroom, my contacts were hurting my eyes and making me sick. To make matters worse, it was a one-staller. And - the piece de resistance - a huffy, impatient lady walked in and waited on me. Even though all I could do was a tiny tinkle, she walked out and stood outside of the entire restroom, waiting until I had peed, come out of the stall, washed my face, re-adjusted my bandana, and forgot to take out my contacts.

Shit! (No pun intended.) I ended up struggling for about THREE MILES with this problem. The 3 of diamonds now seemed more like a bad omen than a good sign.

I made it to 7-11 #3, where I didn't have enough change for the pay phone to call Mr. MAJ for assistance. The bathroom was blessedly available, with no other women in sight. But now, I couldn't go. So, I pulled out my contacts, threw them away, vowed to get a new prescription even if I had to pay for the second eye exam myself, and struggled through a run/walk for the next almost 2 miles, during which time a blister on the bottom - yes, the bottom - of my baby toe broke open. I made it home to discover that I had only gone 19.37 miles in just under 5 hours (and I still had a mystery chafe). Well, I'm going to have to do better than that in Philly, I thought. Breaking 5 hours is embarrasing, but 6 is just out of the question.

Lesson learned? NO HFCS or sugar!
Lesson learned? Don't deviate from strategy during the race.
Lesson learned? When undertrained: walk early, walk often!
Lesson learned? I am not sore and felt great until mile 15 or 16, which means I'm not as undertrained as I originally thought.
Lesson learned? Philly's gonna hurt, unless I can get my ass seriously together in the next 3 weeks.


And now for the numbers.

• Ounces of water consumed: 80+
• Gus consumed: 1
• Gus lost: 1
• Number of (successful) visits to 7-11: 2
• Number of visits to Albertson's: 1
• Number of times someone on the street yelled at me while driving by: 4
• Number of times I gave them the finger in response: 2
• Ounces of Gatorade consumed that then made me sick to my stomach: 64
• Number of times I wanted to puke: 8
• Number of miles that "code brown" prevented me from moving at anything faster than a turtle's pace: 3.5
• Number of place I stopped but was foiled from resolving the problem: 2
• Number of "mystery chafe"spots: 1
• Number of miles actually covered: 19.37
• Total time running: 4:59:47
• Total time away from home: 5 hrs 20 minutes

Two runs in one week?!?!? Could it be? Dare we say? Is she BACK>>>!!!???

It's 6pm.
And I'm home from work.
And I'm running before the sleepies catch me.
And the dude next to me is walking.
And the guy on the floor is trying to do a pushup.
And I'm rockin' the treadmill, Natalie-style, talkin' 'bout who needs to think when your feet just go?

A little over 5 miles, a little over an hour. Some fake hills, some fartlek. A mind run. A focus run. When I realized how hard it was last week, I realized how much I needed the focus on . . . you guessed it . . . focus. And, as Natalie said, a treadmill'll do that for ya.

It's the funny thing about Meggan Ann. When you tell her something is hard, or when she learns something is hard, the only thing it does is make her buckle down. Or stand up. Or wil' out. Or get crunk. Or act the fool. (Insert catch phrase here) and do it more. And harder. And faster. And better. A friend and I who both love things like marathons and sailing once agreed that we were a certain type of people - the type who are attracted to difficult things.

So Meggan Ann had a little conversation with herself. Actually, Meggan Ann had several conversations with herself, most of which she broadcast here, and few (if any) of them were little. Some of them went, I'm so sad, I'm so sick, I wish I could just appreciate living my life again. A lot of them went something like, this shit ain't easy. Most of them went like, ain't no way in hell I'm gonna be able to do this. A few even went, fuck this, I'm giving up now and getting out while the gettin' is good.

That's where it got redunkulous. (In a good way.)

I finally admitted to myself that no, it's not easy. No, I'm not getting a free pass, or a fair chance, or a good hand - again, insert colloquialism here. Instead of getting me down or bumming me out, though, the admission brought me back to reality, to another one of Meggan Ann's life learned lessons from that soon-to-be-famous poster Everything I Need to Know in Life I Learned From Training: you have to remember that life has highs and lows, just like training. There will be good runs and bad runs, just like there wll be good days and bad days. There will be tears and pain, but there will be music and laughter. You have to ride the highs - but not let them take you too high. And you have to tough it out through the lows - cause there's a high right behind most of them.

And you have to remember that it's never going to be easy. Not only is it not easy - it's not going to get easier. But, if it was, I wouldn't be doing it.

Significance, Drugs and Rock'n'Roll

I'm peeking at all the great blogs around me - everyone getting ready for (and recovering from) half marathons, marathons, Ironman, Half Ironman - marvelling at all the profound and positive postulations being tossed around (Andy, Linae, Jayme, Tea,Duane, Allez, CPB, New England Meggan). It really occurs to me that I have nothing to say. And that I also say it very poorly. Seriously. How uninspired and uninsipring I've been lately, doing nothing but complaining about my life, whining because I am too sick to do more than a measly 6- or 10-mile run each week! I sound like a toddler who didn't get a cookie. Waaaahhhh, I couldn't run again today. Waaaah. And my blog has been really boring. Training-free. Quite embarassing. I'm shocked, frankly, that anyone is still reading it. Blogging My Way to 140.6? Who's she kidding? She can barely blog her way to .6!

So, on that note, I'm going to whine some more.

I'm going to start actively pursuing an appointment at the Mayo Clinic again. Last night was a bad night. At 4:30pm, I texted Al to ask him if he could leave work to pick me up because I was afraid I couldn't drive myself. Of course he didn't (his response: Well, I wasn't planning on leaving work till 6 or 6:30.) He gets home at 6:45 and wakes me up to read the mail.

To read the fucking mail. Who does that?

I spent the night lying in bed - actually, propped up, because once you take midodrine, which I did at 4pm, you can't lie flat for four hours, because it makes your blood pressure spike. (And yes, when Al came in at 6:45 and dumped the mail on my bed, I was so tired that I was falling asleep sitting, propped up by all my pillows.) I slept off and on from 6pm last night till 8am this morning. I would have slept the whole time, had Al not come in and woke me up to read the mail. (What would possess you to do that to a person who has expressed to you mere hours earlier that they're afraid to drive more than 10 miles on their own, to read the mail and pay the bills?)

The only good thing about opening the mail was that my mom sent me this kick-ass thing she made. My mom is the craftiest woman on earth. I don't know if you can read it, but it's a wooden plaque that says "Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." (Funny, sarcastic Meggan would, at this point, interject something like, "Well, Jesus Mom, every moment takes my breath away. You should know, you'e on some of the same drugs I am!") Leave it to your mom to know exactly what things or what type of things you need to hear at any given time. And it matches my office color palette perfectly. I wish she wasn't so far away some times, but I know she and dad really, really love Alabama and my opinion is, as long as they're happy, I'm happy.

After I ate a small meal and paid the bills Al so unceremoniously dumped on my bed, I returned to bed to attempt to do some homework, at least until enough time passed that I could de-prop myself and lie down. I got as far as opening my psych notecards before I started to fall asleep again, and as I did, I came to a profound realization: I'm in mourning.

I've lost so much the past few years that I can't even begin to recount it all: my health, my ability to maintain a normal life, my ability to run and train, my marriage, my sense of love and romance, my sense of attractiveness, my parents, some key friendships, the chance to graduate this year. And, when you lose things, people always want you to focus on what you have, because there's this misconception that it will make you feel better, or heal faster. Oh, but look how blessed you are. Look how much you still have. You have friends and you're alive and your illnesses aren't terminal and your debt isn't too bad and your job is cool and you get good grades and you're this and you're that . . . . . And you know what? I bought into it. I have been so wrapped up in trying - and failing - to keep my head up and remember how much I still have, that I never stopped to mourn anything I've lost. And I realized how deeply, profoundly, significantly sad I am. And how terribly alone I feel. And how I've been valiantly trying to avoid that. It may sound like I'm dwelling on it, because I spend a lot of time and energy talking about my health and how to improve it, but you have to understand that this is my life. This is every second of every day for me. But that doesn't mean I'm facing it. That doesn't mean I'm dealing with how frightening and frustrating it is. And the worst part is? No one understands. And the even worse part? I know, deep down in my bones, that there is still something else wrong with me that they have not figured out.

And what do I do when the divorce is final and I'm all alone and sick like this? Or sicker? That's pretty scary. Although, the scariest part of this whole divorce thing is, if I ever date again, that someone is going to have to dive into all my issues. I'll never find a person that's normal, but ok with me not being normal. I frequently wonder what it's like to be normal. Remember how I made a friend at the Jacksonville Half? His name was Al. We talked during our warm-up through miles 1-5, and in the course of that conversation he revealed to me that he started running because of his Type 2 Diabetes. He asked me why I run (before he smoked me at mile 5). I told him, "Because it's the only thing that makes me feel normal." That was a pretty significant statement for me.

I'm well aware that significant and important are pretty subjective terms. In statistics and psychology, normal and significant have very special meanings. Significance indicates a study's demonstration that a certain variable is <.05, which indicates a high probability that the results have not been found by chance, that the results of the study can, with great certainty, be repeated in the real world. Normal relates to norms, or roles and concepts that are socially accepted. For me, they have pretty typical, non-scientific meanings. Normal is? Not sick. Significant is? Important. But, with T-Minus One Month to the Philadelphia Marathon, I've got exactly 4 weeks to take off the black cape, come out of mourning, and rock and roll. You heard me.

Did I stutter?

I have 3 weeks of training and one week of taper until M-DAY.

Am I ready?

Nope.

Am I backing down?

HELL NO.

I CAN'T HEAR YOU!

HELL NO!!!!!!

I'm going to Philly.

Who's going to Philly?

ME!

I AM!

I'm GOING TO PHILLY!

Phew. Too much time spent around those Marines at work and at the Half in Jacksonville.


Anyway, as Ken on the Higdon forums once said, I'm going to "walk, crawl," do whatever I gotta do, but I'm going to cross the damn finish line. Is there crying in running? Definitely. Is there mourning in running? Quite possibly.

Hey, I am booked FIRST CLASS on the return. My first ever first-class flight.

Rock'n'fuckin'roll.

Is There a Doctor in the House????!!!

Ahh . . . Philly. I'm there to have a good time and enjoy the city, and I'm slow anyway, so I'd just tack myself onto the back of the pack and cruise along smiling. All I need is a couple workouts to prep me and I can walk along whatever I need to walk.

If I can EVER WORK OUT.

I swear, you guys. I'm doing nothing. You hear me? Nothing. I mean, my last workout was a 5k run last Friday. Before that, a half marathon. Before that, several 4-7 milers. Before that, rest and injury recovery with an occasional swim. And guess what happened this morning? The alarm went off ok, so my previous problems must have been user error. But Meggan didn't get up. Nope. She slept through it. And accidentally turned it off in her sleep. And didn't wake up till after 7.

<--------This is Meggan Ann right now. Kickin' back. Old as hell. (Sans cigar.) I take about 12 pills a day. I gots my 2 heart pills, my ear pill, my pill that helps everything, my multivitamin, and all my supplements. But seriously. I really need some help. There's got to be something I can do to get my energy levels up. I'm supposed to go 5 mi tonight, 9 tomorrow morning, 4 on Saturday morning, and 16 or so on Sunday morning with a yoga class Sunday night. The problem is, I got up this morning more tired than ever. Last night I could barely make it to class. The night before I could barely make it home. Right now I can barely focus. I have STACKS of laundry in my office that have been sitting there for four weeks because my routine has been: wake at 7, get to work a little late, stay to make up for it, come home, either fall asleep before eating or eat and then pass out - OR- go to class, run home and pass out, rinse and repeat. Some times the pills make me better, some times worse. I know RJ did some studies on EDS and provigil. I can't take provigial and I don't see my heart doc until next week. If I don't do something to get my energy up soon, or get my sleep cycle corrected, or whatever I need to do, I am not going to make it to Philly.

So I keep thinking to myself . . . how was I able to train so hard, so well for my tri season? How did I make it? Couple of factors.

1. Wasn't working full-time.
2. Was working with a training group part-time.
3. Was on leave of absence for some of the time.
4. You people. And the Higdon forums people.

Well, at least I still have the last one.

Some Unholy War

This Halloween, me and my BFF are going dressed as the two of the world's most famous BNR (Bitches in Need of Rehab). No, we're not going as ourselves - we're going as Amy Winehouse and Britney Spears. Since I bear more resemblance to Shitney, that's who I get to impersonate. I can't really stand Britney, so it will be fun to make her look bad. However, in spite of (or maybe because of) her need for rehab, it's no secret that I'm a big Wino fan.

Maybe I sympathize. I've been writing songs since I was about 11, so I don't believe you can be a great singer/songwriter without some serious drama in your life. Ever heard her song Some Unholy War? Talks about standing behind her man while he battles his own dramas (presumably drug addicition, since she and her man are both, quite famously, in Need of Rehab). My favorite lines go:

We put it in writing
But who you writin' for?
Just us on kitchen floor
Justice done, reciting
My stomach standing still
Like you reading my will
He still stands, in spite of what his scars say
And I'll battle till this bitter finale
Just me, my dignity, and this guitar case

That song could have been written about how I feel right now. I put all my goals in writing - but who was I writing for? Just me, sitting on the kitchen floor? Or in my Prius (which still smells of wet shoes from the Half, by the way - EW), on the way back from my doctor, crying hysterically and beating the steering wheel? Justice done (we can't do nothin' for ya - some justice), reciting I wish I could go into the military, because at least then I might die for a noble cause instead of having to do the job myself. Yeah, my stomach was standing still, and considering the talk going on in my head, pretty much like you reading my will.

Well, I still stand, in spite of what my scars say. And I will battle till this bitter finale. But it will be just me, my dignity, and my stinky running shoes.

So what does that mean? Does that mean I'll be running Philadelphia? Maybe. But it'll probably be more on ambivalence than on heart, cause I don't have much heart left. And what heart I do have is heavily medicated.