This Girl Ain't Getting Any Younger

Last Sunday, I ran my 6th half marathon with my beloved friend SBW. As with most of the races I've done in the past, I found myself vowing to never run another in the weeks leading up to it, but as soon as it was done, I started wondering which one I should do next. Especially if I can wear rainbow legwarmers and palm tree earrings again. Rock me Amadeus. Thankfully SBW and I weren't the only two in costume—the 80s aerobics instructor look was actually quite popular among other runners.

The great thing about running with SBW is that she's totally chill about training. Which worked well for me this time because I just couldn't seem to find time to train properly. Normally I try to get in 11-12 miles for my final "long run" but SBW and I only got in 8ish. I think if I could push myself to run more regularly when I'm not training for a specific race, my body might stop being such a train wreck during my 13.1s. But not this time...

Last year when Mr. W and I ran in Healdsburg, my knee went south on me around mile 7. Since then, I've had issues with my achilles (sometimes it likes to pop or slip or do some other funky old lady tendon thing), my big toes have gone in and out of being stiff (one even swelled up after a particularly active weekend of DIYing at the new house), and in general, my body just feels a heck of a lot older than it was when I ran my first race in 2008.

I thought I'd be in decent shape on Sunday because we were doing a lot of alternating between walking and running...and then we hit mile 12. Suddenly my IT band decided to launch all out warfare. I wanted to walk. I wanted to crawl. I tried to find a gait that was less painful. I had warned SBW earlier in the race that if I happened to have any issues with my knees, I might need her to not talk to me (like I asked Mr. W to do last year) and she was awesome about it. As soon as I went silent, so did she, and she only gave me a couple reassuring, "You can make it"s when I let out a grunt or a whimper.

I'm sure I'll run another half next year. Maybe even Santa Ynez. And maybe my decrepit body will somehow regenerate into the 10-minute-mile "powerhouse" it once was. Or maybe I'll just add a knee brace to my sweat band/hot pink shirt ensemble...

Iron Strength

Eleanor Roosevelt was once quoted as saying, "A woman is like a teabag—you never know how strong she is until she gets in hot water."

I don't know what the right metaphor is (An oceanliner? Alaskan fishing boat?), but I think you never know how strong a woman is until she gets into tumultuous water.

Today one of my dear friends, Southern Belle, completed an Ironman race in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the Ironman, it includes a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike ride and a 26.2-mile run. That last one is a full marathon. It is a race made only for the fittest people who walk among us. It is astounding to me that I know a woman who completed it.

What's most amazing, though, isn't that Southern Belle has such tremendous physical strength. What is truly incredible is that she completed this race after life knocked her to her knees on April 19th.

See, Southern Belle is the girlfriend of Mr. W and my friend Sweet Pete who passed away two months ago. More than his girlfriend, she was the woman who would become his wife. Unbeknownst to any of us, he had purchased a ring for her before he died.

The fact that this Ironwoman can pull herself up out of the depths of sorrow to walk across a room is a feat in itself. The fact that she can swim, bike and run her way across 140.6 miles of a race course is nothing short of a miracle in my eyes.

That is strength like I've never known. A display of resolve and passion like I've never seen. A way to honor someone's memory that surpasses what most of us will ever be capable of.

That is love.

"Congratulations" isn't a strong enough word for my friend Southern Belle. Instead I will just tell her that she is my hero.

She is the epitome of strength.

Retraining the Mental Muscles

For the majority of my life, I absolutely hated running. I can remember having to run one lap around the track during P.E. in high school and feeling like I might just collapse. It was only a quarter of a mile but it felt like the length of the California coast. Even in college when I was working out regularly, any attempt to run left me feeling winded and wimpy and totally unmotivated rack up any sort of admirable distance.

Then in my early thirties, my girlfriends distracted me with conversation and I realized that if I could push through the first couple miles, I was totally capable of running several more after that.

I just needed to get warmed up.

Those first two miles always feel like a slog. But I know that once I blow through them, everything is going to get easier. And the endorphins at the end of my run will be that much better. Yeay for endorphins!

I realized this week that writing for me is just like running.

Well, except that I never hated writing.

But it requires me to warm up in a similar fashion—or else I can't really get in a groove and enjoy the elation of accomplishment when I finish. It's funny because I need about the same amount of time at the keyboard as I do on the sidewalk. Twenty minutes is the magic number.

I wonder if they've done studies on the twenty-minute factor. Maybe everything gets easier if you stick to it for 20 mins. Maybe the payoff is always better if you do something for longer than that allotment of time.

I'm just glad that I recognized the correlation between putting on my shoes and panting, and settling in at the computer and typing. I'll likely have to remind myself of it every single day while I'm *living the dream*.

Just like training for my half marathons, if I'm ever going to get to the publishing finish line, I'm going to have to warm up and push myself into better and better shape.

It's a Marathon, Not a Share-athon!

When Mr. Wonderful and I signed up to do the Healdsburg Half Marathon, both of us were concerned that his knees might not be up for the task. He experiences pain just about every time he goes more than a couple miles or tries to run downhill. I, on the other hand, haven't had any issues with my knees during any of the training for my four prior half marathons. Which is why I was shocked when my leg decided to gimp out on me this past weekend.

We had just passed the mile 7 marker when the outside of my right knee started to ache. I figured it was just tight or a little tweaked from some of the rolling hills. But with each mile we completed, it hurt more and more. By mile 10, it felt like there was a dwarf running my my side, hammering it with each step I took. Sounds like a new show on TLC—The Little Hammersmiths. Anyway, the pain was sharp and constant. I was literally grunting with each step.

When I saw the mile 13 sign, I was beyond done. Mr. W, trying to lighten the mood, said, "At least we can go in for double knee replacements together!"

"Can you not talk to me until we're done?" I said back.

I'm pretty sure he wanted to respond with "Fine beeyatch!" but instead he just went silent.

As we recounted the story to some friends the next morning over breakfast, the wife shared a similar story with us about a time she was sick. Lying on the floor, she called out to her husband (who was sleeping) to tell him she felt ill. He rushed to her side and began rubbing her back.

"Don't touch me," she told him.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"Don't talk to me," she answered.

Defeated, he got up to go back to bed.

"Don't leave me!" his wife cried out.

Crack up.

I was thinking about her situation and mine on the (very) long drive home from Napa and I think I came up for a reason why we sometimes need silent support.

This may be a woman thing, or maybe just a me thing, but when someone talks to me I feel like I have to answer. When Mr. W touches me, I feel compelled to respond. So when I'm in pain or grumpy or starving, it's not that I don't want him talking to or touching me—it's that I don't want to have to reciprocate in any way. Because I'm hurting and pissed about it.

Fortunately Mr. W forgave me after we crossed the finish line. Still not sure if it was my improved attitude or the free wine tasting that prompted that...

The Company We Keep

I love this picture. Mr. W took it when we were visiting the central coast.
Don't they just feel like they're unconditionally in love?

The house has been pretty quiet since Mr. Wonderful left Monday night.

I'm not sure if it's the late summer sunsets or the cool evening air that are making me nostalgic, or if it's just the hush of living single again. But last night I was doing a lot of relationship pondering (and crafting...shameless plug: www.etsy.com/shop/hauterubbish).

I thought about a couple of my favorite girlfriends who are both moving away from LA soon. These two girls changed me. They're the ones who got me to climb Half Dome. They're the ones who encouraged me to run and eventually complete multiple half marathons. They've been my sounding boards, my advisers, my exercise partners and my favorite comedic companions for several years now. I'm not quite sure what I'll do without them nearby.

It could have been because I was thinking of them that, when I crawled into bed and glanced at the picture on my nightstand, I thought about how much I like who I am with Mr. Wonderful. I saw myself smiling such a genuine smile in the photo. I just had this funny flicker of, "I like that girl."

That hasn't always been the case in my relationships—friendship or otherwise. There have been some people who bring out the baddies in me. Friends who enticed my sharp tongue or coerced my sleeping sloth. Boyfriends who inflated my anxiety. People who I allowed to get to me in such a way that I turned into an insecure, unhappy little waif.

But we all get to choose who receives our time. We can seek and be loyal to those who make us feel like our best, happiest, most motivated selves. Or we can stagnate with the people who make us feel awful.

As I switched off the light last night, I was filled with a feeling of relief and gratitude that I married one who makes me feel so right. And that those friends who continually propel me forward will always be only a phone call away.