It’s better than a mass e-mail

I’ve never really been one for mantras. They just seemed cheesey and unnecessary, and I could never really picture myself chanting a few sentences over and over again for some desired outcome. Mantras seem to me like one of those things my former hippie roommate had. That, and natural peanut butter and Tom’s deodorant – all of which I rejected outright.

Good thing I’ve come around. Not only have I embraced natural peanut butter and aluminum-free deodorant (on most days, but not in the summer – that calls for the Toxic Big Dogs), but I am also warming to mantras. Yes, my roommate was ahead of her time.

Another friend of mine had a mantra as she was preparing for a natural homebirth. Hers was spectacularly personal and moving. It made me realize mantras don’t have to be cliched (like that one about how I won’t try to change the things I can’t or something.) I like to think her mantra helped her build the strength she needed to bring a healthy child into a world of support and peace.

My need for a mantra is far more pedestrian. But as I have been training for the marathon, I’ve had a few phrases swirling around in my head. One of them I ripped from an audiobook I just listened to, Born to Run. (Awesome book, by the way. Inspiring and humbling for someone who often sees running as a slog she’s become addicted to.) This particular mantra came from a townspeople who lived high in the mountains in a rough-and-tumble, take-no-prisoners mining town:

You are tougher than you think you are, and you can accomplish more than you think you can.

It stuck with me. Another concept I originally rejected and now have come to understand (alongside toiletries that don’t poison you slowly) is that running is very mental. Let’s be honest, if I tried to run a full marathon six months ago, or even tomorrow for that matter, I could quite possibly die. Or perhaps start hobbling at mile five until the race officials kindly asked me  to step off the course, as it is now getting dark. But since I have been training, I find myself working harder to overcome my mental blocks than nursing blisters or sore muscles. It’s a constant exercise in mental endurance, in confidence building, in just pulling the wool over my eyes long enough to convince myself that I can get through this run.

Enter the mantra. During runs when I just don’t think I will make it, or I have a long list of excuses for shortening it or walking, the mantra reminds me that I can in fact do it. I am tougher than I give myself credit for. I, in fact, can run farther than I thought, so why not just shut it and run.

Last year, as I was training for my first half marathon, every long weekend run was brand new information. Every time I ran a mile, I was able to say to myself (and any poor soul willing to listen), “Five miles is the longest I’ve ever run!” What a spectacular feeling. And this year, it’s happening all over again, this time with my speed on some runs, the hills I take on, and gradually the number of miles I am racking up each run. The brand new information part is also happening with the mental bit, the confidence I am building in myself, the strength, the motivation, and the determination to not only train for the longest run of my life, but to also find joy and comfort in it

It’s mental. Each week, I have to build myself up to be ready for the long run. And if I have a shitty run (tried 15 miles with a post-30th-birthday gin and tonic hangover), I have to remind myself that I chose this. This is fun for me. I am in charge here. And if a run doesn’t go well, it’s OK. There’s always tomorrow or next Saturday. No one is judging me or thinking I’ve failed. (This may seem a simple concept, but it’s all new for a  Type A personality plagued with insecurities.)

So I have embraced mantras. I’ve bought into the notion that running is mental. Shit, I even eat natural peanut butter. What’s next?

The NYT has a regular feature called “Voices” where they have audio clips of people telling their story of living with or surviving or losing someone to a certain disease. For some reason, the feature on pancreatic cancer from last fall has been coming up in the health section rotation.

Ah, pancreatic cancer. This is the cancer my mom died from 18 years ago.  I think I was about 12.

Although I think about my mom all the time, and I think a lot about the fact that it was cancer that killed her, I rarely consider just what kind of cancer. I have a friend whose mom was recently diagnosed with lung cancer. My best friend’s mom died of ovarian cancer (on Mother’s Day, that jerk). But rarely do I really stop and think – pancreatic cancer.

This feature allowed me to do that. A five-year survival rate of 5 percent. She barely had a fighting chance. And I am guessing research and treatment has advanced in the last two decades, but the pancreas is a tough one, all hidden away, and the symptoms are like so many other conditions. There’s no high-profile campaign against it with celebrity faces or pink ribbons.

Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with cancer stats, and I am not sure I am going to run out and volunteer with a pacreatic cancer organization (but if there is one, I might look into it… that, and early screening). But it did make me reconsider and reflect on a different aspect of my mom’s disease. It also dredged up a whirl of emotion listening to the survivor stories and wishing my mom could have been among the lucky ones.

Everyday, I usually get an e-mail or two from the blog program asking me to approve or spam a comment. Usually it’s spam, so I’ll just go in and clean house, deleting all the pending comments that are inevitably spam.

But lo and behold, I just got a comment (yahoo Maggie!). Just as I was about to click “spam,” I looked closer and realized it was a real live comment. I just  might have a reader or two here.

Not that I have been giving them anything to read lately. Hence, this post.

I drunkenly signed up for a marathon this fall. Let me first explain the “drunkenly” part. One night a couple months ago, we had some friends over for dinner and partook in a few glasses of wine. As the red wine was flowing, we got to talking about running and races. A friend of mine competed in triathlons and had started running again. Somehow – and this part is a bit fuzzy – I became the topic of conversation and was being pressured into signing up for a marathon. I guess it had been in the back of my mind for a while, so it didn’t take too much to be pushed into the idea.”Come on Sara, just do it. If you can run a half, you can do a full.” “If you sign up, you’ll have to start training.” “What are you waiting for, you pansy-ass sack of shit?”

Before I knew it, I had my credit card in hand and was signing up for the Philadelphia Marathon Nov. 22.

So I have since pored over every single marathon training plan known to man and available online. I have scoured the Runner’s World site for their Smart Coach training plan, tips, gadgets, advice. This weekend, I bought a gear belt – a ridiculously cumbersome and bulbous Velcro belt that holds up to four small water bottles and a couple of those nasty gel packs that I guess I will need to start using.

I am up to 8  miles on my long weekend runs and this weekend’s run was spectacular. Don’t get me wrong: running for the most part totally sucks and is painful and boring. But something about it… I ran the half marathon last year as a part of my new thing where I set goals and achieve them. That’s at the heart of this, I think. I am setting this goal that is tangible and perhaps achievable with a great deal of work. I have something to work toward. The act of running itself hasn’t entirely endeared itself to me yet (I still haven’t gotten to that point where I hit a stride and zone out and daydream and before I know have covered 10 miles… Does that really happen?). Maybe it will. Or maybe this will be more about the journey and reaching the goal. Either way, after running for 8 miles – and one day, 13, 18, 26…) I feel amazing – tired yet energized – and can basically eat whatever I want for the rest of the day.

p.s. I promise to write more. Really this time.

Something told me, some notion in the back of my mind even as I was typing the words “photo a day,” that in fact taking and uploading a new photo everyday was a little ambitious. I certainly have a wealth of already-taken photos stretching back five years, but that’s not entirely what I had in mind. I guess my days aren’t always that visual and lately I have been consumed by work (which is good, kind of, since my first several weeks were a bit on the slow side getting started).

I took the camera out on a walk with my dog the other morning, intending to take pictures of vibrant flowers and still uncut grass, wet evil pollen clinging to the edges of the sidewalk and caking around the bases of trees, and of course, my sweet pup in all her sweet morning sun glory. But, every time I pushed the shoot button down, the camera malfunctioned. I’m talking complete and total destruction. The screen would either display a concerning array of white and black lines or shut off entirely.

Nice. And typical. This is the story of my life with technology, even the most banal of technology like a freaking digi cam or the television. More often than not, my frustrations stem from some change my husband has made to said technology with the intensions of making it better (and to be fair, in the end, it usually is better). In my house, you can’t just turn on the stereo and pop in a CD or push play on the iTunes. You have to push various buttons located on different machines on different floors of the house. Similar story when you want to watch television. First push this button, then the ON button, unless you want to watch a recorded program, in which case you push the other button first.

It reminds of the commands we used to have for doing tricks and unlocking secret floors when playing Nintendo. Back, back, front, right, right, A, B, A, B, B, right, left. And viola, you’ve skipped ahead nine levels and rescued the princess.

But I never know the secret combination. Or my husband has told me and I forgot, or it changed when he tweaked it more, or surely it was working a second ago so why isn’t it working for you?

It’s the story of my life. Most couples fight about money, right? Well, we fight about technology. It always has to turn into something, usually because I feel so frustrated and belittled when I can’t get some simple gadget to work. I think it also has to do with the fact that in many arenas, I think my husband is smarter than me. This is a guy that builds computer applications in his free time. He sees a problem and finds a solution. He writes codes to make cameras, and televisions and stereo systems perform beyond their originally intended functions, and it all just makes me want to scream.

So my point is I don’t have an original photo from the other morning. Or this morning for that matter. But don’t give up me yet, dear reader(s). I assure you, photos will be posted with more frequency. Just as soon as I figure out how to work the camera.

Reflecting on yesterday’s events, I didn’t really think much jumped out that was visually stimulating enough to shoot and post. Then I wished I had my camera poised and ready when my friend came over to borrow a dress for a wedding. Turns out, I have a ton of party dresses. Who knew? (Besides my friend, and my husband, and well, most other folks who have either gotten a look at my closet or stopped by to borrow something for  a wedding.)

I guess I didn’t realize it, but I have quite the habit of buying party dresses. Like the emerald green one from Forever 21 that is nearly-offensively short but a color green with shiny satin edging I couldn’t pass up. Or perhaps the white one with brown stripes with tule under the skirt. Then there’s the black and white polka dot dress with the tag still on (I bought that while shopping alone and knew I needed a second opinion.)

Anyway, the dresses were amassing. And really, I don’t go to that many parties and I don’t wear that many dresses. Most of the dresses have been  worn but between weddings and rehearsal dinners, they just hang there. That’s not to say for the few that are far more casual and begging to be worn on a regular day but are neglected in favor of the same jeans and tank top.

So we spread out all the dresses on my bed and it was a colorful smattering of texture certainly worthy for a photo. But it didn’t even cross my mind. I was more consumed with the relief that one dress I thought was far too small still fits (God bless spandex) and the thought that I might just institute a new dress-wearing phase. It started well yesterday, as I donned one during the day and a different one for a dinner out.

Alas, I will leave you with a few images of our beach trip last weekend to Assateague Island. No, we didn’t see a single pony (for which I considered asking for my money back), but we did narrowly escape a deal-breaking thunderstorm, and I managed to severely sunburn my ears.

This is my husband running after the birds. I attribute the burst of ridiculousness and energy to the ocean, or what my friend calls “the negative ions” from the ocean air, which can cure all, and perhaps make you a wee nuts.

Sausages for dinner, of course.

Washed up blowfish, gross, I know. But cool detail and I got to use the macro setting which I am currently obsessed with.