Tuesday, August 29, 2017

Conquering the Beast

I seem to be fighting for a comfortable spot at this moment.  No matter what I do, there is soreness somewhere.  I survey the battle scars left on my extremities from a hard fought race on Saturday.  These are the remnants of The Spartan Beast in West Virginia that I completed on Saturday.  To be quite honest, the notion of this race was taken from a late night New Year's conversation between what would now be known as my racing team.  At that point, we were just three friends living in different states who had learned how to support one another to stay on track and reach our goals.  By New Years, the three of us had essentially met our weight loss goals and committed to a Spartan Race in June.  As we chatted that fateful New Years, me with a glass of wine and the other two with comparable adult beverages, our notion of what we could achieve grew and grew until we committed to a Trifecta this year.  To date, we had all done a 3-5 mile Sprint, an 8 mile Super and now it was time for The Beast.  We understood it was "13+" miles.  I think it was the "+" that got me in the days leading up to the race.  What seemed like such a great idea one glass of wine in on the last day of 2016 was suddenly a bit harrowing.  In fact, the phrase,"what the hell was I thinking?" came to mind more than once.

We were so relieved when we hit the start line and the starter announced the course was in fact, 13 miles.  Ok.  We're good.  Thirteen miles was by far the longest race I had ever done, but the low end by Beast standards.  Off we went.  The first thing we would find was a steep steep incline for almost a mile.  We trudged up a step at a time finally reaching the top where we would have amazing panoramic mountain views.  This was short lived however, as there was no resting on the laurels of conquering that hill...there were many hills, in fact it was all hills.  Up and down the extremely steep mountain for miles and miles until a teammate finally said,"can we just have an obstacle?" The trails were narrow.  Faster racers were weaving in and out of us slow and steady folk.  Hearing the sound of rapid footprints behind me proved to be stressful as I feared I would either slow them down, or they would knock me off the mountain.  In fact, we did see someone who appeared to have fallen and broken the ankle.  There were the screaming toes from miles of steep declines, and burning hamstrings from steep inclines.  All of this proved to be as mentally challenging as physically, as there just seemed to be no end in sight.

What took me by surprise was actually reaching an obstacle.  Suddenly, the ten foot vertical cargo net that held every ounce of my irrational fear in previous races felt like something totally different.  It felt familiar compared to the giant mountain.  This time I didn't yell,"I don't got this!" I simply climbed and got over it.  In my mind, I might be afraid of this but I could do it.  Conquering the rest of the mountain was way more scary.  My team asked,"what is happening right now?"  I honestly think they wait all race to laugh at my irrational outbursts as it provides months of entertainment for them as I struggle to live that down. I suppose those obstacles had become a familiar fear, where as the mountain, that truly lived up to its name, a beast, was all new territory.

I carefully watched my Apple Watch to see how far I had come.  When I safely passed the 7 mile mark I felt refreshed.  I was over half way there and was doing just fine.  However, somehow the Spartan mile markers were way behind my watch.  I had 8, how did they have 6?  We stopped at the spear throw where I was convinced we were way more than half way.....until I ran into Bill from BROCR Media who told me to hold on, the back of the course was tough.  Wait....the back?  Aren't we on the back?  What I would discover was no, not yet.  Eight miles in and had not reached the back half.   Back into the mountain we would go.  Up and down.  People around us who had studied the course map the day before would say,"well we still have the log carry" or "we have not hit the multirig" it was as if they took great pride in pointing out the things we still had not done indicating the end was truly not in sight despite my watch reading 10 miles.  At that point, I had to resist the urge to cause them bodily harm.  At least it would take my mind off the open flesh of my second toes.

The back half of the course would be more challenging even mentally.  Every water station,"you're doing great, only two more Spartan miles to go".  What we would learn is the disclaimer of "Spartan" meant they were not going to tell us how much further.  I began to wonder if it ever ended.  I let my mind wander as I trudged along to all the times over the years that I felt stuck.  I felt stuck in an obese body, while people around me told me over and over "you can't".  It was like being lost on the mountain, some part of me believe there may be an end in site, but the reality was I was damned to know when or what it was.  I pondered this through all of mile 12 until I found myself saying out loud to no one in particular,"tell me I can't one more f@#$ing time." Yes, full on cleansing profanity on the course, I have found to be a thing.  I began to tear up as I thought about how much of an audience I had given the negative voices and how locked in I had been to their notions for decades.  Suddenly, this was my time.  My mountain.  My win.

We would ultimately emerge, the last quarter mile, five more obstacles, some successful and some not, to meet in the finish line chute with a final team circle of fist bumps with my teammate saying,"Five sharks in.  Five sharks out.  Let's finish this."  We jumped the fire and cried as a team.  Two hundred and forty pounds lost between four of us, complete physical exhaustion, and many demons left to their final resting place on a steep mountain in West Virginia.  We learned what obstacles once frightened us felt more like home and that the uphill climb was terrifying but when you have no choice but to push through it, true greatness lived at the finish. More interesting is that what "Spartan miles" meant by Apple Watch standards was a total of 20 miles, not 13.  The ride home was met with a lot of chatter about this obstacle, that funny looking racer, the horrific log carry, covering more mileage any of us thought possible and more importantly....when can we do it again?

Monday, August 14, 2017

Don't Be a Drag, Be a Queen

Tonight, as I finished my sixth ten hour ER shift in seven days, which was immediately on the heels of my trip to Chicago to deliver my mother's eulogy,  I found myself going from work directly to the gym to make my 6:15pm workout with my mind racing of all the things that need to be done in my world, as I was way behind.  I thought about the mountain of laundry, the bills that needed to be paid, the YouTube prep I needed to do for my cooking channel, the kids' stuff that needed to be taken care of before school starts in a few weeks, the babysitter schedule, planning to be out of town for the Spartan Beast next week, holy crap the Beast, I am running the Beast...it seemed the list was endless and my mind going 100 miles an hour.  I found myself prioritizing what I could get by with until I actually had a day off two days from now.  What was enough?  What could I get by with and yet still have the chance to catch my breath tonight?  Maybe I just didn't need to catch my breath.  I had too much to do.

As I sifted through the ever growing list in my head putting it together like a crazy game of tetris, I was also thinking about the messages from clients that needed an answer.  These were clients that needed motivation, making apologies for "just did a mile on the treadmill" or "my eating was not perfect." or "yesterday was my birthday, and I had cake."  Apology after apology for not doing what they felt like was enough.  Constantly comparing themselves to someone else who may run a bit further, or eat a bit better, or maybe skipped the cake on their birthday, when suddenly I felt the same.

The reality is, I am not a Pinterest Mom.  If the cupcakes are going to school, the odds are pretty good they came from the grocery store, and we are just damn lucky I remembered they needed to go on that day and went with the right kid.  When it comes to creative crafting, I am probably more likely to spend my time perfecting cooking the perfect steak on the Big Green Egg, rather than making an art piece out of burlap.  The fact is, I have a healthy appreciation for the "Pinterest Fails" as I realize it is not just me that suffers from this variety of inadequacy.  The fact that my current "To Do" list was much longer than my available time and energy only feeds this feeling of somehow just not measuring up.

Nonetheless, I found myself in an particularly challenging Orangetheory Endurance workout with plenty of time during half mile running repeats and 1000m rows to figure out how to separate out my own feelings of inadequacy and rise to motivate my members feeling the same.  Then it happens as it often does for me, the music spoke to me and answered my question.  Orangetheory is dimly lit in orange lights.  The music is loud and generally fast and motivating.  Tonight's offering contained Lady Gaga's "Born This Way."

It reminded me of how many times we stifle our own progress because we spend so much time comparing ourselves to others and apologizing for our own accomplishments because somehow they don't seem like it's enough, or maybe if who we are does not fit a particular mold set forth by ourselves or others we are somehow less.  It is in this constant state of feeling less where we get lost. We have no hope and we simply give up. In my 45 year battle with obesity this has happened to me over and over.

It begs the question, what if, instead, we spent our time celebrating as Lady Gaga says, being born this way.  Being born with strengths that belong to only us.  By embracing our own strengths we no longer have to apologize for who we are.  As for me, I decided my greatest strength today is the ability to take very limited time and prioritize the vital pieces of today's puzzle and put them all together in masterful fashion.  Now, if only I could make some burlap piece of art out of that puzzle....but I digress.

As I rowed away, the lyrics rolled on reminding even me,"Don't hide yourself in regret, Just love yourself and you're set, I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way." I finished my row, and the runs and left drenched, leaving my own regret somewhere in a pool of my own sweat on the back of treadmill number 8.

I would go on to answer those messages, forbidding my clients to utter the phrase,"I only did."  I asked them to replace them with,"I DID!" They were told to celebrate every single victory.  Every accomplishment they could not achieve even yesterday.  I asked them to pause and think about who it is they are finding as they reach each goal no matter how small.  Every time, each and every time, I get back,"I am finding me."  I do believe each of them is learning, that "me" is pretty amazing.  It reminded me of the times my mom did exactly what is described in the song, she told me when I was young we were all born superstars....how many times we forget this in the age of competition and our constant need to outdo one another.

So tonight, I did what needed to be done.  There's still dishes in the sink.  The ten or so loads of laundry, oh wait, nine, can wait, as I did enough to get through tomorrow, and probably the mailman is not coming after 9 pm, so the bills can wait too.  Instead, I take my much needed night off to celebrate sixty hours of hard work, not missing a workout and tucking my babies in tonight as my big victories.  It may not be Pinterest worthy or even all that amazing, but for today it is my personal best and that is amazing. Time to pour the wine, toast my mom and not be a drag...rather be a queen.
Image result for born this way

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

Julio Get the Stretch

A day off.  Those three words always seem to sound like a blissful slice of nirvana when spoken, however, in my world, I seem to have far too many plates spinning to make that any sort of reality.  Today, I was off.  My single day off was sandwiched in between working 5 ten hour days out of six, with the next day being a travel day to go home to Chicago.  Today, I had errands to run.  Groceries, shoes for the kids for my mom's memorial, cookbook revisions to review, laundry, packing, house cleaning, as always my to do list was longer than the hours in my day.  Not to mention, today I had the task of writing my mother's eulogy that I will deliver on Saturday.

So, I set off with my two Haitian sensations, now ages 6 and 7.  Let me just say, going store to store, in and out of the car for several hours with a 6 and 7 year old while being overwhelmed with stuff to do, and pressed for time, is not nearly as fun as you might think.  It was hours of,"why are your shoes off, we are just getting out of the car again."  "No you can't ride in the cart, you are 70 pounds and no you are not too tired to walk down the aisles of Target."  Let us not forget,"no you cannot have candy.  Just because we are in a store does not mean you get a prize."  or  "Put that back.  Stop touching that"  There was lunch tossed at them in the back seat, yes winning parenting skills there, as I was simply out of time to stop for any length of time and still get things done.  The whining that went on was second only to my extreme frustration with the whole afternoon.  They were kids.  They wanted to be outside.  Hell, I wanted to be outside, but this was life in this moment.

When we finally finished at the last stop, the grocery store, we had all had it.  They piled in the car and I set out for home.  Little pangs of guilt with my ever apparent frustration crept in as I thought about these two kids in the back seat.  I brought them home from Haiti 3.5 years ago.  It was the culmination of a three year extremely difficult adoption process.  There were setbacks.  Lost documents.  Fake documents.  Notebooks missing.  Official seals not right.  Obstacle after obstacle.  The crowing blow was a printer that was down at the US Embassy so their visas could not be printed for days, and I could not leave the country until they were.

In the three years leading up to them coming home, I would spend evenings looking at pictures of two children who were growing older by the day without their mommy who by all rights, was a virtual stranger to them.  I would miss Alex learning to crawl and ultimately walk.  Grace would start preschool in Haiti without the obligatory first day pics with the new shoes and shiny backpack.  I was not there to hold them when they were sick or rock them to sleep at night.  To be fair, I did not even know their personalities, not really.  I had spent a handful of days with them throughout the process.  They didn't know mine either.  Our relationship was a string of pictures other visitors to their orphanage would send me.  Strangers hugging my children when I was not allowed to.  Seeds of doubt crept in as to if they were ever coming home, and if they did would it work? The concern over bringing older orphanage children home grew by the day.  I do have three other children adopted from Russia, who are now 23, 21 and almost 12, but it was different with them.  I met them and brought them home in the same month.  In Russia, the legal stuff is all done on the front side before you are matched with and meet your child.  In that situation, you are dealing with wondering what your child will look like or if it is a boy or a girl, but that was about it.    This was different.  Three years of uncertainty worrying about a child you leave behind every time you go for a visit.  These were very large hurdles to get them here and I was now frustrated at their very presence today, when by all rights I should be grateful for the frustration.  Ah the guiltings only another adoptive parent could understand.

As my brain sifts through all of this, it happened.  My playlist was on random.  I wasn't really listening as I was deep in thought and, after raising five children, I have mastered the ability to tune out the back seat, when I suddenly realized the kids were singing.  They were singing and dancing as best they could in seatbelts.  "Uptown Funk" had come on.  It was their favorite.  The dance party had begun.  I hear my six year old son sing,"Julio get the stretch...." which strikes me as so funny I cannot even help but laugh.

As the song continues, my frustration fades as I realize that without those three years of horrific obstacles and late night pining over pictures of children I did not totally know would be mine one day, I would not have had this moment of Alex embracing his inner Bruno Mars as he does the cabbage patch in the back seat.  For my Haitian child who grew 18 inches the first 22 months he was home, this is quite a sight.

I can remember when the Haitian adoption was proposed to me.  I was afraid of the process.  I was afraid it would take three years and it would be hard.  When that is exactly what happened.  I began to wonder how many times we shy away from huge ugly challenges that seem so hard there is no possible way we can endure it, let alone succeed.  I must admit, I have given in to this many times in my 47 years on the planet, and through their adoption, there was so much doubt and despair, I was reasonably certain at times it would never work and I should call it quits.

My final hurdle of the day was to face off with my mom's eulogy.  This is a task I have avoided now for a couple weeks.  Big ugly obstacle.  I tried to talk myself out of it several times.  It would not be the worst thing in the world if I told my family no.  The reality was, I didn't want to feel the grief.  I didn't totally know how my thoughts about my mom and her life were going to translate into a logical delivery and I wasn't totally sure I could do it.  Yet, it was my task, one I decided I would regret not doing if I didn't face the challenge.  As I sat in the very spot I am in now, the words came.  The tears flowed and I ended up satisfied with what came out.  We shall see on the delivery on Saturday, but I will know in my heart of hearts I did not run from this challenge to honor her the way she deserved.

What followed this was a much needed dance party with the craziest Haitian children I know, and yes another rousing rendition of "Uptown Funk" right there in my kitchen as I made dinner.  The giggles, the smiles and the realization that some hard challenges are worth fighting through, because the hard is what makes it great.  Now if Julio would just get the stretch...