Filed under: Dealing | Tags: Eating, half marathon, healing, injuries, memories, running, sadness, struggle
The Half is off. I’m just not prepared.
It really stinks. But there’s tons of time until the Pig, and I’m thinking about another half in a month or two, this time with better training. That whole eating well, stretching, and strength-training thing is NOT a joke, people. Your ankles won’t like it if you don’t, you know, do it.
I’m having a little bit of difficulty – ok, a lot – balancing my life. It’s become surprisingly busy. Work, practice, gigs, running, and socializing all compete with each other for top spots, and I barely even have time for anything else, like a quiet breakfast, an hour of contemplation, a little bit of reading.
At least I don’t have a huge amount of time to be sad, though it still happens pretty often, in moments of stillness, or when I see couples together, or when it just hits me that I’m HERE, surprise-surprise, and that if things had gone my way, I would still be with…
But so it goes.
Filed under: Eating, Training Runs | Tags: Eating, good day, long run, nutrition, running
Allison, Andrew, Mandy and I met behind BU this morning for our respective runs. Andrew and Mandy took off, Andrew to do a fast 10 (I think), Mandy to do 20 in preparation for her upcoming marathon, and Allison and I did a slow and steady 9-miler, finishing a wonderful loop around the Charles River in one hour and thirty-eight minutes. It was in the mid-fifties, sunny, and breezy. Perfect weather for a run, and we finished fairly easily.
When we got back, Allison and I drank chocolate milk and ate some of the bourbon brownies she had made the night before. It was incredibly satisfying and completely wrong for a post-run snack. I’m experiencing the sugar crash right about…now.
Must be time for another brownie.
Filed under: Dealing, Eating | Tags: Eating, moving, nutrition, sadness, struggle
One of the most important things a runner can do is eat well. This is unfortunate, because people going through break-ups, or any other grief, for that matter, are notoriously bad eaters.
When he first left, I barely ate a thing for a week. We’re talking one mouthfull of food if the stomach cramps got too bad, and then it had to be forced down. I started eating when I started running, and when I realized that I didn’t want to give him the power to give me an eating disorder.
It’s practically bedtime, and I’m currently inhaling a small bowl of sliced zucchini that has been cooked and salted. Ok, cooked with oil. OK, WITH BUTTER. As you can see, I haven’t quite mastered this whole eating thing yet.
The thing is, I live by myself, at least for now. I love to cook, too, or at least I did. But cooking suddenly seems to have turned into this giant, draining task that it never was before. Every trip to the grocery store emphasizes the unbearable: You’re Alone. Every recipe attempted: You’re Alone. Every minute spent in the kitchen: You’re Alone. He‘ll never eat this. You can’t call him during dinnertime, you’ll never bake him another pie, you’ll never roast him another chicken. What’s the point? Eat what’s in the house, whatever’s quickest, whatever’s easiest.
I know this’ll have to stop, eventually. It actually did, for a week or two, but now I’m moving (more on that another time) and, you know, what’s the point? Why fill the fridge? Why spend the time and money?
If only this whole thing were just about putting in the miles. But it’s not.
