Here come the baked goods...

It's hard enough to stick to your diet on normal days. But throw in working in an office obsessed with sharing goodies combined with the holidays, and you pretty much get a dieter's nightmare.

I've been good so far, taking a bite or a slice only here and there, but I have a feeling my willpower might wilt in the coming week. Yesterday there was chocolate overload in the work kitchen. A giant chocolate trifle cake was delivered to us, and a coworker brought in pounds of different chocolaty greatness as a thank you to us all for our support during his recent illness.

Thankfully I only worked a half day so I didn't have to be around all of it all day, but I did eat a handful of Jordan almonds before I left. I mean, how can you pass those up!?

I was proud that the only thing I wanted from the cake was this plastic reindeer which served as one of the festive toppers. Whenever I look at him--Steph and I have named him Skinny Pete--I will be reminded of my will power and hope its magical powers will help me resist the influx of baked goods that is to come. Also, Skinny Pete has a special place in my heart because he's made of cheap plastic, making him a little rough around the edges and discolored in spots, notably his pasty white legs. He doesn't have a perfect body, just like me. Move over Rudolph, there's a new reject reindeer in town!

Nothing says Christmas like some cookies

Embracing the holiday spirit has had me obsessed with the idea of making sugar cut-out cookies just like I've always made with my family. It was our tradition growing up, and as we've gotten older, I still insist on making them when I come home. My mom and dad (although I think he secretly enjoyed it) humored me and come Christmas we'd be stuck with dozens of sugar cookies coated in sprinkles that no one wanted to eat. They never have a chance next to the peppermint bark and chocolate magic cookies my mom makes.

Anyways, I convinced my friend Greg to make them with me this weekend. So on Sunday, after the Patriots game, I schlepped over to his apartment and we had at it. I got stuck with the job of rolling the dough (although in this case all we had was the smooth end of a mallet--my hand was killing me from the pointy side pressing against my hand) and cutting out the festive shapes. The entire time, I thought about how my parents got stuck with these same jobs every year, leaving us kids the fun part of decorating them, which we would tire of and quit halfway through, leaving them more to do.

By the time we were finished, we had 6 dozen cookies and, per tradition, no one to eat them. I had a few (and even more of the raw dough.. whoops!) but I just really wanted to make them more than I ever wanted to eat them. Looks like I'll be giving them away as some early Christmas presents! Except my traditional "Kim" cookie... which I always make with the leftover dough and slash my name in it with a butter knife and cover with sprinkles. I'll be eating that.

Special thanks to Greg for amusing me and to my Mom and Dad for putting up with us all those years in the name of tradition. And Mom, you're off the hook this year :)

Ho- Ho- Holidays!

The weekend after Thanksgiving was filled with holiday fun!

It started with my ride home from work on Friday--I hopped aboard the CTA Holiday Train. The festive El train is decked out in lights, regular seats are replaced with Santa seat covers, Christmas music plays over the intercom and there were even elves handing out candy canes as you entered the train cars. Santa was even along for the ride in the open platform in the middle of the "Santa Express." This is one of my favorite things in Chicago and I was so glad I got to ride it again this year (I missed it last year).

On Saturday morning (Dec. 3), I woke up to pouring, freezing rain for the Santa Hustle 5K. Me, Jamie and Corey signed up to run the race in which runners are encouraged to dress up as Santa with the accessories provided in the running packet (a bead, a hat and a long sleeve Santa shirt). Despite the rain and the wind, it was so much fun seeing everyone dressed up and getting to run in the beard and hat (although the beard kept causing hairballs in the mouth) was hilarious and surprisingly not uncomfortable.

To top it off, there were live reindeer at the race and free candy! At Mile 1 they had elves handing out cups of M&Ms and at Mile 2, volunteers offered you cookies. I lost my M&Ms somewhere along the way and was too busy trying to get a personal best time for a 5K that I passed up on the cookies. It was all worth it because I beat my best time by about 20 seconds!

After the race, I headed over to Jamie and Corey's and helped them decorate their tree and bake cookies, all while sipping hot chocolate and Mocha Mint Kahlua (highly recommended by the way!). The night ended on a bright note, as I got to ride the holiday train home.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities opens with this:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way..."

This is how I feel my life has been for the last couple of months, and the reason I haven't written much. Things are work have been so unsure--up then down, I'm in then I'm out, I'll move home but then I'll stick it out. While waiting for a solution to my job and my future beyond my current contract which ends of Dec. 21, the stress in my life has snowballed enough to bring back the anxiety and panic attacks I suffered in January 2009. The uncertainty of my future has put me in a dark, sad place I didn't want to crawl out of because facing reality meant making 15 decisions at once.

My hibernation from reality meant I haven't done anything interesting to post on here, and I didn't want to whine or discuss anything I wasn't even sure was happening or going to happen. The last month or so has been one big question mark.

However, I can safely say now that I am getting close to a decision--and with the budget being approved hopefully this Thursday, I'll know once and for all what and where I will be come 2012. Just in time for the world to end on 12-12-12 (isn't that the new prediction?). Friday cannot come soon enough for me.

However, I haven't been completely dead to the world of fun... Christmas is my favorite time of year and I refused to let my uncertainty and anxiety ruin it for me. I've made sure to do some things to get me in the holiday spirit this year (including watching YouTube videos of my favorite 80s Christmas cartoon classics).

It started with Thanksgiving, which I was forced to spend for the first time ever without my family thanks to greedy airlines and their ticket prices. But I was very thankful for those who offered to adopt me for the day and that I could spend it with the second best thing: one of my best friends Puni, her husband and her family. The Indian cuisine was delicious and it was definitely great to have a different experience, but I did find myself missing my Aunt's sweet potatoes and my Uncle's fancy stuffing and corn casserole. I'm sure next Thanksgiving, if I am home for the holiday, I'll be missing Puni and her mom's Indian rice and chicken!

Living away from home for nearly two and a half years has helped me gain appreciation for many things, and our annual Thanksgiving Gilmore gathering was just another thing to add to the list. I am also finally content that if I do have to move home, I know I have accomplished a lot here and learned a lot about myself, enough where I can fly away knowing I did the best I could while I had this amazing opportunity.

Stay tuned for more posts regarding my crusade for holiday cheer!

Bridge Over Troubled Water

I came across this photo on a friend's Facebook page and thought it might be something good to share.

I am once again at a point in my life where I must decide which path to take--having to live my life five months at a time isn't as exciting as it may seem. It's three months of ignorant bliss and then two months of sheer panic and stress. I'm hoping my next bridge covers a little more ground than that. And doesn't fall apart like that bridge in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

I know I'm not the only one who might be trying to decide what bridge to take and which one to burn (I think it relates to many aspects of life), so enjoy!

Living to Eat and Eating to Live Happier

I mean no offense to anyone when I say this, but now I know why people who aren't happy in their lives tend to be overweight.

I came to this conclusion as I stared down a plate of brownies this morning at work. I've been stressed, sad and frustrated and eating one would have eased all of the pain. I find comfort in food but knew that ruining my diet at 8:45 a.m. would set me off on the wrong foot and not make me feel any better in the end.

I have this conversation with myself about five times a day and don't always win. Which is why I boldly stated that people who are miserable might be overweight. If you're like me and are unsatisfied with certain parts of life--like being homesick and having trouble with work, relationships and/or living situations--it'll make you want to overeat. Unless it's just me.

Like I said, I find comfort in food, and when everything in my life is extremely stressful, trying to remain disciplined in eating, counting calories and and working out seems nearly impossible and just adds to the stress. Counting out 1,400 calories every day, tracking every bite that goes in my mouth, and then monitoring my pace and heart rate while on a jog or the elliptical at the gym isn't fun. Exercise is supposed to clear my mind, but my doctor told me I had to keep track of the numbers, so that's all I obsess over as soon as I lace up my sneakers. I always hated math and I still do.

The only thing I can seem to control in my life right now is what goes into my mouth and what and when I eat. When I am frustrated or upset, it is SO easy to just say "screw you" and enjoy a cupcake. Key word being enjoy, because it just might be the only moment of pleasure I get that day. Instead of saying "screw you" to a boss, coworker, friend or other person, it's easier to say it to the dieting gods who won't talk back (because they live in your subconscious and always make you feel guilty about it later).

Right now, my stomach is more upset than I am. Guess I won't be eating for comfort tonight...

Just Say No... Is it Really That Simple?

Here comes the season I've been dreading: the holidays. A time for candy, desserts, festive drinks and lots of succulent food. I was confident I could resist it all, but as Halloween came and went, I've found myself popping mini Milky Ways like they were my fish oil pills. I'm ashamed of my lack of will power to resist these little chocolate treats.

This also might be why I am running the Hot Chocolate 5K tomorrow... I'm pretty much solely doing it again this year for the chocolate fondue and hot chocolate party at the finish line. (That's me and Megan after last year's race)

I'm a little worried about how this whole holiday season is going to go with my calorie counting and weight loss challenge. Clearly, I can't even resist chocolate! (my cubicle has become a dangerous place--the other day my cubemate Natalie made mini cupcakes and left them on the desk space in between us).

However, I do have a little inspiration. What could be more motivating than talking to two Biggest Loser contestants? I had the opportunity to interview Jessica (who is still kicking butt on the show this season) for my November Pulse article. And this week I also got to interview Johnny (he was sent home after Week 2) this week for an article for the sister magazine Vitality.

During the interview, I asked them both how they planned to stick to their guns and new lifestyle during the holiday season. Jessica said she was planning on bringing her own treats and teaching people how she eats (she even gave me a recipe for baked apples she used to make for the other contestants on the ranch--check out the article to see it) and Johnny's straight answer: I'm just going to do it. He said he made the decision to live a healthier lifestyle and he just had to do it, that was all there was to it.

They both spoke with such conviction that it made their choices seem so simple.

Maybe it is that simple. In theory at least. Either way, I'll try to keep their voices in my head as I fill up my plates this holiday season. And maybe in the fondue line tomorrow. I'm sure chocolate dipped marshmallows and banana aren't part of their diets, even if it is after a race.

Food for Thought

Just a couple of thoughts from this week:

Thought 1: Just because it's free, doesn't mean you should eat it.

This entire week, Cosi has been giving out free food and treats as a housewarming promotion. I've gotten used to passing up muffins, squagels (square bagels) and slices of amazing bread, but it's never easy--especially when it's free. Yesterday morning, Cosi was giving away free one-topping oatmeal and I thought "finally, something something I can get!" But I looked up the calories for the green light, and to my dismay, discovered it was nearly 100 more calories than the oatmeal I bring for breakfast every day. Making the responsible decision, I passed up the free oatmeal. Now, the pastries and apple strudel sitting in the kitchen yesterday afternoon were a different story (I may have had a slice... but went for a run when I got home to make up for it).

Thought 2: Following the serving amount on the label means less trips to the grocery store.

Serving sizes are there for a reason, but for some reason I never liked to pay attention. This weekend I made rice and re-fried black beans and measured out each serving before putting it on my plate. This is the first time I've made this since my diet adventure began and in the past I'd go through a container of rice and can of re-fried beans in two sittings. This time, because I measured properly and rationed out according to serving, it lasted me four meals. I've noticed this trend with cereal, yogurt, pasta, sauce and vegetables (although I still eyeball those because over-serving myself broccoli can only help me). Measuring not only saves my waistline, but also money and trips to the grocery store. Now those are good reasons to pay attention to serving sizes.

Thought 3: I miss my favorite measuring instrument.

My skinny pants. Remember those? I used to use them as a measuring tool-- the lighter the waistline outline was on my stomach, the more I knew I was shrinking. About six months ago I bent down and split them right up the back. They were from freshman year of college, so I figured it was coming. Maybe it's time to get some new pants... and if I'm a size smaller, that might be a good new measuring tool.

That's all for now.

Where "R" You From?

The Today Show recently did a segment called How to Lose the Accent and Gain an "R". It's about how people with the Boston accent are trying to lose it for professional purposes, but are hesitant because they don't want to lose their identity. Dropping the "R" is a distinctive trait and a hometown pride thing, something that defines us and where we're from.

Whenever I tell someone here that I'm from Boston, their first response is always "How come you don't have an accent?" They're disappointed in me or think I'm lying. "I love the Boston accent," they say.

Suddenly, I'm less cool and less authentic because I say "water" and "car" (apparently that's what outsiders think defines a Boston accent. That and "Harvard Yard").

Growing up around the Boston accent (although it isn't just a Boston thing, it's more like a Massachusetts thing), I always found it a tad annoying. Maybe my annoyance was bred from all of the people who try to imitate it on television and in the movies and can't do it right: worst example, Julianne Moore's attempt as an Irish girl from Boston in 30 Rock. Even Matt Damon overdoes it in The Departed. Or because of those people who attempt to make fun of us and end up sounding like idiots. Example: I used to hang out with someone here who after every time I would say "wicked," he would say "the pahty was wicked hahd core." He is from Jersey (don't even get me started on that accent) and sounded like an idiot. Second, no one from Boston says that. Ever.

Either way, I've found now that I'm in the Midwest and away from my people, I have a whole new appreciation for the Boston accent. I actually really miss it.

Although not every person in Massachusetts talks like Sully from the Saturday Night Live skits with Jimmy Fallon, in my case, I purposely made sure I didn't pick up the accent. In high school, every journalism book and teacher drilled it into my head that if I ever wanted to be a reporter on television or radio, we'd have to practice our non-regional diction. From that point on, I made a conscious effort to pronounce all of my "R"s.

As it turns out, I never made it as a reporter and probably won't ever be on television or radio. And now I kind of regret forcing myself to speak like everyone else. I take pride in where I'm from and I think the Boston accent makes all Massholes feel a little special--when you drop your "R"s people know where you're from right away. It's one of the reasons I love my Patriots/Red Sox meet-up group--a lot of people haven't lost their accent despite living in Chicaaago. It makes me feel at home.

Luckily, it turns out that high school me didn't completely succeed in losing my Boston accent. My coworkers, roommates and friends here all point out the funny things I say-- I pronounce "berry" and "very" weird and say things like "jimmies," "wicked" and "draw" (I have to admit, sometimes I find myself dropping an extra "wicked" once in a while to make sure I don't lose it). And when I come back to Chicago after a visit home, I've been told by people that they can tell I've been hanging around my Boston friends (don't ask me how or what this means).

Sometimes I pretend that their making fun of me is annoying, but I am always secretly happy that there's something about me that makes me different, that proves I'm from Massachusetts. I never ever thought I'd be proud to talk like a Bostonian, but like the guy in the video said: "I don't wanna lose it. It's me." And that's just wicked awesome.

Goodbye, Cubs

When I first moved to Chicago, I thought I would become a Cubs fan. I figured they could be my NL team because they seemed to have many historical and years-of-suffering parallels as Boston. I bought into the idea, sporting my Cubs cap around town and cheering them on in good times, empathizing with them during the bad. And how do they repay me? Like a bad, ungrateful friend, they've stolen my man.

For the past few weeks, all I have heard about is how Theo Epstein is leaving Boston for the Cubs. As a Red Sox fan living in Chicago, I feel like I've just been dumped and now have to watch Theo flaunt his new relationship in my face every day. And worse, in an organization of fans that doesn't understand what they've got and how lucky they are-- where most fans and media outlets are spending more time focused on his looks than what he can bring to their team. While Theo is classic New England, Boston-boy handsome (which as Midwesterners they don't understand), it's his brains that make him even more attractive. It's what's on the inside that counts... isn't that one of the cardinal rules of dating?

Like the end of any relationship, one person is always left with the baggage--anger, hurt, sadness and a whole lot of mess to work through. Most Red Sox fans haven't even had the chance to mourn Theo's departure amid the loss of Terry Francona and Beergate (what I'm fondly referring to as the Sox pitchers who allegedly drank beer and ate fried chicken in the clubhouse). When it rains it pours, and now we have to weather this storm alone. No offense to the new GM, but he doesn't know us like Theo did. He couldn't possibly know how to make us feel better.

As soon as I'm over the shock phase of this break-up, I will stop acting like a woman scorned and take time to reflect on all the good times we had together. Thanks for a great 10 years and two World Series championships, Theo. And for looking so damn good while doing it.

The dumped usually close this chapter of their lives by wishing the other well (whether they mean it or not). I hope Theo will be happy with his new team. All I have to say to Cubs fans is that you better treat him right and respect him, because you've just been given then best thing that's happened to you in years. Oh yeah, and our friendship is over.

The Second Time Around is Always Better?

This weekend, I completed my second half marathon. My friend Erin and I planned a girls weekend down in Newport, RI which included running Sunday's Amica Marathon/United Healthcare Half Marathon.

The course was beautiful--we ran along the ocean and through the city's best parts--but the "rolling" course (more like hills and steady and subtle inclines for most of the way) was more than my little Midwest legs could handle. I felt every little incline, ones I probably wouldn't have if I had been used to running on the East Coast.

Within the first half mile of the race we were forced to run up a hill and there were plenty along the rest of the way (although not all were as steep). My mental anxiety kicked in and I was struggling to get through each one. Erin was a superstar running buddy, congratulating me after I made it up each one and telling me I could do it. We even started a little game where we would compare each hill to a food item--for example, Erin would say this hill is like an omelet because it takes a while to make it, but once you're over the hard part you can finally enjoy it. I think we also used waffles, ice cream sundaes, brownies and pancakes as distractions. It worked for a while.

By Mile 8 my legs felt like spaghetti and were hard to keep moving. Every time I thought I hit my stride, I'd run into another incline. At Mile 9, I had a mini-meltdown, nearly crying that I couldn't make it the rest of the way. The thought of running four more miles caused me launch into almost a full-on panic attack. Erin was understanding and helped me talk myself into knowing I could finish. So we ran on... with some stretching stops and walking breaks in between.
Despite the meltdown and my burning quads, we finished in 2:37:12 (just a minute longer than my time from my first half marathon in August, which was along a flat course). Despite the challenge and the mental breakdown, I enjoyed the scenic course, the girl-bonding time and the views we got of the ocean. I miss those views.

My quads are still a little sore, but thanks to the compression sleeves I got for my legs for the race (they help blood circulation or something like that) I had far less soreness than I did after my first half). My Achilles didn't feel like they were going to rip around Mile 10 and my feet didn't hurt so bad after that I felt like I couldn't walk after crossing the finish line. Best money I've spent in a while.

Despite my new addiction for collecting race medals (I have four now!), I'm going to have to put off running any more halfs for a while. Running two in a two-month period got me a little burned out, which I'm blaming for the Mile 9 mental breakdown. I think I'll take a week off and then get back to running shorter distances while working on increasing my speed--doctor's orders (she thinks it will help me lose more weight by increasing my intensity and heart rate). The gold star from my doctor is one medal I'm still looking to add to my collection.

The Attack of the Grumpy Middle-Aged Woman

So just a funny story to share:

Last night I was running home with my co-worker Abby when some middle-aged prissy woman not only told us that we "looked like terds" while jogging in place at a stoplight, but was kind enough to show us how we looked by stomping her heels and jumping up and down with her tongue hanging out. Pretty sure there was only one idiot in this situation and she wasn't wearing running gear. She actually repeated the "terd" part twice with a scowl to make sure we heard what she thought of us.

She wasn't a crazy homeless lady either--she was wearing a suit, was skinny and primped and carrying a briefcase, probably in her late 40s. I have no idea what provoked her to attack perfect strangers minding their own business, but her life must suck if that's how she behaves outside of her social circle.

That woman was lucky I had on headphones and didn't hear what she said until Abby told me after we crossed the street because I would have had a few choice words for her. I was shocked and annoyed that someone could be so rude, but it fueled us "terds" to run faster the rest of the way. Later that night, I couldn't stop laughing every time I thought about it. It's such an unusual yet hilarious story I get to share now :)

The Journey Continues

Not every story has a happy ending. If it did, I'd be sitting here telling you how positive my test results turned out and that I successfully lowered my cholesterol on my own.

Instead, all I did over the last seven months was lower my GOOD cholesterol. That's right. It appears that I actually hurt rather than helped myself in the cholesterol category. My bad cholesterol (LDL) was exactly the same. And my thyroid came out fine, which I guess is a good thing but I was really looking for something to blame my stagnant weight-loss on.

All afternoon I have listened to people tell me that it's genetics and despite the unchanged number, I'm a healthier person than I was back in March (although neither the scale or my cholesterol tells me so). While I know that is probably true, I only wish I felt that way. I feel like a failure. I feel helpless that I have no control over my body. I worked so hard and while I figured it wouldn't change enough to avoid medication, I had hoped that I at least lowered the number a little. Well, I lowered the wrong number.

I wanted nothing more than to throw myself a pity party tonight so I could cry and wallow in my sorrows. But after a brisk run home and the support of some friends, I decided I needed to snap out of feeling bad for myself. In the last 24 hours, two people have told me I inspire them and make them proud. That means the world to me and I don't want to let them down. So I'll keep pushing and fighting to lose more weight, incorporating the tips my doctor suggested and get to a weight that earns me the elusive pat on the back.

Sometimes a journey hits a dead end and the weary traveler, although discouraged, must find another way to forge ahead. I just have to figure out what way will get me to where I want to be.

Seven Month Check-Up

Today was my follow-up visit with my doctor to weigh-in, re-test my cholesterol and to get a pat on the back for the great job I've done in the last seven months. It was more like a slap in the face.

As it turns out, I've lost just six pounds since March. SIX. Now before you go and say "oh that's still great, it's better than nothing," it's actually not. Think about this: that is LESS than ONE POUND per month. I worked my ass off. I spent the last seven months on a strict 1,400 calorie a day diet, trained for two half marathons and even threw in a month of Bikram yoga.

I mean, seriously, what else do I have to do?! While I was getting blood taken, the doctor agreed it would be best to test my thyroid because she also thought the weight loss was a little low for what I had been doing. I told her I was trying not to get so frustrated that I'd quit, but it's getting really hard to put in the work and not get the reward. I know I've made a healthy lifestyle change, blah blah blah, but until you've practically starved yourself, drove yourself crazy counting calories and sweat out long runs, you don't really know how frustrating it is to be stuck in the same range on the scale and weigh in at the bloated number of 170.

I'll find out my cholesterol results tomorrow. I would hope that my cholesterol at least benefited from my actions over the last seven months, but I'm trying not to get too excited so when it comes back with a prescription for medicine, I'm not too disappointed.

Stay tuned.

Not So Fun Run

I've decided that training for a half marathon is like a job. It takes all of the fun out of a hobby from which I used to get so much pleasure.

I love writing, but now that I do it for a living, sometimes it's way less fun. The writing itself is still something I love to do, but it also comes with the requirement of sitting at a computer from 8:30 a.m.- 5 p.m., taking orders from people I don't like, dealing with bosses and dull assignments, and I'm assuming one day carpal tunnel syndrome.

I know about that saying, it's called work because it's a job and not necessarily fun. Same goes with training for a half marathon. It's hard work. Planning out my running schedule and mileage on a weekly basis, fitting it all in whether I'm feeling up for it or not, pushing myself to meet a certain time each run--it takes the fun out of running for me.

I fell in love with running because I could lace up my sneakers, put on some music and just run. I wasn't timing myself and I could run for as little or as much as I wanted. What was once therapeutic is now stressful for me. The timing and distance requirements are like an annoying boss who micromanages my every move on every project. I just have to deal with said boss like an annoying blister. The only way to avoid each is to take extra special precautions in every situation, even if it takes a little extra time. Wearing the right socks, slathering on some Vaseline pre-run, keeping a positive "I can do this" attitude. It's hard work.

But in the end, it's (usually) always worth it.

Like George Michael sang in "Freedom '90!": "Well it looks like the road to heaven, but it feels like the road to hell." I get what George is saying. I'm training for my second half marathon because I loved the feeling of accomplishment and pride I had after I crossed the finish line, the same feeling I get when I see an article I wrote in print or a good-looking electronic newsletter in my coworkers' in-boxes. In those moments I seem to forget the road to hell I just went through and it fuels me to come back for more.

And on those days when it's not worth it and it only feels like the road to hell, I guess I should listen to George again and just have a little "faith." If anything, I can listen to the song because it has a fun beat and makes me tap my foot...

I guess I should end this post before I quote any more George Michael. Freedom.

Welcome Back, Red Sox Fans

Dear Pink Hats, this is what it feels like to be a Red Sox fan. In the seven years since the Sox won their first Championship in 86 years, and then another one, not to mention collecting division titles or the wild cards most years in between, you've all been able to cheer on Boston through rose-colored glasses (good thing they match your hat).

I bet you woke up today feeling like you've never felt before as a Boston fan. Disappointed, disgusted, heart-broken. Well, this is how it felt to be a Red Sox fan every year pre-2004 World Series.

Last night as I watched the Orioles storm the field and celebrate being the spoiler of the Sox postseason, it all came rushing back. Aaron Boone. 2003. No World Series. Again. After the ball soared over the wall and the Yankees mobbed Boone as he crossed home plate, I locked myself in my college dorm room and wrote. I wrote how sad I felt so I could feel better. Just like I am writing this now.

And as I write this, I discover that I am a little thankful for last night. Boston fans have been spoiled with multiple championships across all sports and I think we've gotten used to winning so much that we half expect to just walk into the playoffs every year. The Red Sox had to work for it (obviously not hard enough) this time and for the first time in seven years, I was on the edge of my seat. I've been plenty nervous many times since 2004, but this was different. I can't really explain it, but baseball was once again exciting, albeit heart-breaking, and it felt like the old days.

The magic has worn off (I mean, really-- we lost on what should have been the last strike of the game and the Rays overcame a 7-0 Yankee lead in Game 162). Fate has spoken, we are no longer the favorite son.

I guess that's what us Red Sox fans feel comfortable identifying with--pain, suffering, disappointment. I feel like after last night, Red Sox Nation (a post-2004 creation) will lose some of its entitlement for titles and true baseball fans will stick around. Maybe after last night Boston Red Sox fans will wear more navy and red and less pink.

After last night, I feel a change is coming in Boston. Red Sox fans have spent years bonding over heartbreak and disappointment and had a chance to spend a few years celebrating success together. Now, more than ever, it's important to stick together. And I could care less if the bandwagon becomes unhitched in the process.

A Weekend Hard to Stomach

This weekend, I bottomed out. With my head in the toilet and my shaking, spent body crumpled on the cold bathroom tile, I realized I needed to give myself a break.

I got hit hard and fast with a stomach virus this weekend and I'm not very surprised. While it sucked to surrender all of my awesome weekend plans to spend quality time with a Porcelain God from 1970, I am kind of glad it happened.

Last week was stress central. My impending student loans have been hanging off my shoulders like a heavy winter coat for weeks as I keep putting them off; I tried and failed to keep my diet on track as free lunches, breakfast pastries and cookies took over the work kitchen; I hated myself with every bite I couldn't resist; and chastised myself for struggling to run 9.8 miles in preparation for the upcoming half marathon (which might have had to do with a developing stomach virus but I've been frustrated with my performance in every long run I've done in each of the last few weeks).

I was punishing myself and my body was finally fighting back. After being harshly criticized all week for eating this, not doing that, not running hard enough... without any encouragement in between, my body was pretty fed up.

Needless to say (I'll spare you the details), lesson learned. It took me a few days to keep down anything other than water, Gatorade or saltines. It's time for a fresh start and an attitude adjustment. I'm taking a break from training and have put off counting every calorie I put in my mouth until I feel 100 percent better. When I pick it back up, I'll try to go a little easier on myself.

Now that I have more energy, I guess it's time to address that heavy load that's suffocating me--my student loans. Tonight, my first night in which I did not immediately jump into bed when I got home from work, I promised myself I'd finally sort them all out. I better keep some saltines close, I have a feeling the nausea will return once I start crunching the numbers and cutting those checks.

Fantasy Football vs. Reality Relationship

I used to consider Christmas as the most wonderful time of the year. Wrong. Tis the season of fantasy football!

What I love about fantasy football, besides the fact that it is a much longer season than Christmas even despite the shopping industry’s attempts to start the holiday season in October, is that it allows me to be a part of the sport I love to watch. I can participate in the season by creating my own Dream Team of players across the league. Which got me thinking-- what if dating was as great and as easy as managing a fantasy football team?

My fantasy football team is like the perfect man—I get what I need from several different players and each one fulfills a different role. I have my defense to protect me, my quarterback to take charge and call the shots, my wide receiver to make big plays, my tight end to be there when I need him, and my running back who works hard to eke out every inch he can on important plays.

No guy is perfect, we know this, and unless one is a man and lives in Utah, this fantasy of multiple people to fill different roles will never be a reality. However, there are a few lessons fantasy football can teach us about dating.

Fantasy football makes me an equal opportunity football lover—on one of my fantasy teams, I have three people from my most hated NFL team, the J-E-T-S. On one of the others, I have a mini Patriots squad of Wes Welker, Law Firm, Deion Branch, Chad Ochocinco, Stephen Gostkoswki and the New England defense (I haven’t been this much of a homer since my first fantasy team in 2001, when my hockey team consisted of 98% Bruins players and in turn finished in last place). When it comes to dating, I have a specific type. Perhaps if I forced myself to branch out, I might come up with a winner.

If you don’t like how a player acts from week to week, you can bench him. Sometimes we all just need a little break. No one can be perfect 100 percent of the time, every time (well, except Tom Brady). We have off weeks (I’m looking at you LaDanian Tomlinson and Antonio Gates) and awesome weeks (Tony Gonzalez). Just think, have you ever seen a child between the age of 2 and 5 who hasn't drastically improved his or her behavior after a timeout?

Like fantasy football, relationships require patience. Benching a player is fine, but don’t jump the gun and surf the waiver wire and drop said player like last week’s news. Again, we all have off weeks. If poor performance persists for consecutive weeks, then you can consider dumping said player. If you give up on him too soon and set him free, you might kick yourself when he has a big game the next week.

Fantasy teams are investments that take time and commitment. Why is it that some people avoid commitments like relationships as if they were the plague, but will pay money to be included in a fantasy football league? Like fantasy football, relationships can be a blast and a lot of fun. Also like fantasy football, they require effort. Every morning I monitor my team to see who’s been injured, surf the wires (see previous lesson before doing so), and adjust lineups accordingly. Don’t tell my boss, but I’m pretty sure this takes up the first 20 minutes of my morning each day--about the same time I would require a boyfriend to spend asking how my day way in a nice phone call.

In fantasy football, you can juggle multiple teams. However, doing so in real life leads to getting caught in lies and perhaps blowing your cover by repeating the wrong story to the wrong person. With multiple fantasy teams, you can forget who is on which team and end up unnecessarily rooting for someone you hate or worse, a player on your opponent’s team. Believe me, I wouldn't root for Mark Sanchez if I didn't have to, but accidentally cheering for Santonio Holmes because I can't keep track of my teams? Travesty. Despite this lesson, I will continue to keep all three of my teams each year. After a few weeks I usually rule which one I like best anyways and commit to that one for the rest of the season, making me a one-fantasy-team kind of girl.

And most importantly, no matter what… even if you hand-pick your team and do all of the right things and make all of the right moves, life (and injuries) get in the way and you may still end up on the losing end with a broken heart. Or you could be the defending champion of your family league two years in a row and continue dominating in year three. No wonder I like fantasy so much.

Walk This Way

The Walk to End Alzheimer's was this morning. Although it rained for most of the morning during the walk--causing us all to play game of umbrella up or down? for the entire 3.2 miles--it was a great day.

Here are a few shots I took with my phone during the walk, including our team picture, my "promise flower" that I carried in honor of someone I lost to Alzheimer's disease (each walker got a flower and the color depended on your connection with the disease. Purple meant I lost a loved one), and me propped up against a sign pointing the way to a world without Alzheimer's. I wish it was as easy to get to that place as it was to walk the 3.2 miles. Maybe one day it will be.

A couple highlights of the day:

1. Turning the last corner before the finish line, a local nursing home was camped out and had staff and a few residents cheering on walkers as they passed by. Not that I needed another reminder of why I was walking, but it brought back memories of my own grandparents in their respective nursing homes during their battle with Alzheimer's.

2. As we were getting ready to cross the start line, most walkers "planted" their promise flowers in the ground. It was quite a sight to see--all the colors of the flowers spinning in the wind. As I walked by the garden, the DJ was playing "Stay With You" by the Goo Goo Dolls (one of my favorite bands of all time). Not to sound cheesy, but I felt like maybe my Nana and Papa, who will always stay with me, were watching over me this morning. I kept my promise flower because I wanted it as a reminder of that moment and motivation to continue fighting for the cause.

Thanks again to everyone who supported our team--I was able to raise $715 and our team collected a total of $3,686. Now it's time to write some thank-you notes!

Walking to End Alzheimer's

Hate is a strong word. But I hate Alzheimer’s.

In the last decade, I have not only lost two grandparents, but was forced to watch as they slowly suffered from Alzheimer’s disease.

Watching someone you love gradually disappear physically and cognitively is a painful, prolonged process. While it was hard enough for me to handle, I saw what it did to my parents as they watched their mother and father forget their names and eventually lose all recognition of who they were.

I never want to have to witness this or watch my parents suffer in this way. That is why I have joined a team to fight this awful disease and hopefully someday find a cure. Anything you can give means so much to me, to my family and to my Papa and Nana who both lost a hard-fought battle with Alzheimer’s.

This is why when I found out my friend, Terron, started the Mae Bell Foundation in honor of his grandmother he lost to Alzheimer's ten years ago, I wanted to get as much involved as possible. I started with joining his team and raising money for the Walk to End Alzheimer's, which is tomorrow.

Throughout this process, I have realized that this cause is even closer to my heart than I originally thought. There have been several times when I've talked to people about my Nana and Papa and every time I've gotten choked up remembering their unfortunate exit from this world. Hearing my grandfather remember the German he learned during the war but not our names. Or see my Nana slumped over in her chair speaking gibberish, but always with her fingernails painted. I guess I've blocked out their deaths because it's easier than reliving and remembering the pain.

It's been an emotional month, but I think it's been a good thing for me. It's given me a sense of purpose, that I can help make a difference. It's not like when I raised money running with Tedy's Team--then I just wanted to jacket. This time, I just want a cure. I would like to give a special thanks to all those who contributed to our team and the cause--your support means so much, and not just money-wise.

I will be walking in memory of my Nana and Papa tomorrow, but thinking of them every day for the rest of my life. A life that hopefully someday will not include Alzheimer’s disease. Love you and miss you always.

Nice to Meat You, Brazilian Steakhouse

Last night, a coworker and I went to a Brazilian steakhouse for dinner. I've never been to one before, seeing it's pretty pricey unless you have a buy one/get one special like we had, but I had heard so many delicious details about it.

The way it works is that it's an all-you-can-eat event, starting with an extravagant salad bar. This one included sushi, amazing black beans and beef mix, lobster bisque and a host of cheeses and fresh vegetables like asparagus and artichoke hearts. My coworker asked if it was bad that she didn't have any actual salad on her plate after leaving the salad bar (bar is an understatement--I've been to actual pubs that are smaller than this salad bar area was).

After you munch on your "salad," you flip over your magic card that sends dozens of handsome Brazilian men to your table throughout the night offering you a piece or a slice of 14 different meats (including fillet Mignon wrapped in bacon, regular fillet, Parmesan-crusted chicken and pork, chicken wrapped in bacon, flank steak, sirloin, BBQ pork ribs, beef brisket, a house special meat that was delicious, lamb leg and lamb chops, and more).

It was even more amazing as it sounds.

I mean, all-you-can-eat meat served to me by hot Brazilians? YES PLEASE! Oh, and I forgot to mention the rolls stuffed with cheese, creamy mashed potatoes and cinnamon-sugar bananas (to cleanse the palette between meats to ensure full flavor) that graced the table.

I threw my calorie counting out the window for the night and enjoyed myself to the fullest. Although I'm sure I ate more than I was supposed to, I actually didn't feel that guilty because I was filling up on fresh meat and vegetables and not pizza or pasta for dinner. My only regret is that I wish I could have eaten more! I'd never get my money's worth if I paid full price ($50), so I'll have to wait for another deal to go back. That is if I can stop drooling every time I remember the fillet melting in my mouth...

That's a Latte Calories!

What's the difference between Dunkin' Donuts pumpkin coffee/ pumpkin latte and a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte?

Besides a couple bucks... nothing!

Well, and the fact that Starbucks' version tastes like heaven in a cup and Dunkin' Donuts still manages to make theirs taste like a watered down copycat. However, the calories are the exact same: 260 for a medium with skim milk.

The last couple fall seasons I thought I was saving money and calories by going with the DD pumpkin coffee. I knew there was syrup in it for flavor but never ever considered it contained nearly 300 calories. No wonder I've been tipping the scales--this isn't the first time I've been surprised with the number of calories there was in something I had been eating.

I knew I'd be in trouble this fall when the pumpkin spice latte came out and didn't fit into my diet. The pumpkin-themed drinks hit the stores this week, and because the weather was so fall-like, I couldn't resist the craving for one. So I looked up the calories in the DD coffee--certain this would be a suitable alternative--and was shocked to find that the Starbucks drink, if ordered correctly, would be the better treat. A tall (12 oz.) with skim milk and no whipped cream is 200 calories.

The second I got the drink, my entire week improved. It smelled like fall and holding the warm drink in my hand felt like a big comfy sweater. Then I tasted it. Heaven. It was certainly worth every single calorie. And the extra money.

It's a Wonder-less Life

Growing up, I hated wheat bread. It was white bread all the way for me. I actually think Wonder bread was one of my favorite foods.

I loved white bread so much I’d eat it as a snack—first removing the crust (and eating it) and then rolling up and mashing the remaining bread into a thick, white bread ball, taking bites until it was gone. When we’d have spaghetti or chop suey, my mom would yell at me for making white bread and pasta sandwiches (28-year-old me cringes at the thought of this carb- and calorie-overload, but then I remember how delicious it was and applaud 8-year-old me’s genius idea).

As the rest of the family, one by one, crossed to the darker bread side (wheat, rye, etc.), my dad and I held fast to our love for white bread. Wheat bread tasted like the cardboard box my Lucky Charms came in. Never would I give up the Wonder in life.

And then one day I was forced to abandon my love for white-enriched flour thanks to my high cholesterol. Stupid nutritionist.

It was hard work, but over time I got used to the taste of wheat bread, experimenting with brands that contained the words “honey” or “oat” on the bag—anything to soften the blow. Five years later, I’ve gotten in the habit of buying wheat bread with flaxseed and whole grain and all that jazz instead. Since I’ve been on a restricted diet and forced to make calories count, I try to ingest as much fiber-rich foods as possible.

So two weeks ago when I discovered that I accidentally grabbed a loaf of white bread instead of my usual whole-wheat loaf, I near panicked… then I smiled, reliving my bologna and ketchup on white bread days. Everything would be OK.

After spreading some crunchy peanut butter across a slice of the white stuff and taking the biggest bite ever, I realized I now hated white bread. The 8-year-old, white-bread-ball rolling kid would be so mad at me right now.

It was missing a certain taste I’ve gotten used to having in slices of wheat bread (maybe it’s called fiber), and after a few days the slices lost their freshness and the edges would break off in my hand (this was not actual Wonder brand). I thought that loaf would never be gone. And I never thought I’d be so relieved to be eating wheat bread again (I made sure to look at what kind of bread I grabbed at the grocery store this weekend).

While my dad still has to have his white bread, I’ve lost that loving feeling. Apparently in this case, absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Or maybe it’s because I’m officially a grown-up and understand the ramifications of a chop suey- Wonder bread sandwich. Either way, I’ve crossed to the dark side.

13.1: The Sequel

I must be crazy--not because I do Bikram Yoga twice a week or because I just ordered a shipment of chick flicks from Amazon. I must be crazy because I just signed up to run another half marathon.

Yes, you read that right. I'm going back for more.

This week, my friend Erin and I registered for the Amica Marathon (we're doing the half option) in beautiful Newport, RI on October 16. Erin, who has run marathons and completed a couple triathlons in the past, and I had been discussing perhaps running a destination half marathon somewhere neither of us had ever been. Because of timing, training schedules and work, the Newport half marathon worked out perfectly. I padded the race weekend with a couple extra days to visit family, friends and two newborn bundles of joy.

We're both signed up to run, my plane ticket is booked, and Erin just reserved a room for us at the Viking Hotel in downtown Newport. I'm more excited for the visit and the experience than the run itself, but I'll use the good vibes to push through another grueling training schedule. Maybe it will be easier the second time around. I look back and remember how much I hated going out for the long runs and second guess my decision to do this--then I think about running along the ocean on a beautiful fall day on the East Coast and the smile creeps across my face, pushing down the groan building in my throat.

Most people would consider me crazy. But I can't wait--for the race or my chick flicks to get here.

Two Years Down

While I was playing on my social networks Friday morning at work, Facebook was kind enough to remind that my status on this day (Aug. 19) in 2009 read: "Last night in Worcester... hanging with my family"

Two years ago, I was getting ready to embark on the greatest, hardest, yet most rewarding adventure of my life. I just can't believe it's been two years already.

Time really does fly! I remember that night like it was yesterday. Mom, Megan and I drove to Dairy Queen for ice cream--I remember driving my Corolla for the last time (I sold it back to the dealer the next morning). There were a lot of mosquitoes so we opted to eat our Blizzards in the car while listening to the radio. Coincidentally, Chicago's "I Don't Wanna Live Without Your Love" came on the radio and Megan said she was singing it to me. I remember my eyes filling with tears but trying my best to choke them back because I'd never be able to leave if I gave in to all the emotions. Thankfully it was dark out and no one could see that I was about to cry. I get a little choked up just remembering that moment, which I will never forget.

When we got home, we sat with my dad on the porch around his beloved chiminea. I don't remember what we talked about, but I'm sure it was casual conversation in order to avoid talking about what was happening the next day.

Less than 24 hours later, Megan and Dad left Mom and me by the United gate. Although I tried to be really strong, I cried saying good-bye to my Dad after he said "we'll see you in a couple months for Thanksgiving" and realizing it would be the longest I'd ever have been away from my family without seeing them. I turned quickly, I couldn't face my sister or I'd lose it.

After lugging our suitcases filled with mostly my crap through security, Mom and I spent our time in the terminal picking out which JetBlue planes we thought had the coolest designs on their tails--I was grateful for something else to think about.

I also remember the day my mother left me in Chicago and it hit me that I wasn't on a mini vacation, but that I'd be staying there. I remember having a breakdown and begging her to take me with her. I cried at the airport as we hugged good-bye, kind of like a scene from a movie, except it was reality and we didn't get to shut it off when it was over. That's when my real life began.

A year later, I was grateful I stayed and was optimistic I could top my first year with an even more exciting second year in the city. Year Two was definitely different-- I found myself getting more accustomed to a daily routine, especially as I continued working my full-time internship and attending school. Spending time in the city wasn't as exciting and new as it had been the previous year, and I started repeating experiences, which led me to feel bored some days. I tried to keep the excitement alive by discovering new places, trying new things and making new friends, but it seemed to get harder rather than easier. Every flight back to Chicago after a visit home was tougher than the one before. In July, I full out cried on the Logan Express on the way to the airport, not even my sunglasses could save me from embarrassment.

I missed my family. I missed hanging out with my friends. I missed being around people who knew me and tired of trying to make new friends. I learned that even if you absolutely love a city that has a million things to do, it can get to be a very lonely place at times. In Year Two, I cried more than I smiled, mostly because I had my heart broken and was sick for the better part of October through December (again). I needed the comfort of the familiar. I needed my family and friends, they'd know how to fix me.

About a month ago, I was enjoying custard with my friend Jess (a CT native and fellow Patriot fan), recounting my troubles, the decisions I needed to make and whether I was going to move home. She put down her spoon, looked at me and said: "You can't leave, you have great friends here." It was like a light bulb-- it dawned on me that during my hard times over this last year, I made it thanks to a little help from my new friends. I was so focused on what I didn't have here that I completely glazed over what I do.

Jess was right, I was surrounded by great people in Chicago. My coworkers became confidants, old flames became great friends, and my fellow Patriots friends remained pals even after the season ended. When my parents visited in June, they got to meet some of my friends and saw that Chicago was a great place. I never thought I'd ever hear my mom encourage me to stay out here--but it happened.

Now, as I sit to reflect about the last 365 days and the start to Year Three in Chicago, it's amazing to think about what I've been able to accomplish (three things are even scratched off my bucket list):

-I got my Master's degree (BL)

-I actually finished a half marathon, and in a decent time (BL)

-Through the grace of the internet, I found the greatest group of Boston fans around and have made them my friends

-I actually bartended once and it was tons of fun

-I took a road trip to places I've never been to before. I learned a lot about myself, mostly that I can sit in a car for six hours at a time (BL)

-I scored a touchdown in a co-ed flag football league

Although this summer has been a tough one as I try to figure out my next move, I've decided to stay in Chicago for a little bit longer. I've been hired on as a contract employee (no more internship!) through December and am about to re-sign the lease on my current apartment. Without school, a full-time job or anyone to keep me here, part of me wanted to move home-- while I've been having my own experiences, I've also missed a lot in the lives of my friends and family over the last two years (weddings, pregnancies and soon babies!). However, there was a voice screaming in the back of my head telling me I'm not done with this adventure yet. I had to give it my best shot to stay here. I owe it to my flag football team, my Patriots friends and most importantly, to myself, to make Year Three better than the previous two.

I know I'll never lose that pang in the pit of my stomach I attribute to homesickness, but let's hope that a year from now I'm sitting here typing about new lessons I've learned about myself-- or at least have life figured out a little better.

13.1

I'm officially a half marathoner.

I finished the Rock 'n' Roll Chicago Half Marathon on Sunday with an official time of 2:36:03. Despite the rain and my subsequent soreness, it was a great first experience. I would like to thank my friends and family for all their support during my training and for their good luck wishes this weekend. Having so many people believe in me, and cheering me on from a distance, gave me the will to push through.

My official numbers: Overall place was 11,737 (apparently 25,000 people were signed up for the race), place among all females was 6,760, and my age division place was 1,923. So, looks like I was in the top half of all racers. Not bad for my first time!

I'm still processing the whole experience in my head and letting this accomplishment sink in, so here are some random, jumbled highlights from the race:

*Despite a predicted perfect forecast (65 and sunny, 10 percent chance of rain), race day was a much different story (hats off to the weathermen for another job well done). It was dark when I left my house for the race, but it was cool as predicted and I was thankful. However, once the sun came up we could all see the ominous clouds rolling in and knew we were in for it. "It," came in the form over downpours around mile four and again from about mile 10 through the post-race celebration. The rain actually felt good on my sweaty skin, but I was worried about the welfare of my iPod. Luckily, we all made it out in one still-working piece. Well, at least the iPod did.. I had a little trouble walking over the next 48 hours.

*You know you're awake too early when... I left my apartment at 4:30 a.m. and encountered a handful of drunken people on their way home from the bars. At the first mile marker, there was a group of people standing on the corner of a street laced with bars. One girl, her eyes half open and high heels in hand, was swaying back and forth with the occasional "woooo" coming out of her mouth. I'm 99.999 percent sure they were just leaving the bar.

*After the race, each runner got two MGD 64 beers. Let's just say it tasted like it had 64 calories. I agree with the guy standing behind me who said: "I would have sacrificed the 90 calories for a Miller Lite." I gave away my second beer to someone who would appreciate it.

*I don't think I would have gotten through the race as well, or as fast as I did, without the support of my friend Trish. We waitressed together during college and have kept in touch mostly via Facebook since. She was in town because she works for Brooks, one of the sponsors of the half. Around mile seven, Trish jumped in to run a few miles with me and stayed with me until mile 12. Having someone to talk to helped the miles go by quicker, and having a better and more experienced runner alongside me made me push myself to keep running when I wanted to give up and start walking. Knowing that she was going to be there waiting for me at mile seven also gave me something to look forward to and helped me get through the first part of the race.

*After the race, I could barely walk because the pain in my calves and Achilles on both feet/legs was so intense. X Sport Fitness, one of the main sponsors of the race, has a tent where runners could have their muscles rolled out. I took advantage--and now I understand John Mellencamp's line "hurt so good." It hurt, but it was a productive pain because I could feel the muscles being worked and knew I'd be better off the next morning for it. Apparently I was making pain faces because one of the other trainers asked if I was OK because every time he looked at me I was wincing and grinding my teeth. I told him I was making the same face at mile 11.

*When they say "completely flat course," it isn't. My coworker says runners are "hill finders" because you never notice an incline until you're running up it, and believe me, I noticed several during the race. So much for that.

A special thanks to my coworkers Abby and Kristin, the ones who are responsible for this entire thing. Abby, my "trainer" and running buddy signed me up for the race and made me do it because she knew it would be good for me, and Kristin, the half-marathon maniac and wealth of priceless knowledge that I tapped into more than 100 times for answers and advice. Thank you for everything and for talking me into doing this--I definitely feel like a stronger person for it.

And now I guess I'm addicted to running. I took Monday off to rest and stretch my muscles (and celebrate with $1 tacos) but bought a new pair of running shoes. Today--just a little more than 48 hours after the race--I ran the 4.3 miles home from work. And it felt great.

Mother Nature Must Have Heard Me

When the weather started getting warmer--and then sweltering--I ended every training session with a little prayer that it wouldn't be as hot, humid and miserable on race day as it was during that run.

I'm aware that I signed up for a race in the middle of the hottest month of the year (everyone else likes to remind me of how bad of a decision that was). I am prepared for it to be hot, but a girl can dream. I'd respond with every cringe and every "good luck with that" with a laugh and an "I'm hoping it will be 65 and cloudy with low humidity."

Well, according to the forecast, I got my 65 degrees! Earlier in the week they were actually predicting clouds and a chance of showers during race time. As of this afternoon, weather.com is predicting that it's going to be 65, sunny and 93 percent humidity. Yuck to the humidity part but I am well aware it could be so much worse and so much hotter! This is great running weather, especially for the month of August.

Also, I set out for a new pair of spandex this morning (I decided to run in spandex because my running shorts cause chafing and it would be too hot to wear capris) and they rang up on clearance (can you say $4.24??). Now I'm looking forward to carb loading tonight with regular pasta--I really hate the wheat kind I'm forced to eat whenever I eat pasta these days.

Seems as if everything is falling into place... now let's just hope I don't end up in last place tomorrow!

Race Expo Adventures

On Friday afternoon, my coworker Kristin (who can no longer run the race due to injury) and I headed over the the Rock 'n' Roll expo to pick up our stuff... it turned into a three-hour adventure mostly because the convention center is way south and accessible best by car, barely by bus.

Despite the journey to get there, we picked a good time to go, as it wasn't as crowded as it would have been after work or all of tomorrow. I hate crowds and it would have been a losing battle trying to browse the vendors and displays with all of those people (aka not enough freebies and samples to go around).

After we picked up our numbers and swag bags, we decided to hit up the booths. Of course I had to walk around to all of them and see what they had--whether it was a free sample or a pamphlet. I blame this habit on too many RV and camping shows growing up in which me and my sister would have to collect a brochure from every trailer on display. We'd count them and compare them when we got home. At least this time I got to go home with a stash of granola packets and energy bar samples rather than a measly pile of glossy papers.

Kristin was excited for my first expo experience and insisted we take some funny pics in front of different displays. We even dragged her husband in on one of them.

The expo did get me more excited to run the race. After letting loose with some inflatable guitars and sampling some yummy (and so not-so-yummy) protein bars, I realized that worrying isn't going to make me run faster and finish the race. If I can just relax, I may be able to have a little bit of fun, and eat my granola, too.

(That's me practicing my finish line pose. Seeing the picture made me realize how rewarding finishing will feel... hopefully I'll look as graceful after 13.1 miles)

Race Weekend is Here... Yikes

It’s here. The Chicago Rock ‘N Roll Half Marathon weekend is here and I am both officially nervous and excited at the same time. This week, in anticipation of the big day, I have gone through a wave of different emotions.

Monday: Denial

When you sign up for these things so far in advance it feel s like you have all of the time in the world to prepare and train. I did my last long run on Sunday and the idea of tapering—cutting down my mileage and workouts—this week felt great. There would be no pressure to hit certain mileage marks, just like pre-race registration days. Then I realized why I got to do that—I was preparing my body and saving energy for 13.1 miles on Sunday. Eh, it was still six days away. That was plenty of time to mentally prepare.

Tuesday: Anger, self-pity

On Tuesday it hit me that I’d be running the biggest race of my life this weekend and I would have no one there to cheer me on throughout the course or to greet me at the finish line. Even if you never see your support group throughout the race, it’s comforting to know they are there and it helps push you through the hard parts of the race. This realization made me feel sorry for myself.

I remembered how much fun it was to run the Falmouth Road Race with my sister, who watched the first year and ran alongside me the next. Both years I was part of Tedy’s Team; I was included in a group of people all running for the same reason, I had 64 teammates (and their families and friends) on my side pulling for me to finish the race. Whether we knew each other or not, we were bound together by our blue shirts. I remember running along the course and hearing people yell “Go Tedy’s Team!” at me or a fellow runner nodding as we ran into each other on the course. It helped me push through those rolling hills because I didn’t want to let anyone down. If my teammates could do it, so could I.

I guess the price you pay for that kind of support is the fundraising you have to do beforehand. After training for and realizing I’ll be running this race solo—a very lonely feeling—I can safely say that the fundraising effort is worth it. This week I was more annoyed that I had to run the half marathon than excited because I had no one to share my accomplishment with. It’d be like going out for a long run and getting a medal at the end. I try to keep reminding myself that I am doing this race for me, but it doesn’t really work. Guess I’ll have to try to be a little more convincing…

Wednesday: Excitement

I met up with a friend and a couple of her co-workers who had just gotten into town to work the race expo (they work for Brooks). After chatting about the race with seasoned vets, I left looking forward to Sunday.

Thursday: Anticipation

Every time I thought about this weekend, I had butterflies in my stomach. I was filled with anticipation for the big day. After work I went out for my final pre-race run (3.5 miles) and stocked up on bananas (my pre-race snack). I stretched and rolled out my left leg/calf/ankle with my physical therapy kit to make sure I didn’t have any injury issues over the next couple days. I went to bed excited knowing the next day I’d be going to the Expo on my lunch hour to pick up my number and packet.

Friday: Holy Crap—nausea, nerves, excitement

I woke up anxious to attend the expo today, mostly because I’m looking forward to collecting free stuff from vendors and will get to see my friend at the Brooks booth again. I grabbed my camera on the way out the door knowing there would probably be some stuff at the expo that I’d want to document.

As soon as I got to work, I felt nauseous. I’m not sure if it was nerves or the 7 Eleven coffee I had this morning, but my stomach was in knots. I can’t focus on work—my mind is obsessed with the race and getting it all over with. There are still two hours until it’s time to hit up the expo and time could not pass any slower. I’m excited to see what the expo is all about and hope it will fire me up for the race on Sunday. If it’s this hard to get through today, I can’t even imagine how I will feel on Saturday, or how much sleep I’ll even be able to get.

Whether I’m ready or not, the weekend I’ve been working so hard for is finally here. And I think I want to vomit…

Bikram Gets a Second Chance and I Win

You know that saying, "the second time around is always better" or something like that? Well, that can be applicable to my second experience with Bikram Yoga.

On Friday I decided to give it another shot and am so glad I did. I went in with a totally different mindset, mostly because I knew exactly what I was getting into. Maybe it was because I was more prepared or because the class size was smaller, but whatever it was, the second time around was much more enjoyable.

During class, I practiced my breathing and embraced the heat rather than let the room steal my mind. I concentrated on each pose rather than how much time was left in class. Before I knew it, 90 minutes had come and gone and I didn't even take one break. It was still very hard and challenging, but in a good--not torturous--way this time. I pushed myself even more this time with each stretch (my hamstrings are still paying for it).

I am hoping the third time's the charm tonight as I'm going to sweat it all out again with another class. My half marathon is on Sunday and it's supposed to be a week of less intense cross-training and tapering workouts, so I'll loosen up tonight and do a couple short runs this week to keep my body warm. I think I'm still in denial about the half marathon being just six days away...

On a side note, if it is humid and hot on race day I think my Bikram experience will help. I ran in 88 percent humidity and heat yesterday and was less miserable than I have been before running in similar weather. Maybe spending 90 quality minutes in 105-110 degree heat is paying other dividends!

Hot as Hell: My First Bikram Experience

I’ve heard the term “sweating buckets” before, but I never actually considered it anything more than a hyperbole before last night. Yesterday after work, I tried Bikram Yoga for the first time and let me tell you, I didn’t know a human could sweat that much. I don’t even think I’ve ever been that soaking wet in the shower.

For those who aren’t familiar, Bikram is a 90-minute session comprised of a series of 26 yoga poses done in what some instructors call “torture chambers” because the room is heated to a piping hot 105 degrees.

I’ve always heard good things about this workout and was excited when I bought a one-month, unlimited pass through a LivingSocial deal (kind of like Groupon) back in April. I figured that seeing I have started tapering in preparation for the half marathon, the stretching and loosening of my muscles would help me come race day. I was also looking forward to trying something new, perhaps something that aould help me get over my weight-loss plateau.

As soon as I walked into the building I knew I was in trouble. I stepped into the humid, smelly elevator and rode it to the top floor. When I got off, I was hit by a wall of humidity and disgusting human sweat odor. I took deep breaths, trying to keep any panic attacks—and nausea—at bay.

The air was thick and it was difficult to breathe everywhere I went—I suppose this is to get you acclimated to the extreme heat you will be exposed to once you enter class. The studio was small and homey, with one large, open classroom and very friendly instructors and staff. There were freeze pops on the table and I sucked one down before I entered the torture chamber, remembering an article I read about a study showing that those who consumed a frozen slushy drink prior to exercising in intense heat were able to perform better as the icy sugar drink helps cool the body down (or something like that).

I followed the lead of others and set my yoga mat down, placing a bath towel over it. By the end of class, this towel was soaked through and weighed about 10 pounds. I lay on my back and practiced breathing, thinking the heat wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Then the instructor came in and turned the heat up.

During the class, I let the heat of the room “steal my mind” as the instructor had warned against. It was so intense that I couldn’t focus on the practice or the exercise, only how much longer I had to stay in the room. There were several times I wanted to get up and leave because I couldn’t breathe. I had to sit down a few times because my heart was racing and I felt a little dizzy.

There were moments during that class when I thought to myself that I would rather be running 11 miles than suffocating in this heat. I also decided I wouldn’t come back and that this is how they should punish prisoners—throw them in a Bikram yoga class because it has to involve more suffering than sitting in a jail cell.

Then the class ended and after two more freeze pops and the removal of my soaking wet clothes, I thought maybe I’d give it another try. I had survived and the instructor told me I’d feel great in a half hour. She was right: thirty minutes later I felt refreshed, like my body had sweat out all of the toxins, and I felt like my skin was literally glowing—or that could have been some leftover sweat, who knows.

I woke up this morning just a little sore. I didn’t push myself as hard as I could have because I was warned that the heat can cause you to stretch beyond your ability and in turn hurt yourself. With my big race coming, I didn't want to take any chances.

I still feel good, so I think I’ll give it another try. Let’s just hope my clothes and towel are dry by then (they were still damp this morning). Maybe next class I’ll just bring a bucket.

Crossing My Fingers at the Crossroads

As I approach the two-year mark of living in Chicago, I am once again at a crossroads in my life.

My lease is up in 30 days and my future living situation is uncertain. I'm stuck in a never-ending internship, and while it pays, it barely covers the bills (although I am grateful for at least that). I have been hard at work looking for a permanent job but any solid leads have fizzled.

So what's a girl to do?

Perhaps my mom is right, and the fact that everything seems to be going wrong here is a sign I should listen to, or acknowledge, the nagging feeling inside of me begging me to move home. I've pondered this idea over the last few months, and after an amazing trip home, I'm more homesick than ever. Every time I think I'm getting past it, I am reminded of the life I could have on the East Coast. For example, I just sorted through my vacation photos and the pang of loneliness was overwhelming.

I feel like I'm at a standstill in my life here, and something has got to give. I feel like I am living the classic "chicken or the egg" argument: what comes first, a job or an apartment? What do I focus on first? Perhaps I need to decide where I want to be, what I want to do, and most importantly, WHO I want to be before I can do anything else. Simple, right?

In the wise words of my friend Erin, maybe it's time for another bold move. Everyone tells me to follow my gut, but I don't know what that is. Sometimes it's Chicago--like when I walk around my neighborhood on a beautiful day or enjoy dessert while sitting outside on a patio in Little Italy. Then sometimes it's Massachusetts--like when I talk with friends back home and think of how much more fun it would be to reconnect in person over brunch or coffee.

I've always been a planner and not having a plan right now is driving me crazy. Thank goodness I have the half marathon to distract me from stressing myself out over the reality of this situation. Sometimes a crossroads is needed in life. It forces you to make a decision that scares you because the comfortable, sure-thing option is no longer available.

When I peek down each road I could possibly take, I am both scared and excited. I can do whatever I want, live wherever I want. But sometimes having too many options is a bad thing, especially for a girl who takes at least 15 minutes to decide when I want to eat for dinner. I tend to over-think the ramifications of every decision I make and as a result have the hardest time making one. All I know is that there are positives and negatives to every situation, and I wish I knew what the right decision was... if there even is a right one. My biggest fear is choosing a path that takes me on a detour and in a backward direction.

I believe in signs--I just wish there was a road map, a bread crumb trail or even a rusty weather vane pointing me to the right path.

Summer Vacation: the Only Rx for Homesickness

Here we go, the annual post about how much I miss summer on the East Coast. I am homesick and the only cure is the beach, Sam Summer and illegal amounts of lobster and Scoop Deck ice cream.

Everyone always wonders why I get so homesick in the summer despite all of the great things Chicago has to offer. It's because for me, summers hold the best memories.
Growing up, my family spent summer vacations camping in the woods--fishing, digging for worms, riding bikes, picking blueberries, going for canoe rides, toasting marshmallows over dad's fire, exchanging ghost stories, playing basketball at the court and putting on plays to earn money immediately spent at the candy store.

Back in Worcester, we'd spend full days and nights swimming in the backyard pool (that we put together ourselves--I remember I was stung by a bee one day during the process), sucking on homemade Kool-Aid popsicles as we dried off, and watching tennis on TV during days it was too hot to move (thanks Sean, if you hadn't hogged the television I would never have seen Andre Agassi, Boris Becker or Pete Sampras play).

When we got older and outgrew our days at the campground, we started vacationing in Maine--my sister and I walked the Old Orchard Beach boardwalk like a couple of cool teenagers who knew better than our parents, making the most of our 10 p.m. curfew. Our over-sized fleece hoodies covered up our fresh sunburns because we didn't apply sunblock when mom told us we should.

Soon, my parents had a place of their own in Wells. Days at the beach were followed by lazy afternoons sipping wine spritzers on the porch, which usually led to nights spent in line waiting for homemade ice cream from Scoop Deck. Some days the idea of a lazy weekend in Maine was all that got me through a stressful work week. As soon as I breathed in the ocean air, I could feel my problems melt away under the heat of the summer sun.

I never fully appreciated the icy Atlantic saltwater, the fresh seafood or the family time when I was a mere 1.5-hour drive from paradise. I took for granted that when I looked up into the night sky I could see millions of stars--although I could never find the Little Dipper.

I will always associate summer weekends with family and the great outdoors. Sometimes the idea of spending another weekend at the crowded lakefront or Chicago (insert street fest name here) makes me miss home more than I ever thought I could. I don't expect anyone to understand--it's the kind of appreciation you can only learn through leaving and living without.

Sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can feel the hot sand in between my toes and taste pieces of salty hair that have escaped my ponytail as the ocean breeze whips them in my face. I can hear the crickets and smell the bug spray used to guard against preying mosquitoes.

I can see it now. And all that stands between me and my summer vacation is a plane ride. Let the memories begin.