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.