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.