Going Postal

Dear US Postal Service,

I moved nearly a month ago and haven’t been receiving any forwarded mail.  Neither has my new roommate. We think you might be holding it hostage.  In my attempt to investigate the issue, I have come to realize why people favor online bill pay, Kindles/iPads and FedEx over the USPS.  Here are ten reasons why I am not surprised you are bankrupt or close to it:  

1. I have been to and/or called five different USPS numbers and locations in order to track down where my mail might be.  Everyone points me to someone else.

2. Several of you keep telling me it takes at least three weeks to start getting forwarded mail. Well, it’s been three weeks. 

3. And why the hell does it take three weeks anyway? I moved not even two miles away!

4.  I had to pay $1 to change my address on your website. 

5. I’m still waiting for the Easter card my mom mailed me in 2010. You’re the reason she no longer sends me things in the mail because she’s afraid you’ll lose them.

6. The person who answered your customer service line yesterday sounded drunk or like he just woke up and was sitting on his couch eating donuts or playing video games. I’d at least expect the person who answers the USPS 1-800 number to sound like they’re not distracted by something else when I ask my questions.

7. When I tried to call my old post office – which closes at 5 p.m. probably on purpose so normal people can’t go in and ask questions – the phone was off the hook and giving me a busy signal at 4:51 p.m. yesterday.

8. The post office I ultimately needed to call is not even listed on your website.  I got the number from a friendly (gasp) USPS worker at a different USPS location.  

9.  I know I’m just one of many millions of people that receive mail every day, but my mail is important and I would appreciate a little compassion.

10.   All I really want is new issue of Runner’s World (it’s the Boston Marathon memorial issue). If you can deliver this to me before June 16 so I can read it on the plane to Lisbon, I will reconsider this list.

Benjamin Franklin would be so disappointed.  Maybe it’s time to enlist Miss Cleo’s help to find my mail.   

Movin' on up and out

A couple weeks ago, I changed area codes.  I said good-bye to the only place I’ve ever called “home” in Chicago and moved to greener pastures with lots of rainbows.  Really, there are rainbows everywhere.  I moved to Boystown.

It was a very surreal period, packing up my belongings and getting ready to move. Mostly because I hadn’t had to do that in nearly four years, but I also always thought the next time I put my life into cardboard boxes, I would be moving back to Boston. This apartment was my longest residential relationship since college (I moves eight times in the four years after graduation and before moving to Chicago).

It’s crazy how time flies.  When I boarded my United flight that August night in 2009, I thought I’d be coming back a year later (even though two days later I was crying to come home). Ever since deciding to stick it out in Chicago, I’ve always played my life by ear, sometimes month by month (I guess that came with the territory being a poor grad student and then an intern for more than a year counting on false promises of a job). 

I’ve never really settled here or really put down roots deep enough that couldn’t be dug out with a month’s notice. I still don’t and won’t because I know I’ll end up back on the East Coast someday.  That’s not an if but a matter of when.  As I start to settle into my new place, I wonder if it is time to let go and just plan my life as if I will be here for a while – or at least for the next year. 

As I packed up the last of my stuff and taped the box shut, I stood in the middle of my empty room and closed my eyes (OK, I didn’t really but it sounds more dramatic).  I remember how bright and white the freshly-painted walls were when I moved in as my mom helped me stack the U-Haul boxes in the closet to get them out of the way as I unpacked – the same boxes I was stacking in the living room for the movers. 

When I bade farewell to my room, my voice echoed the same way it did when I said hello all those years ago.  We had some good, cramped times me and that room.

While it's weird to say goodbye and start over in a new place, I'm really looking forward to my in-unit washer and dryer and walk-in closet. 

I'm movin' on up. 

Just Keep Swimming...

Now that I’m officially 30, I found that it is high time I start acting my age.  Which is why I decided to do a water aerobics class at the gym on Saturday.  

Kidding.

I did the class because my injured back continues to permit me from doing any other exercise. This would be my first real workout activity other than walking on the treadmill in more than a month, which I celebrated as a victory.

I brought a friend with me as a metaphorical flotation device—maybe it’s a girl thing, or a me thing, but when I try something new and unfamiliar for the first time, I like to have someone there with me so we can support each other, a.k.a. laugh at each other or curse the instructor under our breaths.

Now, water aerobics classes have a certain stigma attached to them — they’re filled with old people, they’re not that hard, etc.  Well, I am here to tell you that everything you’ve heard about water aerobics is true:  

·        *       I am pretty sure we were the youngest in the class… by at least 30 years.

·        *       It was filled with older women (one woman was serious… she had hand wraps) and a few hairy old men.

·         *      Every time the instructor announced the next exercise, a choir of groans echoed throughout the pool.  The groans got even louder when she announced that we’d be doing said exercise for 45 seconds… apparently that is WAY too long. When we had to do one for a minute, some woman exclaimed that this was the longest minute of her life.

·        *      At one point the instructor got so irritated that people weren’t following the proper instructions or taking the class seriously, she slammed a water noodle on the floor and yelled at us.  Honestly, if I was the instructor I’d be annoyed, too.  The old ladies seemed to use this time as a social hour in the pool rather than a serious workout.  

The class wasn’t too bad until we had to do an exercise where, while straddling our water noodles, we had to grab on to the back of someone else’s noodle and form a chain.  Not only did I feel like a 10-year-old, but I was forced to partner with one of the hairy old men – let’s just say I grabbed back hair before his noodle.  That is the moment I mentally checked out of class and vowed never to return.  

To be fair, I didn’t put in 100 percent effort because I didn’t exactly get permission from my physical therapist to do this class. So maybe it is a really good workout, I just didn't get to experience it this time.  I’ve also never really been a fan of over-chlorinated pools filled with strangers. 

And most importantly, I really miss running. I think I’ll stick to walking on the treadmill – my water aerobics class days are over.  At least for the next couple decades. 

Getting Pants'ed

Most people wouldn't be psyched about fitting into their sister’s pregnancy pants.  Those people are not me.

When I was home last weekend, my sister approached me timidly and said: “I mean this in the nicest possible way, but I have some dress pants I wore when I was pregnant that don’t fit me anymore." She has shrunk since giving birth and asked if I wanted to try them on.

I said yes, because her pregnancy pants are a size 8.  I haven’t spent much time in size 8 pants since middle school, and even with my recent weight loss I’m still hovering on average around a size 10.  My size 12 dress pants have gotten a little baggy and saggy, so I didn't want to pass up the chance for free pants and the opportunity to skip the entire “shopping for dress pants” process, which is almost as bad as the “shopping for bathing suits” nightmare thanks to fluorescent lighting in three-way mirrors.

I tried them on — THEY FIT!  All four pairs fit like a glove, OK maybe a glove that’s a little tight, but I saw it as something to work towards. A slight muffin top reminds me to eat a salad instead of pasta or French fries for lunch, whereas the extra room in baggy pants seems to grant permission for me to eat with a little leeway.  

The funny thing is that one of the pairs of pants my sister gave me was the exact same pair I already own, but two sizes smaller than the ones hanging in my closet.  When I got back to my apartment and unpacked from my trip, the first thing I did was throw the older, larger pants in the Goodwill pile. It was a great feeling.   

Even better (for my waistline) -- my bags were so packed with new pants that I couldn't fit my cannoli in my carry on! Maybe I'll start aiming for my sister's pre-pregnancy pants next. 

A Real Heartbreak Hill

I've never wanted to run more than I do right at this moment.

I am still in shock after what happened at the Boston Marathon yesterday.  Patriot’s Day is the best day of the year in Boston— morning baseball at Fenway combined with the marathon and its throngs of supporters make for an electric atmosphere. Unless you've been there, it’s hard to explain.  Even though I've moved away, I still woke up on Marathon Monday excited to follow the day’s festivities online.

Four hours after the marathon began, the jubilation turned to terror. After hearing the news of the bombings at the finish line, the only thing I could think of to honor my city from a thousand miles away was to run a few myself. But I can’t because I have a back injury (which feels pretty minuscule in light of yesterday’s events).  So I read the news all night, changed my Facebook profile picture and wore my Red Sox hat.  It brought me a little comfort, as did the friends in Chicago who checked in with me to see if my family was safe.  This morning, the Chicago Tribune ran a touching tribute in its sports section.  I realized that if I can’t be in my home city, I am glad I live here.


Now that 24 hours has passed, the shock has turned to anger— anger that nothing is sacred anymore, not even a 117-year-old road race.  The innocence of this day has been snatched up from Bostonians and the running community.  People came to run— but some didn't walk away, while others may not be able to ever run again.  One of my friends, Mike, said it best when he said: “the day after a marathon your legs are supposed to hurt, not your heart.”

Another friend, Samantha, said it perfectly in a Facebook post this morning:  

“I know it's late, but finally I've thought of words I want to say. The finish line of a race is sacred. It's a place where dreams are both made and accomplished. Where you witness loved ones and complete strangers achieve their goals, with tears in your eyes. And I just feel how dare that sacred ground be attacked so brutally. This was definitely personal. Thinking of you Boston.”

All I could say after the bombs went off was “why would someone do this” but she said everything I have been feeling.  If you've ever run a race, you know the sense of community you get when you pin on your number.  The camaraderie is outstanding.  As is the freedom you feel as your feet hit the pavement and the wind tickles your face as you cruise along the course. 

It makes me sad to think that maybe I’ll never feel that way again. It made me feel even worse when I heard that the second confirmed victim who died in the blast was a 29-year-old woman.

But in the 24 hours after the attack, I have seen nothing but perseverance, fortitude and incredible spirit. The same spirit that lines the streets of Boston on Patriot’s Day. 

While our community has been infiltrated with evil, the moment will be fleeting and the good will far outlast the bad.  There is strength in numbers -- something I have seen at every road race I have ever been a part of.  Even in Chicago, halfway across the country from the attacks, impromptu runs have been organized to honor the Boston victims. It breaks my heart that I can't be a part of it or mourn with the city I love. But I do know this: like all injuries, our great city will heal and bounce back stronger than before. 

We will all run again.  

Light Bulb Moment

I recently read an article written by Harley Pasternak—trainer to the stars—that kind of made me stop and say “I get it!”  The article basically said that if you’re working out and not losing weight, there is a reason.  He wrote that 45 minutes of activity at the gym is not enough to make up for 23 hours and 15 minutes of lying and sitting around. 

For some reason, a light bulb went off in my head and I finally got why magazines and trainers and the like encourage you to get a pedometer and track your steps.   Maybe it was the way Harley outlined the reasons that I finally understood it.  I am one of those people who think that because I work out, I’m going to lose weight and can watch TV all night.

According to Livestrong.com, an individual should walk at least 5,000 steps a day (anything less is considered sedentary and inactive). Someone who walks 10,000 steps can burn up to an extra 3,500 calories a week—the equivalent of one pound.  According to this article, the surgeon general recommends taking 10,000 steps a day.

So I got a pedometer.  How hard could it be, I thought. I consider myself an active person so I assumed I was at least around the recommended steps per day.

I was wrong.

My walks to and from the train and home and work help boost my steps, but only to about 2,500 total for the day. So I needed to figure out how I was going to fill the rest.

-I started pacing around the L platform while waiting for the train to squeeze in some extra steps instead of just standing there.

-The walk from my desk to the bathroom is 100 steps, so I started drinking more water so I would have to get up and use the bathroom more.

-I started walked down to the cafeteria to fill my water bottle instead of filling it at the bubbler ten steps from my desk.  It probably adds at least 300 steps there.

-I have forced myself to take a break at work and walk outside at least once a day—whether it be for lunch or an afternoon stroll. 

-I used to allow myself to take the bus or L to a place if it was more than two stops away. Last week I walked everywhere, like when I went grocery shopping and met a friend for brunch.

All of these things I have done to increase my steps have also added to my quality of life. They’re also things I should already be doing, but somehow I have allowed myself to just get lazy.  I never considered myself a lazy person until I discovered that I was barely reaching the minimum amount of steps required each day.   I usually walk to run errands and take public transportation, so I can’t imagine how people who drive everywhere must be doing with this.

There has been only one day when I have gotten over 10,000 steps, but I am making it my goal to try as hard as I can to get there at least a couple times a week.  Fitting in that many steps is hard!  I’ve turned it into a game, and love to see the numbers go up as I walk.  I am a very goal-oriented person, so when I have a number I need to hit, I operate better.  

Once I get better at increasing my steps, I’m going to treat myself to a Fitbit pedometer (they’re pretty pricey but very intuitive) as a reward—right now I have a $19 one I got on Amazon (they have cheaper ones as well).  Something else for me to work for, and a reward that isn’t food related!

I encourage you all to get a pedometer and start tracking your steps to see how you’re doing. Or at least read Harley’s article to see why you should if I haven’t convinced you! 

FINALLY Winning the War

Kelly Clarkson’s song “The War is Over” is all I can think of to describe how I am feeling right now.  While this song is about a breakup, my elation pertains to my long battle with high cholesterol: the war is finally (almost) over.   

Last Friday I participated in a health assessment at work, and while a chunk of the results haven’t come back, the ones I was interested in did — cholesterol.  And I am more than happy to report that my cholesterol is now 201 (normal is less than 200)!

I've had high cholesterol since I can remember. When I had it tested for the first time at age 22, I sat vulnerable in my barely-there, raggedy patient gown as the doctor told me I was fat. When I started to cry, she shoved antidepressant samples into my purse and handed me glossy brochures of cholesterol medications. I refused to take medication despite my cholesterol being upwards of 260.

Six years later, in March 2011, I was lectured again (minus the tears).  My cholesterol was 241 and my doctor told me to lose ten pounds before she threatened medication.  I began chronicling my battle with high cholesterol and struggle to lose weight on this blog.  Despite best efforts and seven months of trying, my cholesterol didn't change much.  

It wasn't until this past fall spring when my number began to budge, dropping to somewhere in the 220s. There was still work to do.  I stopped eating processed foods and began cooking more because I enjoyed it and felt better about myself when I did.  I began running and working out for the fun of it, not to lose weight.  My pants started feeling baggier, but the scale didn't budge, so I put it away for a while. 

When I decided to check it a couple weeks ago, I had reached around 160 pounds (depending on the day, between 162.5 or 160.7) — a weight I haven’t seen since probably high school. And now, as I continue to stare at my test results from Friday, I still can’t believe I’m seeing numbers I never thought I would — 201, thisclose to the normal cholesterol zone.

In my post from March 2011, I wrote:  “Here I am, a month before my 28th birthday, and my cholesterol is still on the move... upwards. I needed to listen and obey, do whatever I could to fix it.” 

Now, here I am a month before my 30th birthday, my confidence is the only thing on the rise.  Although I still face daily battles — like slightly high LDL cholesterol — I am winning the war. FINALLY.  I guess this is proof that hard work and determination can pay off (and that it really does take a while if you aren't a celebrity).

Tim McGraw has a song called “My Next 30 Years,” which is about celebrating his age and focusing on the future. That’s what I’m going to do.  My next 30 years are going to be great, and what a better way to start than with semi-normal cholesterol.  

P.S. Thanks to everyone who has been so supportive and encouraging during this time -- and always. Love you long time.