Returning, in my optimism bubble

Dear blog,

I've neglected you these last couple of months! I really want to apologize, but I've been having so much damn fun living unattached from the computer that the guilt pangs faded away pretty easily after a couple weeks of no action on here. Apparently, someone/s out there still visits the site even in the absence of fresh content, which has prevented my monthly hits from dropping into the single digits -- a sure sign of a blog that is dead in the water. I am so grateful for you/s, my remaining readers/stalkers and of course, Mom.

June 9th will mark S.R.S.'s one-year anniversary, as well as my three-year anniversary being a Saratoga Springs resident, so I guess there's no better time to return to the blogosphere with renewed dedication.

Hot Yoga

It never occurred to me that my kneecaps could produce rivets of sweat, no matter how rigorously I may exercise. Same goes for my forearms, shins, earlobes and the backs of my heels.

But hot yoga -- in a studio heated anywhere from 95 to 105 degrees -- will do that to you.

I've been spending two solid hours the last few Saturday afternoons sweating my skin off at Hot Yoga Saratoga. It's the class for triathletes (though I am not, technically, a triathlete) that I mentioned in the last post ...

Graduation

I was skeptical at first, but I am now a believer in the powers of physical therapy.

Last Thursday I completed eight weeks at Sports PT and have come out of it with stronger muscles, a healthier perspective on exercise and a training plan for the next few months.

And, oh yeah, I can run now! (Very, very slowly, and not far, but it's a start.) 

The best part was definitely the free T-shirt they give you at the last visit.

Saturday begins five weeks of hot yoga classes specifically geared toward athletes who run, cycle and swim; and those like me, who want to heal and prevent injuries and seek better performance. 

As soon as I get a few more good jogs under my belt I am going to find and register for a 10K in the late spring/early summer.

Finishing up at Sports PT and saying farewell to the incomparable Dr. Jeff on Thursday was only the beginning of a whirlwind week.

On Friday, after I banged out my last three stories on my last day at The Saratogian, good times were had by the pintful at Gaffney's, which is seemingly becoming the farewell party bar of choice for the newspaper's employees. The crew came out in force to send me off on a high (and sufficiently intoxicated) note. Thanks, guys! We traded goodbyes, but I know I'll be seeing them around soon.

A fraction of the pile. The contents represent the makings of, ohh, say, 80 percent of my life during the last 2 years. Scary!

Somehow I recovered Saturday in time to drive 200 miles and commence a multi-borough food and friend adventure through New York City: First came wine and good company in the Bronx, then Thai food in Queens.

In the East Village Sunday afternoon, there was an Eggs Benedict brunch done in true hipster style, and train hopping to Brooklyn, where I was welcomed inside a warm, full apartment just as gray storm clouds gathered above. Cookie-baking, popcorn-making, Vietnamese/Indian dinner delivery, a chick flick and cat antics ensued as a rainstorm raged outside. Back home, some less-fortunate folks were enduring another frickin blizzard.

The next day, under sunny skies and amid windy gusts, it was back to Manhattan for a trip to Macy's, solo lunching/sightseeing, and an accidental 15-block stroll hustle, in heels, during rush hour, after I made a sliiight error navigating the subway. Oops.

Finally, I made a spontaneous return to the Bronx Monday evening for more wine, sushi, the Best Carrot Cake Ever, and some insightful conversation with a very cool journalist.  

Just another tourist snapping photos in Rockefeller Center.

I was hoping to bump into Tina Fey outside the GE building, but alas, she was busy writing her next essay for the New Yorker ... or maybe the next episode of 30 Rock.

Inside St. Patrick's Cathedral, I was struck by the Gothic beauty and the homeless who were crumpled silently in some of the pews.

A collection basket resting till the next service.

On Tuesday afternoon, I was greeted in Saratoga with a driveway full of snow and ice, and the realization that I had absolutely nothing to do as major local news developed around me. (To cope, I immediately went to a yoga class, then spent the next two nights at the gym.) But that is a story for another post.

Check back for another update soon, before my Fabulous and Slightly Unbelievable Week of No Employment comes to an end Monday morning.

The shortest month

This New York Times article got me thinking about the ending of the shortest month of the year.

Here at S.R.S., February 2011 began with a short journey to Brooklyn for the purposes of fun, friendship and celebration.

It ends and March begins on another celebratory note -- once again in New York City, and then beyond -- as I close one chapter of my life and prepare for a new job and a new adventure.

The weeks in between, though, were far less carefree. For one thing, I said a bittersweet farewell to yet another friend from my immediate circle who is moving on to grander things many miles away.

Then there was slogging endlessly through all that snow and ice, and all the late hours spent awake and driving through the cold dark, pizza in tow, doing what was necessary to get by. Good riddance.

Other departures this month were less literal. Old ideals and long-held expectations -- had of myself and of others -- that had gone stale were sloughed off, sometimes unexpectedly, coarsely, painfully. Like popping a blister before it's ready, or ripping a bandage off a wound that's not quite finished healing; if there's no thought given to the timing, you could end up with a scar. 

So a little proverbial bleeding occurred, but it's all for the best, and now it's over.

What I'm getting at, I guess, is that I disagree with the NYT writer's proposal (however facetious) to extend the 28-day month by a couple days in order to bring it into equal standing with the other months. February, in my book, you are just not as good as the other months. And you couldn't have been over soon enough.

As for March, bring it.

Renewing the routine

Tonight I had several post-work, post-physical therapy options: Join a friend who was in the mood to celebrate at a bar, go to a potluck dinner out of town and catch up with friends I haven't seen in awhile, go home and catch up on sleep, or go to the gym for a jog/walk.

Not too surprisingly, I chose the gym, where the red track and I are becoming fast friends despite my initial lack of excitement about it. At 9.1 laps to the mile, the soft, rubbery surface is kind to my knees, as long as I am kind to them and don't attempt any pace faster than 12 minutes per mile.

Once I get warmed up, it requires serious effort to hold back on the straight-aways, where the supportive surface makes it too easy to fly around, and before you know it, you're sprinting near top speed, in a race with yourself with no finish line.

There are all kinds of people on the track, from walkers to 6-minute-miler military types to tiny skipping children. That's one thing I love about running -- it's all inclusive. It's one of the simplest movements the human body is capable of -- it doesn't require any special equipment or clothing -- and yet it can be one of the most difficult activities of all.

That's what I was thinking as I paced around the red rubbery loop tonight. Thinking, I couldn't even walk without pain six weeks ago. Now I am jogging causally around, breathing easy and dreaming of spring and a warm, sunny run down the Avenue of the Pines.

Now I am walking up and down stairs with ease, driving my car without a struggle. But I do it all with a new gratefulness, with the knowledge that it could be taken away in a flash should I sway from routine, or push my muscles too hard, and toward injury again.

And although the track is slightly underwhelming with its pervasive rubber smell, the cool wind tunnel effect created when multiple people are using it, the lack of scenery and the *ahem* people who stroll two or three-abreast in the running lanes, it is the place that, after my winter work day is done, I'd much rather go to than anywhere else.

While going out to socialize was tempting, it was that kind of night where I craved the familiarity of my carefully formed solo routine, and knew I would reap the benefits that were sure to follow: physical health and a peaceful mind.

My mellow mood was only bolstered by a quick dip in the whirl pool, and then I returned home to have the house all to myself. I set out to cook dinner and call up three friends with whom I shared good news -- the combined effect of all this was feeling complete satisfaction with my decisions, and so much hope for future similar evenings to come.

New image

You might notice that the image above these posts -- or rather, the words on the image -- have changed.

After a long and careful search for identity (a lot of which happened on the elliptical machine this winter -- that repetitive motion is good for more than just cardio!) I decided the description of the blog had to more accurately reflect who I am.

And while all of the former descriptions -- journalist by day, pizza delivery girl by night, former military wife -- still define me, at least for the moment, they present a somewhat limited view of yours truly. So, I'm shakin' them off to the sidelines.

Descriptions of more breadth include daughter, sister, friend, lover, learner. That should be obvious.

In an effort to simplify and to create some karmic space, I hereby change the wording to include only those definitions of self that are most important, in relation to this blog.

Thanks for keepin' reading. 

Nice girls finish first

I clocked two miles jogging and walking at the YMCA indoor track the other day, "running" for the first time in two months. It was some seriously slow running, but it was exhilarating, and it was largely pain-free.

The doc has cleared me for a jog/walk program to do about three times a week, in addition to all the silly-looking exercises I continue to perform with bands, balls, bikes and balance boards in order to strengthen my little muscles. 

Other than that 20 minutes of tentatively experienced bliss at the Y, this week could easily be described as one long, cold piece of stinking, over-caffeinated crap. Pardon my French, but I'm tired of being nice and polite. The rest of my waking hours not at physical therapy or the gym were spent moving wearily from home to car to work and back, and at every turn I encountered insensitivity in others, or just plain arrogance.

Note to self: Time to stop wasting energy on relationships that are devoid of equality and respect. The asshole magnet that has heretofore been sticking to my forehead like a neon sign has officially been ripped off and thrown in the trash. And it landed right on top of that old, smelly toothbrush.

So tonight I went and got a manicure and my nails were painted bright red. My manicurist mentioned there was a holiday coming up on Monday, but for a moment I couldn't recall which one she was talking about.

Then I went to the grocery store and saw a guy wheeling a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of carnations around, looking like he was embarrassed to be found complicit in this ridiculous display of sentiment, yet bound by custom. I went to the mall and browsed pink lingerie hanging on racks. I passed couples holding hands. I come home and hear my roommate and her boyfriend through the wall. I turn my music up and smile.

Phew, I think. It's finally hit me. Relief. Relief to be free of such tediousness, of such worry and work and obligation to please the opposite sex, only to unwittingly offer up one's heart to the shredder. How much more satisfying it is to devote pleasure to oneself. 

Forget flowers and cute little cards scrawled with empty words, with apologies. This nice girl has got bigger and better races to run.

January: One month in numbers

New Year's resolutions made: 8

New Year's resolutions made and kept: ??

Injured knees: 2

Days since last real run: 65

Weeks in physical therapy: 4

Minutes spent on elliptical machine: 175 

Weight lost due to high stress level: 5 pounds

Increase in daily caffeine intake: 24 ounces

Height of snow piles in yard: 3.5 feet

Time spent at work per week: 60 hours

Miles clocked on second shift: Thousands

Nights spent at bars with coworkers: 4 ... or was that 5?

Average bedtime: 3 a.m.

Laughs shared with friends: Countless

Catching up: Sugar high

This post is from mid-December. Why am I posting it now, on Feb. 4? Because I'm easing myself back into blogging after life took a little roller coaster ride the last two months and writing for pleasure flew to the bottom of the priority list. With this post, loose ends are all tied up and we're on to the next (fully in the present) S.R.S. adventure!

There was once a time when, at the behest of my very health-conscious father, I did not consume sugary foods.

During lunch time in elementary school, I would peer down the long rows of cafeteria tables at my fellow fourth-graders as they consumed Capri Suns, fruit snacks, Doritos and Lunchables. I was too shy to try negotiating a trade, so I silently lusted over their treats, faking enthusiasm over the apple slices and carrot sticks in my brown paper bag.

Dad, I gratefully owe you my good health, my love for vegetables and oatmeal and my embarrassing lack of 80s and 90s pop culture knowledge purity of mind.

However, today, sugar and I have quite a different relationship. For one thing, there's all the coffee I drink. Black is bitter, so my morning wake-up call (and afternoon/evening deadline-crunch caffeine fix) usually includes a half-teaspoon of sugar and a nice helping of cream. Then there is the abundance of cookies and other sweets that magically appear throughout my office on any given day, 12 months out of the year. My coworkers love baking, and they are excellent at it, so why resist?
 
Yesterday, I took my love for sugar one step further and participated in my first-ever holiday cookie exchange. There are many reasons why this type of activity is foreign to me, sugar being the only familiar element. For example, in order to participate, I had to complete a seemingly endless list of tasks over a period of weeks (weeks!), like finding a recipe, shopping for ingredients, and emailing back and forth with the hostess about what I was going to bring for both the cookie exchange and the potluck dinner.

Once gingersnaps and a Greek pasta salad were confirmed, there was the baking and cooking itself. I spent three hours in an apron, in my kitchen, listening to Christmas music. Yield: six dozen cookies, a salad that could feed 20, a sweaty, flour-covered me and a sinkful of dirty dishes. Did I mention I was also required to print out 20 copies of my cookie recipe for distribution? Don't even get me started on how much time, effort and creativity went into those (other people's) little recipe card designs.  

Half of the delicious spread (and that's not even counting
the real food!) at the CDNY Eat Drink Blog party.

Phew. To top off this weekend of classic American holiday-prep merriment, I bought wrapping paper and gifts on Friday ... as in Friday, Dec. 17, a full week before Christmas. That may not sound earth-shattering, but if you know me, this awesome display of advance preparation might surprise you. Last year, I ripped the tags off my family's gifts as I ran down the stairs to where they were waiting for me by the tree on Christmas morning. Lame. 

(And, I wrote most of this post in December and I'm just now putting it on the blog.)

Anyway, the Capital District healthy living bloggers I met at the cookie exchange are a fun bunch of women, and I learned a lot about their community. A few brought their men -- non-bloggers who quickly sought refuge together in the kitchen when they realized they were outnumbered something like 5 to 1 in a room crowded with loud, laughing, opinionated women. I kind of felt sorry for them, hanging about, being chatted up by a quieter guest who wandered in from the main room seeking a refill and a break from so much (AH!) large-group interaction.

Wine and quiche and off-color jokes were had in major quantities. Many fabulous cookies were gobbled up. But the pre-party in my kitchen, singing and baking in solitude, was actually just as good.

Runner, ID'd

More than a year has passed since I began running regularly and seriously. Only now, after injury and a doctor's visit, do I feel I've truly joined the runner's club.

Dancing has always come naturally to me, but I've always, very confidently, viewed myself as a "non-athlete." Exhibit A: In middle school, under peer pressure to make my spectacled, shy little self appear "cool," I ignored my parents' raised eyebrows and joined the modified soccer team, only to drop out after one practice because all the shouting and flying objects turned me into a nervous wreck.

I was that kid who was always picked last for the basketball team during gym class, the one who shuffled behind everyone else when they made you run the one loop around the track.

My little sister, the avowed athlete of the family, has beaten me in every sport or game we've played together since she was 5. (I'm 10 years older).

But now I've gone and turned into a Runner, y'all.

I left Tuesday's orthopedic appointment with a diagnosis of patellofemoral pain, instructions to see a physical therapist, and a hefty knee brace that is intended to prevent my knee cap from irritating and inflaming the soft tissue in my knee when I run. The pain syndrome is common in women runners, especially those who have "huge" quads, like myself -- which a glib doctor was kind enough to point out to me. 

Weak sartorius muscles are the culprit of my patellofemoral pain, I was told. Also, running straight down that twisting, horrible gravel hill at the Cross Country Classic in October might have had something to do with it. Argh, hindsight. Someone please get me Running for Dummies for Christmas.

Anyway, despite the fact that I need to educate myself further to avoid future injury, going to the ortho appointment also delivered to me a dose of affirmation that yes, I love, want and need running to feel good. And I will continue to stick with it even though the going is slow right now.

It's been awhile since I've felt that way about any one activity that
a.) is healthy
b.) is a self-identifier, and
c.) is completely within my own control. 

Fortunately there are no balls, bats, or throwing involved in this sport. Just the occasional snot rocket (still gotta learn how to master that technique), chafed arm pit and black toenail.

Distance running is lovely because of its solitary nature (running socially is an option, not a requirement) and also gritty because it can be the ultimate test of both an individual's mental and physical strength. 

This is all fine and good, right? But let it be noted, I did not miss the key lesson of this injury experience: cross-training, stretching and pacing oneself = good, to put it lightly.