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.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
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
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
Friday, February 4, 2011
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 myembarrassing 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.
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.
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
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.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Acceptance Stage
So, I know I just wrote a whole post about how I might be back on track with running and exercise in general after five long weeks of inactivity.
Scratch all that.
At least that is what I have been thinking, as I spend the evening limping to the freezer to grab an ice pack, sinking back into the couch and Velcroing it around my damn knee. Refreeze and repeat. The pain is back and much more intense. The best part is that the soreness and aching have begun to show up in my right knee as well, and moved down to my feet and my ankles.
I wake up in the middle of the night tossing and turning because my legs are sore and restless. I wake up at 8:30 a.m., after hitting the pillow at 2:03 a.m. I got home from Job #2 at 2:01 a.m.
I give myself a pep talk before I heave feet to the floor and limp, bleary-eyed, to the coffee maker. It will all be worth it one day, when I make my big break and when I can run again. I chant it over and over, as if saying it will make it come true.
I'm such a complainer, I know. I'm getting sick of myself.
What did I expect, recklessly completing five workouts in one week after doing nothing more strenuous than hitting the 4 button on the elevator panel for a month?
At last, I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor for next Tuesday. This happened only after I did some Googling (Googleing?) and self-diagnosed myself with patellofemoral pain, a.k.a. Runner's Knee. Using my great powers of rationalization, I've concluded that now, going to to the doctor might not be so ominous, since I have ruled out several major ailments that would require surgery and/or never running again.
However, a conversation with a coworker/fellow runner this morning prompted a scary possibility that is eating away at me: What if, as happened to him, I had sore knees that would always, from this point on, be sore when I ran? My marathon (ok, half-marathon) running days would be over before they even had a chance to begin.
This article in today's Times provides an interesting, if not completely rounded, perspective on the relationship between cycling and running injuries. The bit on the second page about feeling as if a running injury -- most of them from simple overuse -- is your own fault, is completely relevant here. One of the most frustrating parts is that the realization that it is your own fault doesn't hityour my thick head until long after the hurt has happened, as, the author says, "you cast about for a reason why you got injured."
My whole body hurts, including my head. Going to Price Chopper and getting some ice cream sounds like a good remedy. At least subjecting myself to a brain freeze will taste good.
Scratch all that.
At least that is what I have been thinking, as I spend the evening limping to the freezer to grab an ice pack, sinking back into the couch and Velcroing it around my damn knee. Refreeze and repeat. The pain is back and much more intense. The best part is that the soreness and aching have begun to show up in my right knee as well, and moved down to my feet and my ankles.
 |
| The makings of an exciting night. |
I wake up in the middle of the night tossing and turning because my legs are sore and restless. I wake up at 8:30 a.m., after hitting the pillow at 2:03 a.m. I got home from Job #2 at 2:01 a.m.
I give myself a pep talk before I heave feet to the floor and limp, bleary-eyed, to the coffee maker. It will all be worth it one day, when I make my big break and when I can run again. I chant it over and over, as if saying it will make it come true.
I'm such a complainer, I know. I'm getting sick of myself.
What did I expect, recklessly completing five workouts in one week after doing nothing more strenuous than hitting the 4 button on the elevator panel for a month?
At last, I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor for next Tuesday. This happened only after I did some Googling (Googleing?) and self-diagnosed myself with patellofemoral pain, a.k.a. Runner's Knee. Using my great powers of rationalization, I've concluded that now, going to to the doctor might not be so ominous, since I have ruled out several major ailments that would require surgery and/or never running again.
However, a conversation with a coworker/fellow runner this morning prompted a scary possibility that is eating away at me: What if, as happened to him, I had sore knees that would always, from this point on, be sore when I ran? My marathon (ok, half-marathon) running days would be over before they even had a chance to begin.
This article in today's Times provides an interesting, if not completely rounded, perspective on the relationship between cycling and running injuries. The bit on the second page about feeling as if a running injury -- most of them from simple overuse -- is your own fault, is completely relevant here. One of the most frustrating parts is that the realization that it is your own fault doesn't hit
My whole body hurts, including my head. Going to Price Chopper and getting some ice cream sounds like a good remedy. At least subjecting myself to a brain freeze will taste good.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Back on track?
I re-upped my YMCA membership for the winter and took myself to the gym on Monday evening for my first run in more than a month.
Finally.
It was a major production, at least internally, to go through the motions of getting ready to run. I was nervous. I spent more time than usual tying my laces, securing my hair, adjusting my music, and then gingerly, very gingerly, stepped onto the red, squishy surface of the indoor track on the second floor of the Y.
First, though, as I knelt down to retie my shoe again, I sent a little prayer out to the running gods and goddesses. "Please, please let me run today without hurting my body," I pleaded. "I promise I'll never skip a workout again if only I can have running back."
After a hesitant eight minute warm-up, I discovered that I hadn't completely fallen off the wagon and that my knee was not going to give out or start producing jolts of pain. This felt like quite a triumph, considering I was limping around a few weeks ago.
I ran around the track at a super slow pace for about 30 minutes, until my knee started to ache and go wobbly. Then I went downstairs to spin for 20 minutes, hoping to work the kinks out of my muscles while easing up on my knee.
Tuesday was a repeat of the routine. Wednesday and Thursday were given over to travel, family time, and so much delicious food, as well as RICE. The holiday was a perfect excuse to rest after an exhausting week.
Friday, after I had sat on my parents' huge couch doing absolutely nothing for so long I began to fear it would swallow me up permanently, I hauled myself up and headed to the SUNY Oneonta track nearby. It was about 35 degrees, and since everyone knows that running outside in cold weather is just an excuse to put on all sorts of sleek gear and feel cool, I suited up in mine: leggings, running shorts, long-sleeved wicking shirt, black ear band, black gloves. While they won't make you go any faster, black gloves, by the way, are apparently the epitome of running cool.
I pulled two good miles on the track, so relieved to be able to move around outside again and take in the view of Oneonta's blue hills and the setting sun. Forgot to take any pictures of that or of Thanksgiving, save for one, as an afterthought, with the family dog.
It's still technically Thanksgiving week (eh?) so I'll say what I am thankful for: Always, for family, friends, nutritious food and good health. Right now, for being back in Saratoga in my warm, peaceful home, couching it up again after driving straight to the Y from Oneonta for workout No. 4 of the week. And I'm eternally thankful that I can lead an active life.
Finally.
It was a major production, at least internally, to go through the motions of getting ready to run. I was nervous. I spent more time than usual tying my laces, securing my hair, adjusting my music, and then gingerly, very gingerly, stepped onto the red, squishy surface of the indoor track on the second floor of the Y.
First, though, as I knelt down to retie my shoe again, I sent a little prayer out to the running gods and goddesses. "Please, please let me run today without hurting my body," I pleaded. "I promise I'll never skip a workout again if only I can have running back."
After a hesitant eight minute warm-up, I discovered that I hadn't completely fallen off the wagon and that my knee was not going to give out or start producing jolts of pain. This felt like quite a triumph, considering I was limping around a few weeks ago.
I ran around the track at a super slow pace for about 30 minutes, until my knee started to ache and go wobbly. Then I went downstairs to spin for 20 minutes, hoping to work the kinks out of my muscles while easing up on my knee.
Tuesday was a repeat of the routine. Wednesday and Thursday were given over to travel, family time, and so much delicious food, as well as RICE. The holiday was a perfect excuse to rest after an exhausting week.
 |
| They make you feel faster, and keep fingers warm. |
 |
| Izzy the bundle of fluff and me, her erstwhile friend. |
It's still technically Thanksgiving week (eh?) so I'll say what I am thankful for: Always, for family, friends, nutritious food and good health. Right now, for being back in Saratoga in my warm, peaceful home, couching it up again after driving straight to the Y from Oneonta for workout No. 4 of the week. And I'm eternally thankful that I can lead an active life.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Liking the D.I.Y. approach to life
I walked in the door tonight more grateful than usual to be letting myself into my warm little studio after a long day at work.
This evening I spent an hour outside in less-than-desirable weather conditions, covering a vigil for homelessness awareness week. I was so moved by the story of a local woman who endured a childhood of abuse, spent a winter homeless on the streets of Saratoga as an adult and is now earning her degree to be a social worker at age 49.
That kind of determination makes me feel like a chump for ever complaining about my sky-high student loans and pitiful paychecks. At least I'm working at something I care about and have a safe place to sleep.
As someone who spent her first few months of life sleeping in a tinyblue red trailer in the middle of the woods, surrounded by five-foot piles of snow, with a father who worked nights loading trucks in a warehouse and a mother who taught school to students from poverty-stricken families, the issue of homelessness resonates with me.
In the spring, with the help of friends and neighbors, they finished hand-building the two-story log cabin that would be my beloved home for the next 16 years.
Of course, I wasn't fully cognizant at the time, but I don't think there was much separating us three from destitution during that first long, cold winter in the trailer -- not much except an unflappable commitment to hard work and a steady resolution to maintain one's self-sufficiency at all costs.
My parents have long ago gone their separate ways and the log cabin is now someone else's home, but those values have stuck with me, and they flood my one-room apartment with hope.
This evening I spent an hour outside in less-than-desirable weather conditions, covering a vigil for homelessness awareness week. I was so moved by the story of a local woman who endured a childhood of abuse, spent a winter homeless on the streets of Saratoga as an adult and is now earning her degree to be a social worker at age 49.
That kind of determination makes me feel like a chump for ever complaining about my sky-high student loans and pitiful paychecks. At least I'm working at something I care about and have a safe place to sleep.
As someone who spent her first few months of life sleeping in a tiny
In the spring, with the help of friends and neighbors, they finished hand-building the two-story log cabin that would be my beloved home for the next 16 years.
Of course, I wasn't fully cognizant at the time, but I don't think there was much separating us three from destitution during that first long, cold winter in the trailer -- not much except an unflappable commitment to hard work and a steady resolution to maintain one's self-sufficiency at all costs.
My parents have long ago gone their separate ways and the log cabin is now someone else's home, but those values have stuck with me, and they flood my one-room apartment with hope.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Stretching out
Saturday was a blur of traveling, kitchen appliances, dish towels, computer upsets and finally, returning home to Saratoga and a delicious homemade squash soup.
Sunday was a blur of yoga class, appointments, work and veggie burgers.
Today was a blur of work, meetings, braving a sketchy Chinese buffet ... I could go on, but I'll just have to show this picture instead:
All of this activity has resulted in little sleep and a very tired S.R.S. So, therefore, I present the shortest blog post ever.
Yoga four times last week helped to ease my achin' bod. In Sunday's class, I had a super stretching experience with the help of a rock star teacher: We're sitting on the floor, reaching out for our toes in front of us, and without warning, she commences to sit down back-to-back with me and use her body weight to push me into the deepest stretch of my life (life as a former ballerina, that is). Then she held me there.
The physical sensation was so powerful it produced a revelatory effect inside my head. I walked out of there knowing for sure and for the first time that the studio is my sanctuary and yoga is my worship.
After that, my knees and legs have been feeling much more themselves lately, and I can't wait to go for my first recovery run this week.
Sunday was a blur of yoga class, appointments, work and veggie burgers.
Today was a blur of work, meetings, braving a sketchy Chinese buffet ... I could go on, but I'll just have to show this picture instead:
 |
| The happy ending after three very busy days. |
All of this activity has resulted in little sleep and a very tired S.R.S. So, therefore, I present the shortest blog post ever.
Yoga four times last week helped to ease my achin' bod. In Sunday's class, I had a super stretching experience with the help of a rock star teacher: We're sitting on the floor, reaching out for our toes in front of us, and without warning, she commences to sit down back-to-back with me and use her body weight to push me into the deepest stretch of my life (life as a former ballerina, that is). Then she held me there.
The physical sensation was so powerful it produced a revelatory effect inside my head. I walked out of there knowing for sure and for the first time that the studio is my sanctuary and yoga is my worship.
After that, my knees and legs have been feeling much more themselves lately, and I can't wait to go for my first recovery run this week.
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