Pacing

Those closest to me know I only have two speeds—full steam ahead and crash.

I’ve been running–literally and figuratively–since I was a kid. When I wasn’t out-sprinting boys in my elementary school, I was summersaulting over balance beams (both in my gym and on the one my daddy made for me in our backyard), teaching the neighborhood kids how to dive (which only resulted in one emergency room visit) and riding my bike in my fancy dresses (I was a slave for fashion, even at a young age) until my mom literally rang the bell for me to come inside.

In middle school, my parents forbade me from taking on any additional extra curricular activities, which at the time included cheerleading, gymnastics, community theatre, piano lessons, voice lessons, two different choirs, the district’s musically exceptional program and youth group. Did I mention that I was also class president and a straight-A student?

Clearly, I needed some balance.

My approach to running has been much the same. For the longest time, I only had one pace: slow. Then, when I picked up some speed and found myself setting personal records at every race I competed in for a twelve month period, I only wanted to go fast. 100%, all the time. I didn’t understand the value of rest and pacing and effort.

I managed my business the same way. I’d start on Sunday afternoon, work until 1 or 2 a.m., work three straight 15 hour days and then wonder why I’d crash on Thursday afternoon. Sure, my business grew, and sure, I got things done, but there’s something to be said for PACING. For spreading the work out over six days, not three. For getting enough rest to wake up the next day fresh, with new energy and new ideas.

The same goes for running. This marathon training cycle has been my most consistent. It’s had the highest mileage of any of my previous training plans. Yet I haven’t gotten burned out. Or sick. Or injured. Because I’ve been pacing myself. Some workouts are fast. Some are long. And some are just easy and relaxed. Maintenance runs. Recovery runs.

Because the truth is, whether in running or in business or life, you can’t go, go, go without hitting a wall.

What do you do to pace yourself?

You Don’t Always Have to Put on a Happy Face

Like 37 million others, I tuned into the train wreck that was the Oscars broadcast last Sunday night. While as award ceremonies go, I much prefer the Golden Globes–the mix of movie and television actors plus free flowing booze makes for a much less predictable and more entertaining ceremony–the Oscars are a tradition.

I grew up watching movies. Not just any movies, but old movies. My mom cheered me up when I was home sick from school by renting the classics and watching them with me. Philadelphia Story. All About Eve. West Side Story. Casablanca. These movies are as much if not more a part of my childhood than ET, Star Wars and Pretty in Pink.

Most years, I make sure I see all of the nominated movies, read any and all reviews I can get my hands on,  fill out a ballot, and wait to gloat after uccessfully predicting a few upsets (persona faves: Shakespeare in Love over Saving Private Ryan in 2001; Jim Broadbent over Ian McKellen for Best Supporting Actor in 2001; Adrien Brody over Jack Nicholson for Best Actor in 2002). And let’s not forget the eye candy, of the fashion (Mila Kunis! Cate Blanchett!) and male (Mr. Darcy!) variety.

Rarely, if ever, do I tune in for the host(s). They’re really window dressing. Their role is to welcome the guests, make them feel comfortable, keep the evening flowing and then GET OUT OF THE WAY.

Which was pretty much the OPPOSITE of Anne Hathaway and and James Franco’s co-hosting turn. An odd pairing to be sure, the only commonalities being that they are both under 30 and actors.

The end result was awkward, flat, forced and painful. You know it’s bad when you’re upstaged by a delirious octogenarian.

And the more detached and  sullen Franco got, the more desperately Anne tried to save the show. With awkwardly timed giggles, inappropriate “whoop whoops” and incessant mugging.

I emphathized with her

Because I am that girl. The one who plays the peacemaker, diffuses uncomfortable situations with a forced laugh or smile, who forges forward with the stage face, even when I feel like crying or retreating.

We’re told as women not to cry or show emotion. To hold it together, regardless of the circumstances.

And while I don’t endorse crying at the office every day or giggling uncontrollable in a high level meeting, I think there are times when it IS appropriate to show emotion. To admit when things are difficult. To not plaster on a fake smile and pretend it’s business as usual.

Take last week, for example. I’m exhausted from marathon training and just feeling very raw and exposed. I’m crying at the little things (a Runner’s World essay about the editor losing his dog; the 25th anniversary Les Miserables concert) and the big ones (a child dying of cancer; a friend’s eighth chemo treatment; another good friend losing her home).

I think that sometimes it’s the EASIER choice to pretend things are fine. To put on a happy face. To shut down and shut off.

Showing emotion is hard. Being vulnerable to others is scary and uncomfortable.

But it’s also how we connect as human beings. It’s part of LIVING.

Spring…and Breaks

Today was one of the most glorious days of the year. Sunny, clear, crisp–a perfect 65 degrees. The type of day that makes me want to run another 20 miles (but I did that yesterday!) and trade the cozy boots and sweaters for gauzy sundresses and espadrilles.  And had me cleaning out the closet to make room for all those spring luxuries.

And as I dug through fifteen years worth of ratty tees (sorority dance shirts circa 1997, be gone!), dozens of half-empty bottles of shampoo and a sleeve of CDs that hasn’t been touched in about five different moves in this city, I came to the realization that I have too much STUFF. Do I really need to keep ten years’ worth of hideous Peachtree Road Race t-shirts? Or six copies of photos from that trip to Italy in 1996? Or dresses that I haven’t worn in four years? Sentimental is one thing. Hoarders is another.

Unfortunately, I think this tendency to hoard translates into my online world. Too many blogs in my reader. Too many e-newsletters left unread and sent directly to the trash. Too many toxic people in my Facebook and Twitter feeds. Too much time spent on superficial online interactions and not enough quality time in person. Too much time agonizing over this blog, when honestly, I’m just not all that inspired.

Right now, it’s one of those things I feel obligated to do. I love writing when I’m moved. Not so much when it’s just another item on the “to do” list. Or when other things inspire me more. Like running. Singing and playing the piano again. Reading a good novel. Listening to good music. Or just soaking in the tub and thinking and dreaming.

So, I’m taking a bit of a hiatus. Not forever. But until it feels like the best use of my time and energy and inspiration.

Brownies and Busyness

Last night, I had the most bizarre dream.

I was on some Amazing Race-type show, tackling challenge after random challenge (one involving pole vaulting from a platform into maze-like underground chutes).  The final challenge?

Baking three dozen chocolate brownies, perfectly frosting them and packaging them for “press kits.”

(Yes, I’m clearly obsessed with food and never stop thinking about work.)

As I am just as bossy, opinionated and outspoken in my dreams as I am in real life, I of course exclaimed:

BROWNIES?  In a PRESS KIT?  Nobody sends press kits any more.  And if those brownies somehow don’t end up in the trash can, I doubt anyone will eat them.  Allergies and New Year’s resolutions, anyone?

And don’t our clients pay us to actually accomplish something, you know, not related to baking from a box?  Just send a nice hand-written note (yes, I’m the uber-Southern etiquette queen, even in my dreams) and get on with it.

As I woke up and recounted the dream to my husband, I thought about one of the first bosses I ever had.  She was borderline OCD, and I’ll never forget the night she made me stay in the office until 10 p.m.  What important project was I working on?

An Excel spreadsheet.  An internal, working document.  Why?  Because, apparently, the margins were not up to her standards.  Four hours perfecting imperceptible differences in column size

As much of a caricature that is, and as much as I’m not one to spend a ton of time on details, I think we all get caught in the trap of busywork.  Of flair and fluff.  Of thinking we’re working and moving forward and accomplishing great things, when it’s all just smoke and mirrors.  Press kits no one will read.  Brownies no one will ever eat.  Spreadsheet margins no one will ever notice.  Lists for the sake of lists.  Meetings for the sake of meetings.

What noise is slowing you down?

Why I Run: Painting it Purple for LLS

Probably the first thing people discover about me is that I run.  Not just a couple miles here and there, but regularly.  Day after day, mile upon mile, race upon race.  For over three years and counting.

To an outsider, it may seem like a difficult or unusual pasttime. 

I’m often asked “I don’t know how you run 26 miles.  I can’t even run one.”

At one point in time, I couldn’t either.  Now, I can’t imagine anything else.

I was a very active, athletic kid.  I was on a competitve gymnastics team.  I spent hours in the swimming pool in our backyard.  I climbed trees and outran every boy in my neighborhood.

And then I was diagnosed with asthma.  Not the “occasionaly take a hit off the inhaler and everything’s fine” kind of asthma, but the “even the slightest physical exertion causes me to wheeze and turn purple and may result in a trip to the emergency room” variety.

I pretty much gave up anything athletic and struggled with my weight through most of my adolescence and into my college years.  I would try off and on to run, but never lasted more than a few minutes before I had to walk, huffing and puffing, clutching my inhaler.

I tried again in graduate school.  I signed up to run my first ever race, the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K in Columbus, Ohio, in the spring of 1999.  The cause was important to me, a few of my co-workers were running, and my dad agreed to run it with me.

That was the beginning of my running career.  My father and I ran several 10Ks together over the years, but I never took running seriously or as something bigger than myself until the summer of 2007.

I ran into a friend and former co-worker in the food court of my office building.  She was pale and thin, completely bald and wearing a brightly covered scarf on her head.  The sight was visceral.  It cut right through me.  I’d never known anyone my age with cancer.  I felt helpless.  Powerless.  I wanted to DO something.

That “something” came to me wrapped up in a shiny purple package–a Team in Training brochure.  I was terrified of running a longer distance, but was convinced that this was exactly what I needed to do.  It was the only thing I could do.

As I listened to a man named Tommy Owens–who would later become as he has for many a coach, friend and inspiration–talk about losing his twenty-something daughter to cancer, the cause because even more real.  I signed up, filled with purpose I so desperately needed after losing my job less than a week before and trying to find the courage to leave a crumbling marriage.

I ran my first half marathon, the P. F. Chang’s Phoenix Rock ‘n’ Roll event, in January of 2008, after raising over $6,500 for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

Since then, I’ve run two marathons and dozens of other events in purple, the names of my heroes either written directly on my jersey or fashioned on with ribbons.  At the start of my last marathon–a day I knew would be a struggle because I was dealing with a calf injury–a man walked up to me and my husband and said “I’m a leukemia survivor.  Thank you for what you do.”

Ironically, on this week of celebrating all things purple, I’ve received word twice in the past twenty-four hours that two people will not survive this wretched disease.  One was in the form of a google alert for a client of mine, CURE Childhood Cancer, which included the obituary of a five year-old girl.  FIVE.  My godson is five.  My heart aches when he a sore throat or a scrape on his knee.  I couldn’t imagine saying good-bye to him forever.

The other was an email from a good friend with the heartbreaking words of a father trying to face the death of his 20 year old son.

People are dying.  Every day.  People we know and love.  And the only thing I know to do–the only thing I can do, is to run.

Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

my doppleganger in the film that inspired this post...

When I wrote about growing comfortable in my adulthood, I left out one very important component–fun!

Like my friend Alli commented, “whereas before maybe we thought it [adulthood] meant stifling and serious, now as we grow into ourselves, into who we are meant to be, we see it means freedom and truth and being real.”

And what’s more real than fun?  Than living joyously, freely and totally off script?

Like most recovering perfectionists, my days are full of routine.  Workouts, client meetings, phone calls, emails and even meals are meticulously scheduled.  My favorite past time–running, is also highly regimented.  And it has to be–I’m training for a marathon.  But it’s easy to lose the joy when you’re tied to a schedule.

So last week, I made a conscious decision to let go.  To throw out the schedule and just have fun.

On Sunday, I took my dog for a walk in the park.  Not for any specific length of time or number of miles.  We came armed with a blanket and toys.  No watch.  No plan.  Just fun.

On Wednesday, I powered off the laptop, cranked up the music (yay for an awesome sound system) and danced and sang, karaoke style, for almost two hours.  Until I was hoarse, and the neighbors were probably sick of the noise and the sight of this crazy woman dancing around in her pajamas, clutching a lint roller like a microphone.

On Friday, I took a day off (gasp!) and went to the movies with my husband.  I actually turned the phone off.  And then we went shopping and ate dinner, technology-free.

All little things, but they were fun things.  And the things that form our very real and lasting memories in life.

Letting Go of Perfection

Much like my life-long obsession with being a “good girl,” I’ve also had an obsession with being perfect.

Growing up, I learned that anything worth doing was not just worth doing well, but winning.

If I got a 98 on my report card, my dad would ask “why not 99 or 100?”

And so I pushed myself.  I made straight A’s.  I made 5′s on all of my AP exams.  I aced the SAT.  I won full scholarships to several colleges.  I even gave up show choir to ensure I graduated co-valedictorian.

I was the same way with piano, which I loved, so it was my choice to push myself to perfection.  Most kids hate to practice.  I practiced hours a day and loved every minute of it.  I went to Governor’s School for the Arts.  I placed in state competitions.  I went to college on a piano scholarship.

And then it suddenly got hard.  My hand position wasn’t right.  My hands were too small.  My technique was all wrong.

And because I couldn’t be perfect, I quit.  Something I loved.  That gave me joy and comfort, that spoke to my soul, that was part of my identity.  I didn’t touch a piano for a year.  I still regret it.

That fear of failure, of not living up to expectations is what also caused me to stop even thinking about psychology as a possible major after I made a B+ in my first class.  What keeps me from picking up golf clubs again.  What scares me about trying a triathlon.  What kept me in my first marriage for so long.  What paralyzes me from doing some of the most routine things of life and often, causes me to hurt those I love the most (because I try to “protect” them from the truth or spare them the “non-perfect” me) and keeps me from really living.

Because the reality is that perfection is an illusion.  We all fail.  We all make mistakes.  And we certainly can’t be perfect or the best at everything we do.  Nor should we want to.  It’s a recipe for failure, self-flagellation and well, all around misery.  I know.  I’ve been living it for nearly 35 years.

But I’m slowly learning to let go…

Hurt

I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel
I focus on the pain, the only thing that’s real

Yesterday, I did what I do every Saturday morning–I went for a run.

It was a beautiful fall day.  The air was crisp and clean.  The sun was shining brightly.  There were probably birds singing and brilliantly colored leaves on the trees and all of those cliches people write about and I should remember to observe, but I can’t describe any of them for you.

Because I can’t remember any of them.  They’re details.

And this was not a run about details–it was a run about survival.  About existing.  About feeling.  Something, anything.

And so I did it.

I got myself out of bed.  Found some clothes, applied sunscreen, laced up my shoes.  And ran.

But I still didn’t feel anything.  Notice anything.  Care about anything.

Until I fell.

Tripped.

Over what?

Uneven driveway.  Cracked sidewalk.  My own foot.  Who knows.

All I know is that for the first time in almost a week, I FELT something.  The gravel lodged in my hands and knees.  The warm blood pouring out of my elbow.  The rage at being so clumsy.

And I was grateful.  Because I felt alive.

And pain is better than nothing.

The Perils of Online “Friendship”

Last December, I wrote a blog about the word “friend,” and my husband’s insistence that I use it entirely too casually.

And with almost of year of perspective behind me, I can say that he’s absolutely right.

Not that online relationships can’t be the jumping off point for real and lasting friendships, but there’s a real danger in deluding yourself into thinking you know someone intimately, when in reality, they may actually be a false prophet, negative energy sucker, freeloading brain picker or socially awkward psycho.

I know I’m guilty of encouraging those kinds of intimacies.  I don’t mince words.  I don’t hide my personal life.  And my blog is uber-confessional.  I don’t shy away from talking about my own frailties and realities, whether it be my depression or struggle with anoxeria or my insecurities about running a business.  And I’m sure many people think they know me quite intimately, when in reality, they’re only privy to about five percent of my reality.  Sure, they may know what marathon I’m running next, where I get my weekly cheese dip fix and my favorite type of red wine, but they probably don’t know my best friend’s name, how I got that scar on my left knee or exactly why November is my favorite month of the year.

It’s always a bit of a risk, putting yourself out there and inviting people into your world from the comfort of your home and the safety of the computer screen, all the while wondering if the person you’ve connected with on the other side of the interwebs  is as witty, personable and fabulous as you’ve imagined them to be.  It’s a bit like blind dating–lots of rejection, with the occasional magical night you don’t want to end.

But I’m still here, because for everycrazy, insincere person I’ve encountered, I’ve bonded with dozens more, people from Florida to New York to California who nourish and sustain me, who feel every bit a part of my inner circle as those I’ve known since I was in diapers.

Stepping Out of Dress-Up and Into Adulthood

For a long time, I felt like I was playing dress-up in my life.  Much like I did as a little girl, tottering around in my mom’s bras (yes, bras!) and heels, “experimenting” with her make-up and setting up “businesses” (some girls play house–I played entreprenuer.  I once turned my bedroom into a “zoo” and even got my sister to pay admission–to see her own stuffed animals).  This continued through my high school and college years, when I yearned to fit in, when I thought the right jeans or friends or activites would earn me entree into the  mythical and elusive elite–the “popular” ones.

I managed to shed some of the pretense in grad school, but jumped right back into the facade when I move backed down South–a place known for its strong women but even stronger pretenses and illusions of perfection.  I played dress-up at jobs, at friendships, at a marriage, even–all in the hopes of fitting in.  Of not breaking the mold.

Even when I started my own business (more out of necessity than creative genius), I felt like a fraud. Some days I still do.  People think I spend my time attending fancy parties and hanging out with “important” people, when in reality, I’m most likely sitting at home, in my PJs, working on the laptop until 1 a.m. and feeling woefully inadequate.

Recently, though, I’ve noticed a shift.  As I approach my 35th birthday, I finally FEEL like a grown-up.  Maybe it’s because I don’t get carded as frequently as I once did, maybe it’s because people no longer think I’m the intern, or maybe it’s just because I’ve grown more confident in myself, in my decisions and voice and presence.

And now I’m experience the exact opposite challenge–I feel like I’m outgrowing things.  Tangible things, like my clothes and my home office, but also the intangibles–like my relationships (both personal and professional) and ideas and goals.  I’m tired of coloring in the lines.  Of doing what’s expected or normative.  If something or someone needs to get left behind, if I need to shed a few layers or step into a bigger pair of pants, I’m ready.

Bring on adulthood.