Except it does.

Not because of the new lines on my forehead or the gravity tugging at my hips or the fact that I can barely stay awake for television shows that start at 10 p.m.

No, because I have an annual exam in a few weeks, and the doctor will more than likely look at my chart, quickly calculate my age, notice that I’m not on birth control (and haven’t been for four years, but that’s an entirely different post) and say, “Oh, are you trying to get pregnant?” Followed by “you know, the risks go up after 35.”

Yes, please tell me something I don’t know. That I haven’t obsessed or agonized about since falling in love with someone I knew from the beginning could probably not add children to our otherwise joyful, contended lives.

Even if the conversation with my doctor doesn’t follow that exact script, there are constant reminders that at nearly 36, I’m not a mother and most likely never will be.

The 40 year old friend announcing she’s pregnant with twins. The couple that just adopted from China. The kid I BABYSAT giving birth to baby number three.

Or my personal favorite, the random acquaintance who inquires, “Oh, do want kids?” or “Are you having kids?”

Like it’s as simple as ordering one from amazon.com or putting it on my “wish list” at Anthropologie.

The short answer?

Yes, I like kids. I would love to have them. I always saw myself having them. I’m not anti-child (except maybe when they’re 12 and old enough to know better than to kick my seat on the airplane).

Are children a biological possible for me and my husband?

Not likely.

Am I willing to go to extreme fertility measures to become a mother?

No, not really.

Am I okay with all of the above?

Mostly.

My aspirations ranged from country singer to journalist to Ice Capades dancer (never mind that I’d never even been on ice skates). When I entered college, it was no different. I went from piano performance to English to political science and still managed to only take four classes on campus in my decided major. By my senior year, I still had no clue what I wanted to do with my life, so like any other good student, I signed up for what else? More school.

Yes, graduate school. An even more narrowly focused education in yet another arts discipline would certainly ensure my future employment and success. At least it was paid for. And honestly, I loved school so much, I probably would have stayed and finished my Ph.D.  if I hadn’t been stuck in the God-forsaken state of Ohio.

So, I moved back down South. Got a job at a non-profit, where I enjoyed my actual role, but no amount of schooling could have prepared me for the financial instability (and questionable legality) or sheer chaos that awaited me there. I stayed for two years, then jumped again, into a role that was supposed to be fundraising account manager, but was more like a glorified secretary. Copies on different colored paper anyone? Thank you, Miranda Priestly. I’m not above doing grunt work, but when you’re forced to stay in the office until 10 p.m. to correct margins on a spreadsheet that will be used as a working document, you start to question your sanity. I didn’t have to question it long, because I was promptly fired.

I landed at another non-profit and discovered PR, an industry I now realize that I don’t inherently love, but I naturally excel at because of the skills it requires–communication, relationship building, story telling, research, critical thinking.

But much like my running came to a standstill this summer, so did my business. I was paralyzed. Too much work, not enough staff, not enough energy or desire. I was at a crossroads–continue to grow and grow quickly in order to build a full-time staff. Or cut back, and go it alone.

I chose the latter.

Why? Because I initially chose the freelance lifestyle for the freedom and flexibility. For the ability to set my own hours. To pursue outside interests. To take a day or two off if depression set in. To have time in my life for motherhood.

None of these things are possible if I continue to add more clients, work more hours, add a staff to manage, which leads to space, which leads to more responsibility, higher costs and less freedom.

Which isn’t to stay if the right person or right circumstances came along I would be opposed to hiring a full time staffer.

But this breakdown and breakthrough–both in running and business–has led to clarity. I am a person of many interests and talents. I don’t enjoy anything if it consumes too much of my time and energy. The demands of being a piano performance major forced me into a meltdown that made me quit playing entirely for a year. The pressure of running faster and better and strong led to injury. I don’t want to make that same mistake with my business.

I’ve also found that  I do my best work when I’m passionate about the cause. So, I’m sticking to non-profit clients and projects that are very similar in vein. I’m taking on only that which I can reasonably and happily manage without losing my joy for my work and my life.

Oh, and I’m getting my Pilates teaching certification. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for years, and I now have the time and resources to devote to it.

Will I teach full time? I doubt it.

Will it be something that enriches my life, health and career?

Absolutely.

So cheers to the detours in our lives and the discoveries they bring.

For those like me, who found themselves injured and unable to compete this fall, it’s a season of mixed emotions, of regret, of  “what ifs.” For those who make it to the starting line healthy, the emotions are no less palpable. Excitement, anticipation, anxiety, confidence, pride, fear and other mental demons duke it out over 26.2 miles, an experience that leaves some elated and some utterly devastated.

Having run three marathons, all with certain goals and expectations in mind–because let’s face it, they’re the same, whether you’re walking for charity or trying to set a world record–I understand how tangible these feelings are. What I can, and never will  understand, is the lack of respect for one’s self, one’s blessings, the distance and one’s competitors. The marathon is humbling. It hurts. But it’s not life or death. Something I came face to face with in my life this week and that literally nearly ran me over in Piedmont Park today.

Zoe and I were out for a short run. It was a gorgeous day, so it was crowded. Which I didn’t mind. It was inspiring to see so many people out walking, running, biking, playing tennis, chasing their kids, enjoying each other, their health, the weather.

I heard loud music and turned a corner, only to run smack into the AIDS Walk Atlanta. 10,000 people walking, rallying, raising money for a cause bigger than one bad race or temporary injury.

I thought of my brother-in-law, who nearly died a few days ago because of his addictions. I thought about how grateful I am to be alive. To walk. To run. To spend time in the park with my dog. To have the family and friends and life that I do.

So, I’m sorry if I don’t really have sympathy for you not qualifying for Boston. Or because you didn’t PR or have the race of your dreams. It happens. But it’s NOT life or death.

Yes, we all have goals and expectations. I love a good PR as much as the next girl

But you know what I love more? My life. My health. My family.

Running for me is life and health, prayer and meditation, gratitude and praise.

The day it stops being those things and starts becoming an arbitrary number will be the day it’s not worth doing any more.

Up until that point, I had only two priorities in life: running (and growing and growing and growing) my business and actual one foot in front of the other running (the faster, the further, the better). No quality time for friendships and relationships; no real purpose for growing my business other than the always flawed rationale that more money is better; none of the so-called “balance” I was craving, the very reason I am in business for myself.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was in the midst of an identity crisis. About who I am as a person, as a business owner, as a wife, a friend, a runner, and yes, even as an athlete.

I started the year with two nearly full time employees. By mid-summer, my business was busier than ever, yet I was limping along with two interns. Why? Because I realized when I did my taxes on April 14 that I had paid staff more than I’d paid myself the previous year. That I’d actually COST myself money in 2010. Clearly, something needed to change. But it didn’t.

Even after that realization, I didn’t make time for strategy. For planning. For stepping back and examining all I’d built and why I’d built it in the first place, to determine how and whether it was worth sustaining. I was just happy to be on the positive side of the ledger.

The same with running. At the beginning of the year, I started running six days a week. Pretty much without fail. Sure, some of my workouts had purpose, but others were just about running. Getting in miles. A “base,” as we call it.

And for six short months, it worked. I PRed every race I entered, from a mile to a marathon. I placed consistently in top 5 or 10 of local and even regional races. Even though I chastised others for embracing the “more is always better” philosophy of running, I didn’t think that I–with my measly 35-40 mile weeks–could possibly be overtraining.

And then I re-discovered yoga. And swimming. And started taking ballet. And going to Pilates two times a week. And working out at least two hours a day.

My body gave out. It tried to warn me with a couple of bad runs. I ignored it. Then it warned me again with a week-long cold. I defied it by running the Peachtree Road Race in my second fastest time ever. More bad, sluggish runs followed, including one miserable day when I had to have my husband come pick me up a mere two miles from our home. Yet I kept running. Then I tweaked my calf. I decided to show that calf who was the boss my running my fastest half marathon ever–in racing flats, natch.

And my body put on the brakes. It had had enough abuse. I couldn’t even walk after the race. I knew immediately something was wrong. I still ran five miles the next day. Amazing how stubbornness can get you through the pain.

The irony of that race was that it qualified me for a starting corral at the Chicago Marathon, a marathon that is 12 days away, that I will NOT be running.

But slowing down was good for me. I had lost my joy for running. It was an obligation, nothing more. So I started swimming, and for the first time as an adult, I’ll be swimming through the winter. I even signed up for a swimming clinic and am considering a masters’ swim class. I started getting serious about my yoga. I am getting eight hours of sleep every night. I was finding my way back to what I thought I should call “balance.”

And yet, “balance” never fit. That assumes a dichotomy that I don’t believe is realistic in my life, in anyone’s life, really. But it was the best word I could come up with, until this past Sunday. My yoga studio came together for 108 sun salutations as part of our Global Mala for national yoga month. A very serious, thoughtful, intense practice that would take use nearly two hours of moving and breathing in unison.

We were asked to set an intention at the beginning of class. Not one we thought we *should* be focusing on, but one that came from deep within.

Suddenly, I had found my word: clarity. I craved clarity. On what and who is important. On the direction of my business. On how to step back and make thoughtful decisions about all things in my life. Permission to breathe. To think. To sometimes just sit and be and allow the answers to come.

And after two hours, they did. Everything seemed so much simpler. Easier to manage. Decisions have become clearer. The path more visible.

Clarity.

I have been keenly aware of my weight–as a number, an identifier, as a label–for as long as I have had a memory.

What are some of the first details a mother shares with the world about her new baby? Height and weight, of course.

When I was born, I weighed six pounds, three ounces. I was a small baby. And, as my mom would recount often during my childhood and throughout my teen and adult years, she only weighed 130 pounds delivering me. A badge of honor, but one that particularly stung when I weighed more than that when she shared that story once again in my teens, because as far as I knew, I wasn’t scheduled to deliver a little bundle of joy in nine months.

I was a thin, athletic child, but after a cross country move, the onset of adolescence and shift in extracurricular interests, that all changed.

I can’t remember a time from age 12 on that I wasn’t obsessed with the number on the scale or on the inside of my jeans. When I was 13, I was heartbroken when I crossed over the 100 pound mark and took to crazy obsessive bouts of exercise, like sit-ups and jumping jacks, to try and drop the weight.

By the time I reached high school, I was probably a relatively healthy 125 pounds, but I was keenly aware of the size of my chest. I was carrying 34F breasts on a size 2 frame, and not only was it hugely embarrassing, but it hurt. As in, two sports bras to run, and even then, it was still painful. Clothes shopping was a huge chore. I used to have to buy size 10 or 12 dresses and get them altered to fit. I had zero confidence or self-esteem.

At the encouragement of my mother, I had a breast reduction right after high school graduation. I felt chic and svelte for the first time since I hit puberty and eagerly shopped for 34C bras and “normal” sized clothes.

And then I went to college. Surrounded by the pretty, thin, beauty-obsessed country club set, I turned to food for comfort. I put on 15 pounds in just a few weeks, and struggled for the next four years with my self-esteem, with my weight, with food, with depression. Probably a normal part of the college years, but the depression made it even more isolating. And never once did I think about what it meant to be “healthy,” about things I may have wanted to accomplish with my body in the future–pregnancy, marathons, living into old age–it was always about a number. That perfect,eillusive number that would guarantee me happiness and acceptance.

I had a physical the summer after I graduated college, and I think I tipped the scales around 148 pounds. I was mortified. I started working out, mostly running. I didn’t change much about my diet (carbs, sugar and more carbs) other than eat less. The pounds came off. The sizes dropped. 8, then 6, then 4, then 2 and finally, 0.

And then I got addicted to the feeling. The compliments. The thrill of fitting into a size 0. The superiority of existing and functioning on so little food. Never mind that I had no energy. Never mind that I was irritated, depressed and anxious. That I couldn’t enjoy meals with friends. That I had the palate of a five year old. That I struggled to finish a 10K. I was happy, right? I was a size 0. I weighed 110 pounds. People complimented me all the time on how “tiny” I was.

For the next ten years or so, I fooled myself into thinking this way of living, of existing–because that’s what it was, existing, not living–was normal. Healthy, even.

And then I started running. Seriously.

All of a sudden, my body began to change. I developed hips. My thighs got more muscular. I put on weight. Even though I continued to improve, I fought it. I cried when I couldn’t fit into my jeans any more. I tried to go back to my old food ways. I rationalized it all by comparing myself to others–”well, if she’s that thin and can qualify for Boston, why can’t I?”

Lies, all lies. But convincing ones. Ones that for a long time kept me from fulfilling my potential as a runner.

I even blogged about it last year, but I still held out hopes of losing a few more pounds. Getting back into those size 0s.

I’d been particularly down on myself all of last week leading up to a 4 Mile race. I’ve been embracing whole foods, doing smart runs, cross-training up a storm, and still, the number on the scale (which I hid for several months and am about to do again) still kept creeping up. That number kept telling me that I’m a failure. Undisciplined. Fat.

Never mind that most of the time, I feel good about my body. I’m confident. Strong. Secure. But that number always sent me reeling.

Until yesterday. I ran a four mile race with the Atlanta Track Club. Not some dinky small town race. But a serious race with serious competitors. And I crushed it. Beat my own goal by a minute and came away with a trophy for 3rd place (which I later found out was 2nd place) in my age group. Of 50 women 34-39, I was the second fastest. It still blows my mind.

I have never been happier, or felt strong or more beautiful than I felt in that moment.

And I said to my husband on the way to brunch, “I don’t care WHAT the scale says. If this is how I run, if this is how I look and feel at that number, then I’ll take it. Or another ten pounds. Because this is the best I’ve ever felt in my whole life.”

And it’s true. So I’m chronicling it so I never forget.

My husband and I ran a lot when we first started dating.

He intimidated me. He’d done five marathons, played sports growing up and was in tremendous shape.

I was used to plugging along at the back of 10Ks at 11:00 and 12:00 minute miles.

I didn’t think of myself as a runner, let alone an athlete.

About three years ago, well into training for my third half marathon, he introduced me to a tempo run. At the time, the 10:00/mile pace in the oppressive Atlanta heat seemed blistering.

I wanted to quit.

And yet, as I struggled to breathe and was too proud to stop to walk, he turned to me and said “you’re an athlete.”

I laughed.

I certainly didn’t feel like an athlete, huffing and puffing up that hill in Brookwood, struggling to keep pace with his easy strides.

“But you are,” he insisted.

Fast forward three years and thousands of miles later, and I’m ready to embrace it. I’m an athlete.

I’m running at least five days a week. I’m clocking times I would’ve found impossible even six months ago. I’m getting more sleep. Getting up earlier. Eating less cheese dip.

But most of all, I believe. In myself. In my abilities.

Even as little as six months ago, qualifying for the Boston Marathon was just a dream. But after my half marathon this past weekend, I realized it is a distinct possibility. One I know I can make happen.

When I got home, my husband confirmed my dream.

“You can start thinking seriously about Boston now,” he said.

Not this year and maybe not next. But I’ll get there. The same way I’ve gotten to where I am now. Hard work, confidence, faith and tenacity.

See you at the start line in Hopkinton in a few years!

I’m especially good at hiding from myself.

When I don’t write, it’s because I’m hiding. Because there’s something (or lots of somethings) ugly and unpleasant and sad churning in my gut, and I know that writing will surface it. Along with about a dozen other things I’d rather not confront.

So I hide. In different ways. It’s an art I’ve perfected all of my life.

Sometimes, I hide by scheduling myself non-stop. Sometimes, I sleep all day. Sometimes, I eat too much food. Sometimes, I don’t eat enough. Sometimes, I drink a little too much wine or take a little too much Benadryl so I can sleep through the night and escape for just a short little bit.

But the ugliness is still there. The sadness is still there. Those things I hate most about myself are all there. And they grow and they fester and breed and nag and bite and break me down. And hiding doesn’t make them any better.

And I’m tired of being broken and sad. Of repeating the same mistakes over and over again. Of feeling alone, when I know there are so many people who love me, in spite of and maybe because of my flaws.

It’s time to stop hiding under the chair and confront the witches (and those damn flying monkeys) head on.

Last Thursday night, I received an email from my mom informing me that my childhood home in South Carolina is under contract. As in, it will have new owners by the beginning of next month. As in, it is no longer my “home.”

Of course, it hasn’t really been my home since I left for college in 1994. But I always took for granted that it would be there. It’s a place of memories. Not only of the past–first sleepover, first piano, first kiss, first car–but of the future. I thought I’d live to see my own kids hit golf balls in the backyard with my dad, learn to swim in the same pool I spent my summers splashing around with my younger sister, bake my grandmother’s sugar cookies in the kitchen with my mom.

And while the idea of home isn’t tied to a specific location, and I haven’t been “home” in nearly a year, I’m struggling with this news.

About the meaning of home. Of family.

It’s not only in a two-story red brick colonial home in Florence, South Carolina.

Or pot roast in my grandmother’s tiny kitchen in Tavares, Florida.

It’s in the eyes of my friend’s newly adopted baby girl.

It’s in the people gathered to celebrate my in-laws’ 50th wedding anniversary last weekend.

It’s in the unexpected text from a childhood friend who somehow *knows* you’re having a bad day, even if you live 1,000 miles apart.

It’s in the face of my dog when she knows we’re going for a run.

It’s lacing up my running shoes in a new city and the knowing wave from the stranger on the opposite side of the road.

Home is everywhere. Family is everywhere.

Holding on to it is the challenge.

Our mission: to write a letter to CEOs with our best advice for 2011.

At first, I was elated. It was like being elected homecoming queen. Gini, and maybe even some random CEOs out there, might actually care about what I have to say about business? My advice is really as valuable as Danny Brown‘s?

And then I started freaking out. Because honestly, I don’t deal with many CEOs. Or at least ones that call themselves CEOs. I don’t own a suit. I spend a lot of days at my kitchen table, taking calls and working on projects in my pajamas. I’m still figuring this whole “owning a business thing” out as I go along. I don’t write formal business plans. Who was I to be advising CEOs?

As the project’s Friday deadline quickly approached, and I had yet to draft a word, my very wise husband said “Laura, you’re making some pretty broad assumptions about CEOs.” And then, the even wiser, “write what you know.”

Of course, he was right (don’t you hate that?). So I wrote what I know. Which is be true to yourself, be true to your brand and find those who are just as passionate about it as you are. Then forget about everything else:

Dear CEO:

 My life is a lot different than that of the typical CEO. Or at least, what I think the life of typical CEO is like.

I conduct business from my kitchen table, rather than a board room. I’m more likely to close deals in my workout clothes than a power suit. I write and talk publicly about my insecurities, frailties and fears.

I make absolutely no distinction between my personal and professional personas. What you see is what you get.

Why? Because I tried Plan A. Doing what was expected. Being who people wanted me to be. Playing at owning and running a business. Worrying about other people’s opinions and expectations. 

It was exhausting. And frankly, not profitable.

Why?

Because trying to please any and every one is a pretty lousy business model.

The reality is not everyone is going to like you. Or your company. And not everyone is going to buy your products or services. 

I once had some students in a senior marketing class I spoke to ask me how they could possibly pitch a product they weren’t excited about it.

My advice?

Find someone who is.

Stop worrying about the 99 percent of people out there who don’t get or understand or even need what you’re selling. Focus on the ones who do.  The ones who care. The ones who share your passion and vision. Those are your customers. Your zealots. Find them. Focus on them.

That’s my advice for 2011.  And beyond.

But that’s just my perspective!

There are 31 other outstanding letters in this book, including ones from some of my favorites, Elizabeth Sosnow, Heather Whaling and Justin Goldsborough. You can download a copy for $40 on Spin Sucks, but ten of you lucky readers will get a free copy!

Just tell me your number one tip for CEOs, and the best answers will win the book!

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?