Enough with the WAH!

I am jumping on the official bandwagon, folks. The one where everybody is recommitting and blogging about it, being that it's the new year and all. It's kinda the best bandwagon out there (definitely better than the Yankee fan one). The true test, though, is how many stay on the bloody thing.

I can't type here and say confidantly that I will see this journey through. Truth is, I don't know. The last year and a half has been a year where I fell out of love with being healthy and fit. I did the off again, on again relationship with my tracker. I neglected eTools consistently, and I cheated on water with Coke Zero.

Essentially, I sucked as a girlfriend, metaphorically speaking of course.

So now what? Well, I've been inspired by so many out there who are brave enough to share their story via blogging, and raw enough to speak the truth. I've also stumbled upon some writings I did when I was losing weight in 2009. I was completely in love with losing weight. I gather it's similar to reading the soulful love letters written by your then highschool sweetheart (now husband) 20 years later as he sits across from you at the dinner table scratching his arm pits and oozing in pride as he belches the chinese take out he just inhaled. Could the romantic and dashing writer behind these letters be in fact the same person who is facing you? Only, instead of the husband, it's me, in the mirror, looking back at a very perplexed and horrified girl.

The analogy may not be so pleasant but you get the drift. I don't recognize the voice within these writings. But one thing is very apparent. I just gotta stop whining! I feel like the last year and a half has been non stop wah wah wah! I've bitched and hollered as my clothes have gotten tighter. I've thrown tantrums and resented the scale as the number has gone up. I've cried and embraced depression when I RSVP no to a social life because I don't feel so hot.

So 2013's motto: Enough with the wah!!

And to be as candid as possible. Ugh. Here goes:

On Thursday, 1/3/13, I went to a Weight Watcher meeting and weighed in. I saw something I hadn't seen in 4 years. A weight I swore I would never see again, unless I got knocked up.

174 lbs.

(I've deleted and re-written the above paragraph 5 times, with doubts, shame and fears about sharing my weight gain. It's kind of funny. Somewhere in my mind I'm convinced that if I change the wording, rearranding the sentence, and maybe throw in a pun, that the above reality will be more tolerable and not as scary. There aren't any words in the English language that makes that number ok).

So here I sit trying to figure out the next step. Do I want to write an inspirational closing that would give any rom com heroine the motivation to take on her challenges, all the while inspiring the audience to applaud her? Do I want to spell out a game plan, complete with bullet points, highlighted index cards, and laminated action plans? Will I proclaim that 2013 is my year to shine and that there is no failure in life?

Nope. None of the above.

I'm simply going to pubish this post. And check in every week with a weigh-in. And bring the WAH WAH WAH down to a tolerable level. Listen, whining is essential, but when it becomes the wall you hide behind to wallow in your frustrations (as I so elegantly have done), then it's time to reassess. WAHs are ok, until they affect the other "W"s in your life: your weight, your will, your world.


Dedicated to all of you guys who are the amazing soulful writers that make this journey just a little bit easier. Suzi Storm, Curvy Fit Girl, the every so charming Sheryl Yvette, and many many more!  Thank you for inspiring and for blogging about it! You have no idea how your words move mountains. 

Head in my hands

Perfection. The ultimate virus that can break down just about anything. It has broken me down. Down to the ground, to a place where I stare at others living life while I hide behind my "fancy" title and ergonomically obnoxious cubicle.

Ladies and gentlemen, I haven't blogged because of said virus. My writer's block has been stimulated by this virus that causes paralysis, causing it to run amock, like a flesh eating bacteria that clearly has no concept of portion control.
 
How ironic.

"I will blog just as soon as I can report that I have returned to goal!!"---is the excuse that swims within my mind when I consider writing.  Six months since my last post, and I am no more closer to goal. And so I sit here, with my head in my hands, tears in my eyes, admitting that I am not perfect.

Holy shit! I don't think I have ever said that out loud. Well, I am sure I have, and logically I KNOW that perfection is a concept that lives with the tooth fairy. That said, I have held on terribly hard to the virus that causes disappointment for 31 years. I can remember being five years old and throwing a tantrum in the Astoria tenement apartment I grew up in because the ladybugs I tried to color in did not come out flawless.

I was five. At five, I don't think we are introduced to words ending in "ion" yet! So you can imagine how paralyzing it is to be a 31 year old ambitious New Yorker who sets herself up for failure.

Ah. Failure. One of the side effects of perfection. And a word that I also have been grappling with for 31 years. It's also a word that I saw this week that restarted the pulse in me.

How ironic.

It all started when I read this blog:

http://www.suzistorm.com/ 


Suzi is a fellow weight watcher who I met through twitter! Twitter suggested I friend her because we have mutual weight watcher buddies and, I have to say, it has been a breath of fresh air.

This week, Ms. Storm wrote about failure, and I encourage you all to read it. It says exactly what I feel, what we ALL have felt. Powerful, raw, and gut-wrenching, it may have been what this girl needed to punch perfection in the face.


Tomorrow morning, at 7:45am, I am going to a WW meeting. Tomorrow morning, I face the scale. I won't say that tomorrow morning, I start again. No time like the present.


Stay tuned . . .

The haunting of old handwriting . . .

It's been entirely too long since I have blogged. What can I say? The last three to four months have been a whirlwind of insanity. Between recovering from back surgery, becoming the new Design manager at work, and halting all exercising, I just about stopped living a normal life. Bionic woman meets corporate America, if you will:

Yeah, that's me. Isn't it cool? And look how svelte I look? The reality, though, is that the difference between Bionic woman and myself is about 20 pounds (and mortality).

It's true, folks. I have gained 20 pounds between trader joes jalapeno cheese doodles, lack of tracking since I returned to work after surgery, and not much physical activity.  I'm thicker and softer. And I'm sad by this. Luckily, though I have 12 hour work days to distract me. I've become my job. The very thing I vowed never EVER to become. That, and a mormon.

Life, however, has a way of removing the distraction from your vision and smacking you upside of the head (no matter how fat you think it may be).

Allow me to provide you the back story: About a week ago, I was on the Manhattan bound R train heading to work at 5am (after being in the office until 1am four hours before, running home for a two hour nap, and then making my way back. Yep, it is that exhausting). I decided to do some reading to keep my eyes open. One would normally go for a book, but since my career involves designing and laying out type for books, I basically loathe them at this particular moment. Books were invading my life, being entirely too clingy, and not appreciating me for all my hard work. If books were my boyfriend, I would block him from g-chat, break up with him via text, and encourage him to seek therapy to get over his mommy issues.

Anywho, since books were absolutely out of the question, I grabbed the next best thing off my book shelf that morning and shoved it in my purse. An old journal. Those are always fun to read when you think your life is in the pooper. Nothing like reading "the world according to a naive and self-centered twenty something who thought SHE had problems" to show you just how grateful you should be. And so, after taking a ten minute power nap on the R train, I awoke with the notion that it wasn't the safest setting for nap time, since I was the only female on the train without facial hair (come to think of it. It may have been all dudes. Identifying sexes before a morning triple grande cappuccino with a side of espresso via injection should be added to the list of impossibles, along with walking on water and making shoulder pads fashionably ok).

So I took out my journal and started to read it. I instantly awoke. Not due to caffeine, crack, or a cold shower, but because my veins were filled with jubilant euphoria, catalyzed by memories of a once upon a time when I lived for love and only love. After some years of therapy, though, it was actually more like dependency and co-dependency. However, that morning, on that R train, I had forgotten, just for a second, all that had happened and remembered how amazing it felt to be in love, and how much I believed in it. A whirlwind of glorious, love-filled thoughts were put into singing sentences that danced through the pages of the lilac hard-cover journal with high quality hall-marky paper. The basic motif of the first half of the book was:

As I kept reading though, I realized just how quickly it can all change. The words in the journal painted a picture of a dark metamorphosis. I started to lose myself, rather, hiding behind a relationship gone completely awry. As I read, I found myself getting as jubilant and anxious as when reading a V.C. Andrews novel, getting caught up in the drama and anger of the protagonist. I had forgotten, for a moment, that I was reading about me. It suddenly occurred to me that the book went from euphoric love to , well, this:

I couldn't help but chuckle a little. I was so naive and caught up in such a bad romance (suck it, gaga. I've lived it, so I can use it), that I had lost sight of living my life. "I'm so much better now! Good grief, what a crazy child I was. Giggle Giggle Giggle," I thought to myself, as the train left the last stop in Queens.

 And then, I came across this:



I wrote this on September 28th, 2002. Besides the back of my perfectly manicured nail, the words of the entry I wrote almost ten years ago say the following:

My outlook on life has changed. I don't want it to be work, work, work. I want to travel, enjoy my boyfriend, explore nyc, grow as a writer, become one with God, and identify the real me.

And just as the R train does when you are standing and not holding on to a bar (as it ALWAYS SEEMS TO DO), my eyes did a sudden halt! If I had been standing, I would have fallen on a day laborer who would have proposed to me after he copped a feel.  Luckily I was sitting, but somehow I felt like the floor gave out and I was somehow frozen. I could not get past two lines, "I don't want it to be work, work, work," and, "identify the real me." Words like "explore," "grow," and "enjoy" were such foreign verbs that I could only associate them with children, thanks to Flintstone vitamins, Dora, and Crayola crayons.

Yet, somehow, ten years before, I wanted to live my life this way. Maybe because I was a child then? But was I child? Or maybe because we lose the ability to hope for the impossible (it will NEVER be shoulder pads, though)? Or maybe our metaphoric balls shrink and we become great big pus, eh, scaredy-cats?

Sadly, while ten years before I wanted my life to be this way, I could easily conclude that in fact, I was nowhere near what my 21 year old self wanted for herself.

I let her down.

At around 5:30am that morning, I almost missed my stop being so fixated on this realization. Not to mention, my ipod started playing Jimmy Eat World's " The Middle."

I got off the train, went to the office, and proceeded to work. And I worked, for the next 14 hours, completely forgetting what had transpired that morning.

Until now. I thought blogging about it would be a good start. I also have to find myself again. Explore and enjoy that life I want to live, all the while growing.

I'm lost though. And my eating habits during the last week, since I came across the journal, have been an atrocity, a very clear repercussion of this new found land mind I just stepped on.

But now I know why I have been completely off track. Why, for the last 4 months, I've lost so much, gaining only stress, sleepless nights, and twenty pounds. The why''s being hidden within the lines of a  ten year-old journal entry.

Twenty pounds, while a travesty, can be addressed and evicted. I know how to lose it. I know how to tone up, raise the toosh, and embrace working out again.

Waking up in ten years and realizing I haven't done what I wanted, that I haven't lived life, that I am exactly where I was, on the same R train, only I'd be listening to Justin Bieber's album inspired by  Nirvana (ya heard it here first, folks), well, there is no solution to that.

I don't know what the answer is, just yet. But at least now, it's all extremely apparent.

Stay tuned . . .

A mushy note on friends (Thank YOU Percocet)!

The following was written on November 18^th, my third day recovering at my mother’s, having developed a relationship with laziness (recovery) and rest (freedom of commitment). After re-reading, I can immediately tell my voice is different here than in other posts. I'm more open about my love for others, more vulnerable and eager to share my feelings. Yep! It was definitely the Percocet. Nonetheless, I will share my true post. Enjoy!

I can’t help but sit here on my old bed in my old room and reflect, just a little. It’s been 8 years since I moved out on my own, and am amazed at all that has happened since I left. For the last few days, due to recovery, I have been forced  (lol) to completely do nothing, and feel at ease. No anxiety, no stress, no insane “HOLY FUCK I have to do a MILLION and ONE things within the next five minutes” body surge. Just sitting here, with a feeling of relief. Not only relief from my back, but relief in my chest, my stomach, relief in my head.

Surgery is over. Do I have things to do? Of course. Will I always have things to do? Possibly so. And that is great. A perpetual To-do list means I am living a life . I do not have to do it all within an insane time frame that leads to sabotage and  the well known, “I suck because I can’t mutl-task during my sleep” thought process. I have opportunity and a will to try everything and anything. I’m very very blessed.

However, it’s nice to not have anything to do but watch TV, brush my teeth, and chew the food.

As I sit here and enjoy this break from the zaniness of life, I've been really thinking about the last three years, and how much life I have lived. Yep, my life completely altered three years ago, for the better (more on that later), and each year has been an amazing adventure, with some painful choices having to be made.

My first year, an 8-year relationship had to die to ensure my survival. The second year, I had to break out of a shell of protection that was stalling my goals. And finally, within the last year, I had to break-up with a BUTT load of people that were no longer viable and positive friends. Three examples of loss that, while completely painful and scary, challenging and heartbreaking, emotional and draining, had to happen for the betterment of Claudia. Kind of like losing weight (Full-circle, how lovely to see you!).

Within the last year, I’ve encountered some painful realizations when it comes to friendships. Friendships with many people that were draining, one-sided, and hurtful. To me, the word friendship is a positive term. A word that I could easily see living on a pretty fluffy cloud as it floats around a blue sky, an image belonging in an Eric Carle book. This year, though, the word seemed to reside within the pits of a port-a-potty alongside a marathon route.

I essentially broke up with a good amount of people, either by growing a pair and telling them it’s over, or, my favorite method of facing conflict, passive aggressively pretending you don’t exist. Not the healthiest method (or the most mature) but one that sort of helped me weed out the invaders of my happy place.

Please don’t get me wrong. I adore those that have a place in my life, and I have a high tolerance for inconsideration. One of the many residual characteristics of not feeling completely worthy to have unconditional love from others. However, as I’ve gotten older, and with life experience, I managed to morph the reason why to something positive. I have a high tolerance for people’s crap because I have the patience of a velicorapter. Now, who doesn’t love a patient veliocorapter?

This blog just made a wrong turn.

Anywho, while I have a high tolerance for those I love, this year, I just saw many people cross a line. It could have been that the these guys were two-stepping along this line for years, but this was the first time I acknowledged said line's existence, and the first time I realized I deserved way better than being a punching bag, second-hand therapist, or my favorite, flake-friend magnet.

I recognize the gift that I have (or a mannerism inherited by my momma, who raised me right): my ability to listen. I humbly can say that I am a great listener and know how to lift others up and motivate. It is such a pleasure and, quite frankly, an honor, when others come to me for solace, for guidance, and trust me with their insides.

However, there’s a difference between being a part of a functioning friendship and being used. The latter was a hard reality for me to face. 

I'll give you guys a minute.

The day it became very clear was a beautiful toasty September morning. I had a big run that day, the Tunnel to Towers run. I had been wanted to do this run for so long, and to finally do it made something inside of me soar. Something we low-self esteemers like to call “Self-worth,” which for many of us, is quite a myth. But, the second I crossed that finish line, I felt the juices of accomplishment merge with the endorphins zooming through my veins, a feeling that brewed all the way to my inner belly. It was amazing. It was a goal fulfilled.

And a final straw.

My dear friend, Kay, was there to greet me at the finish line! And she made this gal smile!

However, though, all the other friends I invited were nowhere to be found. A select few had great reasons not to be there, whether they were away, not living in tri-state area or ill. Shoot, I’m not an unreasonable brat who has to get her way (well, not usually). So I understood that. But a good amount of people just did not show or admitted to not wanting to come. I was flabbergasted. And completely hurt. And I let this realization overshadow and sucker punch the amazing accomplishment that I had just experienced. I ran a 5k in honor of someone heroic, being greeted by thousands at the finish line, thousands of uniform men and women supporting me, all of us, THE RUNNERS! And all I could do was sulk.

The latter part was completely my fault, that I let others ruin this for me. And that’s when I realized, it was time to clean house. And clean (and scrub) I did.

After Kay took me for pancakes and coffee, I embraced my goal and kept on moving, leaving behind the pity party and a good amount of friendships that I had no room in my life for. And, along with endorphins, I felt a load-off and could breathe in deep for the first time since before I took my first step along the race.

I also had to change my perspective a little. Focusing on those that don’t instead of those that, when they do, they do it 1000%, seemed to be a waste of time and an unnecessary reality. I started to really appreciate those that are always there for me, give me tough love, take my tantrums with patience and pleasantries, and love me for no reason, just because I’m Claudia. My signature peeps that made this gal feel completely loved.

It’s another great example of reframing. The glass is half full. Turn that frown upside down. All that crap. A positive umbrella to remind you that the rain doesn’t have to completely throw you off.  I have an amazing group of loved ones, and I couldn’t be any luckier.

This was really shown in full force the days approaching, during, and after BS 2011.  It all began the weekend before surgery. My bff, Jay, came and spent the whole weekend with me. She left her cozy suburbian home in Virginia, her hubby and adorable daughter, to spend the weekend with me! A weekend of me distracting myself with laundry, some final projects at work, cleaning the apartment, and driving myself crazy. And Jay did it all with me, holding my hand, and making sure I was ok (and that I didn’t cancel the surgery. After 25 years, the girl knows me so well). On Sunday, she surprised me with a Broadway show (I almost chose work over this. Luckily, she also knows my bffb—best friend forever behavior, and, more importantly, knows how to call me out on it to get me to do what she wants).  Later that evening, she also talked me off the ledge of uncertainty and fear, as I had the only break down in my apartment. Having her there though, made the surgery seem completely possible and that all was going to be ok.

That weekend set the tone for the weeks to come.

Between all the phone calls, texts, cards, emails, and flowers, I was blown away at everybody who was concerned about my surgery and who thought about me and took the time to send such love and support. I had some amazing lovelies watching my felines (which, anybody who knows me, knows how much my babies mean to me). I had visitors, motivators, and alleviators (and I don’t mean the Percocet. Well, JUST the Percocet :) ). So much love that would make even the most saddest person ever so happy.

And happy I am!!

While I had to make some tough decisions about friendships this year, decisions that terribly hurt, it allowed me to see the hidden diamonds that were being overshadowed by some deceptive cubic zirconium. That's the thing about painful experience. It always leads to a positive outcome. 

I can humbly admit that I give the impression that I can take care of myself. I realized something about that, though. Whether it's true or not, the impression is completely irrelevant. I  don't have to take care of myself. I can depend on my amazing loved ones, my concrete foundation, a family that God has blessed me with, and that has made this year all the more worth it. 

Love you guys--you know who you are!

  

BS 2011

Firstly, it goes without saying that I have had a torrid love affair with M.I.A. for the last few months, so forgive me for ignoring you all. I have been bombarded with a severe case of writers block catalyzed by a promotion, a pending surgery, and a whole lot of laundry that really REALLY doesn’t do itself. But I am back!

Secondly, so I know this blog began as a weight loss blog, but I realize it has more to do with general loss, and reflection. Loss has such a bad rap, but it can be a great thing, such as a new start, and/or a new clothing size. The last three years have been monumental, for so many reasons, amazingly great because of some sort of loss, so I think it’s time to start opening up about it, on the internet, for the select two of you (hi mom) that read this thing (and thank you to mysterio number 2, whoever you are).

A little over a week ago, I had back surgery. A surgery that inevitably had to happen, either now, or in 10 years, and conditions were getting worse. So, with some research, prayer, and tears, I decided to have the lower lumbar procedure done that would knock me off my feet for a week. Yep, I would be A-ok in just a week!

That was the plan anyway.

The doctor made it clear that, while I am a perfect candidate to be back (totally welcomed pun) in action in a week, he said that, in order for me to really make an 100% recovery, I am to stay away from the following:

1-Nicotine (I don’t smoke. Easy enough)

2-Sex (-_-)

3-Alcohol (does he know I am staying with my mother, who will never entertain the sinners of the cooking network who use wine in their dishes?)

4-Ambition

“Que que?!? No ambition? That’s going to be a hard one,” I thought as he kept talking about bone fusion, blah blah blah.

I live for being busy. I have three jobs, work out three times a week, volunteer in a few places, and have a social life. Not to mention freelancing gigs, running a business, and still trying to maintain consistent flossing!

I was hell-bent on getting back on my feet in a week. However, the body, well, the body had different plans. And I had to listen. Case in point, same day of surgery, probably 7 hours later (I really cannot attest to the truth of timing. After 9:47am that Monday, right before surgery prep, I lost all sense of time until Tuesday around lunchtime, when my love returned for me. My appetite). Anyway, some time WAY later after I got the first drops of anesthesia, I decided it was time to do something! I refused to just lay there, in bed, like a victim, like someone who just had major back surgery. So I decided to go for a walk to the bathroom to be a decent young lady and make a polite tinkle.

That was the plan anyway.

Said plan went out the window when, in order to get to the bathroom, I needed 4 people, a dire case of humility, and very intimidate introductions with all the lovely nursing aids that held either one of my arms or legs. I will leave it at that, as I am still reeling from the aftermath of my attempt to RSVP yes to the polite tinkle. Luckily, the best place to be the anti-polite tinkle gal is the hospital.

It was after that, that I decided to just take it easy, to really recover. The drugs were AMAZING for that, but anybody who knows me knows I do not like taking any pills. But during my time at the hospital, I could not do without. I was there for three days, and even had a quick cocktail of Morphine, which was a bit too strong for me, but the body wanted it. And, for the week following, I definitely was my body’s bitch.

I came to my mom’s place Wednesday evening, after enduring Manhattan rush hour traffic and my brother trying to make me laugh and succeeding, only with every drug-infested giggle came excruciating pain. Of course, that only makes you laugh even more. I clutched my bottle of percocets and valium and prayed for a cozy bed, a monotonous Chelsea Handler stand-up routine and a glass of water.

The first few days I did sleep a lot, but also did some walking around the block. I even got this cool cane, not so much that I needed it, but to give my fellow rude New Yorkers a visual that I was walking slow due to a medical condition, not because I was being a pretentious hipster who thought owning Astoria came with daddy's trust fund.

My mom made the best of dishes for me, dishes that really do taste better because they are made by momma, and I caught up on some horrible TV, including, but not limited to Ghost Whisperer, Braxton Family Values, Bridezillas, Syndicated Sex and the City (bleh!), and possibly a documentary on sharks (during commercial breaks of The Big Bang Theory). Truth is, I don’t have cable, so it was like giving a diabetic some gold ole Starburst. I couldn’t get enough! I also broke up with Percocet 2 days after leaving the hospital and stuck to advil. Now I take it when needed. So no Colombian stereotype needed here, my friends.

A week came and went, and it was decided that I needed another week to recuperate. I had a breakdown Sunday night, the Monday before the week-a-versary of BS 2011 (back surgery 2011), and I couldn’t figure out what to do. I really wanted to go back to work, to get back to normalcy, to feel like I was contributing to society and not to the ratings of Jerseylicious. With the new promotion and major changes rapidly approaching, I felt like I had to be at work. But my body. Well, the bitch wanted something else.

Rest.

After being talked off the ledge from my Bff, Jay, and from Yoda (not to mention a life threatening promise not to leave Astoria or I'd be cut by my dear friend, Mel), I decided it was best to stay home another week, and I humbly obliged and have been resting ever since. 

Today, Wednesday November 17, 2011, over a week since my life went “STOPP!!!!!!!!!!”, and  I have been listening, and within the last few days I have been feeling like my old self! I’m feeling ready to move back home, which will be a trying mission not to have fresh dishes, my mom's daily presence (which really helped this 30 years old get better, I can't emphasize enough)  and bad reality TV.  But I miss my felines and my cable-less tv (ie: brain cells), and being able to just take a walk on my own. I know I can do all this soon. Just waiting for my body to decide when she is ready.

Any day now, bitch.

Running for Purpose - Part 1: A mission

It's been over a month since I have posted a blog. I have actually been trying to write this one particular blog for this whole time. Truth is, the following has been one of the hardest experiences I have had to write about. For so many reasons. Partly due to accomplishing a goal and it's overwhelming, partly due to all the emotions it stirs up. Partly due to the sadness I had to face head on as I prepared for this race. Nonetheless, here's part 1 of my journey. Enjoy :)

I have never been a fan of running. At all. Unless it meant running to the train because I'm late, which I often am. And even then, I power walk. A lot of my apprehension comes from being overweight for most of my life. Pre weight-loss, the idea of this fat girl running was completely inconceivable. Besides the fact that I would instantly start to wheeze for dear life, I would feel all love handles, arm jiggle, and thigh thunder make themselves ever so present. I was a "hot mess," as my lovely friend Mel loves to say (as in, it's her saying, not that she said I was a hot mess).

Ever since the attacks on September 11th occurred, I embraced an instant mission to never ever forget. I'm often asked if I lost someone that day, and I never know how to answer that. While I was blessed enough not to lose an immediate family member or loved one, I can say without a doubt that something was definitely lost. A loss that has yet to be filled, but one that you learn to live with. In my own ways, I try and honor the loss of beautiful life every year. However, for the last eight years, I have always wanted to pay my respects and remember by participating in the Stephen Siller Tunnel to Towers run.

In a nut shell, this run is dedicated to Stephen Siller, a firefighter who was off-duty on September 11th, 2001. Just like a true firefighter, when he got word of the catastrophe that occurred in lower Manhattan, he picked up his gear, packed up his car and headed for the very dark cloud that, not only invaded the skyline we all love, but the very dark cloud 95% of New Yorkers were desperately trying to run away from.

The idea of these firefighters running TO the disaster zone, without flinching, makes me reconsider the adult tantrum I can throw when asked to deal with the designs of a book. I've got nothing to bitch about.

When Siller got to the Brooklyn Battery tunnel, he was greeted by a closed entrance. Nobody was being allowed into the city. So, he put on 50 lbs of gear and ran from Battery Tunnel to the Twin Towers. Without flinching, he ran three miles and proceeded to save lives and help his fellow brothers. Sadly, he was one of the 343 firefighters we lost that day.

When I heard his story some 8 years ago, I became immediately moved. Who wouldn't? Besides the amazing heroism and complete selflessness of it all, the concept of running with 50 pounds of gear on a relatively warm and sunny September morning impresses me beyond belief. I knew then and there I was going to run in this race.

My first attempt at training was back in 2008. At the time, some of my colleagues were avid runners, so I asked them for help with training and we made a date to go to Central Park. I was about 195 lbs. and hadn't done cardio since earlier in the week, when the bloody 7 train decided to come a earlier than usual, and I ran for dear life to catch it. It turns out, the stupid train hung out at my station for 4 minutes, the exact time it took me to capture normal human breathing and turn from a blood red to my usual pale-self.

That late afternoon in Central Parl, when we began running, I was completely miserable. I remember wearing sweat pants and my boyfriend at the time's xxl t-shirt (insert: hot mess). Not only that, but I could not talk and run at the same time. It was an awful attempt of running the lower loop of the park (approximately 1.7 miles). After that run, I completely gave up.

Until 2011. While I had been at a normal weight for almost 3 years, it was the first year I felt like I could really run a 5k. I was such an inexperienced runner, that "5k" wouldn't instantly signal the number "5,000" in my brain, said signal being a catalyst that would transmit messages of dread to the pit of my stomach, dreadful messages telling me that I would in fact be running five THOUSAND miles. In my defense, this insane process would occur within seconds. Logically it was 3 miles. However, my brain (and a certain fat girl within) sure loved to play a mind fuck on me.

I decided to train 5 weeks before the race. I was feeling very optimistic, as some lovely friends of mine who are amazing runners and just about the best motivators ever, convinced me that I could do it. 

My first step was purchasing running sneakers, not the usual "What's on sale and will not get dirty easily" mentality that decided what sneakers I'd wear for the year. My friend Pinky took me to an actual running store. I admit completely that I had NO idea those places existed. But they do. And it was there I purchased my first pair of running shoes.

Stay Tuned for: Running for Purpose - Part 2: Orthotics-all the cool kids are using them

Get a job, ovaries!

One of the many perks of being a woman is the ability to get knocked up and give birth to a baby, or so I have been told. Sure, the idea of having a little mini-me perpetuates the narcissistic strand we all have in our veins. And some of these infants are rather adorable. However, the idea of painfully pushing one out, only to have the little whipper snapper suck the life out of you, and then grow up to be an ungrateful twit makes me wanna say, "Hey! Where do I sign up?"

In all seriousness,  I see what children have done to my friends, ie: their parents, and it's pretty magical. Based on that, I certainly wouldn't mind a baby or two at some point.

However, up until 26 months ago, I did not think it was possible.

It all started some 18 years back when I awoke to discover that I was now a woman. Well, at least a girl who had to start wearing Genovese brand diapers, or what my older sister called, pads. At the ripe ole age of 12, I had gotten my first period. It was no surprise what was happening, as I was fully prepared on what a period was, thanks to my two older sisters and Blossom.

Anywho, I remember getting it for the first time and expecting some sort of party. I mean, that's what happened to Blossom when she got it. Her father took her out to dinner. I don't really remember anything special acknowledging said event. Not even cupcakes!

What I do remember though, is that, as the years went by,  my cycle would never mirror those of my friends. While they would talk about getting cramps, having to work around the 28 day waiting game of hell, and making embarrassing purchases at the drug store, I would observe and listen. Simply because, I could not relate. You see, between the ages of  12 and 28, I had roughly seven periods. Seven. Seven in 16 years. That's, on average, one every 2.2857143 years. I had missed out on approximately 185 visits from evil Aunt Flo. And I was pretty ok with this. I mean, there were times that I felt left out, wanting to have legitimate reasons to eat chocolate, yell at boys, and cry during the "Snuggles" fabric softener commericals (all which I did anyway, but it would have been nice to blame it on 'that time of the month' as oppose to my overall girlieness).

The lack of monthly reminders of my baby making skills didn't start to scare me until I was in my mid twenties. Me and my long-term boyfriend at the time had entertained serious ideas about having a baby. At the time, the idea of procreating with the one you love, all the while not having any real game plan (or financial means for that matter) seemed completely feasible, yet, objectively speaking, made just as much sense as wearing stilettos over a sidewalk grate: tip toe all you want, your gonna fuck something up, either your ankle or the shoe.

However, thanks to outside influences:

I was convinced that love could in fact pay the rent and beat the odds! I was also convinced "love" would also be able to raise a baby while I slept in on Saturdays.

Clear indicators that I was MORE than ready to be a mom.

In any case, I decided to make an appointment with a good ole gynocologist, to figure out what was going on and what I needed to do to have a baby. It was a cool February afternoon in 2006, and I felt incredibly optimistic about the meeting.

After all the testing, poking and prodding, it became apparent that I had something called polycystic ovarian syndrome. This is essentially a hormonal disorder that causes infrequent cycles. And, apparently, chin hair. Basically it means that ones hormones are completely out of wack that it becomes impossible for ovulation to occur.

PS--All I heard from the doc's mouth is that I was infertile.

How the HELL is that possible? My hispanic mother has 6 kids and the woman claims she got knocked up by exchanging glances with my dad. In fact, plants of all kinds flourished in the tenement apartment where I grew up, and, rumor has it, it was all due to my mother's fertile aura. So how the heck can I be infertile?

Gyno McKill-Joy proceeded to throw scientific mumbo-jumbo at me, while I zoned her out and kept dwelling on the inadequacies that made up the productive system currently taking up space in my lower abdomen. After she stopped speaking, we sat silently for a few seconds.

I went into panic mode, which, for this blogger, means I start to plan. I mean "bat-shit crazy, excel spreadsheet, laminate the gmail calendar" plan.  I began with questions.

Me: "What are my options?"

GMKJ:"In-vitro. That has proven to be successful when it works."

WHEN it works? 

GMKJ:"It's about $12,000 for the procedure."

DOLLARS!?!?!?

I should point I was just staring aimlessly at her at this point. I did not know what to say. Where to begin? How is this possible? I also started to see panic in her face, which was a clear indicator that she thought I was about to either cry, laugh, or stop breathing. Or all of the above.

GMKJ:"You know, you could try dropping some weight. Studies show that extra weight also throws off hormonal level. At least we could assess the severity of the syndrome once you are at a healthy bmi."


-_-

Not only had the woman just told me that my ovaries were acting as freeloading squatters with useless capabilities and that I probably would have to sell one of them (and possibly a kidney) to fund future baby of love, but NOW she was saying I was fat.

Oh joy.

I so desperately wanted to run into the arms of my heart's desire.

Oh wait. You thought I meant my future "mixed and seasoned in a pietri-dish" baby daddy? Then you obviously have missed the whole point of the blog.


I came home after the appointment holding on to my 38 DD's a little tighter (much to the delight of the Mariachi band on the uptown R train). I just needed to remind myself I was still very much a woman. I broke the news to my boyfriend, who took it rather well. I don't really remember what he said, as my mind was haunted with the voices that were calling me a fat, sterile disappointment. I decided to put it aside and keep moving.

Some years later, Future Pietri-dish baby daddy and I parted ways. So I was somewhat grateful my ovaries had become meaningless parasites, as I'd probably have 5 kids right now asking me for ovaltine and making me put away this blog (and the hot toddy I am enjoying). It was after this departure that I decided to lose weight.

It took me about 9 months to lose 50 pounds. And, I kid you not, the month after I lost 50 (July 2009), I got a period. I chalked it up as Aunt Flo making a rare appearance, kinda like the chupacabra, and didn't really give it much thought. I noticed a few things, though. It was a pretty short and uneventful visit. Usually, like said chupacabra, the rare period would come in with a vengeance and would stick around for at least 2 weeks. I would do my loved ones a favor and hide out in my bedroom with enough food to survive, and enough Alanis Morrisette to entertain the rage against the male species that brewed within.

This time, though, I was a very proper and pleasant "Emily post" for period model. And then, something amazing occurred. 28 days later, I got another. And a month later, another. And another! And another!

I don't know what I was more surprised of. That my ovaries decided to get off unemployment, or at the price of femenine products! Duane Reade was making a killing!

I gave it 4 months before I called Good Ol' Gyno. I updated her on my life and all the changes of the last year, including the purging of 50 pounds of fat and 260 pounds of boyfriend. I also told her about the monthly visits I was getting. She had me come in, and ran some tests. After the exam, I sat across from her in her office waiting to hear the prognosis. She had this rather annoying grin on her face. It sort of said:

to which, I replied with a passive aggressive face that said:

Her smugness was warranted. All tests came back proving her correct. Thanks to the great weight loss and healthy insides, I was now as fertile as can be! I realized, at that moment, that weight was more than just fitting into a pair of jeans, sitting comfortably in between two strap-hangers on the N train, or being ridiculed by a child when ordering two slices of pizza at Frank's. All very important components of feeling good about yourself, of course. But health never ever occurred to me. Ever. I thrived more with the visual satisfaction that stared back at me from my mirror than with what was actually happening to me within my organs and veins.

I sat in her office silent, once again. Just staring back. This time, though, she didn't look panicked, nor did she look smug. She looked very happy for me. And I finally exhaled.

Since then, over two years ago, I have had a pretty regular cycle. And I feel really lucky. I will say, I don't know how you gals do this! Between the mood swings, the food cravings, the crying over "Cars-For-Kids" commercials, and the physical symptoms that make you want to hide under a blanket with a bottle of scotch and a heating pad, I almost wanted to run back into the arms of a past love to make it all better:

But I only feel this manic desire for 5-7 days a month. I eventually snap out of said moment of weakness and realize it just isn't worth looking back. Keep it moving, one healthy (and ovulating) step at a time.