FAAAAAAAAAT!!!

Pardon all the excessive editing done to this piece. It was the only clip I could find.

Anyway, as I was saying, "FAAAAT! Fat fat fatty."

So Matthew Broderick is moi and Nathan Lane is also moi. This is what my insides yelled at my outsides when I found myself standing naked in front of the mirror this morning. Oh yes. You're hearing me right. The Belly is back! In full force, too. But.

I just finished reading Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies this afternoon. For some reason, reading this was so insanely perfect. She has this way of praying that is so simple and full of faith. When she is scared, she says, "I'm scared. Help me." When she is frustrated with someone, she writes her name down and says, "Help me," and slips it into God's Inbox. When she is thankful, she says, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." And for some reason, this seemed so profound to me. I guess growing up in the church, I've always had this idea of what prayer is and what prayer should be for me. I felt like, at times, that my prayers should be "advanced" (whatever that means) because I'd been praying for a long time and usually when you do something for a while you get better at it. So I thought I should be better than "Help me." When I was in high school I started to write my prayers. It worked for me. It helped me to focus and to get down what I wanted to say. And it helped me be honest with myself. And also provided a record to look back at and see who had been faithful. Let me tell you- it was never me. But then it became an obsession, and I began creating rules for my prayer writing. I'm so good at making up rules. And I always think, if I can just follow the rules then I'll have it all together.

I know, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, do you really think anyone ever has it all together? Haven't you figured out by now that this all together mess is a myth? And yes! Yes I know. But somehow the knowledge that all together will never exist hasn't kept me from reverting back to behaving as if it is a possibility. So anyway, I created rules. Then I decided I would break free from my rules. And when I did that, I pretty much liberated myself from prayer altogether. And this has been a seemingly interminable cycle for me. I'll find something that works. Then I'll mess it all up by adding rules and making schedules and disappointing myself fifteen hundred times by not keeping my rules or my schedule and then I feel guilty and then I hate myself for feeling guilty and then I decide to rid myself of the rules and schedules by ridding myself of the thing that was being ruled and scheduled. (Sometimes run-ons are perfection.)

But Anne Lamott, man. She does not have it all together. And she has dreadlocks. And she wrote a chapter on her dreads. She also wrote a chapter on feeding herself. It was perfect. And she wrote about how when her car broke down, she prayed, "Help me." And when her heart was broken, she prayed, "Help me." And when her son wanted to go paragliding off a mountain she prayed, "Seriously. Help me." Her faith is worked out in her life in these tiny small bursts. And these small bursts pile on top of one another and make her faith huge! And I decided that I had put restrictions enough upon prayer, upon eating, upon how my life should go.

And fat works into this how?

I ran today. This evening, actually. I thought about running. I thought about it for a little while longer and realized that I felt like running. I felt like running. And then, I put on my running clothes (seriously, it was a squeeze. The Belly was like, in a hurry to return. No slow weight gain here.) and then, I ran. I just ran. I didn't run seriously far or seriously hard. I ran down the street with my husband trailing along, walking behind me, encouraging me with his little wave and his smile. I took walk breaks to hold his hand. And then I ran some more.

I didn't make up any rules about how far I had to run or how many other times this week I was going to run. Or how because it was Tuesday and not a Monday, it wasn't really the right day to start running again.

I could beat myself up about gaining a lot of my weight back, but really I didn't work that hard to lose most of it. I did work a lot before the wedding and I'm back to wedding size now. The weight I lost while traveling was from hiking for 5 to 6 hours a day, and puking my guts out and then eating nothing but toast for 2 weeks. I didn't get high-school thin because I wanted to. I didn't really have a choice. But this time, I'm choosing it. And I'm not making rules or schedules. I'm going to stop making excuses. And I'm just going to do it.

Anne wrote a chapter on forgiveness. And forgiving myself is something I rarely do. So, I'm forgiving myself for going a little overboard on the American cuisine and for having dessert every night and for lying around doing nothing.

And I'm praying.

"Help me."

Runner's Rage Recycled

Today I have a guest post up at Life is a Marathon, which is always a bit ironic because my life is anything but a Marathon. It's more like a Jog-for-5-Minutes-and-Try-Not-to-Die-athon. Anyway, in honor of running, which I have been doing close to every other day since my return to The States, I decided to post the guest blog I did for Melanie last year when this blog was still called Rage in the A.M. I never posted it here, so there was only ever a link to it, but here it is in it's entirety for you to enjoy.

Runner’s Rage
Or, Chubbo Takes up Running. Again.

Hello all of Mel’s wonderful readers! It’s me, Chubbo, from over at Rage in the A.M. I’m extremely excited to be posting here on Life is a Marathon. First, I have never run a marathon. Second, I don’t know that I ever will. But I have been a regular runner before and have run a few 5Ks and the good old Bell Buckle 10-miler. So, I’ve got some running experience under the belt. However, the experience was forced out from underneath my belt as large chunks of lard stealthily took its place. But I’m back, baby. This is for all the big girls who read what the skinny girls write about running and think, “What? That’s not how it is!”

Runner’s Rage – a noun meaning the overwhelming and gushing anger that sloshes about inside one’s guts when they try to run, but are kept from being 100% successful because of their own laziness (i.e. chub) or weird physical impediments that no one else on earth could possibly understand or has ever experienced before.

I pull on the sports bra, mushing my voluptuous breasts into one shelf of pro-bounce boob. I wiggle into my running shorts, which haven’t been worn since… well, nevermind that. Who cares? I’m IN them, aren’t I? Oh. Legs not shaved. Eh, it’s not a fashion show. I find the t-shirt that is least likely to hug that small, circular hill rising out of the sinking crater of my bellybutton. Dang. It hugs. I pull on my socks with the flying pigs. I un-double knot my Asics, tuck my pigs in, and re-double knot my Asics, cursing the double knot all the way.

I reach for the door. Oh crap. My back hurts. Of course. I didn’t even do anything yet and something hurts. Typical. I make my way down the 9 floors of my apartment building, glad to have the elevator to myself. My armpits are already celebrating the heat, pre-run. Heck, pre-do more than ride the elevator. I reach the lobby and avoid eye contact with the old doorman behind the desk. I am the only Western female living in this building (so far) and I can feel him staring at the massive wonder that is my midsection.

Thank you God for my legs. Oh they work! Oh loooook! I’m walking. How nice. Alright take it slow. Stretch out those muscles a little bit. Mmmmm. That’s good.

I reach the riverside. I have decided that this is the starting point for my run. Oh, next streetlamp. Oh, right after this tiny hill. Next streetlamp. No, the next one and this time I mean it. Okay, here. I pick up my feet. I begin to swing my arms just a little, making sure I don’t crisscross my body, wasting that precious energy I’ve stored up from the last 5 pieces of cheese pizza and two bowls of curry rice I ate. Feeling good. This is not so bad. I look out over the Han River and try to avoid being run over by zealous Korean bikers with their stupid little handlebar bells.

Good job, Chubbo! You’re moving. You’re not eating ice cream and you’re not sitting on your butt reading blogs and trying not to think about ice cream. Deep breaths. Easy does it. Good pace. Look at that tiny Korean girl. OH MY GOD! I can see half the park between her thighs. Which reminds me…I pull my shorts down out of my crotch, where they have hidden themselves as if a nuclear blast has hit and the only safe place is in my crack. If I run more, maybe my thighs will slowly grow every more distant, like the friend you once called everyday but now only view her Facebook profile like a stalker, clicking obsessively through photo albums to see if she has gained any weight. Run faster! Faster!

NOT THAT FAST! Oh legs. I have legs. And I also seem to have an animal trapped inside me, somewhere around my pancreas, who wants very badly to rip through my intestines, (wait, are they close to my pancreas? Maybe it’s really over near my…) IT WANTS TO KILL ME! STITCH! STITCH! Oh God. Why am I doing this? Because you are Chubbo. But I like Chubbo. She’s funny and she gets to eat goooooood food. Macaroni, macaroni, macaroni, macaroni. I just found my mantra! Runner’s World always talks about running mantras and now I have one! Macaroni, maca- WHAT IS THAT? Oh poor little arch! It’s okay, don’t scream like that. I’m not hurting you on purpose. Please carry me just a little further. Oh please. I know you’re the only little arch in the world to ever carry this weight, but be patient. No? You don’t tell me no. You are MY foot. My. Foot. Stop it. Shut up. Macaroni, macaroni, macaroni…

I have run for…. ooooh 8 minutes and 30 seconds! Woot. That’s like three minutes more than yesterday. Breathe… Um, hello? Breathe. I can’t breathe. I… can’t… breathe. ICANTBREATHE! ICANTBREATHE! I’m dying. Oh my lungs. It’s burning. Burning….. Water! Must have water…. Who puts the water fountain that far away? Ugh, healthy skinny Koreans. Wait, am I still running? Oh my gosh, I’m still running. No. Stop thinking about running. It will hurt less. Let’s make a list of things that don’t hurt: My eyes. Nope, nix that. Sweat running into eyes. That burns. Okay, my back fat doesn’t hurt! Wait, my back fat? I have actually given my back fat the honorary title of body part? What is this world coming to? My back fat does not hurt, but it is very busy. It is jumping and bouncing like a 7 year old on a new trampoline.

I busy myself by psychically trying to convince the back of the size 0 woman in front of me that I have never supersized anything in my life. However, I must confess that I have partaken of the Route 44 at Sonic. Hello! I have legs. I have feet. I have some kind of monster gnawing at my spleen like an aggravated snow leopard attempting to feast on a frozen deer. I look down. Why isn’t The Belly any smaller? I’ve been running for like, oh God, 10 freaking minutes! Why hasn’t it gotten any smaller! Shrink! Shrink!

To the bike rental shack. I can make it to the bike rental shack. Okay, maybe to the porta-potty. Yeah, I can do it. Eh, that next crack in the sidewalk looks good. Oh, hello knees! Hi. I’m sorry, but the run is OVER. Now is not the appropriate time to begin hurting. It’s over I tell you! Over!

And so ends my every run. And the 10 minutes grows to 15, and the 15 turns into half an hour eventually. And then I’m running miles at a time. Tomorrow, The Belly will be begging for another go ‘round. Because once you start, it hurts so good! For all of you who feel my runner’s rage at your body, remember: if you’re angry enough, you’ll work hard enough, run fast enough, and begin to change your body one step at a time.

Now you should click here to find out why Marathoners Make Good Best Friends. 

Runner's Rage

I have a hard enough time moving my body for more than 5 consecutive minutes. When I have been doing this for about half an hour, I am definitely sucking wind, heaving and trying not to drool on myself in my fatigue. The last thing, last thing I need is an ajosshi (think male version of ajumma minus the visor and handbag) with an impressive pot belly in a too-tight t-shirt and disgusting biking shorts, standing on the ramp where all bikers and runners enter and exit the riverside trail smoking a cigarette. 

Seriously? No, I mean, really? Okay, yeah, we're outside. But have you ever walked down the sidewalk behind a smoker? It's like smoking only worse because there's no nicotine buzz or the calming satisfaction of inhaling death slowly but surely. There's only the choking and coughing as you, completely unaware that the guy in front of you has even lit up, attempt to take a deep breath of nice blue-sky afternoon fresh air. I wasn't walking behind him. I simply had to pass him and I thought my lungs were going to crawl up out of my mouth and strangle him they were so incredibly enraged. 

There seems to be no correlation here (or there) with smoking and health. I see serious hikers smoking at the top of mountains; I see basketball players take a smoke break; I see the gym guy light up after his workout. And now I see the lone potbelly biker (obviously not much of a biker are we Mr. Belly?) making it even more difficult for me to breathe, when the ChubbO is already like 5 years closer to death because of her latest foray by the river.  

So, rage rage rage, rage Rage, rage rage rage, and rage.  

Thank You Goody's StayPut Hairband

Yes, my life has been changed. In my mind, anything that makes running less of a battle for me and more of a pleasure or easier in any way deserves praise and in this case, a blog post:
Oh dear Goody's StayPut Hairband, with tiny plastic/rubbery weave that holds the band on my head while I run, I love you! You even come in lovely color combinations that always seem to complement my fabulously drab running wardrobe. I have never had a headband that would not slide up the back of my head and be completely useless, leaving all the wispies that refuse to stay plastered to the rest of my wet, sweaty hair and constantly stick to my face wild and free to annoy the crap out of me for the duration of my entire run. But with the fabulous invention of the StayPut hairband, I am now wispy free during my runs! Yay.
It's a small thing, very small, I know. But when I run, my capacity to be annoyed by anything more than doubles. And so I'm delighted with this tiny improvement.
Speaking of running, I am in the middle of changing my form for good. I am attempting to eliminate the energy-wasting, detrimental-to-the-hip bouncy running, and substitute the smooth, gliding, almost-shuffling run that only moves forward and not up and down. So far, my dad's theory that running slower is more painful than running faster has been proved right. My hip is no longer giving me any trouble. However, the muscles in my legs are having to adjust to the new movement. I can go faster, but I cannot go farther. I am hoping to run the Tom King Half-Marathon in March, but I'm doubtful at this point. However, I shall continue to run, whether fast or slow, because there's always the chance that I could improve my endurance and surely I could drop a few of these pesky pounds hanging around my mid-section (Dear God, PUH-LEEZ). So, I am concentrating on running 10 minute miles. Now, if you're a Melanie or a Michelle, or even my dad, this must feel like being stuck behind the car going 45 on the Interstate. But for me, it feels like I am trying to run so fast that I will not be hit by a car going 5 mph. (And if I was really running 10 minute miles, this would be possible, for I would be running 1 mph faster than the car, assuming I am like a machine and take no walk breaks and find a good pace, etc.) Hey! That's encouraging! I could run faster than a car. (Just forget the 5mph part and it sounds good.)
My run this Saturday was supposed to be 4 miles and I made the 4 miles; I just didn't run them all. My first mile was about 11 minutes, so I was off, but had run only once on Thursday that week, so turtling (a new adjective meaning performing at a rate or speed slower than anticipated) was to be expected. I ran the first mile, took a few ridiculously long walk breaks between running the rest of them. After the walk breaks, I really do feel refreshed. I sincerely feel that my muscles have been given a break. But my stamina is not up to par. I keep remembering the summer I came home from Shorter and got myself to the gym every single day and was up to 4 miles per day! I can't believe that was my body. Good grief. Ah, the good times. Oh well.
So, on Tuesday I shall put on the old runners and my fabulous hairband that will stay put and rejoice that technology has once more overcome genetics.

db