First of all, I’m sorry I haven’t named you yet, though I do call you a million different things (like, “c,mon, dogball licker, tell me it’s been four miles already!”–not that you’d call that a name or anything). My bad. I’m sure we can find a suitable name together.
On to the business.
Since we first joined forces in December, we’ve been inseparable. You arrived, fit right into my green ipod and told me to send Google Maps packing. Thanks to you, I know when I’m being fast (for me, which is seldom) and when I’m being slower than a turtle dragging a trailer (which, lately, feels like always). You’ve reassured me through 112.5 miles since January. As in, wow! I’d never know that if it wasn’t for you.
You have been so cool I defended you to all the doubters (ie Husband) who wee jealous of my attachment to a tiny bit of plastic. Had I not heard “halfway point” in your suave, debonair voice, I would’ve been tempted to desist on quite a few runs and just walked the 1/4 mile between said point and home. I’d never know that my current, normal, not-dying-but-still-feelin’-it pace is 9:50 min/mile, nor would I have the ability to track each and every walk break, whether mean-dog related or not.
However, I think we need to take a hiatus. When I’m a bit tired and dragging–yet still drag my unfabulousness out for a run–and finish a run that was OK but not AMAZING, I get discouraged when I look at my stats, which you so kindly provide in hairsplitting detail. I don’t really want to know that, at the exact moment I was contemplating throwing myself into the gutter for the promise of cool (or plain old wet) water, I was clocking a 10:10 mile. I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing that my pace has gone down a smidge (10 seconds, which feels like an age and a half) in the last three weeks while I adjust to thumping heat and running four miles, and I really wish you wouldn’t tell me.
In short: I’ve worked hard (as in, I’ve worked a third of my ass off) and I will continue to do so, and I don’t need to be discouraged by you tracking each and every stat so I can obsess over seconds lost and gained. I don’t kneed to compare myself to times that others set, and I mostly don’t. But I also don’t need to compare myself to times I set when the temperature or humidity were lower, or my hamstring didn’t pinch, or when I was trying to go faster before I was ready (and injuring myself in the process), or when I was running from weird ogling gardeners and their staring eyes.
It’s not you, it’s me. It really is. (Ok, it is you a little bit–seriously, you had Lance Armstrong congratulating me on my longest run after a three-miler a week ago? Inattentive. But whatever.)
So how about we just see each other less? Maybe twice a week is enough for us. I think I can use some quality one-on-one time with the iPod (and let’s not get into how you won’t let me listen to the radio–we can discuss your exclusivity another day), and you can certainly use more sleep. Plus I know you’re embarrassed to be seen with me and the Clico hat and secretly think I look like a knobhead with it–which I do, I’ll admit it, but sweat and glare gets in my eyes and, as you have no eyes, you wouldn’t understand.
Don’t cry! Don’t beep! This reduced-outing schedule need not be final! If I can manage to stop obsessing over my stats after Friday’s run, you know that on Monday we’ll be cool as ever, chillin’ like villains down the road, and as meant to be for one another as we always have been. But if not, please let me deal with the mathematics obsession on my own until I’m not going fractious over fractions. I promise I’ll come back to you–after all, you ARE my first and only pacekeeper.
PS–I’m sorry a 5k 31:32 time, 10:03 min/mile pace this morning had to kick off these proceedings. It’s been a long time coming, but hopefully it’ll be a short time going (and don’t laugh at that pitiful quip–you know you’re not any wittier than I am.)
Signed. Sealed. Delivered. Moving on.
In keeping with the goal of wearing self-made every day until I quit my day popstand, I threw on this dress this morning:
I made this dress a year and a half ago and I’ve been thinking about taking in the sides and amending it to fit better, but I don’t think my sisters would approve if I brought it home and they couldn’t wear it (I have the narrowest ribcage and shoulders of the four of us). So it remains a bit off. Then again, I am a serious overfitter when it comes to sewing, so I should just let it be.
As for the day’s culinary delights, let’s just say that a nice homemade dinner was trumped by coming home to no water coming out of the faucets, turning on the water pump, and hearing awful grinding sounds (still with no water coming out of the faucets). I guess I had been secretly hankering after Chinese, so it could have been a blessing in disguise? Either way, I’ll take it–and eat it fast, as I finished Core Fusion pilates and arms and a twenty minute pilates youtube session to the sounds of growling hungry stomach:
Please cross your fingers that I have water tomorrow and that I can get over the running stat issue. Do you ever feel like running gadgets do you more harm than good? If you have a Garmin/Nike+/heart rate monitor, do you use them each time you work out?