Ode to not standing in gasoline

The thing about regrets is you can only really have them once you already know how things turn out. You can decide to do something or not do something, but you don’t know yet if something terrible or wonderful will happen. Or, more likely, nothing drastic will happen, but other things will happen later that make you view your decision differently. It’s not really fair to connect a series of events that span across years, but who said regret was fair.

When I was about 6 months sober, college friends arranged to go to Atlantic City for the weekend. It started out including spouses but wound up just being three of my dearest friends. They all drink, none problematically to my knowledge, and I was worried I was going to feel tempted and/or awkward and miserable. I decided not to join them.

But what I didn’t know then is that one of those friends would lose a child tragically. She would recover as much as a mother can because she’s tough and probably the most well adjusted and grounded human being I know, and then she would move to a completely different part of the country. I found out the weekend she was planning to move and felt sad and wondered at that sadness. I will probably see her as often as I did before, which is to say not all that often. What I was feeling was regret that I didn’t make more time for her and for friendships in general. That’s a reasonable regret.

What is not reasonable is regretting that I didn’t go on that Atlantic City trip when I was newly sober and nervous about being around heavy drinking. This is what I wrote at the time.

Probably the number one reason I didn’t go, though, was because I don’t drink anymore. My friends still drink because they can. They know I don’t drink, so I don’t worry about that, but I did think of what my sponsor shared at a meeting the other night. At six months sober, she had met old friends at a bar and nursed cups of coffee all night long and proudly told her sponsor about it afterwards. Her sponsor said “You’re proud of yourself, huh? For standing in the gasoline all night?”

Lately I’ve felt a bit shaky in my sobriety. The other night I kind of lost it when I realized how badly I wanted beer and how angry I was at not being able to have one. I didn’t drink, but the memory feels so strange and even felt that way while it was happening. It shook me up. I don’t think this is a good time for me to sit around a table with friends I love dearly and laugh while they enjoy drinks the way I once did, never knowing it would end. Who wants to stand in gasoline?

Gasoline

The first thing that strikes me is the drama of the gasoline analogy. There is nothing subtle about recovery meetings and the wisdom shared within. But it’s easy enough not to stand in gasoline, right? One day, well into the future, there will be other puddles of gasoline we can stand in without worry. Well, you know what I mean.

I wouldn’t worry about such a trip now. This fall I’m planning to go with the same friend who experienced tragedy and moved far away, and we’re going to visit another dear friend. We’d planned to go last spring, but the pandemic put our destination state in lockdown. I can’t make up the Atlantic City weekend and we won’t be able to recreate whatever last year’s trip would have been like, but the decision and wait were the right ones to make at the time. Another opportunity will almost always come along, and we can be stronger and wiser for it.

Humility through yoga and sea lions

In January 2012, I was a little over 6 months sober. I was still attending AA meetings and also apparently yoga per this post called Nirvana, which is very misleading. They were Family Yoga classes at the Y where you could bring your kid and the format was loose and the room dark.

Almost ten years later, I feel like I should be saying, hey, I’m still doing yoga, however now it is Advanced Yoga. Which is probably not a thing. There is such a thing as YouTube Yoga because my husband and I did some in January of this year. It was very humbling. The cat watched judgmentally from the couch. I was secretly worried our youngest child would secretly video us and become YouTube famous. The best thing to come out of our YouTube yoga phase was that it ended. The second best thing was that it motivated me to take up running again and lose some weight. I’m down 13 pounds from January 2021 and up about 20 pounds from January 2012, but who’s counting.

Sea lion pose

In the yoga 2012 post, I talked about a trip to San Diego I’d taken with my husband before I got sober. I will never forget it, not because of all the fun we had and the beautiful scenery, but because of a soul-crushing hangover that lasted days. Free from parenting responsibilities, I drank more than usual, which was already too much. The hangover started the morning I’d booked a boat ride to gawk at sea lions. I woke up feeling nauseated and shaky. Mounting panic at the thought of being trapped on a boat with sunscreen-scented, non-hungover strangers made the hangover worse. I thought about canceling, but pride prevented me. I’m sure I looked very proud with my head down and eyes closed for most of the trip.

With my eyes mostly closed, I was unable to fully appreciate the sea lions slimy, slothful beauty. I did snap a couple pictures and made an emergency plan to vomit over the side of the boat while the other passengers were busy taking their own pictures. Looking at my pictures today, the sea lions look the way I remember feeling. For the rest of the boat ride I wished I was dead but did not go so far as deciding not to drink again, not even for that day.

Barely hanging on

You know what’s really nice about going on trips sober? Everything, but most of all not having hangovers that make you wish you were dead. Everything is so much more enjoyable without them. Boat rides, sightseeing, swimming or lounging by the pool, meeting people for the first time, enjoying good meals, walking, breathing. I wonder what that trip would have been like if I hadn’t been soused and suffering, but in a way it’s kind of perfect because it caused a big crack in the image I had of myself as this merrymaking person who had her shit together. It’s okay not to have your shit together. In fact, wonderful things have happened every time I’ve been beaten down enough to accept this.

I am still an alcholic but spell better now

This June I will be 10 years sober. Ten years without a drink, a drunk, or a hangover. I don’t know if I thought I’d last this long on the day I quit, but now it seems too long for what it felt like. It went by too fast, like times does, and felt too easy in retrospect. That got me curious about what it was like in the early days, which fortunately or unfortunately I can go back and read about because this blog is also 10 years old.

I also wanted to do something special to celebrate 10 years sober. In the first year, I went to AA meetings and took coins. I remember how good it felt to get the 1 month coin and then I remember the 3 month, 9 month, and 1 year coins, though there were others in between. I still have them.

But I stopped going to meetings, and what I remember is the disdain some long-timers had for people who just showed up on year anniversaries to take coins. One woman I respected felt it gave the impression you didn’t really need AA to get or stay sober. I happen to know that is true for some. And then there are people with 1 year or 10 or even 25+ years who go to meetings. They go because it helps them stay sober or because they are driven by a higher purpose.

It’s only because of those with sobriety that meetings work. Who would run meetings if everyone was a newcomer? Who would give newcomers hope that it works, that sobriety is better than drinking?

To celebrate 10 years, I thought it would be fun (for me) to go back to posts from the early days of sobriety. Do I remember feeling whatever way I was feeling? Do I still feel that way? Does anything surprise me, or do I know better now?

It’s the clip show of blogs. But I miss writing and the connections that came from it. For added fun, I will include old photos from the approximate time of each post because I’ve also had an instagram 10 years. I have shoes older than that, but I’ll leave them out of this.

This was a picture of an albino deer I used to see on walks around my neighborhood. I was the only one in my family who ever saw it, but luckily captured this grainy photo of a ghost deer as “proof”. I think that is the last time I saw it. I think it would make a nice painting.

I started this blog about two months into sobriety. My first post was titled Am I an alcholic? I always considered myself a careful speller, so it’s funny that it took me ten years to catch that typo. It’s like looking at old wedding photos and noticing your slip was showing or your fly was down.

The post itself is short and the jist is that other people might tell you that you drink too much, but it’s up to you to decide if you’re an alcholic/alcoholic. I was kind of hung on up the A word back then.

This was from my second blog post, which incidentally posted on the same day as the first. I had no readers at that point but a lot to say:

I know this has been done before: the diary of a drunk housewife/mom/functioning member of society.

So why am I so excited to blog about my recovery? I really don’t know. But I am.

I have just over 60 days of sobriety right now, which to veterans in the twelve-step world is little more than a drop in the bucket, though something to hold close and tightly and be incredibly proud of.

To people who are still drinking but want to stop, it’s a pretty significant chunk of time.

To those who are still drinking and don’t want to stop, it’s a ridiculous amount of time.

I’ve been all three of the above, so that seems like a good topic to blog about next…

Would I be a veteran now? I think so. Do I consider 60 days a drop in the bucket? That depends. If you’re talking about 60 regular days, as in two months on a calendar in any given year, then yes, that is a drop in the bucket. You sneeze and it’s gone and two more months are up at bat.

But 60 days of sober time is like a million years. Even though 10 years flew by, those first 60 days were slowed down frame by frame so that I remember more bits and pieces compared to any other two-month period of my life. Same applies to the first 30 days sober and the first two weeks and the first 24 hours. They are sharper and clearer, either from fear and discomfort or hope or just the miracle of not-drinking.

Up Next: Nirvana or lack thereof, two readers, and an unaddressed 3-month absence from blogging. I must have been getting busy getting sober.

9 in 9

In 9 days I will be 9 years sober. I could just wait until then to post, but I like the symmetry and also know myself and that I may lose heart and decide not to post at all.

I don’t remember June 21, 2011 too well anymore. I remember more about it than any other June 21 before or since. It was an unremarkable day except that I decided not to drink and managed not to, even though it was physically and mentally very hard.

It wasn’t all luck. It was work to commit every single day, some harder than others, not to drink anymore. Fear was an excellent motivator. Early on I heard that it doesn’t get any easier to quit the second or seventeenth time around. After losing and regaining the same 15 pounds for the last few years, I know that is true.

Doing something for nine years seems almost as natural as breathing. And yet I literally haven’t been able to break another bad habit for nine consecutive years. There is something about the simplicity of knowing I will not drink today that makes it the easiest hard thing I’ve ever done.

It definitely gets easier to maintain over the years. Temptation and self-pity around not drinking don’t beckon monthly or even quarterly like they used to. I did have one moment a few months back. We were about a month into quarantine and I’d spent an emotionally draining day with my grandmother. When I got home, I said to my husband you know, she makes me wish I still drank. It didn’t feel good to say. I felt like a petulant, pathetic kid who says you’re not my friend anymore to her best friend in the world. But after I said it out loud, I knew I didn’t mean it. These periodic urges to drink are a good thing because they bring me back.

So in nine days I will wake up and may not immediately remember the significance of the day because I am absent minded and it has become almost as natural as breathing. With a little luck I’ll be back in a year to celebrate a decade.

Virtual coin

7 years

I used to believe gum takes seven years to pass through the digestive system. I believed the seven year itch was the biggest threat to a relationship and that within a seven year period, all the cells in our bodies regenerate. The idea of getting to be someone new on a regular basis has its appeal, but the fact is some of our cells take longer to turn over and some stay with us until we die.

I am seven years sober (today!) and I have never felt more like myself. This does not always feel like a good thing. At certain (okay, many) social events, I feel that same third-wheel wallflower paralysis I remember from the eighth grade dance. I still somehow say too much for someone who talks too little. I still prefer the company of cats and dogs and certain children to most people and look forward to dessert and bedtime more than is probably healthy. These used to be things I wanted to fix and believed I could, especially once I got sober, but more and more I think, eh, there are worse things I could be than me.

Alcohol used to loosen my tongue and inhibitions and filtered some of the angst that comes with being a human, but it created far more problems than it masked. It numbed the joy too, the pure kind we get to find in the smallest things. Even in the early days when I didn’t really want to not drink and couldn’t guess how it would become appealing, I felt an underlying sense of relief. It always felt right to give up drinking and I have never regretted it.

And give up drinking strikes me as a funny phrase now. In the first two years especially, that feeling of missing out and nostalgia for drinking – maybe more so the contradictory longing to escape and belong – came over frequently if not regularly. I dreaded going out to dinner with my husband sans cocktails and hated beerless Friday nights with dark passion. I had to change up certain routines temporarily, even though it felt like it would have to be forever. The cravings and bouts of resentment and self pity gradually passed faster and with less drama. I don’t feel the same worries or fears I felt in the early days about what sobriety would do to me or my marriage or my place in the world. Even if it didn’t turn me into a brand new person, I changed and grew because of it. Somewhere along the way, I saw I hadn’t missed out on a single thing by not drinking. I gained far more.

Seven years later, I still love my sobriety. Even though it feels more like an appendage instead of an affliction, I think about it every day.  It’s like a smooth stone I keep in my pocket and knowing it’s there brings strength and peace. I know it makes me a better mother and human being, which probably accounts for a lot of that. I wish more people who struggle would get to feel it, that lightness and relief and return of spirit.

I want to leave you with a video for a song I find lovely, more than a little haunting, and a little bit maddening. It’s Wish That I Was Sober by Frightened Rabbit. Even the band’s name reminds me of something a petite, soft spoken woman said at an AA meeting years ago. She was talking about how fear had ruled her life when she was drinking. It had taken so much mental and emotional energy to hide how much she drank and how awful she felt. She’d felt trapped when she was drinking and then surprised to feel about the same in the early days of giving it up. She said she felt like a scared bunny and I remember there was a tremble to her voice that made me think of a rabbit’s twitchy nose. Even so, her eyes were bright and she was there, sober, and she was talking about it. I see her on a semi-regular basis, though not at meetings and I don’t think she remembers me. She still has that softness but with an underlying strength I admire and believe is there for anyone who wants it.

Will you be at She Recovers NYC?

In a month, I’ll be headed to NYC to attend She Recovers, the first women’s recovery event of its kind in the US. I don’t get out much on my own these days, and can’t think of a better cause to get behind. Will any of you be there? If so, drop me a line at byebyebeer at gmail or leave a comment. I’d love to put faces to names.

With keynote speakers like Glennon Doyle Melton, Gabby Bernstein, Elizabeth Vargas and Marianne Williamson, it’s bound to be pretty amazing. Here’s an article I wrote about it (click image below to read more) and another will follow the event. As always, thanks for reading!

where we’re going we don’t need maps

I used to pour over map books the way one might over a really good book. I loved using the key and then snaking two fingers along the page until they met at the exactly right part of the grid.

Knowing how to get places was a matter of necessity in my line of work as a volunteer coordinator for a hospice in metropolitan DC. Sometimes hospice is an actual building where people go to die in peace, smaller and less clinical than a hospital. But usually hospice refers to services provided in a dying person’s home, which can be anywhere. I had to be able to explain to volunteers how to get there and often delivered medical supplies or sat with patients myself. The internet was around then but I didn’t have it. Portable, affordable phones with instant directions in a soothing female voice would have sounded like some serious Jetsons witchcraft. I kept a well worn ADC map book in my work bag and then picked up another for the county where we lived and kept doing this each time we moved until Jetsons witchcraft came true.

I miss those ADC map books. The last one I bought was eleven years ago at a Wawa up the road while we were looking for a place to live. It was kind of pricey but I knew we would use the hell out of it. That very first day I opened to the master map and saw that red star next to the name of one of my favorite breweries. It turned out they had a brewpub down the road from one house my husband I both liked. It wasn’t our dream home or anything. The kitchen had and still has faux butcher block countertops exactly like the ones from my childhood home. The carpet in the living room still smells faintly of cat piss when it rains. The back yard was a blank slate then, no landscaping whatsoever beyond a handful of mature maples scattered around. But the view, oh the view. Beyond the neighbor’s lot, we could see a skyline of trees, layered like a painting with hints of soft color at the spring to come. My husband and I both saw it and said the same thing: we could live here.

img_5601
a different, southern view
Before we made an offer, we decided it would be prudent to come back one more time and see the house again with fresh eyes. We lived hours away at the time and planned the trip around a visit to see family. I opened the map book and saw that red star next to the name of my favorite beer and said to my husband let’s check it out afterwards. This passed for high adventure in my mind and his too, I think.

If not for that ADC map book, we may have lived there years before finding that brewpub. It was buried in the middle of an industrial park, housed in an old Pepperidge Farm bakery. By the looks of it, not much had been done before moving in. The walls were bare except for a few beer banners and old black and white photographs of stout women in hair nets from its bakery days. There were long oak tables and farmhouse chairs and the wait staff was casual and friendly. They welcomed us for lunch even though we’d walked into some kind of staff chili cook-off. It felt as much like coming home as any new place can feel.

We made an offer on the house and came back to visit the brewpub many more times. The chili cook-off became an annual tradition, though I stopped going when I quit drinking. And also, I don’t really love chili. I mean, I make it a few times a year, but I never really get excited about eating it. Now, you give me a cupcake cook-off, I don’t think I would have missed a single year. This brewpub isn’t known for desserts but it does make a mean soft pretzel and their home-brewed root beer is also pretty great. But it took a long time sober to fully appreciate these other gifts.

Today I’m headed back for the first time in many years for another chili cook-off. A lot happened in the last eleven years. Although I no longer drink beer, a lot of people still do and business was so good they completely renovated the old bakery to the point where you have to close your eyes to imagine stout ladies in hair nets. They had enough left over to build two brand new brewpubs. The chili cook-off will be at one of those.

It’s not my favorite place to go because it smells like beer. They brew it there and that smell was pretty triggery in my early days of not-drinking. I smelled it and remembered bellying up to the bar by myself a few Friday afternoons to get the growler filled. I remember meeting my husband there a few times without the kids and feeling like we were getting away with something or the time I took my oldest kid on a Saturday afternoon and kept putting quarters in the claw machine until we won a stuffed purple gorilla in a bowler hat. None of these memories are particularly pleasant now and I don’t think they were then, either. I don’t want to discount everything that happened pre-sobriety, lumping it all together like one big mistake, but I was not at my best then. Some days I was a crackly shell of a woman.

I read two things so far this morning about facing triggers in sobriety. (They are not blogs, so I can’t link to them.) A friend wrote about knocking off early on a workday and, instead of heading to the bar, he went home and performed a delicate mechanical task he would have previously saved for Saturday and a delicately hungover state. This would have led to frustration and ultimately failure. The second thing I read was about someone reclaiming camping and late-night porch-sitting in sobriety. Both were examples of sober people going back to things they used to love while drinking but hid from for awhile. They figured they had to bury those old loves like we do when we’re newly sober. Since we’ve never lived a sober life before, we don’t know what it will be like. What we start to be able to imagine after a month or three or nine sober isn’t always great either. We don’t want constant reminders of what we’ve given up so sometimes we hide from things for awhile (and that’s okay).

A great things happens when we stick to the path we were meant for. It levels out and the brush clears and while the climb might still feel steep here and there, the views are spectacular. We find and take new paths and revisit old ones only to discover new joys. Some we put behind us forever. It’s important to listen and know when to do this, but also remember there are so many other paths. I kind of wish I’d kept my old ADC map book to snap a picture of how battered it got, the edges curled and worn from riding side saddle in the car all those years. Each memory is like a page, and I see how little I knew then and still now.

 

 

 

Enough hats for everyone – revisiting 52 days sober and my old blog

Two years before I started this blog, I had another one called Enough Hats for Everyone. The name came from an overheard phrase at the beach. A frazzled mom hollered it at her ten kabillion children, who were all clamoring for boogie boards and attention and, it would seem, hats, which admittedly doesn’t sound like any kids I know. But my husband was there and he remembers it too. We were in our early to mid 20s and I remember being brutally hungover that afternoon. My hangovers were legendary, if only in my own mind because I kept them to myself as much as I could. Hey, those hangovers were a big part of why I quit and saved me a lot of future suffering, so I’m eternally grateful. 

Anyway, I stopped posting on the old blog in April of 2012 and took it down a few years ago but never deleted it. I thought it would be fun to post something I wrote when I was less than two months sober. It was the first mention I could find about not drinking. It was interesting to read the numbered list of things I’d learned so early in sobriety. Number 1 and 5 are still totally true. Number 3 is fortunately not an issue except for the rare occasion when I miss drinking. Number 4 surprised me because I don’t quite remember it that way, but maybe I was just pleasantly surprised sober sex was possible. 

There are all kinds of things I could write about anonymously or with my name attached if I were a different sort of person. Maybe I will one day, maybe not. I recall the reason I started this blog is because most of the 30 or so readers of my old blog were not sober and I worried they would think less of me if they knew I had to stop drinking. I felt the need to separate what felt like two separate identities. And now, on this blog, I know I’m posting more than before and I know I’m all over the place in terms of sobriety and non-sobriety content, and I’m not sure what that’s all about. I know it’s hard to keep up with, and the frequency is likely just a phase (so bear with me or whatever, I won’t take it personally). I just know I love to write. I’ve always told other people to write about whatever they want to write about. If it moves you – if it’s in your heart – write about it. 

I never deleted my old blog because it meant a lot to me. I think I wrote some pretty funny stuff back then. I remember starting that blog because I was going through some personal stuff and while I wasn’t dealing directly with it in what I wrote about, it gave me a spark I didn’t know was there. And that is why a lot of us write and keep writing. 

 August 9, 2011

I haven’t had a drink since June 20, 2011. There’s no significance to this date, though it just struck me that I’ve been sober all summer. I’m incredibly relieved to tell you it’s been a really good summer so far. For those who know me socially, the not drinking thing may come as a surprise. Or maybe not.

I had my first drink in seventh grade at a sleepover. It was peppermint schnapps and it was only like two sips, but the way its slow burn crept up from my throat to my head felt like coming home. I had my first drunk in ninth grade and started one of those sobby, sad affairs until I discovered that beer was kinder than liquor. But two decades later, beer stopped being kind.

Here’s a tip: don’t drink when your life becomes stressful. Ha. That’s a good one, I know. Anyway, it’s hard to know which was the chicken and which was the egg.

Speaking of eggs, I can’t ignore genetics and my grandfather George, who drank himself to death in his 50s. The one time I met him he reeked of body odor and booze. The only thing I remember about him is his smell and how he pushed a set of closing elevator doors back open with both arms while exclaiming “I AM STRONG AS AN OX.” But they were the kind of elevator doors that would have opened for anyone – even me, an eight-year old kid.

George, in better days

Here are some things I learned, so far, in my summer of not drinking:

1.) I am much happier sober.

2.) It’s generally easy not to drink when I take it one day at a time.

 3.) But damn, seeing condensation on a pint glass triggers something in me, and probably always will.

4.) Sober sex is even better than drunk sex. (go on, try it some time)

5.) I feel just as creative and have as much fun as I did when I was drinking every day. This is the biggest relief of all. Ok, maybe #4 is.

I hope to be able to tell you what a sober fall is like too. I don’t take for granted that this is a gift I’ve been given, but that I have to work at it. Yes, I do AA meetings. The fellowship and support is an indescribable gift. If that sounds a little culty, so be it. Live and let live.

I’m happier and my kids have their mom 95% back and I’m much easier to live with now that I’m not struggling with crippling hangovers and an obsession the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

And hey, this isn’t a preachy post. I know lots of fine people who enjoy fine beers and other fermented and distilled beverages. I wish I could be like them sometimes, but I recognize that I am different.

Still running (after all these years)

i do it for the sunsets
 

I’ve been a runner for about 5 years. I still feel funny calling myself one, but read an article a few years ago that said if you accumulate piles of sweaty clothes on the floor, you get to call yourself a runner. And so I am a runner.

I started running when I was about 6 months sober. I’d gained about 10 pounds when I quit drinking. How could this have happened when I’d cut out easily 1,000 calories a day? Witchcraft possibly, though more likely dessert even if I still can’t get the math to come out right.

Most of us feel the octopus effect when we give up drinking, that sly tentacle reach for another substance once we manage to get one in check. For many it’s food because food is delicious and comforting and we need it to survive so there’s always plenty around.

Running became a way for me to lose that extra weight but it turned into its own reward. Here is why it continues to work for me.

It costs nothing to run. 

This of course is not strictly true. We must invest in a pair of good running shoes. I buy my $100 pair for half-price when our local running store holds a sidewalk sale on last year’s models. I get running clothes on the cheap because I’ve found all brands trap the stink. Race fees add up if you’re into that sort of thing. Most of my running is done on roads where I live, which costs me absolutely nothing.

Then a funny thing happens a couple times a year and takes me by surprise every time: daylight fucking savings. I go from the freedom of being able to run safely outside before work or after dinner to not at all. So I join Planet Fitness because it’s $10 a month and I can run on treadmills and occasionally get hit on by old men. One guy said “I want you for Christmas” only I had earbuds in and took them out because I thought he was trying to tell me something less disturbing. Christmas had just passed like a month ago.  Then he talked about his wife for a few minutes and continued making the rounds to the other ladies on his super early Christmas list. His wife was not going to have a good Christmas.

There are also too many TVs at the gym. Bad news and infomercials splayed like gutted fish. I take my glasses off at the gym so everything is fuzzy and leave my earbuds in. I do this because it’s only temporary and in order to be a runner I have to keep generating sweaty piles of clothes.

I get to do it by myself. 

This is notwithstanding awkward social encounters at the gym, i.e. see above or that time an attendant had to ask me to switch machines because mine was making a funny noise, me red-faced thinking I broke it with cloddish heft though maybe it was furious effort or the fact that a hundred people use it per day.

For some, running is a social activity. I see lots of women chat side-by-side on treadmills. My sister belongs to a running group that meets on Sundays to run 10 miles over hills on purpose. Somehow it still sounds fun, but I’m a solo runner. The first time I slipped out the front door in sneakers and earbuds, I looked back for the spotlight and prison guards. I was really getting away with something, a working mother of two with this delicious hour to myself with no questions or demands.

Running also gives me time to think. I’ve pre-written almost as many blog posts on a run as I have in the car, and I spend way more time there. I love being in my own head, listening to favorite songs. I love spending time in nature. One morning I saw 2 doe, 2 fawns (still with polka dots), a heron, a fox, a half-dozen squirrels and at least a dozen bunnies, plus a guy walking a dog. This was all in the span of a half hour.

I don’t have to be the best, which is really fortunate. 

I used to feel embarrassed by my pace. Others made the point that at least I was getting out there or that it wasn’t a race, though sometimes it literally was. In five years of running, I haven’t gotten a whole lot faster. The longest distance I’ve run is about 8 miles, which is a far cry from a marathon. But here’s the thing: I don’t want to run a marathon. I also don’t want to put the work in to get a lot faster. I stopped tracking pace and distance in spring so I literally don’t know how fast or far I’m running.  I do feel stronger and leaner the more I run. I get to eat 5 cookies and still fit into my pants. Those are the numbers I care about.

Running makes me feel good. 

Let me be clear that I do not feel good while running. Around the 15 minute mark I usually feel better than I did at the 5 minute mark, but it isn’t like getting a massage or taking a nap. Running, like any strenuous activity, is really hard. What feels great is being done with the run. I literally get an endorphin boost so that I feel a little high for about an hour afterwards. (There is no subsequent crash either.) Mostly I suspect it feels good because I know I got out there and did it.

I get to share it with others. 

This goes against what I said about it being a solo activity, but both of my daughters run too. I wonder sometimes if I’m like a pageant mom who strong armed them into it, but I don’t think so. Or maybe I made running look good, though I’ve seen myself in the mirror afterwards and don’t think that’s it.

My oldest is in her second year of high school cross country. Those girls are hard core. They got up at 6:30 am six days a week all summer long and ran 3-5 miles in some of the hottest, muggiest weather I can recall. My daughter did this despite the very real fear she would not make the team. In fact, she fell short in the timed trial, but the coach let her stay on and she’s well aware what it feels like to be the caboose. She’s the kid who crosses the finish line after some spectators move on because they assume the race is over. Each time she gets close to the finish line, I cheer loud and tear up because I know it’s fucking hard not only to run but to be the very last one. I’m beyond proud of her.

My youngest is about to start a running program at her elementary school. We got her new running shoes and gave a pep talk about how it takes time and practice to get better and stronger. She is not brand new to running so she knows this already. In December, her and I and maybe her sister too will run a 5K race to celebrate end of season. Three miles is almost a cake walk once you’ve done it a few dozen times, so I’m looking forward to being there for her.

Teenaged me, who couldn’t even run a mile in high school, would be in awe of both of them. Adult me knows running beats booze and boys. Every parent wants a better life for their kids and I hope mine will choose to channel stress into something positive and rewarding.

Running works right now for me, but it won’t forever and it isn’t the only way. There’s also walking or biking or maybe knitting, all of which are easier on joints. The key seems to be finding something that is equal parts torture, er, challenge and reward. Taking the healthier routes seems to naturally lead to the next right path.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑