Monday, October 27, 2014

That's what she said.

Dear Diary,

I have pictures. Lots of them, but since the big apple update Blogsy has been a struggle. So, I've put off posting anything since I can't upload pictures. Guess I'll do a lo-fi version.

For the past couple of years I've been struggling with the persistent feeling that time was running out. I have clinical depression, and I've spent the past six months fighting it with more running and setting more goals for myself. For the past two months, in particular, I've really been enjoying NOT BEING DEPRESSED. Feeling like I have all the time in the world, so, what shall I do with my shiny new life?

Every morning when I run, I come up with things and think, oo, I should write about that! Then after I've finished it's gone....all gone. Except for one: Yesterday I reached the collision of my worlds when I was nearly at the end of my run and realized that the glasses I thought I'd forgotten were on my head. This is the only thing that I've been able to remember--just this, that I was doing my weekly 2-mike run for time, with my glasses on my head, wishing I could see.

My weight has held steady at about a 17-lb loss. Last week I ordered some pants of a certain size. The smart, logical part of my brain said, you are swimming in those 12s. But the fat woman inside of me--yes, it's true, there's a fat woman inside of me struggling to get out; it is she who tells the man behind the counter that we would like an 8 piece fried, thank you. It is she who passes by mirrors, afraid to look. It is she who said, those 10s will never fit, you fat fuck. They won't even get up your hips. You wasted your money. And that medium? Forget it. You are, and always will be, an XL, or when you're really dehydrated, an L.

That's what she said.

But she was wrong. They did fit. Along with other things that have happened I have decided to pretend that the year on my birth certificate is, after all, an error. I am not 49. Why, yesterday, I ran a 10k that was my second fastest time ever! I am not really 49.

This is what 49 means to me: Fat. Tired. Pantsuits. Breathlessness. Giving up. Wishing I'd gotten that degree. That was the model that was set before me.

Last week, I was doing 20" box jumps, which were alternated with front squats while holding a 95-lb weight. That was three days after running a local half marathon.

The week before i did the box jumps, I walked in and took the Graduate Record Exam without preparing for it, and I didn't suck. That was three days after I did back-to-back marathons in Rhode Islands and Connecticut.

And the week before that, I asked three people I knew professionally if they would write letters of recommendation for me, ordered transcripts, and completed my online application for a PhD program.

I am not 49.

You are too old to do this. Too old to start something new. You'll be a member of AARP before you get your degree. That's what she said.

As for the example I'm setting, well, my 30-year-old son told me, somewhat wearily, you've set the bar pretty high, mom. Well, of course I told him, live your life, don't live mine. But inside, I was happy that he saw a different vision of 49 than I did.

I don't know if I'll get accepted into graduate school. After all, I didn't study for the GRE and I don't know if my scores are good enough. I don't know a lot of things. But I do know this: i am not 49.






 I'm no longer involved in multisport or endurance sports. I've started my own business, a psychotherapist specializing in anxiety d...