It's been a busy week. Saying good bye to some, welcoming some home, on kid duty, being a good friend, picking up where others need me to. Being supportive, being helpful, trying to keep up, and make up, and do enough... be enough. I'm tired.
All the while I try to get my runs in. Because I guess signing up for an ultra finally makes me a runner? And if it's part of my definition, then I have to do it, right? Who would I be if I didn't?.... Right?
I have run a total of 7.6 miles this week. Once upon a time, many years ago that would have been a good thing. But that was before I was a runner. It's no longer good enough.
I've been in my running clothes almost since the moment I got out of bed this morning. I thought that maybe if I put them on, I'd make it out the door eventually. Well, the hubs was gone, and the kids woke up. The oldest got home from a week of scout camp, exhausted, stinky, dirty, in a junk food crash and moodier than I've ever seen him. 7 hours later my running clothes are covered in bits of breakfast, tears of children, dirt, hair clippings (the boys were shaggy so I thought I'd tackle that before they showered), cleaning solution (the dog pooped in the basement?), marker and paper clippings (the elderly neighbor needed help making signs)- everything except my own salty sweat. I haven't run. Aaron says I can go out when he gets home from his race, but I know I may not want to even if I somehow have the time.
Some of you might get sick of reading about this funk that I'm in. But really, that's why I'm writing so much. To accept what is. I think maybe if I put it in writing, I can remove myself just enough to appreciate what I have done and not dwell on what I haven't.
This morning as my elderly neighbor, who has absolutely no brain-mouth filter, sat dictating what to put on her signs, ("Should I tell them why they need to remove their shoes? I've had the carpets done. Do they need to know that?"), she glanced over and said in her thick Australian accent, "Your upper legs, your thighs, they've gotten chubby, haven't they?" For a split second I was almost offended. Then I remembered that I've long since stopped caring about her questionable sanity and particularly unfiltered opinion. I replied calmly, "Dear, that's not something you say to anyone. Ever. Even if it's true." With a slight intake of breath, she began to back pedal. "Oh, I suppose not. I didn't mean. I don't... I don't think of you as fat. You are muscular! You- you have muscles! So strong!" With a gentle smile, I reassured her that I was fine. "Darn right, I'm strong!" She puzzled, "What would I say then? How would I put it?" I replied frankly, "Just don't say anything. Why would you need to?" She blinked. "Oh." And then abruptly changed the subject.
It's a fine balance, accepting where you are and trying to progress all at the same time. It's hard not to be discouraged by where you are, when where-you-wish-you-were peeks around the corner and wants to play the one-up game. It's also hard not to make excuses for your shortcomings, to stand up for where you are so much that you don't put the work in to move forward.
I don't know how to wrap this up prettily. I guess this is just me trying to talk myself out of beating myself up.
What is, just is. It will change. It always does.
15:28 Average pace
My 9 year old went with me, turfed it hard in the first half a mile and insisted on walking it off and finishing the planned route. It made for slow going. Frustrating as a runner, but made me a proud mom.