Keep On Moving

Do you ever suffer from reverse body dysmorphia?  Where you think you look better than you actually do, and then it all comes crashing to ground when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a shop window.

We're living in the teeny tiny house with no mirrors at the moment, and I'm sorry, but a misted over bathroom mirror or a mirror that even the husband has to stand on the bed on his tippy toes to put his contact lenses in don't count.  We have no full length mirrors.
I know the importance of a good full length mirror, in fact on our first real "shop" together, when we were supposed to be buying practical stuff like washing machines and toasters, the Husband and I brought a massive full length mirror that can be tilted to give the illusion of elongation.  We also brought a small guilt edged mirror.  At the end of that shopping trip we were able to tick the 'mirrors" box on our must buy list, but nothing else.
Still with my favourite mirror in storage (along with the rest of my life), and with no mirrors where we're living, I need to rely on shop windows.  And it always give that nasty shock when you realise that a) those pants actually are too tight or b) those shoes don't make my legs longer or even c) seriously?  You thought this all worked together?

The most confronting times are when I'm running and I see myself in a glass bus stand as I run towards it.  I know I am neither elegant nor straight kneed when I run, yet it still surprises me when I see myself.  I swore never to run in an event that takes those professional photos, in shorts again.  Tights to the knee can hold a multitude of sins, flabby thighs and loose skin included.  I only hope that the weather stays cool for my marathon in September, it's hard to suck in your thighs as you run past the camera when the only thought in your mind is survival.

I have many friends with amazeball bodies, that you can't even feel an iota of jealousy because they work hard, and they look fabulous, and hell, they were kind of born that way.
Yes I'd love a number of changes to my body, but medieval torture weapons aside, someone is yet to invent a way to make legs longer.
You all know that I'm training for a marathon in 5 weeks...jaysus, yet sadly, my body is the same as always (on the surface - I'm guessing my knees are saying, "are you kidding us?).  I do not look like a skeletal olympic marathon runner, I just look like me.  Maybe it's got something to do with my favourite post run recovery of potato chips and chocolate milk, or maybe it's because I run long distances without running out of puff.  But the fact is, I feel good about myself because I know I'm doing something. I'm moving, and logic says if you move then you're going to be healthier than if you didn't.

And when you feel good about yourself, everything has a way of mentally firming up. And you smile that little bit more, and your shoulders are pulled back slightly further.  And you don't need to be running a marathon, you just need to be moving.

And now I look in those shop mirrors and ignore them .  I think to myself; "this is my body I've been born with and I will do everything in my power to make it the best it can be within it's own confines."
It's when I stop believing this and doing this, that trouble starts.
So I don't stop.

Do you get this?  What do you do to feel good about yourself?

Postscript; have you EVER seen a worse case of shin wobble than in my photo?  I didn't even think it was possible for shins to wobble?

Running Me

You know this blog is a bit of an outlet for me to bleat on about the ol' chestnut of living your best life, and most of you know that in the spirit of trying to do just that, I've taken on a big life challenge this year of running a road marathon. I try not to talk about it too much and keep it lurking in the background, because really running stories aren't interesting to most.  But with only 10 weeks to go, it's starting to poke its head up a little more, and I'm learning a few things about myself.  And they're kind of living your best life stuff, so I think it's cool to chat every once and a while about it.

I am lucky enough to have a couple of friends who are also running the marathon, in all honesty, they're likely to be showered and drinking chocolate milk by the time I straggle in and seriously girls, I'm cool with that, just don't let me see you doing it.  One of the girls is my lovely friend Kayte who has a clever iron-man husband who's training her and has kindly taken me on as a "the little engine who could' kind of project.  I promised him I'd do whatever he asked of me, so when he tells me to run for 2 hours and 45 minutes, that's what I do, to the second.  He gives her lots of advice like "eat the pain" and "HTFU" but he's still being too nice to tell me that, although if he saw me that's exactly what he'd want to say to me, so I tell myself those sage words instead.

I had a gruelling run on Friday.  Mentally it's tough heading out knowing that you've got to move for that long, but I keep pretty neutral in my head, although the occasional silent scream "WTF, are you kidding me, I have got soooo much longer to go?", shaking me which I shut down and put in the "bad voices I will ignore" part of my running head.  For my last 30 minutes, I was primal, there was snot, there was nausea, there was ominous groans from the depth of my bowels.  It was not a good space.  I looked nothing like the lunchtime joggers bounding round the racetrack of Sydneys gardens.  I was the hobbling, clench jaw, clenched butt, snotty, stinky woman. It was a lonely place.
My time ticked over, I got to stop, and that's when the pain really started as tearfully, I hobbled to my ferry home.  And truthfully, I was emotionally spent and teary for a long while after.

But the beauty of this gig, is that today I heard a song that's on my iPod, instantly it took me to a spot and time on my run, and I had a strange moment where I missed that run.  I bet that didn't even make sense. But I actually missed my long, hard run that made me tearful.
Which got me thinking...I've realised that the only thing that's going to stop me getting to the start line and the finish line of this personal Everest are injuries.  Not my willpower.
And the only person I'm in competition with, is myself, and the only one I've got to beat are those voices in my head.
Because it doesn't matter if it's running 5km or 42km, swimming 1km when you can only swim 50 m, going to 3 spin classes a week and improving your resistance, or whatever your personal physical challenge is, the goal is to have a goal. And the reward from achieving this goal is a very personal and introspective form of self actualisation. A feeling of "I was actually good enough to do this, I did it".
I want this bad, I just hope these legs, these creaky old knees and sore hips, want it as much as the rest of me does.

Does anyone else get me?


Postscript.  I don't know why I though I'd end up stick thin and streamlined by running a marathon - pipe dream folks, mirrors don't lie

The Bridge

There are some things that are sent to try us as parents.  Everyone has different things.  Every child is unique.
For one of my boys, the school cross country is his bridge to cross.  Except his bridge is high above a raging, crocodile infested river, with a rickety broken walkway.  Last year, he hadn't realised his bridge was like that, he didn't think about what his bridge would look like until the starting gun went and 90 kids took off like scalded cats and his nervous breath lasted the first 200m before he realised he was in the wrong race and had run out of puff.  But not tears.

As we approached this years event, the bridge in his mind had got higher still, and maybe there was even fire on it.  It certainly looked difficult to cross.  And scary.

We trained, we talked, we planned. "Run like a turtle, not a hare at the start, run to the bridge then take a break, use all your fuel up on the last sprint to the end, run 90%, walk 10%, " (The Husband didn't agree with that one). When we did little practices, he would run solidly without complaint.  He'd just go.
Race day came,  he ran like a turtle at the start, he didn't stop at the bridge, he sprinted like a madman to the end, he ran "96%, walked 4%" (his words).  He did it.  He crossed his bridge.

Every child has got something.  For my son, school cross country isn't currently his thing.  But when driving home early (via a 7-11 for a slurpee to celebrate), unprompted, my son said "I feel really proud of myself, I got to the end, I made it the whole way."
I think this is the first time he's ever said he's proud of himself, without being asked.

Bridge crossed; tick.

What bridges do you have?  Have you crossed them?