Running Riddikulusly
Today, I ran for 28 minutes, being in the middle of the eighth week of the Couch-To-5K nine-week plan. Of course, as I've been following the designated times rather than the designated distances, and as I've been "pacing myself," I'm not quite on track for five kilometers next week, as, according to the Gmap Pedometer, I ran only 2.38 miles. All of it, I might add, was uphill. It amazes me, but until I started running I had no idea that I could leave my house and travel a complete circuit through the neighborhood without ever descending. Apparently I live on a moebius strip. Today's more linear route was my attempt to limit the amount of climbing I would have to do: I spent much of it following the watershed of one of the ancient creeks. And yet still my body sends the message: "THIS IS UPHILL" while my brain divides the route into treacherous hills, steep climbs, steady uphill grades, and the occasional short stretch of almost, but not quite, sheer cliff face.
One thing that running has taught me is that my brain, much as I have trusted it over the years, doesn't always have my best interests at heart. Given half an hour of leisure time while my body and I are off jogging, it does nothing but concoct reasons why we should just go back to bed. For example, on Thursday, after about nine minutes of running and the hill out of the creekbed that I'm now sure is, if not K2, then at least K-twenty or twenty-five, my right Achilles' tendon issued a sensation. Not pain, not even discomfort, just a sensation. My body relays this to me as, "Uh, your Achilles' tendon would like you to know that it's here, and, on the whole, it would rather be sitting in a jacuzzi." Well, my brain overhears this, and it starts screaming, "It's going to SNAP and you'll be CRIPPLED and in a WHEELCHAIR and they better find a DOUBLE-WIDE WHEELCHAIR 'cause you'll be FAT ANYWAY so you should GO HOME and read the internet but DON'T POST or COMMENT because NO ONE WANTS TO READ YOU . . . " Meanwhile, my Achilles' tendon has long ago messaged "kthxbye!" and my body is wrapped up in trying to get over what we had previously believed to be a nice rolling lane but which evidence now suggests is a seriously disoriented Himalaya.
So my interest was piqued yesterday when LifeHacker linked to a post by Steve Pavlina on reprogramming negative thought patterns. "Hey!" I said, "I could use some advice on doing that -- if only I were smart enough to understand the instructions . . . " Pavina's method makes use of techniques from Neuro-Linguistic Programming, a controversial field of pop psychology of which I'd never before encountered semipractical applications in embarrassing contexts, no sirree. Pavlina's approach is multi-pronged:Let’s assume your negative thought is a subvocalization, meaning that it’s like you hear a voice in your head that says something you want to change, like, “I’m an idiot.” If the negative thought is visual (a mental image) or kinesthetic (a gut feeling), you can use a similar process. In many cases the thought will manifest as a combination of all three (visual, auditory, and kinesthetic).
Step 1: Turn the negative thought into a mental image.
Take that little voice, and turn it into a corresponding mental picture. For example, if your thought is, “I’m an idiot,” imagine yourself wearing a dunce cap, dressed very foolishly, and jumping around like a dork. See yourself surrounded by other people all pointing at you while you shout, “I’m an idiot.” The more you exaggerate the scene, the better. Imagine bright colors, lots of animation, rapid movement, and even sexual imagery if it helps you remember. Rehearse this scene over and over in your mind until you reach the point where thinking the negative thought automatically brings up this goofy imagery.
There are four more steps, but many LJ denizens will have already recognized in step one the beginnings of the Riddikulus spell."The charm that repels a boggart is simple, yet it requires force of mind. You see, the thing that really finishes a boggart is laughter. What you need to do is force it to assume a shape that you find amusing.
"We will practice the charm without wands first. After me, please . . . Riddikulus!"
"Riddikulus!" said the class together.
"Good," said Professor Lupin. "Very good. But that was the easy part, I'm afraid. You see, the word alone is not enough. And this is where you come in, Neville."
The wardrobe shook again, though not as much as Neville, who walked forward as though he were heading for the gallows.
"Right, Neville," said Professor Lupin. "First things first: what would you say is the thing that frightens you most in the world?"
Neville's lips moved, but no noise came out.
"I didn't catch that, Neville, sorry," said Professor Lupin cheerfully.
Neville looked around rather wildly, as though begging someone to help him, then said, in barely more than a whisper, "Professor Snape."
Nearly everyone laughed. Even Neville grinned apologetically. Professor Lupin, however, looked thoughtful.
"Professor Snape... hmmm... Neville, I believe you live with your grandmother?"
"Er -- yes," said Neville nervously. "But -- I don't want the boggart to turn into her either."
"No, no, you misunderstand me," said Professor Lupin, now smiling. "I wonder, could you tell us what sort of clothes your grandmother usually wears?"
Neville looked startled, but said, "Well... always the same hat. A tall one with a stuffed vulture on top. And a long dress... green, normally... and sometimes a fox-fur scarf."
"And a handbag?" prompted Professor Lupin.
"A big red one," said Neville.
"Right then," said Professor Lupin. "Can you picture those clothes very clearly, Neville? Can you see them in your mind's eye?"
"Yes," said Neville uncertainty, plainly wondering what was coming next.
"When the boggart bursts out of this wardrobe, Neville, and sees You, it will assume the form of Professor Snape," said Lupin. "And You will raise your wand -- thus -- and cry 'Riddikulus' -- and concentrate hard on your grandmother's clothes. If all goes well, Professor Boggart Snape will be forced into that vulture-topped hat, and that green dress, with that big red handbag."
There was a great shout of laughter. The wardrobe wobbled more
violently.
[ . . . ]
"On the count of three, Neville," said Professor Lupin, who was pointing his own wand at the handle of the wardrobe. "One two -- three -- now!"
A jet of sparks shot from the end of Professor Lupin's wand and hit the doorknob. The wardrobe burst open. Hook-nosed and menacing, Professor Snape stepped out, his eyes flashing at Neville.
Neville backed away, his wand up, mouthing wordlessly. Snape was bearing down upon him, reaching inside his robes.
"R -- r -- riddikulus! "squeaked Neville.
There was a noise like a whip crack. Snape stumbled; he was wearing a long, lace-trimmed dress and a towering hat topped with a moth-eaten vulture, and he was swinging a huge crimson handbag.
There was a roar of laughter; the boggart paused, confused, and Professor Lupin shouted, "Parvati! Forward!"
This is not the first time I've associated Prisoner of Azkaban with obscure psychological theories (from my perspective, any psychological theory other than Freud, Jung, or the application of massive amounts of SSRIs is an obscure one). Joan Acocella, writing in the July 31, 2000, issue of The New Yorker, opined that the Dementors represented not just depression but John Bowlby's theory of depression. I have no opinion on that, but I do know that Monday morning, when I'm out running, I'll be casting Riddikulus on all the damn hills.