What Are You Waiting For, Chump?
A few days ago, I had an MMA-style wrasslin' match with the ladyfriend (I did not peg her for the arm-bar type, until I realized that she used our pee break time to look up moves on YouTube. Cheating, or good research? I can't decide). The next day, in typical old person fashion, I woke up with the entire lumbar region of my spine screaming in pain. (I never thought I'd say this but...old college injury.) So for the last few days, I've been limping around and picking things up off the floor with my toes. I'm quite dexterous with the little bastards, so it hasn't been that difficult.
This injury hadn't really been a problem until recently. I graduated with my worthless AA in 2005 and that makes it about 6 years. During that time, I've been a competitive distance runner and more recently a triathlete. I started biking all the time in 2007 and until 2010, I kept that going. And I've been swimming regularly since about 2008. That's pretty healthy, right?
I suspect that the problem didn't happen until I tipped over 135 pounds. You might think that's a healthy wieght for someone 5"4' ish. Well, maybe, but it's not for me. I firmly believe, with the conviction of all dedicated eating disordered persons that 125 or 115 would be the ideal wieght for competitive Sam. I don't think I have an eating disorder, but I do disagree with my doctor who says 130-50 is perfectly fine because he's not a sports doctor. He doesn't compete in anything but the hair loss olympics. It's a healthy wieght but not a competitive one.
To be honest, I don't really care about the wieght, it, like what really matters, is just a mile marker. It's an indicator, a flag. It's just a scale, and according to the Huffington Post's Extremely Reliable Reporters, scales are rarely accurate. Well, 5-10 pounds off, but that's about how much wieght fluctuates with hydration and clothing choices anyway. (I'm on my third extra large snowflake mug of Sleepytime Extra because it's the only one with mint in it, stay awake through that? Challenge accepted, Good Earth, Challege Accepted.)
What really matters is performance. I'm alright, I routinely finish 2nd or 3rd in local, fairly well-attended 5, 8 and 10ks. I came in 4th at the Lake Meridian Sprint Tri, blah blah blah, accomplishments. I finished a half iron too, which was a really big flag, because it took me like 6.5 hours, which is ridiculous. But I know with the burning conviction of committed and addicted athletes everywhere, that I'm not as good as I could be. Doesn't mean I'm bad, but it does mean that I'm average. Lame. My grandmother told me all that shit you're supposed to get from parents about being the president someday, or going to the Olympics or winning the Coney Island Hot Dog eating contest or essentially, being the superlative something or other. I'll probably never be the fastest triathlete, because good lord have you seen Chrissie Wellington? She looks like the Bodies Exhibit with a tan. I'm completely in love with her, though.
You will notice that in many of her pictures, she's holding the tape that she's just broken through, because she's amazing. She's also basically unstoppable. Because she's donated all her free time and effort to getting that way. I'll never be a Chrissie Wellington because I like cuddling way too damn much. There's nothing to say that I couldn't make Team USA and compete all over the world though. I was on the way to being seriously competitive a while ago, and I stared down the training load gleefully. My high school coach once said that I was a glutton for punishment and sent me on my 7th mile repeat at Ski Hill in Leavenworth. Not that impressive I guess. Except for the consistent 6:45's my team of ladies and I were running. That's really fast. We were really fast. And then my senior year, I got faster and worked harder and cared more. And then college came and I kind of stopped caring.
It's been what you might describe as downhill since then.
I'm carrying more weight than I did then, and running better times in all the events I've ever done. But it's almost like the specter of that success is haunting me. If I did this well with all these detriments stacked against me, what could I do if I really tried. That has been going through my head for three or four years like a goddamn Kesha song. It's the constant refrain of "you have no one to blame but yourself for your lack of success." I feel like I've been saying that to a lot of people for a long time, because you know that it's true. There's nothing stopping me but me. And an agonizing back injury.
Before I let this become a nostalgic look back on my salad days, I want to get to the real point of this story.
I define myself by a couple of things, and measure my success and consequently, happiness by them.
One is physical activity. As much as I used to care about creating and performing and whathaveyou, I've always been an athlete, and even as I sit here and work on mug #4 instead of going running (incredibly painful to move, which makes running dificult) I'm thinking about the pathetic-but-still-trying wieght routine I'm going to do later, maybe in front of Cold Case reruns, maybe not. (a side note, because I'm feeling like a hermit, I made some weights out of jugs of Arizona Iced Tea and empty cat litter containers. Still creative! I can't get away from it, apparently.) But if you split last summer into a pie with 4 slices, I only spent one slice training. Chrissie Wellington probably doesn't even eat pie. And look at that stack of ribbons, medals and trophies! Imagine what you could do if you really applied yourself!
Another is creativity. I guess it never really goes away, just remanifests itself constantly, but let me just tell you about how I can't even keep a journal anymore. I don't care about writing at all. I used to scribble shit everywhere, go to all the open mics (the ones with little or no cover, anyway) Featured performer, host, MC, what have you etc. Lately, my mouth doesn't even try to make words come out correctly. I've literally developed a speech impediment. Who is this creature living in my body and sucking at being me? (I'd make an Animorphs reference, but I don't think many of you would get it, or not laugh at me.)
The last one, and probably the most telling and important, is consistency. I can't finish anything. I guess sticking by my own standards, I choose not to finish things. I made a huge line of really awesome looking decoupage picture frames, started to upload the pictures to Etsy.com, and then forgot about it. I start cleaning the bathroom and then talk myself out of doing the ceiling (mold issue, old house, don't judge). I've never been the type to watch TV, except maybe movies, but lately, if I can put something off and watch a whole season of How I Met Your Mother, well, Challenge Accepted. I'm not this person! I committed to riding my bike out here, but lately the hills are just too much. I'm burnt out, I'm defeated. I lost my job in June and that might be a big contributing factor, but I think I was even faking it then, hoping for that magical sparkly moment when I got happy with myself.
Didn't happen. I did realize today though that I'm waiting for that. I'm waiting for that wake-up call. I'm waiting to hit rock bottom, because I've never even let myself go before. I think the worst part of knowing is that you really literally have no excuse. I have no excuse. My doctor told me I have a vitamin D deficiency and that I should exercise more. I picked up the chair and threw it at his head, picked him up by the lapels of his lab coat and screamed "My Pain is Different!" into his liver-spotted face. Not really, I made my GF drive me to Central Market to buy some vitamin D supplements. Delicious gummy ones. But really, I think something is wrong with me, but in the end I know that I can fix it.
There's an expiration date on the amount of time I spend here. I can count on one hand the number of really good friends I have, and I've done my best to isolate myself from them, maybe on purpose, maybe accidentally (but I commute by bike and the hills are so godawful! Whine!) There has to be a time limit, because this place is killing me. Not because there's anything wrong with Kitsap county (HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA) but because I'm pinning my hopes on this cross-country move and hoping that because this is a self-created condition and if I can convice myself to be this low, then maybe that same creative genius can convince me that moving somewhere else will be my salvation.
There's a part in the beginning of the racing season where I pray for a stray motorist to severely injure me so I don't have to finish my run/ride/swim, and I've learned recognize that voice as a part of the process; it eventually turns into a sort of indescribable joy that makes all the ridiculousness worth it. This time, the voice is speaking to every part of my life, and I'm sort of hoping there's something actually wrong with me so I can take refuge in mental instability like I have seen most of my family do before me. But the older, wiser me is hoping that it's just a part of the process and that pretty soon that joy that comes from living the way I choose to will come back in time. Otherwise, I'm going to a less smart doctor and getting some high quality anti-depressants so I can be just like all those other Americans that I dislike. (side note, medication is good for some people, I'm not knocking that, just the constant need to medicate that our health care system seems to have, in the face of very little actual knowlege about the long term effects of said medications.)
So. Will pinning my hopes on something actually work? Will I be able to survive, knowing that the end is in sight? It's always darkest before the dawn, unless you live in the city, because that's usually when the trains stop running and the drive-byers and the hookers give it up for the night and there's that one hour of blissful silence. I live in the country, so I guess we'll see.
This injury hadn't really been a problem until recently. I graduated with my worthless AA in 2005 and that makes it about 6 years. During that time, I've been a competitive distance runner and more recently a triathlete. I started biking all the time in 2007 and until 2010, I kept that going. And I've been swimming regularly since about 2008. That's pretty healthy, right?
I suspect that the problem didn't happen until I tipped over 135 pounds. You might think that's a healthy wieght for someone 5"4' ish. Well, maybe, but it's not for me. I firmly believe, with the conviction of all dedicated eating disordered persons that 125 or 115 would be the ideal wieght for competitive Sam. I don't think I have an eating disorder, but I do disagree with my doctor who says 130-50 is perfectly fine because he's not a sports doctor. He doesn't compete in anything but the hair loss olympics. It's a healthy wieght but not a competitive one.
To be honest, I don't really care about the wieght, it, like what really matters, is just a mile marker. It's an indicator, a flag. It's just a scale, and according to the Huffington Post's Extremely Reliable Reporters, scales are rarely accurate. Well, 5-10 pounds off, but that's about how much wieght fluctuates with hydration and clothing choices anyway. (I'm on my third extra large snowflake mug of Sleepytime Extra because it's the only one with mint in it, stay awake through that? Challenge accepted, Good Earth, Challege Accepted.)
What really matters is performance. I'm alright, I routinely finish 2nd or 3rd in local, fairly well-attended 5, 8 and 10ks. I came in 4th at the Lake Meridian Sprint Tri, blah blah blah, accomplishments. I finished a half iron too, which was a really big flag, because it took me like 6.5 hours, which is ridiculous. But I know with the burning conviction of committed and addicted athletes everywhere, that I'm not as good as I could be. Doesn't mean I'm bad, but it does mean that I'm average. Lame. My grandmother told me all that shit you're supposed to get from parents about being the president someday, or going to the Olympics or winning the Coney Island Hot Dog eating contest or essentially, being the superlative something or other. I'll probably never be the fastest triathlete, because good lord have you seen Chrissie Wellington? She looks like the Bodies Exhibit with a tan. I'm completely in love with her, though.
You will notice that in many of her pictures, she's holding the tape that she's just broken through, because she's amazing. She's also basically unstoppable. Because she's donated all her free time and effort to getting that way. I'll never be a Chrissie Wellington because I like cuddling way too damn much. There's nothing to say that I couldn't make Team USA and compete all over the world though. I was on the way to being seriously competitive a while ago, and I stared down the training load gleefully. My high school coach once said that I was a glutton for punishment and sent me on my 7th mile repeat at Ski Hill in Leavenworth. Not that impressive I guess. Except for the consistent 6:45's my team of ladies and I were running. That's really fast. We were really fast. And then my senior year, I got faster and worked harder and cared more. And then college came and I kind of stopped caring.
It's been what you might describe as downhill since then.
I'm carrying more weight than I did then, and running better times in all the events I've ever done. But it's almost like the specter of that success is haunting me. If I did this well with all these detriments stacked against me, what could I do if I really tried. That has been going through my head for three or four years like a goddamn Kesha song. It's the constant refrain of "you have no one to blame but yourself for your lack of success." I feel like I've been saying that to a lot of people for a long time, because you know that it's true. There's nothing stopping me but me. And an agonizing back injury.
Before I let this become a nostalgic look back on my salad days, I want to get to the real point of this story.
I define myself by a couple of things, and measure my success and consequently, happiness by them.
One is physical activity. As much as I used to care about creating and performing and whathaveyou, I've always been an athlete, and even as I sit here and work on mug #4 instead of going running (incredibly painful to move, which makes running dificult) I'm thinking about the pathetic-but-still-trying wieght routine I'm going to do later, maybe in front of Cold Case reruns, maybe not. (a side note, because I'm feeling like a hermit, I made some weights out of jugs of Arizona Iced Tea and empty cat litter containers. Still creative! I can't get away from it, apparently.) But if you split last summer into a pie with 4 slices, I only spent one slice training. Chrissie Wellington probably doesn't even eat pie. And look at that stack of ribbons, medals and trophies! Imagine what you could do if you really applied yourself!
Another is creativity. I guess it never really goes away, just remanifests itself constantly, but let me just tell you about how I can't even keep a journal anymore. I don't care about writing at all. I used to scribble shit everywhere, go to all the open mics (the ones with little or no cover, anyway) Featured performer, host, MC, what have you etc. Lately, my mouth doesn't even try to make words come out correctly. I've literally developed a speech impediment. Who is this creature living in my body and sucking at being me? (I'd make an Animorphs reference, but I don't think many of you would get it, or not laugh at me.)
The last one, and probably the most telling and important, is consistency. I can't finish anything. I guess sticking by my own standards, I choose not to finish things. I made a huge line of really awesome looking decoupage picture frames, started to upload the pictures to Etsy.com, and then forgot about it. I start cleaning the bathroom and then talk myself out of doing the ceiling (mold issue, old house, don't judge). I've never been the type to watch TV, except maybe movies, but lately, if I can put something off and watch a whole season of How I Met Your Mother, well, Challenge Accepted. I'm not this person! I committed to riding my bike out here, but lately the hills are just too much. I'm burnt out, I'm defeated. I lost my job in June and that might be a big contributing factor, but I think I was even faking it then, hoping for that magical sparkly moment when I got happy with myself.
Didn't happen. I did realize today though that I'm waiting for that. I'm waiting for that wake-up call. I'm waiting to hit rock bottom, because I've never even let myself go before. I think the worst part of knowing is that you really literally have no excuse. I have no excuse. My doctor told me I have a vitamin D deficiency and that I should exercise more. I picked up the chair and threw it at his head, picked him up by the lapels of his lab coat and screamed "My Pain is Different!" into his liver-spotted face. Not really, I made my GF drive me to Central Market to buy some vitamin D supplements. Delicious gummy ones. But really, I think something is wrong with me, but in the end I know that I can fix it.
There's an expiration date on the amount of time I spend here. I can count on one hand the number of really good friends I have, and I've done my best to isolate myself from them, maybe on purpose, maybe accidentally (but I commute by bike and the hills are so godawful! Whine!) There has to be a time limit, because this place is killing me. Not because there's anything wrong with Kitsap county (HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA) but because I'm pinning my hopes on this cross-country move and hoping that because this is a self-created condition and if I can convice myself to be this low, then maybe that same creative genius can convince me that moving somewhere else will be my salvation.
There's a part in the beginning of the racing season where I pray for a stray motorist to severely injure me so I don't have to finish my run/ride/swim, and I've learned recognize that voice as a part of the process; it eventually turns into a sort of indescribable joy that makes all the ridiculousness worth it. This time, the voice is speaking to every part of my life, and I'm sort of hoping there's something actually wrong with me so I can take refuge in mental instability like I have seen most of my family do before me. But the older, wiser me is hoping that it's just a part of the process and that pretty soon that joy that comes from living the way I choose to will come back in time. Otherwise, I'm going to a less smart doctor and getting some high quality anti-depressants so I can be just like all those other Americans that I dislike. (side note, medication is good for some people, I'm not knocking that, just the constant need to medicate that our health care system seems to have, in the face of very little actual knowlege about the long term effects of said medications.)
So. Will pinning my hopes on something actually work? Will I be able to survive, knowing that the end is in sight? It's always darkest before the dawn, unless you live in the city, because that's usually when the trains stop running and the drive-byers and the hookers give it up for the night and there's that one hour of blissful silence. I live in the country, so I guess we'll see.