No, I'm not just making these up as I go along. Well, maybe I will down the line, but right now, I actually had this one at the beginning of the year. I'm spreading them out so I have something to write about on these cold winter nights when I'd rather crawl under the electric blanket with a book.
So I've always eschewed diets as a resolution (but not using big words like eschewed.. I love when I know a big word without having to look it up - especially when I can use it in a sentence!). I did unofficially resolve to lose those five pounds last year that snuck up on me when I wasn't looking, but I did it in that non-diet-worded way like, I'm going to fit into those jeans I love by the end of the year!
So for a year I tried, quite unsuccessfully if you judge by the jeans that are still stuck in the back of the closet. The fact is - I can do all the right things (exercise, eat well, etc) and still not get the results I want. Total lack of control.
This year I decided to try a different tactic. The heck with the jeans. Hey, I've got a husband that thinks I'm sexy... do I need any other opinion? So this year I'm going to do what I've always thought impossible. I'm going to run ten miles.
Some of you have just fallen over in an apoplectic seizure. (BIG WORDS!) Some of you are rolling your eyes thinking, "Hey, what's the big deal?" (I know who you are, too, you athletic, marathon-loving triathletes!). But for me, the pinnacle of my athleticism was a running class in college ( I know! A running class! Like they have to teach you how to do that! And I got credit for it!). The end goal of that class: a three mile run. I about passed out. Three miles seemed like - well, a lot. Really a lot. And when I did it, I thought I had reached the peak of what I would ever do... in my entire life. Three whole miles. Running.
And now, I have pushed myself to six and a half. Me. An almost forty-year-old with one partially crippled foot (but it's on the mend - really - any day now). And when I got to five miles, at the beginning of this year, I thought, why not? Why not ten miles? Three months ago I wasn't running two without gasping for breath. If I can do five, why not ten?
It's not getting me into my jeans any faster. It's not helping my blood sugar (darn it, it's actually making it worse, which totally isn't suppose to happen!). It isn't clearing my head and giving me time to think about plotting my next book (all I think about while running is air! air! I need air! and who put this stupid song on my mp3 player anyway??). But I love it. And I feel good. And I actually think I could go skiing again without breaking anything, which I didn't think last year. And I have to believe that in the long run, it's good for me.
But really, I just enjoy it. And if I can say in twelve months that I've run ten miles - even if only once - that will be more than I ever thought I'd be able to say.