cleaning out my closet ...

On Saturday night, J and I went out for a belated anniversary dinner. Since we don't often get the opportunity to go anywhere without the girls, I decided to actually put some effort into my appearance. So much so, that when I came downstairs, Dizzle told J that he "better put on a tuxedo."

And although it looked like I really thought about my outfit, that wasn't the case. I didn't even have a choice since there one only one dress in my closet that I could fit into, thus making it the obvious winner.

We clean up quite nicely ...

but, nothing can change our personalities ...

This has been happening a lot to me lately. I go to put something on to find out that it fit me 20 pounds ago. And it breaks me down. Like, I pout. And get defensive. And yell at the people I love.

I know logically that it shouldn't. I know for a fact that the vast majority (over 15 pounds) of that weight is newly gained muscle mass. But there is something about standing in a closet with clothes that are two sizes too small that make you want to cry, that can make you feel like you're failing and that can make you believe that all the effort isn't worth it.

I've been holding on to all of these items hoping that one morning I am going to wake up and they are all going to fit again. And as much as I am letting the numbers on the scale and the tags mess with my head, I know deep down that I don't really want to fit the picture in my head (or the clothes in my closet) if that means I lose my muscle and the strength that comes with them. Also, I'm really not okay with having to discipline myself even more than I already do just to have a body that is impossible for me to maintain.

So, the morning after our date, I tried on every piece of clothing that I own. Then I got rid of anything and everything that didn't fit me perfectly. If it made me feel even slightly self conscious, I ditched it. And the "trash" pile was HUGE. So huge that J gave me this look like I was crazy and then proceeded to tell me that I'll fit back into them one day, which of course, was an epic mistake since I was already feeling sensitive about the fact that I couldn't put on half of my clothing. I may have yelled in response. (Sorry J.)

Once I was done, I felt so much better. The whole process made me realize that size does matter, just not in the way I thought. I don't need to be a size 4 or 6 or 000 (did you know that's a real thing?) to feel good about myself and my body (honestly, I had issues then too), but I do need to embrace the size that I am if I am ever going to be content with the body I have, big or small.

Wanted: Relaxation ...

I have a hard time relaxing.

I'm always thinking of the next thing that needs to get done, before I've even tackled the first. Messes to be cleaned. Projects to finish.

I look at the world around me and I don't see how great it is. I focus in on how it could be better.

It is a horrible feeling. It sits in my throat like a hunger.

I wish I could be more like J sometimes.

I'm sure he sees all the same things I do, but it never bothers him. He doesn't care if the kids have toys everywhere. He doesn't think twice when there are dishes in the sink. I've always thought that he wasn't bothered by these things because he knew they'd be taken care of eventually (most likely by me). But, I'm starting to think that it's actually that those things just aren't important to him. If they aren't impeding his life in any significant way, he'll take care of them later. Even if later is so long from now that it eats away at my soul.

Every night, once the kids are in bed, I clean the house. I make sure everything is put away. All the dishes are done. Lunches for the next day are made. The laundry is folded. The floors are swept. I literally can not sit down until I've run through my checklist. At the same exact time, J can grab his iPad and "decompress" while I run around wrapping up our day.

I have never, in the nearly 11 years we have been together, been able to understand this.

I wish I could just forget that there are things to do.
I wish I could make an entire meal and leave the mess to be cleaned up after we eat. (This is often why I eat cold food.)
I wish I could walk by a pile of papers without wanting to sort through it.
I wish that decluttering wasn't my favorite pastime.

My habits are so ingrained in me that I don't know that I'll ever be able to let them go. But I so want to.

Eight years ago ..

Eight years ago today, pretty much to the hour, J and I said, "I do," on the shoreline of the Bahamas.

Over the past eight years, we have lived in three different homes.

We've added three beautiful daughters to our family.

And we've faced our share of challenges together. (Including a debate, just this morning, over which stuffed animals should get to keep residence in our home. Be jealous of my life.)

We are a team. We form a unified front, supporting each other no matter how far fetched our dreams may be.

He is my everything. And always will be. 

J, I love you more than I can ever express. Happy Anniversary.

An apology ...

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for the last two days.

I'm sorry to my legs for pounding them with 138.2 miles in just two workouts.

I'm sorry to my hips and butt for the cumulative 6 hours and 34 minutes I sat on my bike since Sunday.

I'm sorry to my feet for running as much in the past weekend than I had in the last two weeks.

I'm sorry to my stomach for overfilling it when the post-workout hunger cycle started.

I'm sorry to my head for powering through my workout despite the searing headache.

I'm sorry to my arms for having to hold my body up for all those long hours on the bike.

I'm sorry to my girls for constantly telling them, "Just a minute. I'm almost done with this cycle." 

I'm sorry to my husband for leaving him with our rather demanding children for a large portion of this weekend. I'm sorry for falling asleep on the couch at 8 p.m. I'm sorry that I failed to straighten up the house. And I am sorry I didn't get to play in the snow with him and the girls.

I'm sorry for getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry for thinking that I could manage Ironman training with a husband that travels constantly and kids that still don't go to school full-time. I'm sorry for trying to jump the gun again.

What I'm not sorry for is showing my kids that it takes hard work to reach your goals. I'm not sorry for pushing myself past my limits. I'm not sorry for trying my best to get it all done. And I'm not sorry for putting the "Finish an Ironman" goal out there. I will. Maybe not as soon as I would like. But I will.

And then I'll probably be making these apologies all over again ...

thunderstorms ...

One of the things that I love about running is that you can do it almost anywhere, at any time, under any conditions. In the past four years, I have run in temperatures over 90 degrees and below zero. I have run under clear blue skies and in the pouring rain and in feet of snow. If I have the right gear, nothing is going to stop me from finishing my run.

Well, nothing but thunderstorms.

I 100% absolutely refuse to run during a thunderstorm. And my paranoia is quite extreme. All it takes to stop me in my tracks is the sound of thunder off in the distance. If I wake up for my run and hear thunder, I get back in bed. Not even being en route to meet my posse is enough to keep me from crawling back into bed. In fact, I've driven halfway to a run and then returned home after seeing a single bolt of lightning.

I'm a chicken. A chicken who doesn't want to be a fried chicken.

On most days, this "no thunderstorm" rule I have applied doesn't really affect my running. If I miss my morning run with GBA, I just make it up that evening on my treadmill. Or if I'm lucky, outside when J gets home. But, today, for the first time that I can remember, a thunderstorm has tripped me up.

When I woke up at 4:30 a.m. to meet the posse for eight miles, the thunder was so loud it shook the house. I knew I had zero time to run later, so I tried to convince myself to go. But all I kept thinking was, "J will kill me if the thunderstorm doesn't." So, I stayed in bed.

And then I regretted it. I have mandatory orientation for Doodle's school tonight at 7 - right when I would normally "make up" my run. Crap.

I started thinking, "What about during the day?" Two kids, a double stroller and rain/thunderstorms all day. Not a chance. Double crap.

Then, it hit me. I would run one mile at a time, whenever I could squeeze it in. A mile while the girls have a picnic lunch next to the treadmill? Sure. A mile immediately after and before potty training sessions with Dilly? Why not. Bribing my children with chocolate so that I can grab 9 minutes for a run? No shame in that.

As of 9 a.m., I've finished three miles, thanks in large part to the fact that J stuck around a few extra minutes this morning, so that I could. I'm not really sure how this is all going to play out, but I am confident in saying that it won't be easy, but at least I won't be a fried chicken ...

8 miles in Key West ...

Yesterday morning (after sleeping in), I ran eight miles. I started outside with views like this ...

But it was HOT. And even with sunblock, my skin was burning. So, instead of suffering in the elements, I met up with J for the last three miles of my run on the treadmill, which could have been horrible. But it wasn't. I got to run with my hubby. In a room with the air conditioning set on 68. With a view that didn't suck ...

It doesn't get much better than this ...