Why I Don't Spend Money on Pedicures

The end to a training season has finally come. Saturday was my long-anticipated 1/2 marathon. This season had been riddled with little hang-ups for me. I am happy to report, despite the hangups and at the end of it all, it has been a strengthening, motivating, inspiring and overall very good experience. Yeah for accomplishing goals! Yeah for 1/2 marathons! My feet definitely got the short end of the stick this year. I don't think they're saying, "Yeah!" I think they're saying, "Did you have to do this to us right at the start of sandal season? I really liked having a full set of toenails. We're so embarassed to be seen." But that's the way it goes. They always fair poorly. They are forced to make a noble sacrifice for the greater good of the rest of me.

When not in training season, I still exercise. It has so many good effects. It's like a fountain of youth, health, energy and loads of other things. But this year, early on in my training, I realized that along with all of exercise's usual splendid benefits, my training was having additional side effects. In particular, It was causing me to gain weight.

GAIN?!?! What?!?! This is not an effect that I consider desirable. Admittedly, I am very anal about my weight and I watch my numbers like a hawk. I don't diet. Ever. But I do monitor.

I've heard that numbers don't matter. And while those words are perfectly audible and straightforward in definition, they really make no sense to me. No matter how low my numbers on the scale, I can't ever recall thinking they were too low. And no matter what numbers they have risen to, I can't ever recall feeling glad about it. And then my clothes were fitting tighter this season. Mmmm hmmm. Don't try to tell me I'm looking leaner. I am well aware muscle takes up room. Room I have not made accomodations for in my jeans. The sad truth is that I am a very typical, pathetic, superficial girl. I am small. And I like being small. And I do not desire that there should ever be MORE of me.

Training continued anyway. And I would look at the scale, week after week of training, and see that the numbers were consistently staying up. "No matter," I would tell myself. "It's muscle. At least most of it is. It is muscle, isn't it? How can I be sure? Does my waist look bigger to you?"

I didn't own a submerssive tank of water where I could dunk myself and accurately test the exact composition changes in my body each week. I hear they're expensive. I soothed myself, unable to test the actual changes in my body makeup, with the idea that it was only temporary and the glory and accomplishment of running the race would make it all worth it. Such a small sacrifice for the cause. I could be little again later. I'd be glad.

Then you add scheduling problems. I was working about 60 hrs/wk most weeks this training season. You add in making time for dates, commuting, and life as it comes, --- it does not make for an easy and consistent training schedule. I tried to schedule a couple sessions with a trainer. Ha! That was a laugh. I met with him once. And then, the next 7am appt. was thwarted by a change in work schedule, having to go to work early and off-site. It seemed to be a good indicator that I really just didn't have time for that. I got to the gym 3 x's/wk, on average. That was my goal.

But then there were a few weeks I missed my goal. And a few weeks when the long run I had planned just didn't fit in. Argggghh. Why does everyone marry in the spring? Don't people know there are races to train for? But it wasn't so bad. Since I had run 1/2 marathons before, I had the confidence and experience I needed in order to know what I could do. And I was able to train just enough to be able to do it.

And then there are all my injuries. I'm always injured. Call it Fibromyalgia. Call it a need for new shoes. Doesn't matter what you call it. It still hurts like hell. But after all that training, and ESPECIALLY after having already sacrificed my tight leash on the numbers of the scale, no ache or pain could keep me from my goal. I would run the race, I would finish, and I would finish respectably. I had an ankle ailment that was plagueing me for probably a good 1/2 of my training. But I was able to run on it anyway. After about 2 months and, coincidentally, about a week before the race, the ankle ailment moved and became a hip ailment. Gotta love Fibromyalgia. The hip ailment was a sharper pain, and seemed much more alarming and threatening to me. So, while I knew I was cardiovascularly ready and capable in strength, this new development caused me to worry thatI might be in for a disappointing finish.

The week before the race I did nothing. I was ready enough and there seemed no good reason to aggravate my ailments before race day. My weight had loomed up to it's highest during this week of inactivity. This is mostly because, in an effort to make sure I had enough energy, I made sure I ate more than enough all week long. Not completely logical, as I was just creating more of myself to cart around on the run. But from personal experience, I would say that it's the lesser of two evils. It really sucks to run a race when you're low on fuel. You feel weak, you don't perform well, and, basically, it completely destroys any training you've done. You might as well not train at all. So, despite myself, I ate. Lots. "It's all temporary," I kept telling myself.

Race day came. I didn't sleep very well the night before. I was TOTALLY anxious. Who sleeps well the night before the race? The guy I met the morning of the race does, apparently. His name is Bilal. He flew in for the race from LA. As luck would have it, however, his good night's sleep was thwarted by a crying baby a few hotel rooms away. Tough break.

Bilal happened to be running the marathon, but both races started together. So he and I, since we had struck up a conversation, started running together. He happened to be my exact pace. That was great. We clipped along with great conversation. We discussed different races. We talked about college. We talked about positive energy. He said I had great positive energy. I think he was hitting on me. And as we continued to chat, I mused about how funny it would be if I ever ended up dating a Lebanese accountant from LA who I met at a marathon. We ran together for the first 4 miles until our race courses diverged. Then I was on my own.

My hip had started to notify me that it wasn't feeling the best at mile 3. At mile 4, it notified me a little more loudly. At mile 6.5, it had stopped notifying me. Instead, it started to boycott. I was struggling to keep a smooth stride. The pain in my hip began to make me flinch with the impact of each step on that leg. As I continued to disregard it, the sharp, shooting pains persisted and the flinching became worse. I assessed things in my head and realized I had about 1/2 the race to go. And with a flinching right side, the miles ahead suddenly stretched before me, covering an expanse that was very long, grueling and quite painful. Before, those miles had seemed challenging, fun and surpassable. The reality of my situation was sinking in.

I stopped running and I began to walk. I walked for about a quarter mile. And I thought. I wasn't quite sure what to do at that point. I could walk the 7 remaining miles. It's long. But I'd finish. Eventually.... Some time... In a few hours. I was so disappointed. All the glory and accomplishment I had hoped for seemed unattainable-- keeping my 9 min pace, finishing under 2 hrs, improving -- all I had trained for. And I know I already mentioned this, but I was so disappointed. I think Bilal would have been disappointed too, if he knew. All that work for this? A bum hip and a long walk. Most irksome of all, my muscles weren't even tired yet. It felt like I hadn't worked at all.

Finally, I thought, "Screw the hip. I'm running anyway." I AM aware this makes me sound like I'm as bright as a caveman and quite juvenile. I don't deny either completely. We all have our moments. But logically, the worst prospect was that maybe I wouldn't run for a while. Who cares? My race is today. Not tomorrow. So, I ran. I ran lower to the ground. I ran my toes into the front of my shoes. And I ran more slowly. But soon I ran more confidently. And with a very sharp learning curve, I figured out how to maneuver so that I would cause my hip as little pain as possible. And I ran for the rest of the race. I even was able to put up a bit of a sprint at the end! I ran till I wasn't sure what hurt more: my muscles, my hip or any number of other joints from my waist down. And I finished my race w/ 1:57:38, an 8:59 min mile pace. Booyah!

Two days after the race, I am delighted to report that I have VERY VERY VERY SORE muscles. And I think I avoided permanent damage (The beauty of Fibromyalgia is that, though you may FEEL very wholly and truly injured, you're really not. You just feel that way.). Most happily, I walk ever so gingerly. I proudly hobble down stairs. I joyously (and more ably than going down) ascend stares with a huge lack of grace. And I am quite sure I will lose 3 toenails. I wore sandals to church yesterday and I am wearing sandals to work today, which I never do. But I can't put anything else on my feet at the moment. And I don't care. And next year, I will try to knock my time down to be somewhere below 1:50. Maybe. I think that's doable. We'll see. That'd be sooo cool. Someday I may have feet that will stay nice enough to make a pedicure worthwhile. That day is not today. Can't say I'm too choked up about that.