So yesterday, I complained about being passed by 80 year-old men with pot bellies--generally in shorts shorter than what I would wear, and I consider myself to have some pretty damn fine thirty-two year old legs--passing me in races. To be honest, it doesn't just bother me. It infuriates me. Not that I would denigrate the accomplishments of these octogenarian athletes or the similarly able, yet seemingly unfit people twice my size that cruise on by me, cellulite a-flapping and Oprah arms a-waving, but damn, it bruises the ego.
I'm a competitive person by nature, with a reputation for crying and storming away from a "friendly" family game of Trivial Pursuit rather than admit defeat. I hate losing. And when I do something, I do it to win. I wasn't just a straight-A student, I was valedictorian. I didn't just play the piano, I got "excellent" ratings for every competition I entered. And if I didn't get the lead in that musical theatre production, you could be damn sure I was the scene-stealing chorus girl.
But running, well, that's something I'll never win. No matter how much I train, how well I eat or how fit I think I am, some shirtless senior citizen with more fat on his belly than I have in my entire body is going to kick my ass. So, all I can hope for is to kick my own. To beat my own PR's, to train better and smarter and maybe, one day, I'll leave some 80 year-old in the dust.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Run Lola Run
Whether it's a 5K or a marathon, there's nothing worse than being passed by an 80 year-old man with a hunched back and pot belly. I start every race feeling confident, fit and well-prepared and generally end up feeling frustrated and completely incredulous as to how so many seemingly unfit people manage to finish before me. And I've come to the conclusion that slow and steady does NOT win the race.
Not that I race to win, but slow and steady has been my mantra, both in running and in life. And it's simply not working for me any more. I want to build the strength, speed and stamina necessary to carry me through 26.2 miles with confidence and to tackle similar challenges with equal determination and certitude.
When I first started running nearly ten years ago, a slow pace was critical, as my fairly severe asthma made it difficult for me to run from one driveway to the next. Gradually, I built up to a 5k with a respectable finish time of 35 minutes, and now, nearly a decade later, I'm preparing for my first marathon. In spite of what I've achieved, I still run like I did in the beginning--slow and steady, worried about exacerbating my asthma, afraid of not having enough stamina to finish and paranoid about injuries.
Until recently, my approach to life was pretty much the same--doing the bare minimum to get by in boring, dead-end jobs; staying in a marriage because it was "comfortable;" living too much into others' expectations and fearing the unknown. And then I started listening to my heart and relying on an inner strength I never knew I possessed. I started my own business, walked away from a life I had been building for nearly eight years and tackled a new running distance--not a one of them comfortable or easy. Nor is it safe to freelance with no safety net, to build a new relationship while shadows of the old one remain or to conquer the demons that have been following me my entire adult life--and yet, I forge bravely into the unknown, with confidence and faith.
This approach is much like the tempo run, which challenges you to run at a fast, slightly uncomfortable pace, trusting that the discipline will make you stronger, faster and more confident come race day. Except my race day is every day. And I'm ready to stretch, to grow, to build--to live.
Not that I race to win, but slow and steady has been my mantra, both in running and in life. And it's simply not working for me any more. I want to build the strength, speed and stamina necessary to carry me through 26.2 miles with confidence and to tackle similar challenges with equal determination and certitude.
When I first started running nearly ten years ago, a slow pace was critical, as my fairly severe asthma made it difficult for me to run from one driveway to the next. Gradually, I built up to a 5k with a respectable finish time of 35 minutes, and now, nearly a decade later, I'm preparing for my first marathon. In spite of what I've achieved, I still run like I did in the beginning--slow and steady, worried about exacerbating my asthma, afraid of not having enough stamina to finish and paranoid about injuries.
Until recently, my approach to life was pretty much the same--doing the bare minimum to get by in boring, dead-end jobs; staying in a marriage because it was "comfortable;" living too much into others' expectations and fearing the unknown. And then I started listening to my heart and relying on an inner strength I never knew I possessed. I started my own business, walked away from a life I had been building for nearly eight years and tackled a new running distance--not a one of them comfortable or easy. Nor is it safe to freelance with no safety net, to build a new relationship while shadows of the old one remain or to conquer the demons that have been following me my entire adult life--and yet, I forge bravely into the unknown, with confidence and faith.
This approach is much like the tempo run, which challenges you to run at a fast, slightly uncomfortable pace, trusting that the discipline will make you stronger, faster and more confident come race day. Except my race day is every day. And I'm ready to stretch, to grow, to build--to live.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
A Different Kind of Green
I was watching one of my favorite shows, Gossip Girl, last night, and about halfway through--when one of the main characters, a heretofore innocent fourteen year-old girl, steals a custom-made Valentino gown so she can exchange it for a new designer dress to wear out with her "friends"--I decided that I am never having children. Okay, maybe that's a little extreme. I am a thirty two year-old woman, and occasionally, the hormones get to me. And granted, it's a television show. But still, the pressure--to conform, to aquire, to consume--not just in the adolescent years, but beyond, has reached a new extreme.
In my day, Keds and Guess jeans were all the rage--something easily accessible with a bit of babysitting money. Today, the competition starts in pre-school, and the race for status and prestige just escalates from there.
And yes, I love my designer jeans as much as the next girl, but these days, I work for them. I understand them as a luxury. And honestly, one of my favorite pairs cost just $17.99 at Old Navy.
And while it shouldn't be about the cost or the label, it would be hypocritical of me to say those things don't matter to me, because they do. But what I am concerned about is how much this envy, this desire to accumulate and acquire things that have no consequential value, has consumed so much of my life thus far. And if I--a well-educated, socially aware, civically minded and occasionally practical woman in her 30's--am struggling so hard to overcome my addiction to consumer culture, how much more challenging will it be for my children, especially in a city like Atlanta, where million dollar homes, luxury SUVs and designer clothes seem almost the norm?
How can I start to place more value on things that will have a lasting impact on those around me? Instead of envying those who have accumulated the most, why not admire those who give the most? Like my TNT friends, who brave rain, snow, tornados and Atlanta summers to run for those who can't. Or those rare Atlantans who walk or bike or take public transportation to work and make the air a little bit cleaner not only for me, but for the thousands of asthmatics in this city, many of whom are children without access to quality health care. Or my friend Christy, who celebrated her 30th birthday by hosting a fundraiser for the Atlanta Children's Shelter--simply because she could.
And even as I wonder how I will pay my rent next month, on this Earth Day, I hope my next thoughts of green will not be those of envy, but of how I can share my earthly blessings with others.
"Every good and perfect gift is from above."
-James 1:17
In my day, Keds and Guess jeans were all the rage--something easily accessible with a bit of babysitting money. Today, the competition starts in pre-school, and the race for status and prestige just escalates from there.
And yes, I love my designer jeans as much as the next girl, but these days, I work for them. I understand them as a luxury. And honestly, one of my favorite pairs cost just $17.99 at Old Navy.
And while it shouldn't be about the cost or the label, it would be hypocritical of me to say those things don't matter to me, because they do. But what I am concerned about is how much this envy, this desire to accumulate and acquire things that have no consequential value, has consumed so much of my life thus far. And if I--a well-educated, socially aware, civically minded and occasionally practical woman in her 30's--am struggling so hard to overcome my addiction to consumer culture, how much more challenging will it be for my children, especially in a city like Atlanta, where million dollar homes, luxury SUVs and designer clothes seem almost the norm?
How can I start to place more value on things that will have a lasting impact on those around me? Instead of envying those who have accumulated the most, why not admire those who give the most? Like my TNT friends, who brave rain, snow, tornados and Atlanta summers to run for those who can't. Or those rare Atlantans who walk or bike or take public transportation to work and make the air a little bit cleaner not only for me, but for the thousands of asthmatics in this city, many of whom are children without access to quality health care. Or my friend Christy, who celebrated her 30th birthday by hosting a fundraiser for the Atlanta Children's Shelter--simply because she could.
And even as I wonder how I will pay my rent next month, on this Earth Day, I hope my next thoughts of green will not be those of envy, but of how I can share my earthly blessings with others.
"Every good and perfect gift is from above."
-James 1:17
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Confessions of a Former Shopaholic
I once tried reading the popular Sophie Kinsella book, Confessions of a Shopaholic, but I had to put it down. Actually, I really wanted to hurl it out the window.
The neverending stream of collection letters, endless bargaining with creditors, the distorted justification of unneeded purchases--I had lived it, was living it and certainly didn't need to be reminded at the time.
I've done my share of keeping up with the Joneses. And the Smiths, Johnsons and Browns. I am the queen of living beyond my means, more likely to spend that last $100 on a cute pair of shoes than the cable bill, or even groceries. Better to starve than give up my Carrie Bradshaw reputation, nevermind that I am not a successful Manhattan sex columnist, but a struggling publicist going through a very costly divorce. And while Carrie may look fabulous, she's also an emotional wreck, bouncing from one unfulfilling relationship to the next, drowning her sorrows in cosmos and maxing out her credit cards to buy her beloved Manolos.
Not that I aspire to the Manhattan high life nor to own $40,000 worth of designer shoes, but if I can never have that cute bungalow in Morningside, the 2.5 kids, the Volvo wagon or closet full of expensive clothes, I can find wealth and fulfillment in other, more permanent things--love, fellowship, generosity, integrity and community, a legacy with a lifetime far longer than a pair of Jimmy Choos.
The neverending stream of collection letters, endless bargaining with creditors, the distorted justification of unneeded purchases--I had lived it, was living it and certainly didn't need to be reminded at the time.
I've done my share of keeping up with the Joneses. And the Smiths, Johnsons and Browns. I am the queen of living beyond my means, more likely to spend that last $100 on a cute pair of shoes than the cable bill, or even groceries. Better to starve than give up my Carrie Bradshaw reputation, nevermind that I am not a successful Manhattan sex columnist, but a struggling publicist going through a very costly divorce. And while Carrie may look fabulous, she's also an emotional wreck, bouncing from one unfulfilling relationship to the next, drowning her sorrows in cosmos and maxing out her credit cards to buy her beloved Manolos.
Not that I aspire to the Manhattan high life nor to own $40,000 worth of designer shoes, but if I can never have that cute bungalow in Morningside, the 2.5 kids, the Volvo wagon or closet full of expensive clothes, I can find wealth and fulfillment in other, more permanent things--love, fellowship, generosity, integrity and community, a legacy with a lifetime far longer than a pair of Jimmy Choos.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Lena Lives
Don't fret, gentle readers, for Lena Hart lives--albeit in a slightly different form.
A few months ago, I started on the journey toward self-discovery, which has included, among other things, the creation of my own business, the dissolution of my marriage, the completion of two half marathons and the beginnings of a relationship with a man I can say with complete and utter confidence is my soulmate. And while this journey is by no means complete, one of the first things I discovered about myself is that Lena is not only an online persona, but a lived one--one I used to hide the unpleasant things in and of my life and perpetuated for so long that even I was unable to distinguish between Lena and the real me. That life-altering experience at Montara taught me that the real me, Laura Beth, is not only infinitely likable but loveable--unconditionally, just as I am. By God, by family, by my love and by my community.
Since then, I have vowed to live authentically, embracing equally the easy and the difficult, the light and the dark, the lovable and the not-so-loveable--the paradox and the complex reality that is me.
I hope you'll join me on my journey.
A few months ago, I started on the journey toward self-discovery, which has included, among other things, the creation of my own business, the dissolution of my marriage, the completion of two half marathons and the beginnings of a relationship with a man I can say with complete and utter confidence is my soulmate. And while this journey is by no means complete, one of the first things I discovered about myself is that Lena is not only an online persona, but a lived one--one I used to hide the unpleasant things in and of my life and perpetuated for so long that even I was unable to distinguish between Lena and the real me. That life-altering experience at Montara taught me that the real me, Laura Beth, is not only infinitely likable but loveable--unconditionally, just as I am. By God, by family, by my love and by my community.
Since then, I have vowed to live authentically, embracing equally the easy and the difficult, the light and the dark, the lovable and the not-so-loveable--the paradox and the complex reality that is me.
I hope you'll join me on my journey.
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