Just the Facts

About Today:

• Today’s date is made-up of all 1′s.
• You should celebrate this fact by posting about it on Facebook, or Twitter, or wishing for totally random shit, or if you’re really awesome, by wishing for totally random shit and then posting about it on Facebook AND Twitter.

About the World:

• Statuses related to politics, 11-11-11, Joe Paterno, and natural changes in the weather (i.e. WTF?! Snow? In Chicago? In November???) have turned Facebook friend-purging into one of my favorite pass times.

About My Hip:

• I am having arthroscopic hip surgery in 12 days to fix a torn labrum and cam-type femoroacetbular impingement syndrome (FAI).
• Cam-type FAI occurs when the ball of your hip is too big for the socket, thereby causing a painful pinching sensation when the giant ball knocks against the tiny socket.
• FAI is most likely a genetic issue. Thanks, Mom.
• I honestly cannot wait to have this damn surgery and get better already.

About Running:

• I have run, approximately, 15 miles in the past month.
• My general disposition functions as an indirect relationship with my time spent away from running.
• For those of you, like myself, who almost failed high school math, this means that my mood has become categorically foul.
• If you ran a fall marathon, I want to punch you in the esophagus.

About Life:

• If I don’t stop eating liking I’m training for an ultra, I’m not going to fit into my pants anymore.

Things That Would Be Helpful to Know

Yesterday, I had an arthrogram. My doctor thinks my hip/groin/butt/life pain is being caused by a torn labrum, and apparently, an arthrogram is the best way to diagnose this sort of thing. When she explained the procedure to me, it went something like this, “MRI. With an injection beforehand. No big deal.” I’m going to go ahead and say that this description falls somewhere in between extremely and wildly inaccurate. But I get it, healthcare providers are stretched thin these days. They don’t have the time to tell patients unremarkable details like that injection? Goes into your groin through a giant needle. It’s going to make your vagina very sad.

But fear not, dear readers! Because I love you, and because this here blog has always been about bettering people’s lives, I’ve put together a handy patient guide so you’ll know exactly what to expect at your next hip arthrogram!

Things That Would Be Helpful to Know: About the Procedure

• You will start your arthrogram by laying on an X-ray table. Your overly-chatty-but-not-quite-English-speaking X-ray tech will not explain why you need to be on an X-ray table, but trust me, you need to be here.

• Then a doctor will come in, and you’ll think to yourself, really? I need a doctor to do a simple injection? That’s strange.

• The doctor is here because…surprise! It’s not really a simple injection at all! They basically have to put a line in to pump you full of anesthetic, contrast dye, and some lidocaine (just for funsies)!

• And you’re on the x-ray table, why? So the doctor doesn’t puncture your femoral artery! Duh!

• Then you get the injection. In your groin. Through a large needle.

•  Before it goes in you’ll ask, “So, how much is this going to hurt?” And you’ll get that dumb doctor response of, “It will feel like a bee sting and then some light pressure.” And that’s bullshit.

• As the injection is going in you’re going to start to feel like you need to pass out and barf on yourself at the same time, because they’re injecting anesthesia medication into your body. Wait, did they forget to ask you if you’ve ever had an adverse reaction to anesthesia? That’s ok, they forgot to ask me, too! Heh. Whoops. Well, that’s why you’re feeling like shit at this point! At least you’re not dying, right?

• The injection is pretty fast. Maybe 30-60 seconds. You’ll spend that entire time trying to convince yourself that this gonna-lose-consciousness-y feeling will pass. It won’t.

• Your overly-chatty-but-not-quite-English-speaking X-ray tech will then ask you to stand up so he can walk you to the MRI waiting room.

• You’ll stand up quickly like NBD, it was just a needle. Why am I being such a pussy?

• You will promptly lose consciousness in the hallway and be dragged to a chair and given some water.

• You’ll be told, “It’s ok. This happens all of the time during this procedure,” and you’ll think to yourself, gosh, it would have been helpful to know that before I jumped up from the table like an orthorexic who just saw a fire sale on flaxseed.

• When you’re finally able to stagger to the MRI waiting room, you’ll realize that your hip and thigh are partially numb.

• You will begin to walk like Tiny Tim (no, not the “famed” ukulele player).

Yes, just like that. But without the brace and crutch.

•  Next, you’ll go in for the MRI. It’s not bad. They’ll wrap you in a blanket, and put you in that little tube, and everything will be great. Unless you’re claustrophobic. Then it’ll suck. Sorry.

Things That Would Be Helpful to Know: For After the Procedure

• You should just take the whole day off of work. You’re going to spend three-plus hours in the hospital, and even when you’re all done, you’re going to feel like a faint-y, nauseous, ball of garbage. Which brings me to my next point…

• You’re going to want to take someone with you so that they can drive you home afterward. What you’re not going to want to do is walk to and then ride the seediest train line back to work, thinking to yourself the whole way, I wonder if I faint if people on this train would call 911, or just steal all of my valuables and leave me in a heap. You will then see a large, crazy woman, shouting at her baby-daddy on the phone, board the train, alongside a man that is feigning blindness in order to bolster his case for pan-handling and you will think, yes. I would come-to iPhone and wallet-less, laying in a corner.

• You will feel like shit the next day. So go ahead and take that day off, too.

Now that you’ve read this extensive patient guide, I encourage you to go forth and conquer the arthrogram! You can do it, I believe in you!

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Finding a good gynecologist is a lot like finding a good partner: There are tons of assholes, a lot who make you just feel meh, and only a select few with whom you really connect. And then? There are the batshit crazy ones.

Today, I realized that I’ve been courting the coo-coo with my latest lady-doc. Naturally, I had to break it off. But you know how the crazies do. It’s never their fault, and they are eager to tell you about all of your shortcomings. Combating a crazy is a learning experience, and today I learned a very important lesson: When your gynecologist calls you a cold-hearted bitch, all you can say is, “K THX BAI!”

At first, our doctor-patient relationship showed a lot of promise. Dr. K had come highly recommended to me by my previous gynecologist, who was a saint. I felt like I was being set-up on a blind date by my best friend. She knew me so well! She would never steer me wrong! Dr. K was bound to be my speculum-wielding soul mate!

The first appointment I had with her was for my annual exam. I was expecting the standard, she’s-in-she’s-out-I’m-in-my-office-by-10-am deal. Instead, I sat in the reception area 60 minutes past my appointment time. I spent another 30 minutes in an exam room, wearing nothing but a paper gown, and reading Better Homes & Gardens. When Dr. K finally burst into the room with wild eyes and disheveled hair, she offered no acknowledgement of or apology for her tardiness. I was peeved, but she was nice, and I didn’t feel like I needed a rape kit and hot shower when I left her office, so I let it go.

Fast forward to today.

I haven’t had a period in six months, and while I’ve secretly been hoping that I’m asympotomatically with-child, and can therefore get a spot on I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant! I’m fairly certain this is not the case.

I made this appointment two weeks ago. I took the day off of work, and then scheduled a few other things for later in the afternoon to make it feel less like I was wasting an entire vacation day for one appointment. I checked in on-time and immediately knew something was wrong.

The nurse didn’t see me on the schedule. I just stared at her.

She fumbled around on her computer for a minute, asked why I was there, said she’d check with Dr. K to see if she could fit me in, and told me to have a seat.

You know when your relationship is headed south and then that seal-the-deal moment happens, and you just feel sick knowing that it has to be over? This? Was that moment.

The nurse came back and told me that Dr. K would see me, but I’d have to wait until she had seen her next four appointments. Knowing full well that an appointment could take anywhere from 5-300 minutes, I lost my shit.

“I’m not waiting for her to see four patients. I took the entire day off of work to come down here. I waited for 90 minutes to see her last time and I was actually on the schedule.”

The nurse shifted her eyes around awkwardly.

“You know what, I’ll just find a new doctor. One who actually values my time as much as hers,” I half-shouted as I stormed out of the office.

But as I made my way down Michigan Avenue, weaving through idiotic tourists taking pictures of not-tall buildings, I felt like I had unfinished business. It was as unsatisfying as trying to break up with someone through their personal assistant. So I called her office and left a message asking her to call me back as soon as she could. If we were going to part ways, we were going to do it in-person. Or at least over the phone. But definitely not via text. That’s so gauche.

She called me back, surprisingly: “Hi, Kristen. Dr. K, here. I heard there was a mix-up at the front desk?”

“Yes, someone deleted my appointment.”

“Oh, ha, well…that actually only happens about once a year. We’re really good about our scheduling, so, um…maybe you called the wrong office?”

Was this bitch serious?

“Ok. I’m pretty sure that’s not the case, but…”

She cut me off, “Well, I would have seen you, but Marissa said you didn’t want to wait. You know I can’t just push you in front of other, scheduled appointments.”

I could see she was trying to insinuate that I didn’t want to wait because I felt “entitled,” which was a fucking fallacy.

“Yes, I certainly understand that I can’t just be pushed to the top of the list. But being that I waited for you for over 90 minutes the last time I was there, with a scheduled appointment, I wasn’t going to wait for you to see four patients before me.”

Her tone changed. We had entered Crazyville.

“Look, let me explain to you how I run my practice, Kristen.” This seemed to be headed in a good direction.

“Sometimes I have a delivery and that takes precedence. Sometimes I have a woman come in for her annual and she’s crying because her husband just died, and that takes precedence, too. I give my patients all the time they need. I give my patients the emotional understanding that they need. Some people aren’t like that or don’t need that. Some people don’t live their lives that way and so it doesn’t work them.”

For starters, anyone who chooses to go for a pap smear right after her husband dies is out of her God damn mind. I mean, you have some fucked up priorities if  “annual cervical swabbing” falls right below “plan funeral.” Regardless, I saw what she was trying to do here. By some people, she clearly meant me, which is fine. She’s right, I’m not going to sit in her office and sob. Ever. But that’s doesn’t mean I’m an unsympathetic asshole, nor does it mean she gets to be 90 minutes late without acknowledging it.

I explained to her that I understood that urgent cases would be seen ahead of me, and that that was fine, but that I thought it was disrespectful to be grossly tardy without even the slightest apology. This didn’t change that she was a crazy, and she responded accordingly.

“Well, as I said, the way I relate to my patients doesn’t work for everyone. Not everyone is afforded the ability to connect emotionally with others, and so they don’t understand what I do.”

This. Wasn’t. The. Fucking. Point. But it also wasn’t worth it.

“Ok, yea, well, in that case, I think I’m just going to find another doctor, so,” I said.

She paused, “Well, Kristen, I wish you the best of luck, because…” I hung up the phone.

As much as I wanted to hear more about my emotional inadequacies from someone who looks at vaginas all day, the whole thing had become…tired. It just needed to be over. So I ended it.

I’m not going to lie, our exchange wasn’t half as fulfilling as some knock-down-drag-out fight. I have so much more that needs to be said to this bizarre woman. But you know what? This is why God made Yelp! See you on the interwebz, Dr. K!

Adaptiveless

Historically speaking, I am not good with change.

I wore the same pink and black striped shirt to pre-school for an entire year and I packed a cheese sandwich, Pringles and a Twix bar for lunch every day of my middle school career.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve become a bit more adventurous, and I’ll certainly never be as bad as my brother, who at almost 30 years of age, is still mercilessly angry with my mom for giving away his childhood rocking horse when he moved out of the house four years ago. (Yes, do the math, friends). But when it comes to my running I am vehemently opposed to change.

Atrocious race photos? I wouldn't have it any other way.

This curmudgeonly attitude certainly has its benefits: If I’m scheduled to run, I make the time to do it. If I’m supposed to cover 18 miles, I cover 18 miles. But it also has its drawbacks: I run until I’m burnt out and never want to think about my Saucony’s or my Garmin again. I run through injuries. I run through injuries until they manifest themselves in searing groin pain that makes me feel as though something is trying to tear my thigh off and fry it up like a Midwestern state fair delicacy. Which is precisely what landed me on the table in my physical therapist’s office this afternoon.

The dull groin pain started a long time ago. I ignored it. Just like I have every ache, pain, or legitimate injury that I’ve experienced in almost nine years of running. I ran Yasso 800′s last Thursday. The radiating pain started around my fourth repeat. I ran two more and then a mile home. Yes, I am stupid.

I had 14-16 miles on the schedule for Saturday, but I knew three steps in that it wasn’t happening. There was pain in my groin, butt cheek crease (where the butt cheek meets the thigh, duh), and hip unless I dragged my leg like a zebra who had barely survived a harrowing battle with the neighborhood lion. And it wasn’t just your standard running pain, it was pain that said, “You don’t want to fuck with me.” I have Chicago in six weeks good sir, fuck with you, I will not.

I fully expected to leave today’s appointment with my PT with the standard, “Your hips are weak. So are your glutes, and your core, which is why you get all butthurt every time  you run higher mileage.” But instead I got this:

PT: “You’ve definitely inflamed your labrum.

Me: “Inflamed but not torn, right?”

PT: “Well, you’re presenting pretty classic symptoms of a labral tear, but I can’t be sure.”

Me: “I’m running Chicago in six weeks.”

PT: “I would think you’ll be able to do that, but you’ll need to see someone right after the race.”

Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

I’m thrilled that I’ll, most likely, be able to run Chicago, but based on the degree of pain that I’m in, and knowing that it’s not just weak, whiny hip flexor pain, I’m going to have to change my training schedule. Change. The horro. Seriously. But honestly? As much as I depend on impossibly horrific race photos for a sense of consistency in my life, I’d prefer to not to look like a wounded animal gimping its way through the African countryside.

Have you ever torn your labrum? Did it feel like someone was stabbing you in your butt cheek crease? Please share! I want to know about all the fun things I have to look forward to!

 

 

Madison Mini Marathon Recap or Finally! A Half Marathon That I Didn’t Run in 1:57:03

Hi there, friends! Isn’t it sweet that I only join you when I have a race recap? It’s because I’m a raging narcissist! Just like everyone else in the blogosphere! Blinding self-infatuation, FTW!

But I come bearing good news! I set a new half marathon PR! Aren’t you excited for me? Because I’m excited for me. Here’s how it all went down…

After running a personal best 1:55:53 at the race formerly known as the Suntrust National Half Marathon in 2009, I was convinced that entering this race season in better shape than I was two and a half years ago would guarantee me a new PR. But then I ran like a dehydrated sack of shit in St. Louis and struggled with the three miles of hills in Cincinnati, finishing both races in 1:57:03. Ok, ok, you got me. I finished St. Louis in 1:57:03 and Cincinnati in 1:57:04. Don’t you feel better now that we’ve covered that one second discrepancy?

Obviously, I was more than a little peeved. Here I was busting my ass through 35-40 mile weeks, yet I was missing my PR by a pretty sizable chunk of time. So I signed up for the Madison Mini, promising that I would drown myself in Lake Mendota if I ran 1:57:03 again.

It may be small, but it's deep enough. I checked.

(source)

I was really jazzed for this race, but in a very jazzed-but-zen-like way, which in so many words means that, while I was excited, I was able to sleep for more than 30 minutes consecutively the night before. The morning-of was pretty SOP: peanut butter bagel, drive to race, park. As a side note, I find it very interesting that people who show up to participate in these events like to fight over the parking spaces closest to the start line. You are about to run 13 miles. If you’re struggling with the idea of walking more than two tenths of a mile from your car to the start, I would urge you to reconsider your racing aspirations. After judging the lazy people on my .6 mile jog from the parking garage I did my normal porta-potty-line-void breakfast-porta-potty-line-pee routine and then headed to my corral.

I had kissed John goodbye and sent him jogging to our first meeting point about ten minutes before the race officials announced that everyone needed to take indoor cover from an impending storm. The sky was dark and all, but I found the, “Seek shelter!” messaging to be overkill. Then again, when high winds are causing stages to fall down and kill people left-and-right, I guess it’s better to be safe than sorry from an event management company perspective, eh?

Since I don’t take, “Approaching T-storm” to mean, “Inevitable death by way of Jesus’s sky rifle,” I didn’t find it necessary to push and shove my way to safety at the UW-Madison Union. Needless to say, by the time I arrived, shit had gotten a little ridiculous. People were smashed into every crevice of the first floor Superdome-post-Katrina style and it was roughly 105 degrees. There is nothing like the smell of melting Body Glide, stagnant technical fabrics, and anxiety farts smashed into a 1300 square foot sauna. Luckily, the UW Union has two upstairs floors that had gone undiscovered by those convinced that the rapture was, indeed, upon us.

First, I found John, then we found a cool spot in an upstairs hallway. I was convinced this wouldn’t go on long. Summer storms are typically quick and dirty. But the horizontal rain just kept on. The race was supposed to start at 7am. At 7:45, John got a snack. At 8:00, the Milwaukee Brewers Sausage Racers arrived and started taking pictures with people. I was supposed to be halfway done with my race by now, but instead I was sitting in a luke-warm hallway watching giant wieners take photos with scores of adoring fans. Things were going downhill fast.

So bad, so fast.

(source)

At 8:15, I announced that I was over it. My adrenaline had crashed and all I wanted was my bed and a bacon, egg and cheese breakfast sandwich. I had given up hope on running the race, much less setting a PR. And then, at 8:25, they announced that the race would start in ten minutes. Meh.

It was still raining pretty horizontally when the gun went off. I was totally soaked by the quarter-mile mark.

I’m in the blue jacket, just in front of the guy in the green shirt, who is clearly living. It. Up.

All I wanted to do was run a steady, even pace until we hit the hills around mile 5. I knew they were coming, and I knew if I could conserve my energy until then I’d be, in the words of my favorite, fallen-from-grace ex-Illinois governor, “Fucking golden.”

As we looped into the arboretum around mile 4, I felt good. I wasn’t running ridiculously ambitious splits, which paid off when the hills started. I didn’t have a problem with them (although my quads have told a different story this week.) After the arboretum rollers, it was pretty much downhill. I felt myself really pushing the pace around mile 8.5, so I promised myself that if I conserved my energy until 10 I would let myself tempo the last three miles at an 8:20 pace. I could not begin to tell you why this was exciting to me after almost nine miles of running, but I couldn’t wait for mile 10. According to my watch, I ran the last three miles in 8:13, 8:20, 8:03, but my race results say that my average for the last 5k was 8:38. Confundido.

Whatever, I finished in 1:51:03 and I chicked a bunch of dudes in the last few miles. And I didn’t have to drown myself in the lake. Yeah for PRsies on hilly, rainy courses!

And yeah for these atrocious race photos. Then again, a vast collection Brightroom abortions is the hallmark of a serious runner. So there’s that.

Thon-ing It: The Carmel Marathon Race Report

Well, 4 hours and 14 minutes, one bruised foot, and two chafed butt cheeks later and I’ve officially re-joined the land of the marathoners. I didn’t quit, I didn’t die, I didn’t even vomit. And you know what? Some of my race photos are passable.

See what I mean? The thought of paying $12.95 for a 5×7 almost sounded reasonable when I saw this little gem. But then I realized I should just take that almost-13-dollars and pay for a few sessions at LA Tan, because I am so violently deflecting UV rays with my paleness that they’re probably knocking satellites out of orbit. But enough about me being borderline-albino.

The race was a blast. A fun course, friendly aid stations, and little pockets of crowd support, but honestly, the race would have been nowhere near as awesome had I not fallen in with an awesome group around mile 4.

Miles 1-3 were pretty standard. I stuck with the 4:10 pace group right off the bat because I struggled with going out way too fast in pretty much every single one of my training runs. At mile 3, I stopped to go to the bathroom, and then sprinted out of the port-o-potty with the intention of catching back up with the 4:10 group. I was feeling good, so I passed up the pace group and settled into a gap between packs of runners. Knowing that this course would get desolate in places, I decided I should catch up with the next pack and hang with them for a bit. And that’s when I saw these two just up ahead.

Call the thought process convoluted, if you must, but it went kind of like this: Oooooo! Those ladies are ripped. Someday I wish to be ripped. I will run with them in hopes that their ripped-ness might rub off on me.

I pulled in behind them and asked if I could hang at their pace for a while. They both said of course and quickly introduced themselves. The blonde was Plank, the brunette, Bird, the tri-guy in red would be known as Marathon. We started exchanging race histories, fantasized about post-race meals, Plank joked that she was only doing this marathon to lose five pounds before vacation. These were my kind of people. But honestly? We were at mile 4. This was a marathon. I didn’t know how long this camaraderie would last.

The banter and a steady pace continued through miles 5 and 6. We all waved emphatically at my husband at the almost-8-mile mark, Bird shouting, “We’re your wife’s new friends!!”

Just after mile 8, the crew started to separate. Bird, Marathon, and I pulled ahead, while Plank hung behind with Susan, another girl that had fallen-in with us. The fun was really just beginning. We had just about 18 miles to go, so we did what any self-respecting marathoners would do.

We posed for the race photographers. We complained about how awful the Powerade tasted. Bird announced to spectators that she felt like, “dog shit.” I announced to Bird and Marathon that I had to take a shit (you’ll be proud to know I held it). Before we knew it, we were at mile 18, and I was, shockingly, still in a good mood.

I waved to my mom and my friend Erin, and the number 1 fan/husband/John joined us at mile 18 to provide fresh legs and fresh conversation topics. We walked through the water stations together, and waited for Bird’s, “Let’s do this, bitches!” command to signal the next segment of running. We “rode the wave” of feeling like crap, and feeling like we could finish, and Bird assured me that said “wave” was nothing like contractions before childbirth. “Those were way worse,” she would say. “It’s just too bad there’s no epidural before the marathon.” True story, Bird. True story.

Around mile 24, Bird fell back a bit. She urged John and I to continue on. Seriously? At that point, if you’re not moving forward, you’re collapsing in a heap on the curb, so I obliged. My hip flexors burned, my arches ached, and the seams of my underwear felt like razor blades on my ass cheeks with every stride. This shit? Needed to be done. So I made it happen.

I finished. I emoted (the kind where water comes out of your eyes). I rejoiced. Then I hugged Bird when she crossed the finish line three minutes later.

It sounds cheesy, but I don’t think I would have done as well as I did without Bird. She kept me positive, she took me out of my own head, she used the f-word with as much proficiency as I do.

So Bird, if you’re out there reading this, thanks. You led me to the land of the marathoners and I’m so happy to be here.

When You Give a Girl a Marathon

Wow. Two posts in a row. I’d make some joke about this being a sign of the apocalypse, but what with that rapture thing occurring last week and all, we know that the end of the world is imminent anyway.

All kidding about some crazy, religious yahoo aside, I wanted to give my loyal readers-yes, all 12 of you-some more info about that marathon that I mentioned.

As you might remember, a tub of compromised hummus and some shitty Italian food kept me from running the Miami Marathon/removing my face from the toilet bowl back in January. Determined to complete a marathon in 2011, I signed-up for Chicago in late February. My plan was to take the spring and summer to get properly trained for and totally comfortable with the distance.

But then I kind of got addicted to running races.

There’s just something about racing that makes me feel a bit more alive. Maybe it’s the collective positive energy, or the fact that races are the only place where I truly experience the we’re all in this together mentality, or maybe it’s just that I enjoy being surrounded by thousands of people who are equally as nervous about pooping themselves in the next few hours as I am on a daily basis. Whatever it is, it feels good.

So instead of just running half marathons all summer, I decided to push  myself outside of  my comfort zone and sign up for a the Carmel Marathon. On my 25th birthday. So I can sit around in my underwear and eat cake and drink Champagne for the rest of the day without the slightest twinge of I should do something with my life guilt. And so it shall be called, “The Quarter Life Crisis Marathon.”

And what are my goals for this “Quarter Life Crisis Marathon,” you might ask? To cross the finish line. Preferably not in a body bag. Someone has to eat all of the cake and drink all of that Champagne, after all.

When It All Falls Down

Oh hey.

I’m not going to launch into some diatribe about how, “I’ve been MIA,” or force you to sit through some recap of my life over the past three months. Let’s just say, I didn’t need writing and writing didn’t need me. And now? Well, we need each other again, and that makes for good mental health, and good content, and so here I am.

Without dwelling on it superfluously, it has been a crazy few months while I’ve been away. I got a new job and subsequently stopped hating life a little bit less. I threw myself headlong into running and committed to strength training and core work at least once a week. I got skinny. And strong. Seriously.

I ran the Go! St. Louis half marathon, got severely dehydrated, and spent the five hour car ride home vomiting in a plastic bag. I ran the Flying Pig half marathon in the rain and helped a hurting stranger cross the finish line with me. It felt great. This is the shit that running is all about.

I looked at my life and how perfect it felt, and waited for everything to fall apart. When I said “fall apart,” I was thinking along the lines of “getting fat,” “getting injured,” “losing motivation and becoming a lazy ass which thereby leads to me getting fat,” you know, normal things that people who can’t cope with weight loss or weight gain think of. And then everything did fall apart-certainly not in the way I expected, but apart nonetheless-and once again, it all made sense. No, I didn’t get fat, or injured, or lazy-then-fat, but let’s just say that just because someone is a family member doesn’t mean you’re not one misstep from cutting them out of your life completely. And that kind of sucks, especially when their hurting you in the process of being a douche.

So I started seeing a therapist on Monday, which I’m really happy about. It’s long overdue because seriously, Bethenny? I don’t always want to be the crazy one, either. During my appointment, my therapist mentioned the importance of doing things that are “self-soothing” while I’m feeling like my life is spiraling out of control, and subsequently barfing all over me. Things like running, and petting puppies, and (not) stabbing people, and, wait for it…writing.

Writing has always been a cathartic process for me. I’m not, by nature, a feelings-sharer (just ask my husband). I never know how to bring things up, I find crying to be unnecessarily messy, and frankly, emoting is just not one of my strong suits. Thankfully, I’ve always been good with words, so writing is an ideal outlet for me.

And that’s why I’m back.

I’m hoping to not fixate on my family’s ass-hatery, but I can’t guarantee that it won’t infiltrate some of my posts. I have a lot of other stuff going on right now, and, let’s be honest, I’ve spent the last three months thinking to myself, “God. That would make an awesome blog post,” so I should have at least a week’s worth of content floating around in my brain somewhere. Also, I’m running a marathon. On my birthday. In 13 days. More on that later.

The Honeymoon Files: Disappointment is Spelled D-N-F

Now that I’m back from my honeymoon both physically and mentally (less-so mentally than physically, but you get the idea,) I figure it’s about time I start expounding upon how awesome it was to not be running a marathon I signed-up for, or lounging on the beach in 85 degree weather while my hometown dug out of it’s third-worst-ever blizzard, or spraining my labrum (surprisingly not a part of my vagina, who knew?) and other fun stuff one does while on their honeymoon and whilst, well, being me. And so, in the words of Julie Andrews, “Let’s start at the very beginning…”

As you might already know, our honeymoon started out with my attempt to kill two birds with one stone by running the Miami marathon on our way to the Dominican Republic. In theory, this was a spectacular idea.

We arrived in Miami on a Friday night, only to be met with a rental car atrocity, in which we were recklessly driven to some “off-site” rental shack, where we refused to pay a previously undisclosed $400 deposit to rent a car without additional insurance. I mean, we have insurance. Insurance that would have covered my husband, me, and all of our luggage had some recently-botoxed Miami broad run us, and whatever hideously-colored compact vehicle they gave us off the road. So no, I didn’t need your $42 per day “life-ending, comprehensive collision and dent coverage package,” thankyouverymuch, ACO Car Rental. And while I might have been a precocious-looking, freshly-deplaned white girl, I could smell your scam all the way from that complimentary shuttle. P.S. I’m pretty sure your driver has narcolepsy, so there’s that.

Day two in Miami was about as productive as day one. I needed to pick-up my race packet, but we couldn’t rent a car until 3pm. So, we spent the morning fighting old people for cold waffles at the free breakfast and trying desperately to fit in at the Spanish-speaking-only “Presidente Supermercado.”

After picking-up our rental car (which we easily-rented from Alamo without donating a kidney or promising to sacrifice our first-born,) we stopped by a Publix for some lunch. This is the point in the story where Kristen buys a previously-opened package of Sabra hummus and eats it anyway. This is mistake number one.

We then headed over to Miami Beach to pick-up my packet and shop around the expo. The drive-in was gorgeous.

I was getting all excited to run the causeways during the marathon the next morning. Sure I was nervous about my overall lack of proper training, but I was confident that I had a good enough fitness base to gut it out.

After getting my packet, and a seriously awesome deal on a Spibelt, we headed back to grab dinner. The drive out was just as pretty.

We ordered take-out from a local Italian restaurant. This is the point in the story where Kristen gets pasta with marinara sauce that tastes like a dirty tire and eats it anyway. This is mistake number two.

I felt the first ominous rumble in my stomach about 40 minutes after dinner. For me, menacing intestinal noises are a daily occurrence. I generally don’t get too worried, especially if I’m within 20 feet of a bathroom…but something about this was different.

Different indeed. Hours later I was suffering from stabbing stomach pain and projectile expulsions from both ends of the excretory spectrum. I finally fell asleep at 3:15am, exactly one hour before I was supposed to be up to run the marathon. Shortly before I feel drifted-off, the minty essence of Pepto-Bismol on my breath, I called it. I wouldn’t be able to do the marathon. Not only did I foresee my now dehydrated-self becoming violently ill during the race, I saw myself being wholly incapacitated for the first few days of my honeymoon (not to mention, more likely to have to use the barf-bag on the plane, which is like, one of my biggest fears. Ever.)

I’ve signed-up for races before and skipped them, so I’m not totally unfamiliar with seeing a DNF next to my name. The difference is, in the past I’ve skipped races because I’ve totally neglected all training efforts. It’s easy to pass on something in which you’ve invested nothing. But I dedicated a lot of time to preparing for Miami. Sure, I could have done more, but it wasn’t like I had been sitting on the couch eating Cheetos for the past six months.

As disheartening as it was, I knew I made the right decision. There would be other marathons, there would (hopefully) not be other honeymoons. And really? If this was the start of our vacation, things could only get better. At least one would think so, wouldn’t they?

It’s a Sign from Jesus

Last week, I made an illness-induced, executive decision. After battling bronchitis-and the nasty gastrointestinal side effects of a tetanus booster-in late November, followed by a bout of posterior tibial tendonitis in December, and then a ridiculous flu-bug last week, my marathon training had suffered some pretty serious blows. So I decided to drop down to the half.

I filled-out the online “registration change” form and I’m fairly certain I clicked submit-I was drunk on off-brand liqui-gels and Ritz crackers, so one can’t really be sure. And then I tried to coddle my bruised ego, and promised myself that one day, I would run another marathon. One day, I’d be able to stick to my training schedule. Maybe when the weather wasn’t pulling this rain-snow-sleet-cold bullshit, maybe when my immune system wasn’t fronting like a crazy b. One day.

A few days later, I logged onto the ING Miami website to confirm that my registration had been changed.

To be honest, I wasn’t too concerned, I just figured they needed to update their records again. And then I got my final bib confirmation in my email tonight.

Umm. Chelloo? This definitely says I’m registered for the full marathon. As in, 26.2 miles, not the 13.1 that I, whilst high on saltines and pseudoephidrene am pretty sure I re-signed-up for.

This is where I kind of started freaking. I mean, I had become so comfortable with the idea of not doing a full marathon. I had run 8 miles on Saturday for crying out loud! I was ready for the half! I was starting to celebrate my lapse into mediocrity! And that’s when it kind of clicked.

This is a sign from Jesus.

Or Allah, or Muhammad, or whoever that guy is who celestially inseminated Katie Holmes, because, seriously, Tom? Suri is like almost as tall as you already. Whatever or whoever you believe in, it’s probably definitley a sign from them that…

I have to run this marathon.

I mean, I’ve basically been making excuses to not run marathons for the past five years. The timing’s not right, my training’s not right, I’m injured, I’m sick, I just got a pedicure. Where do I draw the line?

I just need to accept the fact that the timing will never be right, the training will never be perfect, and with intestines like mine? I am always going to feel like I could shit my drawers.

So, it’s probably not going to be a PR, but I’m going to gut it out.

Yea, kind of like that.

I’m accepting the fact that there will be walk breaks, there might be bathroom breaks, and the odds of me vomiting on someone’s perfectly manicured South Beach lawn are like ten-to-one. All I want to do is finish. All I want to do is be a marathoner again.

But really? All I want to do is survive.