Laundry baskets, water belts, and toenails.

Packing for four days at a cabin in remote northern Minnesota requires more than a few supplies - especially when part of your contribution is to make dinner for nine people.  Seeing as I live in an apartment, which by default has such limited storage space (for large coolers or totes, etc), I had to resort to carrying most of my things in a laundry basket - laundry basket piled well over the rim.

And then, I live on the second floor.  I had to carry that 60+ pound basket (and several other loads) halfway down the building, down two sets of stairs, and then halfway back across the parking lot to my car.  As I was sweating, panting, and cursing my way down the stairs, I looked down with an unusual realization.  I think I may have been thinking of - actually, perhaps I was fearing - the weight gain that was sure to happen over my mini-vacation, when I realized that as much as I was struggling, I was not even carrying half the weight that I used to carry on my body every day.

I guess after all this time of maintenance, and maybe considering also the very gradual pace at which I lost the weight, I don't ever really think of my accomplishment as something big or noteworthy.  It was so slow I almost didn't even notice it happening.  When something has become this much a part of your life, it sort of ceases to mean anything after a while - it's just my story.  It's not so fantastic when you're living it, you know?

I had to pause at the bottom of the stairs because I had actually started to cry. The enormity of 133 pounds suddenly overcame me.  Every pound of weight we carry on our body is 3-4 pounds of stress on our knees: an average of 3.5 pounds of stress times 133 pounds lost = 465.5 pounds that my knees used to endure.  How did I ever make it off the couch?  How did I ever believe in myself enough to even try?  How on earth has my body forgiven me the burden of that weight, the burden of my injuries, enough to be active at all?  My God, it's a miracle I can stand up in the morning.

When I get to thinking about that, it's easy to get up and run.  It's easy to make time on the off days for an hour of weights, or an hour on the yoga mat.  It's easy to choose water over soda, my veggie burger over a hot dog, green beans over French fries.  It's the least I can do for her.

I had similar thoughts when I went for a 6am run at the cabin, seven humid and disgustingly buggy miles on a dirt road that led to beautiful nowhere.  It was the first time wearing my new hydration belt, and I figured it would be good to get used to its weight on a day and at a time that wouldn't strain me so much.  With two of the four 10-oz water bottles filled, and with a gel and my cell in the front pouch, the thing weighs 1.6 pounds - and it slowed my pace nearly a full minute per mile.  And then, just because my mind wonders about things like this, I did the math on my phone when I was through: I used to carry 83 times the weight of that belt on my body. 

Sometimes I think my heart should have just given out on me.  Maybe it still should.  But it doesn't - not the physical or metaphorical one.  Is it weird to say that sometimes I feel ridiculously strong and sometimes, despite the scars and stretch marks...proud?  I'm not referring to the amount of weight lost, but rather of the fact that this body I inhabit is still willing to serve me so well.  Sometimes, in the middle of my run, I have to stop and just cry for a minute.  Cry because I'm not, in fact, broken - no matter what they said.  Cry because I can't seem to stop demanding more of her, and because I push her so hard.  Cry because I'm grateful for being as healed as I am, even on the days I feel so much older than my 33 years.  Even on the days it hurts so bad.

To be fair, I have to say though that I smile now, too.  As I ran a shortness of breath station for a local fire department last week, as they assessed me and took my vitals, one of the guys commented, "Oh, the new pulse ox must not be working again, it says your pulse is 48."  I must have given him a confused or indifferent look because he raised an eyebrow saying, "...um, unless that's...good?"  Without a thought I replied, "Yeah, I'm a runner, that's about normal for me."  And then, as the scenario progressed, I sat there thinking to myself, "What did I just say?  That can't be right."

I'm sure those poor men walked around the rest of the night wondering about that one teacher who kept chuckling to herself while they tried to focus on their skills. I hope they didn't think it had anything to do with them :)

And I smiled today too.  As I was filling my dad in about the TC 10-mile that approaches in October, we got to talking about the wonders of modern technology (i.e. timing chips) and about such oddities as my one toe nail that takes consistent, painful offense to this new lifestyle.  He says to me, "Let me guess - pointer toe, right foot?" 

Me: "Shut. Up."

Dad: "Yeah, that was the one toe nail I always lost...so did your uncle.  Our right leg is 3/8" shorter than the left, and our right foot is a little shorter while that one toe is longer than its opposite.  Look. (Shows me his feet.  I'll be damned.) I always had to put cotton balls or something in the inner side of the toebox - only in my right shoe."

Apparently my toe and I are just the latest in a long line of genetic weirdness, but I'm kind of charmed by this.  I was always the musical child, the fat kid who didn't belong, and as such I've always felt unable to inhabit my dad's athletic world, or the athletic world in general.  What a curious experience today to feel for the briefest of moments like someone who could talk intelligently about running.  I even talked weight lifting form with my brother. (Say whaaa???)  It's not something I ever thought I'd have in common with either of them, or with anyone for that matter.

Dad's toe and its bloody eruption almost got him pulled from the Twin Cities Marathon in 1989.  (Actually, there's no "almost." He just snuck away when the official turned her back and kept going: my rebellious spirit now also explained.)  Here's hoping that my goofy inherited toe will behave herself on the way to October :)