Blogs are stupid

I don't keep a journal well. I have probably at least a dozen computer files that are a journal of some kind. And I have this blog that I never update. I want someone to send me an email with the words "ferris bueller you're my hero" in the subject line so I will have proof that someone actually read this. Anyway. I have nothing to write about at the moment. Or I guess I have plenty to write about but I don't want to. I don't know.

I quit drinking six years ago and it was a pretty typical hitting bottom, getting help, getting sober kind of story so I won't go into it. But I remember having a sincere fear that I would never sleep again. I had gotten my body so accustomed to passing out. I drank myself to sleep every night for several years so that even when I didn't "want" to drink anymore I had this irrational fear that I had to if I wanted to get any rest. But when enough was enough I figured things were bad enough that it was a choice between not sleeping again or going on the way I was, I would just get used to being awake forever. Of course I slept. Of course I now realize (with the help of a lot of amazing anonymous people) that I don't need to drink myself to sleep.

But night time is still hard. There's still a demon tied to a chair in my brain (that's a Dax Riggs song... check it out if you haven't). I get home and I'm ravenous. Edgy. Hungry. I don't want to drink anymore so I eat or try to figure out some way to justify taking cold medicine or just how much herbal sleep aids aren't too much.

I haven't been running at all in a long time. I miss it. I don't feel motivated.

This all sounds way too sad. Things are fine. Things are great. Boys are amazing. My wife and I are in love and still make each other laugh and smile and flirt.

But that damn demon is still knocking around up there. Waiting. Scheming. Like a ghost.

Excuses

10/26/2009

Ran 45 minutes

9:55 pace

I haven't written in this blog since August and my excuse is that I never finish things. But then I realized that a blog isn't something you ever really finish. Which is weird. I don't like that. I got the idea for this blog when I was on a run listening to an audio book about running. I have to admit that I didn't get the idea for writing a blog chronicling my marathon training merely because it would be fun, or get me writing, or whatever. There's always a part of my brain that's daydreaming. Which can be okay, I suppose, but it's dangerous for me. I realize that I've daydreamed a lot of my life away. Whether it's work or family or whatever, I can so easily find myself wondering how whatever I'm doing will get me to something else, something more, something bigger. And invariably, I don't finish things. But no, that's not true. I do finish things, it's just that I'm thinking about the next thing. I'm doing it right now. I'm thinking about this blog becoming a book or a play or a screenplay or making me a million dollars. I did my first play in New York last March at the Cherry Lane Theatre and I caught myself not enjoying it about halfway through the run. I caught myself panicking because I was afraid that I wasn't doing enough to turn the experience into something more. A guest spot on Law and Order, or landing an agent, or winning a Tony, or this or that... We get it hammered into us as theatre students (and I'm sure this applies to all fields of study) that networking is everything. It's who you know. Network network network. Which is true and fine. But it's too easy for me to let that blind me to enjoying the moment. Believing that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Wherever I am. Right now, for instance. I've always wanted more than I had. And I've always had plenty. I'm directing Macbeth in the Spring. God has good timing.

I'm about sixteen weeks from the marathon and my work schedule has gotten very intense lately. I have a lot of classes, I'm rehearsing for a play (same play I did in NY) with my colleagues, working on the early design stages of Macbeth, directing a short film, and trying to get some sleep between baby feedings. Wah wah wah. What a wonderful list of activities! And yet... I feel like there's something else I should be doing. When does that end? Does it?

But I meant this to be about running. Today's run was very satisfactory because I DID NOT want to do it. I had a lot of work to do. I was tired. I have a sore throat. It was cold and rainy outside. But for some reason I went to the indoor track on campus and completed the run. And I feel good tonight.

Food

Today's Run:

Distance: 3 miles

Time: 00:26:43

Today's run felt really good. I listened to music instead of a podcast and I always run faster with music. But the thought of just listening to music for thirty minutes to an hour for some reason seems daunting to me. I know what's coming, I guess. With a new podcast it's something I've never heard before.

I have a problem with food. I freaking love it. I'm a very nervous eater. I don't understand moderation and people who eat slowly drive me crazy. My wife is a very slow eater. Very frustrating for someone like me. I was the same with alcohol. I didn't understand why people drank slowly and talked while they did it. To this day that doesn't make sense to me. And I'm not an anti-social person. I'm not Jackie O, but I 'm not anti-social. Booze is for getting drunk. Food is for shoveling in. Nails are for biting.

I'm day 2 off of tobacco by the way. Don't get me started.

Some Backstory

Today's run:

Distance: 9.01 miles

Time: 1:39:00

Pace: 10:59

My run today felt good but not great. I tried using a sports drink instead of water and a gel. I missed the gel and didn’t like the sports drink. Think I’ll stick to what I like. I listened to my favorite podcast, “Never Not Funny.” It’s the perfect length for my long runs right now. A friend recently asked me what I think about when I’m running and I’ve never thought about it. I don’t know. I can’t remember. I know that I daydream a lot. I know that I act out scenes and dialogue in my head. But I think it’s the stretches of not thinking that keep me running. Right now on my runs I’m thinking about trying to not think about the marathon.

I’ve run a few races in my life. I believe they can literally be counted on one hand. Maybe one and a half. I was on the track team in the eighth grade. My only real memories of that are running the mile and the 800 meters. I remember running after school one day, by myself, and my track coach joined me for the last lap. It was awkward. Partly because he was my coach and he was trying sort of “hang out.” Mostly because I couldn’t carry on a conversation while running and he was real chatty. I remember him saying that I’d run that last lap in 2 minutes, meaning my mile was at about 8 minutes.

I remember only one track meet from that year. I was running the 800 and I came in next to last. The only reason I didn’t come in last was because I looked back and a girl was gaining on me. So I guess that’s when I found “my kick.” I cut about thirty seconds off my time because of her. Nothing motivates quite like shame. I also ran the mile in that meet and that one I remember well. My best friend Daniel was also running and he was several yards ahead of me. We must have finished a lap or two when I yelled at him to see if he wanted to stop. He said that he did. So when we rounded one of the turns instead of continuing through, we kept going straight through the fence and up to the concession stand. Then again, shame only gets you so far.

I didn’t run another race until this summer when I ran my first 5k in Waco. Toward the end of the race I found myself surrounded by children, one ahead and one behind. This made me run harder and I came in under thirty minutes, which was my goal. I should have thanked those kids. I ran another 5k and a 10k this summer as well. That’s when the marathon crept into my brain like a taunt.

After my father died three years ago I went on a year-long food binge that was truly glorious in its own sad way. I ate like a machine. I ate a lot of pizza, chips, and Mexican food. Taco Bueno became my crack. Then something happened. Well, that’s not true. Nothing “happened.” I didn’t have a heart attack or anything drastic. I just had enough. Something changed. I guess that’s why I’m writing this. But I went on a diet (Nutrisytem) and started exercising and started to look and feel better.

I miss my father. I miss him the most when I’m with my oldest son and he does anything remotely amazing. Which is pretty much everything that he does. I had the fortune of being with my dad during his last days, which not everyone gets. It was surreal. You really haven’t lived until you’ve been in the room talking with a man as he's being measured for a coffin. We all planned the funeral together. I made a slide show and showed it to him. I’d put the years of his birth and death at the beginning of it and I sat next to him and showed it on my laptop.

I think that this marathon has something to do with him. But I can’t exactly put my finger on it.

Why am I doing this?

Why am I doing this?

Yesterday I registered for the Austin marathon on February 14^th 2009. A few days before that I registered for the Dallas half marathon which is December 15^th. Yesterday after I registered for the marathon I took my four-year-old son to Barnes and Noble, or as he calls it, “The Thomas the Train store.” While at the Thomas the Train store I found a book entitled Marathoning for Mortals and picked it up. While watching my son play with Thomas the Train I thumbed through the book and started to cry.

Why am I doing this?

That question keeps nagging at me. I’ve become somewhat obsessed with running a marathon. Not “running,” but “running a marathon.” A couple years ago I weighed 310 pounds. I went on a diet. I went on a walk. The walk turned into a jog. And so on. I’ve lost a bunch of weight and I run between 20 and 30 miles a week now. I’ve gotten into the shoes, the fabrics of the shorts and shirts, fancy socks, gels, drinks, Nike plus, etc. But now all I can think about is running a marathon. I don’t know why. I like the idea of being able to say it. “I’ve run a marathon.” But I’m terrified. And honestly, when I think about it in very much depth, I cry. I don’t think that I cry solely out of fear. I don’t really know why. That’s why I’m typing. That’s why I’m running.

About three years ago my father died. About four years ago my son was born. About three months ago my second son was born. About five years ago I got sober.

Why am I doing this?

From my Journal Three Years Ago part 2:

May 2, 2006 11:46 PM

I haven’t exercised again since that morning. But I think fondly of that morning. It was such a great morning and I felt so good for the rest of the day. I remember being sore and loving it.

I’m pretty sure I’ve moved past 300 pounds. This weekend I ate an entire deep dish pizza then went to a brunch buffet the next morning. I’ve had pasta for the last four meals that I’ve eaten, save a couple bowls of cereal in the mornings. I’m not feeling good about myself.

I don’t know if the hike is going to happen this summer or not. My brother is waiting to hear about a job that will mean a big move for his family. My wife and son and I are moving in July. I’m stressed about a job I haven’t started yet. The good news is that they think I’m qualified for it. The bad news is that they think I’m qualified for it.

From my Journal Three Years Ago:

March 21, 2006 6:38 AM

Why today?

It may be because there’s a chance that possibly my brother and I might go on a hike this summer. Maybe. I haven’t really committed yet because, well, there’s a lot of snags like money, time, schedule (we’re moving), and my big fear of committing to things. We’ve gone on a few hikes in the past few years and each one (Smokies, UP in Michigan) has been stellar. I’ve also dreaded each one to some extent, in some part of me, however I’ve never regretted doing it.

But right now I’m trying to figure out why today I couldn’t go back to sleep after my son woke up at 5:30 with a dirty diaper. I changed him and put him back in his crib, got back into my cozy bed next to my sleeping wife, happy to catch maybe a couple more hours of sleep. Just like most mornings. But this morning my eyes wouldn’t shut all the way. I stared at the ceiling. I looked over at the clock that glowed 6:00 in green, the colon blinking between the numbers like a taunt. I whispered to my wife, “Sherry?” No response. I said in a full voice, “Sherry.” She replied with a sleepy and somewhat agitated “What?” We’re first time parents and still a little nervous to even be sleeping at all, always ready to wake up. Still staring through the blades of the motionless ceiling fan I said, “Would it be crazy if I went for a walk?” I felt her turn and look at the clock. “It’s six of clock,” she said with the subtext “what are you a f**king moron?” She continued, “It’s dark and cold.” I was surprised to find my own wife as the devil sitting on my shoulder. I let a few seconds pass, maybe I’d fall asleep. I didn’t. I said, “I know it’s early, but people do that, right? They get up and go for a jog?” I wouldn’t really know as I’m rarely up at this hour. She said, “I think so” and she went back to sleep.

I blame that damn Rocky. The movie was on a few days ago as I sat on the couch with a bag of pretzels, flipping through the channels. I only saw the part where he ran up the steps and threw his arms up in jubilation as the weird choir sang “buying wire” or whatever it is they say.

The next thing I know I’m out of bed putting on my thermal pants, the ones I bought for my first hike six or so years ago. I’m feeling great. The anticipation is really great, almost euphoric. Am I really doing this?! It’s 6:30 in the morning and I’m up! The truth is I hate exercise. I enjoy the thought of it, the idea of music playing as I begin running under a street lamp through the foggy wet haze of the morning, but I find the actual doing to be less than cinematic. The other thing is that I own an old grey sweatshirt like the one Rocky wears and I really thought I would look cool.

As I lace up my tennis shoes I’m still trying to figure out...why today? I don’t know, but maybe I do. A month ago I quit smoking. I say that with some hesitance because I’m still not sure I quit. I still miss it. Thirteen months ago I quit drinking. I’m more confident of that fact, though I don’t dwell on it too much because one day at a time is how it’s worked so far. I’m 6’4” and about to turn the big 3-0. I’m also about to hit the bigger 3-0-0 pounds, 298 to be exact (though I think the scale we have is a big mean liar). People seem surprised when I tell them how much I weigh, probably just because I’m sharing it for no reason, but when you’re tall you can “get away” with a few extra pounds. I think that’s the real issue for those who feel the need to sue McDonalds. I don’t think they're upset that they’re fat; it’s that they’re short. But for some reason, lately I don’t feel like I’m getting away with anything.

I’m now wearing my thermal bottoms, sweatpants, thick socks (another hiking purchase), tennis shoes, a thermal shirt, t-shirt, and my cool grey hooded sweatshirt. I sort of stretch, remembering the physical therapist I worked with in high school when I injured my knee in football practice (that’s another story), the one who commented that I had the tightest hamstrings she’d ever seen. I believe I replied with a “thank you” without any awareness that it may not have been a compliment. I’m standing in my living room, now fully decked out like Sly himself (minus the tape around my hands...I think I’ll get some). I’m thinking, “Maybe this is a good first step. Maybe this is enough for today.” But today I’m not getting away with that.

I wasn’t gone for too long, and I doubt I made it a mile. But I jogged. Then walked. Then jogged. Then mostly just walked. My mind was racing, thinking about what a change I’d made in myself, that when I got home I would do sit-ups and pushups, clean the house, do the yard, and I’d never be lethargic again. The cold air felt great in my lungs, and while I probably didn’t look as cool as I felt, I feel good now. But I’ve been here before, many times. My history is littered with newly turned over leaves.

I didn’t do any sit-ups or pushups because quite frankly, I’m about to collapse. I didn’t clean the house or work in the yard because those things are boring. And come summer, I don’t know whether or not I’ll hike with my brother, or if I’ll still weigh what I do now. I do know that the sun is coming out more and my son will wake up soon for the day. I’ll have to get him ready for daycare and go to work myself. My day has started, and that’s all I have to deal with at the moment.