Ennui.

Watch. Laugh. Repeat.

 

I first time I watched poor Henri contemplate his existential angst, I laughed so hard I cried.

My new toy

My birthday present came early today.

No, it's not a pony. (Although that'd be awesome.)
No, it's not a monkey. (Although last year I did research if I could rent one for my 30th birthday. Verdict: They're too expensive.)
And no, it's not (another) puppy. (I promised my mother that four-legged animals wouldn't outnumber the two-legged ones in my house, so I have to get a live-in boyfriend before I can get another canine friend. I expect to be waiting a while.)

So what is this birthday bit of awesomeness?

Behold!

For the record, my birthday is still five weeks away. But the birthday fairy (ie: the parental units), thought it'd be nice to have this fancy-pants gadget when I run the Country Music Half Marathon in holy shit less than three weeks. This means that once I can can figure the damn thing out, I'll be able to use it during my runs this weekend, including my last/further training run of the season on Sunday. (11 miles. Oh, sweet Christ.)

As a run-walker who does 4/2 intervals, I've spent the past year+ using a patchwork of iPhone apps on my runs. One app gives me my intervals, another plays music and then I use Nike+ to track my distances and read me my pace every mile or so. The system has worked OK for now, but it also means I have to carry my phone in my fuel belt, which gets crowded on long runs with the accompanying ShotBloks, chapstick, inhaler, snot sock (in the winter), Body Glide (in the summer), water bottle, and emergency cash I sometimes remember to carry. Once I feel comfortable enough with the gadget, I can swap out the iPhone for my iPod nano and I should (knock on wood) be good to go.

Somebody I used to know

Holy shit, this song is gorgeous. The lyrics almost make me wish I was nursing a break up. (Yes, I typed that.)



Enjoy.

Easter inspiration and an in-process theology

From today's Easter Sunday sermon, which quoted theologian Clarence Jordan:

“The proof that God raised Jesus from the dead is not the empty tomb, but the full hearts of his transformed disciples. The crowning evidence that he lives is not a vacant grave, but a spirit-filled fellowship; not a rolled-away stone, but a carried-away church.”

I'm an ordained deacon at my church, but I'll be the first to tell people that there are days when I'm more agnostic than not. My faith journey is something I usually struggle to articulate -- and I admit I have far more questions than answers about my own beliefs and spirituality. But sometimes there are those great eureka moments where you feel like something you read or hear or think about ... just clicks. I love those moments (fleeting and rare as they are) and I felt fortunate to have one this morning when I listened to Jordan's quote. 

I know there are a lot people who believe that the Bible is inerrant. I respect those who do, but I'm not one of them. I believe the Bible is a living, breathing document and its pages have been compiled, rewritten, debated, translated, mistranslated, retold, argued, compressed, omitted and transcribed. (And that's just part of it.) I believe it's a book of metaphor, poetry, symbolism, tradition, story, history, mystery, frustration, inspiration ... well, you get the point. (I should stop before I sound too much like Rob Bell.)

What I love about this quote is that it shows that it's not really a question about whether you literally believe the Easter story as a verbatim, factual account of a series of events that happened roughly 1,980-something years ago. Instead, Easter is about everything that happened in the days, weeks, months and years after. And it's about everything that's still happening today. 

Believe what you want. Create your own theology. Find your own metaphor in the texts of a pretty magnificent story. See it as allegory, fiction or fact. But as I celebrate Easter, I find it hard to argue that a pretty powerful seed was planted in our history, and it's still bearing fruit today. 

P.S. Fun fact about Jordan... he's considered the spiritual founder of Habitat for Humanity. The more you know.

New header

Apropos of nothing, I decided to play around with a new header for the blog. I'm torn on whether it's perfectly me or perfectly a 15-year-old. There's an above-average chance that it's somehow both. (Reader users, click over to check it out.)

Lost dignity and icy substitutes

Maybe I should own one of these.

So if you've been in whining range of me in the past month or so, you probably know that I'm dealing with a strained muscle on the back of my thigh. And if you've ever visited me anytime, say, ever, you'll know that I'm also one of those people who is unable to keep ice cubes in my freezer.

This confluence of events is what led to me spend some quality time this month sitting on a bag of frozen shrimp fried rice, which I'd arranged so it was pressed oh-so-delicately onto the offending area.

If someone had told me a year ago that running would eventually lead me to spend time -- even briefly -- sitting in my underwear on a bag of frozen food while the dog stares in puzzled judgement, I would have politely declined to sign up for this silly adventure.

But now, it's just part of training. (Loss of dignity is, apparently, also included.)

Of course, while skivvy-sitting atop the improvised ice pack, I couldn't help but be entertained by the various frozen food items (bagged, I swear!) I've retrieved from the freezer in the past year to ice knees, ankles and shins. In fact, if you put together the frozen peas, corn, broccoli florets, shrimp, scallops, fried rice and raspberries it'd would probably make some kind of really good meal.

Maybe I'll eventually invest in an ice pack. Or, you know, remember to make ice.

Did you know...?

That it's PI DAY!? 3.14, baby. (Extra nerd points if you celebrate at 1:59:26.) (Yes. I typed that.)

Pi Day is all sorts of awesomesauce and I plan to celebrate with some some of pi(e) -- probably of the pizza variety.

But heads up BEWARE, people. Tomorrow's Part II of the Noodles Nerdathon. Why? Here's a hint.

My life.

Weird things happen when you live by yourself. I've lived solo since 2002, with the exception a several month period that basically reassured me that should I ever get married, my husband I will each need our own houses.



This was so spot on it, made me basically snort out a kidney. Not featured: having extended monologues with your pet.

Smiles.

'Nuff said.

A new season

I'm a month into a training program for my second half marathon. But before I kicked off the season, I decided to set a few goals for myself. (After all, I am nothing if not Type A.)

Goal No. 1: Get faster. Keep in mind, that faster is relative -- especially when you're a back-of-the-pack run/walker. I finished my first half with an average pace of about 15:45. I was shooting for 15:00, which was what my Nike Plus app was telling me I was doing. Turns out, it was wrong. Very, very wrong. (It also said I ran 14.7 miles, which, P.S. I did not.) Anyway, while I was running through Miami, I kept thinking about how well I must have trained because I wasn't every tired. Mystery = solved. At first I was bummed that I didn't hit my pace goal, but then I realized "OMFG, SELF. YOU JUST RAN A HALF MARATHON. YOUR FIRST! EVER! YOU! THE FORMER FATTY WHO ONCE BECAME A FIELD HOCKEY GOALIE IN HIGH SCHOOL SIMPLY TO AVOID HAVING TO RUN A MILE. AND YOU WERE NOT LAST. AND YOU DID NOT GET KICKED OF THE COURSE. ERGO, YOU ARE 18 KINDS OF BADASS."

This time around, I have the confidence of knowing that I CAN cross that finish line if I put in the training time. And now I want to see what what this (generally busty) body of mine can do. I'd be THRILLED if I could get down to that 15-minute mile pace, if not under it. Most of my long runs so far are in the 14-minute range. (The runs -- RUNS! HA! -- are generally about 12-12:30/mile while the walking portions bring me up to about 14:30.) And I'd be bowled-over happy if I could pull that off in a half marathon setting. That said, I know my next race will be a challenge because it's a hilly course, especially for a Chicago girl who trains on pancake-flat terrain. (For the curious is the County Music Half Marathon in Nashville later next month.)  So we'll see. I'm trying to tell myself that even if my race pace doesn't get much faster, at least my training pace IS.

Goal No. 2. Have fun. God knows I'll never place in a race. I have no expectations of winning my age group. Or even making it across the finish line in time to see the winners get their medals. I'd be shocked shitless if I ever see the day when I maintained a pace in the single-digits per mile. I am a back-of-the-pack Penguin through and through. And that's OK. I'm not doing this to win medals. I'm in this to have fun.

Sure, I know that not every workout will be awesome and every not every run will be invigorating. But at the end of the week, if I'm not having fun then I'm not sure why I'm out there. (Yes, there's health reason, the awesomeness of being outside, the friendships I've formed, and the ability to brag to anyone and everyone that I DID IN FACT DO A TIME TRIAL WHEN IT WAS -7, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.) I cringe at the competitive runner types who beat themselves up for missing a time or falling short of a goal. I want to cross every finish line with a smile on my face. Or at least as many as I can.

I have this great quote by John "The Penguin" Bingham on my desk and I look at it almost every time I'm lacing up my sneakers. If you've been sporty all your life, or are in those first few corrals at a race, or are someone who thinks people aren't real athletes unless they run a certain pace or a certain distance ... you won't get it. But if you're someone like me who's what Bingham calls an "accidental athlete," then maybe it'll make you hold your head a little higher when you're lining up way, way, way, way in the back of the pack at the starting line:

"The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start." 

Amen to that and happy trails.

My race, storified.

More on the race later, but I Storified the whole thing...

See for yourself here. (Spoiler alert: I finished. And felt awesome.)

13.1

It's been nearly a year since I first started running. It hasn't been easy. It hasn't always been fun. But somehow over the hundreds of miles, it's become an undeniable part of me.

I leave on Friday to go to Miami where, God willing, I'll finish my first half marathon. Last February, I couldn't run for more than a minute. This month, I toughed out an 11-miler when it was 9 degrees outside and five days later did sprints when it was a down-right frigid -8. Sunday, winding though the streets of a new and strange city, I hope to cover 13.1 miles before I collapse at the finish.

There's a lot to say about the journey. And a lot of stories to share. (Like the time a well-meaning colleague said I was aiming for distances beyond my ability. Or the first time I got scared about having to run for 20 whole minutes -- an inconceivable amount of time when you've just started. There was my first five miler, which left me so giddy I called my mom from the running path, still panting so much her first question to me was "What's wrong!?" And of course the 15K where I spent MILES dead freakin' last in a field of 20,000+ runners, which also happened to be the time I realize you cannot run and cry at the same time -- especially when police are yelling out you because you're going too slowly. But those are stories for another time.)

For now, as I pack my bags, I want to say this: It wouldn't have been possible without my friends.

From my friend who came over to keep me company during my first Couch to 5K workout ...
To my pals who ran with me in races and stood on the sidelines in freezing, raining and burning hot weather to cheer me on...
To the peeps who've listened to me endlessly prattle on about nothing but ridiculous details ...
To training partners who've become like family ...
And to the people at the table during carboloading dinners...

My friend's 5-year-old sent me this letter for good luck.

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.


I haven't said a lot on this blog lately, because sometimes it's hard to really process how much your life has changed when you're in the eye of the storm. But 30 pounds, three sports bras, two pairs of sneakers and one well-used stick of body glide later, I'm beginning to wrap my head around it.

So there you have it. As they say: Running changes everything.

Say a prayer for me on Sunday.

Love,
Noodles

P.S. If all goes according to plan, I'll be sharing details from the weekend on Twitter and under the #runnoodleesrun hashtag.