"You did it! You did it!
You said that you would do it,
and indeed you did!
I thought that you would rue it,
I doubted you'd do it.
But now I must admit it
That succeed you did!"
I should get a medal ... wait, I did!
Here are all the details on the Bud E. Bee Boo Run that nobody's really interested in. First, I don't really want to do another running event all on my own. Everyone else there either had a team or had people there to support them. The nice thing about this one was that it was a community event and a few people were really nice, and the beneficiaries were the mentally handicapped—and they were the super sweet people handing out water and Gatorade. Also the ones bestowing medals at the finish line (yay!).
I should say that with all I've read and observed about runners, I was not in denial about the fact that I'm slow—really, really slow. However, I didn't exactly plan on being the very last to finish, and about a fourth of the way through the run, I realized that I might be the last to finish. The good thing was that I had paced myself well enough that I could increase my speed over the second half. In fact, I left 6 people in the dust, and the last 2 miles were probably my fastest. That was a little surprising, but definitely in a good way. I think I'll employ the same strategy when I do a full Marathon.
Well, actually, when I do a full Marathon, I don't think I'll worry about speed at all. I think I'll let myself come in dead last if that's what it takes to finish.
Doing a half Marathon really wasn't that hard. Not, at least, any harder than tacking on an extra mile to my weekly run. I remember someone saying that it's the training that's hard, not the actual event. I would have to agree. It's taken a lot more discipline and concentration than I've put into very many things before.
A few other random things I observed about the experience—I picked a good location. This little town had lots of gradual ups and downs. The hills were slightly challenging, but I just leaned forward, switched to the next song on my iPod, and kept going. One hill in particular looked very long and steep from a certain vantage point, but by the time I got to it (both times), it hardly even seemed like a hill. Interesting.
Also, they have it arranged so that when you get a drink of water you can just throw your cup on the ground. I don't care to do that, even though I know it's socially acceptable in that situation. So I just crumple my cup and hold it in my hand until I get to a trash bin. I realized that I like having something to hold in my hand. It's comforting and encouraging, for whatever reason, to hold my iPod in one hand and a crumpled up cup in the other.
Until the wax coating on the cup deteriorates and the paper starts to come off on your skin.
But by that time, I had usually found a trash bag. I guess when you don't have a person to hold your hand, you resort to cardboard cups. Hehe.
One other very funny part was that when I was nearing the finish line and everyone was cheering for me, the finish line sort of collapsed. It was one of those plastic air-balloon finish line arches, like a piece of a bounce house or something. Well, it fell over. But they got it back up just in time for me to run under it. That was great fun.
Finally, here are the credits:
Heavenly Father, for giving me EVERYTHING, including a healthy body and lovely weather to run in.
My family, who even though several of them could have cared less, still pretended to support me.
Florence Welsh, for her amazing voice and cool harp mixed with drums.
Howard Shore, for the trailer music to Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King
"Sweet Disposition," by Temper Trap
Apple, for inventing the iPod classic, in which I can store my entire music library and lots of movies, as well as create a nice playlist for running.
New Balance, for selling a bra that doesn’t cut me
Asics, for great running shoes
Old Navy, for cool stretchy yoga shorts
Everyone who offered sweet, inspiring words of encouragement
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
On Books (Part Nine)
All four-hundred-page books are equal, but some are more equal than others.
Can you believe I still haven't read Animal Farm?
Last week I read a lovely book, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. I don't normally read that genre—I believe it falls into the category of "Women's Lit"—but it came highly recommended from a friend, and just the first page was enough to recommend it for itself. Who needs to finish a professional portfolio when there's a book this good to be read? I read it in a day.
Although there wasn't anything particularly deep or earth-shattering about the book, I'm still thinking about it a week later. It was just a really good story with good, strong writing. I can't think of any flaws in the author's style or execution, and that's rare. And what's more, there are a few parts, one specifically, that were real tear-jerkers. You know, it has the same effect as the closing scene of Random Harvest (sniff). I do like a good cry now and then, and that one was quite satisfying.
The reason I started this post was to muse on the difference between The Help and The Name of the Rose. What connection do I see between them? Merely their length. In all other respects, they are nothing alike. I just think that the written word is fascinating—especially when I notice that two books of approximately the same length, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed, can have such variance in the process I have to employ to read them.
I admit, the main reason I read The Name of the Rose was so that I could say I read it and thereby feel smart. I have a thing for feeling smart. But I also knew it was a mystery, and most books of the mystery genre are second-rate, valuable only as a passing amusement. And if they aren't funny, I generally don't like them. This one, though, was brilliantly marketed as an intellectual mystery—one that actually requires you to use your brain. How exciting, to be able to transcend a superficial genre in such a way! It's true, it was intellectual, but I also had to force myself to read it. I never got hooked or absorbed, and I never reached that happy point in book-reading that ensures a rapid race to the end. It was slow. All the way through. However, I wouldn't necessarily say that's a weakness, unless you're of the camp that believes a book, in order to be a "good book" should hook you in the first chapter. Sure, it was slow, but it was a good book.
Contrast The Help, which I have already implied that I couldn't put down, and which is also not typical of its own genre. I was hooked in the first chapter. It is also a good book.
Have you heard of a genre called Steampunk? Today was the first time I ever saw a book categorized as steampunk. Apparently, it's fantasy and/or magical realism set in Victorian-like settings. Interesting. Obviously more readers than me have grown tired of the cliché medieval fantasy setting. I would find it very promising if it didn't seem to include so many zombies.
Can you believe I still haven't read Animal Farm?
Last week I read a lovely book, The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. I don't normally read that genre—I believe it falls into the category of "Women's Lit"—but it came highly recommended from a friend, and just the first page was enough to recommend it for itself. Who needs to finish a professional portfolio when there's a book this good to be read? I read it in a day.
Although there wasn't anything particularly deep or earth-shattering about the book, I'm still thinking about it a week later. It was just a really good story with good, strong writing. I can't think of any flaws in the author's style or execution, and that's rare. And what's more, there are a few parts, one specifically, that were real tear-jerkers. You know, it has the same effect as the closing scene of Random Harvest (sniff). I do like a good cry now and then, and that one was quite satisfying.
The reason I started this post was to muse on the difference between The Help and The Name of the Rose. What connection do I see between them? Merely their length. In all other respects, they are nothing alike. I just think that the written word is fascinating—especially when I notice that two books of approximately the same length, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed, can have such variance in the process I have to employ to read them.
I admit, the main reason I read The Name of the Rose was so that I could say I read it and thereby feel smart. I have a thing for feeling smart. But I also knew it was a mystery, and most books of the mystery genre are second-rate, valuable only as a passing amusement. And if they aren't funny, I generally don't like them. This one, though, was brilliantly marketed as an intellectual mystery—one that actually requires you to use your brain. How exciting, to be able to transcend a superficial genre in such a way! It's true, it was intellectual, but I also had to force myself to read it. I never got hooked or absorbed, and I never reached that happy point in book-reading that ensures a rapid race to the end. It was slow. All the way through. However, I wouldn't necessarily say that's a weakness, unless you're of the camp that believes a book, in order to be a "good book" should hook you in the first chapter. Sure, it was slow, but it was a good book.
Contrast The Help, which I have already implied that I couldn't put down, and which is also not typical of its own genre. I was hooked in the first chapter. It is also a good book.
Have you heard of a genre called Steampunk? Today was the first time I ever saw a book categorized as steampunk. Apparently, it's fantasy and/or magical realism set in Victorian-like settings. Interesting. Obviously more readers than me have grown tired of the cliché medieval fantasy setting. I would find it very promising if it didn't seem to include so many zombies.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Countdown ...
Ran 6.5 miles and walked 1.5 miles. Burned approximately 1250 calories. Five days until the half-marathon. I'm so excited!
(This past Saturday was a little scary. The plan was to run another 12-miler in preparation for the event, but I was about 3 miles away from the house when the neighborhood was blessed with a vigorous rain. I contemplated stopping at a friend's house to take shelter under their porch, but it seemed like it was slowing a little, and I was already drenched. Kept going, the rain got harder, so I was planning to try to stop at another friend's porch—then a sweet lady from my ward stopped and told me to get in the car. It was such a funny adventure I wasn't too disappointed not to finish my complete run, but then I got worried yesterday morning because I had pressure in my head and thought I might have caught cold. Still a little worried about that. I guess my lucky running shorts are fallible.)
(This past Saturday was a little scary. The plan was to run another 12-miler in preparation for the event, but I was about 3 miles away from the house when the neighborhood was blessed with a vigorous rain. I contemplated stopping at a friend's house to take shelter under their porch, but it seemed like it was slowing a little, and I was already drenched. Kept going, the rain got harder, so I was planning to try to stop at another friend's porch—then a sweet lady from my ward stopped and told me to get in the car. It was such a funny adventure I wasn't too disappointed not to finish my complete run, but then I got worried yesterday morning because I had pressure in my head and thought I might have caught cold. Still a little worried about that. I guess my lucky running shorts are fallible.)
Monday, October 18, 2010
Procrastination
Have you ever noticed that the less busy you are, the more difficult it is to manage your time? I heard once that if you're in a leadership role and you need to delegate, give a job to a busy person because a busy person will get it done. That is very true.
I went to a time management workshop at the last YSA conference several weekends ago, and at first I had a really bad attitude about it—mostly due to my prideful assumption that I've heard almost everything worth hearing from workshops for single people and I don't need someone to tell me how to live my life—especially when it's a person who has no idea what it's like to be me. Did I mention I was prideful?
The beginning part of the workshop was a little annoying, but that's only because I came in a few minutes late and didn't realize that the presenter had already explained that he was going to briefly discuss principles of time management in how they relate to you spiritually, before going into the practical stuff. I didn't want to go to a time management workshop and leave later having only heard how important it was to manage my time. If I didn't already think it was important to manage my time, I wouldn't have set foot in that room.
At any rate, the principles part was brief, and the rest of it was very helpful strategic information—well represented by hand-outs and a short quiz. Is it weird to like quizzes? I guess it isn't, because even though I never read them, I've heard that girls' and women's magazines are full of them. And I constantly get quizzes sent to me on Facebook, even though I never do them. The time management quiz was a little interesting, because I scored a 25 out of 30, which is the highest score you can get in the healthy range (26 and above indicates possible issues that could lead to burnout). How does that happen? I have come to the conclusion that at least part of it is that I did what a lot of people do on personality assessments and took the quiz based on my intentions rather than my actual habits. Ouch.
How else could you explain my current lifestyle? Positive: I get things done. Negative: I never get them done anywhere near the time I designate to get them done.
The best thing I learned, however, was from the handout on procrastination. It was so validating to read that some things actually should be procrastinated. Said in a different way, I am understanding more and more that finding peace and joy in life has everything to do with getting your priorities straight. Which means I'm going to refocus and refine my ability to procrastinate.
I went to a time management workshop at the last YSA conference several weekends ago, and at first I had a really bad attitude about it—mostly due to my prideful assumption that I've heard almost everything worth hearing from workshops for single people and I don't need someone to tell me how to live my life—especially when it's a person who has no idea what it's like to be me. Did I mention I was prideful?
The beginning part of the workshop was a little annoying, but that's only because I came in a few minutes late and didn't realize that the presenter had already explained that he was going to briefly discuss principles of time management in how they relate to you spiritually, before going into the practical stuff. I didn't want to go to a time management workshop and leave later having only heard how important it was to manage my time. If I didn't already think it was important to manage my time, I wouldn't have set foot in that room.
At any rate, the principles part was brief, and the rest of it was very helpful strategic information—well represented by hand-outs and a short quiz. Is it weird to like quizzes? I guess it isn't, because even though I never read them, I've heard that girls' and women's magazines are full of them. And I constantly get quizzes sent to me on Facebook, even though I never do them. The time management quiz was a little interesting, because I scored a 25 out of 30, which is the highest score you can get in the healthy range (26 and above indicates possible issues that could lead to burnout). How does that happen? I have come to the conclusion that at least part of it is that I did what a lot of people do on personality assessments and took the quiz based on my intentions rather than my actual habits. Ouch.
How else could you explain my current lifestyle? Positive: I get things done. Negative: I never get them done anywhere near the time I designate to get them done.
The best thing I learned, however, was from the handout on procrastination. It was so validating to read that some things actually should be procrastinated. Said in a different way, I am understanding more and more that finding peace and joy in life has everything to do with getting your priorities straight. Which means I'm going to refocus and refine my ability to procrastinate.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
On Books (Part Eight)
I read too many books. I counted (hehe) and discovered that I have read over 60 this year, and that number includes some incredibly long ones.
The other day I was conversing with a girl who asked me if I'd ever been in love ... with someone real. As in, not a fictional character I read about in a book. Ouch.
I'm not offended that she said that, but I always thought it was rather obvious that I understood the difference between book men and real men. I've never fallen in love with a fictional character. For instance, I've never considered myself the sort of woman who dreams of finding her very own Mr. Darcy. And as much as I love Jane Eyre, I was all about being happy that Jane and Rochester ended up together, and nothing about wishing I could be her and have a man like that. Fictional men do not make me sigh with longing, and it never occurs to me to wish that real men were in any way like the fabricated men in literary endeavors.
The truth is that I hold men to a higher standard than what is normally expected of them—or at least, I hold them to that standard if I have any plans of making them a part of my life. They rarely measure up. But I'm pretty sure it doesn't have anything to do with the underdeveloped men in books written by women whose concept of the ideal man was not entirely in sync with my own. Frankly, the man I'm going to marry will be a thousand times better than Mr. Darcy, if only for the reason that he has to have rare abilities indeed if he's going to consider falling in love with me. I'm not trying to put myself down when I say that there are hardly any men out there who would see anything in me worth paying attention to, much less falling in love with. I am not Elizabeth Bennett—she is also a fictional character.
I have had to deliberately curb my imagination in trying to come up with the ideal husband, because in addition to the fact that the ideal husband doesn't exist, there is also the glaringly obvious point that even if he did, he wouldn't want me. And to try to imagine a future with a perfect man would be rather dangerous anyway. I always thought it was a silly idea that, back when we were teenagers in church they wanted us to do things like make A LIST.
I understand why it was done, but I remember that when I made my LIST, it was brief and to the point. I wanted a man who was righteous and kind, preferably tall. Then one of the advisors got ahold of my LIST and contributed her own addenda, including handsome, charming, funny, and some other stuff. Really? My life is not, and never has been, a storybook. It's only in bad romance novels that a girl who has average looks, average intelligence, and a lot of insecurities in addition to extreme hereditary timidity ends up with the guy who is tall, dark, handsome, charming, and funny, as well as good and kind and annoyingly selfless. I was actually taking my assignment seriously.
And I hate bad romance novels.
Equally as passionately, I hate bad mystery novels. You know, the kind where there's not a single person in the book that you actually like, and every upper-class female character has an aquiline nose and an angelic profile; where the criminal actually ends up looking rather tame compared to the people who were innocent ... or even worse, the people you really liked turn out to be the vilest ones in the end.
If life were like one of those books, I'd never want to get married because I'd be sure that ten years later my husband would turn out to be an axe murderer, or worse.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that as much as I do love books, I hope I don't have any misconceptions about real life due to my love for them. There's plenty of room in my life to accommodate both imagination and reality.
The other day I was conversing with a girl who asked me if I'd ever been in love ... with someone real. As in, not a fictional character I read about in a book. Ouch.
I'm not offended that she said that, but I always thought it was rather obvious that I understood the difference between book men and real men. I've never fallen in love with a fictional character. For instance, I've never considered myself the sort of woman who dreams of finding her very own Mr. Darcy. And as much as I love Jane Eyre, I was all about being happy that Jane and Rochester ended up together, and nothing about wishing I could be her and have a man like that. Fictional men do not make me sigh with longing, and it never occurs to me to wish that real men were in any way like the fabricated men in literary endeavors.
The truth is that I hold men to a higher standard than what is normally expected of them—or at least, I hold them to that standard if I have any plans of making them a part of my life. They rarely measure up. But I'm pretty sure it doesn't have anything to do with the underdeveloped men in books written by women whose concept of the ideal man was not entirely in sync with my own. Frankly, the man I'm going to marry will be a thousand times better than Mr. Darcy, if only for the reason that he has to have rare abilities indeed if he's going to consider falling in love with me. I'm not trying to put myself down when I say that there are hardly any men out there who would see anything in me worth paying attention to, much less falling in love with. I am not Elizabeth Bennett—she is also a fictional character.
I have had to deliberately curb my imagination in trying to come up with the ideal husband, because in addition to the fact that the ideal husband doesn't exist, there is also the glaringly obvious point that even if he did, he wouldn't want me. And to try to imagine a future with a perfect man would be rather dangerous anyway. I always thought it was a silly idea that, back when we were teenagers in church they wanted us to do things like make A LIST.
I understand why it was done, but I remember that when I made my LIST, it was brief and to the point. I wanted a man who was righteous and kind, preferably tall. Then one of the advisors got ahold of my LIST and contributed her own addenda, including handsome, charming, funny, and some other stuff. Really? My life is not, and never has been, a storybook. It's only in bad romance novels that a girl who has average looks, average intelligence, and a lot of insecurities in addition to extreme hereditary timidity ends up with the guy who is tall, dark, handsome, charming, and funny, as well as good and kind and annoyingly selfless. I was actually taking my assignment seriously.
And I hate bad romance novels.
Equally as passionately, I hate bad mystery novels. You know, the kind where there's not a single person in the book that you actually like, and every upper-class female character has an aquiline nose and an angelic profile; where the criminal actually ends up looking rather tame compared to the people who were innocent ... or even worse, the people you really liked turn out to be the vilest ones in the end.
If life were like one of those books, I'd never want to get married because I'd be sure that ten years later my husband would turn out to be an axe murderer, or worse.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that as much as I do love books, I hope I don't have any misconceptions about real life due to my love for them. There's plenty of room in my life to accommodate both imagination and reality.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
I Astound Myself
This morning while I was running, I began to contemplate myself, and my own brilliance amazes me.
At first, this seems like a conceited thing to say, but if I can explain it clearly, it isn't at all. Because the very next thing that occurred to me is that in the grand scheme of things, of all the billions and billions of souls who have or will inhabit this earth, I'm nothing particularly special. Just another Child of God.
Just another Child of God is not something you can say or contemplate lightly. People, because of our divine origins, are so deep that we could spend our entire lives just trying to truly understand one person and still never get to the very bottom of that person's character.
This is why only God could come up with a Plan that would fit each and every individual.
I guess I've been reading too much about educational theories and programs, and I'm still shocked at how almost all of them are still looking for the magic formula that will churn out smart, responsible kids like a factory churns out candy.
They need the Gospel.
At first, this seems like a conceited thing to say, but if I can explain it clearly, it isn't at all. Because the very next thing that occurred to me is that in the grand scheme of things, of all the billions and billions of souls who have or will inhabit this earth, I'm nothing particularly special. Just another Child of God.
Just another Child of God is not something you can say or contemplate lightly. People, because of our divine origins, are so deep that we could spend our entire lives just trying to truly understand one person and still never get to the very bottom of that person's character.
This is why only God could come up with a Plan that would fit each and every individual.
I guess I've been reading too much about educational theories and programs, and I'm still shocked at how almost all of them are still looking for the magic formula that will churn out smart, responsible kids like a factory churns out candy.
They need the Gospel.
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