This running deal is really hard.
Well, maybe it's not the actual running that's hard, it's the finding time to run that's hard. I kid you not. This week between not feeling super well (don't worry, I'll over share the incredibly personal details of my life in just a second) and basketball games and school work and teaching and travel-agenting and fighting The Great Mouse Invasion of 2010 (another blog for another day), it's been a figurative and literal zoo in Johnsonville.
I had my annual OBGYN visit last Thursday (lovely) where it was time to change out my IUD (told you it was coming). Five years ago, after I'd completely healed from my fourth Shortie, The Husband and I decided that we needed to explore a more reliable method of preventing Shorties (since they were something of an epidemic of answered prayer running through here). The OBGYN said that he was unwilling to do yet another surgery on my abdomen (so no tying of the tubes), and that short of the Big V on The Husband, the Mirena IUD was the way to go. It's been awesome. That little suzy has done it's job wonderfully and has this amazing bonus feature: no monthly visits from Aunt Flo. Perfect!
Well, it was time to change that program out. It's like parts on the Ford; the belts and plugs need changing every now and again. Sounds simple, yes? Put her on the rack and rotate the tires.
You silly, naive readers! Nothing in Johnsonville is that easy! Naturally, because I'm a Johnson, the little part that you need to have access to in order to remove the program wasn't readily available, so the doctor made some "blind grabs" (his words). This is not as calm as it sounds on paper, because when the OBGYN "blind grabs" some stuff that's not the actual IUD, you are acutely aware of it. I'm not joking. (Note to self: don't let anyone use the phrase "blind grab" in reference to me again if I'm not fully clothed and upright.) I know that I don't really need any of those parts anymore, but I don't much fancy the idea of having them yanked out by the root either.
The Good Doctor finally got the old part out on Blind Grab Attempt Number Four, but the new model wouldn't fit back into the correct place (Definitions: see The Johnson Factor). He mentioned getting an ultrasound and calling in another doctor for consult since my uterus is so tilted we can tune into Mars without a satellite if I hold my arms and legs in the right positions.
It looks so deceptively small, doesn't it? It's a trick on par with that "objects in mirror are closer than they appear" deal in the car. That thing is the actually the size of a small subcompact vehicle.
After about three really uncomfortable tries to shove an entire filing cabinet into my uterus (aka a Mirena IUD), I yelled 'uncle' on the table and announced that I was done. Over. Finished. No more, thank you very much. This has been fun, but I'm ready to get my goody bag and leave the party now. I also appealed to the four people with me in the examining room, calling for an immediate vote on the floor.
Proposed Motion Number 1: All in favor of The Husband having the Big V raise your right hands. (All hands in the air including both of the OBGYN's hands.) All in favor. Motion carries. Meeting adjourned. Oh, and will someone please hand me my clothing on the way out?
I waddled out of there thinking that I'd still try aerobics class. (Um, no.) No running either. No standing. No sitting. That entire deal caused me to go four days off program. Then, to add insult to injury, I had my first real cycle in five years. Have mercy. (Now it's The Husband crying 'uncle' in the background, because I was quite the little she-devil all week, which is so out of character of me; I'm usually just a little ray of sunshine. Ahem.)
Having forgotten what that little party was like for the past five blissfully cycle-free years, it was beyond shocking. (Incidentally, I'm not for it.) I lay in the bed for three days with a bottle of Pamprin and a heating pad, while questioning all of my life choices leading up to this point, finally announcing in a fit of rage that I may need a vote recount and an appointment for that ultrasound and second attempt. Lord have mercy!!!! What was I thinking???? How did I dare leave that office without my precious Mirena??? Curses!!!!! And where are the blasted M&M's? How do I live in a house with no chocolate in it?!!! Oh, Sweet Jesus, just ONE square! What is the matter with you people? Somebody find CHOCOLATE!!!!!! RIGHT NOW!!!!!! Mother of GOD is the heat on in here?!!
That effectively killed the rest of the week in the exercise department. Because I got so far out of whack on my running schedule (that was what I originally started talking about in this blog--see, you'd forgotten what we were supposed to be doing too, and it wasn't even your uterus under attack), I figured I'd start over this week. Then we had cheer and basketball and church and orthodonture and Elaina's eyeball almost fell out (I don't have time to blog every single little thing, you know) and so on and so forth. (It's really quite a little program keeping everything happening around here. Sometimes I impress myself.)
I shared all of that to say this: I think I'm going to have to bite the bullet and run in the pre-dawn hours, as much as I hate it. My evenings are just too full to put it off. I need to pray through that deal, because waking up is hard enough much less waking up and running somewhere. I don't suppose I can make a deal that I'll run every day that it's 72 and sunny either, so I need to suck it up and just do it already. And I need to be committed before that next cycle rears it's ugly head or I'm a goner.
Mirena, Mirena, wherefore art thou, Mirena!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
This afternoon we are going to my Mamaw's 90th birthday celebration. I'm expecting a zillion relatives from our extended family. I sincerely hope someone asks me what I'm up to these days, so that I can drop the running bomb on someone. They only thought they were shocked when I announced The Husband was being called to preach, thereby making me The Preacher's Wife by default. Wait till I tell them I ran, I run, I am running. We might need to have oxygen standing by for the uncontrollable laughter that will follow.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
After all day at school, waiting through cheer practice, and getting the girls' hair cut (and mine too), I was TIRED and my legs hurt (all of that standing while teaching I suppose). But I came home to find The Husband cooking dinner (without any prompting from me, he just went for it on his own--I know, like whoa) and thought to myself, if he can do that, I can do this. So, I stretched and walked and then RAN.
I had my phone with the stop watch in one hand and the MP3 tucked in, blasting The Cult on 11 (nothing like a little Fire Woman to get a girl going--that song is a flat out jam http://new.music.yahoo.com/cult/tracks/fire-woman--1440149 if you've never heard it you totally need an education in what real rock music sounds like). LeRoy the Yard Dog joined me half way through as the day slowly shifted into twilight. Pretty good stuff.
Well, until the actual 60 seconds that I had to run. Times twelve. With 90 seconds of walking in between. (Lord have mercy.)
Things I've learned about running thus far, Day One:
1.) It's hard to run and sing and avoid stepping on the dog and watch the clock all at once. And I'm not all that coordinated to begin with (see any posts about The Other Wonder Twin and recall that I gave birth to her).
2.) I used to be worried about Bob and Chuck when I ran (see older posts). Obviously, I was so distracted by my abundant front that I neglected to notice my ample derriere. I'm not sure that one's bottom end is supposed to jiggle like that when running. It's not natural. (I had so much stuff going in so many different directions that I'm pretty sure I broke that Baptist No Dancing Rule in there somewhere.)
3.) Twenty-five minutes of massage = flies by.
4.) Twenty-five minutes of running = refuses to end.
5.) Prayer and preparation are the two more important parts of getting my day started--like fruits and veggies and breakfast--they are Must Do Appointments for me. But sweating and jamming to The Cult are almost like diving into a honking big bowl of chocolate chip mint ice cream at bedtime (and I can assure you that I'm an expert on that topic)--both are nothing but sheer pleasure because I CAN and I DID! WHOOT!
Now, 3.2 miles may not seem like such a big whoop to most of you, but to me it's one step short of amazing. I don't run anywhere. Not in the rain, not to the mailbox, not from a rabid dog. No way.
So, on that little paper I printed out for the Cool Running’s Couch-to-5K ® Program it says "Start with a brisk five-minute warm up walk. Then alternate 60 seconds of jogging and 90 seconds of walking for a total of 20 minutes." The five-minute warm up thing I'm totally down with. I'm well into 3 miles of walking on a regular. I'm also cool with 20 minutes of walking, since I'm already doing 45 solid minutes of double tough aerobic activity three times a week. But the jogging? I'm just hoping not to hyperventilate and pass out 30 seconds into the deal. I'm also praying not to go flying through the top level of the track, landing in a broken heap on the floor of the gymnasium. Seriously.
But the biggest obstacle in my way? The snooze button on the alarm clock. I'm a notorious last-minute sleeper. Getting up 30 minutes earlier than normal on purpose (and not for something like Disney World or a Twilight premiere) is going to be the Olympic hurdle that I've got to cross, and it starts far, far before the actual running part. I'm already pep-talking myself. I'm considering downloading some famous football coach half-time speeches to play if I start to weaken and slap at the snooze button.
I'd tell The Husband to get after me and remind me to get up, but he might be injured when I flip out and start flailing around in a Sister Sunshine fit. So, nix that. I'll just have to do it myself. (I'd like to stay married during this deal.What's the point in getting all fabulous if The Husband is mad at me for dotting his eyes for doing what I asked him to do in the first place?) (This is the definition of Irony, class.)
Alarm clock: one
Nah, if I'm being truthful, it's all The Husband's fault. He's smarter than I am. Last night when I was moaning about getting up early and not being totally sure I'd do that for 12 weeks straight, he said, "So, why don't you just run at the same time you normally do aerobics? Like, in the afternoon/evening."
Getting to see the sunset is more my style. This is why he isn't "a husband", he's "The Husband". :-)