I know. I know. I say it every year.
But I can't help it.
I am just head over heels madly in love with Autumn. Scarves, pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, Taylor's turkey chili, leaves spiraling to the sidewalk for crunching underfoot. There is something about the touch of chill in the air that leaves me weak in knees, desperate for more and more Fall variety adventure.
My new apartment has an adorable courtyard garden. There are benches with trees bending over to shade them, dropping their leaves as they start to change and turn fiery in the Fall sun. It's the perfect spot for a book or sharing M&Ms or finding the aforementioned crunchy leaves.
Just when I think Chicago couldn't possibly wrap my heart up any more, I get distracted by a nook like this and realize exactly why I fell in love with this place to begin with and why I'm still here 5 Falls later.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Note on Running
I started running so that I could spend more time with my best friend that I was hopelessly in love with in middle school. He pushed me to run faster, harder and never seemed all that ashamed to be palling around with the slowest person on the track team (Listen, who really thought middle distance racing was going to be good for my stubby little legs?).
The 800 m of track turned into cross country and soon there were days when I was running upwards of 9 miles in a day. I even kept running when he moved away, my fifteen year old legs carrying me as far and fast as they could from the heartbreak that was inevitable to accompany the void he'd left behind. My teammates were all taller and tinier and much much faster than I was, but at the end of the night, they still patted me on the back and we stretched together. For once, it didn't matter if I was prone to catching balls with my face or if I got too distracted by grapevines, showtunes and daisy chains to be a good outfielder. There was no catty competition for who would have and keep what solo, no need to smile when your feet felt like they were falling off. And, yet, I would never say I was serious about running. But somehow, lately, with my compression tights and running skorts and lengthy lakefront runs, I think I'm there.
When I ran a 5K on a whim with my new friend, Laura, in April, I hadn't run in ages. My last race had been shortly after moving to the city, followed by a few failed attempts at training for something or another. My legs are as stubby as ever and I'm still just as asthmatic. And now, due to my PCOS, I'm battling insulin resistance. But the 5K was fine. I certainly didn't die. A 5K led to more and then a 10K and yesterday, I ran an 8 mile training run to prepare for the half marathon I'm running next month.
I listen to a lot of music to keep myself peppy during a run. I distract myself from my aching muscles by running close enough to Lake Michigan to see the waves and the endless expanse of shiny, blue water. It's peaceful; I'm peaceful when I'm running. And I'm happy to be feeling the rhythm of my feet striking pavement, the murmur of breathing in and out, the whistle of the breeze ruffling my swishing ponytail. The familiar movements and sounds always take me back to afternoons, running in Rotary Park with some of the most amazing people I've ever met. People that I would love to track down and thank for encouraging me then and for allowing their memories to encourage me now. People who pushed me (sometimes literally) to finish one last mile repeat and sprint to the finish line.
As I rounded into mile 6 yesterday, I was reminded of my third track practice. It was so cold that I came home with icicles in my hair, my shoes soaked through to my socks with icy water. There was nothing to do but laugh about it and warm up and move on. Such is the nature of running. It's best when it's hardest, when the challenge is finally surmounted in victory (For me, always personal; I've never come close to winning a race.) I think that very cold, very wet 14-year old would be amazed at where I am now: In a city, in love, working, passionate and running further than seemed possible when I started so long ago; cheers to getting from there to here.
Right now, my victory will be on October 21, when I run the longest race I've ever run, a long time coming. But every step is a battle, fighting against this PCOS and the insulin resistance that is keeping my size 8 dreams at arm's length. A battle against feeling bad about my body, a battle to remind myself that making myself strong and healthy and peaceful is infinitely more important than the perfect little black dress that only goes up to a Size 12. And that's a really huge battle that I'm trying really hard to win, with every footfall, with every Kanye West song, with every little victorious booty shake at the end of 6,7,8,9 miles. Because any body that can get you that far, sliding rhythmically step by step along the path and still remember to sprint up hills, make the most of downhills and always finish strong (Thanks, even to you, Coach Holladay, of whom I was so terrified, I'm not sure I ever spoke to directly.) deserves all the love in the world.
The 800 m of track turned into cross country and soon there were days when I was running upwards of 9 miles in a day. I even kept running when he moved away, my fifteen year old legs carrying me as far and fast as they could from the heartbreak that was inevitable to accompany the void he'd left behind. My teammates were all taller and tinier and much much faster than I was, but at the end of the night, they still patted me on the back and we stretched together. For once, it didn't matter if I was prone to catching balls with my face or if I got too distracted by grapevines, showtunes and daisy chains to be a good outfielder. There was no catty competition for who would have and keep what solo, no need to smile when your feet felt like they were falling off. And, yet, I would never say I was serious about running. But somehow, lately, with my compression tights and running skorts and lengthy lakefront runs, I think I'm there.
When I ran a 5K on a whim with my new friend, Laura, in April, I hadn't run in ages. My last race had been shortly after moving to the city, followed by a few failed attempts at training for something or another. My legs are as stubby as ever and I'm still just as asthmatic. And now, due to my PCOS, I'm battling insulin resistance. But the 5K was fine. I certainly didn't die. A 5K led to more and then a 10K and yesterday, I ran an 8 mile training run to prepare for the half marathon I'm running next month.
I listen to a lot of music to keep myself peppy during a run. I distract myself from my aching muscles by running close enough to Lake Michigan to see the waves and the endless expanse of shiny, blue water. It's peaceful; I'm peaceful when I'm running. And I'm happy to be feeling the rhythm of my feet striking pavement, the murmur of breathing in and out, the whistle of the breeze ruffling my swishing ponytail. The familiar movements and sounds always take me back to afternoons, running in Rotary Park with some of the most amazing people I've ever met. People that I would love to track down and thank for encouraging me then and for allowing their memories to encourage me now. People who pushed me (sometimes literally) to finish one last mile repeat and sprint to the finish line.
As I rounded into mile 6 yesterday, I was reminded of my third track practice. It was so cold that I came home with icicles in my hair, my shoes soaked through to my socks with icy water. There was nothing to do but laugh about it and warm up and move on. Such is the nature of running. It's best when it's hardest, when the challenge is finally surmounted in victory (For me, always personal; I've never come close to winning a race.) I think that very cold, very wet 14-year old would be amazed at where I am now: In a city, in love, working, passionate and running further than seemed possible when I started so long ago; cheers to getting from there to here.
Right now, my victory will be on October 21, when I run the longest race I've ever run, a long time coming. But every step is a battle, fighting against this PCOS and the insulin resistance that is keeping my size 8 dreams at arm's length. A battle against feeling bad about my body, a battle to remind myself that making myself strong and healthy and peaceful is infinitely more important than the perfect little black dress that only goes up to a Size 12. And that's a really huge battle that I'm trying really hard to win, with every footfall, with every Kanye West song, with every little victorious booty shake at the end of 6,7,8,9 miles. Because any body that can get you that far, sliding rhythmically step by step along the path and still remember to sprint up hills, make the most of downhills and always finish strong (Thanks, even to you, Coach Holladay, of whom I was so terrified, I'm not sure I ever spoke to directly.) deserves all the love in the world.
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