Every year or few, I get bored. This, in fact, might be one of my biggest flaws in life. I get bored with jobs, I get bored with where I live. I have a lust to wander and do new things, to explore and take risks. Usually this boredom manifests itself by becoming some massive challenge that I JUST MUST DO.
Some examples have been:
- Getting into a top tier school (And unknowingly getting into a degree program at that school that only accepts 10 students a year!)
- Learning to bake bread. (Yeast is scary, folks.)
- Getting a new job. And Again. And Again.
- Traveling to New Zealand, studying at Cambridge.
- Living out of a backpack.
- Paying off a car and/or planning a wedding in less than 6 months (Yes, it can be done.)
- Trusting my life to ropes and harnesses.
- Learning to dance. (Still learning.)
- Or just the simple act of jumping out of a plane. (Or off a bridge. Which, FYI, is WAY MORE TERRIFYING.)
This time? It was signing up for a half-marathon. In my usual manner I jumped head first into the deep end, completely ignoring the fact that I’ve never been an athlete, and certainly never run more than a mile. But in my butterfly and rainbow filled head, I knew that if I trained, 13 miles should be easy. People do it, therefore so could I. (You see where this is going.)
After a couple months of training, I started getting rather frustrated. Why wasn’t I getting better or faster? Also, why did I STILL feel like curling up in a ball on the pavement after every mile?
I started getting (WAY) stressed out about this, and the panic set in. You’ve never seen irrational panic until you’ve seen a control freak lose control. How on earth was I supposed to run 13 when I want to die at 4? I got crabby and downtrodden, and I annoyed the crap out of my husband. I would loathe the thought of my daily run, instead of enjoying and looking forward to it. I would complain and panic and beat myself up about every horrible mile time. (Which, in fact, was all of them.)
Running has proven to be a much larger challenge than I ever thought it would be, and while I enjoy it, I am not excelling at it. It’s HARD, guys.
So, I’ve officially decided to commit fairy murder. Unless I get some pixie dust and am magically ready in January, I’m not running the Tinkerbell Half-Marathon. Instead, I’m choosing to enjoy running again. I’m running when and where I want. I’m less stressed, much happier, and generally a better person to be around. And for this, I feel like my race admission has already paid for itself. It got me moving, it got me to find this amazing freedom and joy of running.
So maybe I won’t earn my wings. But if life is really about the journey and not the destination, I will run the whole way. Just very, very, slowly.