This Is Not About Botox

Everyone I know has gotten Botox.

Okay okay, not everyone. Certainly no man in my life has gotten Botox (or if one has, he hasn’t admitted it). And there are a few women who I can pretty confidently say haven’t gotten any injections. But note the “pretty confidently” disclaimer—a few years ago, I would have made this declaration with certainty. “So-and-so is the last person who would get a bacterial toxin injected into their face,” I might have said. Well guess what? It turns out that the last person has been injected . . . multiple times. So, in my thirty-seventh year of life, as I look in the mirror and try not to be too mad at my teenage self—who cared nothing for cleansing or exfoliating or, honestly, sunscreen —I’m beginning to wonder whether I too am going to part with several hundred dollars every few months to have neurotoxins injected into my face. Is that the going price of female self-worth these days?

Because here’s the thing: my vanity—which comprises my many insecurities mixed with some baked-in, repressed misogyny—can weather someone else’s good genetics. I call this “luck.” The gal whose hair looks perfect in any condition, rain or shine? She’s lucky. The runner flaunting chiseled abs just three weeks after giving birth? Pure luck. The 45-year-old who has never had a wrinkle in her life? Well. I would have said she’s lucky, but now I’m not so sure. And if it’s not luck, it might be a competition—one that I am currently losing.

Don’t misunderstand; I’m not so neurotic as to think that having the Most Youthful Skin confers some sort of prize. I left that level neuroticism behind in my teenage years, along with my obsession with being Tannest of Them All. However, I’m not so naïve as to think that the appearance of aging, when no one else is aging, won’t have negative consequences.

Here in America, being old is bad, and being an old woman is worse. One of the only power cards women have to play is their sexuality, and they can only play that card while they’re young. Older women get less respect—and if you don’t want to admit this, you have to at least recognize that they get fewer favors. A nubile teenage girl barely has to smile to have men, perhaps several men, give up their seat for her on a crowded bus. A pregnant woman in her twenties or even thirties will have the same request fulfilled by someone without complaint. But a woman in her sixties wearing slightly smudged glasses and carrying a shopping bag? Senile, probably homeless; maybe if we ignore her she’ll stop asking. Don’t tell me this isn’t real; I’ve seen it.

Now, you might be thinking, “But Allison, men are not the only ones with power. Women could give up their bus seat, too.” And surely women don’t have these same biases, right?

As a sample size of one, I know I do. I am impressed by smooth, youthful, spotless skin just the way society has trained me to be impressed. Men claim they don’t notice things like skin or wrinkles, but the reality is that they are noticing; they just see whole face, the whole body—the forest. It’s us women who see the trees . . . and the branches on the trees and the leaves on the branches and the spines on the leaves. And then we dig down in the dirt to see what’s going on with the roots, because those leaves are so lush and green and perfectly shaped, how did they get like that? Nature? Yeah right.

Thus far I’m a holdout. I have not gotten Botox. Or a chemical peel. Or a laser facial. But I did buy some serums and creams. I’ve worn a drugstore facemask or two. I’m very aware of the crow’s feet blooming at the corners of my eyes and the sun spots appearing on my cheeks and the acne scars that no longer fade after I’ve lost the battle and picked that pimple open. I think what bothers me most is the fact that I wouldn’t hate these features if I saw them on everyone else. If the playing field felt even (despite a few lucky genetic anomalies) and we were all aging, if not gracefully, at least together, it would feel acceptable or at least inevitable that wrinkles are coming, gray hairs are coming, a few extra pounds are coming, and it’s okay. It means we’re lucky to still be alive.

But other people have turned this into a contest—to see who can profit off the appearance of youth for longer. And I really, really hate losing.

If I Could Just

If I could just wake up without pain

...walk without limping

...take the stairs this time

I swear I'd be grateful.


If I could just run

...for more than five minutes

...without paralyzing fear

I'd be appreciative beyond belief.


If I could just catch my breath

...keep up with the others

...go faster than this

I wouldn't complain, I promise.


If I could just finish the workout

...add more miles

...run the way I used to

I'd feel more confident, I know it.


If I could just hit that time

...and then go a little faster

...and then a little bit faster

Then I'd be satisfied.


Wouldn't I?

The Obstacle is the Way, and Other Impossible Mindsets

Every year, usually at least twice a year, my fiance R___ goes on a self-improvement binge. Now, I'm not complaining, because these endeavors usually benefit me in some way. Maybe he wants to get fit (hey sexy guy!). Maybe he wants to learn a new skill (cooking, anyone?). Maybe he wants to be a better partner (helloooo date nights . . . and swiffering!). However, his most recent episode has involved a "get tough and get Buddhist" attitude that, for reasons I will explain, makes me want to scream and punch things on a daily basis.

Decidedly NOT running.

What irritates me isn't the attitude itself, because honestly I admire it and wish I could adopt it myself. What irritates me is that he somewhat arbitrarily "decided" to adopt this mentality and, seemingly overnight, is now cruising along with the serenity and can-do mindset of a monk. I, on the other hand get to watch him fast, meditate, and walk around without a coat while simultaneously seething and/or trying not to cry at my own shortcomings. Not that this is a competition; I understand perfectly well that we can all be better versions of ourselves at the same time, and that this is not a zero-sum game. But he seems to be making all of these personal strides while I sit on the couch eating Chex Mix, feeling like a sub-optimal version of myself.

So here's why I'm such a mess: on December 31st, my right knee started hurting when I went up and down stairs. Thinking it was just some arbitrary tightness left over from my snowy run that weekend, I foam rolled and went running the next day . . . and came back hobbled. Ever since then, my sneakers have been gathering dust, and the only running I've been doing is running up a credit bill for physical therapy visits.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love running, and the longer I go without it, the clearer it becomes that I have woven this sport into the fabric of my life. Without it, I no longer have a weekly schedule (because my runs dictated that); I no longer have a daily social life (because seeing my friends on runs pretty much was my social life); and I no longer have any desire to look at social media (because if I see one more person post their weekly mileage or daily workout paces, I actually have a psychotic episode).

Now, I must acknowledge that R___ is perfectly sympathetic about all of this. Just because he's zen about life doesn't mean he expects me to be. The problem is that I expect myself to chill out and take this in stride. Practically every runner I know has been injured in some way, at some point. And despite how important it is to me, running is not my whole life. I have a partner who love me whether I run or not. I have a business that is independent of the sport. I have friends who barely remember I run, and friends who are willing to hang out even if we can't run together. So why can't I just accept that this "is what it is" and try to make the best of it? Or, even better, "How can I take [shitty thing that has happened] and turn it into the best thing that has ever happened to me?" (Thanks for sharing that nugget of wisdom, R___.)

After weeks of stewing, I have come to the conclusion that there's no way I'm going to feel like this is "the best thing," or even a remotely good thing, until I'm safely on the other side. So for now, I'm trying to come at the issue from an academic angle. In no particular order, here are the potential silver linings:

I've lost the compulsion to run, but retained the desire. For the two weeks after my last marathon, when I was supposed to be "resting," all I could think about was the fitness I was losing--fitness I would need to build upon if I wanted to run any faster in my next race. All I could think was, Why am I not running? I should be running! Well here I am now, stripped of my fitness, with no sign of getting it back anytime soon. After two weeks of panic and a few weeks of sadness, I'm stuck with a big cold dose of reality: those time barriers I was so anxious to break? They're gone, gone gone. I won't be seeing them, if at all, for quite some time. Yet I still want to run. It sounds cliche, but I dream about running at least once a week. I miss the feeling of power and control over my body. I miss the freedom of stepping outside and just going. So the love of running is still there, and despite the trials of the moment, that simple fact is comforting.

I'm swimming more than I have in almost a decade. Inherently, this is not a good or bad thing; it is just a fact. What's lucky is that I enjoy swimming. Also, it reminds me of the self who persevered for years, despite being the worst on the team, and still found satisfaction in working hard and seeing incremental progress. I like that self. Plus, these days, I mostly swim alone, so I have no one to compare myself against. I follow virtually no swimmers on social media, so it's sort of this pure thing, with no pressure or expectations. I know I'll never be a top-level swimmer, no matter how many hours I put into the pool . . . but that's okay. That's not why I do it.

My upper body is getting stronger. With no real lower-body exercise options (except a few PT-approved movements), I've taken to doing push-ups and planks on a much more regular basis. That's not to say I neglected these things before, but I most certainly did not do them every day. As a result, I'm up to 3x15 push-ups and 3 pull-ups, which I fully acknowledge is no great feat, but it's more than I've done before, so I'll allow myself a smidgen of pride. And who knows--maybe it'll help my running down the line. Crazier things have happened.

Grateful

I'm trying really hard to be grateful.

Grateful I've stayed healthy for so long.

Grateful that my injury (if it had to happen) happened now, in the cold slippery winter, and not during a big summer training block.

Grateful I have a coach who is also a physical therapist (as well as one of the calmest humans beings on earth).

Grateful to have health insurance.

Grateful I can still swim.

Grateful to have so many friends who still care about me, even when I can't run.

Grateful I don't equate self-worth with running fast.

. . . but let's not fool ourselves. I still want to run fast.

Just have to heal, first. And then, I guess, we'll see.

Which Matters More: Talent or Hard Work?

So I have this friend, T___. He's a former professional triathlete who completes Ironmans in the time it takes me to explain what that race is. He also works as a firefighter—a physically demanding job that has an extremely erratic schedule requiring long hours and sleepless nights. Needless to say, I have a lot of respect for this guy. Therefore, when he asked for my input as he developed a podcast, and then when he asked me to be an early guest on the show, I was very flattered, but also a little nervous. As a writer, I've interviewed other people before, but I've never been the one in the hot seat!


Luckily, a few days before we were scheduled to record, T___ gave me a list of questions. There weren't many, so I decided to practice my answers with my fiance, R___.  Then, during the interview, T___ asked me nearly all of the questions on his list, but he did omit one . . . and of course it was the one for which I had prepared what I considered my best answer. The question has stuck with me ever since, so, I want to lay out my thoughts on the matter.

Which matters more, talent or hard work?

In a nutshell, I think the importance of talent compared to hard work depends upon where someone is in their pursuit of an activity. In the very beginning, I think talent matters more. After all, if you show no aptitude for an activity, why would you want to pursue it? The way I see it, once you realize that you're "actually pretty good" at something, that's when you start wanting to put in the hard work to get better.

Once you're past entry-level, however, that's when hard work increases in importance. Let me give you an example from my own life: I used to play the flute. I started in second grade, and by the time I joined the concert band in middle school, I was simply better than everyone else. By then I had stopped taking lessons, and although I rarely practiced the music, I was good enough at sight-reading to earn myself first chair and stay there all the way through junior high school. However, once I entered high school, I came up against a girl who was working a heck of a lot harder than I was. She took lessons, she practiced, and lo and behold: she was better than me.

Now, in this particular case, I could have risen to the challenge. I could have hired a teacher and taken my flute home every day and worked on my vibrato and double-tonguing and all of my other technical and artistic shortcomings. But I didn't. So she moved into first chair, I took second, and that was that. Hard work wins.

Now it should be pointed out: neither of us went on to be professional flautists. (I believe she's an English teacher somewhere, and I'm a freelance writer and editor; I would bet neither of us have picked up a flute in years.) But had we attempted that career path, I truly believe that talent would have elbowed its way back into premier "importance." Because look at how many professional musicians are out there. They're all working hard: practicing, fine-tuning their instruments, improving their skill and artistry. But the ones getting first chair in symphony orchestras? They're the ones who work their asses off and are still better than everyone else. Professional runners who win World Majors? Of course they're working hard, but so are all of their competitors; they win because they're talented. (And because they have a bit of luck, and a great support system, and all of those other factors that play into great single-day performances.)

So, to wrap up my opinion on this matter in a nice little bow, I think talent matters most at the very bottom and very top of the performance spectrum. But that huuuuuge space in between? That's where hard work comes into play. And that's where most of us live out our life passions. I love running. I love it for lots of reasons, but I found that love because I saw fairly rapid gains early on and wanted to see how fast I could get. Now I'm firmly planted in the "hard work" stage, and that's where I'll stay. I'm never going to be at the level of Shalane Flanagan, or Molly Huddle, or any other superstar who performs in the top 1% of the sport. But I can put in hard, smart work. And then, with a bit of luck and a lot of support, I will push my own limits just a little bit farther than ever seemed possible.

*If you want to hear Tim's and my actual discussion, you can listen here!
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Self-gentrifying (AKA moving)

Sometimes, it's the little things that improve the quality of life. Sometimes it's the big things. And sometimes, it's a mixture of both. When you move, it's definitely a mixture of both.

The big thing
This week, we (R___ and I) moved apartments. We didn't go any farther than across the street, but it's worth noting that the building we moved into didn't exist three years ago (at which time we couldn't have afforded a building like this anyway).

It has been seven years since either of us moved, so I will now proceed on to . . .

The little things
In no particular order, here is a list of what excites me about this new apartment. By the end of the list, it should be fairly clear why we decided to move.

• A bedroom door that closes
• A bathroom door that closes (and locks)
• Closets
• Window screens that don't have fist-sized holes in them
• Kitchen counters
• Air conditioning
• A roof that doesn't leak
• A shower that doesn't leak
• Hall lights that are actually on when it's dark outside
• A shower drain that does what it's supposed to (i.e., drain water)
• A doorman who can accept packages (i.e., prevent other people from stealing said packages)
• Laundry machines that are less than half a mile away
• Did I mention air conditioning?

Some of these are pretty basic standard of living things, or at least 21st century, first-world-country, middle-class standard of living things. But some items I intentionally kept off the list because I'm slightly ashamed to be excited about them. Like the size of the apartment. And the fact that it has a dish washer. And the roof deck (which has a grill on it!).

Is it okay to be excited about these perks (which I didn't ask for and certainly don't "need")? Do I actually deserve them? I want to say "yes, of course I deserve nice things," and "screw anyone who claims otherwise," but then I pass a woman camped out on the PATH train steps whose shoes are missing part of their soles and who asks me for a dollar every morning, and I have to wonder Should I really be allowed to live so comfortably? I don't have an answer, but in today's political and economic climate, it's the sort of issue I think about more and more.

At least now I can do my thinking from the comfort of an air-conditioned apartment. As someone wise may or may not have once said: may my thoughts be clearer and my cold showers fewer. Sometimes it really is the little things.

Brooklyn, and the Seed of Self-Belief

The Brooklyn Half Marathon. The largest half marathon in the United States. And of the twenty-odd halves I’ve run, it’s probably my favorite . . . which is why I’m running it for a fourth time this year.

2012, first timer

Every year has been tremendously different. The first year I ran it, I hadn’t yet discovered coaching, or Garmin watches, or Gotham City Runners. I wore a cotton tank top and a wristwatch from Target. I had a blast.

The second year I ran, I was coming off of having run the Boston Marathon a few weeks prior. I didn’t even really want to run Brooklyn, but my coach convinced me that my fitness would pull me through to a PR. He was right. I was elated.

The third year—last year—was probably the best race I’ve ever run. I started smart, and when everything started hurting and the pace on my watch looked scary, I didn’t let the pain or fear win. The race photos are proof.

2016, barely standing

So now here we are. Year four. A lot has changed in the last few months. I went through some rough patches this winter, and despite miraculously PRing the B.A.A. 5k last month, I don’t feel like I’ve had the training season I wanted. It’s pretty simple, really: the miles in my training log over the past few months are not of the same caliber as the miles I put in at this time last year.

This concerns me.

I say “concerns” and not “worries” because I’m not worried. This race will turn out however it turns out, and I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.

. . . but, that’s not entirely true. I have to prove to myself that I am mentally strong when it counts. And that’s why I’m struggling with what to let myself feel, and what to force myself to think going into this race. Because us distance runners, we can’t fool ourselves. We can sing platitudes from the rooftops, we can psyche ourselves up at the starting line, but we can’t run 13.1 miles (or 26.2 or 50) on smiles and adrenaline alone.

What I need is a deep-seeded belief about myself. It must be one with roots that can’t be yanked out by one bad run or a scary weather prediction. But a belief needs many weeks of training—both mental and physical training—to grow, and I didn’t have that this season. Now, too soon, I’m in taper week, and I don't know what my belief is. And that’s why I feel so uncertain.

I know what needs to happen next, because I’ve done it before. I know that in the days leading up to the race, I need to coexist with this belief, whatever it is. I need to let it sit beside me and take the time to recognize it.

I know that when I reach the starting line, I need to lift the belief up to eye level and let it fill my vision. And then, the moment the gun goes off, I need to let it go. If it's real, it will take hold inside of me and become my strength. But if not, and I grab onto it and try to force it inside, I risk turning it from a belief into a demand. And demands are harsh. They’re unforgiving. They feed the voice inside that says “you could have, should have, would have.” They feed the idea of failure before the race has even really begun.

I have less than 24 hours until I step up to the starting line, and I still don't know what my belief is. I’m continuing to sit with it, attempting to identify its shape, its texture. I’m trying my best to be patient, even as time winds down, because I know that I can’t bully myself into running great race. I can’t even bully myself into running a “good” one. But I also can’t act like it doesn’t matter, because it does. I know that much about myself.

It matters, and so I will keep trying to find that belief. And when I do, I will run with it.

The Breakup

I hate this post. I’ve tried to write it no fewer than four times. Here’s number five—hopefully the last.

I fired my coach.

There. I said it. Now you know.

Not that I’ve been keeping it a secret, but it feels like a secret. It feels like I did something wrong. Even though I know it wasn’t wrong, it was right . . . and absolutely necessary.

Damn, though, it was hard. It still is.

I’ve never broken up with anyone before. Not a coach, not a boyfriend, no one. So while I’ve watched others do it numerous times, I have never had to experience the process myself: the anger, the sorrow, the paralyzing indecision.

There were just so many factors.

There was the fact that I knew J, my coach, was going through a number of life upheavals, between quitting his job and then moving across the country to a place where he knew virtually no one. I’ve made that move myself. I know how jarring and lonely it can be. Then, there was the fact that I felt frustrated—furious, really—at my own inability to perform: something that, coach or no coach, I knew was still up to me at the end of the day. And finally, there was the fact that J has brought me farther than I ever, in my wildest dreams, imagined I’d come.

Four years ago, I was a 3:21 marathoner. I did no speedwork, took virtually no rest days, had never eaten a Gu, and thought that running around a track sounded “boring and torturous.” Then I met J, who, after meeting me twice and IMing me a handful more times, said to me one day, “I could help you shave six minutes off your half marathon time.” Um, yeah right, I thought at the time, 6 minutes off of 1:30? I doubt it. But I was intrigued, and eventually I decided why not? I could try this coaching thing, and if I hated it, I could just quit.

Fast forward to 2016, the best racing year of my life. I PRed every single distance I raced, from the 5k all the way through the marathon. I broke the tape at my first race ever. And that six-minute promise he made? Well, I’ve dropped that and some, running under 1:20 in May.

That kind of progress is impossible to ignore, and even harder to walk away from. We had a track record together, a proven track record, and there is no chance—I repeat, no chance—that I could have dropped even a fraction of that time on my own.

And yet, coming into 2017, things were just not working. An absence I had felt vaguely throughout the last year became even more pronounced when he moved hundreds of miles away, and no matter how hard I tried to upend the pattern, we just seemed to be going in circles. Running was feeling worse and worse, and I was starting to wonder if this was the end of the road for me. Maybe 2016 was it. Maybe this big dream I had decided on, of chasing an even faster marathon time, was foolish. Maybe I didn’t really want it.

But I did. Deep inside, where we keep the truth protected from everyone and everything, even from ourselves, I did want it. I just didn’t know how to go after it.

I was stuck, and something had to change.

So I wrote, and I thought, and I wrote some more. Hesitantly, I reached out to runners I respected, and talked with coaches who were (and were not) willing to take me on. Eventually, I found someone—a new “J” in fact—who seemed like a good fit. He was local, coached only a handful of athletes, and had very definite, very different ideas about how to train. It wasn’t until we were sitting across each other and I was listening to him describe those ideas that I realized what I really wanted was a complete change. If I was going to make a change, I wanted to go all the way and change not just the coach, but the whole philosophy, too.

So finally, I did it: I had the hard conversation with J1 in person, when he was in town, and the next week I started paying J2. I have no idea if J2 was the “right” coach to choose or not—time will bear that out. But what I do know is that within a week or two, I already felt better. And, no surprise, I’m already running better again, too.

To speak in metaphors, when I look over my shoulder, the path behind me looks unimaginably long . . . it seems impossible that I could have covered such a distance. When I look ahead, I can’t see where this road goes, whether it climbs uphill or swoops down, whether it twists or turns or just keeps going on for endless, endless miles. I can’t see the finish line, but I’m not looking for that yet. Right now, I’m focused on a spot, a few yards ahead, where I can still see the seams in the pavement. I have a plan to get there, and I am going to focus on executing that plan. This is how I will proceed: a few yards at a time, little by little, step by step. Baby steps. But they’re still steps. And they’re moving me forward—exactly where I want to go.

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On Failing

Here is what failing feels like: it feels like two lead vices clamping around your legs as you fight to keep them in motion. It feels like dread, in that moment right before you look down at your watch. It feels like sliding backward down a hill that has no end. It tastes like metal. Looks like darkness. Sounds like silence, where there should be the deep, tremendous roar of will.

I’m running. And I’m failing. And I don’t have any answers.

Before I sound too self-pitying, I should point out that by many people’s estimations, I’m not failing. In fact, if you look at the “official record” of what I’ve done so far in 2017, you might say I’m succeeding. I’ve run a handful of races and placed reasonably well; I’ve even won a few. But is winning the same as succeeding?

Depends on your definition of success.

If I show up to a race and the only women there are at my fitness level, with my experience, then yes: I want to win. But there are plenty of women out there who are fitter, tougher, more talented, and harder-working than I am. If they show up, I will not win.

And frankly, I don’t care.

What I care about is, when the race is neck-and-neck and it comes down to who can dig deeper in those last miles, or moments, or seconds, that I don’t let up. I don’t care if my name is rendered in lights or entirely forgotten. I don’t need an extra medal, or a trophy, or a podium, as nice as all of those things are. What I need is to know that, when it comes down to it, I care more and can push myself harder than the woman next to me. If, in the end, she is actually faster and wins the race, so be it. Good for her. But as long as I ran right to the brink of self-destruction and gave it everything I had, all the way through the last centimeter of the race, I’ll be happy.

Happy . . . but perhaps still not succeeding.

The beauty of running is that I don’t have to care about winning for the sake of winning. Running is not like basketball, or soccer, or tennis, where there is one winner and one loser, and if I don’t win, I failed. In running, I can lose to tens or hundreds or thousands of women and still succeed. But in order to do that, I have to beat myself. I have to beat my own fastest time.

That is how I measure success.

So right now, I am failing. I am failing at races, I am failing at workouts, and I am frustrated as hell. However, I’ve heard some smart people insist that failure is not the end of the journey. So tomorrow, I’ll lace up my shoes, strap on my watch, and try, try again.

How You Feel

Recently, I have been running into the phrase “it’s not how you look, it’s how you feel” over and over again. When I first started seeing these messages, I thought That’s nice. It’s great to see someone standing up to our culture’s overwhelming focus on appearances, especially a woman. Still, something didn’t sit quite right with me, and the more I saw of these messages, the more my gut kept saying No. Wrong.

Finally, as I was soldiering through my long run this past Saturday, I realized what it was that bothered me. I agree that your self worth shouldn’t be based on how you look, but it shouldn’t be based on how you feel, either. In fact, deriving one’s self-worth from feelings can be very, very dangerous. Because no one—and I mean no one—feels great all the time.

Some days we don’t feel like getting out of bed. Other days, we don’t feel like we could possibly run a single step, play a single note, type a single word. We’re tired. We’re sick. We’re sad. We “can’t.” And yet we do. Because no matter how we feel, the truest parts of ourselves believe we can do these things. And so we do them.

Ultimately, what we believe about ourselves becomes our reality. If we believe we are worthy of love, others will love us. If we believe we are kind and compassionate, we will act kindly and compassionately. And if we believe we are capable—of running this marathon or writing that book, of starting a new career or approaching a stranger—then we will take the necessary actions to accomplish these things.

No mater how we feel.

Why I Don’t Make New Years Resolutions

It’s very simple: if I wasn’t already motivated to do more/less of ABC or try harder at XYZ on December 31st, a brand new date—which I’ll inevitably write incorrectly for the first entire month of the year—isn’t going to help me. After all, it doesn’t help me the other 364 days of the year.

That isn’t to say I don’t make resolutions. Anyone who accomplishes anything must have some sort of resolution. You want to run a mile? You resolve to do it. Want to finish a book? Same deal. You pick a goal, you work toward it, and you reach it or you try again. It’s a simple formula, and one that works any time of year. That’s why December 31st is just not a meaningful deadline to me. If I sign up for a marathon, the date of the race is my deadline to get in shape. If I am part of a book club, the date of the next meeting is my deadline for finishing the book.

Beyond the issue of setting an arbitrary deadline, another problem with New Years Resolutions is that there are no real consequences for not keeping them—often because they are so vague from the start. If you intend to “eat healthier,” how is that measured? How will you know if you failed or succeeded? Likewise, if you don’t go to the gym three times a week—a decidedly more measurable resolution—who’s really going to know? What consequence will you face, aside from the unfortunate fact that you won’t get in any better shape?

Other life resolutions are very, very different. If you aren’t in shape by the time you step up to the marathon starting line, you’re going to seriously suffer for the next several hours of your life. (Or maybe you won’t even make it to the starting line, which means you’ll not only forfeit the money you spent to register, but you’ll also have to suffer pity from anyone you’ve told about the race. Which, let me tell you, is pretty excruciating.)

So here’s what I think: if you want to do something, get out there and do it. There are plenty of articles and videos out there to tell you how to set measurable, achievable goals, so you don’t need any advice from me. And if you like December 31st as a deadline, go for it. But before you begin, think long and hard about the resolution you’ve chosen and whether there are any tangible consequences for not achieving it. Otherwise, you might find yourself on “rinse and repeat” next year, and the year after, and the year after that. . . .

The 2015 Short List

Hey 2015, thanks for:

Keeping my family and friends (reasonably) healthy.

My first smartphone!

Instagram!

Another injury-free year.

My very own New York Public Library card.

The courage to leave a bad situation.

A fantastic fiancé who, for whatever reason, still thinks I’m great even after five years of dating me and continues to offer me his boundless love and support for all of my crazy endeavors.

Not raising my rent!

All the wonderful women (and the few men, too) who make up Gotham City Runners.

2016 . . . here we go!

Looking before the Leap

I'm at a precipice, peering over the edge. It's steep, a straight drop down the side of the cliff, and I'm keenly aware of my the parachute strapped to my back, separated from my skin by a thin layer of sweat-soaked cotton. I'm not sure what this parachute looks like. I imagine it is faded in color, maybe a red bleached nearly pink by the sun, and threadbare from rubbing inside the pack for so many miles. I finger the rip cord dangling at my side and pray it works, because I've never tried this before, never launched myself into free fall and the mercy of the wind.

A breeze brushes my cheek. Swallowing, I close my eyes. I can picture the trail behind me, the soft earth path, the green billowing trees. My heart is beating a racket in my chest, a warning, a plea. I clench my fists and feel the nails bite into the creases of my palms. I came here for a reason. I will not turn back. My heart is beating in my chest. I step forward. One foot. Two. I open my eyes. And my heart is beating.

Smartphone "smart"-thoughts

The rumors are true: I've bitten the bullet. Taken the leap. Given in . . . and purchased my first smartphone.

I am now a true 21st century millennial. Or something like that.

The reason behind my big move is a little underwhelming. As a late adopter of pretty much every technology, I've determined that you can ask quite a bit of people. You can ask them for directions (because your phone doesn't have Google maps). You can ask ask them to email you pictures (because photos don't register visibly on your tiny phone screen). You can ask them not to send you emoticons (because they just show up as little squares).

Eventually, however, there will be one "ask" too much. And that "ask" came a few weeks ago, when my phone stopped receiving group messages. (Long story short, the "messages" all showed up blank.) I'd been asking for a lot of special treatment from my friends and family, and generally they'd complied, but this was one thing I simply could not ask: I could not ask to receive a special individual text every time they went to send a group message. I just couldn't.

After several days of feverishly reading online reviews and agonizing to my boyfriend over what phone to get (Apple or Android? Which version? Which size? I'd have to live with this decision!), I finally decided to go with the iPhone 5s. My reasoning was that it should sync nicely with my Macbook and iPad, and I already had some experience with the device, having borrowed an iPhone for my international business travels in Canada a few months ago. Also, the size was a big factor. I wanted something that would still fit into my pocket, and female pants are not made to accommodate electronics. Or wallets. Or anything, really.

Now that I've had the phone for a few weeks, I decided it was time to publicly evaluate my decision. Honestly, I'm not sure I made the right choice. In relation to my initial reasons for getting this particular phone, I did make the right choice. I was able start using it right away to do all of the things I wanted it to do: find directions, check my email, join Instagram (because yes, I was feeling left out.) I can fit the phone into (most of) my pants pockets. And it receives photos, emoticons, and group texts flawlessly.

However, the battery life is terrible. One of my reasons for staying off the smartphone bandwagon was their terribly short battery life. Several years ago, when Hurricane Sandy hit, all of the local smartphone owners were crawling around the floors of grocery stores and delis looking for outlets, and my little slide phone was going strong--its battery lasted 4 days without recharging! So I thought that if I waited long enough, limited battery life would no longer be an issue with smartphones.

I was wrong.

On a typical day, I probably text a handful of people a few times. I might check Facebook for a grand total of two minutes, and the weather for another thirty seconds. Once or twice a week, I might talk on the phone for an hour, max, or use the maps app to locate a street. No matter how little I use my phone, though, by the end of the day my battery is eighty percent drained.

Which leaves me with my four-year-old iPod to listen to podcasts on my mile-long walk between the subway station and my office, because I'm afraid that if I try to listen to them on my iPhone, the thing might die on me. How sad!

Instead of developing an electric car, Apple should direct its resources toward improving the battery life of mobile devices. Because now that gadgets can listen to you, talk to you, and give you advice, directions, updates, and reminders all around the world, the next real hurdle is eliminating consumer paranoia that their beloved device might run out of juice and leave them stranded, alone.

If we wanted to be alone, we wouldn't have a smartphone at all. We could go live in a cave. Or underwater.

And of course, if that's too extreme, there's always the Off button.

Thoughts on Boston

Today was the day to sign up for the 2015 Boston Marathon. Well, more accurately, today was my day. Sign-ups for the race began on Monday, but that was for people who had beaten the qualifying time by 20 minutes or more. Today, registration opened to anyone who had beaten the qualifying time by 10 minutes or more. That's me.

I actually qualified for the Boston Marathon several years ago, back in 2009, when I ran my first-ever marathon in Pittsburgh. However, at that time, I didn't know much about running: the big names, the big races, the right way to prepare. I found a training guide online and followed it. . . . Well, I followed the long run schedule. Everything else was kind of a crapshoot. Which makes it that much more surprising that I managed to remain uninjured and run a time that qualified me for Boston.

However, when I say I didn't know anything about running, I really didn't know anything--including how registration for the Boston Marathon works. Somehow, I naively assumed that so long as I signed up before the registration period ended, I'd be guaranteed a spot. I'm not too sure where I got that idea from, but as you might expect, it didn't pan out.

Five years later, in November of last year, I ran the New York City Marathon. Once again, I finished in a time that would qualify me to sign up for Boston, and this time, I wasn't going to miss my opportunity. People train for years to run a Boston qualifying (or BQ) time, and here I was, lucky enough to qualify twice.

So I did it. Today I signed up for Boston 2015. Apparently, signing up doesn't mean that I'll definitely be running the race--everyone has to wait a week or two to find out whether we've made it into the final pool of registrants--but my immediate reaction was to post to Facebook. At long last, I was going to run this race!

Then I stopped myself. People train for years to run a BQ time. Was posting a celebratory, "Registered for Boston 2015!" bragging? Would it make someone else feel bad? Why did I want to post it at all? Okay, it would probably earn me a few pats on the back a few "thumbs ups." But I didn't run the race yet. Heck, I technically wasn't even on the roster. And frankly, signing up for Boston isn't something I should be celebrating. Qualifying for this marathon was never an overt goal of mine; it has simply been one happy side effect of achieving other goals: running my first marathon in Pittsburgh without stopping (mantra: don't stop) and then running my second marathon in NYC . . . faster (mantra: no excuses). Yes, I'm very excited to have the "Boston Experience" just like I was excited to have the "NYC Experience." But for me, it's not much more than that: just an experience to be had. Whatever time I run in Chicago next month means a heck of a lot more to me than registering for any race, no matter iconic.

So I decided I'll save my Facebook posts for October . . . after I run Chicago. And if anyone thinks that's bragging . . . well I sure hope I'll have something worth bragging about.

And the Verdict Is. . . .

Clearly it's time to teach R___ how to properly wield a scraper.

The Peanut Butter Debate

I am a big believer in "waste not, want not." I'd I don't think I quite follow that line of reasoning all the way into the realms of hoarding, but I will admit that there is a bag of old t-shirts and other miscellaneous items of clothing that I no longer wear sitting out in my hallway because I can't bring myself to throw these away. However, I also haven't gotten around to donating them anywhere, so . . . there they sit.

On the other hand, if I am in need of a spare paper clip, twisty tie, push pin, Post-It note, or other arbitrary article of office supplies, I have an entire box that I have dragged with me since freshman year of college "just in case" I might be doing some crafty project for which I need office supplies. So while I wasn't a boy scout (or a girl scout--I never "graduated" from brownies), my penchant for saving things does come in handy once in a while.

Which all brings me to a recent debate between me and my boyfriend R___  over, of all things, a jar of peanut butter.

Our financial/food arrangement is that I buy the groceries, and he pays for meals when we go out to eat. Therefore, when he runs out of something, he tells me to buy it, and I do. Recently he's been on a peanut butter kick, so when he told me he had run out of peanut butter and should I buy more, I took him at his word and bought another container. When I brought it home and went to put it in its rightful place, I picked up the "empty" container and found that it weighed an awful lot for being empty. Unscrewing the lid, I discovered that this jar was far from empty. There was plenty of peanut butter left in there, if only someone would bother to scrape it out with a spatula.

I informed R___ of this excelent spatula strategy, since he had clearly not considered it, but to my great surprise, instead of applauding my ingenuity, he responded, "What? You opened the lid? That molecule of peanut butter must have floated away!" I thought surely he was joking, and that in the next instant he would be in the kitchen, scraping away at the inside of that jar, but he maintained that there was no more than a single molecule of peanut butter left, and that I was foolish to even consider trying to get it out of the jar.

Well, at long last, I took it upon myself to scrape out that jar, and now I bring the debate to you, my good, unbiased readers. Consider the images below:

Jar, pre-scraping, containing "One Single Molecule" of peanut butter

"Molecule" of peanut butter scraped from jar

Jar, post-scraping and ready for the trash

I am now asking you, my readers, to judge. Please cast your vote below:

Create your free online surveys with SurveyMonkey , the world's leading questionnaire tool.

When Writing is a Hate-Hate Relationship

I'm sitting here at the local coffee shop, staring at my computer screen, moving my fingers over the laptop keys and hating every word that blooms beneath my fingers.

No one talks like that. Can't you even write dialogue anymore?

Stop writing dialogue! This isn't a play, this is a novel--or it's supposed to be.

You completely forgot all about X character. What is he doing? Why is he even there?

This character has no voice. No personality. You should just scrap everything. It's been almost a year and you're only on Chapter 2. This is going nowhere.

These are the thoughts of an adult: a self-aware, hypercritical, detail-obsessed adult. An adult with, arguably, too many years of reading and editing and negative feedback under her belt. An adult who feels as though after all the writing classes and literature analyses she's been through, she should be a million times better at what she's doing than this, godd&*%it.

But I'm not. I'm not better at all.

I desperately miss the days when I'd write a sentence and immediately love it so much that I'd write another. And another. Every idea I had was Awesome. Every piece I wrote was Great. I wanted to show people my writing all the time, every time. I was spinning straw into gold. I couldn't fail, so why would I ever want to stop?

My most cherished time as a writer, I think, was when I tried my hand at comedy writing. This was in junior high school, at a time when I felt like an old soul in a land of kindergartners. My friends were dating each other left and right, breaking up and hooking up and cheating and professing love as quickly as they breathed. It was ridiculous. None of it was love. None of it even really mattered at all. And so I parodied it. I took all of their antics and boiled them down into Soap Opera Digest accounts that I scribbled hastily into a spiral-bound notebook.

Of course, I couldn't keep gems like that to myself, so I shared the first "episode" with one friend, who liked it so much that she stole the notebook and passed it around her next class. By the end of the day, not only had every person who had been "featured" in the episode read it, but they were begging me to write another one! And when I did write another, they were hankering for more! Insatiable! It was quite literally the best feeling in the world: I had an audience, and they wanted to read my writing before I had even written it.

Back then, I thought my writing was hilarious. Brilliant, even. I was cocky and confident that I had a bright future of notoriety as a prize-winning author ahead of me. And now here I am, nearly 30 years old with no great prize in sight and having been unable to produce one single written work I'm truly proud of since I graduated college. In this desert of creativity, I've grown to hate writing--not because it won't win me the fame and fortune I once imagined, but because I hate both the act of writing and every bit of self-criticism that comes along with it as well as what I produce. None of it seems finished, and when I try and pretend that maybe I'm just being too hard on myself, the feedback from contest or two reminds me just how far I have to go. And if it's not finished, I don't want to share it. And if I don't share it, then the part of writing I love most--the entertained audience--is missing. And so I'm left with my own frustrated, dissatisfied self.

If only we could be our childhood selves again.

Screen Life: A Rambling Exposition

I think my brain might be hard-wired differently.

Differently from my parents' brains, certainly, because while I can zip around Facebook even after it undergoes its umpteenth upgrade, or learn how to use services like Dropbox with little more than my own intuition, my parents continue to pay their bills by writing out paper checks and store photos by slotting them into hard-bound albums.

But my brain is wired differently from this new generation, too--this generation of babies who can find the app they want on an iPhone before they can talk. This generation of teenagers who are turning Snapchat into the new method of "texting" when I can't even remember how to direct-message someone on Twitter. This group of people who go from their smart phones to their smart watches to their smart cars to their smart computers, all perfectly synchronized, and stylized, and plugged in.

These are the screen people. And I am not one of them.

Over the last few glorious weeks of winter vacation, I spent the majority of my time avoiding screens. Instead, I talked, ate, played cards, beat my parents at Boggle, and ran around my unforgivingly hill neighborhood. I baked cookies, went shopping, wrapped presents, visited friends, and talked some more. And let me tell you, it was awesome.

Okay, yes: I watched the Steelers play football and the Penguins play hockey and a movie or two here or there. Yes, I texted various friends on my (basic text-and-call) phone with regularity. Yes, I even checked Facebook and Pinterest and Gmail on my laptop. But the thing about these particular activities is that none of them took--at most--more than an hour or two of my time and attention. Moreover, I could be sitting, lying, or standing in any position I pleased while I engaged with these particular screens. What I did not do was I did not sit in an ergonomically incorrect chair for eight-hour intervals, squinting straight ahead into a fluorescent monitor, moving little more than my right wrist a few centimeters at a time.

Yet, that is my life--my real life. Every day, Monday through Friday, I sit down at a computer and, with the exception of a few trips to the bathroom and a lunch break, I move little more than my wrists, fingers, and eyeballs. Ordinarily, I don't think much of this; after all, it is my routine and has become how I make my living. However, after two-and-a-half weeks of screen-free life, eight straight hours in front of a computer screen did not feel good.

Of course, it seems awfully ironic to be complaining about spending too much time in front of screens when here I am, voluntarily sitting at my laptop in order to type up this post. But that is exactly my point: this is now how I--and many others my ages--spend our lives. Eighty percent of our time is spent in front of a computer or computer-like device, and the other twenty percent is filled with cooking, cleaning, eating, talking, and whatever else we happen to enjoy doing. Frankly, I'm shocked someone hasn't figured out how to insert some sort of screen into our sleeping time.

And I don't think we're any better for it.

Sure, we can do more things faster now. We can stay more easily and immediately connected to one another despite time and distance differences. We can access more information more quickly than ever before. We can produce more sounds and words and calculations and images faster, and store them more compactly, and access them from virtually anywhere.

But we also can't step away.

We're constantly charging our cell phones so we can text and photograph and browse the Internet and play games. We look at our computers more than we look at any natural thing on earth. And when we want to disengage from this constant stream of incoming information, what do we do? We turn on the television. We play a video game. We read a book on our e-reader.

As a result, we sit for longer and longer stretches of time, usually in some sort of convoluted, slouched-down or hunched-over position. Our unblinking eyes dry out. Our hips tighten. Our vocal chords wither away. Okay, our vocal chords might stay intact, but the rest of it pretty accurately describes how I felt when I went from a week-and-a-half of screen-free life back into my regular, electronics-overridden routine. I simply felt less healthy. And less happy.

Have I thought of a solution? No. Or not one I like better, in any case. I could go work as a grocery store checkout clerk or a farmer or a grade school teacher or an abstract painter. But all of those professions come with their own problems. And honestly, the faster technology advances, the less escape there will be for any of us, regardless of our profession.

For now, the best I can do is resist the allure of the smartphone and stick to my paperback books. Maybe, in the meantime, someone else will find my solution for me.

Just Don't Get Sick

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not really one to baby myself when I get sick. First of all, I get bored just sitting around, and second of all, I hate feeling useless and unproductive for an entire day, and third of all, I don't like to stay indoors.

Therefore, when this flu, or infection, or whatever it was knocked me out so badly that I had to take a day off of work, I figured there was at least some cause for concern. My concern ratcheted up when, after starting to feel a little better, I developed a yucky, phlegm-y cough that rattled around in my chest, in conjunction with terrible sinus headaches.

Still, like any good patient, I waited a full week before calling the doctor. Lo and behold, he could see me the very evening I called! (Note: if your doctor is ever that freely available, find a new doctor.)

In my usual diligent manner, I showed up for my appointment 10 minutes early, in order to make any payments and fill out any paperwork they might have waiting for me. Then I sat down in the waiting room, pulled out my book, and attempted--unsuccessfully--to ignore the blaring television in the corner.

Fifty-five minutes and an episode-and-a-half of "Chopped" later, my name was called. I closed my book, picked up my coat and backpack, and entered the doctor's office.

"I've been having awful headaches," I told him, "And this cough developed after I had a fever for two days. It seems like it might be getting better, but I wanted to make sure it's not anything serious, since a few people I know have had bronchitis and pneumonia."

Then he sat me on the examination table, took my blood pressure, listened to my chest in two spots (through my sweater), shined a light in my mouth, and began asking me about a family history of asthma.

Asthma? Seriously? I DON’T HAVE ASTHMA, I have some sort of chest cold you MORON, and I just want to be reassured it isn't anything worse.

Then he made me do a breathing test with an inhaler, wrote me a prescription for an inhaler and antibiotics, and advised me, "I'm writing you this scrip, but if I were you, I wouldn't take them."

Um, right.

I hate doctors.