In August, I joined a running challenge headed up by GD of PostBourgie notoriety. In it’s second month, the challenge grew exponentially from 6 people running 75 or 100 miles to 33 who set goals to run between 25 and 125 miles.

All July, I’d read GD’s updates on Twitter and Facebook in the form of miles just run/total miles/goal for the month. Meanwhile, I had a lazy month despite perfect running conditions (long days, a very mild summer which included many overcast mornings). My total mileage for July was a mere 42.3 miles. I set my goal for August at 75 knowing it would be a challenge, but attainable based on past months. I also knew I couldn’t slack off.

At first, the increased running was taxing on my body. I overloaded my first week as I knew there would be a few days where I wouldn’t run due to travel. As I regularized my schedule and got to read my body’s signs better, I improved. I ran 5.5-6 mile short runs. My long runs gradually increased to 8.2 miles. As the month progressed, I got a little faster, but mainly focused on increasing endurance. Toward the end of the month, I signed up for my second race, the Long Beach Half Marathon with my sister. (That photo above is from the 5K I ran last summer). I’d previously shied from a half marathon because of the more intense schedule, but I was doing it all month long. Why not just get one fitness goal done?

I caught a cold mid-way through the month. My sleep and work was affected, but not my running. In fact, I’d have a great run, stop and then start coughing. Plus, I couldn’t slack off as I had to check in with the other PB runners twice a week. I definitely benefited from the friendly competition and the encouragement of all the other PB runners.

My final run for the month was a short 5 miles. That brought my total to 93 miles, easily surpassing my 75 mile goal*.

Now, if only I could make myself sit down and write 93 pages of that dissertation.

For September, I’ll be doing 100 miles. The group is bigger now and includes some friends who are sort of new to running, Sean (the boyfriend) and Liz. Hopefully they’ll find that they’ll get better, faster and stronger too.

*Toward the end of the month, I thought I could reach 100. I planned a 7 mile morning run with Lori while I was home last week. Twenty minutes in to the run, I felt queasy. We walked home and I went back to sleep for a few hours. Later, I realized the cough syrup with codeine was likely the culprit for my queasiness. Oh well, sometimes you need a break.

Dude. I’m a runner.

It’s still weird to admit that. Last year, I felt like a fraud when I admitted it for the first time to a doctor. I had no set training schedule. I ran a few times a week, enough to get my exercise in. I had expensive running shoes and a few usual routes in my neighborhood. Last summer, running was still largely something I was doing to help me lose weight.

It’s different now.

I don’t want to lose more weight. I just want to run.

Sometimes, I can’t. That happened about six weeks ago when I mysteriously hurt my back. I didn’t run for about 10 days and was miserable. Running makes me happy. I smile a lot as I run, even on the bad days when I struggle. On those days, I still smile and give thanks for my health. I grin like a fool on the good days when I know that I’ll improve my time so much that I’ll wonder if my watch stopped working for a minute.

When I get ready for work trips or to visit Sean, I pack my running shoes first. I check the weather and look up popular running routes. On my last few trips I got in a run along the Huron River in Ann Arbor, the Chicago River and Lake Michigan (with rain, strong winds and lightning too), the Hudson River in NY and Central Park. I finally got in a run with G.D. of PostBourgie. He had to slow down a bit for me, but it was still good to have some by my side pushing me up the Great Hill on mile 5.

Sometimes when I’m out on a run, I wonder how I got here.

How’d I get to be the girl whose list of happy places now includes an LA running trail at sunset with the perfect music playing on her iPod Shuffle (iTunes Genius really helps with this)? How’d I get to be the girl who runs rather than walks — if shoes allow — simply because it means getting from from point A (work) to point B (the bus stop) quicker? How’d I become a runner?

It’s not an easy question to answer, partially because the answer is dynamic. I’ve begun writing and abandoned various drafts of this post since early April. In those 2.5 months I went through some ups and downs with running. I’m finally feeling back to where I was early in the spring. I ran 7.2 miles on Monday night to a Mexican-centric playlist in anticipation of the Mexico/Algeria game. I felt great at the end of the run. I always do.

I dug up this draft again tonight and the first part came to me easily. It was only a matter of time.

There’s a post somewhere in my drafts folder titled “xs.” That’s about buying a size small red sundress only to find that it was too big. Somewhere in the same file, I started writing another post about meeting my goal weight, maintaining that for 6 weeks (actually 7), and at the end of that achieving Lifetime membership through Weight Watchers. There’s a third about playing “pretty, pretty princess” with Lori.

Needless to say, I’ve been having some issues writing about this and working out my thoughts. Here’s my attempt.

On Saturday, Lori and I attended a friend’s birthday party. I left my apartment in a simple brown dress and sandals, but once at home realized I had to change. I forgot about the black and white theme. Fortunately, my sister didn’t mind opening up her closet to me. She offered up a few black and white outfits.

I tried them on, but not without first looking at the tags and thinking, this won’t fit. Last year, there was a 1 before the 4 and the letter after the X was not S. But everything I tried on fit just fine, just as it had when I tried on her pants right after Christmas. I settled on the outfit above out of convenience, laziness and because the other outfits made me feel a bit naked.

Lori then offered up some shoes choices. After settling on leopard print stilettos, I went with these peep-toe sandals. She did my makeup, or what we call playing “pretty, pretty princess.” Sometimes she does my hair too, but we were already running late.

We snapped a few photos, standard practice for when I actually get all dolled up with makeup. Plus, I wanted an “after” picture, even if I think they’re deceptive.

And then we left to the party.

I keep looking at the photo. Some of it is vanity. I love the way I look. I’ve never claimed to be modest. (See: a photo I made Sean take while in NY last week.)

Some of it is disbelief that the woman in the photo is me and not Lori, my little sister. In the past 15 years, I’d become accustomed to seeing myself as the brainy, overweight sister. Lori was the smart, slender, athletic sister. She still is.

I’m the one who changed, and I’m still getting used to it.

I don’t like before and after photos. They’re misleading. And yet, here I go making my own of sorts. Before*, middle, and end… of the year, definitely not the end of my efforts to improve myself and my health.

In fact, I can’t see myself stopping any of the new good habits I’ve learned and honed over the year. They feel like second nature. Even when I feel lazy, I know that cooking my own food will be healthier and will save me money (a lot more important to me these days). I crave fresh fruit and vegetables. When I slack off on running or going to the gym, I miss the runner’s high and the good feelings I get after getting my heart rate up and breaking a sweat. I like cooking and my new, awesome apron. I don’t even mind the cleanup, I like washing dishes.

It’s the fact that these habits feel like part of me now that I know I will keep moving forward, accomplishing new health and fitness goals.

I have a number in my head. It’s arbitrary. I’m not there yet. I don’t know if I even really want to get there. A few months ago, I told myself I’d stop when I could fit in to my sister’s pants. I tried on some new slacks she got as a Christmas present. They fit fine, if long. Once she gets them tailored (we’re the same height), I know I’ll be borrowing them.

So, now what? I’ll get down to the arbitrary number just because I know I can. If you know me and my mini obsessions, you can probably guess what it is. I’ll maintain that and add some new fitness goals.

(more…)

“You’re doing great,” the receptionist said as she recorded my weight and pasted the sticker recording my progress for that week in my pocket guide.

“Thanks,” I said and smiled.

“You’re doing so great. Do you recognize yourself?”

I paused, unsure of what she was asking and how to respond.

“Yeah,” I said tentatively, but wasn’t sure.

I slipped my shoes back on, grabbed my purse and took a seat. As I thought about the receptionists question some more, I realized she asked a different question. At first, I heard, “do you recognize your weight loss progress with small rewards?” Then I reinterpreted it as, “do you recognize the changes in habits — both eating and exercise — since January?”

That was not her question. She asked, “do you recognize yourself… when you look in the mirror?”

“Yes,” I thought to myself. Of course. When I see my face, I still look like Cindy. I don’t even feel that I look much different unless I look at photos. And even then, I see more differences in my clearer skin complexion, or the great tan I had over the summer. Unlike my padrino José, I don’t think my nose looks more prominent or that my face is more “afilada.”

Other people think differently. A few weeks ago, Papá Chepe told me he confused me for my sister, Lori, when he first saw me. Other family members say I look more like my mom (as a 20-year old bride) or cousin Sandy.

Part of me takes the comments as a compliment, another indicator of my progress. But there’s a nagging critic that says, “they don’t recognize you without all the extra weight, that’s why they compare you to your thinner sister, cousin and mom. They’re like the bouncer who didn’t believe you were the girl on your driver’s license.”

I’m still me. I know I am.

“You have knee pain?” asked the young dermatologist who had just come in to the exam room.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But it’s only after I run.”

She nodded, still looking over my intake survey.

“So it’s exercise induced?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, so you’re a runner.”

I half-nodded, feeling a bit like a fraud. Being called a runner was like being called a writer.

Me? Really? Sure you’re not mistaking me with someone who is serious about running/writing? Someone like Haruki Murakami*? Okay, maybe not Murakami. I shouldn’t compare myself to a novelist who runs marathons annually.

I write and I run. I enjoy both and know I can improve, but right now I’m not dedicated enough to feel comfortable when someone calls me a writer/runner.

I’m going to change that and earn both titles. It’s going to take a lot miles and pages.

No problem, I have plenty of time.

Thanks to Oso recommending Murakami’s memoir What I talk about when I talk about running. It was a good read.

If you’ve looked at my weekly photo posts, you’ll notice that there are quite a few grainy MacBook Photobooth self portraits. I wasn’t being narcissistic just for the sake of it. Instead, I was tracking the changes in my face as I lose weight*.

The photos are a nice companion of the other signs of my progress: the line graph charting my weight loss from week to week; the bags of clothes I’ve removed from my closet and given to Mamá Toni to take to Tijuana; the new clothes I’ve had to buy; my endurance and strength increasing; skin clearing up as I put healthier food in my body; and unexpected cravings (e.g., my mom’s oatmeal, calabaza).

I’m not quite at my goal yet, so the photos below are not representing before and after. It’s more like before, current and in-between. As you’ll see, they’re all focusing on my face, I’ll get around to full-length photos later.

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I spent a lot of time looking at myself in the mirror today. I examined my reflection in new and old outfits as I sorted through all my clothes and decided what to give away and what to keep. I found a bag of old clothes I intended to give away after a previous cleaning. I must have forgotten the clothes — all one or two sizes smaller — because I still had the bag. I pulled out my old favorite pair of jeans circa 2004, a cute paisley blouse, and some more items. The jeans were too loose, the blouse fit just fine. I kept some of the clothes in the bag and put the rest in the give away pile. In the end, I filled three bags with new-ish clothes and hung up some old clothes.

Later, I went shopping for jeans that fit and didn’t make me look like a teenage guy sagging his pants. Once again, I stared at my reflection in the mirror trying to notice the changes.

Where is the weight coming off? My legs? My thighs? My butt? My arms? My stomach? My breasts? My face?

All of the above.

My friends and family notice the changes too. Some of the comments are funny (are you doing speed?), some make me feel self-conscious (have you had to buy a new wardrobe yet?), and some confuse me.

A few days ago my tía Martha asked, “¿Estás enamorada?”

“Yeah,” I told her, not quite sure what being in love had to do with weight loss. I heard the same question once before several years ago from my roommate’s mom. Is this a Mexican saying? Does it have something to do with being so smitten or broken-hearted that you can’t eat?

There are some things that don’t change. I went shopping yesterday to search for a dress to wear to MEChA de UCLA’s 40th anniversary dinner. I tried on several dresses at a few different stores, but I came home empty-handed. I still don’t like shopping* (shoes excluded).

* Attributed to a combination of (a) not willing to pay $168 for a dress I’ll wear a few times; (b) my codo, see (a); and (c) selection sucks, especially for short women.

Mamá Toni repeats the story every time there’s pan dulce on the table.

“El pan para la noche,” she says imitating me and giggles. “No te recuerdas?”

I shake my head no. All I remember of my trip to El Cargadero that summer was the excitement of being on a plane without my parents, running around the large plaza in front of Papá Chepe and Mamá Toni’s house playing games with the neighborhood kids, and getting hooked on Rosa Salvaje. I must have blocked out my love for pan dulce and the result.

When Danny and I returned from El Cargadero, I had gained weight. Again, I don’t remember this, but my mom and Mamá Toni insist that El Cargadero was the turning point. I was no longer average. From ’88 on I was chubby/chunky/fat/whatever/insert your own euphemism.

While I don’t remember the result of my trip to Zacatecas, I do remember my First Communion the next spring. I wore the white custom-made dress I wore as a flower girl for my Tía Nellie’s wedding just a few weeks earlier. While waiting for the ceremony to begin, mom talked to Mrs. Millan, my Brownie troop leader. Mrs. Millan complained about finding a dress for her small and skinny daughter. Mom told her she had the opposite problem, but was lucky I had the flower girl dress. I was embarrassed and felt like hiding.
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I sat in the middle between Lori and Adrian. My brother tagged along simply for the post gym trip to Costco. Lori and I had business. She needed to start up her gym membership after letting it lapse recently and I needed to sign up. We gave our IDs to Philip so could start the process.

Adrian asked, “Can you put me down as a referrer so I get he next month free? What if you add me to Lori’s family plan. I want to pay less too.”

“No,” Philip said and explained that I couldn’t be counted as a referred because Lori was not technically new and I was being added to a pair/family plan. He was nice about it though, and joked with my siblings whom he both recognized as regulars at the gym.

A few days later I was alone and without my sibling to hold my hand through my first session at the gym. While I consider myself fairly independent and willing to do most things alone, I was intimidated by the gym and any workout that wasn’t simple jogging around the local high school track or swimming.

I called Lori for some advice.

“Um… I’m going to the gym. I don’t know what to do. Help!”
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