The second mile

When I run lately I tend to average 3 miles (give or take depending on route and mental fortitude). The first mile is always super easy, after all I'm just getting started so I feel really good as a result. The third mile is okay; normally by that time I'm ready for it to be over with so I start picking up the pace again. That second mile, though, is always the hardest. I start hurting or losing a bit of steam, so that's when I tend to have imaginary conversations or think my deepest thoughts of the run. Anything to distract myself, ya know?

On today's run, in order to distract myself from the very real possibility of being covered in oak mites, I couldn't help but consider what makes us like a person or not. For most of my life I've been told that people had the tendency to dislike me when they first met me. I came across as bitchy or cold. Things like that. It was only after they got to know me that they realized I was funny - or whatever their particular descriptor is - and while bitchy at times, not a bitch.

What happens when we don't give people that chance though, and we automatically write them off forever as someone on our "avoid at all costs" list? It's entirely possible that they're truly a great person, and we're missing out by not interacting with them. (What? I'm trying to be positive!) Or even if they aren't, we still might be able to find some sort of common ground. Connection, people, connection. It makes us more likely to remember that everyone's a human with feelings.

Sadly, even at 31 there are some people whom if I saw I would hide behind the nearest item and pretend like they don't exist. Not nearly as many as there once were (Mom perpetually gave me a hard time for acting as though someone was invisible if I happened to see them at the mall as a teenager), but still. I'm not proud to admit this. At all. But that's part of growing up, you acknowledge your flaws and try to reduce them in your kid(s).

So as a personal challenge, I'm going to try to be more open-minded when I first interact with people (or at least act friendlier so I don't seem as bitchy). You're welcome to give it a shot, too. It could be especially helpful until this horrible election cycle is over.

One more week.

Sigh.

Rainbow and SM Pkwy

Okay, so you know how babies sometimes get diaper butt syndrome? Where their pants start falling down so you get a big ol' eyeful of diaper? It's super cute.

On a grown-up... not so much.

Nope, not talking about those dudes who walk around with their ass hanging out of their pants. That's to be expected and while eye-rolling worthy, not really something to clutch one's pearls over.

Yeah, no. Today I'm talking about myself.

While running.

Outside of my workplace.

Fun, right?

Oh, and another fun part to this equation. Instead of having diaper butt syndrome, picture the opposite.

Yeah, my undies decided to do the drooping and then my pants threatened to follow along. Can we say wardrobe malfunction?

I got maybe a tenth of a mile before deciding to say "screw it" and give up the hope of running today.

It wasn't worth the highbrows in the surrounding neighborhoods potentially calling the cops on me for indecent exposure. Plus I run past two schools on my route, and I'd prefer to avoid potentially scarring any children who aren't related to me.

I call Ricky to vent my frustration and he's super sympathetic.

Not really.

I can hear him struggling to keep his laughter muffled over the phone.

Thanks, babe. Love you, too. Jerk.

Standing near one of the side driveways of my office I begin huffing and pouting over the idea of going back inside already. It's too nice out.

Hello, it's not often we see the 60s in March in KC. (Attention non-climate change believers, if this isn't an indicator I don't know what is. Yes, I don't particularly enjoy the cold all the time, but it is still winter and maybe - just maybe - it should actually feel like it.)

Anyway, rather than accepting defeat I go all "Goonies never say die" and decide to walk instead.

Was it my normal three-plus miles? Definitely not.

Was I a little grumpy seeing that I walked half the distance in about the same amount of time? You betcha.

But on the positive side of things, at least I was out in the fresh air for a while. So there's that. And now I remember why I'm so picky when it comes to workout clothes. Fully functioning elastic is my friend.

Master closet

I'm standing in my closet staring at my clothes, willing my brain to work in order to get the day started, as Ricky steps on the scale. A small smile crosses his face as he steps off.

Someone's pleased with himself this morning.

"What's your number today?"

As he tells me (his business, so I'm not sharing) I can see him doing an internal victory lap. Lately his number's been riding a bit higher than he likes, so he's thrilled that his efforts have been paying off.

Our first Easter vs our most recent Christmas.

Curious about my own stats I momentarily abandon choosing between my usual work week wardrobe rotation. Seriously, I've been doing the whole pod-wardrobe-thing unintentionally for about a year now at the office.

I've been running 3+ miles a couple times a week, pretty honest with my food tracking (the hardest part is doing so when you know you've had a bad day - connect with me on MFP!) and doing yoga on a consistent basis so I'm feeling pretty confident.

The smooth metal surface of the scale reflects the lights above it as I step on. The numbers start processing so I try to hold extra still to make sure they're accurate. When they've stopped I glance down.

That doesn't look right.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and step off to let it zero out. I check the scale to make sure it's not laying on a grout seam or something then I step back on.

Same results.

172.2.

I realize at this point in time I have one of two ways I can go: I can get upset and let this dictate my entire day or I can realize it's just a number in a moment of time and count on how I feel instead.

Not to mention I drank a ton of water last night and haven't had the first BM yet, so this could be the result of any number of things.

C's cries indicating he's ready to get the day started cause me to make a snap decision. I peek at the number again. Sigh, shrug, hop off the scale and decide to move on with the day.

Am I thrilled with the number? No. Not at all. Most times I feel as though I'm a skinny person living in a fat person's body, but I can't really be mad at my body (insert cliche list of all the amazing things my body is capable of here).

It serves its purpose and it's a constant work in progress.

So long as I'm not just sitting on my butt cramming my mouth full of chips all day long that is.