Five Things that Don't Suck, Back at It Edition

1. getting back to making clear decisions
2. remembering that sometimes the best cure for tiredness is getting some exercise
3. sweat
4. the shower after a workout
5. not being as far behind as I was afraid I was

On Taking the Compliment

I know I've been relatively quiet, friends, for months even. I realized, while out on my run this morning, that I passed the second anniversary of the FTTDS lists on June 1 and didn't even notice. I just made my list and moved on with the day, which I suppose was part of the point to begin with.

Running has not been easy for me, either, in recent months. I had a series of minor-but-annoying injuries. When I felt better, I hit the treadmill and found just how much fitness I'd lost. When May brought the end of my early mornings on campus and the return of my outdoor (and morning!) running season, I realized just how bad it had become. I couldn't find a pace. Far from being able to run ten or twelve miles, I had to take a walk break on a two miler. It might have been related to my inability to find a pace, it could have been that I'd slipped that far behind—it's likely a combination of the two. But I've been running steadily again since mid-April, and I'm starting to find myself again, and it feels fantastic.

Which is one of the reasons I had such a hard time last week when a missed step on an otherwise strong four miler resulted in me hitting the pavement on my hands and knees, then my right shoulder, then my right cheek. Luckily, I was only about a quarter of a mile from home when it happened, so I cut the last mile from my loop and took the shortest route I could. My face was bleeding as were the heels of my hands, and one knuckle, which had scraped against the ground when my water bottle rolled out from under my hand. It was so bad that I didn't even notice that my knee was scraped and bloody until about five minutes after I got home. I didn't notice my shoulder until I tried to take off my shirt so I could get into the shower.

Anyway, apart from spending a day or two making friends with a bottle of Advil PM so I could get some sleep, I was fine. I'm a quick healer for one thing, and I was lucky for another. I didn't fall into traffic. I didn't break my ankle. I didn't land on my teeth or my nose or my chin. I was a little banged up, but just hours after my fall I was on campus, helping out with new student orientation, and I was back on campus for the five days of orientation that followed that. I spent my first post-tumble evening at our nephew's lacrosse state championship game (they won!), and then at dinner with the Foley clan. I posted pictures to Facebook, talking about what a badass I am.

And I am.

But I also spent a week not running, again. Yes, I was in the middle of a six-day stretch on campus. Yes, my body needed the rest so that it could heal properly. Yes, for several days I could feel every step I took reverberate in my cheekbone (that's weird, for the record. We're not really supposed to be aware of our own cheekbones that way). And I spent some time paying attention to how other runners were talking about their running.

Runners risk being a little obsessive. Running is one of those things that people tend to hate until they love it. We want what's next. We see lots of improvement in the early days and want the next step to come NOW. It's one of the joys of beginning to run—watching your endurance rise from a minute to 90 seconds to two minutes, building and building each week until all of a sudden you can run a mile for the first time maybe ever, then two miles, then three. I built on that joy until I was completing a 10 – 12 mile "long run" every weekend. There's something about running, about knowing that no one, including possibly yourself, is completely convinced you can do this, that is incredibly empowering. I hear versions of my own story a lot. I hear variations on that story, where people tell me that they decided that if I could run, they could run. That's always cool. Those people have been, up to now, exclusively women, and I think it's cool not just that they've decided to try to take care of themselves a bit better, but that they also thought to tell me about my part in that decision. The world could use more of us telling each other we think we're awesome. Or inspiring. Or badass. Choose your term.

The dark side of that story, though, is something that's begun to trouble me more and more. Let me preface this by saying that I'm only interpreting the meaning behind the actions I'm going to describe here: I could be wrong, because I'm not in these women's heads. But I don't think so.

Women punish themselves with exercise. And with food. Or with food deprivation. Or any number of other things. But having more couch time than usual has given me more time than usual to hang out on Pinterest and Facebook, looking in horror at the pictures women share, pictures using words like "skinny" (a word I personally despise) or, worse, "fit." Because often those pictures are of women who look incredibly unhealthy to me. Post after post of "skinny" versions of real food—often using ingredients created in a lab somewhere. Post after post of 1,200- or 1,000-calorie eating plans. Post after post of "everyday" exercise plans and meal-replacement shakes and women hating themselves for what they are.

I also see posts from runners (or people with other exercise plans, but most often runners) that make it clear that exercise isn't a part of health for these women. Women who run every day, giving their bodies no time to recover from the damage they're doing (because when anyone talks about "building muscle" or "strengthening" or "improving," what they're really saying is "doing minor damage so that the muscles/tendons/bones heal stronger"). Women who run every run—every run—with their heart rate monitors in order to ensure every single workout is as hard as it can be (I'm not a health expert, but I have yet to read anything by any expert saying, "Do all of your workouts at maximum effort"). Women who claim to hate all other forms of exercise (running burns a ridiculous amount of calories) and who don't warm up or cool down because it isn't "work." Women posting pictures of themselves from angles designed to minimize the size of their hips or maximize the difference between waist and hip measurements, or pictures of themselves half-hidden behind a running partner, or pictures that leave part of their bodies out of frame.

What disturbs me most about these particular pictures, though, is the expression on these women's faces. I know this is subjective—I know it is—but when I look at these women, it feels like they are desperate for acceptance. I see plenty of pictures of joyous women—finishing a run, getting ready to start a race, otherwise taking pleasure in their accomplishments—but the pictures I'm talking about are different. The women don't look comfortable in their own skins. Their smiles do not contain joy or triumph. They break my heart. Nothing they do is ever good enough for themselves. Running the way they do isn't going to change that and in all honesty, I've stopped thinking that even they believe it will.

Someone—I have no idea who—said it's impossible to hate yourself into becoming a better person. It's true. Also, I know healthy, well-adjusted women who exhibit one or more of the behaviors I've listed above. I understand a lot of the motivations: warming up and cooling down can feel inefficient, so I have to treat it as a non-negotiable part of the workout, which means if I'm pressed for time, I shorten the run, not the walk. I force myself to, because once I let the you're-not-good-enough part of my brain gain traction, it's very, very difficult to dislodge. I worry about how lumpy I will look in a picture. I calculate whether I'm the largest person in the room despite the fact that since I started running, that answer is almost always "no." I feel for these women, I do. I understand the thought patterns. I also understand that sabotage can often disguise itself as a plea for moderation—I have been told I was "getting too skinny" (at 200 lbs!), offered a size-22W blouse (at a time when I was wearing a 14 or 16, depending on the cut at the bust line), and given what was described as a celebratory bag of chocolates, by three different friends, all in the same week. I understand that would-be saboteurs do not always recognize their own motivation. Mostly, though, I have come to the conclusion that it's all part of the same cycle, a cycle rooted in the idea that we, as women, are never enough.

My friend Julie was here the other day, and she said something about how good I looked. I blew her off, saying that I was still a few pounds up from where I was last summer before my string of injuries and general slugginess derailed me a bit and that my clothes weren't quite fitting me the way I wanted to yet. We went back and forth for a bit until she yelled, "JUST TAKE THE FUCKING COMPLIMENT!"

She was totally right. So here's what I'd like you to do, friends: give a compliment today, maybe even to yourself, and force its acceptance. If you can't cut the negative self-talk in yourself, try to catch it in someone you love, and point it out to her. Tell a woman you care about that she's talking to herself in a way that she wouldn't talk about her friends—or allow anyone else to talk about her friends. Tell her why she's awesome. Tell her why she's an inspiration. Tell her why she's a badass. Tell her to take the fucking compliment.

The Waiting Really Is the Hardest Part (Damn you, Tom Petty)

I lost out on a book prize today—one I really, really wanted, from a press I admire, and which came with an optional residency in Italy. For the past two months, I've been in the running—first making the long list, then, just before Christmas, being notified that my manuscript had made it to the finals, along with five other manuscripts. One in six. That's not bad odds in the poetry book world, not bad odds at all. At Cider Press Review, it's not unusual for us to get 500 or more manuscripts submitted for a book award, if that gives you any inkling of what one-in-six means for a manuscript. I have no idea how many manuscripts were under consideration for this one book prize, but I doubt it was fewer than 300 or more than 1,000. Mine made it to the top six before the judges chose a book by someone else.

And I'm surprised by just how okay I am with the whole thing. I tend to be pretty relaxed about sending out work, basically blasé about getting rejection slips (or, as one writer I know calls them, letters of decline), almost as blasé about getting acceptances—although I'll be the first to admit that the latter feels much better than the former. The point is that my mood doesn't rise or fall based on what any given editor or reader thinks of my work.

In part, this attitude comes from my work at Cider Press Review. I know, from being on the receiving end of all those manuscripts (never mind the individual poems—I hesitate to even count those, but if you'd like an indication of what that entails, our submission period has been open for just under three weeks as I write this, and we've received almost 260 submissions—most of which contain three to five poems, so go ahead and do the math about what we're facing over the course of the next few months)…where was I? Ah, yes. I know, from being on the receiving end of all those manuscripts, that there are all sorts of aspects of awarding a poetry book prize that are way beyond the poet's control. I know what it feels like to fight for a manuscript and lose, what it feels like to fight for a manuscript and win (again, I prefer the latter), what it's like to think you know which manuscript an outside judge will choose only to be proven wrong. I know what it's like to make the phone call to tell a poet that his or her manuscript will soon be a book, and what it's like to write an email—like the one I got this morning—saying, in essence, how disappointed I am that a manuscript will not be a book, at least not this time around.

That knowledge makes not winning (I truly hesitate to use the word "losing" in this context—it's one thing to say I lost out on a prize, another entirely to simply say that I lost) easier. The email makes it even more so. At the same time, this manuscript is important to me, in ways that I haven't really figured out how to express. I've said before that it was important to me to do right by the poems I've included there, and I believe I've done so. And it's one thing for my poet friends to say they agree with me—no matter how much I admire them (and I do), they're still, after all, my friends—but it's another to have my work reach people I don't know with such power that they not only fight for it, but write me a note to let me know they were fighting for it.

I can't tell you how much easier it is to not have to wait anymore. Not winning is way easier than maybe winning.

I am not a fan of waiting. I never have been. It's not that I'm impatient, necessarily—poetry can't be rushed, not the composition and certainly not the revision. Teaching can't be rushed. Patience is a runner's friend: after nursing a sore knee over the summer and much of the fall, I want to get back to running 30-mile weeks. I want to get my long run up to 15 miles, just to prove to myself I can and to keep things interesting. I want to continue to get faster, too. But if I rush increasing my mileage, I'll get hurt. If I rush increasing my speed, I'll get hurt. So I need to be patient, and running is really good practice. I'm patient with students, with reading, with walking my mother-in-law—over the phone, no less—through adding a second email account to her Gmail, with any number of things. I'm not generally patient with myself, but I'm working on it. [Insert joke about how it's not going as quickly as I'd like here.]

Here's the thing I'm learning about patience: it's hard sometimes, sure, but it's much easier when I feel like I have some kind of control over things. In general, I like to take action. I like to move. If I want a new job (I don't!), I'll go find one. If I want a poem to appear in a specific journal, I'll send them work—again and again if I have to. I will, if something is important enough to me in the moment, drop everything else and focus my attention on doing everything I can to accomplish that goal. In general, I would rather be doing something; it doesn't always matter what it is.

With book prizes—with any publication, really—there isn't anything to be done. I've put together a manuscript I'm really proud of. The poems are strong, they do what they're supposed to be doing, and I've put them together in a satisfying order. I sent it out to some carefully-selected publishers. One of them announced a winner and gave no indication of finalists; one of them announced a winner and finalists and I wasn't on the list; an editor at a third sent me that really nice rejection  letter of decline this morning. A handful of others won't respond for a few months, most likely. That's the way it goes. I send it out and I wait.

The relief of today's no comes in it being time for me to do something again. Time to look up a couple of publishers, see where my work will fit best, send the manuscript out again. Time to look up a couple of more publishers for February (I try to send to two each month, but it's not a hard-and-fast rule). And yes, it's nice to get kind words from the handful of people I told about this particular book prize, nice to feel supported and loved and strong. Mostly, though, it's nice to take action. 

Falling Off the Wagon: Was She Pushed, or Did She Jump?

When you grow up with a mother who makes her living working with recovering alcoholics and drug addicts, you learn a lot of colorful expressions. And if you're a kid, you're likely to misinterpret some of them. Fall off the wagon comes to mind as one of the most common (and least swear-ridden), and I knew I needed to write about it when I looked up the origins and the very first site that came up in my highly-academic-and-not-at-all-half-assed Google search mentioned Robert Downey, Jr. It's a sign, I thought. Then I got a little sidetracked thinking about RDJ for a while, and when I came back from my Happy Place, I was already halfway through writing this opening paragraph. If you'd like to take a minute or ten right now to think about RDJ yourself, I encourage you to do so. Go ahead. I'll wait.

Good? Good. Okay. So I guess there used to be a thing called a water wagon. It was horse-drawn, and would roll through town spraying down the streets in the summer months. When the expression fall off the wagon came into being, using the image of a water wagon to describe someone who was drinking water instead of spirits made perfect sense. When I was a kid, though, I just figured the phrase came from the idea of a sort of Western-expansion-era drunk driving: he was so drunk, he fell off the wagon. Or maybe it had something to do with that bandwagon I'd heard so much about, the one people always seemed to be jumping onto. I didn't know. I also thought the expression was doggy-dog world, which I found perplexing because it didn't seem like such a bad thing to me. What do you want? I was a little kid. Moving on.

I've been thinking a lot about whatever you want to call it—backsliding, relapse, wagon-falling-off-of—in terms of my running. Since August, I haven't run much. My weight has remained relatively stable (at my peak, I was up about 3 pounds, right at the top of the normal 5-pound-or-so range I seem to have), and while the lack of long runs lately has cut my calorie burn, it's also cut my appetite. In other words, things seemed to be holding fairly steady despite my relative lack of exercise.

This little break hasn't been entirely by choice. I lost my footing on a trail run at the beginning of August and pulled a quad pretty seriously. I'm not sure if that accident is what triggered the pain in my opposite knee, but something happened there as well over the next couple of weeks and I couldn't seem to shake it. I'd take a few days off, have a good, relatively short, run where I felt strong, and then feel pain during the next run, or during a walk two days later. I replaced my shoes. I slept with my knee wrapped in an ace bandage (it helps). I iced. I elevated. I rested.

I want to make it crystal clear here that I'm not a run-through-the-pain kind of runner. I am, and have been from the beginning, a stop-running-if-it-hurts kind of runner, because I've tried to keep a long-term perspective on my running. Running through pain might be admirable in the short term (although I can't imagine why), but if you continue to run through pain, you will pretty quickly reach the point where you cannot run. Like, at all, ever. And I want to be able to run for a very long time indeed. So when I talk about knee pain here, please note that I'm talking relatively minor pain—more than discomfort, but not enough to make me grit my teeth. I'm not a medical professional, and I've said before that you really don't want to take medical advice from a poet, even if her mom did make a living as an R.N., but my total layperson advice if you're regularly in pain when you run is to see a doctor before you run any more. Don't risk permanent damage.

This pain/no pain cycle lasted for weeks—long, frustrating weeks, yes, but also weeks where I suddenly realized that I'd freed up a lot of time. I didn't have to figure out how to stack my day so that everything could get done. I didn't have to pull dinner together while simultaneously trying to refuel, hydrate, and not cool down so much I started shivering before I could get into the shower. For that matter, I didn't have to plan dinners whose preparation included a chunk of down time large enough for me to get cleaned up before we ate. I didn't have to worry about the dogs dragging a freshly showered, wet-headed me out into the cold (because of course their favorite time to go outside, no matter how recently they've gone, is after I get out of a shower). I cut an entire load of laundry out of my weekly chore list, based solely on the lack of workout gear and extra towels. On top of all that, this break came during the beginning of the semester. I was back on campus, back to grading, back to having to fit the rest of my life in around my teaching schedule.

I was a little frightened by how easily my attitude about running shifted. Before I got hurt, I looked forward to my runs, especially the long ones. I looked forward to seeing what I could do, to persisting through a 10- or 12-mile effort, to feeling physically strong and capable in a way that I've been able to manage only since I started running. I read Runner's World and running blogs and books about running. I enjoyed the way food had become fuel to me and the way my definition of comfort food had changed. Eventually, I stopped doing all the above. It wasn't a good idea for me to take long runs, or do speed work, or hill work. Many days, it wasn't a good idea for me to run at all. And if I couldn't run, I didn't really want to read about people who could. And if I didn't have to worry about how my diet would affect my run, it didn't matter what I chose to eat.

Except it did matter. I started finding reasons—excuses, really—not to walk, not to practice yoga, not to worry about much of anything in terms of my health. My clothes still fit as well as they do these days, meaning most of them were still too big for me, so I figured it would be okay. I'd get back to the program, such as it is, when I felt better. Sometimes a girl just needs a break. The month of October was particularly bad for this kind of thinking. Yes, I needed the break. Yes, I needed to let my body do its work and heal my knee. But the thought patterns were familiar and unwelcome.

That kind of thinking began to scare me. I ate a ridiculous amount of Halloween candy, even taking into account the fact that my definition of "a ridiculous amount of candy" has changed considerably in the past two years. I ate compulsively. I ate when I was not hungry. I—and I am not at all proud of this—found myself putting the wrappers into different waste baskets in the house so that I wouldn't be confronted with the visual evidence of what I had done to myself that week. Of all the disturbing behaviors I found myself slipping back into, that one troubled me the most. It's disordered eating, evidence that I was putting having more in front of everything else, despite the fact that I did not in any way need—or even want—more. I recognized the mindset all too well. I haven't changed a bit, I caught myself thinking more than once.

And then I reached the point where I realized everything has changed. Because I stopped. I just stopped. I decided I'd try going back to the treadmill for my runs. I figured the treadmill had worked for me during the entirety of my first year of running. It helped me take off that first hundred pounds, and do so without injury. I don't like it as much as running outside, but it's easier on my knees and I console myself by catching up on television via Netflix and my iPad. Most importantly, if it worked, I knew I'd be able to find my way back to myself. I don't know how I knew this—I suspect it had to do with the hope that I'd had success with it before—but I knew it as well as I know my middle name (which is not "Danger," an oversight for which I might never be able to forgive my parents).

The difficult part was remembering that I was no longer in 30-mile-a-week shape. I used to run ten or twelve miles for my long run on the weekends; over the past couple of months, I'd been lucky to run ten miles total in a week. I needed to remind myself that, while I was still in good shape, I wasn't in half-marathon shape. I wasn't in new-speed-record shape. Two weeks ago, I started with an easy three-miler. A couple of days later, I did another one. Then a third. I watched a bunch of documentaries about vegetarianism and veganism and happiness. By the end of the week, I'd run eleven easy miles with no pain. This past week, I increased two of the runs to four miles, and logged fourteen miles total. I've moved on to watching documentaries about the amazing machine that is the human body (some of them kind of gross, but I'm okay with that. Having a nurse for a mother can do that to you).

During this process, I've reminded myself of the multiple reasons I love running. I've begun feeling strong again. Capable. In control. Jed and I were already eating better, in general, than a lot of people we know—more vegetables, less meat, less junk food—and we renewed our commitment to those choices. We added in a resolution to cut our meat consumption even further by deliberately including more vegetarian dinners in our week. We were already usually keeping vegetarian for breakfast and lunch, and usually for dinner once a week, although not necessarily through a conscious decision. I made another loaf of bread, made some more soup, walked past the half-price Halloween candy in the supermarket.

We don't always fall off the wagon—sometimes, we're pushed. Sometimes, we forget to fasten our old-timey western seatbelts and end up being tossed around a little bit but manage to stay on board. I think for the past couple of months, I've been riding on the running board of the wagon, hanging on by my fingers. I had the choice to pull myself back up or to jump off, and I chose the former. The thing is, taking care of ourselves sounds like work, and we tend to describe it in terms that evoke effort—working out, getting to work, working on myself, working on my eating, working harder, not slacking off. But I'm telling you right now that taking care of myself is far less work than not taking care of myself. "Slacking off" is what takes the effort. Making excuses. Finding time to nap because I'm not sleeping as well. Maybe feeling a little gross after I eat instead of feeling fueled. Berating myself. Worrying. I feel better when I eat well. I feel better when I exercise. I sleep better. I have more energy. I look better (or maybe I don't—maybe I just see myself as looking better, because I don't beat myself up about that particular aspect of my life).

I'm on the wagon, and I have no plans to fall—or jump—off. I love this particular wagon. I love the ride. And I love my doggy-dog world.

Becoming Visible

Note: If you have been missing the vast quantities of swearing of which I am capable, desperately longing for me to drop an f-bomb or two (or, um...10? I'm afraid to count), then this is the post for you. If you have somehow been living under a rock and don't know that I curse like the love child of a long-haul trucker and a sailor, and will somehow be offended by that, then this is probably not the post for you. Fair warning, people.

So. I apparently used to be invisible. I didn't realize this at the time—and I'm not sure how, exactly, a 5'8", 300 pound woman is supposed to be invisible, but I'm being confronted with more and more evidence that this was, in fact, the case. Here is how I know: when I'm running, people see me.

I mean, a lot of people. A lot. Pretty much everyone I pass says good morning to me (other runners sometimes just wave or nod—I'm counting that, too). About a week ago, a woman in a pickup truck beeped and gave me a thumbs-up as I was doing my speed work. I was working hard, but not so hard that I thought I needed a boost. Turns out, a boost is great, whether you need it or not. The other day, on an easy jog, I passed a man who said, "Way to go!" It didn't seem like he was being creepy or overtly, um, overt—and I have to say it bothers me that we still live in a world where this is even a consideration—he was just being supportive to a stranger who was running past him.

Pretty much every time I go out for a run or a walk, people talk to me. I have, I should note, always been the person that the really short old ladies turn to in the grocery store when the tiny cans of tuna fish or beans or whatever have been placed too high (note to grocery store owners everywhere: take pity on the short older people of the world and put those things within reach, would ya? I know you're not going to do that, because eye-level is prime real estate and elderly shoppers are not your prime customers, but I also know that sucks). I sometimes joke that I have "Please talk to me" written on my forehead in ink that only crazy people and the elderly can see, but I think the reality is that I am the one who sees them, and sees them as full and complete people, something that often doesn't happen, and they recognize that somehow and respond to it. So I guess I should rephrase: I am used to being invisible unless someone needs something from me.

When you're obese, there are people who will treat you as if you are not human. They talk to you the same way they would talk to the television, say. That is, they recognize you as being basically humanoid, but they do not register you as an actual person. If they did, they wouldn't dream of saying the things that people have said to me (generally from a safe distance, like from a moving vehicle, which means that they do, on some level, understand that what they're doing is abhorrent. Which it is). I don't dwell on that stuff, and if pushed for details, I can only come up with two examples, although those examples are the reason I started walking with ear buds in several years ago.

These people, however, are in the minority. The vast majority of people will not recognize your existence. Or at least, they didn't recognize mine. I regularly said "Good morning" to people on the street, only to be completely ignored. I did not, generally, have to worry about men displaying a frightening level of familiarity with me—and when it did happen, if I told someone about it, they reacted with skepticism because, well, I was obese—why the hell would a man be interested in me sexually? Much of the skepticism came from people who love me, and from people who think that they are enigmas but who actually broadcast every thought they have across their faces. People who forget that I'm a writer and tune into these kinds of cues. People who, by their reaction, showed me that I was, in fact, worthy of being ignored.

The thing is, being invisible has its advantages. I'm a poet—one of the most invisible of artists—and that invisibility allows me to be fairly honest in the work I do, even when I'm making pretty much everything up (which I do, sometimes, kids. Poetry is not journalism). Knowing that plenty of poets don't even read poetry besides their own can free you up to write whatever you want because hell, if poets don't consistently read poetry, who does (I'm looking at you, accountants)? I also didn't usually have to deal with the kind of harassment that women, as a group, face every day. I didn't have to get into arguments about whether a wolf whistle from a stranger is a compliment (here's a hint, guys: it's fucking well not) or whether an uninvited hand on my thigh was someone just being playful (it's not) or any of the other issues that women argue about among themselves, never mind among men. I didn't have to worry about why the people who chose to be around me did so—they clearly wanted to be with me, the person, instead of me, the body. Being invisible does let people—men and women—appreciate your brain. Which I have. And your mind, which I also have (not everyone has both, it seems). It also means that people are regularly underestimating you, which I have often found helpful.

So it's a little weird, being seen again—not just as a woman, but as a human being. It's a little frightening. If friends are noticing that I've got amazing calf muscles (which I do, thank you very much), then it's a good bet that some stranger somewhere is noticing it, too, and that's just weird. (Stop staring at my calves, stranger! Stop it, right now! Go back to your accounting!) I am more self-conscious now than I was 100+ pounds ago, not less. For example, I am much less likely to leave the house without makeup (although I still don't wear a lot) or some kind of jewelry. And I think the tendency is for people to assume that it's because I've begun to care about myself, but that's not it at all. Instead, I've begun to care about what other people think. Which is really, really weird. And I do still believe that we would care far less about what other people think of us if we realized how very infrequently they do so. For the record. But I can't seem to help myself.

I get called brave on a fairly regular basis, which I think is kind of hilarious. The kinds of things people are talking about when they say this are not brave. I started running because I had a choice between running and dying, and I decided not to die (you're welcome). It wasn't as cut-and-dried as that, or even a deliberate decision, but that's basically what it boils down to: I needed control somewhere, and I took control in this particular aspect of my life. That's not brave; that's self-preservation. Continuing to run isn't brave, either. It's just running (I want to type, "It's just salvation"). Being willing to talk about it isn't brave, either. Plenty of people talk about this stuff. There are 170 million blogs—a statistic you can believe because I just made it up and I'm very, very trustworthy—about this kind of thing online. Bravery involves two things: fear and the willingness to carry on despite it. If either one of those aspects is missing, so is bravery. Bravery is not a lack of fear. It's just not. And even if you want to believe that I'm brave—and I can't stop you—I'd suggest that perhaps you might want to focus on people who are running into burning buildings or jumping onto train tracks to save someone else or defusing bombs or something. What I am is a hell of a lot closer to stubborn than brave.

Stubbornness, for me, has arisen in how difficult it has been to learn how to accept a compliment. Stubbornness has, for years, prevented me from cutting myself off at "Thank you." Stubbornness has stood in the way of me allowing myself to realize that external changes are not, in fact, of less value than internal ones and that recognizing them doesn't make me shallow, and neither does appreciating them. The changes come together, whether I want them to or not.

But it's not all bad, because stubbornness has served me well in other areas. Talking to a friend yesterday, I described it as "a healthy dose of fuck you," and having that attitude has, on many occasions, given me the strength to get through difficult times. That dose of fuck you is how I turn negatives into positives in a lot of ways. For example, when faced with the choice years ago between continuing to walk or stopping because I was hurt by something a stranger had yelled at me from a car, it was my healthy dose of fuck you that got me to put in ear buds the next day, turn the music up, and head out the door. And it's important to note that, like stubbornness, the fuck you is not necessarily directed at anyone in particular (although it certainly can be—and it was in the example above). If anything, it's mostly directed at myself. Fuck you, I'm going to walk. Fuck you, I'm going to accept this compliment without backpedaling or otherwise making it conditional, and fuck you some more because I'm going to leave my response at "Thank you"  (or my personal favorite: "Thank you. I feel great"). Fuck you, yeah, I enjoy the fact that I'm looking strong and healthy and all that and while we're at it, fuck you because I do know what this means for my development as a human being. Fuck you, I'm no longer invisible and I'm going out there anyway.

I advise you—not that you asked—to generate your own dose of fuck you, in whatever aspect of your life seems to need it. If you feel like no one is standing up for you. If you feel like you're being forced into doing something you dread. If—maybe especially—that force is coming by way of some sort of guilt trip, implying that you are somehow not enough  if you don't do A, B, or C. If you are worried about what "they" will think. If you are afraid you can't. Find the place in your life where you need a little stubbornness and cultivate the hell out of it. Because awesome calves don't make themselves, my friends.

Yet Another Way the World Doesn't End

Here's something that happened yesterday: I blew off a run. Just totally blew it off. I took a nap instead. I haven't done this in months—so many months I can't figure out when the last time was, but it was probably sometime around Christmas. For the past seven months, I have gone on every single run that was on my training program. Until last night.

Yesterday was also the first day in a long time—weeks, if not months—that I took a day off from working out without substituting something else in. I have recovery days, where I cross-train (that's pretty much every day I don't run), and I've replaced a handful of them over the past few months with another activity—swimming, say, or serious heavy-object-hauling yard work. Generally, though, I've been adding that kind of activity to my day after my workout is complete. Three times in the last ten days or so, I've followed up a workout with an active swim with various nieces and nephews—the kind where I'm swimming short-length laps to help a nephew get comfortable in the deep end, or playing some sort of water volleyball-esque game or whatever, not the kind of swim where I lie on a raft and bribe children to bring me beverages (although that sounds like a fabulous idea…).

But yesterday, I was tired. To be honest, I've been tired for a long time—it's been a couple of weeks since I really felt enthusiastic about a run, or felt especially good during one. It's been a million degrees with approximately one thousand percent humidity, which makes it more difficult to stay comfortable during workouts, and that doesn't help matters. Mostly, I've been forcing myself to complete the mileage, just grinding out one run after another, one cross-training session after another. I've been doing this for a number of reasons, but there are two major ones, I believe, and they're directly related.

First, I'm in the middle of a ridiculously busy month. Jed's sister and her family arrived a little over a week ago from South Korea—they've come a long way, and we don't see them anywhere near enough, and we love them and want to spend time with them. My parents arrive (with their hilarious little dog) today, and they're here, in part, because two of our closest friends are getting married on Saturday. Jed and I are standing up for them, so the next few days will be full of gatherings and dinners and rehearsals and making sure the alterations on Jed's suit look as good as they should (and damn, does that man look good in a suit). Shortly—perhaps even just a day or so—after my parents leave, my good friends Kristin and Paul are coming from Chicago for a week, and their visit is overlapping by a day with a visit from my friend Lawrence, who will ride with me to a week-long poetry conference/retreat in Connecticut, and by the time that ends, it will be August. And that's just the fun stuff—I've got a lot of work that needs to be done in there, and it would be nice if I could, I don't know, maybe actually write a poem or something.

All this to say that I'm worried about time. I'm worried that I will be more interested in hanging out with any of the above-mentioned people than putting in a 2 1/2-hour run. Or a 60-minute run. Or any run at all. This feeds into my second fear, which is this:

If I slow down, I might stop.

That is blatantly insane. My running came to a screeching halt between Christmas and New Year's, and I managed to come back to it feeling renewed from the break—refreshed, focused, ready to set new goals and knock them down. Yet I'm still worried that deviating from the plan will set off a domino effect of missed workouts, food binges, and who knows what else. Ah, the gap between intellectual knowledge and emotional knowledge. Such a wondrous place to live. This worry is directly linked to my need to feel like I'm in control, and since I don't feel in control of much of anything these days, giving up one of the few things that's completely my own, even for one day, was more difficult than I expected. I ended up feeling antsy last night and had a tough time getting to sleep.

I should be clear that I wasn't beating myself up over the missed run. I didn't feel guilty about it or feel like I was being "bad" (whatever the hell that means) or anything like that. I just felt…off. A little displaced, and a little anxious, like I had missed an important meeting or something. You know that feeling you get in that dream where you're supposed to take a final for a class you've been skipping all semester, and you can't even find the classroom, much less figure out how you're supposed to take the exam? Sort of like that.

So today, I run. My parents won't be here until later this afternoon or early this evening, so I've got time to prioritize, and time to layer things into my schedule: get up on time despite the lack of sleep, get my breakfast so it has plenty of time to settle, vacuum while Jed's out with the dogs (when you have 2 giant dogs, it's far easier to vacuum if they're out of the house), get the run in, eat lunch, get cleaned up. I'm also supposed to go help our friends do some last-minute yard preparations for the wedding, so I'll do that after lunch if the weather holds. I'll work in some other stuff while I'm at it—getting some food together for tonight, writing this blog post, taking out the compost—but my to-do list starts with scheduling the run, and everything else has to fit in around that. It's what works best for me, and I know I'll feel a little more like myself again once I make it happen. And that's what it comes down to: this happens because I make it happen. Taking a break—one I clearly needed—doesn't change that at all, and if it happens again over the next several weeks, I'll be better-prepared to deal with it. Onward and upward, friends, one step at a time.

The First 100 Pounds (91 - 100)

All these posts later, and I still haven't had a chance to go to med school. Lazy, lazy, lazy. Talk to a professional before you decide a poet is a good healthy lifestyle role model of any sort.

Also, thanks to all of you who have commented, sent emails, posted, or otherwise been supportive of these posts (and of me in general). Oh, and there might be a little swearing. Nowhere near enough, if you ask me.

If you'd like to start at the beginning of the list, you can do so here. But here's 91 – 100:

91. I LEARNED TO HONOR MY "GOOD" TIMES OF DAY.

I am terrible between 3 and 5 PM. I just am. If I'm going to fall asleep during the day, that's when it's going to happen. So I don't try to run during those times (I can cross-train if I need to, but those are seldom my happiest workouts). If I'm going to get my best workout, I need to do it in the morning or start sometime between 5 and 6 PM. That's just the way my particular circadian rhythms seem to work—I could try to fight them if I wanted to, but the workouts are much smoother if I honor my good times of day.

92. I LEARNED MY OWN RHYTHMS.

I've talked about rhythms a bit in terms of things like understanding the weird, non-linear progression of weight loss, but it applies to other aspects of the process as well. There are a few days every month where I am simply ravenous, all the time. Sometimes, I can finish an entire meal, be fully hydrated, and still be painfully hungry. It's not, of course, actual hunger—maybe I'm in a muscle-building phase, or losing fat, or maybe it's just that something happens that crosses my hunger/satiety responses, but during these periods, something is going on with my body that I don't totally understand, and while it's uncomfortable, I've learned to go with it. I eat well, I make sure I have plenty to drink, and I have reasonable snacks when I just can't stand it anymore. I recognize the symptoms and know to ride it out. Giving myself the time to understand my own body rhythms—or at least recognize them—helps a lot.

93. I BECAME GRATEFUL TO MY BODY, "FLAWED" AS IT WAS.

And is. This was another tough one. It's hard to look at myself in the mirror and see the good. We're trained to see our faults—just one glance at my Facebook feed gives me ads for reducing belly fat, removing hair, buying some sort of garment or makeup or pill that will somehow make my hideousness more socially acceptable. I read articles that claim to be reviews of running clothes but actually talk about whether a specific pair of pants might make my ass look too big and not about how the garment actually performs. Again, it's too easy to focus on what I'm not instead of what I am.

There's a full-length mirror in our bathroom. For whatever reason, I started looking into it right before I got into my post-workout shower. It was not easy at first. I saw the wrinkles and the bulges and the sags. But I began working on establishing gratitude to my body, for getting through another run, for getting through another day, for getting stronger, for staying uninjured. It's ridiculous and touchy-feely-self-helpy, and it is very, very effective.

94. I BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND THAT I COULD HAVE ANYTHING I WANTED.

Because I can. I just can't have everything I want. Because no one can. The key is in figuring out what I want. If I want to run well, I can't have eggs benedict for breakfast that day. That doesn’t mean I can never have it again—it just means it doesn't fit into my plans for the day. If I want eggs benedict for breakfast, I can't have a good run later. Again, that doesn't mean I'll never run well again—it means I won't run well that day. Both options are available to me, just not at the same time. On any given day, one will win out over the other. I know, for example, that I can do a perfectly acceptable walking workout if I've had eggs benedict several hours before—so maybe I just switch a run day and walk day that week. Or maybe I've been eating out a lot because we've had a bunch of events in the past couple of weeks. In that case, I'll go with a lighter breakfast and a run. It's all available, and I can do anything I want—just not everything I want.

95. I ALLOWED MYSELF TO REDEFINE MYSELF AS AN ATHLETE.

This might be the toughest of all. I was not athletic in school. The only teams where I was picked first were ones for which my size (I got tall FAST, hitting my full height of almost 5'8" when I was about 11) was an asset: red rover, tug of war. (Note to all phys. ed. teachers: you know who the non-athletic kids are. Why the fuck don't you make them team captains once in a while so that the same 3 or 4 kids don't always end up being picked last? You asshats.)

Um…where was I? Oh, yeah. Athlete. It's a weird word for me—certainly one I've never had applied to me by anyone else. And a lot of my personality had been bound up in not being very good at sports. I don't have terribly good eye/hand coordination. I'm not great under that kind of pressure (although I'm fine under other kinds). I was never taught how to build myself up to the point that learning how to push myself athletically might be fun—I was just pushed to go faster, farther, more, whatever, always with the implication that whatever I was doing simply wasn't good enough. That pushing almost never included any versions of the words, "You can do it," and never seemed to take into consideration where I was physically.

But I can run twelve miles. More, actually, since it's not like I drop to the ground when those twelve are finished. I can hike hills like nobody's business. I can do push-ups and crunches and lift heavy things. I have the resting heart rate of an athlete. What else do I need to call myself an athlete? It's not a label that I wear comfortably yet, but it's one that I wear when I can.

96. I BECAME SUPPORTIVE OF OTHER RUNNERS.

Runners might be the most supportive people I've ever met. We're competitive, but largely with ourselves. The vast majority of people who enter races don't do so because they think they'll win—they're looking for a personal record, maybe, or they're doing it as part of their training for another race, or entering racing gives them a reason to keep up with their workouts. The running community is ah-may-zing, and I'm happy to be a part of it, so when a running friend of mine is injured, I ask how she's doing. If another posts to FB that he had a good run, I try to "like" it. Seriously, it doesn't take a lot, but being supportive helps keep me positive, and where's the downside to that?

97. I WRITE ABOUT IT.

Writing is how I process—how I come to understand myself and the events happening around me. Everything I've learned about myself during the past year and a quarter or so, I've learned through writing about it. You might process things differently, but for me, it's not "real" until I can write about it. Learning-through-writing applies to mourning, love, hatred, fear—the whole gamut of human emotion—but it also applies to this…what? transformation?...I've been making. What little understanding I have has come through writing.

98. I SAY HELLO TO PEOPLE I PASS ON MY RUNS.

Just to prove that I can, because the fact that I can speak sometimes surprises the hell out of people, and that's fun. Also, it's neighborly. The saying hi part, not the surprising the hell out of people part. I once realized as I was approaching a runner that we were wearing the exact same outfit. She gave me a little raised-fist-power-to-the-people salute (it was in the days right after the Boston Marathon bombings). I said, "Nice outfit." Then we were both gone in our opposite directions. It made me happier than it had any right to. There's a kid who likes to hang out in his yard and kick a ball around. We say hi every time I pass him (he started it—I don't accost children, even when they're behind fences). I have no idea who he is, but why not, right? And if someone doesn't return my greeting (this is, after all, Massachusetts), what have I lost?

99. I TRY TO LET GO OF WHAT I CAN'T CONTROL.

Like whether someone says hi to me. Or when, exactly, I drop another five pounds. Or whether a given person respects what I'm doing. Or whether a particular skirt fits yet or or or or or. I try my best to let all that go. It goes against the entire nature of my being, but I'm much more content when I can manage it.

100. I FORGET WHAT I LOOK LIKE.

In multiple ways. I force myself to forget what I look like when I run, because I'm sure it's not pretty. I also—despite looking into the mirror to try on clothes or give myself pep talks or practice a little gratitude—quite literally forget what I look like sometimes. A friend of mine took a picture of me a week or so ago, and when she showed it to me, I said, "Holy shit, am I really that skinny?" I'm not skinny (I'm on the cusp of overweight and obese), but I couldn't recognize my own body in that picture for a bit. I don't think of myself as being that size. When I was at my heaviest, it was pictures that showed me how large I was—I had trouble recognizing myself in those, as well. When I started losing weight, it was pictures that showed me where I was. The day-to-day visuals, for whatever reason, mean very little to me, but once in a while, I see a picture and it reminds me of what I look like now. It's a little weird, but I'm figuring it out. I'm figuring it all out.

The First 100 Pounds (81 - 90)

Potential conversation for you to have with yourself:

YOU: Hey! This is some sort of medical advice right here in this blog post!

YOU II: No, it's really not. This is written by a poet with no medical background whatsoever.

YOU: Okay. Perhaps I should talk to some sort of medical professional or something.

YOU II: Good idea, Smartypants.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here. Here are 81 – 90:

81. I GET RID OF CLOTHES WHEN THEY'RE TOO BIG FOR ME

This was huge. I don't have fat pants and thin pants. When I shrink out of my clothes, I donate them to Goodwill or give them to friends who wear that size. I don't need a safety net, and when my clothes are too big I look like I weigh more than I do. So off they go to Goodwill, as quickly as I can ship them out. This all means that I'll never have a picture of myself standing in a single leg of one of my old pairs of jeans, and that's fine by me.

82. I SHOP AT GOODWILL. OFTEN.

Speaking of Goodwill, I am cheap. I hate the idea of spending real money on clothes that might, if I buy them a little small, fit me for a season. I also have problems with the politics of a lot of clothing retailers—I don't want to support businesses that outsource their labor to countries where factories are unregulated and dangerous. I don't want to support businesses that treat women like prostitutes or porn stars or objects. I know I can't avoid this completely (isn't that sad?), but if I get my clothes from Goodwill, I'm at least not supporting those brands, even if I end up wearing them. Buying used also fits in with my environmental efforts—no packaging, little-to-no transportation costs and fuel use, putting to use something that might otherwise end up in a landfill somewhere. Plus, it's possible to score really good, well-made, classic pieces at Goodwill. I've got clothes from L.L. Bean, Ralph Lauren, Ann Taylor, Eddie Bauer, and probably some places I can't think of right now. The most anything has ever cost me is $4.99, and some items cost $2.50, sometimes with the tags still on them. Sure, there's plenty of worn-out stuff at Goodwill, but if it's worn out, I don't buy it. Problem solved. Yes, someone I don't know has worn it before, but that's why we have washing machines (if the idea of this grosses you out, you probably don't want to know how many people touch your "new" clothes during the process of making them). Building a wardrobe this way takes patience, and it can be sad to try on a cool piece only to find that it doesn't fit, but it works for me.

83. I SPEND MONEY FOR NEW CLOTHES WHEN I NEED TO

That said, I prefer to have some basics. I like to own one pair of black pants, a black t-shirt and a white blouse—the rest of my wardrobe can rotate in and out of color palettes, but those three items go with almost anything else I might buy. I think about them as my essential teaching wardrobe, but the fact of the matter is that I want the same things in the summer: give me a pair of black capris and a white short-sleeved blouse and I am good to go. These things can be hard to find used in good condition. Think about it: you might stop wearing a certain shade of blue, or maybe your mom bought you a green shirt that makes you look like you died a week ago, but if you have a great black t-shirt, you wear that sucker into the ground. I also don't rely on Goodwill for special occasions. There are some events—like weddings and funerals—where I'm willing to shell out for the right dress, even if it means spending more money on one dress than I've spent on the rest of my wardrobe all year. This doesn't mean I don’t check Goodwill first—I do. I'm just prepared to spend money when I really need to.

84. I BUY TOOTSIE POPS

I have a problem with sugar. I get very involved with blood sugar swings, for one thing—I eat candy, my blood sugar spikes, it dips, I crave candy, I eat it, my blood sugar spikes…you get the picture. I've read a zillion studies and articles about studies, and I could give you a bunch of different potential reasons why I have trouble turning off the sugar once it's on, but I know about myself that I can't have sweets in the house. Not baked goods, not candy, not ice cream. I'm not going to say that I'm incapable of regulating my intake, but I'm damn close. I do know, however, that it is physically impossible for me to eat more than two Tootsie Pops in a single day—it would tear up my mouth Cap'n Crunch-style. So I always have Tootsie Pops in the house. If I'm craving something sweet, there it is, in a little single-serve, 60-calorie package. And—and I think this is the key to the whole thing—it takes me a long time to eat a Tootsie Pop. Think about, say, how many M&Ms you could eat during the time it takes to get through a Tootsie Pop—certainly enough to get into those blood sugar swings I was talking about. One lollipop takes care of my craving and takes long enough to eat that it doesn't kick off a cycle. They might be made of magic.

85. I GOT RID OF ARTIFICIAL SWEETENERS ENTIRELY

I tell people about this a lot. I'm convinced (and there are studies that back this up, although there are others who disagree) that artificial sweeteners cause more sugar cravings than they fix. I know I was never able to get a handle on my sugar intake until I gave up artificial sweeteners. I traded "lite" yogurts for organic yogurts made with actual sugar, and then, eventually, for plain yogurt sweetened with my own fruit; I turned in my Diet Coke Fan Club membership; I made the decision that if I was going to have sweets, they were going to be actually sweet—usually made in my own kitchen, and for some sort of event that would help ensure they didn't stay in my kitchen. A few months after I gave up my one lonely Diet Coke a day, I had one. It was disgusting. It tasted like a bubbly combination of the can it came in and some sort of industrial solvent. Which is kind of what it is.

What little control I have over my relationship to sugar, I have—I am convinced—because I gave up artificial sweeteners. For a long time I had a rule that I wouldn't buy sweets. It wasn't that I couldn't have them; I just wasn't a person who bought them. It kept me from having them in the house, but allowed me to have dessert when, say, we went out for a special occasion or had guests for dinner. At this point, I'm learning how to manage sweets and how to mitigate the damage they do. If I'm dying for a candy bar, for instance, I'll often get a Twix, because I can hand one of the sticks to Jed. The point is that when I'm craving something sweet, there's probably a physiological reason, and eating an artificially sweetened whatever-it-is isn't going to address the issue that caused the craving, and so I'll keep seeking it out, whereas if I just eat actual sugar, and figure out how to restrain the portion? I’m good.

86. I EAT FAT. AND CARBS. AND PROTEIN. AND PLANTS.

Because our bodies need them. Do lots of people eat too many carbs? Yes. Yes, we do. Do we eat too much fat? Yes. Protein? Often. Plants? Probably not so much. Although I love steamed vegetables with a love beyond measure, I have never said, "I just can't stop eating these steamed vegetables!" and I doubt anyone else has, either. But lots of people eat too much in general. If I go on a low-carb diet, I'll lose weight, but it will largely be water weight AND I won't be giving my muscles the glycogen supply they need to help me run well. If I go on a low-fat diet, I risk robbing myself of the fat-soluble vitamins and essential fatty acids (some of which my body cannot make) that I need to be healthy. I need it all—I just don’t need too much of it, and it's probably a good idea if I consider its sources.

87. I ADDED PROTEIN (AND FAT) TO MY BREAKFAST.

I was amazed at the difference this made. Half a cup of oatmeal plus applesauce and skim milk at 6:30AM = me hungry before 10:30. Half a cup of oatmeal plus applesauce and skim milk and about 15 grams of almonds at 6:30AM = me not hungry until after noon. An extra hundred calories of fat and protein buys me hours of satiety. If I'm going to have a long run that day, I'll add something to that breakfast: a bowl of cereal (the hours before a long run are not a good time to be adding fiber or worrying about excess carbs), or a hard-boiled egg, half an avocado, or a bit of peanut butter and honey on a piece of toast. Something like that. I'm going to need the energy.

88. I LISTEN TO CRAVINGS.

I've already said that if I'm having a lot of cravings for something specific, I usually eventually give into them. But I don't have a lot of cravings. When I start craving, say, ice cream, I wonder if it's because my body needs fat or calcium or sugar—or some combination. If I add a little more yogurt to my post-run snack or get a little more fruit into my diet and the craving goes away, I have my answer. It's not that I'm substituting one for the other. No one should ever try to convince me that yogurt with a handful of blueberries is "just as good" as an ice cream cone because all the people involved in that interaction know it's a lie. It's good in its own way, don't get me wrong. But it's not ice cream. Sometimes the craving is nutritional, and by meeting the nutritional need, I can get rid of the craving.  When all is said and done, if I still want the ice cream, I have it. And I love it. And all is right with the world.

89. I STOPPED THINKING IN TERMS OF "BAD" VS. "GOOD" WITH BOTH MY FOOD AND MY BEHAVIOR.

Eating broccoli is not "being good." Spending a day on the couch is not "being bad." If I say to myself, "I was good and ran ten miles today," then the next time my long run rolls around and, say, it's 90 degrees out (like it has been recently) with jaw-dropping humidity and I'm feeling a twinge in my left hamstring and it's the day before I'm supposed to get my period, but I manage to drag myself through eight miles before calling it a day, does that mean I'm bad? Of course not. Words are important. The way I talk to myself is important. I start most runs with the attitude that I will finish—it usually isn't even a question. If I'm not myself for whatever reason, I adjust that to, "Let's see what I can do," and far more often than not, I get to the end of my scheduled run. But behavior is just behavior. Food is just food. Look, brownies are delicious. Spending a whole day lying on a raft in the middle of a lake and lazily sipping something cool, fruity, and possibly alcoholic is also delicious in its own way. Then again, so is broccoli, and so is finishing a run strong.

90. I MAKE EXCUSES TO EXERCISE INSTEAD OF MAKING EXCUSES TO AVOID IT

This is related to prioritizing exercise, but it also has to do with me giving up the mindset that working out is something to get out of, like jury duty or dinner with relatives you don't like (I love my relatives, by the way, in-laws included). If I know I'll be spending a day with friends, I'll get up early and take a walk before breakfast so that I don't get lulled into taking a day off when  I end up not feeling like working out the evening after a day of socializing. It gets done first because it's the most important thing I want to do that day. Want to, want to, want to. Not need to. Not should. Want to.

The First 100 Pounds (71 - 80)

I'm not a doctor and I don't even play one on TV. Although I would, if the money were right.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here. Here are 71 – 80:

71. I TAKE A MINUTE TO APPRECIATE MY STRENGTH WHEN IT SURPRISES ME

Sometimes, it's putting my hands on my hips and realizing there's muscle there. Sometimes it's what I can lift or how quickly I can move. It doesn't matter—if I notice it, I take a minute to appreciate it. Seconds, really.

72. I FEEL MY MUSCLES.

I know I've mentioned this before, in terms of celebrating (or at least acknowledging) my successes, but I also do it if I need a little pick-me-up. If I need to get my energy up for a run, I might slap my thigh or flex my calf. It sounds totally self-absorbed when I write it like that, and maybe it is, but I don't care. Does it work? Yes? Then I put it on this list (other criteria for this list: Can I use it to make a joke? Do I have anything to say about it? Did I think of it?). I make other people feel my muscles, too. Except the mailman. Damn restraining order.

73. I TAKE PRIDE

When I started continuous runs by distance instead of time, they were all between two and a half and three miles long. I ran three times a week, I walked hills a couple of days a week, and I took two days off. It was fine, but I knew I needed more challenges if I was going to stave off boredom, so I decided to extend one run a week, to do this "long run" that I'd been reading so much about. My first long run was three and a half miles. I had never run that far before in my life, and I was proud of myself. The next long run was four miles. Pride. My first five-mile long run was a major milestone for me, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it was the natural comfort of having a number that ended with a zero or a five (why do I like that so much?). At the end of those runs, I'd walk up to Jed and announce how far I'd run, and then I'd do a little body builder pose and say, Raaaaaaar! Because I was mighty. And I was proud.

74. I UNDERSTAND WEIGHT LOSS IS NOT A STRAIGHT LINE

People will tell you that losing weight is a calories in/calories out proposition. Those people are lying. Or oversimplifying, anyway. Sure, if I eat more calories than my body needs, I will gain weight. If I use more calories than I eat, I'll lose weight. But on a day-to-day basis, weight is also a factor of what I've eaten (carbs, which I need to run well, hold water—that's part of their job), whether I'm hydrated or not, how much salt I've eaten in the past day or so, hormonal shifts and other monthly changes, whether my body is in a phase of building muscle…I could go on. For me, the weight loss tends to run in a pattern that consists of trading the same three or four pounds back and forth for about three weeks, then losing five or six pounds in the course of about a week. It all just goes away at once. On a weekly basis, my diet and exercise routine are remarkably consistent. I have to look at it long term, because putting too much stake in my daily—or even weekly—weight will drive me crazy. I knew, for example, when I hit the 90-pounds-lost mark that I'd have about two months more before I hit 100. That did not stop me from riding the swings up and down as my body went through pretty much the EXACT SAME PROCESS IT HAS BEEN GOING THROUGH FOR THE PAST YEAR. Even though I understand it, and even though I know that losing a pound or so a week is the best way to keep weight off long-term—it makes me crazy. So I was glad to hit 100, in part because I can stop that particular obsession for a while. As I've mentioned before, intellectual knowledge is not always the same as emotional knowledge, and for obvious reasons I'm most content when they agree with each other.

75. I WEIGH MYSELF EVERY DAY

Experts differ on the wisdom of this. Early on, I didn't weigh myself at all—I let my clothing be my guide. Then, once I stopped being such a chicken, I started weighing myself once a week. Then twice. And eventually I came across some studies that said people who are successful at maintaining weight loss tend to weigh themselves every day. And since that fit into my naturally obsessive personality, that's what I latched onto. I don't tend to let my weight dictate anything—and it doesn't affect my mood or my behavior for more than a moment every morning anyway. It does help me keep on track, so I do it.

76. I DON'T DO IT FOR THE WEIGHT

I'm proud of the weight loss, I'm not gonna lie. But I do this because I love how strong I feel. I love setting goals and knocking them down. I love that I have become someone who knows how to power herself through a workout. I love the consistency and the control. I love knowing that I can outrun many of my friends during a zombie apocalypse (I'm looking at you, Mike).

77. I DO IT FOR THE WEIGHT

So all that in #74 and #76 up there, yeah. But also: I like how I'm beginning to look. And weight is one more goal that I can set up and knock down, so why not?

78. I TAKE THE COMPLIMENTS

This is a hard one. I am simply not good at this. When someone tells me I look good, or notices the muscles in my legs, or whatever, it's hard not to be self-deprecating or completely negate the compliment with some kind of explanation of where I want to be in 6 months or something equally diminishing. When you lose 100 pounds, people notice, and they tell you things like how good you look, or how great your skin looks, or whatever. When I wear skirts, someone often comments on how muscular my calves are. Here is what I have trained myself to say: "Thank you."

79. I WEAR SHORTER SKIRTS

Not super-short, but knee-length or above. I declared this to be the Summer of the Skirt, in part because I'm still shrinking out of clothes pretty quickly and skirts will last a little longer than shorts before they begin to look ridiculous, and in part because I like my legs. They're still bigger than I'd like them to be, but they're strong and getting more defined every week and I'm happy to have them. Plus, skirts are cute. Do I still own a couple of ankle-length skirts? I do. I'm a poet. I think it might be required. And they are also cute. But when it's 90 degrees out, something above the knee makes me much happier.

80. I STOPPED THINKING IN TERMS OF WHAT I DESERVE BECAUSE I DON'T THINK OF EXERCISE AS PUNISHMENT.

Look. Exercise is not punishment. When it felt that way to me, it was because I didn't enjoy the activity or because I was working too hard at it. I thought getting a "good workout" meant working so hard that I thought I was going to die. That is not fun (although as I gain fitness it can be sort of fun to figure out where that point is). I'm not a fan of team sports—I like exercise where the only person I'm letting down when I screw up is me. I'm not a fan of weight training because I find it boring. I like yoga because it forces me out of my all-or-nothing mentality and makes me focus on doing what's right for me. There's no schedule, no "should be able to do this by now," no ranking of top yogis (or maybe there is and I just don't know about it). There's just me, trying not to fall over. I like it. I like running because of the 8 million reasons I've stated on this blog already: the challenge, the meditative aspects, the personal goal-setting, etc.

That's all a long introduction to this: when you enjoy what you're doing, you don't need to reward yourself for having done it. I don't eat ice cream after a workout because I've "earned" it. I don't get a new running outfit because I "deserve" it. When I do eat ice cream, it's because I enjoy it. When I get a new running outfit, it's because I need it (or because it's super-cute). I'm not constantly bargaining with myself, and I'm neither undoing the progress I'm trying to make with exercise by eating ice cream all the time nor constantly trying to figure out what my next reward should be. The running is a reward. If it weren't, I'd have to find something else, because I wouldn't be able to stick to it.

The First 100 Pounds (61 - 70)

Damnit, Jim, I'm a poet not a doctor.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here. Here are 61 – 70:

61. I MAKE AVOIDING INJURY MY MAIN PRIORITY

If I get hurt, I need to stop. And if I need to stop, I might not start again. Everything I have done—everything, since day 1—I have done with an eye on keeping myself injury-free. I do not need an excuse to stop, and this was especially true at the beginning. If it's really not about punishing myself and it really IS about getting healthy, then I can take a day when I need a day, or back off on a workout so that I don't get hurt. If I'm pushing through the pain or making myself run on a day when I know I shouldn't, then I'm no longer doing this for my health, clearly. And while I might not know for sure the reasons why people who injure themselves to the point of being sidelined do so, I'd be willing to bet that a good number of them have traded punishing themselves with food for punishing themselves with exercise.

62. I STUDY

I read a lot about running. I read terribly-written (really—they're very, very bad, and it saddens me that someone gets paid to write them) articles on active.com. I read Runner's World, which I enjoy quite a bit. I read better-written books about running. I started with a book for beginner runners, and I've read several since then—one for women runners, one on half- and full-marathons. Learning is how I deal with the world. It makes me feel prepared. I felt like I knew what I was getting into when I started running, because I'd read about it. When I started to feel nauseated towards the end of my long runs, I recognized that I probably needed fuel. Oh, I thought. This is what they were talking about. I didn't realize I was running far enough to need that. And I started putting a little Gatorade into my water for my long runs. I recognized it because I'd read about it—and I could have been wrong, but at least I wasn't wondering what the hell was going on. The reading I've done gives me a place to start trying to treat whatever problem I develop, be it nausea or pain or lack of focus, and I can usually fix the problem on the first try.

63. I ICE AT THE FIRST SIGN OF PAIN

That's right—I ice preventively. If I wake up in the morning with a stiff knee, I put an ice pack on it while I drink my first cup of coffee. If one of my tendons feels a little tender, I ice it. I don't wait. And it's worked like a charm for me. Which is good because:

64. I AVOID PAINKILLERS

It's not that I'm anti-painkillers. My mom was a nurse. I have various over-the-counter painkillers, and I know which one works best for me in different situations. But I don't use them after a run, and I sure as hell don't use them before a run. Pain is my body's way of letting me know something is wrong—why would I want to ignore that? If my workouts are causing me pain (besides the occasional muscle soreness), there's a problem that painkillers probably aren't going to solve. And covering it up could make the damage worse.

65. I FEED MY MUSCLES AFTER A WORKOUT

For me, that usually means low fat plain organic yogurt with applesauce and cinnamon—eight ounces after a long or hard workout, closer to five after a shorter/easier workout. Eating a combination of protein and carbs in the first 30 minutes after working out helps get those nutrients to my muscles faster, I'm told, and so I do it. I have no idea if it's bullshit science or not. When I started fueling after my workout, I experienced less muscle soreness, so I do it. The yogurt and applesauce combination works for me because I don't really want to eat anything at all right away. It's easy to stomach. By the time I've cooled down and showered, I'm ready for some real food. Other runners eat other things, like recovery shakes or smoothies or peanut butter on toast. I tried yogurt and applesauce early on and it worked for me, so I stuck with it. If I get bored, I'll try something else.

66. I GET ENOUGH SLEEP

And I’m unapologetic about naps. I don't know when we decided as a culture that busyness was our end-all and be-all. I'm a poet. I recognize the need for vast quantities of down time—I can't write if I'm keeping myself busy that way. When I am busy, when I'm making excuses for things that HAVE to get done, it's often because I'm feeling particularly uncomfortable in my own skin. I need sleep to function well. I need it to write, to work, and to work out. Forget the rules of thumb about how much sleep people need—you need what you need, period. I know that I'm happier, and my life runs better, if I get between seven and eight hours of sleep. I can run on less, and do, sometimes for weeks at a time. But everything is better for me if I get those seven hours. Your mileage may vary, but I'd venture to say that you know if you're getting enough or not. And that you're probably not. Or maybe you are—what the hell do I know?

67. I TAKE A LITTLE FUEL ON LONG RUNS

I've learned that if it's under 70 degrees, I can run on water until mile 8. Somewhere during the 8^th mile, though, I'm going to get nauseated. I've never gotten sick (knock on wood), but I've had some lovely long runs turn unpleasant quickly. I tried a bunch of different fuel to see what would work for me, and found that my body tolerates Gatorade the best—I mix it in a low concentration (less than 25% Gatorade, the rest water) and I'm good to go. If I'm going over ten miles, I eat one of those 100-calorie granola bars somewhere between mile 5 and mile 8 (in pieces, not all at once). I've also learned that if it's much warmer than 70, I'd better grab the Gatorade for any run that's six miles or longer.

68. I STRETCH (BUT NOT ENOUGH).

Yoga helps, although I've fallen out of my practice over the past few weeks (I think I need some new DVDs—the routine was getting a little, um, routine). I just know that I feel better if I stretch than if I don't. When I'm done with a run, it's tempting to just be done, and I really really really don't want to spend another five or ten minutes stretching, but I make myself do it if I can, and I'm happy when I do. I'm even happier the next day.

69. I TURN MY MIND INWARD

Yoga helps me forget about ridiculous stuff—even when I start out with my brain reeling, by the time I'm done, I've found some calm. It helps me tune out the static from outside and inside.  Running can be the same. If I'm really troubled, sometimes I can't focus at all, but it's fabulous for clearing out the cobwebs and day-to-day ridiculousness.

70. I PUT MY FEET UP

There is nothing wrong with relaxing. Do it more, and don't apologize for it. As a poet, putting my feet up is easy—I can do it while I'm working. But sometimes Jed and I make an appointment to spend a morning eating waffles and watching cartoons. It's awesome. I recommend it. Put on your PJs and come on over. We make really good waffles.

The First 100 Pounds (51 - 60)

I'm not a doctor. You're all clear on that, right? Get medical advice from a professional, um, medicine person. Not from a poet. Also, there's more swearing. Because I can.

I also want to remind you (and myself) that some of these realizations/developments/changes were 16 months or more in the making. Process, process, process.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here. Here are 51 – 60:

51. I SMILE

If I can't smile when I'm working out, I am working too hard. It's not that I always want to smile, don't get me wrong, but if my face is locked in a grimace and my hands are so tightly fisted that I'm leaving fingernail dents in my palms, I'm taking energy that could be going to my workout (usually my run) and putting it into the wrong places. I slow it down if I have to, but often, just smiling is enough to get me to relax. Just because it's work doesn't mean it has to be agonizing. If nothing else, I smile during the last tenth of a mile or so of every run—fast runs, medium runs, long runs. I smile at the end of hard runs because they're almost over. I smile at the end of easier runs because I feel good. It sounds stupid, but it makes a difference, truly.

52. I SWEAR

I am mighty. My runs reinforce my mightiness—and not just the easier runs. It was the difficult runs that made me first declare my mightiness. I finished them despite their difficulty—that's what made me mighty. I don't have to be mighty to do the easy stuff, right? So when I say I swear, I don't mean that I swear in anger or frustration, although I suppose I probably do. I do, however, almost invariably swear in satisfaction at being the conquering heroine. When I finish a run at a higher speed than I've managed before, I swear. When I add a mile to my long run and get through it, I swear. When I have a tough run and muscle my way through it by sheer force of will, I swear. And that swear is almost inevitably the same every time: That's right, motherfucker. That's right. Don't question the swear. Don't ask who the motherfucker is. I don't know. But I have showed that motherfucker who is boss, and that boss is me.

53. I LISTEN

This is part of cutting myself a break, and it's how I'm starting to learn what my body needs: I listen. I know, for example, that an egg over root vegetable hash with some toast makes a good pre-run meal, as long as I give myself time to digest it. Hot sauce? Bring it on. I know that I can eat huevos rancheros the night before a 5K and be just fine. I also know that I never, ever want to eat tuna fish before a run, even several hours before. I know that I need to pour a little Gatorade into my water for long runs (or when it's really hot) and that coconut water and I don't get along well. You live, you learn. If I listen, I can avoid injury—I know when my shoes are losing their shape, when I need to invest in a couple of new running bras (and trust me, they're an investment, but totally worthwhile), when I'm fighting off a cold. It's experience, yes, but it's also paying attention to that experience. One isn't much good without the other.

54. I DISTRACT MYSELF

If I'm inside, that means Netflix. Instant Netflix is the savior of my treadmill workouts. I put my iPad on the treadmill and go. If I'm outside, it means music (kept at a volume low enough that I'm aware of my surroundings) or talking to Jed or having something specific to think about. But really, the outside world is distracting enough for me; it's the treadmill workouts that require entertainment. I recommend finding something with enough action (however you define it) to keep you occupied and enough of a story to keep you wanting more. This is not the time for Masterpiece Theater (not for me, anyway). It's the time for Alias. Or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Extra points if it's funny. Double-extra points if it's funny and has a good soundtrack. When I was watching Alias, I waited for the fight scenes (I never had to wait long). The soundtrack would pump me up, and I could get through a rough patch and come out the other side.

55. I TAKE INVENTORY

Speaking of rough patches, they used to be enough to get me to quit for the day. If my head wasn't in the run, I could use a rough patch to stop. But I read somewhere (who knows where) of a runner who said she (he? The research for this post is pathetic. Why are you reading this?) talked herself through rough patches by taking inventory. Mine goes something like this: "Legs? Okay. Breath? Okay. Shoulders? Okay. So quit whining, you're fine." The first two items are self-explanatory: if I'm not in pain and not having trouble regulating my breathing, I'm good to go. I've also learned (by listening…see what I did there?) that I slump a little when I get tired, and I can feel that slump in between my shoulder blades. So I check to make sure that my shoulders are okay. If my spine is in place and my shoulders are relaxed down (not forward, just not bunched up at my ears), I'm not slumping. And if I am slumping, I can tell myself to knock it off. During some runs, I don't take any inventory at all. During others, it seems like I never stop.

56. I SPEED IT UP

I have found, strangely enough, that some of the days when I'm just not feeling it are the perfect days to take the difficulty up a notch. I don't know why this works, but I suspect it's a matter of focus: I'm not feeling the run because I'm not paying enough attention. One day, I decided to use my "bad" run for speed work, and ran intervals—periods of hard running followed by periods of jogging for recovery—instead of jogging the steady pace of what I think of as my "regular" runs and damned if it didn't work. When I can't bear the thought of running five miles, I can often handle running a quarter of a mile (about 400 meters, if you measure that way), and if I set the pace to something challenging, I force myself to pay attention. Who knew? I'd say this works maybe three-quarters of the time—it's the first thing I try when I'm having a tough time, and if it's going to work, it usually starts showing signs right away. If it doesn't work?

57. I SLOW IT DOWN

Yes, it takes me longer to get the miles in, but really. The difference is minimal, and it's better to run five slow miles than to quit during the first. I should add that five miles is pretty much the shortest distance I run these days—and if none of my tricks get my head in the game, I make it my five-miler day and save the mid-length or long run for another day. The world isn't going to explode if I do 7 miles on Thursday instead of Wednesday, or if I shift my long run (right now between 10 and 12 miles) from Saturday to Sunday. This is, for reasons that should be obvious, my last resort—slowing down is better than quitting, and running a short distance is better than running no distance.  And it doesn't matter if you're running the same distances that I am (or if you're walking, or rowing, or elliptical…ling). The theory's the same. If you're scheduled to walk two miles and you can't seem to get into it no matter what you try, maybe you just need to slow it down. Or walk a mile (or whatever your light workout is). The road will still be there tomorrow.

58. I PAY ATTENTION TO WHAT WORKS

I listen to my body before, during, and after a workout and before, during, and after a meal. I pay attention to what I ate before a really good run, to what schedule of light and heavy days works best for me, to what time of day I'm more comfortable working out. If it seems to to work, I do it again. If it keeps working, I keep doing it. Am I setting up false corollaries? Probably. If so, they'll work themselves out in time. Or they won't—am I setting myself back at all by believing that a day off before my long run feels better than a day off after my long run? I seriously doubt it.

59. I DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO ANYONE WHO SAYS I'M DOING IT WRONG

Because fuck them. I've lost 100 pounds. I've done it without injury, in a way that feels sustainable to me, and in real-world conditions. Could I have lost 130 pounds by now if I'd used someone else's methods? Maybe. But so what? I've. Lost. 100. Pounds. If someone is that desperate to tell me I've done it wrong, I think that probably says more about their insecurities than my process.

60. I KEEP MY PHONE IN THE OTHER ROOM (OR LEAVE IT AT HOME)

Not only that, but I keep it on vibrate. As much as I talk about how helpful it is to keep myself distracted, outside distractions can derail me. I will take a workout-ending distraction if I can get it, so I make it so that I can't get it. Simple as that.

The First 100 Pounds (41 - 50)

The standard warnings still apply: I'm still not a medical professional, and I don't pretend that this is some sort of program. It's what I did, what I do, and what has worked for me. It doesn't even necessarily make sense. Your mileage may vary, and your doctor should have a say in the matter. What the hell do I know about this? I'm a poet, people. Get professional advice.

I also want to remind you (and myself) that some of these realizations/developments/changes were 16 months or more in the making. Process, process, process.

If you want to start from the beginning, you can do so here. Here are 41 – 50:

41. I COUNT

Remember yesterday's post when I said that sometimes I have to count off quarter miles to keep myself going? I do that kind of thing all the time to keep my brain occupied. I check my math and figure out how long it will take me to finish (or get halfway, or get through the mile…whatever it takes). If I have to, I count down the minutes. Much like I know I can run five miles, I also know I can run for a very long time. Sometimes, I have to tell myself that I'll be all right if I can make it to a certain point—an hour from the finish, half an hour from the finish, five minutes from the finish.  Most days, it's not an issue.

42. I TRACK MY NUMBERS

I don't do a lot with this, although I'm thinking about buying myself a running journal. I just have a small notebook, and I jot down the date, the approximate calorie burn, the duration of my workout, the distance, whether it was walking or running, and, for treadmill workouts, my highest speed and incline. If I also did some yoga, strength training, or a significant amount of other activity (like a day of yard work or hauling a ton of pellet fuel into the shed, for example), I'll note that, too. It takes way longer to explain than to do. Each week gets its own page, and at the bottom of the page I add up the calories and the miles run and walked (I track running and walking numbers separately). At the top of the next page, I write the year and the total miles run and walked since January 1. I also note how far ahead of my yearlong running goal I am, a figure that started as a negative number. The day my yearlong goal number went positive was a very happy day. I'll also put little happy faces or some other notation if I exceed expectations in some way—faster than usual, farther than usual, etc.

I want to make it clear that calorie counts are almost totally arbitrary—no two calorie counters online figure the burn in the same way, and the burn is affected by all sorts of different things, like weight and muscle-to-fat ratio. When I was at my top weight, I was burning more calories than the readout on the treadmill claimed. Right now it's pretty close to accurate, but twenty pounds from now it will be too high. It doesn't matter. I use the calorie count as a guideline—it's an obvious, clear indicator of progress. If the weekly number was 3,500 a couple of months ago and it's 6,000 this week, that's one more piece of data I can use when I need to give myself a pep talk.

43. I MAKE VERY SMALL GOALS

This is not unrelated to being patient, and similarly not unrelated to how much I count. My weight loss goals are five-pound increments (and are not tied into a specific time frame—I just like numbers that end in five and zero, and it's easy for me to keep track of them). My mileage goals, for a long time, consisted of increasing my weekly mileage by a mile at a time. That's right—one mile per week, and not every week. I increase my medium-run speed by maybe twenty or thirty seconds per mile at a time, and then I'll stick to that speed until it starts to feel too comfortable (often  months). My long runs are slower, and the speed on those increases even more slowly. It can feel tedious at the time, but when I look back, I can see that I've cut almost 2 ½ minutes off my medium-run mile and a minute and forty-five seconds (or thereabouts) off my long-run mile. Over the course of a single year—especially when I remember that at the beginning of that year, I could only run for a minute at a time—that's pretty impressive.

44. I PUT BIG GOALS OUT OF MY MIND

The thing is, if I started this process by saying that my goal was to increase my speed by as much as I have, or to lose 140 pounds, or even this first hundred, I would never—not in a million years—have made it even this far. I mean seriously. One hundred and forty pounds was close to half my weight. It's an entire person. I can't think about that sort of thing all the time. That is, I can, but I try not to allow myself to. It's self-defeating. But there's another thing I do.

45. I KEEP BIG GOALS IN MY MIND

I do know where I want to be. I know what I want to weigh, how I want my clothes to fit. But mostly, I know how strong I have become, and that I want to hold onto that strength. I want to keep improving on that strength. I want to find new challenges and beat my goals into the ground. It's fun, and it makes me feel mighty, and I like to feel mighty. RAAAAAAR!

46. I REEVALUATE MY GOALS

You know how just now I was saying that I made both big and small goals? The other part of that is evaluating those goals, and then evaluating them again. For example, my big goal for 2013 is to run 750 miles and walk 250 during the year. The walking goal is a piece of cake, and I knew it when I set it—I deliberately set a goal that I knew I could blow out of the water, and I attached it to the bigger, more meaningful running goal by making the total miles come out to a nice, even number: 1,000 miles on my feet sounds pretty, right? But the running goal is tougher: it requires fifteen miles a week from me (with a couple of weeks off for injury/illness/scheduling built in as a buffer), and when I set that goal, I was only running about ten or twelve miles a week. Ambitious, but do-able, I thought.

And here it is the end of June, and for the past two weeks, I've run thirty miles. I'm more than 100 miles above where I should be to hit my goal of 750, and I passed 250 walking miles last week, and we're not quite halfway through the year. Also, I'm running twice as much weekly mileage as I need to, so I'll surpass the running goal as well—barring injury—sometime in late summer/early fall. In my head, I've set new goals (1,000 miles running and 500 miles walking), both of which are totally manageable. I haven't made them official, even to myself, but they're there, so much so that I realized while editing this post that my discussion of the original goals was all in past tense. Whoops. Yes, I've done the math and know how many miles I need to run and walk every week to make the new goals. But my original stated goals stand. It would be easy for me to keep increasing my goals until I get to ones that are unrealistic, and that would allow me to quit. So the original goals stay.

I've added new ones, though: goals for increasing speed, for doing more speed work and other directed workouts, for increasing my upper body strength. Even though we're only halfway through the year, I'm starting to think about goals for 2014—what a reasonable mileage goal is, what other goals I might have.

I try not to make goals that are out of my control. I don't have a goal to lose a certain amount of weight by a certain time, because while there are some things I can control, like my diet and exercise, my weight is also affected by factors like hormonal shifts, muscle-to-fat ratio, and salt intake. Similarly, I don't have a goal to be a certain size within a certain amount of time. My goals are health-related, not size-related. If I knew how I learned to be satisfied with goals like that, I would tell you. But I don't.

Finally, I'll reevaluate my goals should my current goals no longer be realistic. If, say, I'm in some sort of accident and break my leg, my goals are going to have to shift to ones that support my healing and regaining strength during recovery. If I break my leg the day before the run that was going to put me over the 750 mile mark, it's not going to do anybody any good if I beat myself up over my inability to meet that goal. I'll mourn, I'm sure, and be really pissed off, and then I'll regroup and move on.

47. I HAVE A TRAINING PLAN.

I started with this C25K plan, then, when it became clear that I wasn't doing a very good job of setting my own goals, this half-marathon plan. Now that I've been at this a while, I feel comfortable adapting a plan to fit my own needs, but I always have something to strive for. It's usually a series of smaller goals inside a larger, more long-term goal (like increasing my long run weekly while I train for a half-marathon), but there's always something going on. At the moment, I'm pretty happy with a long run between ten and twelve miles, so I'm adding a mile here and there to my medium runs and working on speed—I alternate weeks between adding miles and adding speed work. I probably need to register for a race to keep myself focused.

48. I OBSESS A LITTLE

I have to be careful about this, because I tend toward the obsessive as it is. But I find it helpful to run through my game plan for the week as I'm getting ready to fall asleep—what's worked for me so far? What does the rest of my week hold? What new little goals might I want to set? I make Jed (and too many other people) feel how strong my quads are. I'm making this list. I'M BORING AS HELL ABOUT IT. It keeps me on track.

49. I MAKE PREDICTIONS

I think about where I want to be in a month or six months. I think about how I'll feel when I hit a goal (like these 100 pounds). If I'm on the treadmill, I do the mental math to see how far along I'll be at the end of an episode of whatever I'm watching. I play games with myself to pass the time on the long runs. I try not to get hung up on whether I make these—temporary, pointless—goals or not. I just make them and see if they come to fruition. Am I right about how far along I'll be after 20 minutes? No? Okay, then, where will I be after the next 20 minutes? Maybe it's practice for adjusting my real goals as my body strengthens. Maybe it's just a distraction. It doesn't much matter. It keeps me entertained.

50. I COMPARE MYSELF TO LAST YEAR

Or last month. Or last week. Whatever it takes. I have weeks where I'm at a specific weight, often a couple of pounds higher than the lowest I've managed, and I just hang out there. Once, I stayed there for more than two weeks. It didn't matter if I ate nothing or everything. It didn't matter if I worked harder or eased off. For whatever reason, my weight was just where it was. And I got through those two weeks by reminding myself how far I've come. Sometimes I can calm my emotions down with intellectual knowledge. Look, I can say. Look at this evidence of how much you don't suck. Understanding something intellectually and understanding it emotionally are often two very different animals—if I can use facts to make the animals talk to each other, I usually end up in better shape all around.