The Marathon I Didn’t Finish

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary2 Comments

Running is my anchor habit. I organize my life around running. Each Sunday, I map out my runs for the upcoming week. I run marathons twice a year. Training for marathons gives me a structure to follow. A big goal to achieve. A bite-sized training plan for each day with an accomplishment to celebrate. Toughness. Grit. Perseverance.

While I have enjoyed running since I was a kid, I got serious about running five years ago. In 2019 I ran my first marathon. I loved it. Since then, I have run two marathons a year, with the exception of 2020. And I guess, as of now, this year.

Two extraordinary years. So tough and isolating, and yet, so instructive.

Last Sunday I ran the Marine Corps Marathon. I dropped out at 18.7 miles. At the time I thought this would be okay. I was feeling mounting fatigue and I was thirsty, as you do when running a marathon.

I was neither injured nor sick. I could have completed this race.

But I was running slow.

Slow happens.

It’s fine.

Except when it’s not.

My daughter had a Halloween party that day, and her entire grade was going to go trick-or-treating together. Due to the slower pace I was running, the complex logistics of getting out of one of the country’s largest marathon’s finisher village (think: ant farm without parking), and the sizable additional commute to the party, I realized that if I finished that race she was going to miss out on trick-or-treating with her friends. And I didn’t want to be that selfish asshole.

I thought dropping out was not going to bother me. I actually called my husband from the course and told him that at the next point where they would be to cheer me on, I was going to walk home with them rather than continue on to the finish line. “Don’t fight me on this,” I said. He didn’t and I dropped out. We walked home together. I showered. We got in the car. We stopped for sandwiches.

I was fine.

Until I wasn’t.

While I still believe I made the right decision, I had no idea how much dropping out of this race was going to bother me. I felt like I had been dumped on Valentine’s Day. In my favorite restaurant. By myself.

I cried intermittently for two days.

Charles Duhigg writes about habit and productivity. In The Power of Habit, he identifies the three core pieces of the neurological loops we create around habit. First, cue. Because my habit is so ingrained, it has come to the point where waking up in the morning is my cue to run. Then, habit. I run. Finally, reward. I complete my run and note my time, distance, and pace.

Each run is a reward, but completing a marathon is a collective reward of 18 or more weeks of training. I think, with more reflection, that part of the reason why I spazzed out so much was that I had my reward of final accomplishment in the form of a finish line taken away from me.

Running has been my constant teacher. It has taught me that what I say I can’t do is actually what I won’t do. That there is a difference. A huge difference. That seeing that difference is the beginning of agency, of power to change. Running has also taught me about respecting my body, fueling my body, and admiring my body for what it can do rather than the insignificant particulars of what it might look like. Given that I almost died of anorexia many years ago, this is a lesson that can never be over-repeated for me. I could go on and on about what I have learned over these years of running.

But I realize not finishing this marathon, while not the outcome I wanted, is teaching me far more than the successful runs. I am learning things about myself. That I actually can’t stand to let things be undone. That sometimes things are best left undone (and especially in the name of love). That a slice of humble pie offers more personal growth than a medal ever could.

In the past few days, I have learned how to accept the flowers I didn’t think I deserved. I have learned how to accept my emotions, to allow that I actually got pretty upset, and after that, and only after that, finding the perspective to right-size them. To celebrate that, for a moment by the river, a band was playing for me. That nothing takes that moment away.

Cooking To Death

On By erintothemaxIn CommentaryLeave a comment

Am I the only parent who feels this profound sadness? That we are cooking to death? That we are giving this planet to our children? That fish are drowning in microplastic beads they have ingested? That the microplastic beads are in everything — shampoo, dishwasher pods, clothing? That going outside for ‘fresh air’ may be more smoke-filled and toxic than staying cloistered indoors? That the masking formula has flipped, that the masks are to be worn outside for protection from the climate? That the sky can be orange? That the sun can look like a sinister pumpkin? That smoke can blot out skylines? That people experiencing homelessness are sweating out heat waves on park benches? That the hottest days on record are replacing themselves day after day? That the climate has undeniably changed and deniers continue to deny, to ridicule? That dogs can’t stop panting? That it is supposed to get worse and not better? That our children will grow increasingly accustomed to heat days and smoke days? That most cars are still running on gasoline? That recycle bins are emptied to landfills? That single-use plastic is nearly impossible to avoid? That we eat, drink, breathe, and sit upon carcinogens until we lie down to sleep on top of them? That it is bad now, and getting worse, and no one seems to be doing much of anything? That the Doomsday Clock is 90 seconds to midnight? That the country with the most nuclear weapons had tanks cruising toward its capital a few weeks ago? That the threat of nuclear war is a nightly topic on the nightly news? That Americans are combining watching a movie about the making of the atomic bomb with watching a movie about Barbie dolls, that Americans are wearing shirts of a plastic buxom woman standing in a minidress in awe of the mushroom cloud in front of her? That this is our response?

Anger Management Issues Are Abuse. Just Say That.

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

I would like to decry, declaim, and holistically reject the frame of Anger Management Issues, a frame so clinical as to create its own pathology: our collective inability as a culture, still and after all these years, to name and shame abuse within our own relationships and those of our loved ones.

Anger Management Issues were invented as a mechanism for abusers to save face, to give them an out for which there is learning and functioning and the bland speak of corporatese. Anger Management Issues seem to be deployed as a couple’s issue just as much as an individual Yosemite Sam’s, for anger is often used within the context of multi-person concepts such as arguments and disagreements and rows.

But when a partner or family member is kicking the living crap out of you — whether physically, sexually, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, financially, and/or otherwise1 — it’s not an Anger Management Issue. It’s an abuse issue. And we hate to say that someone is being abused especially when others have known about the so-called Anger Management Issues for awhile, because then we are all, in some way, culpable for being part of a society or family or neighborhood that allows this Anger Management Issue to occur in plain sight, or at least behind closed (but porously loud) doors.

We hate to say that someone is being abused because too often the judgement of abuse is made, in part, by reviewing the actions or intentions or discernment (oh, please) of the person being subject to another person’s willful violence. “She’s a strong woman and we don’t need to worry.” Or: “She can hold her own,” they’ll say as he is clearly abusing her irrespective of the strength of her will as a person to not be subject to violence. Or “that would never happen to me because I respect myself too much to find myself in that situation,” the unhelpful “model strong woman” will say on the television on the ladies talk show or to her friends over a glass of wine.2

The reality is not really like that. I once purchased a book in hopes of helping someone deal with his Anger Management Issues, and together we sought couples therapy to address his Anger Management Issues. But they weren’t Anger Management Issues. They weren’t couples therapy issues. They were abuse issues that belonged to the person perpetrating the abuse.

What I want you to know is this: No one should yell at you and break you down to pieces. No one should whack at your self-esteem with a machete for sport. No one should break things or punch holes in walls or destroy your property in the hope of scaring you into submission. No one should force or guilt or coerce you to sex. No one should withhold money or health insurance from you, or try to cut you off from participating in the public square or relationships with other people. No one should break your spirit or punch your face or bend your hands back or burn cigarettes into your arm or do any manner of physical things.

If you hear that someone has Anger Management Issues, I ask that you slow down and start thinking really carefully about what behavior is being described, and that if you are the person dealing directly with that person that you develop a plan to get away safely, and if you are a person whom the target of the Anger Management Issues feels they can trust, that you make yourself available non-judgmentally to support them as they navigate their way out. As you go about your life, please question the use of the term Anger Management Issues, and start thinking in your head, is abuse actually what is being described? Even if we haven’t called this behavior abuse in the past, is that actually what it is? Give peace the benefit of the doubt, that peace is in the right on this on this question of what is abuse — the targeting of an individual — and what is a mere issue of executive functioning gone wrong — an inability to control one’s own emotion of anger.

________

1Please don’t ask the question if abuse is “physical” or “something else.” It is all horrible, and this question and hierarchy sets up a respectability for forms of abuse that can equally threaten (as well as lead to) physical destruction. I know you mean well. but please don’t ask this question as the answer is irrelevant to whether a person would benefit from no longer being subject to abuse.

2Is it always men doing abuse to women and girls? No. Women do abuse to men and boys. Women do abuse to women and girls. Men do abuse to men and boys. There is more than the gender binary and abuse happens in all ways and directions. Gen Z is leading on the ridiculousness and inapplicability of the gender assignment concept as a mandatory checkbox on the birth certificate, driver’s license, and estimate of life potential, and I tend to agree, gender itself is a made-up farce that systematically advantages some over others. I shun all relationship violence. And yet I am unable to resist using she and he as I did in the paragraph above to describe abuse because men are conditioned to expect subservience from women and men’s violence against women is an unavoidable pattern that goes on and on and on and on. Enough!

A Weird Thing I Do: Run Marathons By Myself

On By erintothemaxIn Commentary1 Comment

It is said that Pheidippides was the first marathon runner. That he ran from a battlefield in the town of Marathon to Athens to announce a battle victory. That he then collapsed and died. That this all happened in the BC times. That now people like myself run marathons, 26.2 miles, because of this. That is all quite strange.

I ran my first and second marathons in 2019. One was a big city race, the other a little city race. I loved them. A third, in 2020, was supposed to take place on my 40th birthday. It was a wonderful plan I had until COVID cancelled the race. Being the way things were in that time, I decided to stick with my training and run it myself. And a new tradition was born.

It is now 2023. I have run a total of eight marathons. Four have been solo. The solo marathons have turned into something I do each year around my birthday, to mark the passage of time and celebrate my health and well-being. As the years advance, I am finding that my health is becoming the bigger birthday deal than presents or parties or Chuck E. Cheese. However much I do continue to love Skee-ball, cake, and a jumbo mechanized rat.

Running a solo marathon is a completely different experience. At first they were harder than organized races, because there weren’t people or situations around to keep me pumped up. But then they became easier. There is something incredibly addictive about lacking excuses or external factors, and having to rely on one’s two feet.

When I run I am free. The bullshit generally falls away: in my brain, on the screens. I am not doing the screens. I am just moving.

It makes me proud that my daughter sees me doing this. That she is learning by example that hard work has a place, and after a period of time, it can become fun and relaxing. I’m going to keep doing this each year for as long as my body lets me.

Getting Older Out Loud

On By erintothemaxIn Random2 Comments

I’m turning 43 next week. What a delight, truly. To be alive on any fleeting day is a miracle.

It is a feminist act to embrace our age, to say it aloud. Age is the ultimate assertion of experience.

No matter who we have been, what we have become, where we have succeeded and failed, our age holds it all. It is amazing how we change so much and yet retain pieces of who we have always been.

I resent assertions and implications that women should not age. I’ve been training my whole life to be an eccentric old lady. Hell, my favorite show in elementary school was Murder She Wrote.

I’m old enough to have seen several peers die or sustain ongoing battles with any number of life-threatening conditions: cancer, abusive partners, mental health. As for me, it’s more against the odds than a really good Phil Collins song that I didn’t drop dead of anorexia at 17, 18, or 19, so hey, am I proud to be turning 43? You bet!

Aging is a privilege. It is a tragedy when people don’t get the opportunity to age. Often these tragedies are predictably related to systemic racial inequality, including wealth gaps, unequal access to health care, and the literal stress of racism, with people of color having lower life expectancies.

It is another type of sadness when people hate themselves for getting older. This seems to happen far more often with women, who have been soaked in messages since birth conflating our appearance and worth. A woman who embraces her age is a special threat to that order — in asserting our experience on the planet in the form of wisdom gained, we are disrupting systems that reward young women for being arm candy and demand obsolescence from older women.

The gray hairs are coming, here on my head. It’s all good. I’ve earned them.