This morning marked the last of my summer runs here in Flagstaff. I was supposed to finish off strong with a 15k in the pines north of Flagstaff, but I wimped out and dropped down to the 5k instead. It was a good race nonetheless, and while I finished slightly slower than my last 5k, this was the first race I've done this summer where I was actually aware of passing other people. Usually I'm the one getting passed throughout the entirety of any given race I'm in. Perhaps my few days at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon last week got me used to being active at 8,000 feet. Whatever the reason, I had a good race, I enjoyed myself, and I'm looking forward to doing the summer series again next year. Given that it was my last race, I've had some time to reflect on my running goals for the upcoming year.
I'd really like to get back to run club. And by get back to run club, I mean go more than just one time. I find the runners here in Flagstaff so incredibly intimidating, as I've mentioned in my previous blogs. And honestly, I just run at my own pace, and that's good enough for me most of the time. However, sometimes at run club they run relay races, and I'm then forced to be on a team with people I don't know. Which is fine, I'm open to meeting new people, but I would feel terrible if I was the slowest one in the relay. Run club isn't supposed to be competitive, but it is nonetheless. I don't know that anyone would necessarily go out of their way to make me feel bad about my pokey pace, but knowing I was slowing them down would bother me. So maybe I just need to go on nights when there are no group activities. Start there, and work my way up to the group stuff. First I have to go...that would be a good place to start.
I want to sign up for the Summer Series again, only this time I'm signing Simon up too. I will have a built-in run buddy, someone to pace me, and someone to give me confidence to talk to strangers. Seems so silly that I'm intimidated by strangers, but there it is nonetheless. At least if the strangers reject me and think I'm a weirdo, I'll still have Simon. He hasn't rejected me yet for being a weirdo.
I'm still planning on doing some races in other locations as well. I like traveling to cities with the intention of running through them. It's a neat way to see the city, and it gives me an excuse to get some exercise since eating is pretty much paramount to any trip that I take. I was bummed this year that we cancelled our trip to Vancouver to run the SeaWheeze. Arguably, one of the best races that I've ran. I doubt we'll do that one next year either, since registration is on a day that we'll be traveling and it sells out wicked fast. And, truth be told, we've already been to Vancouver...twice. There are lots of other fun races throughout the country that would be fun to do. I've been thinking that it would be fun to do one of the big races in San Francisco, which would give me a good excuse to get back to the Bay Area. I miss the Bay Area...it's so beautiful, and my very good friend Dave is still there. I miss him too. I just found out that there is a run that takes place at the end of August at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon...definitely want to do that one. I fell in the love with the North Rim recently on our camping trip there. Again, beautiful location, and I think the views while running would be spectacular...as long as I don't get distracted and fall over the edge...that wouldn't be ideal. I've heard there are some good races in the Florida Keys as well, so maybe I'll get that Florida trip in next year after all. I'd also really like to go back to Minnesota next summer to run the Grandma's half-marathon along the north shore of Lake Superior. I've always wanted to do that one, so maybe 2016 will be my year. The calendar is potentially filling up already!!
As far as the rest of this year, Simon and I will be running a 10k just outside of Seattle in September. It's a race sponsored by The Oatmeal, which is a guy who does these funny little comics and has a few books out. One of his books (which I own) is called The Terrible and Wonderful Reasons Why I Run Long Distances. He started out as a self-described dumpy guy who couldn't run a block...and to date he competes in ultra-mararthons...50+ mile runs. I find that incredibly crazy, but good for him for taking on that challenge. I really like his book...it's funny and it's been inspirational for me to get out there and run. Well, sometimes. When I'm not running races I don't run all that much, but I want to work on that. My friend Ellen and I will be heading to Las Vegas in November to run the Rock and Roll Vegas Half Marathon. In a moment of craziness we decided to add the 5k on as well, so we'll be doing two races that weekend. The premise of the race is running the strip at night, in the dark, when all the hotels and stuff are all lit up. I think it's going to be really cool, and I'm looking forward to hanging out in Vegas again with Ellen. We try to do a Vegas a trip every year. It's a fun little getaway for the two of us. Granted, it probably won't be warm enough for us to hang out by the pool all day long, which is what we usually do, but we've got some other things planned that will keep us occupied...and get us out and walking after the half-marathon...I'm going to be a hurting unit after that one, I can already tell that. If only I were into that whole training business...hahaha!
Next year will be my first year since starting this whole running thing that I will not be participating in the Disney Princess weekend. I'm a little bummed about that, and honestly almost signed up on a whim, but it's expensive and I've done it three times already...time to try another one. I almost signed up for the Star Wars half-marathon at Disneyland, but it was $200...that's a little too expensive for my taste. I think it would be fun...but yeah...maybe next time. Ellen wants to go and dress up as Chewbacca...hahaha!
So yeah...it was a good summer of running. I'm glad I did the races, and I'm looking forward to doing them again next summer. I'd like to thank Team Run Flagstaff and the Northern Arizona Trail Runners Association for putting on such awesome events for us. :) See you next year!! Or at run club...whichever comes first. :)
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Thursday, August 20, 2015
What Happens When...
Simon and I were talking the other day about what we would want done with our bodies after we die. I know, not the most uplifting topic in the world, but a very important one nonetheless.
Death is something that few people are comfortable with. It seems that most people are of the opinion that if they don't talk or think about it, then it's not going to happen...that somehow they and their family members might possibly live forever. These same people are the ones who are completely devastated, appalled, and angry when death eventually comes calling. Death is almost always devastating, whether you're prepared for it or caught completely unawares. I do think that being comfortable with talking about death does help you cope with it when eventually the time comes to deal with it.
Maybe it's my background in healthcare that makes me so comfortable with talking about death. I don't see death all that often, but I do see it waiting in the wings more often than I'd like to admit. It's been interesting for me to see the way that death affects people. Recently there were two families in the hospital, both going through the process of a dying family member. One family was accepting that death was coming soon and had gone through the process of initiating hospice and comfort care. Their family member was swaddled in pretty blankets and had someone at the bedside 24/7 to hold the patient's hand and let her know that they were there. All curative therapies had been stopped. The room was peaceful and quiet. The other patient's room was a completely different story. Family members were angry and agitated, complaining that the patient (who was comatose at this point) was not being fed. And not only that he wasn't being fed, but that he wasn't being offered things that were appropriate for a diabetic diet. They were concerned that he wasn't peeing or pooping, they were bothered that we weren't as concerned about these things as they were. It's hard for me to stand there and take the blame for the fact that their family member is dying, but I do it because I know that they're not at the point of acceptance yet. I know they think that if their family member would only poop, or only take one bite of mashed potatoes, that he might be on the road to recovery, despite the fact that all the doctors on his case had informed them that there was nothing more that could be done. It's hard to see them fight death, and it makes me sad to know that their family member is going to pass while they're harboring so much anger in their hearts.
I used to be afraid of death, of being robbed of the opportunity to do everything that I want to do in this life. I used to play everything safe, to plan ahead, to email my mom before every long trip in the event that I crashed the car or the plane went down. I emailed her the most mundane things too...my passwords and account numbers for my credit cards, what I would want done with my belongings, where the dog was being boarded...things that are important, but not necessarily the last things that I should be concerned with if I truly thought I was going to die. If I was going to bother with contacting people in the event that I thought I was going to die, I should have been contacting them to tell them how much they meant to me, and that I truly appreciated their contribution to my life, and hoped that I had made a positive contribution to theirs. Credit cards and passwords? Those things will sort themselves out. I think I was doing it to ease the process of all the junk that goes along with sorting out someone's affairs when they are no longer present to do it themselves. A nice thought, but I think my mom probably would prefer that my last correspondence with her be something a little more meaningful. Life and death will happen as it happens. I can't prepare for everything, and why should I spend so much time and energy trying to prevent and prepare for something will that happen no matter what I do? With that in mind, death is never very far from my thoughts, but it doesn't monopolize them in fear the way it used to.
I went down to Phoenix yesterday, and I couldn't abolish the flickering thought from my mind that there was a very real possibility that I might die on that trip. Most likely from a car accident, if I was to guess, but a number of things could have happened. I could have had an asthma attack, I could have had a heart attack, I could have been struck in the crosswalk by someone too stupid to stop for a pedestrian, I could have been shot by some maladjusted person on a bender for vengeance for some wrong that life had done him or her. There could have been an earthquake and a building could have fallen on me. A freak storm could have rolled though and I could have been struck by lightening. I could have choked on my lunch. And you know, what could I have done to prevent any of those things from happening? Absolutely nothing. Not one thing. Either you're going to die, or you're not. You can't cheat death...it's coming whether you like it or not.
I think sometimes I become preoccupied with the question of whether or not I have lived a good life. Of course, this won't matter to me once I'm gone, but I do hope that I'm leaving a positive lasting impression on those who I've come into contact with, regardless of how fleeting that interaction might have been. I become preoccupied with the idea that I will die without being able to say goodbye to all those who were important to me when I was alive. Of course, most everyone I know should already know how I feel about them, so there's really no need to tell them with my last breath, but these are the things I think about when I think about death. I think about my little dog too, wondering where I've gone and when I'm going to come back. How do animals grieve? Do they grieve at all?
And then I think about not only my death, but about other people's deaths as well. Every time Simon goes out on his motorcycle, I wonder if it will be his last ride. When my parents take their long road trips, I worry that they might not make it home. I have this weird thought that if I'm with them, maybe I'll be able to help prevent a catastrophe. I know that it's silly to worry about these things, as people are much more likely to die in a mundane fashion than in a tragic car accident, but those are the things I think about. I think about that empty chair at the dining table, those yearly get togethers that will have a palpable absence, that spot on the couch that sits vacant during movie night.
So, in the conversation about our bodies, Simon and I want whatever can't be donated to others to be donated to science. Even in death, I want my life to matter, regardless of how small the contribution. My body is useless to me once I'm gone, it might as well be put to some use for someone else if possible.
There is a book I read some time ago called Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, written by Mary Roach. Arguably, one of the best books I've ever had the pleasure of reading. It's amazing the things that human bodies can do after death. The advances in science, medicine, crime scene investigation, and safety that would have not have otherwise been possible if individuals had not been willing to donate their bodies for scientific purposes. I won't spoil it by revealing any of the specific stories, but truly, an amazing read. And something for everyone to think about.
Death doesn't have to be scary, or dreaded, or something to avoid at all costs. It's going to happen to all of us at some point, it's just a matter of when. It's so much easier to be okay with death if we're just able to talk about it, and accept it for what it is...part of the cycle of life. I've made my peace with it, and can only hope that others will be able to as well.
Death is something that few people are comfortable with. It seems that most people are of the opinion that if they don't talk or think about it, then it's not going to happen...that somehow they and their family members might possibly live forever. These same people are the ones who are completely devastated, appalled, and angry when death eventually comes calling. Death is almost always devastating, whether you're prepared for it or caught completely unawares. I do think that being comfortable with talking about death does help you cope with it when eventually the time comes to deal with it.
Maybe it's my background in healthcare that makes me so comfortable with talking about death. I don't see death all that often, but I do see it waiting in the wings more often than I'd like to admit. It's been interesting for me to see the way that death affects people. Recently there were two families in the hospital, both going through the process of a dying family member. One family was accepting that death was coming soon and had gone through the process of initiating hospice and comfort care. Their family member was swaddled in pretty blankets and had someone at the bedside 24/7 to hold the patient's hand and let her know that they were there. All curative therapies had been stopped. The room was peaceful and quiet. The other patient's room was a completely different story. Family members were angry and agitated, complaining that the patient (who was comatose at this point) was not being fed. And not only that he wasn't being fed, but that he wasn't being offered things that were appropriate for a diabetic diet. They were concerned that he wasn't peeing or pooping, they were bothered that we weren't as concerned about these things as they were. It's hard for me to stand there and take the blame for the fact that their family member is dying, but I do it because I know that they're not at the point of acceptance yet. I know they think that if their family member would only poop, or only take one bite of mashed potatoes, that he might be on the road to recovery, despite the fact that all the doctors on his case had informed them that there was nothing more that could be done. It's hard to see them fight death, and it makes me sad to know that their family member is going to pass while they're harboring so much anger in their hearts.
I used to be afraid of death, of being robbed of the opportunity to do everything that I want to do in this life. I used to play everything safe, to plan ahead, to email my mom before every long trip in the event that I crashed the car or the plane went down. I emailed her the most mundane things too...my passwords and account numbers for my credit cards, what I would want done with my belongings, where the dog was being boarded...things that are important, but not necessarily the last things that I should be concerned with if I truly thought I was going to die. If I was going to bother with contacting people in the event that I thought I was going to die, I should have been contacting them to tell them how much they meant to me, and that I truly appreciated their contribution to my life, and hoped that I had made a positive contribution to theirs. Credit cards and passwords? Those things will sort themselves out. I think I was doing it to ease the process of all the junk that goes along with sorting out someone's affairs when they are no longer present to do it themselves. A nice thought, but I think my mom probably would prefer that my last correspondence with her be something a little more meaningful. Life and death will happen as it happens. I can't prepare for everything, and why should I spend so much time and energy trying to prevent and prepare for something will that happen no matter what I do? With that in mind, death is never very far from my thoughts, but it doesn't monopolize them in fear the way it used to.
I went down to Phoenix yesterday, and I couldn't abolish the flickering thought from my mind that there was a very real possibility that I might die on that trip. Most likely from a car accident, if I was to guess, but a number of things could have happened. I could have had an asthma attack, I could have had a heart attack, I could have been struck in the crosswalk by someone too stupid to stop for a pedestrian, I could have been shot by some maladjusted person on a bender for vengeance for some wrong that life had done him or her. There could have been an earthquake and a building could have fallen on me. A freak storm could have rolled though and I could have been struck by lightening. I could have choked on my lunch. And you know, what could I have done to prevent any of those things from happening? Absolutely nothing. Not one thing. Either you're going to die, or you're not. You can't cheat death...it's coming whether you like it or not.
I think sometimes I become preoccupied with the question of whether or not I have lived a good life. Of course, this won't matter to me once I'm gone, but I do hope that I'm leaving a positive lasting impression on those who I've come into contact with, regardless of how fleeting that interaction might have been. I become preoccupied with the idea that I will die without being able to say goodbye to all those who were important to me when I was alive. Of course, most everyone I know should already know how I feel about them, so there's really no need to tell them with my last breath, but these are the things I think about when I think about death. I think about my little dog too, wondering where I've gone and when I'm going to come back. How do animals grieve? Do they grieve at all?
And then I think about not only my death, but about other people's deaths as well. Every time Simon goes out on his motorcycle, I wonder if it will be his last ride. When my parents take their long road trips, I worry that they might not make it home. I have this weird thought that if I'm with them, maybe I'll be able to help prevent a catastrophe. I know that it's silly to worry about these things, as people are much more likely to die in a mundane fashion than in a tragic car accident, but those are the things I think about. I think about that empty chair at the dining table, those yearly get togethers that will have a palpable absence, that spot on the couch that sits vacant during movie night.
So, in the conversation about our bodies, Simon and I want whatever can't be donated to others to be donated to science. Even in death, I want my life to matter, regardless of how small the contribution. My body is useless to me once I'm gone, it might as well be put to some use for someone else if possible.
There is a book I read some time ago called Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers, written by Mary Roach. Arguably, one of the best books I've ever had the pleasure of reading. It's amazing the things that human bodies can do after death. The advances in science, medicine, crime scene investigation, and safety that would have not have otherwise been possible if individuals had not been willing to donate their bodies for scientific purposes. I won't spoil it by revealing any of the specific stories, but truly, an amazing read. And something for everyone to think about.
Death doesn't have to be scary, or dreaded, or something to avoid at all costs. It's going to happen to all of us at some point, it's just a matter of when. It's so much easier to be okay with death if we're just able to talk about it, and accept it for what it is...part of the cycle of life. I've made my peace with it, and can only hope that others will be able to as well.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
It's That Poop Again...
Yes, another blog about poop.
So, it's become apparent to me that adults poop their pants way more often than they admit. Not that I expect everyone to go around admitting that they've pooped themselves at some point as an adult, but I had been operating under the impression that adults pooping themselves is a rarity. Not so, as I've come to find out.
If you can get people comfortable enough to talk about it, I would say that more people than not have had some form of pants-pooping as an adult. Whether that comes in the form of an unexpected shart or a full-on turd depends on the person and the situation.
I'm obviously not going to name any names, as people told me their poop stories in confidence, but I've found that pooping one's pants happens in the most strange and normal of places. In the car on a road trip. In line for the bathroom at a restaurant. At home on the couch. Strolling along in the mall. After a few days in a foreign country. In Target or WalMart. At work. At a concert. After eating some sketchy food. While traveling in a foreign country. While camping in a tent. Sometimes it comes without warning, sometimes it sneaks up on a person, sometimes there isn't a bathroom and the butthole just loses the battle. Sorry, that was graphic, but that's how it goes. We are talking about pooping our pants, after all. I just find it so interesting. It's like the body hair thing, or the period thing...our bodies do some really weird, and admittedly, really gross things...think of what we could learn about each other and our own bodies if we were just willing to talk about some of these things? Would we be less embarrassed about pooping ourselves if we knew that a significant number of our peers had done it as well?
I was having a conversation about this with some people at work...nurses are their most forthcoming when the sleep deprivation delirium sets in at around 4am. I presented the concept of adults pooping their pants to my coworkers, and they found the topic to be intriguing, but also rather odd. None of them admitted to pooping their pants, but they found the idea of other adults admitting to me that they had pooped their pants to be somewhat fascinating. Who were these people who had not only pooped their pants, but were also willing to talk about it? Perhaps I just bring that out in people...I do seem more willing than most people I know to broach those uncomfortable topics. It's interesting that they trust me enough to talk about it. We usually end up laughing for hours about it. What else are you gonna do, cry?
And here's the thing...I work in healthcare, so I'm pretty desensitized to bodily functions. I work with people who are at their sickest, and who are receiving medications that don't always agree with their bodies. Patients are constipated from one medication that we give them, so we administer another one to combat the constipation...and then they get diarrhea. A lot of patients poop themselves, I'm just gonna come right out and say it. It's gotten to the point where I don't really even think twice about it. It's almost like it's normal to poop oneself when in the hospital. Although, the patients don't see it that way...typically they are horribly embarrassed and mortified. I did have one guy several months ago who was waiting on an abdominal surgery...I helped him up in the night, noticing a bit of poo in the bed. He noticed too, looked at me and nonchalantly said, "Well, apparently I shit myself." Apparently so. He didn't seem too upset by it, so I had to wonder...had this happened before? Or was it just that he was that sick and uncomfortable that he couldn't be bothered to care about a little poo on the sheets? I didn't want to get into it too much...people in the hospital don't typically like to talk about pooping themselves. I try to make light of it when it does happen...my favorite phrase is, "Better out than in." They usually crack a smile and agree. It's all about perspective.
So if you're wondering if the subject of this blog comes about due my own personal pants pooping experience, the answer is no. I haven't pooped my pants since the 1st grade, which was a horribly traumatic experience. I still blame the teacher who refused to let me go to the bathroom for that one. I also blame her for making me sit it in for the rest of the school day. Water under the bridge after all these years? I think not. I'm actually quite terrified of pooping my pants. Who isn't, I guess. Simon thinks it's weird that I try to only toot when I'm on the toilet. The reason is simple...in the alleged words of Jack Nickolson, 'Never trust a fart.' I don't care what anyone says, and given the conversations that I've had in the past few months, I'd say those are words to live by.
Happy pooping! Wherever you find yourself doing it. Hopefully not in your pants, but c'est la vie...at least it'll make for a good story, should you be brave enough to share it.
So, it's become apparent to me that adults poop their pants way more often than they admit. Not that I expect everyone to go around admitting that they've pooped themselves at some point as an adult, but I had been operating under the impression that adults pooping themselves is a rarity. Not so, as I've come to find out.
If you can get people comfortable enough to talk about it, I would say that more people than not have had some form of pants-pooping as an adult. Whether that comes in the form of an unexpected shart or a full-on turd depends on the person and the situation.
I'm obviously not going to name any names, as people told me their poop stories in confidence, but I've found that pooping one's pants happens in the most strange and normal of places. In the car on a road trip. In line for the bathroom at a restaurant. At home on the couch. Strolling along in the mall. After a few days in a foreign country. In Target or WalMart. At work. At a concert. After eating some sketchy food. While traveling in a foreign country. While camping in a tent. Sometimes it comes without warning, sometimes it sneaks up on a person, sometimes there isn't a bathroom and the butthole just loses the battle. Sorry, that was graphic, but that's how it goes. We are talking about pooping our pants, after all. I just find it so interesting. It's like the body hair thing, or the period thing...our bodies do some really weird, and admittedly, really gross things...think of what we could learn about each other and our own bodies if we were just willing to talk about some of these things? Would we be less embarrassed about pooping ourselves if we knew that a significant number of our peers had done it as well?
I was having a conversation about this with some people at work...nurses are their most forthcoming when the sleep deprivation delirium sets in at around 4am. I presented the concept of adults pooping their pants to my coworkers, and they found the topic to be intriguing, but also rather odd. None of them admitted to pooping their pants, but they found the idea of other adults admitting to me that they had pooped their pants to be somewhat fascinating. Who were these people who had not only pooped their pants, but were also willing to talk about it? Perhaps I just bring that out in people...I do seem more willing than most people I know to broach those uncomfortable topics. It's interesting that they trust me enough to talk about it. We usually end up laughing for hours about it. What else are you gonna do, cry?
And here's the thing...I work in healthcare, so I'm pretty desensitized to bodily functions. I work with people who are at their sickest, and who are receiving medications that don't always agree with their bodies. Patients are constipated from one medication that we give them, so we administer another one to combat the constipation...and then they get diarrhea. A lot of patients poop themselves, I'm just gonna come right out and say it. It's gotten to the point where I don't really even think twice about it. It's almost like it's normal to poop oneself when in the hospital. Although, the patients don't see it that way...typically they are horribly embarrassed and mortified. I did have one guy several months ago who was waiting on an abdominal surgery...I helped him up in the night, noticing a bit of poo in the bed. He noticed too, looked at me and nonchalantly said, "Well, apparently I shit myself." Apparently so. He didn't seem too upset by it, so I had to wonder...had this happened before? Or was it just that he was that sick and uncomfortable that he couldn't be bothered to care about a little poo on the sheets? I didn't want to get into it too much...people in the hospital don't typically like to talk about pooping themselves. I try to make light of it when it does happen...my favorite phrase is, "Better out than in." They usually crack a smile and agree. It's all about perspective.
So if you're wondering if the subject of this blog comes about due my own personal pants pooping experience, the answer is no. I haven't pooped my pants since the 1st grade, which was a horribly traumatic experience. I still blame the teacher who refused to let me go to the bathroom for that one. I also blame her for making me sit it in for the rest of the school day. Water under the bridge after all these years? I think not. I'm actually quite terrified of pooping my pants. Who isn't, I guess. Simon thinks it's weird that I try to only toot when I'm on the toilet. The reason is simple...in the alleged words of Jack Nickolson, 'Never trust a fart.' I don't care what anyone says, and given the conversations that I've had in the past few months, I'd say those are words to live by.
Happy pooping! Wherever you find yourself doing it. Hopefully not in your pants, but c'est la vie...at least it'll make for a good story, should you be brave enough to share it.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
Runnin' For Days!
In the past week, I've competed in three races...a 10k, a 3k, and a 5k. That's a lot of running for me, someone who still professes that I'm not a runner. Although, I will have to pat myself on the back for running my fastest race to date this morning...I typically don't keep track of my race times because I'm not really working towards anything, and I don't want my race time to be a deterrent if for some reason I think that it's slow. I did the 5K at a 9-minute per mile pace, which is a new personal best for me and I was completely shocked by it. I never run that fast. Especially not when hills, trails, and elevation are involved. I'd like to chalk this up to just me having a good day, but I know better than that. Running with the frequency that I have in the past week is evidence that running more often increases your ability to run harder, faster, and for longer periods of time. Of course I already knew this, it's just that convincing myself to get out there and run is frequently my barrier. I am my own obstacle.
I struggle with running in more ways than one. I hate training. I truly despise it. And why a run has to be considered training and not just a run is completely mental. Whether I've got a race bib on or not, I'm still just going for a run. Maybe I should start wearing my past race bibs when I go out for runs, make me think that I'm running a race. Hahaha! And I'm not going to run on the treadmill...how I loathe the treadmill. Although, when we move to our new place, the YMCA will be right in our backyard, so I'll have no excuse to not hit the treadmill this winter. Dammit. I'm also a very conditional runner. If it's too hot, too cold, raining, snowing, or any other adverse weather conditions, I'm not going running. I will literally try to come up with any excuse to avoid running. I'll wake up in the morning and go over my body like it's a rocket launch: Hips sore? No. Knees? Good. Shoulders? Good. Headache? Constipated? Diarrhea? Nothing to wear (ha...that's a laugh...I have enough athletic-wear to clothe multiple people for days)? Just ate? Period? Hungover? Although to date I've run 2 races hungover...I don't recommend that, but it is doable.
The first mile is always the worst mile. I can't get my breathing in order, my shoulders are creeping up to my ears, my arms are clasped tight to my chest, my feet just can't find a rhythm, and I'm wondering what the hell I was thinking going for a run. I hate the first mile. There are so many thoughts running through my head in that first mile, tips to try to get me to focus on what I'm doing. Slow down, drop your shoulders, relax your arms, no heel striking, slow down, take deep breaths, your shoulders are creeping up again, straighten your spine, slow down, one foot in front of the other, everyone is passing you and that's okay, slow down. I spend the first mile of every race getting passed by about 90% of its participants. I'm pokey, and I force myself to stay that way so I don't burn myself out. But damn, was it hard those first few races to watch everyone blow by me as if I was standing still. It doesn't bother me so much anymore...that's just how it is here in Flagstaff. When it comes to running ability, I'm definitely at the bottom of the spectrum.
I have three goals with running. 1) Finish the race. 2) Don't be last. 3) Don't poop myself. I have so far been able to accomplish all my goals with each race that I've been in. Finishing is the easy part, really. I tell myself before every race that there is no shame in walking, that I'm only competing against myself, and that if I end up having to walk more than run, so what. At least I'm out there doing it and not sitting at home on the couch (well, camp chair now, since I sold the couch). The not-be-last thing is admittedly kind of petty on my part...someone has to come in last, and why should it even matter? If I'm only competing against myself, I'm technically first and last with every race I do. Last is still better than not doing it at all. I just really don't want it to be me. It's stupid, but there it is. My third goal is there mostly for the humor. I'd read some articles a while back about some ultra-marathoners whose bodies literally shut down during their races...to the point that they pooped themselves. I don't want to be the person who crosses the finish line with poop running down my legs. Not that I'll ever have to worry about that...if I'm not the type of person to push myself past the point of uncomfortable heavy breathing, I'm definitely not the type of person to push myself to the point of pooping myself. But, it's a built-in achievable goal...sometimes we need those.
When it comes to running, and races in particular, I have an incredibly hard time pacing myself. I'm nervous, I'm excited, and I get caught up in the momentum of the crowd. Typically Simon runs with me and he paces me. He can definitely run faster than me, but he's much better at reining himself in than I am. I've found that if I can't run beside him, I like to run behind him...he does have a nice butt, after all. But in all seriousness, if I can run behind someone who is pacing me, I can just stare at their feet and zone out for long periods of time. All the races that I've done this summer I have done alone. Which is good for me so I can learn to pace myself, but I definitely struggled more than I probably would have if Simon had been with me. And to be honest, now that I've completed my 5th race of the summer, I still struggle with pacing. In each race I've done, I start out by myself, and after those first few minutes of adjustment, I scope out whomever is around to me to find a pacer. Sometimes I find one, sometimes I don't. I didn't have one this morning, and that's probably why I ran it so much faster than usual. Which means that I can run fast-ish, but that I typically try not to.
The Flagstaff running community is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Granted, until I moved to Flagstaff I hadn't ever been a part of a running community since I'm so new to running (yes, I still consider three years in as new...mostly due to my slow rate of progression). There are some very impressive runners in this little town. I run with people who are Olympians. I run with people who consider running their profession, and they get paid for it. I run with people who are sponsored by Under Armor. I run with people who have traveled all over the country and maybe even the world to run races...and they win some of them! I run with people who consider an 8-mile run a warm up. I run with people who would probably never consider walking a race (as I usually do); I'm assuming they also don't try to talk themselves out of races (as I always do). These runners here in Flagstaff are passionate about running, which is something that I lack, and probably the reason why I haven't made any friends in the running community thus far.
I don't run because I love it. I don't run because I need to prove something to myself. I don't run because I'm good at it. I don't run because it's part of my daily routine. I don't have a good reason for why I run, other than that it's just another form of exercise that will keep me fitting in my pants, and I don't need special equipment or a gym membership to do it. I don't know that passionate runners can relate to that. I guess I don't know, since I'm too shy to talk to any of them at race events.
Weird, right? Me? Shy? Most people blow me off as pulling their chain when I tell them that I'm shy. But the truth is, I'm an introvert who has trained herself to be an extrovert, so the boisterousness that I'm known for hasn't come naturally or easily. It was a really long, really tough, uncomfortable process. I still struggle with it today. Put me by myself in a group of people I don't know, especially a group of people with a common interest, whether I share that interest or not, and I completely withdraw. I literally almost left one of my races in tears because I was so frustrated with myself for not taking the initiative to try to talk to someone...anyone, for Pete's sake. People in Flagstaff are some of the nicest people I've ever met, what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that they won't like me, that they won't talk to me, that they'll think I'm the world's biggest idiot. And part of me thinks that maybe they'll think that I'm some sort of a fraud, since I don't share their passion for running. I know at the bottom of my heart that that's not true, that the running community here is so incredibly supportive of runners of all abilities, yet I'm still terrified of them. I need to work on that.
So there it is...my latest update on my running journey. It continues. I told Simon that I want to do the Summer Series again next year, and that he's going to do it with me this time. He doesn't really like running, per se, and his knees give him trouble sometimes on the longer distances, but he can rock out a few 10k's and 5k's with me.
I struggle with running in more ways than one. I hate training. I truly despise it. And why a run has to be considered training and not just a run is completely mental. Whether I've got a race bib on or not, I'm still just going for a run. Maybe I should start wearing my past race bibs when I go out for runs, make me think that I'm running a race. Hahaha! And I'm not going to run on the treadmill...how I loathe the treadmill. Although, when we move to our new place, the YMCA will be right in our backyard, so I'll have no excuse to not hit the treadmill this winter. Dammit. I'm also a very conditional runner. If it's too hot, too cold, raining, snowing, or any other adverse weather conditions, I'm not going running. I will literally try to come up with any excuse to avoid running. I'll wake up in the morning and go over my body like it's a rocket launch: Hips sore? No. Knees? Good. Shoulders? Good. Headache? Constipated? Diarrhea? Nothing to wear (ha...that's a laugh...I have enough athletic-wear to clothe multiple people for days)? Just ate? Period? Hungover? Although to date I've run 2 races hungover...I don't recommend that, but it is doable.
The first mile is always the worst mile. I can't get my breathing in order, my shoulders are creeping up to my ears, my arms are clasped tight to my chest, my feet just can't find a rhythm, and I'm wondering what the hell I was thinking going for a run. I hate the first mile. There are so many thoughts running through my head in that first mile, tips to try to get me to focus on what I'm doing. Slow down, drop your shoulders, relax your arms, no heel striking, slow down, take deep breaths, your shoulders are creeping up again, straighten your spine, slow down, one foot in front of the other, everyone is passing you and that's okay, slow down. I spend the first mile of every race getting passed by about 90% of its participants. I'm pokey, and I force myself to stay that way so I don't burn myself out. But damn, was it hard those first few races to watch everyone blow by me as if I was standing still. It doesn't bother me so much anymore...that's just how it is here in Flagstaff. When it comes to running ability, I'm definitely at the bottom of the spectrum.
I have three goals with running. 1) Finish the race. 2) Don't be last. 3) Don't poop myself. I have so far been able to accomplish all my goals with each race that I've been in. Finishing is the easy part, really. I tell myself before every race that there is no shame in walking, that I'm only competing against myself, and that if I end up having to walk more than run, so what. At least I'm out there doing it and not sitting at home on the couch (well, camp chair now, since I sold the couch). The not-be-last thing is admittedly kind of petty on my part...someone has to come in last, and why should it even matter? If I'm only competing against myself, I'm technically first and last with every race I do. Last is still better than not doing it at all. I just really don't want it to be me. It's stupid, but there it is. My third goal is there mostly for the humor. I'd read some articles a while back about some ultra-marathoners whose bodies literally shut down during their races...to the point that they pooped themselves. I don't want to be the person who crosses the finish line with poop running down my legs. Not that I'll ever have to worry about that...if I'm not the type of person to push myself past the point of uncomfortable heavy breathing, I'm definitely not the type of person to push myself to the point of pooping myself. But, it's a built-in achievable goal...sometimes we need those.
When it comes to running, and races in particular, I have an incredibly hard time pacing myself. I'm nervous, I'm excited, and I get caught up in the momentum of the crowd. Typically Simon runs with me and he paces me. He can definitely run faster than me, but he's much better at reining himself in than I am. I've found that if I can't run beside him, I like to run behind him...he does have a nice butt, after all. But in all seriousness, if I can run behind someone who is pacing me, I can just stare at their feet and zone out for long periods of time. All the races that I've done this summer I have done alone. Which is good for me so I can learn to pace myself, but I definitely struggled more than I probably would have if Simon had been with me. And to be honest, now that I've completed my 5th race of the summer, I still struggle with pacing. In each race I've done, I start out by myself, and after those first few minutes of adjustment, I scope out whomever is around to me to find a pacer. Sometimes I find one, sometimes I don't. I didn't have one this morning, and that's probably why I ran it so much faster than usual. Which means that I can run fast-ish, but that I typically try not to.
The Flagstaff running community is like nothing I've ever experienced before. Granted, until I moved to Flagstaff I hadn't ever been a part of a running community since I'm so new to running (yes, I still consider three years in as new...mostly due to my slow rate of progression). There are some very impressive runners in this little town. I run with people who are Olympians. I run with people who consider running their profession, and they get paid for it. I run with people who are sponsored by Under Armor. I run with people who have traveled all over the country and maybe even the world to run races...and they win some of them! I run with people who consider an 8-mile run a warm up. I run with people who would probably never consider walking a race (as I usually do); I'm assuming they also don't try to talk themselves out of races (as I always do). These runners here in Flagstaff are passionate about running, which is something that I lack, and probably the reason why I haven't made any friends in the running community thus far.
I don't run because I love it. I don't run because I need to prove something to myself. I don't run because I'm good at it. I don't run because it's part of my daily routine. I don't have a good reason for why I run, other than that it's just another form of exercise that will keep me fitting in my pants, and I don't need special equipment or a gym membership to do it. I don't know that passionate runners can relate to that. I guess I don't know, since I'm too shy to talk to any of them at race events.
Weird, right? Me? Shy? Most people blow me off as pulling their chain when I tell them that I'm shy. But the truth is, I'm an introvert who has trained herself to be an extrovert, so the boisterousness that I'm known for hasn't come naturally or easily. It was a really long, really tough, uncomfortable process. I still struggle with it today. Put me by myself in a group of people I don't know, especially a group of people with a common interest, whether I share that interest or not, and I completely withdraw. I literally almost left one of my races in tears because I was so frustrated with myself for not taking the initiative to try to talk to someone...anyone, for Pete's sake. People in Flagstaff are some of the nicest people I've ever met, what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that they won't like me, that they won't talk to me, that they'll think I'm the world's biggest idiot. And part of me thinks that maybe they'll think that I'm some sort of a fraud, since I don't share their passion for running. I know at the bottom of my heart that that's not true, that the running community here is so incredibly supportive of runners of all abilities, yet I'm still terrified of them. I need to work on that.
So there it is...my latest update on my running journey. It continues. I told Simon that I want to do the Summer Series again next year, and that he's going to do it with me this time. He doesn't really like running, per se, and his knees give him trouble sometimes on the longer distances, but he can rock out a few 10k's and 5k's with me.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Random Daily Ramblings
Since Simon is in the Grand Canyon for the next few days, I have a lot of time on my hands to get some blogging done. Not that he kept me from blogging before, but when we have time off together, I'd rather not spend it sitting in front of the computer. There are too many fun things for us to be doing around Flagstaff together, and the weather is much too nice to be sitting indoors.
Well, it's early morning and I'm killing some time before my massage, so here goes.
About the massage...so Monday night I seemed to have done something rather awful to my shoulder...while I was sleeping. How does one injure herself while sleeping? I literally have no idea, but what I do know is that for a better portion of Tuesday, I had a really hard time turning my head to the left...or looking down...or making sudden movements. Ibuprofen and Aspercreme helped, but still the pain persisted. I went for a nice little walk and tried to move my arm around, which helped. This morning it's feeling a little better, but I think a nice, long massage is in order. And really, do I honestly need an excuse to go get a massage? Nah.
Back in early July I had ordered a panty box from Amazon Prime. It was amazing...it was like Christmas. So Amazon Prime has this huge list of items at discounted prices that you order in one big purchase...it all comes in one big box called the Prime Pantry Box. So I ordered a bunch of things...granola bars, olive oil, toilet paper, paper towels, crackers, cleaning supplies...you know, household things that I need every now and again. It was great, and the prices were cheaper than the local stores for name-brand items. I found the selection to be quite good. But...they didn't have my brand of toilet paper. We needed toilet paper, and since I was ordering this giant box of goodies, I figured I'd give Quilted Northern a try. Bad idea...I need my Charmin back, ASAP. And it's funny, because for the love of Pete, it's toilet paper...is one brand really all that different from the next? Yes. Yes it is. I used to be somewhat indifferent to toilet paper...until I lived with my buddy Franko in Minneapolis. This man is a toilet paper snob. One brand, and one brand only...Charmin Ultra Soft. It's pretty much magical. I keep trying to remind myself that I need to just toss the Northern and buy some Charmin, but the only time I think about toilet paper is when I'm actively using it. I don't wander around Target thinking about toilet paper...I'm usually wandering around Target resisting the urge to wander through the clearance rack in the women's clothing department...hahaha! I don't have time to think about toilet paper! There are dresses on sale! So yeah...I guess I'll just have to make a list...my poor little rear depends on it.
In the same vein of potty talk, I've noticed some odd behavior I display when I'm taking Cooper for his daily walks. I always always always carry a poop bag with me, no matter how far we're going. I refuse to be one of those dog owners who finds it acceptable to let their dog poop in someone else's yard. So I wander around the neighborhood with a little bag of poop in my hand...no big deal...although I never see anyone else wandering around with a bag of poop in their hand. So what I've noticed is this...when I'm out walking Cooper and I meet someone on the sidewalk, I call out "Good morning!" and wave with my right hand. The right hand holds the poop. So I wave at people with a bag full of poop. I try to be aware of it and to not do it, but once Cooper has pooped I really don't have any other option. I hold his leash in my left hand, and the poop in my right hand. I can't very well wave with my left hand because then I would jerk on his leash, and given that he wears a harness that is designed to push against the pressure points under his arms (it prevents pulling), it would be uncomfortable for him. Not to mention confusing for him, as I typically only jerk on the leash when he is misbehaving. So that leaves the poop hand. I wonder if people notice, or if they're grossed out or offended. Most of the people I see on our walks are dog people, so maybe they get it.
Very recently I discovered the phenomenon known as the t-shirt dress. And I am in love. Old Navy recently had all their t-shirt dresses on sale, and of course I stocked up on a few. They are literally the most comfortable things ever, and even though they're basically just a bit t-shirt, they look put together because they are also a dress. I can dress them up with a necklace and some cute shoes, maybe some tights when the weather starts getting cold, or I can just lounge around in them in the house, feeling like I have a night shirt on. It's pretty much a win-win situation. And Simon thinks I look cute in dresses, so there's that as well. Lately they are my go-to item...I wish I had one for every day of the week, but that would be just silly...or not? Hmmm...
A few weeks back Simon and I met a bunch of people from the hospital at one of the local breakfast spots as a send-off to our favorite pharmacist, Gayle. Gayle is one of the top 2 pharmacists I've ever had the pleasure of working with (the other is Bob, who I worked with in Rochester...like the male version of Gayle). Gayle was quick, she was efficient, she was willing to take the time to educate us nurses on how we could make both her job and our job easier when it came to pharmaceutical queries, and above all, she was hilarious. She will be sorely missed, as there's only one Gayle in the world. The next hospital she works with better treat her good, because they're inheriting an absolute gem. So where I was going with this...there were a bunch of us sitting outside on the patio of the restaurant, trying to decide what we wanted to eat, chatting away, laughing about this thing or that, sharing traumatizing stories from the previous night shift...typical nurse stuff. It's a good thing we were out on the patio so we didn't gross out any of the other non-hospital patrons. But as we were sitting there, we wondered aloud why breakfast doesn't have appetizers. Every other meal has the option of appetizers, but not breakfast. How about a little platter of mini doughnuts, or mini quiches, a breakfast sausage plate, those mini corndog things that are breakfast sausages wrapped in pancake. Seriously, how has this not become a thing? Breakfast small plates. I'm telling you, that's where it's at. Someone get on that.
I recently learned that in Arizona (and a lot of other states, apparently), new drivers don't have have to go through driver's training to get their learner's permit (they do have to pass a written test, however...but seriously, anyone with half a brain can pass a 30 question multiple-choice test). In Minnesota a person can't get their learner's permit until they have attended a driver's ed course, and they can't take their driver's license test until they've completed at least 6 hours of behind-the-wheel practice sessions with an instructor (who has his own brake pedal on the passenger side of the car...hahaha!). I just assumed it was the same everywhere. Well, that's not true...the running joke in Minnesota is that Iowans don't have to go through driver's training, so we were always told to avoid those Iowa plates while out on the road...hahaha! It dawned on me then that maybe that's why there are so many bad drivers out there (not that driver's training makes a person a good driver, but it's a good start). If teaching a person to drive and giving a person the fundamentals of how to be a good driver are left up to parents who already have bad driving habits and who don't follow or aren't aware of basic traffic laws, that might explain why some people drive so poorly. Granted, there are plenty of good drivers out there...probably more good drivers than not, but the bad ones are the ones you take notice of when you're out and about avoiding accidents on the road. Case in point, I pulled up to an intersection the other day...there was a gal in the right hand lane with no blinker on, sitting directly behind a Jeep who was turning right. I was going left, so I pulled up next to her and prepared to make my turn. As I looked to my right to check for traffic, I saw her in her car incredulously gesturing at me with her mouth open in what I assumed was some sort of swear word. Apparently she wanted to go left as well and I was now blocking her. A) If you want to go left and the person in front of you is going right, why are you sitting behind them? B) it's not customary to make left turns from the right lane. C) if you want to go left from the right lane, at least put your blinker on so I have some idea of what your idiot brain is thinking. I waved her forward and on she went. I caught up with her at the next stop sign as she was struggling with timing a right hand turn with oncoming traffic...thankfully, she was in the correct turn lane this time...still no blinker. Several of us making the left turn were able to clear the intersection while she was still sitting there. I'm not saying I'm a perfect driver, and I'm sure I make my fair share of traffic violations, but seriously, it takes a special kind of stupid to make some of the driving mistakes that I see on a daily basis around town. Don't even get me started on Phoenix.
And there it is...my ramblings for the day. Hope everyone has a good day! Watch out for those crazy drivers! ;)
Well, it's early morning and I'm killing some time before my massage, so here goes.
About the massage...so Monday night I seemed to have done something rather awful to my shoulder...while I was sleeping. How does one injure herself while sleeping? I literally have no idea, but what I do know is that for a better portion of Tuesday, I had a really hard time turning my head to the left...or looking down...or making sudden movements. Ibuprofen and Aspercreme helped, but still the pain persisted. I went for a nice little walk and tried to move my arm around, which helped. This morning it's feeling a little better, but I think a nice, long massage is in order. And really, do I honestly need an excuse to go get a massage? Nah.
Back in early July I had ordered a panty box from Amazon Prime. It was amazing...it was like Christmas. So Amazon Prime has this huge list of items at discounted prices that you order in one big purchase...it all comes in one big box called the Prime Pantry Box. So I ordered a bunch of things...granola bars, olive oil, toilet paper, paper towels, crackers, cleaning supplies...you know, household things that I need every now and again. It was great, and the prices were cheaper than the local stores for name-brand items. I found the selection to be quite good. But...they didn't have my brand of toilet paper. We needed toilet paper, and since I was ordering this giant box of goodies, I figured I'd give Quilted Northern a try. Bad idea...I need my Charmin back, ASAP. And it's funny, because for the love of Pete, it's toilet paper...is one brand really all that different from the next? Yes. Yes it is. I used to be somewhat indifferent to toilet paper...until I lived with my buddy Franko in Minneapolis. This man is a toilet paper snob. One brand, and one brand only...Charmin Ultra Soft. It's pretty much magical. I keep trying to remind myself that I need to just toss the Northern and buy some Charmin, but the only time I think about toilet paper is when I'm actively using it. I don't wander around Target thinking about toilet paper...I'm usually wandering around Target resisting the urge to wander through the clearance rack in the women's clothing department...hahaha! I don't have time to think about toilet paper! There are dresses on sale! So yeah...I guess I'll just have to make a list...my poor little rear depends on it.
In the same vein of potty talk, I've noticed some odd behavior I display when I'm taking Cooper for his daily walks. I always always always carry a poop bag with me, no matter how far we're going. I refuse to be one of those dog owners who finds it acceptable to let their dog poop in someone else's yard. So I wander around the neighborhood with a little bag of poop in my hand...no big deal...although I never see anyone else wandering around with a bag of poop in their hand. So what I've noticed is this...when I'm out walking Cooper and I meet someone on the sidewalk, I call out "Good morning!" and wave with my right hand. The right hand holds the poop. So I wave at people with a bag full of poop. I try to be aware of it and to not do it, but once Cooper has pooped I really don't have any other option. I hold his leash in my left hand, and the poop in my right hand. I can't very well wave with my left hand because then I would jerk on his leash, and given that he wears a harness that is designed to push against the pressure points under his arms (it prevents pulling), it would be uncomfortable for him. Not to mention confusing for him, as I typically only jerk on the leash when he is misbehaving. So that leaves the poop hand. I wonder if people notice, or if they're grossed out or offended. Most of the people I see on our walks are dog people, so maybe they get it.
Very recently I discovered the phenomenon known as the t-shirt dress. And I am in love. Old Navy recently had all their t-shirt dresses on sale, and of course I stocked up on a few. They are literally the most comfortable things ever, and even though they're basically just a bit t-shirt, they look put together because they are also a dress. I can dress them up with a necklace and some cute shoes, maybe some tights when the weather starts getting cold, or I can just lounge around in them in the house, feeling like I have a night shirt on. It's pretty much a win-win situation. And Simon thinks I look cute in dresses, so there's that as well. Lately they are my go-to item...I wish I had one for every day of the week, but that would be just silly...or not? Hmmm...
A few weeks back Simon and I met a bunch of people from the hospital at one of the local breakfast spots as a send-off to our favorite pharmacist, Gayle. Gayle is one of the top 2 pharmacists I've ever had the pleasure of working with (the other is Bob, who I worked with in Rochester...like the male version of Gayle). Gayle was quick, she was efficient, she was willing to take the time to educate us nurses on how we could make both her job and our job easier when it came to pharmaceutical queries, and above all, she was hilarious. She will be sorely missed, as there's only one Gayle in the world. The next hospital she works with better treat her good, because they're inheriting an absolute gem. So where I was going with this...there were a bunch of us sitting outside on the patio of the restaurant, trying to decide what we wanted to eat, chatting away, laughing about this thing or that, sharing traumatizing stories from the previous night shift...typical nurse stuff. It's a good thing we were out on the patio so we didn't gross out any of the other non-hospital patrons. But as we were sitting there, we wondered aloud why breakfast doesn't have appetizers. Every other meal has the option of appetizers, but not breakfast. How about a little platter of mini doughnuts, or mini quiches, a breakfast sausage plate, those mini corndog things that are breakfast sausages wrapped in pancake. Seriously, how has this not become a thing? Breakfast small plates. I'm telling you, that's where it's at. Someone get on that.
I recently learned that in Arizona (and a lot of other states, apparently), new drivers don't have have to go through driver's training to get their learner's permit (they do have to pass a written test, however...but seriously, anyone with half a brain can pass a 30 question multiple-choice test). In Minnesota a person can't get their learner's permit until they have attended a driver's ed course, and they can't take their driver's license test until they've completed at least 6 hours of behind-the-wheel practice sessions with an instructor (who has his own brake pedal on the passenger side of the car...hahaha!). I just assumed it was the same everywhere. Well, that's not true...the running joke in Minnesota is that Iowans don't have to go through driver's training, so we were always told to avoid those Iowa plates while out on the road...hahaha! It dawned on me then that maybe that's why there are so many bad drivers out there (not that driver's training makes a person a good driver, but it's a good start). If teaching a person to drive and giving a person the fundamentals of how to be a good driver are left up to parents who already have bad driving habits and who don't follow or aren't aware of basic traffic laws, that might explain why some people drive so poorly. Granted, there are plenty of good drivers out there...probably more good drivers than not, but the bad ones are the ones you take notice of when you're out and about avoiding accidents on the road. Case in point, I pulled up to an intersection the other day...there was a gal in the right hand lane with no blinker on, sitting directly behind a Jeep who was turning right. I was going left, so I pulled up next to her and prepared to make my turn. As I looked to my right to check for traffic, I saw her in her car incredulously gesturing at me with her mouth open in what I assumed was some sort of swear word. Apparently she wanted to go left as well and I was now blocking her. A) If you want to go left and the person in front of you is going right, why are you sitting behind them? B) it's not customary to make left turns from the right lane. C) if you want to go left from the right lane, at least put your blinker on so I have some idea of what your idiot brain is thinking. I waved her forward and on she went. I caught up with her at the next stop sign as she was struggling with timing a right hand turn with oncoming traffic...thankfully, she was in the correct turn lane this time...still no blinker. Several of us making the left turn were able to clear the intersection while she was still sitting there. I'm not saying I'm a perfect driver, and I'm sure I make my fair share of traffic violations, but seriously, it takes a special kind of stupid to make some of the driving mistakes that I see on a daily basis around town. Don't even get me started on Phoenix.
And there it is...my ramblings for the day. Hope everyone has a good day! Watch out for those crazy drivers! ;)
Wednesday, August 5, 2015
8 Pounds of Pressure
It's rare that I weigh myself. For the past few years, I've limited my weigh-ins the doctor's office and to random friends' homes who happen to have scales in their bathrooms. Truth be told, I haven't owned a scale for years until very recently, and the only reason I bought the scale that I currently own is because I needed a way to weigh my suitcase for my Australia trip last fall. Note to self: just because the weight limit is 50 pounds does not mean that the suitcase needs to weigh 50 pounds...what a nightmare that was...but that's a story for another time.
I went through a period of time in high school where I was obsessed with my weight...I would weigh myself several times a day, and I would basically starve myself if I found the weight on the scale to be offensive. The lowest I got in weight was 109 pounds, and I still somehow found that offensive. I'm glad that I got out of that habit before it became dangerous, but as a result of it, I don't like having a scale in the house, afraid that I'll revert back to that behavior again. The scale currently hangs out in Simon's bathroom, so I rarely interact with it, and truth be told, I can pretty easily avoid and ignore it.
For the past few years whenever I would have my infrequent doctor's office weigh-ins, my weight was always the same. I don't like to weigh myself because even after all these years, I still get fixated on the number, when I should be more fixated on how I look and feel and how my clothes are fitting. A number is just a number, after all...good to be aware of, but pretty arbitrary in the broad scheme of things. Mid-June of this year I had a doctor's appointment and I was up about five pounds. I didn't really let it bother me too much...five pounds isn't all that much, really. And then July happened.
July began with our 4th of July party, which was a large social gathering complimented by good friends, a pinata, and copious amounts of food and drink. I ate with aplomb, and drank whatever suited my fancy at the time. The nice thing about having friends with diverse tastes is that we ended up with a lot of really interesting food and beer, and of course I had to sample a bunch of them. After 4th of July we went to Phoenix a few times to visit our friends Jim and Jess, who love to eat, and who coincidentally have a knack for taking the time to find really good restaurants with unique offerings. With Jim and Jess, every meal is enjoyed almost to bursting, with no regard given to portions, calories, or fat content. They also introduced me to the Concrete Mixers at Culver's (Jim's combo: vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, peanut butter, and peanuts...soooo good), and let me just say, I'm thankful we don't have a Culver's up here in Flagstaff, or I would be in some serious trouble. As an aside, it's funny that I hadn't had a Concrete Mixer in Minnesota, as Culver's are about as prolific as Burger King up there. And then we had my nephew's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese two Sundays ago, where we noshed on pizza. I'm not typically a pizza person, and Chuck E. Cheese admittedly doesn't have the best pizza in the world, but I still managed to take down at least four slices (I had to sample each one, you know) and drink a good sized soda besides. I also had to have a piece of cake, of course...it was a birthday party, after all. And then later that evening we went to a movie where we took down a large soda, half a large pretzel, and a large bag of popcorn. To add insult to injury...on the way home that night Simon and I had Taco Bell (because Culver's was closed). *facepalm* So it's safe to say that not only was I not paying any attention to what I was eating, but I was also not paying to attention to how much or how often I was eating. That makes for a pretty dreadful combination.
A couple weeks ago I noticed that the butt of my scrub pants were feeling unusually tight. I didn't want to think about it, but the tight fabric would not be ignored, so I hopped on the scale. I was now up 8 pounds since the middle of June, which was when I had my last weigh-in. I knew then and there that I had to buckle down and do something about it. The mid-30's are very unkind when it comes to weight gain and fat distribution, and given the remarks from my older friends and family members, it's only going to get worse. So change was a necessary implement.
At baseline, I'm a moderately active person. I go for long walks when I can and I get myself to the gym at least 2-3 days a week, mostly for weight lifting, but occasionally for a spin class. I've also been trying to get out and run, but I'm pretty lackadaisical about that. When I initially was made aware of the 8 pound gain, there was a tiny, feeble little voice in the back of my head delusionally trying to tell me that it was probably just muscle from working out. Ha! I've been working out steadily for going on 3 years now and my weight hadn't budged...pretty sure gaining 8 pounds in a month didn't have anything to do with muscle mass. I silenced that little voice immediately and logged myself into my calorie tracker and got to work.
I use the My Plate app (formerly known as the LiveStrong app). It's not rocket science...I just plug in everything that I've eaten during the day and it keeps track of the calories for me. It's pretty simple, and basically idiot-proof. The app has about every convenience food known to man loaded in its database, including menu items from popular restaurants, and specific food items from grocery stores. The app even has chocolate covered espresso beans and coconut cashews from Trader Joe's (two of my favorite snacks) loaded into its memory. It's extremely comprehensive. It even has recipe items from popular cookbooks and cooking magazines. I've even found food items in there that were featured in cooking shows on the Food Network. When it comes to cooking at home, it's a little more tricky, but doable. Once you get the hang of it, it's pretty easy to get a rough estimate of what you're eating. There's also the option to make custom foods, so if you're able to keep track of the calories in your ingredients, you can figure out the serving size of your meal and add a personalized food item. This also works for restaurants like Chipotle, who have a website that lets you generate your exact burrito and tells you the estimated calorie content of your meal (it's at www.chipotlefan.com...go here at your own risk; it's scary how quickly those calories add up...not to mention the sodium content...yikes!). In addition to food tracking, it also keeps track of your weight, your exercise, and your water intake. It keeps a running tally of your net calories for the day, so you can easily see how many calories you've taken in and how many you've burned with your exercise. If you exercise, it takes the calories burned and subtracts them from the calories that you've taken in, thereby giving you the option to indulge a bit if you so choose.
The app is only as good as the motivation and the honesty of the person using it. If you're going to cheat and omit logging calories in order to keep from going into the red, there's really not much point to using the app. I don't feel bad necessarily when I go into the red, but it does make me reevaluate what I should be eating versus what I want to be eating. For instance, for the past few weeks I had gotten into the habit of buying a little bag of kettle chips on my way into work for the evening. I didn't really think much of it...it's not a very big bag, after all, and it was only three times a week. But now that I'm tracking, I realize how much work it takes for me to balance out those 270 calories with some form of exercise, and I realize that it's just not worth it. And nutritionally, what I am really getting out of that bag of chips anyway? To take it one step further, now that I'm aware and keeping track of what I'm eating, I find myself making healthier choices and eating when I feel hungry, versus before when I was just eating whenever I wanted. I'm not saying that I'm never going to eat another little bag of kettle chips or a Concrete Mixer or have that second (or third) beer, but in the future I'll save them for random occasions, rather than having them whenever I feel like it. It's interesting...making myself aware of what I'm eating actually causes me to enjoy my food more, if that makes sense. Probably because I'm making a more definitive choice on what I'm choosing to eat, versus just eating whatever happens to be lying around because I'm bored.
Truth be told, I haven't made a lot of changes in the two weeks that I've been calorie tracking, but I've already managed to lose 6 of the 8 pounds that I gained, simply by paying attention to what I'm eating and drinking and by making better choices...I've also been trying to get out for some sort of exercise every day, even if all I manage to do is take the dog for a walk. Every little bit helps. It really is eye-opening to see how much what we eat affects our weight. I don't really care to lose much more, if any more, than what I've gained this summer. I don't want to obsess over my weight and think about every single calorie...I still want to enjoy food and to not feel guilty if I skip a day of exercise. I'll most likely abandon the tracker in a few weeks, feeling like I'm on the right track and am able to make healthy choices on my own without jotting them all down...this is usually my pattern. But if I slip up, back to the tracker I'll go. I don't really like fixating on numbers...I prefer to judge my fitness and my weight by the way my body looks in the mirror and by the way my clothes fit. As long as I'm not having to buy bigger pants and I feel comfortable in the size that I have, I'm good with that.
We're only human, and we should treat ourselves as such. There's nothing wrong with enjoying a cookie or a glass of wine or a really good meal every now and again. It's when it gets to be an everyday occurrence that we start to see the pounds creeping up, the waistline widening out, and the pants getting a little tighter. The obesity epidemic is dangerously real, and if small changes can combat it even a little bit, it's worth it. This is a wonderful world we live in, we deserve to be healthy enough to enjoy it. That's the least we can ask for, right?
I went through a period of time in high school where I was obsessed with my weight...I would weigh myself several times a day, and I would basically starve myself if I found the weight on the scale to be offensive. The lowest I got in weight was 109 pounds, and I still somehow found that offensive. I'm glad that I got out of that habit before it became dangerous, but as a result of it, I don't like having a scale in the house, afraid that I'll revert back to that behavior again. The scale currently hangs out in Simon's bathroom, so I rarely interact with it, and truth be told, I can pretty easily avoid and ignore it.
For the past few years whenever I would have my infrequent doctor's office weigh-ins, my weight was always the same. I don't like to weigh myself because even after all these years, I still get fixated on the number, when I should be more fixated on how I look and feel and how my clothes are fitting. A number is just a number, after all...good to be aware of, but pretty arbitrary in the broad scheme of things. Mid-June of this year I had a doctor's appointment and I was up about five pounds. I didn't really let it bother me too much...five pounds isn't all that much, really. And then July happened.
July began with our 4th of July party, which was a large social gathering complimented by good friends, a pinata, and copious amounts of food and drink. I ate with aplomb, and drank whatever suited my fancy at the time. The nice thing about having friends with diverse tastes is that we ended up with a lot of really interesting food and beer, and of course I had to sample a bunch of them. After 4th of July we went to Phoenix a few times to visit our friends Jim and Jess, who love to eat, and who coincidentally have a knack for taking the time to find really good restaurants with unique offerings. With Jim and Jess, every meal is enjoyed almost to bursting, with no regard given to portions, calories, or fat content. They also introduced me to the Concrete Mixers at Culver's (Jim's combo: vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, peanut butter, and peanuts...soooo good), and let me just say, I'm thankful we don't have a Culver's up here in Flagstaff, or I would be in some serious trouble. As an aside, it's funny that I hadn't had a Concrete Mixer in Minnesota, as Culver's are about as prolific as Burger King up there. And then we had my nephew's birthday at Chuck E. Cheese two Sundays ago, where we noshed on pizza. I'm not typically a pizza person, and Chuck E. Cheese admittedly doesn't have the best pizza in the world, but I still managed to take down at least four slices (I had to sample each one, you know) and drink a good sized soda besides. I also had to have a piece of cake, of course...it was a birthday party, after all. And then later that evening we went to a movie where we took down a large soda, half a large pretzel, and a large bag of popcorn. To add insult to injury...on the way home that night Simon and I had Taco Bell (because Culver's was closed). *facepalm* So it's safe to say that not only was I not paying any attention to what I was eating, but I was also not paying to attention to how much or how often I was eating. That makes for a pretty dreadful combination.
A couple weeks ago I noticed that the butt of my scrub pants were feeling unusually tight. I didn't want to think about it, but the tight fabric would not be ignored, so I hopped on the scale. I was now up 8 pounds since the middle of June, which was when I had my last weigh-in. I knew then and there that I had to buckle down and do something about it. The mid-30's are very unkind when it comes to weight gain and fat distribution, and given the remarks from my older friends and family members, it's only going to get worse. So change was a necessary implement.
At baseline, I'm a moderately active person. I go for long walks when I can and I get myself to the gym at least 2-3 days a week, mostly for weight lifting, but occasionally for a spin class. I've also been trying to get out and run, but I'm pretty lackadaisical about that. When I initially was made aware of the 8 pound gain, there was a tiny, feeble little voice in the back of my head delusionally trying to tell me that it was probably just muscle from working out. Ha! I've been working out steadily for going on 3 years now and my weight hadn't budged...pretty sure gaining 8 pounds in a month didn't have anything to do with muscle mass. I silenced that little voice immediately and logged myself into my calorie tracker and got to work.
I use the My Plate app (formerly known as the LiveStrong app). It's not rocket science...I just plug in everything that I've eaten during the day and it keeps track of the calories for me. It's pretty simple, and basically idiot-proof. The app has about every convenience food known to man loaded in its database, including menu items from popular restaurants, and specific food items from grocery stores. The app even has chocolate covered espresso beans and coconut cashews from Trader Joe's (two of my favorite snacks) loaded into its memory. It's extremely comprehensive. It even has recipe items from popular cookbooks and cooking magazines. I've even found food items in there that were featured in cooking shows on the Food Network. When it comes to cooking at home, it's a little more tricky, but doable. Once you get the hang of it, it's pretty easy to get a rough estimate of what you're eating. There's also the option to make custom foods, so if you're able to keep track of the calories in your ingredients, you can figure out the serving size of your meal and add a personalized food item. This also works for restaurants like Chipotle, who have a website that lets you generate your exact burrito and tells you the estimated calorie content of your meal (it's at www.chipotlefan.com...go here at your own risk; it's scary how quickly those calories add up...not to mention the sodium content...yikes!). In addition to food tracking, it also keeps track of your weight, your exercise, and your water intake. It keeps a running tally of your net calories for the day, so you can easily see how many calories you've taken in and how many you've burned with your exercise. If you exercise, it takes the calories burned and subtracts them from the calories that you've taken in, thereby giving you the option to indulge a bit if you so choose.
The app is only as good as the motivation and the honesty of the person using it. If you're going to cheat and omit logging calories in order to keep from going into the red, there's really not much point to using the app. I don't feel bad necessarily when I go into the red, but it does make me reevaluate what I should be eating versus what I want to be eating. For instance, for the past few weeks I had gotten into the habit of buying a little bag of kettle chips on my way into work for the evening. I didn't really think much of it...it's not a very big bag, after all, and it was only three times a week. But now that I'm tracking, I realize how much work it takes for me to balance out those 270 calories with some form of exercise, and I realize that it's just not worth it. And nutritionally, what I am really getting out of that bag of chips anyway? To take it one step further, now that I'm aware and keeping track of what I'm eating, I find myself making healthier choices and eating when I feel hungry, versus before when I was just eating whenever I wanted. I'm not saying that I'm never going to eat another little bag of kettle chips or a Concrete Mixer or have that second (or third) beer, but in the future I'll save them for random occasions, rather than having them whenever I feel like it. It's interesting...making myself aware of what I'm eating actually causes me to enjoy my food more, if that makes sense. Probably because I'm making a more definitive choice on what I'm choosing to eat, versus just eating whatever happens to be lying around because I'm bored.
Truth be told, I haven't made a lot of changes in the two weeks that I've been calorie tracking, but I've already managed to lose 6 of the 8 pounds that I gained, simply by paying attention to what I'm eating and drinking and by making better choices...I've also been trying to get out for some sort of exercise every day, even if all I manage to do is take the dog for a walk. Every little bit helps. It really is eye-opening to see how much what we eat affects our weight. I don't really care to lose much more, if any more, than what I've gained this summer. I don't want to obsess over my weight and think about every single calorie...I still want to enjoy food and to not feel guilty if I skip a day of exercise. I'll most likely abandon the tracker in a few weeks, feeling like I'm on the right track and am able to make healthy choices on my own without jotting them all down...this is usually my pattern. But if I slip up, back to the tracker I'll go. I don't really like fixating on numbers...I prefer to judge my fitness and my weight by the way my body looks in the mirror and by the way my clothes fit. As long as I'm not having to buy bigger pants and I feel comfortable in the size that I have, I'm good with that.
We're only human, and we should treat ourselves as such. There's nothing wrong with enjoying a cookie or a glass of wine or a really good meal every now and again. It's when it gets to be an everyday occurrence that we start to see the pounds creeping up, the waistline widening out, and the pants getting a little tighter. The obesity epidemic is dangerously real, and if small changes can combat it even a little bit, it's worth it. This is a wonderful world we live in, we deserve to be healthy enough to enjoy it. That's the least we can ask for, right?
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Sometimes Our Decisions Are Made For Us
It's been months now since I've felt any sort of confidence with most of the life decisions I've been making. I was tired of being a floor nurse, I was thinking about getting back into travel nursing, I missed my family, I missed my friends, and truth be told, I missed having a little humidity in the air. I was stuck in a rut with nothing really guiding me in one direction or another.
Back in April (or was it May? I can't remember...), two of the three experienced charge nurses on my nursing unit quit their positions in pursuit of other things. That left a pretty gaping hole in the charge nurse department. I had been filling in since the winter of 2013, and there were a few other gals who had been oriented to the charge nurse role earlier this year. It was obvious that my boss was going to be hiring one, if not two, new charge nurses to replace the women who had left. And I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. I wondered if maybe changing the role I performed at the hospital would change my newly negative attitude towards my profession in general.
Being a charge nurse is nice due to the fact that instead of my focus being the total care of 4-5 patients, I now got to focus on 20 patients and support my staff of 4-5 nurses and a patient care assistant. Which sounds weird...why would taking on more patients and staff be desireable in any fashion? Well, in the role of the charge nurse, I get to be the helper. When someone is having trouble with a patient, or if they're struggling to get some of their work done in a timely manner, I get to step in and help them out. It feels good to help, and I like being a helper. I'm also emotionally invested in the patients in a different way than I would be if I was managing their complete care for the evening. I don't know...it's hard to explain, but I enjoy being a charge nurse, and from what I was hearing from my colleagues, I was good at it too.
When the position opened up for applications, I hesitated to apply. Simon and I were thinking about and actively pursuing the idea of getting an RV and travel nursing next year. We had even seen a couple buses and had contacted the owners of a few others. I had joined a few RV-themed Facebook groups, and was learning some of the lingo of the RV world. But the search was stressful, and it was difficult, and truth be told, I don't know that my heart was in it. Not to say I wasn't trying, but I was frustrated that things weren't coming together as quickly or as easily as I would have hoped. I'm an impatient person by nature, which doesn't help in the slightest. I was starting to feel stressed and irritable again, and knew that something needed to change. I just didn't know what and was grabbing at straws to try to figure it out.
Given all the pressure I was getting from my colleagues, I decided to apply for the charge nurse position, even with the knowledge that I might be leaving within a few months. It seemed like a silly thing to do, and I went back and forth with contacting my boss to have him pull my application in the interest of not wasting his time on someone who might just up and leave anyway. But I hadn't yet committed to leaving, and figured it couldn't hurt to at least apply, so I left the application and the decision to interview me in his hands. I interviewed for the position with my boss, John, which felt so strange. I've only interviewed for a job a handful of times before this, and given that John is also my friend, I didn't quite know what to expect. So I got all dressed up because I assumed that's what you're supposed to do for an interview, even though this is Flagstaff and "dressing up" most times means that you put on clothes that are relatively clean and not too terribly wrinkled...I can't recall ever seeing a man in a suit in this town, and certainly not in the hospital. I met our new CEO a few months back and even he wasn't wearing a suit. So I put on some nice pants, one of my grandma's blouses, and a sweater vest and called it good. I wasn't being interviewed for my fashion sense, after all.
It was a weird experience, going through the interview motions with John, whom I have shared many an alcoholic beverage with in the off-hours, and our remaining night charge nurse Cathy, with whom I have had many heart to heart chats in the wee hours of the morning when the patients are quiet and we're trying to keep each other awake. Even though the three of us are very friendly towards one another and interact comfortably both inside outside of work, the interview process left us awkwardly shifting in our seats, going through all those standard interview questions. But we got through it...luckily I only had to do the one interview...I think Cathy and John had to do about 7. I didn't envy them that.
A few weeks after the interview, I was asked by John to come chat with him in his office about work stuff. I assumed it had to do with the charge nurse interview, and it did. On my way out the door, Simon wished me luck. I told him I probably didn't need any luck because the decision was most likely already made. I showed up and John and I chatted freely about this and that, catching up on each other's lives since we didn't get a chance to do that during the interview. When I started at Flagstaff, John was a charge nurse on the night shift. I still miss him a lot on nights, and love the opportunity to catch up and shoot the breeze with him. After a while, he got serious and we talked about the charge nurse interview. He asked me what my plans were for leaving, as he knew that I'd been thinking about leaving in the next year or so. It was a hard question to answer, as I didn't really know myself what my plans were.
I feel like I'm in a hard spot compared with a lot of other 35 year-olds I know. I don't have kids or big financial obligations or a burning desire to be somewhere specific pinning me to one place, which seems to be what keeps most of my peers in one place or another for extended periods of time. Some might think that it would be great to be able to up and move and go wherever at the drop of a hat, but honestly, after a period of time, a lack of ties leaves a person feeling adrift and lonely and unstructured, and quite frankly, a little bit hopeless. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever feel like I belonged anywhere, which is a truly sad feeling indeed.
And then...I got offered the job as one of the night charge nurses. John admitted to me that prior to our chat, he hadn't decided if he was going to hire me, based on my prior statements about leaving. He said that if I had had a date in mind for leaving, he wouldn't have offered me the job. But given that I was waffling, he decided to take a chance and give one of the open positions to me. It was humbling to me that he was willing to take that risk on a waffler, as I don't know if I would have been able to make that same decision had I been the one sitting in his seat. I was thrilled and nervous and excited. Prior to the offer, I had had it in the back of my head that if I didn't get one of the positions, I would just continue on with the travel nurse idea for the coming year...no harm done, no hard feelings. I didn't realize how much I had been hoping for the position until he told me that I had it.
I don't quite know what it means for me in the big picture, but it was like a sign at a fork in the path pointing me in the right direction. I feel really good about getting the job, like it's something that was supposed to happen, like it's something that will be good for me, and something that will help me grow professionally, mentally, and emotionally. I'm truly happy about it, and I just want to thank my coworkers for browbeating me into applying, and I want to thank my boss for trusting me in this role and for giving me this wonderful opportunity. And of course, Simon...always gratitude to Simon for supporting me in all my crazy ideas and endeavors. I couldn't do half the stuff I do without his love and support, and his occasional firm "no" when I start to spiral out of control. He is my center and my balance and my cheering section, even if sometimes he's the only one in it.
The future looks bright and happy, and I'm excited about staying here in Flagstaff for a while longer. How long? Time will tell. I just committed to a 12-month lease on an apartment, so the people of Flagstaff are going to have to put up with me for at least another year. I hope they're okay with that, because I know I am.
Back in April (or was it May? I can't remember...), two of the three experienced charge nurses on my nursing unit quit their positions in pursuit of other things. That left a pretty gaping hole in the charge nurse department. I had been filling in since the winter of 2013, and there were a few other gals who had been oriented to the charge nurse role earlier this year. It was obvious that my boss was going to be hiring one, if not two, new charge nurses to replace the women who had left. And I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. I wondered if maybe changing the role I performed at the hospital would change my newly negative attitude towards my profession in general.
Being a charge nurse is nice due to the fact that instead of my focus being the total care of 4-5 patients, I now got to focus on 20 patients and support my staff of 4-5 nurses and a patient care assistant. Which sounds weird...why would taking on more patients and staff be desireable in any fashion? Well, in the role of the charge nurse, I get to be the helper. When someone is having trouble with a patient, or if they're struggling to get some of their work done in a timely manner, I get to step in and help them out. It feels good to help, and I like being a helper. I'm also emotionally invested in the patients in a different way than I would be if I was managing their complete care for the evening. I don't know...it's hard to explain, but I enjoy being a charge nurse, and from what I was hearing from my colleagues, I was good at it too.
When the position opened up for applications, I hesitated to apply. Simon and I were thinking about and actively pursuing the idea of getting an RV and travel nursing next year. We had even seen a couple buses and had contacted the owners of a few others. I had joined a few RV-themed Facebook groups, and was learning some of the lingo of the RV world. But the search was stressful, and it was difficult, and truth be told, I don't know that my heart was in it. Not to say I wasn't trying, but I was frustrated that things weren't coming together as quickly or as easily as I would have hoped. I'm an impatient person by nature, which doesn't help in the slightest. I was starting to feel stressed and irritable again, and knew that something needed to change. I just didn't know what and was grabbing at straws to try to figure it out.
Given all the pressure I was getting from my colleagues, I decided to apply for the charge nurse position, even with the knowledge that I might be leaving within a few months. It seemed like a silly thing to do, and I went back and forth with contacting my boss to have him pull my application in the interest of not wasting his time on someone who might just up and leave anyway. But I hadn't yet committed to leaving, and figured it couldn't hurt to at least apply, so I left the application and the decision to interview me in his hands. I interviewed for the position with my boss, John, which felt so strange. I've only interviewed for a job a handful of times before this, and given that John is also my friend, I didn't quite know what to expect. So I got all dressed up because I assumed that's what you're supposed to do for an interview, even though this is Flagstaff and "dressing up" most times means that you put on clothes that are relatively clean and not too terribly wrinkled...I can't recall ever seeing a man in a suit in this town, and certainly not in the hospital. I met our new CEO a few months back and even he wasn't wearing a suit. So I put on some nice pants, one of my grandma's blouses, and a sweater vest and called it good. I wasn't being interviewed for my fashion sense, after all.
It was a weird experience, going through the interview motions with John, whom I have shared many an alcoholic beverage with in the off-hours, and our remaining night charge nurse Cathy, with whom I have had many heart to heart chats in the wee hours of the morning when the patients are quiet and we're trying to keep each other awake. Even though the three of us are very friendly towards one another and interact comfortably both inside outside of work, the interview process left us awkwardly shifting in our seats, going through all those standard interview questions. But we got through it...luckily I only had to do the one interview...I think Cathy and John had to do about 7. I didn't envy them that.
A few weeks after the interview, I was asked by John to come chat with him in his office about work stuff. I assumed it had to do with the charge nurse interview, and it did. On my way out the door, Simon wished me luck. I told him I probably didn't need any luck because the decision was most likely already made. I showed up and John and I chatted freely about this and that, catching up on each other's lives since we didn't get a chance to do that during the interview. When I started at Flagstaff, John was a charge nurse on the night shift. I still miss him a lot on nights, and love the opportunity to catch up and shoot the breeze with him. After a while, he got serious and we talked about the charge nurse interview. He asked me what my plans were for leaving, as he knew that I'd been thinking about leaving in the next year or so. It was a hard question to answer, as I didn't really know myself what my plans were.
I feel like I'm in a hard spot compared with a lot of other 35 year-olds I know. I don't have kids or big financial obligations or a burning desire to be somewhere specific pinning me to one place, which seems to be what keeps most of my peers in one place or another for extended periods of time. Some might think that it would be great to be able to up and move and go wherever at the drop of a hat, but honestly, after a period of time, a lack of ties leaves a person feeling adrift and lonely and unstructured, and quite frankly, a little bit hopeless. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever feel like I belonged anywhere, which is a truly sad feeling indeed.
And then...I got offered the job as one of the night charge nurses. John admitted to me that prior to our chat, he hadn't decided if he was going to hire me, based on my prior statements about leaving. He said that if I had had a date in mind for leaving, he wouldn't have offered me the job. But given that I was waffling, he decided to take a chance and give one of the open positions to me. It was humbling to me that he was willing to take that risk on a waffler, as I don't know if I would have been able to make that same decision had I been the one sitting in his seat. I was thrilled and nervous and excited. Prior to the offer, I had had it in the back of my head that if I didn't get one of the positions, I would just continue on with the travel nurse idea for the coming year...no harm done, no hard feelings. I didn't realize how much I had been hoping for the position until he told me that I had it.
I don't quite know what it means for me in the big picture, but it was like a sign at a fork in the path pointing me in the right direction. I feel really good about getting the job, like it's something that was supposed to happen, like it's something that will be good for me, and something that will help me grow professionally, mentally, and emotionally. I'm truly happy about it, and I just want to thank my coworkers for browbeating me into applying, and I want to thank my boss for trusting me in this role and for giving me this wonderful opportunity. And of course, Simon...always gratitude to Simon for supporting me in all my crazy ideas and endeavors. I couldn't do half the stuff I do without his love and support, and his occasional firm "no" when I start to spiral out of control. He is my center and my balance and my cheering section, even if sometimes he's the only one in it.
The future looks bright and happy, and I'm excited about staying here in Flagstaff for a while longer. How long? Time will tell. I just committed to a 12-month lease on an apartment, so the people of Flagstaff are going to have to put up with me for at least another year. I hope they're okay with that, because I know I am.
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