Then I went home and ate more Cheerios than is healthy and napped. They're the apple cinnamon ones and they border on being sickly sweet and they're the closest thing to junk food I have i
n the house.Went to the running clinic and managed to pull off some 7.10 mile repeats (ended up with some 7.25s and later, when Michael called me he said, "I don't want to say it was mind-blowing, but it was pretty close"). We did 6 one mile repeats. I was fully ready to bail after 4 since that's what the halfers had to do, but I met this woman who pushed me and I just kept going, even though the owner of the clinic was like, "You want to run a 3.45 marathon? And you're running 7.10 mile repeats?". It was like being in school. We're supposed to run at race pace, which for me is around 8.30 or 8.20.
Anyways, that's my conundrum. I missed a lot of long runs with the clinic. I'm not sure that I'm physically or mentally prepared for a marathon (cause marathons are really mentally challenging, and anyone that's run one can attest to that) but everyone's so encouraging and pushing me. I dunno. We have this gong show of a run on Sunday: 22 or 23 miles. The halfs do 13 miles. I said I would see how I felt at the turn around point for the halfs, and if I feel good I'll go on. Then I'll
decide what I want to run in Victoria. I think that's fair. Michael said just get out there and run a marathon, regardless of the time. I don't want to do that. If I'm not going to have a good time (to be read: re-qualify for Boston), I don't see the point in running; I'd rather have a PB half instead. Drinking wine is more fun than losing toenails.Enough shop talk. Huge turn out for coffee afterwards. So great to hang out with a bunch of cool, funny runners. I love my running mates, they're all so positive and have a great sense of humour and I swear to god I run just to get chai lattes at Starbucks and chat with such awesome people.
I don't want to end this on a sad note, but I thought about my dad a lot until I hooked up with my running mate tonight. The thing that weighs on my mind quite often is his death. I know he was alive when they found him, but I think he was unconscious. I just hope and hope and hope that he lost consciousness quickly and didn't have any pain and didn't suffer and didn't lie there alone on that godforsaken fucking road as he felt time slipping away from him. And then I come back to the surreality that he's dead. It drives me nuts. I feel that I'm prematurely grieving because I don't think the fact that he's gone has fully sunk in yet. This probably has something to do with the panic attacks. On a lighter note: the sandals I'm wearing in that picture he brought back with him from Costa Rica. And notice my propensity for short jean shorts: it clearly runs in the family.And, on a lighter, lighter note: tomorrow's Friday. Hooray. I'm really excited, because... I'm a dork! I am going to an architecture lecture on Arthur Erickson tomorrow night with Michael (who has his Masters of Architecture). Michael will point out architecturally significant details to me often, and use industry specific terms to describe them, and I'll be like, "it's purdy". I am an amateur architecture buff, though. I frequently flip through his mags when I'm using his loo. And one time we pretended to be rich and took a tour of one of the suites in Erickson's Waterfall building by Granville Island. I prefer his older stuff. He went bankrupt in his later years and sold out. I actually wrote one of my patented angry letters in response to a pompous article that was printed in the local rag about the building. It, surprisingly, didn't get published. And I no longer read the Sun or the Province (or the National Post) because they're garbage and... oh look, I'm getting all riled up, talking about the current state of the media. What a surprise!
So anyways. That's how you go from running, to overwhelming grief, to architecture, and to crap media (when I was going to Kwantlen I used to read the Columbia Journalism Review in their well-stocked library and weep silently with joy... check out http://www.cjr.org/campaign_desk/notes_from_the_spin_cycle.php).
So, uh, the basic plot of this post is that I'm not sure if I'm going to run the full or half in Victoria. And the current state of our media is abysmally fucked.
But I have all my toenails!
3 comments:
I really enjoy your posted photo's of toenails. It's really the highlight of my morning. Truly.
I found that reading about Elisabeth Kubler-Ross' theory on Grief and Bereavement really helpful, in my time of grief and still today.
http://www.elisabethkublerross.com/pages/AboutGrief.html
I think you might find it interesting.
As always, if there's anything I can do, please call!
misses and kisses!
I totally understand where you are coming from when you write about trying to figure out your father's last moments, and hoping that he wasn't in pain etc. It's natural to wonder about that. I did the same thing over my grandfather. I wouldn't dwell on it too much though but the fact that you do think about it is merely because you loved him so much, and how great is that!! I bet he knew it too!
So focus on that instead. That you had a great relationship with your father, that nothing was left unsaid, because believe me, knowing that my grandfather died safe in the knowledge that his granddaughter had loved him so much, must surely have helped him on his way. And the same thing would have gone on for your dad.
:)
Thank you for the well wishes and sage advice. After checking the site you recommended earth child, it confirmed that I need to get my act together. I need to start exercising more regularly again and to eat and sleep and all the basic things that just sort of fly out the window. Am actually going to talk to a psychologist on Monday to hopefully get some tools that will help me deal with this.
And thanks, too, Overboard. You're right: my dad did love me lots and he knew I loved him and when I think about all the crazy things we did in the 31 years I got to spend with him I have to smile.
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