Running Down a Dream

I had a miscarriage in April. The day before my birthday. It was really, really awful, but I'm okay now.

Part of getting to "okay now" for me was getting back to the gym. I used to work out somewhat sporadically, then really regularly, then sporadically again, and then not at all. Lather, rinse, repeat. As a chubby teenager I took up jogging and long walks to help trim down, then went off to college and promptly cut that crap out because I was too busy losing my mind.

Last October I "ran" my first 5k, which is to say I walked most of it and the 70-something guy who started out behind me finished in front of me by quite a lot. The moms with their jogging strollers pretty much kicked my butt, too, since we're being honest here. But the experience, over all, was pretty awesome. The energy was intense, everyone was having a good time (I know, right? Sweating, gasping for air, and still having fun. I wouldn't have believed it either if I wasn't there.)

So when it came time to mentally recover from everything, I went back to the gym. It felt good -- the energy there, the endorphins. Endorphins are some addictive stuff, y'all. Their street value would be huge if it didn't require exercise to get them. (Actually, I know exactly what the street value is -- $19.99 a month. Yay for Gold's Gym!) <-- a="" endorsement.="" not="" p="" paid="">
Anyway, for the last month or so I have been doing a treadmill 5k three times a week, and doing some light cardio and weights the other two days. (Yes, I go to the gym 5 days a week. I'd hate me too if I didn't know how much I weigh and how incredibly out of shape I still am. It's a necessity, people. Trust me.)

All of which is leading up to, I hope, running in 2 different 5k's this year. The first one is a local run in October. The second one is THIS little piece of awesome -- the Hot Chocolate 15k. Because an event that includes both running AND Ghirardelli chocolate is pretty much my current idea of Nirvana.

I am nothing if not a walking contradiction, people.

Tap-Tap-Tap... is this thing on?

I feel like my voicebox is broken, and I must only be hearing my voice in my own head.

This would explain why my kids hear me repeat the same mantras endlessly, and yet ignore me with impunity.

"Don't hit your brother!"
"Close the fridge!"
"Stop yelling!"
"No sitting on the dog!" (Yes, really.)
"Pick up the legos! Pick UP the LEGOS!"

And the list goes on and on. In between the thousand things I hope to accomplish every day (and you and I both know that, of those, I accomplish - optimistically - 4) I find myself saying the same things over and over until I am pretty sure I'm developing that vein that my Dad always got on the side of his forehead when he got mad. I can FEEL it pulsing and swelling until it threatens to explode in the Mother-Of-All-Aneurysms.

But I keep hoping, in spite of all signs to the contrary, that maybe NEXT time will be the time that sticks, and suddenly they will get it.

This is when I remember the most succinct definition of insanity that I have ever heard:
Insanity is repeating the same action over and over, with the expectation of a different result.
(See also: Slot Machines that never pay out, vending machines that won't take your dollar no matter how many times you try to straighten it out on the edge of the machine, and expecting there to be a roll of toilet paper available when you need one).

Which proves it: Parenthood makes you crazy. It's totally not my fault, y'all.