And it's finished. The Mudder. And the Blog.

I haven't been able to sleep the last few nights.  You know how when you lay down and everything that's in your head just won't quiet down and let you drift off to dreamland?  The things that were bothersome during the day become more pronounced at night.  And not pronounced like "both-ur-sum" but bigger and badder than they were in the daylight.

A girl can't run on a few hours of sleep a night, at least not this decaffeinated (since June 2004) girl.  I thought maybe closing out the last chapter of my Mudder journey would get some of the words that were bumping into each other in my head out on paper, or virtual paper, and I could finally go to bed.

So here I am, at a few minutes to midnight, more than a week Post-Tough-Mudder.  And what do I want to share?

Well, here are some tidbits, in no particular order:

1.  It took a long time to wash the mud out of my hair.  A really long time.  I have really long hair.
2.  Houston is hot.  Hotter than any place on the planet that day.  I'm certain of it.
3.  Your calves are important.  If they stop working, you're kind of screwed.
4.  My manicure survived the mud.  I have a great nail guy.
5.  I already have a Tough Mudder sticker on my car, Tough Mudder tank tops in my dresser, and my signature bright orange Tough Mudder headband proudly displayed in my bedroom.
6.  My bruises are finally fading.
7.  There are some really tough people out there.
8.  I have the best people in my life.  Truly.
9.  I only had to go to the ER once after the Mudder.
10.  It was fun.  Truly.
11.  I liked crawling in the mud.  I did not like trying to climb over walls.
12.  I threw everything I wore that day away, and donated my shoes.
13.  I can't wait to do it again.

Now, in more detail, I want to share a few more thoughts.  First, anyone can do this.  I mean it.  It's long and tiring and parts of very hard, but really everyone is so supportive and encouraging, and you really can do what you can do.  I skipped stuff, I didn't run a lot.  I'm determined to train harder and do better in April, but I really do want anyone out there to know that it's fun, it's great fun, and I'm not saying that because I get a kick back for new Mudders that join the fold.  It's true--you're only competing against yourself.  And if you set a goal to survive, like I did, you most certainly will.  If you set a goal to kick a$$, you'll do that, too, with the right training.  The point is, it's not just for MMA fighters and military dudes and superfit athletes--anyone with the drive to keep going--and a team to give a hand up, or to help stretch out a calve cramp, or to pull you out of the muddy water so you don't keep getting stung by the electric wires hanging down in your face--can do it.

Next, doing this does not make you a bada$$.  I finally realized that before we took off that morning.  It was a challenge with mud and fire and electricity but no one's life depended on my finishing, or my time in doing so.  It was for fun. No, there are plenty of real bada$$es out there who don't do what they do for fun, or for a sticker for the car, or for an orange headband.  They do what they do because they feel a duty to protect us, to help us, to watch out for us. They risk everything.  They leave their families and they go out and make our world safer, better. Not because anyone is telling them they must.  But because they feel they must.  And some don't come home.  Too many don't come home.

At the beginning of our wave, this dude comes out and gets us all pumped up and excited about what we're about to do, and then he has us all take a knee while he gives a shout-out to all the military and law enforcement and first responders in the group and asks them to stand.  And there were a bunch.  (My very own Tough Mudder Partner is a firefighter, a pretty bada$$ one).  And it's then, when you're looking around at the people standing, the people who do what needs to do be done not because of glory or recognition or cute muddy pictures to go on their Facebook page so their friends think they're bada$$es...they protect us and help us, and watch out for us, and they are the real bada$$es.  And we are all so lucky that they are.

Finally, I'm not sure where that leaves me on my quest to be a bada$$.  I finished, I got my headband, I'm going to train harder to do better next time.  But that's all artificial in the end, right? It's just stuff and things.  It doesn't matter.  I watched The Help a couple of years ago and it made me want to leave the practice of law and do something better with my life, something that mattered.  I did leave the practice, I do love my new job, but I still haven't found that thing I need to feel like a I'm doing good, I'm helping others, I'm contributing.  Yeah, I'm aware that I can't go enlist in the military or join the local Volunteer Fire Dept. to earn my true bada$$ness, but I have to find some way to do it.

So keep your eye out for the next blog.  Not about how hard it is to build a pull up bar, killing snakes in the closet, or generally survivingTough Mudder training or the adventures of a Carrie Bradshaw wanna-be on her quest to find her Mr. Big.  This time we're digging deeper.

Until I come up with a new blog title, this is farewell.  Thanks for hanging in there with me on the journey.

Day 4: Breathe in, breathe out...

So how pitiful am I?  The last time I wrote anything on here was 151 days to the Mudder.  And now it's 4 days away.

4 DAYS AWAY.

Not sure why I took a sabbatical from writing.  I love writing.  Maybe it allowed me to let the Mudder slip far back into my subconscious where I didn't have to think about it.  And worry about dying and all.

I used to proudly tell people no one had ever died doing the Mudder, but tragically, the self-proclaimed "toughest obstacle course on the planet" claimed a life last year.   http://www.runnersworld.com/general-interest/witnesses-report-slow-response-in-tough-mudder-death?page=single

It's the first death in the three years the Mudder has been around, and estimates are that there have been 750,000 participants in those events.  The article above points out that marathons average one death per 100,000 participants.

So chances are good that I won't die.  Better than good.

I confess I was on the fence about going through with it.  Probably more than on the fence--you could say I had already climbed back over the fence, packed my bags and was headed home, but I have really great teammates who reminded me that we're in this thing together, and that's exactly how we'll get through it.

And I also did what I do when things seem overwhelming and scary:  distracted myself with something fun.  I find this works pretty well in all areas of life.  Maybe it's not the most grown-up way to deal with stressful situations, but hey, whatever works, right?

So my Mudder Death Distraction came in the form of a pair of angel wings, a fluffy white tutu, and a halo.  I picked up my angel costume to wear on The Day Of, and it's supercute.  Sure, it won't stay white for long, and will most likely be shed not long after crossing the start line or fall victim to some terrible obstacle course barbed wire or pit of mud.  Either way, it's easier for me to think about how cute we'll look in our pre-race pictures than how much grit it's going to take to make it to the finish line (which is on the other side of one of the most brutal obstacles:  Electroshock Therapy.

I don't know what possesses most people to run through live wires, or jump into a container of ice cold water, or crawl under barbed wire through the mud, or run the 10 miles in between.  I can say that most of the Mudders or Mudders-to-Be who I know are bada$$es, through and through.  The kind of folks who can just wake up in the morning and decide to go do this thing, or even to go kill this thing.

Not the kind of person who worries and frets and whines via a blog for a year (actually more!) about the the possibility of dying facedown in The Mud.

So why?

It started out as a way to get through a really tough time.  If I can run through fire, I can survive anything, right?  That was the thinking anyway.  I needed a bandage for a very broken heart, a guidebook for surviving in a new reality, and a distraction from all the voices in my head that constantly questioned how I'd make it.

Along the way, though, it changed into something much more.

I've never had to do anything hard, and aside from fairly recent events, have never had anything bad happen to me.  I'm a lucky girl for that, but I've also never been called on to be tough, to prove my worth, to push beyond my limits, to show myself and everyone else what I'm made of.  I've never had to.  Life has bee pretty easy, mostly.  Easy is relative, yes, but I have a loving family, a wonderful daughter, amazing friends, a good education, a job that I love.  I've never had to work too hard for anything, and while I certainly appreciate that, I also feel like something's missing because the path has been easy.

I have said from the beginning that I want to be a bada$$.  And I know some certified bada$$es who've earned that distinction for various reasons.

When I get home from Crossfit complaining about being sore, my kid asks "well, why then do you do it?"

Because I was the kid who quit everything when it got too hard who grew up to be that adult who quits everything when it gets too hard.  I'm tired of being that kid.

So for me, the measure of BadA$$ness isn't that I make it up Everest on the first try (yeah, right!), but that I show up, and I finally follow through on a promise I made to myself  over a year ago.

I get sappy a lot; folks who know me know that.  And I have no trouble sharing the sap.  Well, I caught up on my season premiers this weekend, and I was struck by something the wonderful writers of Grey's Anatomy said:

"We're all gonna die. We don't get much say over how, or when. But we do get to decide how we're gonna live. So do it. Decide. Is this the life you wanna live? Is this the person you wanna love? Is this the best you can be? Can you be stronger? Kinder? More compassionate? Decide. Breathe in. Breathe out. And decide."

So you just have to decide.  To live the life you want, to be the person you want to be.

And I've decided.

See you on Saturday, Mudder.

Day 118--SQUIRREL!!!

Wow, where have I been?  My last visit here was on Day 151.  There's math involved in figuring out how many days I've been MIA, but luckily it's easy math, so I can hang.  33 days.  Usually with a hiatus like that, one would assume I'd gone off the reservation big time, maybe sitting on my couch with a gallon of Blue Bell, had nothing good to report and was actually hiding from you.

This time, though, I have nothing but good stuff to share.  It's just that there have been a lot of things keeping me from jumping on here and blathering on about my journey to Mudder Bad A$$ness.

I hit a plateau in my eating--was being careful, still no booze, working out--but the scale was not moving.  I was getting pretty frustrated.  Then about 3 weeks ago, I started on an all-protein diet.  No, it's not Adkins.  I'm not eating bacon and big hunks of cheese all day every day.  It's just lean protein with a scant amount of carbs, and it was tough for about the first 4 days.  I swear I thought I'd never be able to eat chicken again on that 4th day in.  But 3 weeks and 17 lbs later, I feel really good.  Tons of energy.  Zero cravings for carbs.  I have been in very dangerous food situations and have not even felt tempted to cheat.  It doesn't even take willpower anymore. You get the chemistry right, and your body does what it needs to do.

In the first couple weeks on the plan, I wasn't working out too much, just trying to get used to the new diet.  Now I'm back in the groove with my spin classes, cardio at home, P90x and a specially designed Bad A$$ workout plan complete with Burpees and Manmakers which sucks eggs big time but I'm managing.  And the knee is behaving itself.

Things are going so well, in fact, that I'm convinced I'll get hit by a bus soon.  So if I don't check in for another 33 days, I might be in the hospital in a body cast.  Please come looking for me.

Day 151: Karma is a b!tch

Um, yeah, so remember that little deal I made with myself about the Killers--that I had to workout like a crazy bada$$ chick every stinking day between two weeks ago and tomorrow, the concert date, or I wouldn't let myself go?

And remember how I missed a day, and then I worked out a ton the next two days, and I went back on my own word to my own self?

And I don't think I posted since then, but it happened again--I missed a workout for no good reason at all last Thursday.  I was home with a sick kid.  She didn't need 24-7 monitoring or a blood transfusion, so I arguably could have worked out for 10 hours that day instead of none hours.  Which is what I worked out that day:  none hours.

Okay, well, Friday morning I had come to terms with the fact that my missed workout was going to prevent me from going to see one of my favorite bands, and I was sad.  I was mad at my dumb self.  I was disappointed.

And then one of my friends called with an amazing, unbelievable, incredible, did I say unbelievable surprise:  he had a hook up for tickets to the concert that came with VIP passes, which would get us BACKSTAGE TO MEET THE BAND.

I almost wet my pants, I was so excited.

I got all silly and giggly and couldn't really concentrate the rest of the day.

And all my resolve about sticking to my promise to myself went out the window--I was going to get to MEET THE BAND!!!

So the countdown began, and I have worked out every day since then--only missed two days in the two week period, and did make up for the time lost, but I guess it wasn't enough to correct the wrong I'd set in motion in the universe.

Because I heard from my friend yesterday, the one with the amazing, unbelievable, incredible, and unbelievable surprise that his contact turned out to only have 2 tickets/passes, which meant I was SOL for meeting the band.

Disappointing, for sure.  But hey, I had intended on picking up tickets at the last minute anyway, so I would just hop on to StubHub and pick some up, no problem.

Or so I thought...no, the tickets are astronomically high, too high for my blood.

So, no Killers for me.

The universe found a way to make sure I kept my promise to myself.

Stupid universe.

Stupid me for not working out every day.

I guess that's what I should do tomorrow night as further reinforcement that I can't slack, not even on one of the 151 days between now and the Mudder because when I do, bad things happen.

Maybe I'll work out to the Killers to drive that nail in a little deeper.

Don't mess with Karma, man.  She'll get you every single time.

Day 158: A girl and her shoes...

"Mama always said there's an awful lot you can tell about a person by their shoes. Where they're going, where they've been. I've worn lots of shoes. I bet if I think about it real hard, I could remember my first pair of shoes. Mama said they'd take me anywhere. She said they was my magic shoes."--Forrest Gump. 

 I, like most girls, love shoes. Guys just don't get it. Maybe they have a pair of black shoes, brown shoes, perhaps a few pairs of athletic shoes, flip flops, and down here in Texas, cowboy boots. And they're done. 

I almost tried to guess at the number of shoes I own, but then I thought, "duh, go count 'em, moron." And I did. 71. I don't know if that's a lot relative to my other shoe-loving friends. I'm not Imelda Marcos, but I guess I'm pretty close to a Carrie Bradshaw (estimates have her at about 100 pairs) although I've never come anywhere close to spending what she did for a pair of Manolos or Jimmy Choos. No, I'm a Target girl, so while Carrie's shoes may have averaged in the $400/pair range, I'd say mine are closer to $30/pair.

Again, guys don't usually get it, but there's just something about a pair of shoes. I've got all kinds, lots of high, high heels that make me about 6 feet tall. And who doesn't like to feel 6 feet tall?? I actually feel odd in flats, maybe that's because my 11 year old daughter is creeping up to my height, and so when I hike up on top of a pair of 5 inch heels, I can pretend she's not growing up as fast as she is. 

So the Mudder...it's a crazy thing, this Mudder. Training is going well. I'm in a groove. All is good. But it still scares the snot outta me. It's gonna be hard. Harder than anything I've ever tried to do, including the half. That was just running and trying not to fall down, and I guess I didn't try hard enough since I did fall down. Even though my knee's not ready for the run, I knew I'd need a new pair of shoes to start training in, hopefully next month, because my last-year-Mudder shoes are pretty worn out. 

So because I have this unbelievably wide foot, I have to buy New Balance shoes, and I was playing on their website yesterday, looking for the latest version of the shoe I bought last year. And there they were. Like a work of art. A collection of happy colors that I would love to have on my wall if it was in a frame. Even better, though, then a painting...SHOES that look like they were made for me. 

I get they're not for everyone. They've been called "gaudy" and "U-G-L-Y" and have been compared to an acid trip. Even my daughter is not a fan. "Mom...really?" But that's the thing about shoes...you don't buy them for other people, do you? 

I couldn't find a more perfect pair of magic shoes for me. 

 Yes, I know they'll be destroyed at The Mudder. I imagine I will, too. I'll probably be wishing I could click them together three times and get back home at about the first obstacle. 

 But in this quest to get my orange headband, I have a heckuva long way to go. May as well get there wearing the most fabulous shoes I can find. After all, they'll take me anywhere.

Day 160: I like to smell bad...

I'm not French or anything.  I take baths or showers daily, use properly working deodorant and a splash of perfume or body spray on a regular basis.

I'm talking about smelling after a workout.  Not in a "you have such bad B.O. that I can't stand to be around you" kind of smell.  But I guess it's that thing Matthew McConaughey likes about himself.  Or maybe he's just weird, bongo playing in the front yard notwithstanding.  It's the smell of hard work.  Of pushing yourself beyond your limits.

Other things I really like:

I like it when my clothes are totally drenched with sweat. So much so that I have to peel them off, and everything from the rubber band keeping my sweaty hair out of my face and off of my shoulders down to the socks that at one time might have passed for white are still wet.

I like it when the towel I used during class is so soaked that I could wring it out.  I'd hate to be the folks who have to wash all the sweaty gym towels.  Ugh...that's for them.  I like my own sweaty smell, but not all the other hundreds of sweaty smells they must get stuck smelling everyday.

I like the creaky feel of muscles that just got worked, and will probably yell at me a little tomorrow, but that kinda sore is the really good kind, not the "fall down the stairs and bang yourself up" kind.  And I should know.  Because I've done that quite a bit, and it just hurts.

I like it when Channing Tatum shows up on time for my weekly massage.  Sometimes he's late, and you can't really blame him because he's famous and all but I like that he still makes the time.  Nice guy, good masseuse, and he can dance, too.

For all the ladies out there...

Yeah, well that last one is still in the "things that haven't quite materialized" category--I didn't actually get a massage from Channing today--but the other stuff, yeah, that's real.  I am smelly, my clothes were soaked when I peeled them off, and my muscles are creaky tonight.

And I like that.

Day 161: FORE!!!!

I recently took up golf.  Sort of.  Again.  Kind of.

I got roped into representing the company at a corporate golf tourney a few weeks back, and while I do own a set of golf clubs and a really cute bright yellow happy sunshiny golf bag, I can't really say that I knew much of anything about how to play.  Or really, why people play.  It seemed so lame.  A very "old man" thing to spend your weekend doing.  So I figured I'd just drive the cart and provide entertainment with my nonexistent golf skills.  And I was excited about the opportunity to wear a cute golf outfit.  But enjoy the game itself, no way.

Until I got out there with my work buddy who knew just about as much as I did but who was equally excited about shopping for a cute golf outfit.  Luckily, the organizers paired us with these two supercool dudes who were pretty close to our dads' ages and took it upon themselves to teach us how to play over the course of the afternoon.  We learned all sorts of new things, and we amassed an impressive new golf vocabulary by the 18th hole. I will share my new-found knowledge for the benefit of the other non-golfers out there.

It was a scramble (golf tourney term meaning they could pick the best person's shot to play from each time on each hole--so you get the best of the best), which was great for anytime we were anywhere near a water hazard (a big pondy thing designed to swallow all your golf balls), or really anytime I was called upon to use one of my woods (the golf clubs with the big funky heads that hit the ball the farthest, in theory at least).  But I held my own at chipping (those little shorter, choppier shots where you try to get the ball onto the green (the place with the flag and the the little hole where you want your ball to go) and putting, too (everyone knows this one--putt putt is universal).

I also learned all about the mulligan.  There was a bar called Mulligans but it apparently has a pretty specific golfy meaning.  I don't know why they can't just call it what it is--a do-over.  But I guess golf is kind of a snotty sport (sport?), and they want it to be as confusing as possible to nonplayers.  The tourney organizers gave us each 5 mulligans, and they proved pretty handy.  We let the boys use our mulligans, and with double-mulligans, we all scored pretty well in the end.

So, I'm giving myself a mulligan.  And I can do that, because I'm the keeper of the rules, and because I just worked my a$$ off.  I was up and doing P90X by 7 a.m. (despite being up till 1 the night before), and after completely burning out my arms and shoulders (typing hurts), and hit the the gym for 2 hours of leg-shredding spin class.  After the first hour, I was soaked to the bone and had drained my water bottle dry.  But I stayed on for another hour, and I did manage to walk--not fall--down the stairs after class.  So 3 hours of pretty intense stuff, if I do say so myself.

Sounds like I had a pretty awesome day, training wise, and it's only noon.  Why the need for a mulligan??Well...

I didn't work out at all on Friday, unless you count walking around the Crawfish Festival for a few hours last night.  (We did have to park outside of town a ways over some railroad tracks, so there was a bit of a hill involved).  I did stick to the diet, and I passed right by all the deep fried [insert whatever some crazy Texan thinks up to batter and drop into a vat of hot grease] and all the booze (still on the wagon--it's been almost 2 months, I think) and just ate the teeny tiny morsels of boiled crawfish meat that my buddy dug out for me (I offered him a nice deal--I buy the crawfish--you're in charge of peeling it all for me).  But I slept terribly Thursday night and couldn't get out of bed Friday morning.  And I knew I wouldn't get a workout in before the Crawfish Festival, so I was sad thinking about how much I'd miss the Killers, again.  :(

But I'm the one who made the deal, so I have to stick to it.

Well, if you look at the reason behind making the deal with myself, it was to encourage me to keep up the pace, not to get all lazy...and I didn't skip the workout because I didn't want to workout--I got about 4 hours of sleep and just couldn't open my eyes.  And then I wasn't choosing to sit on my butt and watch TV instead of working out--I had stuff to do.  It was Friday night for goodness sake!!

So I told myself if I busted a$$ on Saturday AND Sunday, I would make up for the Friday miss, and I could cash in my Mulligan.  I think that's more than fair--if you miss a day (where the goal is to work out at least 1 hour) and you triple your workout time the next day, a Mulligan would technically not even be necessary.

Indulge me for a sec....

So bogey (overshoot by 1) a Par 3 (a hole that should take 3 shots), but then birdie (undershoot by 1) the next hole, and you're back to Par (the number of shots you should have used on those holes per the dudes who designed the course).  Or even better, get an eagle on the next hole (2 shots under par)...based on the number of double and triple bogeys we got, I'm guessing those Eagles are tough to come by.  Anyway...

That's more like what I did...yesterday was a bogey...I owed myself an hour of workout time, but I missed it.  Today, I made it up by working out for 3 hours--I got an Eagle of a workout, so I actually finish with one surplus hour of workout time.

No do-over necessary.  I more than made up for my missed workout opportunity yesterday.  So I'm still on track to see The Killers.

(I can talk myself into or out of almost anything.  I guess law school was worth something...)

Alrighty then, off to wash the stench of a 3 hour workout off me and get ready for the rest of the day...Celtic festival with a bunch of Scottish folks, who, as I and everyone knows, invented the wonderful(ly frustrating) game of golf.  Maybe I can learn some more new words today...