the uncomfortable comfort blanket.

After my novel of a post from last week, I truly had no intention of blogging today. But unpredictable me is throwing a curveball at you after a 15-mile thought on my run today. It's typically on my long runs outside on Sundays that my mind gets racing as well. And today was no different. In fact, my thoughts on today's run were so provoking that they even caused me to pause my iPod for the majority of my run, inevitably shutting up Rihanna from sharing her excitement towards chains and whips. (Sorry, Barbados babe). And thus, causing me to share with you. (Again, the narcissism is kicking in, assuming you care).


Today I realized running is my uncomfortable comfort blanket. Yes, I also realized that's an oxymoron...but I'll get to that. As a kid, my "comfort blanket" was sucking my thumb. (Thank God I didn't come out a raccoon, I don't know what I would've done without that wonderful opposable digit... Not to mention Mary E probably would've been pissed if I came out a raccoon). I thankfully outgrew that comfort blanket. But since I was 12 and started running, I have yet to outgrow this one. Running has always been my release. As cliche as it sounds, it has always made me feel free. My mind wanders; my emotions ease; and the road ahead is always welcoming to the pitter-patter of my sweet kicks (Brooks Adrenaline, my fav. shoe, in case you've forgotten). It calms me; it excites me; it makes me feel good. Probably about as good as the woman from Northwestern's scandal of a sexual demonstration felt. Kidding. 


But at times, today being one of those times, my verb of a comfort blanket becomes uncomfortable. Because running can be so challenging at times and take me well out of my comfort zone physically...and mentally. Today was a mental feud for me, at least before my run. I'm two weeks from race #2 in Atlanta and I found myself telling my friends and family that my confidence that I'll do well and run fast is dwindling.  I've been battling a nasty sinus infection for about a week now. It's me vs. mucus. And shit's getting real. Thus, affecting my breathing on runs and creating a bit of a handicap in my mind. And then I focused on how I hadn't run more than 11 consecutive miles since my last race. And then I nauseated myself with the idea that Mary E, or anyone for that matter, will not be at my next race and I'll have to really plan ahead with the minor details such as, "who will I give my bag of crap to right before race time? Or who will I look for in the crowds of fans when I'm losing motivation at mile 9?" These thoughts coupled together sent me in a turmoil of anxiety. And Xanax ain't the answer. (Ain't? Who am I? Gross.) So what do I turn to when I'm feeling anxiety? My comfort blanket: running. Which is coincidentally what was causing my anxiety in the first place. (Don't worry, not once did falling back on sucking my thumb cross my mind. Small children who do that also watch The Wiggles. And I fucking hate those frolicking, singing men.)


But the beauty of a comfort blanket is that it's always there until YOU DECIDE you've outgrown it. So I hit the pavement running in true fashion (fashion meaning, routine in this instance, not my sexy spandex) in hopes of releasing my tension and regaining my mental strength for my races to come. And sure enough,  my comfort blanket didn't let me down. I ran a solid 15 miler in the muck-residue from the Chicago snowfall yesterday at an 8:20 pace and felt great. (Sinus infection aside. I still currently hate my nose and ears. Damn you senses). This run reminded me of why I'm taking on this adventure. (And it led to this post, so clearly it was good since it's providing you with reading material on this fine Sunday evening.) As I passed fellow runners on the prairie path, I also humorously realized just how comfortable runners get within the realm of the sport. (i.e. runners, like myself, think it's entirely normal for male runners to wear short, tight shorts that showcase their junk). But yet, when I see a bronzed beach bum doing the same in a speedo number, I want to vomit. (Sorry dad for talking about "male junk".  Don't worry, I'm still your "little girl".) Alas, the virtue and power of the comfort we weirdos find in running.


So this post was a bit off-beat and rant-ish... but that's my style. (And I like to think I have good style. Minus the spandex.) But the point is, you can only find comfort in things if you decide to. No matter how comfortable your blanket (or person, or teddy bear or ice cream flavor) may be, if you focus on how itchy and old it is, rather than reveling in the positivity it brings you, you've consciously made the decision to lose the battle of overcoming uncomfortable, sucky situations. You've focused on the negatives (sometimes of even the most comforting things in your life) and used those as excuses to keep you from your goals. 


So with that, I've got no excuses for Atlanta. It's gonna be sweet like Georgia peaches. Talk to ya in two weeks!