I've never been a proponent of the practice, "dress for the job you want, not the job you have." At least not on purpose. Three continuous weeks of putting off laundry forced me to put on a skirt for lecture and patient prep one day last semester. With all the positive feedback (I was even mistaken for a doctor twice), I decided to continue the trend... of not doing laundry. But mostly dressing for my goal, not my current standing.
This morning, I pulled out all the stops. Well, as many of the stops I could pull out, considering I slept through my alarm and, therefore, didn't have time to wash or style my hair or shave my legs. Sleek, gray slacks; blue, ruffled top; black wool sweater; and these babies:
try to contain your drool.
Bear in mind that these are the first heels I have ever owned or worn. (training wheels are for suckers!) Strutting in them in the level, carpeted Cole Haan outlet store felt so natural that I considered suspending my nursing career for a spell to pursue modeling. It would pay for grad school, k? Don't judge me.
This morning, walking on uneven surfaces made of pavement proved to be slightly more challenging, but not enough to shake my confidence. Stairs served another unique challenge -- it's harder to walk up them when they're taller. Between forgetting that I had already baked pastries because I set them on top of the oven instead of placing them on the countertops or the cooling rack and walking up three lengthy flights of stairs in (very) high heels, I feel like I completely sympathize with the rest of you (short people).
Getting back down the stairs was an entirely different matter. I almost ate cement. The heel caught in the excess fabric of the boot cut of my pants midair. I flailed about, not unlike Wile E. Coyote attempting to fly, and, by the grace of the Almighty, caught the railing in my hand. Inertia whipped me around one hundred eighty degrees, panting and giggle-snorting. My markedly shorter classmate accompanied me to my car, in case I made an additional pit stop to pirouette atop another outdoor stairwell and didn't stick the landing.
We made for a comical pair, the wary giantess and the diminutive spotter. I'm pretty sure I broke a sweat descending a flight of stairs. That cannot be healthy. It is probably related to the random dependent edema I experience when I run. (and you thought I couldn't circle back!)
This is true. I know it is time to stop running when my knuckles swell too much to curl my fingers. Is my heart failing? I doubt it. I've never heard of exercise-induced heart failure, and I'm a nursing student. I'll google it. Or maybe not. I swear, if I google'd half the stuff I said I would, my name would probably be atop every no-fly list out there.
To sum up the last month or so of exercise, I've been pretty consistent. for me. I make an effort to run around the cranberry bog across the street from my house daily. The occasional early shift that is CRAZY busy waylays me, but let's be honest. Cape Cod has had fabulous weather this summer. There haven't been many of those. As a result, I also feel like I haven't been properly tested for commitment to my fitness goal. It's one thing to say, "gee willikers, I fancy a run today," on a day free of humidity and clouds. It is another to say the same thing when it's pouring rain or snowing or hailing or tornado'ing outside.
I am terrified of tornadoes. I would divorce running for the day if there was a tornado. Can you blame me?
Erm, anyways. I took online advice to tell others about my plans to run a marathon. All the world's a passive accountability partner, I suppose. I do slip it into conversation with some individuals that I am still on the market for a proper running partner. I even have a sponsor! A regular customer who regularly badgers me en cafe offered to sponsor my ass. Considering he's a white man in his sixties and said "your" instead of "yo," it concerns me that his intention is to see his name printed on the seat of my shorts. Listen here, Creepy Allen's jacked younger brother, this is NOT happening.
I have made many strides. I'm slowly but surely running for longer stretches of bog, making loops and adding steps to my run. Only problem is, I have no idea where I am distance-wise. My seven dollar pedometer sits on a throne of lies when it comes to step-count. Phyllis (the pedometer) also feels that I take tiny baby steps because the mileage math is askew -- and different every day! If I ever work up the courage to find out if what I think is three miles really IS three miles, I will run to my favorite beach, three miles away.
I feel as though I need a few more weeks of practice before I get there. And considering lecture starts tomorrow, I will be put to my first real fitness test: where does physical fitness rank in the list of importance whilst competing with things like education and stress management.
The Descent, the Caitlyn story.
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