Lilith Saintcrow

Yesterday I did my very first three-mile run. I’m informed that three miles is the breakover point–once you reach three miles, you can pretty much train for any distance effectively, or something like that. Everyone was cheering me on–funny, running is so solitary, and yet my Twitter and Facebook blew up with “Go Lili!” “You can do it!” “Those miles don’t stand a chance!”

I was so grateful for the cheering, you guys. It was like I had a whole crowd urging me for the finish line.

I did finish. I stood there, sweating and victorious, and actually yelled, “HA! I GOT THE KNIFE! NOW TURN ON THE GODDAMN LIGHTS!” (That is one of my favorite movies…)

Since I was doing this at home, the only thing I accomplished was scaring two cats and laughing like a loon while I folded up the treadmill. The cats eventually forgave me once I’d taken a shower and refilled their food bowls. (They’re like that.)

So. Three miles. When I started this a long time ago, I would walk for six minutes and run for one minute, and I dreaded those single minutes with a passion. I did that for two solid months. I took everything else in similar baby steps–walking for five and running for two, walking for four and running for three, all in two or three week (or even month-long) increments. Then came twenty-minute runs. Twenty-two minute runs. Adding a couple minutes every couple weeks. Then two-mile runs, upping speed; two and a half, two and three quarters.

And now, here I am. Running three miles. I did it again this morning.

There’s this list that I keep in my head. It’s a List Of Things I Never Thought I Could Do, But I’ve Done And Actually Kicked Ass At. I think everyone needs this sort of list. Most of the time, it’s filled with things that I never thought I could do and I did only because I bloody well had to, it was That Kind of situation. I do very well thrown into the snakepit, apparently.

Every time I think something’s going to knock me down or out, I mentally get out that list. “If I can _____,” I say grimly, “then I can do this.” It’s amazingly effective, at least for me.

Anyway. Also today I got a bunch of spiderwebs tattooed on my back, bringing together all the pieces I had before. The web are about three-quarters done. Soon I’ll be going in to get them finished. Grayscale work hurts, and the long lines the webs depend on, ouchie! So I spent a significant part of today clutching my hands together, breathing through it, and thinking if I can run three miles at a time, I can get through this.

It worked like a charm.

Spin me right round, baby right round…

I’ve gone from being barely able to run for two whole minutes without gasping and feeling like I was being tortured…to running for almost an hour at double the pace relatively easily. I’m glad I’ve looked back at the original contract I made with myself to exercise, because it reminds me of how far I’ve come in baby steps. Breaking up a goal into bite-size chunks and methodically working through those chunks isn’t glamorous, but you do eventually get to a place where you look around ad realize, holy crap I’m doing X when before I could barely do Y! It’s a great feeling.

I won’t be signing up for any marathons soon. For right now it’s enough that I know I can do these things, and feel the effects in my much-smaller-now body.

Anyway, today is President’s Day and the kids are home from school. We’re heading out to OMSI with our friend H. and her son. Another great thing about fighting my way back from the abyss–I have energy to do cool things now! I am fun again! *rolls eyes at self* But really, that’s how I feel. Like I’ve plugged back into the socket that is my awesomeness.

Tomorrow night, my awesome fellow Razorbill author Suzanne Young is signing out at Cedar Hills Crossing. The Princess loved her book, The Naughty List, and Suzanne is a ton of fun. If you can, go out and show some love! I don’t know if I’ll get out there, but I’ll be there in spirit cheering her on.

Oh, and my Valentine’s Day date-with-myself has been moved to Tuesday. It just worked out better that way. I’m going to go see The Wolfman. Yeah, it might suck. My expectations are pretty low, I’m just going for the escape, the costumes, and Benecio Del Toro’s lips. (The man pouts like Mae West and I LOVE IT.) Plus I’m going to buy myself popcorn, because I am a Good Date.

I can also say that I’ve finished the latest round of revisions on Heaven’s Spite and am flipping back to Dru 4 and a short story. No rest for the wicked, and I’m getting to like it that way. So I must bid you a civil adieu. Regular blogging will resume tomorrow.

News! I’m over at Book Chick City, talking about why I write urban fantasy. You can win a signed Strange Angels or Night Shift, too! (Sorry, US residents only.) Also, I’ve updated the Strange Angels and Kismet pages with new information. You may also want to check out the forum, too.

I hear about these wonderful, mythical things. Days off. The very sound slips past the lips–the sibilance in the middle, the “f” at the end sliding between top teeth and bottom lip. Oh, what a magical phrase.

Today is my “rest” day from running on the treadmill. Which means I only have to shovelglove, and I decided to go through the Wii aerobics stuff. After unlocking the 6 and 10 minute Super Hula Hoop, I decided to try the Basic Step, and felt like I was stumbling around in a new dance class. Finally my feet caught the groove, and I can tell I’m going to be doing it again. Persistence pays off in more than writing.

That’s just the beginning. There’s schoolwork to supervise, a trip to buy a new toilet seat (don’t ask, it’s kids, they jump on things, we’re just lucky nobody broke a leg) and another difficult scene in the WIP. I want to do some skateboarding on the Wii later too.

Shut up. It’s fun and it makes me feel better. Exercise is nature’s antidepressant, dammit.

It’s raining, too, a fine thin mist like a silver veil. The pine needles outside my window are full of filigree, and when the slight breeze touches them they let loose a shower of watery sparks. It’s the kind of day I put my spectacles in my pocket and go walking on. Maybe after dinner I’ll get a chance to, but by then it will be dark and wandering around in the dark without my spectacles is a Bad Idea. I suppose I could wear them anyway. It’s not like they don’t wash off.

I’m on the third day of the luck journal. Changing one’s habits is hard work. (I’ve heard it takes 90 days, which makes me think maybe I should extend the luck journaling.) The only salvation is that it will get easier the longer I do it, and soon I’ll have a new crop of habits, healthier ones. Or at least less-destructive ones.

My heart is still broken. The good news is, I’ve come to a place where I’m seriously considering that it might be for the best. I am finding positive things about being alone on that level–I can find out who I am without pleasing another person, cleaning up is easier, I no longer have to feel “less-than” or be afraid that someone is going to leave me. The worst (for my heart, that is) has happened, and I’m still alive and reasonably OK. Ambulatory, getting things done, still with a great deal to feel lucky about. Best of all, this pain truly is temporary. Everyone who told me it was, over and over again–because hell, you need to hear that when you’re in pain, you need to hear it over and over again because HELLO? YOU’RE IN PAIN!–was right. Each day is a little better than the day before. Sometimes only marginally, but I’ll take it. Sometimes, often, more than marginally. I haven’t had a step back yet.

That’s not to say there won’t be setbacks and stumble. But all in all, I can see I’m moving forward. I’m not going to feel this way forever, because the tide of pain is retreating. It still hurts, but it’s manageable now.

Thank God.

Before breakfast, and I’m groggy. Am glad I got a sunlamp-type thing, because seasonal weirdness is very much alive and well in this house.

But enough of that. I have a confession to make.

I bought a Wii.

Look, it was on sale, okay? And while we don’t watch much telly, the kids are completely enchanted with video games. They both need exercise, and Coyote Boy could do with some too. And I won’t lie, I wanted the yoga portion for Wii Fit for myself. Unfortunately, the poses I love in yoga aren’t really featured, or if they are, the electronic “trainer” gives incorrect feedback–like telling me to put a lot of my weight in my arms in Downward-Facing Dog, instead of keeping it in my legs. Eh.

But last night we had a Family Bowling Night with the Wii, and it turned out pretty fun. Everyone was happy. The kids love the sports games, especially baseball. I like the balance games, including a skateboarding one I’m not so terrible at. (Still can’t ride the rails, but oh well.) I’m also going to try the strength training games. I could use a little strength.

If we can manage to do this consistently, the damn thing may end up being good for our health. Of course the kids are lobbying for Super Mario Brothers and Zelda. I’m holding firm. For a couple months, at least.

I finished The Luck Factor last night, did more exercises, and have numbered pages in the blank journal I was using for the exercises 1-30. It’s a luck journal–at the end of every day, I write down what’s been good-lucky. 30 days of thinking about it may help make a habit of regarding my luck the way lucky people do. It will be good practice, because my next reading assignment is a book that isn’t half as cheerful. Ugh.

Oh, and the book? I got past that critical blockage scene. Now it’s a slalom. Hopefully. In any event, got to keep slogging. The book may get written slowly if I poke at it, but it won’t be written at ALL if I avoid it. And considering I’m under deadline, that would be Bad.

First, check out Nathan Bransford’s excellent post on tropes and originality. This is why I tell new writers “be honest and the originality will follow”. The ring of absolute honesty will shine through a tired old story and make it new again; when it comes through your uniqueness as a filter it will be unique.

If you’re bored with posts about weight, body image, and food, you might want to skip this one. Just warning you.

Last Labor Day I started an exercise regimen. Slowly and carefully, I’ve dropped almost five sizes. I’m shooting distance from a size 16; 14 is my eventual healthy goal. It’s taken me months, mostly because I don’t want to yo-yo. I want to steadily get into the habit of being healthier and more fit. And because, well, I love food and see no reason to set up the nasty boomerang of denial and binge. I have enough to feel bad and guilty over, I don’t need binge to add to it.

I suppose that I could cook low-fat. I really could. But why? Real butter, real vegetables, real cream, all these things satisfy in a way ersatz doesn’t. A very small bit of the “real” will satisfy more than a ton of the ersatz. For example, a small square of high-quality, very dark chocolate will satisfy me more than three or four Snickers bars. A small serving of pasta with this roasted red pepper sauce made with heavy cream (Oh. My. God. Worth the work, I SWEAR) will satisfy me more than a pound or two of fettuccine alfredo from that chain Italian place down the street. The real may be chock-full of Bad For You fat, but I end up eating less–and less chemical preservatives, high fructose corn syrup, etc. etc.

But this is only working, I suspect, because of the other half of the equation. It’s hard hauling my ass up on that treadmill every weekday. The weeks that I get in five whole weekdays of workout are few and far between. I get three or four days in every week, and my energy level has risen to the point where I’m also getting in a lot more playing with the kids and going for longer evening walks. Five days a week of treadmill and shovelgloving is the goal–but like the Pirate’s Code it’s more of a guideline.

Some days I hurt. Some days I’m sick or there’s an Event or some kid is throwing up or having a Bad Day. Some days it’s the story burning up inside my head. Some days I just plain don’t wanna.

But most days, I do. When I’m ill and I can’t get the exercise in, I feel it. I suppose I’ve reached the point of being addicted to running. And addicted to swinging a sledgehammer around for fifteen minutes or so.

Now, I am never going to be a supermodel. I love food far, far too much and I have a sedentary job. Besides, have you seen supermodels these days? They look like shit.

I’m sorry. I really am. But “starvation” is not something I find attractive. I like a girl with a little flesh on her, just like I like easygoing men with a little flesh on them. And I have all sorts of problems with the persistent message from mass media that women need to starve themselves to paper-thinness. Our place in the world is already small enough, for Christ’s sake.

The more I don’t watch television, the less I find I have in common with a lot of advertising. I never realized how pervasive this crap was until I took a year and a half off the telly (way back when I was first dating the Muffin, lo those many years ago) and found I didn’t miss it. Not only did I not miss it, but my sense of proportion (ha ha) came back in a big way.

Another thing that’s dropped by the wayside: fast food. Cheap fast food…isn’t. In terms of community cost, health cost, and my pocketbook, cheap fast food isn’t. Once in a great while I’ll take the kids to a local burger chain, and the little dears are always very excited. But burger-and-fries doesn’t taste as good, and even the fries–I have such a weakness for fries, you would not believe–don’t move me the way they used to. It’s like soda–once I was off it for a long while, all I could taste were the chemicals when I tried it again.

This is turning into a foodie post instead of a weight post. Which probably means I’m avoiding the subject.

So, I’m spitting distance from a size 16. Dropping steadily through clothes sizes has meant getting new clothes, which I absolutely hate. If there’s anything I hate with a flaming fiery passion it’s clothes-shopping. Just the thought of it makes me shiver. I will buy six of something at a time just so I have a “uniform” and I don’t have to pick clothes every day OR shop for them again. I mean, why spend time on that when I could be reading? Or cooking? Or playing with my kidlings?

Along with the steady weight loss has come an unpacking of hurtful assumptions and trauma from growing up. Food has been an anodyne most of my life, and grazing on trash-cooking full of preservatives and corn syrup was the only thing keeping me reasonably sane during a large proportion of my young years. Food didn’t mock and it didn’t judge, and when I felt empty inside it provided a type of fullness. Like any substitution, though, it had to be paid for. And I did. Over and over again.

I’m also beginning to unpack the sense of security having a fat layer gave me. You can hide inside a mass of yourself, you know. For a girl who equated fisticuffs with attention and any attention, good or bad, with the only approval I could get, the extra poundage was a blessing. It absorbed much more than punches.

Which means that, as I’m slimming down, I’m having to face parts of myself and my life I frenetically ate to avoid. It’s probably no accident that I’m writing YA through all this and really remembering what it was like to be young. On the one hand, I wouldn’t be between twelve and twenty-five again if you PAID me. There isn’t enough money in the world to put myself through that again. But on the other, I can’t hope to achieve any sort of peace within myself without looking hard and long at these things and Dealing With Them. Dealing is better than Drugging Yourself With Food or Frantically Avoiding Dealing With Things By Chopping Off Bits Of Self Or Engaging In Crazymaking Behavior.

I console myself with the thought that the most awesome and stunning people I know had Bad Young Years and didn’t Find Themselves until their late twenties. Being forced to find resources within yourself pays off, if you survive long enough and intact enough. The layers of fat were a survival mechanism, one I am trying to teach myself not to need. It was good while I needed it, but now I don’t–and the price of poor health, acceptable while I needed the fat to preserve some kind of psychic integrity, is no longer one I can continue paying.

It was a good cocoon. It kept me safe and it kept me sane, and I’m grateful. But now I’m almost out of it, and spreading those papery, wet wings. Sooner or later this girl is going to fly.

That, dear Reader? Is the very best revenge at all. I wish I was a bigger person and didn’t need that for motivation. But I realized a long time ago that I wasn’t. And I’m taking what I can get. There’s a certain amount of freedom in recognizing that you may not be a bigger person, but you’re going to do what you can with what you have.

Over and out.