12:12:48
I need to apologize to my body.
Really.
For mistreating it, taking it for granted. Not appreciating wll it has done for me. Mainly, being ungratefull it has managed to keep me alive and strong, when so many would have just collapse. Karen Carpenter's body wasn't as amazing as mine and gave up. My body never did.
I started abusing it in December 1993. Just when I turned 18. I left for College and gained the usual few pounds. That winter, I started punishing my body for changing a bit: forcing it to run in the cold, not eat enough so it would learn it's lesson: my hips shouldn't get wider; my stomach should not get softer. My thighs should remain thin. And then, in 1995, I decided it needed to pay for the changes it made. So I starved it.
I didn't feed it enough: for breakfast, it was only allowed 3 slices of toast with fat-free-fake butter and fat-free-green-packaged-ham. Lunches, it was allowed a few pasta shells mixed with steamed spinach and an apple with cottage cheese. And for dinner, I would only give it fat-free soup, an apple and two fat-free yogurst. Fat Free. That's all it was allowed.
But my body just worked harder to keep me warm; it pumped harder to keep my heart beat strong. It struggled to give me energy so I would be able to work, and study and move.
It was starving yet it kept me going. I never ended up in a hopsital bed, a tube in my arm. It enabled me to stay warm. It stopped ovulating to help me preserve energy. I was 80 pounds and my body kept on going...
And I never thanked it for it.
Sunday May 2nd, 2004. It's 4:45 in the morning. My alarm clock is buzzing and buzzing like crazy and I can hear a few minutes later the sound of a bell. Just ringing and ringing: the ringtone is called crossroads. A train honks, and the bells just ring and ring and ring until I finally remember what day it is and why all of my alarms are going crazy.
I jump out of bed. Ouch. My legs are sore, my bones are cracking. I am tired. I waited tables all night last night, until midnight, running up and down the stairs, back down to the kitchen: "Table 40 says his steak is not cooked enough." The Chef will scream back at me:"It's supposed to be this way, he ordered it rare!!!" And there I went, back up to my table... All night long.... More ketchup for the 5 fries you have left on your plate? Sure. No it doesn't bother me at all. Want me to go milk a cow so you can have really fresh milk with your coffee while I'm at it?
But it's OK, I'll go down 19 steps, to the back of the kitchen get a little white cup, fill it up with ketchup, go back up 19 stairs and politely smile as I watch this jerk dip in the cold, last fries on his plate.
But this morning, as I stretch my stiff body, I don't care about anyone. I am happy. Today is the day that I have been training for, for the past 4 months. My first race. The Long Island Half Marathon.The adrenaline is already rushing through my veins; I have never put on sweat pants and sneakers so fast. I get out and hail a cab (who knew that I'd have to fight for a cab at 5 in the morning- sorry to the guy standing on the opposite corner, but I saw that cab first and I claim it). I pick up my friend Zuta on the way and we barely make the Long Island Railroad train on time. At Penn Station, we see people of all shape and weight, proudly wearing their black nylon "Long Island Marathon and Half-Marathon" backpack, and waiting, a cup of coffee in their hands, for the track number to appear on the screen. Track 19. Go, go go! It's fun; we make friends with a Brittish guy named Scott, and slouch on the seats of the blue/gray train. An hour later, we step off the train: It's cold and damp. It's supposed to rain soon so we hurry up the the starting line and start stretching and warming up. Zuta is like a good mom; helping me figure out how to put the chip on my aasics sneakers, already dirty from the wet grass. Talking me through my first experience with portable bathrooms (do go on the way in, the way out is so much worse! Apparently, running is good for bowel movements!). I pin my number under my crunch team shirt with the slogan: "when you shuffle the letters is spells MEAT". Some people laugh reading it.
It's 7:55 Am; the DJ plays Earth, Wind and Fire as the countdown starts. Zuta and I gather around the 9-minute mile sign, looking for others sporting the same shirt we are. In front of me, 3 very buff guys wearing tight pink T-shirts and very feminine short gray shorts. "Tough men running for women" reads there shirts. I am so excited, I feel like I am back in high scool, on the very first day of the term. Everyone is laughing, clapping. The national anthem is sung. Funny how in our world, everything has to be about patriotism, about belonging to a country. I'd be happy with just the Rocky theme song for every sporting event! But that's just me.We finally start. I follow Zuta's pace. I cross a group of men, in their 60's with a "senior feet" bright yellow t-shirt; another group of women who raced for "the cure"- breast cancer- the previous Sunday; fathers running for their sons in Iraq, mother's running for children they lost on September 11.
I am running for this body I have hated so much.
Mile 1... Smooth running. Zuta and I are laughing. Our breath is fine, the cold air is actually envigorating. We run at an easy pace that allows us to gossip. Sheldon is dating Hitmomi and they are also running their first race here this morning; who got fired from crunch, which hip hop song Zuta will choose for her next dance routine... I am surprised at how smooth the first 3 miles seem. My breath is steady, my pace regular and my legs strong.
At mile 4, Zuta and I bump into four other Crunch team members, including Karen and Rob, who are running the full Marathon. We decide to slow down our rythme and join them for a mile at a slower pace.
At mile 5, we notice that a lot of men are running for the bushes. I try not to think of the little cups of water I grabbed at mile three and have to force myself not to think that I already have to pee. A few people are standing on the sides, clapping and cheering; a little girl with pink gloves yells out "daddy, daddy" and starts running along his side.
By the time we get to the sixth mile, I am more than ready for my poweraid cup. I always hated the chemical taste of sports drinks but this morning it tastes like the best thing I have ever swallowed. You know how, when you watch the New York Marathon on TV, you wonder how they can grab that little cup, swallow a few drops, and toss it? Surprisingly not that hard.
Miles 7 and 8 are not as easy. I unconsciously slow done and only pick up because Zuta challenges me to keep her rythme. But it's getting harder and hareder to breathe. I feel the breath getting caught in the back of my throat. It's dry and I am thirsty but cold...
By mile 9, the weather got bad: It's drizzling. I am cold and hot and cold and wet. My legs hurt, I think I might have shin splins. I hate my sneakers, I hate this road and the trees and everyone else who doesn't seem tired. But I keep running. One foot in front of the other. I need to keep my rythme, one-two, and breathe, one-tow and breathe...
I feel like I am going to die. I start getting cranky and annoying. It's damp, it's cold, it's raining.
But Zuta catches my before I drift into self-pity and miss out on the experience. She is right: it is a great race and we are lucky because we can run and enjoy it and are alive. The rain is not annoying. It's refreshing. So I get my whole body into it, match my feet to Zuta's feet. Concentrate on my breathing. I come accross a 70-year-old man with a shirt that reads: Iron Man Hawaii, 2002. Just the boost I needed: If he can do an Iron man at his age, then I can finish this race. I am already at mile 11, just 2 and some left to go. Up hill? I can do this. One foot in front of the other. I speed up again.
Mile 12. I am now running my last mile. Last mile… I am running like I have never run before. I know it's just a half Marathon. But 5 months ago, I wouldn't even have been able to run 5 miles straight. 5 years ago, I was getting my periods again. 5 years ago, I started eating again. Allez les petites jambes, come on little legs. Come one little legs, come on. My knees are cracking. They are not used to the pavement. My thighs are so tender; every step vibrates up my left leg. People are now screaming: You' re doing great. You are almost done, almost done…Allez, les petites jambes, I can see the finishing line… Come on…. I glance at my watch; it's around 10:10... Allez les jambs, allez, allez, allez, Go, go go!
When I pass the finishing line, I understand. I understand why some people cry, or lift their arms in the air. I did it. I finnished it. My body did it! My body with it's fat ass, flat breasts and flabby abs managed to run 13.1 miles in 2h and 12 minutes and 48 seconds… the body that I found disgusting and fat is in fact strong and amazing. My body some have made fun off, my body and didn't use to stand up for, has managed to run 20km in the cold, the rain, with only four hours of sleep. Nothing matters any more. Not the fact that my fingers are frozen and turning blue (apparently a sign of dehydration), not the fact that we end up running the mile back to the train station, face cramped from the pain in our legs, so we can make the train back into the City. Nothing else matters anymore but the fact that my body did not let me down.
Which is why I have to tell it I am sorry.
Body? I apologize. For the abuse. For the insults and under appreciation. I am sorry I made you work so hard at keeping me warm, awake, and strong. I am sorry I forgot what was truly important. That the perfect body is not about a size. It's about strength. That I need to eat, eat well and eat enough. You might get bigger or you might not. ButI promise, I will make sure you get stronger. Because that's what matters.
They say normal people run races because it makes them feel extraordinary. I think it's because people are already extraordinary that they can run races.
Really.
For mistreating it, taking it for granted. Not appreciating wll it has done for me. Mainly, being ungratefull it has managed to keep me alive and strong, when so many would have just collapse. Karen Carpenter's body wasn't as amazing as mine and gave up. My body never did.
I started abusing it in December 1993. Just when I turned 18. I left for College and gained the usual few pounds. That winter, I started punishing my body for changing a bit: forcing it to run in the cold, not eat enough so it would learn it's lesson: my hips shouldn't get wider; my stomach should not get softer. My thighs should remain thin. And then, in 1995, I decided it needed to pay for the changes it made. So I starved it.
I didn't feed it enough: for breakfast, it was only allowed 3 slices of toast with fat-free-fake butter and fat-free-green-packaged-ham. Lunches, it was allowed a few pasta shells mixed with steamed spinach and an apple with cottage cheese. And for dinner, I would only give it fat-free soup, an apple and two fat-free yogurst. Fat Free. That's all it was allowed.
But my body just worked harder to keep me warm; it pumped harder to keep my heart beat strong. It struggled to give me energy so I would be able to work, and study and move.
It was starving yet it kept me going. I never ended up in a hopsital bed, a tube in my arm. It enabled me to stay warm. It stopped ovulating to help me preserve energy. I was 80 pounds and my body kept on going...
And I never thanked it for it.
Sunday May 2nd, 2004. It's 4:45 in the morning. My alarm clock is buzzing and buzzing like crazy and I can hear a few minutes later the sound of a bell. Just ringing and ringing: the ringtone is called crossroads. A train honks, and the bells just ring and ring and ring until I finally remember what day it is and why all of my alarms are going crazy.
I jump out of bed. Ouch. My legs are sore, my bones are cracking. I am tired. I waited tables all night last night, until midnight, running up and down the stairs, back down to the kitchen: "Table 40 says his steak is not cooked enough." The Chef will scream back at me:"It's supposed to be this way, he ordered it rare!!!" And there I went, back up to my table... All night long.... More ketchup for the 5 fries you have left on your plate? Sure. No it doesn't bother me at all. Want me to go milk a cow so you can have really fresh milk with your coffee while I'm at it?
But it's OK, I'll go down 19 steps, to the back of the kitchen get a little white cup, fill it up with ketchup, go back up 19 stairs and politely smile as I watch this jerk dip in the cold, last fries on his plate.
But this morning, as I stretch my stiff body, I don't care about anyone. I am happy. Today is the day that I have been training for, for the past 4 months. My first race. The Long Island Half Marathon.The adrenaline is already rushing through my veins; I have never put on sweat pants and sneakers so fast. I get out and hail a cab (who knew that I'd have to fight for a cab at 5 in the morning- sorry to the guy standing on the opposite corner, but I saw that cab first and I claim it). I pick up my friend Zuta on the way and we barely make the Long Island Railroad train on time. At Penn Station, we see people of all shape and weight, proudly wearing their black nylon "Long Island Marathon and Half-Marathon" backpack, and waiting, a cup of coffee in their hands, for the track number to appear on the screen. Track 19. Go, go go! It's fun; we make friends with a Brittish guy named Scott, and slouch on the seats of the blue/gray train. An hour later, we step off the train: It's cold and damp. It's supposed to rain soon so we hurry up the the starting line and start stretching and warming up. Zuta is like a good mom; helping me figure out how to put the chip on my aasics sneakers, already dirty from the wet grass. Talking me through my first experience with portable bathrooms (do go on the way in, the way out is so much worse! Apparently, running is good for bowel movements!). I pin my number under my crunch team shirt with the slogan: "when you shuffle the letters is spells MEAT". Some people laugh reading it.
It's 7:55 Am; the DJ plays Earth, Wind and Fire as the countdown starts. Zuta and I gather around the 9-minute mile sign, looking for others sporting the same shirt we are. In front of me, 3 very buff guys wearing tight pink T-shirts and very feminine short gray shorts. "Tough men running for women" reads there shirts. I am so excited, I feel like I am back in high scool, on the very first day of the term. Everyone is laughing, clapping. The national anthem is sung. Funny how in our world, everything has to be about patriotism, about belonging to a country. I'd be happy with just the Rocky theme song for every sporting event! But that's just me.We finally start. I follow Zuta's pace. I cross a group of men, in their 60's with a "senior feet" bright yellow t-shirt; another group of women who raced for "the cure"- breast cancer- the previous Sunday; fathers running for their sons in Iraq, mother's running for children they lost on September 11.
I am running for this body I have hated so much.
Mile 1... Smooth running. Zuta and I are laughing. Our breath is fine, the cold air is actually envigorating. We run at an easy pace that allows us to gossip. Sheldon is dating Hitmomi and they are also running their first race here this morning; who got fired from crunch, which hip hop song Zuta will choose for her next dance routine... I am surprised at how smooth the first 3 miles seem. My breath is steady, my pace regular and my legs strong.
At mile 4, Zuta and I bump into four other Crunch team members, including Karen and Rob, who are running the full Marathon. We decide to slow down our rythme and join them for a mile at a slower pace.
At mile 5, we notice that a lot of men are running for the bushes. I try not to think of the little cups of water I grabbed at mile three and have to force myself not to think that I already have to pee. A few people are standing on the sides, clapping and cheering; a little girl with pink gloves yells out "daddy, daddy" and starts running along his side.
By the time we get to the sixth mile, I am more than ready for my poweraid cup. I always hated the chemical taste of sports drinks but this morning it tastes like the best thing I have ever swallowed. You know how, when you watch the New York Marathon on TV, you wonder how they can grab that little cup, swallow a few drops, and toss it? Surprisingly not that hard.
Miles 7 and 8 are not as easy. I unconsciously slow done and only pick up because Zuta challenges me to keep her rythme. But it's getting harder and hareder to breathe. I feel the breath getting caught in the back of my throat. It's dry and I am thirsty but cold...
By mile 9, the weather got bad: It's drizzling. I am cold and hot and cold and wet. My legs hurt, I think I might have shin splins. I hate my sneakers, I hate this road and the trees and everyone else who doesn't seem tired. But I keep running. One foot in front of the other. I need to keep my rythme, one-two, and breathe, one-tow and breathe...
I feel like I am going to die. I start getting cranky and annoying. It's damp, it's cold, it's raining.
But Zuta catches my before I drift into self-pity and miss out on the experience. She is right: it is a great race and we are lucky because we can run and enjoy it and are alive. The rain is not annoying. It's refreshing. So I get my whole body into it, match my feet to Zuta's feet. Concentrate on my breathing. I come accross a 70-year-old man with a shirt that reads: Iron Man Hawaii, 2002. Just the boost I needed: If he can do an Iron man at his age, then I can finish this race. I am already at mile 11, just 2 and some left to go. Up hill? I can do this. One foot in front of the other. I speed up again.
Mile 12. I am now running my last mile. Last mile… I am running like I have never run before. I know it's just a half Marathon. But 5 months ago, I wouldn't even have been able to run 5 miles straight. 5 years ago, I was getting my periods again. 5 years ago, I started eating again. Allez les petites jambes, come on little legs. Come one little legs, come on. My knees are cracking. They are not used to the pavement. My thighs are so tender; every step vibrates up my left leg. People are now screaming: You' re doing great. You are almost done, almost done…Allez, les petites jambes, I can see the finishing line… Come on…. I glance at my watch; it's around 10:10... Allez les jambs, allez, allez, allez, Go, go go!
When I pass the finishing line, I understand. I understand why some people cry, or lift their arms in the air. I did it. I finnished it. My body did it! My body with it's fat ass, flat breasts and flabby abs managed to run 13.1 miles in 2h and 12 minutes and 48 seconds… the body that I found disgusting and fat is in fact strong and amazing. My body some have made fun off, my body and didn't use to stand up for, has managed to run 20km in the cold, the rain, with only four hours of sleep. Nothing matters any more. Not the fact that my fingers are frozen and turning blue (apparently a sign of dehydration), not the fact that we end up running the mile back to the train station, face cramped from the pain in our legs, so we can make the train back into the City. Nothing else matters anymore but the fact that my body did not let me down.
Which is why I have to tell it I am sorry.
Body? I apologize. For the abuse. For the insults and under appreciation. I am sorry I made you work so hard at keeping me warm, awake, and strong. I am sorry I forgot what was truly important. That the perfect body is not about a size. It's about strength. That I need to eat, eat well and eat enough. You might get bigger or you might not. ButI promise, I will make sure you get stronger. Because that's what matters.
They say normal people run races because it makes them feel extraordinary. I think it's because people are already extraordinary that they can run races.
posted by Sophie Yon-Gharbi at 9:21 AM
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