Running Scared

Those who have traveled the C25K road before me had me fearing the arrival of Week Four. “Oh, it’s gonna kick your ass!” was one of the helpful comments I received, so it was with a little trepidation that I laced up my running shoes and started down the driveway.

For those of you fortunate enough to have never heard of C25K, it stands for “Couch to 5K” and its aim is to gently push you into the cardio equivalent of a wood chipper.

As I’ve previously stated, I’m hard at work developing a “Jack Sh*t C25K” program that, besides incorporating a much higher degree of “couchiness,” will also add some much-needed enhancements such as stopping at random houses and asking to borrow a sno-cone.

Week Four had me running for three minutes (without stopping), provided me a walking “rest time” of approximately a pica-second, and then commanded me to take off running again. FOR. FIVE. MINUTES.

I’d been dreading this extended interval, but once I was into it, a funny thing happened…

I got lost.

Not lost like during my first run when I just ran willy-nilly through the neighborhood and wound up having to call a cab to take me home.

No, I got lost in the running. In the simple rhythm of soles slapping asphalt. Got lost in a bunch of tissues and tendons working in tandem to do something it couldn’t (or wouldn’t) do thirty days ago. Lost in a good way… possibly the best way.

Then my iPhone app’s voice told me to stop, told me we were in the cool-down phase of this session.

Understand this about me and running: up until now, I’ve been a clock-watcher as I pounded the pavement. If I had to run for a minute, I’d check the clock at 50 seconds… and again at 45 seconds… and etc, etc.

But today the end came without watching, without warning, and I kept running just because… well, just because…

I have been warned that this running thing can get in your blood.

I have heard it said that it will make you test your faith in yourself.

I was told I’ll learn to love it.

Now I’m really scared.

Scared it could be true.

Fear of Food

I'm scared of food.



Oh, I don't mean that I'm terrified that I'm going to get cornered in a dark alley and accosted by a pack of wild bagels. I don't wake up 
in a cold sweat worried that there's a German chocolate cake beneath my bed waiting for an opportune time to pounce.



I'm just afraid of the power food has on me. Even the idea of food messes with my mind at times.



In the past, there've been many reasons for my overeating, and very few of them had anything to do with hunger or the need to fuel my body.



I ate because I was stressed.



Because I was bored.



Because it had become a habit, just something that was a part of who I was.



Because it made me happy... or at least that's what I told myself. When I look at photographs of me at my worst, I question the idea that
a true transfer of happiness was ever part of the equation.



Something inside me told me it would make feel better even though every rational part of me knew it would only make me feel worse.



I don't trip up daily like I once did, but I still stumble enough to give me pause, still fear dark clouds even though I keep a mostly 
sunny outlook on this journey.



But I like to think that it's turned into a kind of healthy fear, like being afraid to gun it through an intersection in front of
 a speeding train or touching an electric wire to see if the juice is turned on.



I'm scared of food, and I’m afraid I'll always be afraid.



However, I can live with being afraid easier than I can live being the way I was.