I hate running outside in the -30 degree weather, so I got a membership at the community league in our neighborhood and started swimming in the evenings.  It was a great workout and didn’t require me to wear all of the cold weather gear that I owned.

Then people started asking questions.  “What are you training for?”

My mouth opened and what came out shocked even me.  “Umm…a triathlon.”

Apparently I was ashamed about my desire to wear size 8 pants and completing a triathlon sounded so much better.  Before I knew what was happening, most of my friends and family heard that I was going to compete in a triathlon

I found myself cross training, weight lifting, and completing workouts that involved swimming, biking, AND running.  That’s the thing with words…once they are out there, you can’t get them back.  So I decided to go for it.  After all, how hard could it actually be?  Right?

The big day came in the middle of summer and was sunny and full of promise.  I was grouchy and full of fear.  I braided my hair, donned my Speedo swimsuit and biking/running outfit, and begrudgingly got in the car.

Upon arrival, I encountered hundreds of spandex clad people excitedly jumping around and stretching.  I went directly to the tent to pick up my race package and have a strange man use the biggest sharpie I have ever seen in my life to write my race number, 803, on my calves and arms.

What the heck have I gotten myself into?!

After being branded, we were herded like cattle down to the waterfront where I got news that there were leeches in the lake.  My stomach was already queasy and the toast that I had for breakfast threatened to come up as an unexplainable fear gripped my heart.  I started to look for an escape route, but ducking under the pylons and running at top speed past my husband and best friend would probably be noticed, so I tried to breathe while I waited for the race to start.

Before the swim....oh so nervous!

When the starting gun finally went off, all of the women aged 24 – 29 ran towards the leech infested water like their lives depended on it.  After avoiding being trampled, I jogged cautiously towards the waterfront and dove into the very shallow lake.  The water broiled with body parts and after a near kick to the head and getting a bird’s eye view of a very large armpit, I decided to hold back.  I waited in the ankle deep, leech infested silt for the crazed athletic women to swim by before I started up again.

To my immediate dismay, I couldn’t see a darn thing in the water!  It was like sticking your head into a bowl of chocolate pudding.  Panic set in and I employed the doggie paddle while my mind feverishly worked out a solution.  I started to hear a high-pitched whine and then realized I was the one making the noise.  I was officially hyperventilating and even the doggie paddle was too much.  I didn’t want to be disqualified, so I employed a panic inspired back float.  While looking up into the sky, wondering what the world I was going to do, the heads of two men in a canoe came into my view.

Two Men in a Canoe:  “Miss, are you ok?  Would you like us to help you?”
DL: (awkwardly treading the waist deep water) YES!  But wait!  Does that mean I am disqualified?
Two Men in a Canoe:  Well, yes…but if you’re struggling, perhaps we should take you out.
DL: (tears starting to fill up the goggles) I have worked so hard to get here!!  I have to finish.  I have to keep going.  Can you just row next to me, just to make sure I don’t die?
Two Men in a Canoe: Well…umm, there are a lot more people in the race and we have to watch all of them.  Uhh…we can check on you later though…
DL:  (in a very wobbly voice) Ok….thank you?
Two Men in a Canoe: And by the way, you’re floating off course.  You’re going to want to go that way….

The longest swim of my life ensued.  Battling panic, hyperventilation, and being lapped by a group of men swimmers took every single ounce of energy that I had.  Jon and Nancy were forced to watch a floundering woman use a doggie paddle and back float method to complete a swim that took 6 times longer than it should have.

When I finally emerged victorious from the leech infested, waist deep lake I could barely walk.  There were three canoes with men paddling alongside of me, cheering me on.  It was the most cheerleaders I have ever had for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I hobbled over to the transition area to get ready for the bike.  Most people pull on shorts and get biking.  I plopped to the ground, ate a granola bar, and drank a ton of water.  There was no active recovery happening at this point, just relief that I was still alive.

The very hilly bike ride was surprisingly uneventful.  I made good time and even passed some people.  It felt good to not need any supervision to complete this leg of the race.

I entered the run tired, but the finish line was visible.  I was actually going to live through this adventure!  Much to the surprise of my athletic husband, I took off with a fresh burst of energy.  He was so impressed by my sudden energy that he decided to run alongside of me and interview me on video.  His focus was on me and not the street signs that were on the road.  Suddenly he ran head first into one and went down.  Blood was coming from his temple and the medical team was called.

I just kept running.  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  I had already lost 40 minutes in the swim, I didn’t want to lose more time in the run.  I decided that Jon would understand.

Sore, tired, and somewhat demoralized, but almost done!

He was fine and before I knew it, he was running alongside of me again.

Crossing the finish line was one of the most glorious feelings in the world.  I completed a huge feat and lived.  Sure, there was no one else crossing the finish line with me, but who cares?  I finished.

We enjoyed the rest of the hot summer day and watched the professional tri-athletes complete the course.  None of them used the doggie paddle / back float method to complete the swim.

That evening I used a strong soap to wash the ‘803’ off of my arms and calves.  Within about 30 seconds it became very obvious that I should have applied waterproof sunscreen that morning.  I was VERY burnt.  Did you know that sharpies are a great sunscreen? ‘803” was branded into both of my upper arms and calves.  Due to the way they wrote the numbers it actually looked more like ‘BOB’ than ‘803’.

Sunscreen really is a great invention....

The stiffness in my legs, especially my left leg was intense after the race.  The next morning I could barely walk without screaming in pain.  That wouldn’t have been enough to keep me from work, but I couldn’t even put my left heel on the ground and my calf was the size of a small basketball.

This didn’t seem like normal triathlon wear and tear, so off to the hospital I went.

I hobbled into the ER and waited.  Then I continued to wait 6 hours while random people with very random illnesses came in.  Some even came in with buckets of specimens to show the admitting clerk in an effort to gain quicker access to a doctor.  I just looked away and hoped they would go away.

There was concern that I had a blood clot, so I was sent for an ultrasound.  Have I mentioned that I am ticklish?  Screaming out in painful laughter while an ultrasound tech is shoving an ultrasound wand in your leg joint is apparently frowned upon.  I just couldn’t help it.  It was either laugh or cry, so I opted to laugh and laugh quite loudly.

Due to my big mouth I got crutches and a cast, a torn calf muscle, and a summer of strangers asking me, “Who’s Bob?”.

THIS is not size 8 pants!

Honesty really is the best policy.  Next time someone asks me something, I am going to just tell the truth even if it’s as ridiculous as ‘Size 8 pants”.

1. Shock. No one believes it when you casually mention that on your birthday it was -46.1 Celsius, making it nearly the coldest place on the planet that day. AND that you still worked out, went out for lunch with friends, and spent the day shopping. It seems too epic to be real.

2. Boots. You need boots to live here and more than one pair. It is completely practical and rational to have at least 10 pairs of boots to go with all your outfits. I have yet to arrive as I only have 8 pairs. At least living in the arctic gives you good reason to go shoe shopping!

Tsubo, Nine West, Eject, Miss Mooz, Cougar, and London Fly you keep my feet oh so happy and warm!

3. Christmas Pounds. There is no hurry to shed the extra pounds gained over Christmas from eating scads of unhealthy foods while visiting with friends and family. Many layers, large coats, and heavy sweaters are required so you don’t die from exposure.
Is that muffin top 10 Christmas pounds or a bulky sweater…hmmmm….

4. Appreciation. When summer finally comes around there is a deep appreciation for warm weather, the ability to wear a tank top without dying, and sunlight. We are extremely grateful that we don’t have to plug in our cars, wear long underwear under our suits, or go to work and come home in the dark.

5. Winter Sports. Now I am not an outside dweller in the winter, but I married one. Skiing, speed skating, and ice hockey only require sports equipment and either your backyard or a friend’s. Fun times are literally just around the corner. Or for me, just in a coffee shop!

What do you like about dwelling in the arctic?

When my left eye finally cracked open, I saw three blurry numbers glaring back at me.

5:27

Apparently it was time to get up. In a moment of weakness, I had promised a girlfriend that I would meet her at the YMCA at 6:30 to go for an early morning run.

The only part of my body that was able to move was my left arm as it slapped the snooze button with authority.

Eight seconds later I was back into a solid REM cycle.

5:36

The loud voice of my favorite radio personality, Garner Andrews, was suddenly blaring in my ear. In that moment he was no longer my favorite.

I dragged my lazy self out of bed and finally opened both eyes. It wouldn’t do to be late for my early morning run. After all, today was my girlfriend’s first day back from a seven week absence due to injury.

As we ran in the cool -12 Celsius weather we caught up on each other’s lives. We shared the joys, trials, and funny moments since we had last seen each other.

Due to her injury, she was much slower than her usual pace; but it didn’t bother me at all. There have been many times when I was the slower one. The important thing was that we were out running.

You can’t do life alone; it is meant to be run together.

Who do you run the path of life with? Who makes sure you get your lazy self out of bed in the morning? Who are you sharing your life with, no matter what the pace?

When you do, you will find yourself doing things you never thought possible.

He claimed it is ‘fun’.

Most women already know this, but I am going to restate it for those that don’t.

Men are liars.  They lie to get women to do things they want.  In this case, it was yoga.

Upon entering the ‘fun’ yoga studio, I was greeted by bendy people wearing very tight clothing.  I felt like the chubby girl that tries out for cheerleading; awkward, out of place, and not sure what to do next.

While clutching my Pilates mat to my chest, I noticed the lithe yoga people were gathering yoga supplies of blocks, mats, blankets, pillows, cords, and bolsters from a cart on the wall. This was my first real yoga class – no one told me I needed to bring along a yoga checklist!

Luckily the instructor noticed my blank stare and got me all the necessary supplies.

Then the torture began.

While she had us bent up like some sort of contortionist and seated on the floor, she told us to rest our head lightly on the floor in front of us.  I was bending as far as womanly possible and my head was a good two feet from even coming close to the floor.  It was so absurd that I started to giggle.  I had a sense that laughing in the calm, unhurried space of yoga class would be unacceptable so I desperately tried to hold it in.  Unfortunately, the laughter came out in pressured bursts with large amounts of spit.

My uncontrollable giggling was not appreciated.  I quickly sobered up by thinking about sad things like never being able to have chocolate ever again.

She had us try to do things that are completely impossible while saying all manner of words that had more vowels than consonants and at least 12 syllables.  Due to my lack of fluency in the yoga language, I just watched to see what the rest of the class did and desperately tried to mimick their movements.

At the end of class we did some final stretches to ‘completely loosen up’ all our tight muscles.  She led us through a stretch that involved putting your left foot on your right knee, bending into a squat, leaning forward, and then merely doing a handstand to deepen the stretch.  Simple.  Right?

I couldn’t get past step two in the task.  There was no way a pretzel handstand was up next.  There are only so many times a woman should risk her life doing stupid things and this was not one of those times for me!

Yoga is for masochists. It’s an hour and a half of doing torturous things that are impossible for the average woman.

Apparently I fall into this group because I am toying with the idea of going back.

Perhaps it was the sense of satisfaction of not being dead at the end that hooked me.  Who knows?  All I know is that I better keep the giggles under control if I go back!

While I struggled to sit up for the 37^th time, he posed an interesting question.

“What would you pay to wake up tomorrow and have the perfect body?”

Immediately I wondered if the bank would give me a line of credit for such a thing.  Perhaps I could say it was a business venture.  Or I could sell all my shoes…how much would my shoe collection bring on Ebay?  Hmmm….

Right away I realized I would have to sell some organs on the black market to make this dream a reality.

A hundred thousand?  Two hundred-fifty thousand?  What would it be worth? Would you pay more than what your car was worth brand new?

After thinking about it, I don’t think I would pay much at all.

I would wake up being the same exact woman I was on the inside with an outside that was my idea of perfect.  Nothing would change what I dislike about who I am, my confidence, or my fear of chasing my dreams.  I would merely be a very hot woman that has all the same issues, problems, insecurities, and psychoses.

“What would you pay to wake up tomorrow and be confident in who you are?”

That’s the real question.

The wonderful thing is that you don’t have to pay a dime.  You could wake up tomorrow and choose to be satisfied in yourself and know that everything about you is worth enjoying.

Today I am choosing to like everything about myself; even the muffin top.

Being fully you and proud of yourself is gorgeous.

Paying to wake up beautiful is what Hollywood does…and let’s be honest, they really don’t have it together over there.

When I am 100 I want to be able to walk on my own, know who I am without having to be reminded, and laugh until my stomach hurts.

This is why I am torturing myself by going to see my trainer for a near death experience once a week and eating Primal.

Do you know how hard it is to give up everything except meat, eggs, vegetables, fruits, and some dairy?

This means no brownies, chips, mac ‘n cheese, cookies, candy bars, or even popcorn.

My world is officially devoid of all comfort food.

Yesterday I desperately wanted something to ‘crunch’ while watching TV so I ate half a jar of mini dill pickles.  The crunch was satisfying, but the churning in my tummy wasn’t.

During my last training session while trying to run a mile as fast as womanly possible my calves seized.  My left leg ended up at the back of the treadmill clanging around as I tried to keep the conveyor belt from sucking it under.  Luckily I got my right leg off the belt, but it has completely seized as well.  As I fell forward in a semi-panicked state, I managed to push the ‘OFF’ button.

After limping off the treadmill and stretching out, I was told this is a direct result of wearing high heels too often.

My heart nearly broke in two.

I have given up so much already!  My new comfort food is dill pickles people!  There is no way I am giving up my shoes too.

In an act of pure defiance, I purchased a brand new pair of fabulous heels.

They are so fabulous that they almost make up for the lack of comfort food!

I see no reason to NOT wear these.  In fact, I think they just added 2 years onto my life.

It’s socially unacceptable to be honest and say something like: “You know…I just don’t really like you. I don’t think we are going to be friends.”

In the effort to rid myself of ‘Happy Arms’ this year I have started to eat only primal foods. This means I eat fruits, vegetables, nuts, meat, eggs, and small amounts of dark chocolate.

During this endeavor I have met a vegetable that drives me crazy and I just can’t figure out what it is.

Yams. I hate them.

HUGE yams lurking in my kitchen

White potatoes are supposedly bad for you because they turn into sugar as soon as you eat them. So I have turned to yams for a potato alternative. Unfortunately, in my opinion, the yam is the relative that everyone is ashamed of and is only invited to Christmas dinner because everyone feels sorry for them.

They masquerade as a potato, but are so sweet that they cause you to gag.

So I have decided to be honest with all the yams out there. “You know…I just don’t really like you. I don’t think we are going to be friends.”

I have put all the yams in my house where they belong.

Out with the trash!

Primal eating is officially yam-free at my house.

Do you have a yam in your life that you need to be honest with?

These people clog up the YMCA for the first few weeks of January and can be spotted without much work.

They are the people that:

• are wearing brand new, high end workout outfits that strain to contain the muffin tops;
• lug around a water bottle that matches their outfit;
• wander aimlessly and look VERY confused in the weight room while sipping water from their matchy-matchy water bottle; and
• insist on eating a power bar in the stretching area after meandering around the workout area for 45 minutes.

I think getting healthy and in shape is a very noble New Year’s resolution.

This year my resolution is to get rid of my Happy Arms.  What are ‘Happy Arms’ you ask?

Happy Arms – noun.  A jovial arm that cannot help but wave along with a person when they wave.  They always give a second, third, or fourth wave to people and are most happy when a woman wears a tank top.

I think just having a happy face is perfect.  My arms need to learn how to be happy and content on the inside.

In order to do this, I will face the horde of confused New Year’s resolutions at the YMCA and continue to discipline my ‘Happy Arms’ to keep their joy to themselves.

What are your New Year’s resolutions this year?

I like to think Christmas is a time of connecting with family, remembering why the holiday exists in the first place, purchasing and wrapping gifts, and some quiet moments of rest…but let’s have a moment of honesty.  It’s a good excuse to eat everything you know you shouldn’t.

Cookies, candies, chocolate covered anything and everything, cakes, nuts, caramel corn, and pies are lurking all over the place.

A woman who is trying to eat ‘Primally‘ has no hope of success over Christmas unless she has a will of iron.  I forgot to ask Santa for that this Christmas.

Every Christmas my family vows to eat healthy and go for a run together every morning.

I last for one to two days at the most.

Then the sleeping in and sloth-like habits take over from sugar-induced comas.

At this point, we all WANT to be good, but can’t…

DL – Hey guys.  Ummm….are we going for a run today?
Thinner Family Member – Well, we are supposed to…perhaps later?
DL – Yeah.  Sure.  LATER it is.

Then when later comes, I am conveniently busy with a piece of cheesecake and just can’t go for a run.  Shoot!

Every year I get the SAME THING for Christmas – tight pants.

My question is – who ISN’T vowing to go on a diet tomorrow?

PS – I just ate my last *wink* peanut butter and chocolate cookie…

Dear young, skinny chick at the YMCA,

Please don’t flaunt your skinny body in your tight yoga pants while eating deep fried white carbs in the YMCA women’s locker room.  There are those of us that don’t have the metabolism of a cheetah and can’t lounge around and eat bad foods and stay skinny by merely making an appearance at the gym.

I just finished running several miles at an incline and only ate fruits, vegetables, and tuna fish yesterday.

Severely Annoyed,

Donloree

Who eats McDonalds at the gym anyways?  Anyone else see something wrong with this picture?