Happy to Be Alive...

It's funny the things you remember.  I was out riding my bike, and it was seriously cold.  I remember my itchy wool cycling socks (mainly because I never bothered to change them in the flurry of activity.) I remember the sound of the nurse's voice, and that it was somewhere around one...or maybe two in the afternoon when I got the call.  I remember hearing my dad's ringtone, and thinking I'd call him back in a few minutes, after I finished my ride.  But instead, I de-clipped, pulled into a park, and called his number back.  A woman named Claudia answered and said that she was a nurse, and she was with my parents, whom she just watched roll their car across the interstate three times. I remember that the world stopped.  She put them on the phone.  Dad, predictably, said "We're going to be ok. I think." And Mom babbled incoherently.  She was the one about whom we worried. 

I met them at the hospital.  I dug all their belongings out from the three feet of mud that was on the inside of their car.  Dad had an earful of mud, and Mom had a cut on her foot that required a few stitches.  And they were fine. Really, beautifully fine. I have a whole theology about the hand of God now. 

That was five years ago. New Year's Eve Eve, 2008.  We still celebrate every year.

But maybe it changed us all in some way, to know that in the blink of an eye, all things could've turned out wildly different. Priorities shifted, and "stuff"--whatever it was that seemed so important-- ceased to matter.  What we clung to was what made us  happy, what made memories, what filled our breaths with as much life as possible. 

A lot of people make New Year's Resolutions. ( I set intentions).  But on New Year's Eve Eve, I remind myself what it means to be alive, and I promise anew to celebrate that life with all I have. Life is fleeting and unpredictable, but I remind myself that when my life is spent, I want to be too. I say special prayers of thanksgiving on this day, not just that my parents' story turned out unexpectedly and miraculously well, and not just that we have something to celebrate.  But also that we do, celebrate.  We celebrate wildly and boldly.  We do it by living fully. 

Mischief Managed...

My mom passed a lot of great things on to me: enthusiasm, creativity, Wadsworth curves.  She tried to pass a love of having all the things organized on to me.  That one didn't take.  Well, to be truthful, I love all the things being organized.  I just don't have any idea how to make that fairy tale a reality.

So this year, perhaps I gave my mom the thing she has always secretly wanted: I asked her (begged her, pleaded, made the sad puppy dog face... ok, no not really... she seemed at least a little bit delighted by the prospect) to help me clean and organize.  She smiled, made a plan, and marched off in search of plastic containers.  And she pulled out everything from my kitchen.  No cubbard, cabinet or other hidey hole for my mess went untouched. Even the countertops were stripped of their adornments  clutter.  Even my refrigerator was decrumbed, and de-leftovered. (And umm... degrossed. I kind of deserve a bless her heart award?) Bonus: I found a lot of things I didn't know I had--cuts down on my grocery shopping "necessities"! And then she managed my bathroom area, which was way beyond making me crazy.  Meanwhile, my dad, who doesn't love organizing, but doesn't mind deep cleaning make my sinks and floors and stove sparkle.  (And, I sent them out unattended and they home with plush bath mats and those super fabulous gel mats for the kitchen. WIN!)

Turns out maybe they gave me the gift I've always wanted: to be able to really rest in my space, and to know where my stuff is.  But maybe the bigger gift is that suddenly I feel unsqashed and creative and relaxed.  Now that I can see all my spices and know what I actually have, I am dying to cook.  It's admittedly been a while-- and maybe that's why I didn't.  I don't like to cook in a mess.  I'm optimisic that once I finish holidaying I will be ready to cook.  (And wow, now I even have refrigerator space  in which to keep things.)

I am still pondering my New Years' Intentions (I don't really do resolutions), and they often fall into shapes of a word.  One of them I think will be Breathe.  (I'm also considering write and create and simplify.)  For me, breathing means being comfortable not only in my skin (cheers, 2013... made a good start on that one!) but also being comfortable in my space.  It means, at least partly, a place for everything and everything in its place. I think "breathe" is a starting place for my other intentions, and I think the progess that happened the last few days is a good start on "breathe".

Look ma, Mischief Managed!

For Bella the Wonder-dog, "Breathe" means her new (pink, no less) Thundershirt, which has made her a completely new dog.  She's cool, calm, and collected.  Score one for the grandparents!

Public Figure

When I was ordained I took vows: That I trusted in Christ, that I believed the scriptures, that I accepted the doctrines of the Reformed Tradition, etc.  Those are the ones that I said outloud.  But it turns out that I took some others that I shouldn't have.  I seem to have vowed that I would forget my gender all together, and be as vanilla as I could. I began wearing pants and suits and skirts down to my ankles--and all quite baggy.  If I wore makeup, it was very soft and neutral.  My hair was a long, frizzy mess that was anything but spunky.  I have always had a thing for fun shoes, but other than that, I wore very few things with any personality at all.

Preachers of the PC (USA) variety very often wear a robe when they preach--so that helped even more.  I did finally get a "girl" robe-- that was a little more tailored for my shape than was my previous one-size-fits-all-get-et-done robe.  But still, I was able to hide sufficiently.  Being a preacher's kid turned preacher, I just always always wanted to be afforded the same luxuries that were given to my dad: to just preach, without having to defend my calling.  But I worked so hard at being  a preacher who happened to be female, that I forgot that I was indeed a female preacher. (You know, aside from lovely stoles and coordinating, liturgically appropriate footwear!)

Fast forward five years and a lifetime. I've lost 57 lbs from my heaviest weight, and gained a spunkiness that I thought I'd lost forever. I've found a desire to be real and authentic, and to stand in my own (admittedly fun) shoes as I walk through life. I've cut my hair quite short, and I am starting to wear clothes that fit my shape. Most days, I make it out of the house with my hair (mostly) done and makeup on my face.  I don't wear tennis shoes to work anymore.

But tonight, all my notions about living fully into my identity as a fun, fearless, fabulous female pastor were taxed.  I was doing a wedding at the church, and every Southern girl knows that a wedding that occurs after 5 p.m. requires a bit of formality. It just felt all wrong to wear my official go to preacher garb suit-- which now fits me about as well as a trash bag.   I guess I could've found something equally as dowdy, but I just couldn't make myself do it.  Especially after talking to some fun church ladies and learning that they were planning on wearing cocktail attire.  I took stock of who was likely to be in attendance, and realized that it would be a fun crowd. I consulted my wonderful group of clergy women friends, and posed the question: What's a girl to do? The communal wisdom was that I should "Wear the dress and cut a rug!" and "have the fun" and "wear it and own it" and "wear spikey heals and great earrings and pearls".  Or as one said, "Would be rude not to wear it and rock it."  (And this is why every girl pastor needs a group of girl pastors to ask serious questions...they rock.)

So I did. It was conservative and tasteful with no body parts hanging out, but it was form fitting-- a had a just-shy-of-conservative slit up the side. (And worth noting: the dress was the one I wore to my senior high prom.)  And I wore dangly, sparkly earrings and red lipstick, and strappy sandals to show off my sparkly red toenail polish. I felt a little strange, but I felt good in my body.

There are parts of my body that I still don't love.  I still have a pooch and jiggly arm fat that keeps waving after the rest of me stops.  But I also have collarbones, and muscles, and a waist,  and ankles.  I'm not yet where I want to be, but tonight, that wasn't my thought. Tonight, I wasn't a girl trying to hide.  Once the service was done, and the robe came off, I was just Kim: the girl lucky enough be to comfortable in her own skin and have fun with people she loves.

I always knew being a preacher would make me a public figure.  I just never knew there'd come a point where I didn't mind having a figure... in public.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

My body is showing signs of overexertion (again...thanks, body.) I pulled a muscle (or twelve?) in my back, and strained my shoulder.  And some other TMI-ish sorts of things.  Long story short, I'm grounded from the gym until further notice. And making friends with ice and Advil and heating pads. 

But come four thirty or so, my body is ramped up and ready to conquer the world.  Or, at least the gym.  This time last year, I was about to beg for days off from the gym so I could get everything done. Now, I don't know what to do with myself.  I'm antsy and I miss it. I want to be with those who have become my people. I want to come home completely spent and crawl into bed. I eat better when I go to the gym and don't crave sugar. I'm nicer and more productive.  The truth is that on many days, the gym is the thing I most look forward to. 

I was off from the gym for two and a half weeks due to illness.  At least my body understood that, and I didn't have the energy to fight.  But I feel perfectly well, so I'm having to fight to do what's best for me.  Silly voices in my head are saying dumb things like "If you go to the gym early enough, He-who-trains will never know." 

Who is this person who is fighting to go to the gym, and threatening to do it even though I know my body is saying no? Apparently, the gym has become part of who I am.  I never thought I'd see the day when a few days off from the gym would feel like more of a curse than a blessing. 

A Year...

Funny how some dates stick in your head. Sometimes random ones, sometimes significant.  Some of them are dividing lines that will one day mark off your life in chapters.  November 20, 2012 was a Tuesay-- three days after my birthday.  Ordinary to everyone else.  But it was the day my life began to change, the day when I admitted to myself that I wasn't who or how I wanted to be, the day when I realized I wanted so much more.

It was the day that I not only made a commitment to myself, but I got some help to make sure I knew the victory of success. I've made commitments in this area before, but when the things got tough, I quit. On November 20, I started an amazing and wild and frustrating journey toward being healthy.  Looking back, the other times proved to be false starts, but this one took.  Here's my post from That Day I started working with a trainer.  I committed myself to at least showing up, for at least three months.   I've never looked back.

In a year, I've:

• made my health a priority. I say no to other things so I can go to the gym.  I don't eat something simply because it's offered or because it's the polite thing to do. 
• dropped 35 pounds and 4 sizes 
• gained confidence.  My shoulders still slouch, but it's not because I'm trying to hide myself.  The confidence I've found has spilled onto everything else.
• learned to eat what my body needs for fuel, and how to healthfully indulge cravings without sabotaging my progress
• fought a 6-month hormonally induced plateau, and known the grand feeling of perseverance
• managed not to kill He-who-trains, and most days, even thank him for pushing me.  I've learned (mostly anyway) to check my ego and to actually let him teach me.
• Rehabbed my knee that's been problematic for now half of my life.  I've gone from crying when I walked to running and squatting.  (As a reward, I get to do leg days that increase my vocabulary. Still trying to decide if this is progress!)
• learned my way around the gym, and built a community of friends there. I'm no longer intimidated.  I can't lift as much as the fellas, but I know that I have a place in the gym.
• quit being as camera shy.  I used to really hate having my picture taken.  Now I will sometimes even pose.  And maybe even smile. 
• stopped needing my inhaler. I think I've used it once in the last year, and that was from a chemical smell, not exercise.
• gotten off the diet hamster-wheel.  I don't try every fad that comes along.  I quit wasting my money on gimmicky equipment or the "right" waterbottle. I don't ferociusly rip out workout plans from magazines. 

Seems to me, fitness experts and life coaches and generally smart people are all about goals.  I can see value in that.  So here are some of mine for the coming year, both big and small (and in no particular order)

• Be able to do a pull-up. (Or lots.) I've never ever been able to do one.
• Reach a goal weight of 135 lbs. Or less.  But that's a starting point.
• Return to cooking at home regularly, using healthy and whole foods. 
• Master the concept of intensity. Be able to leave it all at the gym on a regular basis.
• Get to the point that my form is so consistently good that all He-who-trains can say is "those are perfect."
• Run a 5k in 24 minutes.  Pick out a half marathon, and begin training for it.
• Learn to stand up straight-- even if it means focusing a lot of attention on my weak back muscles. 
• Be more faithful in blogging my journey.  One day I'm going to want to remember. 

Has the year been everything I hoped? No.  I only lost about half of what I expected to in a year.  It was a struggle, and some of that was on me.  I wasn't ready to wear a bikini at the beach.  But still, the year has probably been the most life changing one I've ever known.  My date of birth is November 17, 1981. The date I decided it mattered was November 20, 2012.  So... a cupcake in celebration! Maybe that's the biggest change of all: last year, it wouldn't have been a virtual cupcake.

And... just for fun.  Here's a truly horrifying "Before" (near my heaviest I think, in 2009) and much more fun "After" (taken last weekend.)

Going Streaking

Hmmm... bet that title got your attention.  Rest assured--that's not what I'm about to do.  It's kind of cold for that, anyway.

I had a minor freakout this morning as I looked at the calendar, trying to schedule two lunch dates and a visit.  There just aren't any holes in my calendar.  It's overwhelming-- the "stuff" of this time of year.

Being a preacher means this is my manic season.  I've never fared especially well, though last year I did better than other years. I just started my quest to a healthier life (yeah, that was a brilliantly timed plan.) I only missed one or two workouts.  I didn't go nuts on food.  I made better choices.   I survived until I had an open house-- and when I didn't throw the leftovers away, I found myself grazing on them.  One thing led to another.  I said yes when I should've said no.  I was exhausted and craving sugar to comfort my stressed brain.  By the first of the year, I was knocked-down sick for over a week.   Maybe it was two? Last Advent was an exercise in wagon-falling-off, and I just felt a little miserable.

I did it to myself.  Frustratingly, I know better. Every year I make commitments to myself to take extra care of my body and spirit, but I don't follow through.  I get sick-- every. single. year.

This year, I recognize that I have a lot going on. I'm smart enough to see that I can't change most of it.  But I'm also determined that I'm not going to have to spend all of January recovering from a poorly handled December.  I'm not going to make hard and fast commitments (except one--getting there! Patience already!) to doing or not doing.  But here are my aims:

• Practice saying no.  Hard for a people pleaser to do, but a good discipline some times.
• Quit eating out-- or at least drastically reduce it.  It's a little about the money, and the health aspects, but it's more about the opportunity to eat good food that feeds more than my stomach.  I'm tired of restaurants right now anyway.  It will be inconvenient, and I'll have to do some planning and preparation.  But I'll be happier in the end.
• Go streaking.  (This one I'm making a commitment, not an aim.) I was reading Runner's World and it talked about a trend that's become a tradition to many. (I guess along the lines of No-Shave November, but having mountain man legs never appealed to me, so I'm not sure.) It's the Holiday Streak.  The idea is that every day, Thanksgiving through New Years, you pledge to run (or walk) at least one mile every day. I saw this several years ago, and wanted to, but got too busy. I think I've actually considered it for several years in a row, but always drop the ball and never get around to starting it. I almost skipped over it again, but this year, it seems important.  I don't think it will be about trying to sneak in some exercise-- after all, I am in a differenct place this year, and the gym is just part of my life.  Going is a given, and I'll make it fit. But I want to do this as a matter of mindset, of reminding myself that I'm worth it--that my self care impacts not only me, but those I love, and not only now, but in the future too.  I may not be doing a lot of runs because of the leg workouts I'm doing, but the way I figure it, even a slow mile could be a gift.  (Maybe I'll make them intentionally slow?) That's twenty minutes of time just for me.  (Making that a rule: no email checking, text reading or call answering during that time.) That's a mile of looking around and breathing fresh air and making my doggie smile.   I think I'm going to document each day with a picture on my blog.  Getting pedicures or reading books by the fire is more than I can do to take care of myself right now, but I am worth twenty minutes a day.  I'm going streaking! 

"Get up, Trinity!"

"What will the Pudgy Parson have to say about this workout?" I'm pretty sure he was sneering in an I-told-you-so way, but I was too busy trying to keep my lunch inside my body.  And also trying to resist the urge to kick him...hard.  But seeing as I was in no position to run away, namely because I ceased to have control over my legs, I just made my aforementioned Passing-a-cactus face and did my best to ignore him. Also the lunch thing was keeping me busy.

 I knew it was going to be bad.  Any time he-who-trains wants to make a point, he makes a point. My ability to use my limbs in the next three days is not a concern. He will neither push me, nor let me push myself to the point of injury--he's watching closely.  But he sure isn't going to let me hang out in my comfort zone either.  This is why I pay him the big bucks.

  He's tolerated my running. He has said relatively little when he learned how many of his running rules I was breaking, and how often.  I (stupidly) kept telling him how well my knees were doing, that I wasn't having to ice or Advil, that I kept signing up for 5ks (and wasn't planning on stopping.)  I also (again, stupidly) let him read my blog on intensity. And I asked him for this, to give me more, because what I was doing wasn't enough. (Really, really, stupid...)

But apparently, if my knees were fine to run, they were also strong enough to squat.  And we're not talking the half-squats that most gym-goers do (yup, got that lecture.) We're talkin bad dance moves low.  And we're not talking just squats, because a leg party just wouldn't be complete without also doing the leg press, and lots and lots of set-your-legs-on-fire calf work.

I survived the He-who-trains-death-by-squats leg day... for 22 minutes. I'm not positive I will be able to get off the couch tomorrow-- which is unfortunate since, being a preacher, people notice if I don't show up on Sundays.  On the downside, I thought I might actually die.  On the upside, I "got" to practice intensity.  And my knees were fine.  Apparently, this is what I've been working toward for the last year--because this is what leg days are supposed to look like.  Funny, I thought I was working toward being a 135lb She-Ra, but you know, having quads as big as a linebacker's is good too.

There's a scene in the move, The Matrix,  where the female protagonist, Trinity, is being chased by agents. She falls down and looks at the door, and says, "Get up, Trinity.  Just Get Up!" Some times you have to say that to yourself.  Sometimes outloud.   Today, that scene played in my mind over and over.  It will play again tomorrow as I try to walk. It will play next time I do that workout.  It will play until I don't need it anymore.   But, then again, when will I ever not need that scene? Isn't life just an exercise in getting up, of looking inside and drawing out just a little more than you thought you had?

I wish I had more than 22 minutes in me.  I'm disappointed.  But it's been a long time since I've worked that hard in the gym-- and having done so felt good.  I left it all in the gym (except my lunch, which I kept with me.)  I needed the reminder.  I won't need it again soon.

Get up, Trinity.  Just Get UP!



P.S. Assuming I can still walk, one day I'm gonna be able to wear this shirt... sadly, I might actually wear it. In public. With Spandex.