#WanderlustWednesday - Into the Woods!

Last week on #WanderlustWednesday, I shared how The Husband and I prepared for our first overnight backpacking trip. This week, we're into the woods!

Perhaps you don't remember, but when we first stepped onto the trail we were greeted by this lovely map. This lovely, yellowed, sun-faded map. About the only thing the map was good for was freaking me smooth out.

Friends, if you have not spent much time in your adult life traipsing through the woods, and then you bring your husband and your two sweet puppies out with you, there is much planning that occurs. And much worrying. And much snake bite kit purchasing. And much researching.

I was so ready, you guys -- so ready -- until my eyeballs met the sign announcing that we had just entered "Bear Country."

Nothing good can come from humans and dogs running around in any country designated for bears. I'm just sayin. The sign gave some helpful tips: don't cause a commotion, don't run, don't raise a ruckus, don't breathe.

Basically, don't hang out with bears.

But on we went, bears be damned.

The first thing I noticed as we left the wide grassy area outside the first line of trees was that the trail was much more narrow than I expected. How narrow? Well, let's pretend that you had just spent the day scribbling madly with a green pencil across a piece of paper. And then let's pretend that someone had a magical green pencil erasing eraser and then drew one thin, straight line across all that scribbledy green. The half-white mark left in the eraser's wake? That's the trail.

I was an elephant coming down this trail. My lightweight spaceage boots may have been light on my feet, but they were loud. As the trail became slightly wider (not so wide that two people could walk side by side, mind you -- what do you think this is, a sidewalk?), it also filled with rocks bigger than my head and small downed saplings or large branches from the trees that rose above us. Try as I might, I spent most of my walk tripping, skidding, stumbling, and rolling more than any actual walking.

Aw, a little heart-shaped rock of forest love!

The Husband trudged on ahead of me, as nimble as Robin Hood slipping silently through the forest, his trusty canine companion happily keeping up at his side. When I felt confident enough to take my eyes off the rock-littered trail and look at the forest surrounding us, I couldn't help but smile, slow my pace a bit, and breathe in deeply the sights and smells of the forest.

Of course, every time I fell back, my Grimm would run back and look up at me patiently, waiting until I caught up before he turned and led the way forward again. It did not matter how slow I became or how often he had to stop, he did so over and over again without complaint. There is something very comforting about a dog that will wait on you in the forest. I'm thankful I had him with me.

I alternated between watching my feet, searching for the white and yellow blazes on the trees we were following, and watching for deadly death-bringing snakes of doom in the brush bordering the trail. We trudged forward in a hurry, having left so late in the day. I wanted desperately to make it to Cedar Lake by nightfall.

I've already mentioned in an earlier post how I felt about not making it to my intended campsite. I couldn't bring myself to tell The Husband, and thus reveal my true inner-lameness, but the lake meant oodles of other campers, non-primitive campsites, and the possibility of a privy. Sadly, none of these things were in my immediate future. As the sun began to sink below the tree line, we found ourselves beside a river; an excellent camping spot.

We made the final decision to set up camp before crossing the river, since a big troop of scouts was on the other side and it didn't feel like there was much room on the other side. Although I was disappointed that I wasn't a "good enough" hiker to make it in record setting time to the lake, I warmed up to the riverside camping spot. I took off my hiking boots and let my feet rest in the cold water. It was heaven. The dogs ran into the riverbank, drank their fill of the clear water, and spent their time exploring the nooks and crannies created by exposed roots and slick rocks beside the river.

For dinner, we boiled water and poured it into Mountain House Freeze Dried meal bags, finishing up our tent and sleeping pad setup as we waited for it to be ready. I wasn't sure what to think about freeze-dried meals, but it just took one bite to realize the truth -- they are delicious! Or perhaps after all that work remaining upright on the trail, anything would be delicious. Either way, it was nice to have a full belly before bedtime.

Mmmmm, dinner!

Photo Credit

Night came quickly then, and in what felt like minutes it became impossible to see even a foot in front of my face without my headlamp on. The frogsong rose up from the river, louder than I had ever heard it before.

I was ready to enter the safety of our tent.

Our tiny, two-person, bubble of a tent.

I cannot even begin to explain how narrow this sleeping pad is.

With the two sleeping pads, sleeping bags, and discarded boots at the foot of the tent, there was barely enough room for us. I laid down and couldn't even maneuver myself into my sleeping bag. The Husband quickly fell asleep as I listened to the sounds of nighttime in the forest, which seemed to be much louder than any other camping experience I've been on. The frogs were alarmed, the owls were angry; the coyotes were closing in with each howl, baiting their prey with their terrible laughter. I felt my heartbeat quicken, along with my humiliation.

What kind of strong, independent woman can't even sleep in the woods?

I closed my eyes, convinced I could force myself to sleep.

That's when I heard something -- a large something -- crashing through the branches just outside our tent.

Then, a thick, wet, ground-snuffling grunt.

So close. So impossibly, horribly close.

The dogs growled softly. Lily let out a quick yelp, like a kid trying to sound tougher than they really are.

My eyes popped back open, my hand swinging out to hit The Husband on his side.

I couldn't breathe. I knew we were about to die. I was a child consumed in the middle of a night terror.

I recalled a story of a woman that was hiking alone, who pitched camp for the night. Along came a bear, who grabbed her food and sat down right on top of her tent (which, must I remind you, she was inside of) and had itself a lovely midnight snack before ambling back off into the night.

I prayed for such an easy fate.

I whispered The Husband's name again, grateful when I heard him stir beside me.

"Something is outside," I said, my voice hoarse.

Next week, I'll share all about my midnight forest adventures, and how we nearly didn't make it out of the woods on day 2!

#EveryDayinMay - Wanderlust Wednesday

Go check out Crystal's blog!

Dear Reader, as you know (if you have been paying close attention), The Husband and I have been meticulously planning our trip to Arkansas in July to hike a good portion of the OHT. Things have been purchased, books have been read, foods are being prepared.

One detail I thought would be especially helpful would be to actually go on at least one overnight hike nearby beforehand to test out our equipment, get some more time in my space-age boots, and basically convince myself I won't die whilst wandering about in the woods.

The Husband thought this a grand idea -- mostly because any idea that revolves around being outdoors and away from civilization is about as close to his idea of paradise as possible.

So -- we go!

Where are we going? I'm not sure yet. One possibility I found is the Green Corridor in Ray Roberts Lake State Park. There's plenty of hiking, and it looks like a beautiful place to spend the night, but I don't see the potential for getting away from it all -- no primitive camping, for one thing. I'm really hoping for a place that better mimics the wilderness of the OHT, and I have a feeling that will be difficult to find in Texas. People in the Lone Star State heart their parking lot campsites, yo.

Also, let's discuss this for a moment:

What? Wait. What?!
Photo Credit

I don't even know what kind of snake this is, but it's a snake and just the picture freaks me smooth out. You guys. You guys. I cannot. I cannot even begin to tell you how incredibly terrified I am of this snake situation.

Okay, I know snakes just come with the territory (ha). I get that. They're out there just doing their snake thing, and I'm supposed to scoot around them like a ninja and hope they don't see me.

Except they will.

One website I read helpfully informed me that snakes like to go out at night and have snake parties, so if you're going to be traipsing around in the dark, best take a flashlight and, oh, I don't know, a flame thrower or something, lest ye be mauled by 800 snakes that were just trying to enjoy the nightlife when you walked in and ruined all the fun.

So basically it doesn't matter where I end up, because snakes will definitely be there. It won't keep me from going, and I feel like being out in the great beyond surrounded by certain snake death, and ultimately surviving the dread terror will somehow make me a better person.

Or a dead person.

We'll have to wait and see. And we won't have to wait long, because The Husband and I are headed out to our currently unknown overnight location in just a couple of weeks. I'm actually looking forward to it, above snake paranoia aside. The wilderness is calling, and all that jazz.

#Slice2013 - Day 5 of 31

No Fear. Anyone remember this logo?

I'd like to throw out a call to action that as educators, we live in a No Fear Zone - no matter what. That we hold true to what we know is right and good for learners, and let go of the fear that drives nonsense instruction. It seems these days that everywhere I look, it's fear that is looking back at me.

Fear of The Test.

Fear of The Budget. (or lack thereof)

Fear of The Administrative Expectations.

Instead of fear driving our decisions, why not ask questions and conduct our own research? Why not stand firm on your research-based beliefs?

I became a teacher not because of what I feared, but because of what I believed. And at the core, those beliefs have not changed. Grown, adapted, flourished. But they will not fall away, because they are at the core of who I am. To deny my beliefs is to deny my self. A teacher without an identity is definitely something worth fearing -- but I will not lose that, no matter what.

I believe that all learners have the right to learn at the pace, ability, and style which works best for them. I believe that all teachers have the right to practice their art in the way which best enlightens their learners, because those needs will change from year to year, day to day, and often minute by minute. This is why teaching is more art than science. Different days require different brushstrokes, different mediums. I believe that when I stand in front of a classroom filled with eager minds or sit elbow to elbow with a fragile writer, it is my obligation and my privilege to treat their learning with empathy and a tender touch. I believe that above and beyond any academic requirement, the best thing I can give my learners each day is a sense of purpose and identity.

I believed this 14 years ago when I first stepped into a classroom and I believe it still holds true today.

I will not compromise my core beliefs.

Show me research. Show me proven instructional techniques and brain-based methods that engage learners. Show me a thriving classroom. Then let those facts guide my instruction.

I became a teacher not because of what I feared, but because of what I believed. I refuse to become a fear-based teacher.

I read about what is going on in our country and wonder why. I listen to teachers complain that they are spending time on things they know do not matter in exchange for expectations they do not understand or condone and I wonder why.

Why do intelligent, creative, professional men and women continue to try on shoes that simply do not fit? Who is the Prince Charming they are trying to win over?

Because this is the truth, and it is the only truth that matters: the only person we should be trying to win over is our learners. Young or old. Their succes as humans on this Earth is the only thing that matters. Not tests, not scores, not ratings, not budgets, not programming or any other thing in a school day that fills a day of learning.

Learners matter.

Learning matters.

People, infant to elderly, they matter.

And our beliefs? Those matter.

If we hold true to what matters, we can't possibly go wrong.

No matter what.

SOL Tuesday: WTMNBN, Part 3

This post started here, moved forward here, and has landed rather quietly on the doorstep of today's Slice of Life post. I hadn't intended to share this today, but it seemed to want to be heard. Sometimes, you just have to follow the words home again.

My last WTMNBN post left my story ten years ago, in 2002. I struggled with my self image and my weight for the next 4 years, shedding and gaining the same 20-30 pounds -- as if my body were part of some twisted bungee jumping adventure. Always bouncing around, never stable.

In 2006, my mom flew in from Illinois for a visit.  It was a normal Mom visit -- filled with food, food, and more food. Mom loves the following things more than most things in life: onion dip, M&M's, Coca-Cola, bread & butter, and Taco Bell. Or McDonald's. This sounds cruel, but it isn't intended to be. I love my mom dearly. It's her lifestyle that makes me cringe.

She woke me early in the hours just before dawn on the day she was supposed to return home. She was in tears, her body hunched over, her arms wrapped around her belly. It didn't take long for me to realize this was more than an ordinary stomach ache. As the sun came up, we headed to the hospital.

My mom was rushed into a room that was roughly the size of a walk-in closet. Honestly, there are probably closets out there larger than her room at the hospital. There was nothing on the walls, no counters or cabinets, just stark white floors, walls, and ceilings. A rounded bench jutted out from one wall; as if seat and wall had been molded together from a single piece of Play-doh.

Later, the nurses told us that they had been out of rooms, so my mom was placed on a gurney in their holding room for drunks and other "crazies" that can't be trusted in a normal room. It made for an interesting experience, to say the least.

I watched my mom sleep through the next several hours, only waking to request something to drink or a warmer blanket. She was pale and weak; her face tired, her body slack. I had no idea why she was in so much pain, why her digestive system had blood in it, or what the possible diagnosis would be.

I was scared.

Hospitals have always petrified me. I've spent way too much time in emergency rooms, outpatient clinics, overnight stays -- you name it, I've been there. To this day, every time I walk into any type of medical environment I have to fight back a wave of nausea.

But this was more than my typical hospital-paranoia. I spent hours that day worrying that I might lose my mom.

After 10 hours of sitting and waiting and waiting and sitting and letting my mind wander rampantly through the land of the delirious and back, we found out my mom was suffering from diverticulitis -- a completely treatable disease caused by her years of atrocious eating habits.

I remember a few things vividly from that day:

1. I was angry. Watching her lie on the hospital bed, I envisioned the same situation years into the future -- with my own kids sitting by my bedside. Me, missing out on graduations and weddings and grandchildren -- all because food was more important than family, my own health, or my future.
2. This thought crept around my brain, and refused to leave: every choice we make to eat foods that are from a fast food place, too fatty, or fried... every time we choose to sit on the couch all night instead of being active... every choice we make that favors flavor over fitness -- is also a choice for a long, slow, painful suicide.

I stopped over eating. I stopped indulging in Ben & Jerry's. I stopped drinking soda. Stopped smoking. Stopped the secret McDonald's stops on the way home from class at night. 

I started walking. Every day. I started researching heart healthy, nutrient rich recipes. I started truly taking care of myself, for the first time in my life.

I invested in the art of being me.

By 2008 I was healthier, stronger, and slimmer than I had ever been. My 35 year old body put my 17 year old body to shame.

And I wasn't doing it for vanity. I didn't want the skinniest, prettiest body. I didn't place an emphasis on how attractive I was.

I wanted to live. Plain and simple. For a long, long time.

The measure of my success was found in the energy I had, the laughter I shared with my kids, the ease with which I could run and play outdoors with my nieces and nephews.

If something was known to be unhealthy, I didn't let it near me. It wasn't difficult. I thought of my mom, lying in that terrible hospital room, I looked at my children, who deserved a mom that cared more about them than she did about food.

And I just did it.

It would be a perfect fairy tale if that were the end of my story. It is, after all, a beautiful "happily ever after".

But there's more to this story.

Today just isn't the day to tell it.

A Wild Imagination

"I'll probably vomit, you know.”


I say this to my husband, avoiding eye contact.

I had just shared my student’s comments about publishing my writing with my husband, who just nods and smiles knowingly, as he's been trying to get me to send things out for publication for months. His smirk of a smile irritates me, and I roll my eyes.

"You don't know how hard it is!" I say. "There's research! And you have to write query letters and find the right people to send it to! It doesn't just happen overnight!"

And still he smiles.



Stupid smiling husband who thinks he knows everything.

And it's not as if I've never looked into it. I follow author blogs! I read agent and publisher websites! I know things, for goodness sakes!

I've been to the website for the SCBWI so many times I have their logo burned into my retinas. I haven't joined, because, you know, then I'd feel like I should go to the critique groups and then I'd have to actually share my writing with people.

Yes! With people! Is there anything more horrifying than that?

He doesn't even look at me.

"At least it'd give you something new to write about."

"I mean it! And I'd cry! I'd go to share my stuff, start crying, throw up, and die of embarrassment. Right there, on the floor of the super awesome writer's meeting."

He sort of half glances at me.

"It could happen," I say. I force my smile to rein itself in. Even I know I'm being ridiculous, but if he sees me smile, he wins this round.

He sets his book in his lap, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "It could happen, I guess. They might kick you out for that. I probably would. But then you could write a new book about all the mean people, and it would be so good they would buy it and you could laugh at them!"

He wins. I can't help it; I'm laughing even though I don't want to.

But this publishing thing is just a fiasco. Have you ever seen those TV shows where some crazy dude is trying to solve a murder on his own, so he has approximately 800 yards of yarn strung back and forth all over a room connecting one newspaper clipping to another, with maps and headlines and big bold circles around the important bits?

Yeah. That's how I feel when I peek out from behind the curtain and view the big bad world of publishing.

Beginning to Wonder

Today I (finally) picked up a copy of Wonder by R.J. Palacio. There's been such a buzz about it online recently that I've been dying to get to a store and dive in. We've talked about it in class; the kids are super eager to read it and compare it to Out of my Mind. Because of all the hubbub surrounding it, I expected greatness. What I did not expect was to be pulled nearly 30 years into my past, sucking back tears within the first few chapters.

I begin each year with my new batch of fourth grade students the same way -- the story of my very own first day of fourth grade.

Beyond any other year in school, it's my most memorable first day. It stands out above the beginning of middle or high school, and is even more vividly stamped in my brain than the first day of school in Soesterberg, The Netherlands. And being in a brand new country was pretty impressive, so I think that speaks loudly about my 4th grade memories.

Fourth grade was a year of new things: new house, new school, new state (we had just moved from Florida to Nevada); oh yeah, and one other thing -- new face.

Perhaps I left that detail out. On our family road trip that lead us to my dad's new assignment at Nellis Air Force Base, we were in the type of wreck that leaves your car flipped over on the side of the highway, resembling a small burnt-up toaster.

Fortunately, we all lived through it.
Unfortunately, half my face tried to fall off in the process.

So I began my new school as a pale, sickly, stitched up, bald spotted (head injuries are the worst, man), fraidy cat with dark circles under my eyes. I was pretty much a fourth grade zombie. That might be a point in my favor today, but back then zombies weren't exactly in.

This is the image in my head on each first day of school with my own students: staring through the window on the classroom door; one hand poised to grab the doorknob and walk in, one foot ready to tear through the school and run all the way home.

I actually love sharing this story with my students, because I think it tells them a few things about me --

1. I know what it feels like to be different.
2. My first goal every year is to make sure everyone feels safe socially and emotionally. All that other crazy academic stuff will fall into place after that.
3. I'm real.

They always respond the same way -- shocked that other kids were so mean to me, amazed that I look "normal" now, and ready to share their own scary school stories. It's a great way to start -- we get all the first day of school anxiety off our chest and happily move on.

It's an important story to share, and I'm glad there are authors like Sharon Draper and R.J. Palacio willing to write it all down.  I've tinkered with my own kid-sized Frankenstein story through the years, told in various ways, wondering if it's a story worth finishing.

And I think the first few chapters of Wonder have given me my answer.

new test, no fear

This year I keep hearing the same things over again:
Standards have changed!
The new STAAR test is more rigorous!
Writing must happen across the curriculum!
There's no time for the fluff writing that used to happen!
FEAR! BLAME! GUILT! WORRY!

Uh, okay... so my 4th grade students have the unique experience of being the first to take this new, highly rigorous writing assessment at the end of the year.

So they are expected to write two short pieces instead of one longer piece.

And one of these compositions will be an expository piece.

Oh, and don't forget the stamp across every thing we're told this year, "No. Fantasy. Writing. At. All. Period. No. Matter. What."

At district meetings, there is nail biting and fretting and eyes filled with horror.

At faculty meetings we look at graphs and bullet points and pie charts on the importance of rigor and excellence and content area writing.

And at each meeting, I grit my teeth and swallow down the words I want to say. No, let's amend that. I swallow down the words I want to scream:

Who cares?!

I mean, in all seriousness, why should this test alter what we've already been doing? My students write what they want, how they want, and whenever they want. Along the way I offer them learning experiences that hone their skills and broaden their craft.

The point is, if you lead your students to love learning, it doesn't matter what tests get thrown at them. A master learner has no reason to fear being asked to show what they know. We're delighted to share our knowledge.

We have already been writing expository pieces, to explain our learning across the curriculum, persuasive pieces, letters, poems, narratives, and God forbid, the poor stepchild of the 2011 writing year, fantasy. When they have free time, they'd rather write than read or even draw. When I offer writing opportunities outside of school, many of them jump at the chance to participate.

If we are already doing what is best for students, the introduction of a new rigorous state test is not a reason to freak out and board the windows against the demons of free thought.

Let the STAAR come, I say, and we'll show it what we're made of.

Share n' Scare

I really have to wonder who the heck came up with the whole "sharing is caring" slogan.  Definitely not the emotionally stunted people I grew up around.  "Sharing is Scary" is a much more apropos slogan.  Even kids know the real deal.  How many kids have you ever seen that waltz right up to someone, hand over their favorite Barbie, Hot Wheel, or video game, and say, "Hey man, I care, therefore I share."

Nope.  Not one.  And you wanna know why?

Because kids don't say "therefore" dude.  Seriously?  Sharing is scary.

Granted, the time with my unbelievably awesome new friends with the National Writing Project made sharing much easier.  But I'm not sure even they understood how gargantuan a thing it was for me to share with them.

The first time I read something I had written, I could feel my heart beating in my eyeballs, for Pete's sake.  My. Eyeballs.  I lost my breath a couple times and had to stop reading.  Okay, I know, I'm just more than a little insanely freaked out about talking in front of people and even moreso when it comes to talking about something so personal as words I've strung together into some semblance of a poem or story.

In fact, reading to my NWP peeps was the first time in all of my odd little adventures through adulthood that I had ever read my work to a group of adults.  Kids?  No sweat.  My classroom is a completely different story (harhar).  I can write down just about anything and they're ooh'ing and ahh'ing as if I just completed a Pulitzer Prize winning masterpiece.  And we have fun.  We play with words, we're all learning together, I tell them.  I make it a point to create an environment where risk-taking is looked forward to, because we're learning.  We're growing.

But outside the eternal experimental playground that is my classroom?  No dice.  I've just never been very good at opening up and letting people see what's on the inside.

A few writerly friends have seen the things I deem worthy of sharing, mostly pieces that have zero autobiographical influence.  This was much easier when I wrote nothing but fantasy.  It's hard for people to pick out the veins of your own life that color a story when it's smothered in fairies and magic and folk song.  But the personal stuff?  The --I just bled my heart onto this paper and it's full of demons and disasters so please respond KINDLY, Dear Lord, whatever you do, or I may have an aneurism and die right here in front of you-- that stuff?  Yeah.  That doesn't typically make it to anyone else.  Safer to keep the boogey man tucked away from innocent eyes.

There is one exception to this rule: The Husband.  I have no idea how I lucked out in this department, but this man knows me inside out and upside down and somehow, he still adores me.  I absolutely don't deserve it, he's much better at the whole marriage thing than I could ever dream to be, yet I keep working at it, thinking that eventually I'll somehow be able to show him how much he means to me.  And since he knows me, and isn't (hugely) freaked out by all my fun little neurotic issues, he is the one person in the world I can trust, no questions asked.

So he gets to hear (lucky him!) all the writing that I would typically save for myself.  The crazy, wound-up, gut-wrenching, painful stuff.  The hopeful, romantic, dreamy, mushy stuff.  And everything in between.

You'd really think he'd stop responding so well in hopes that maybe I'd stop reading to him so constantly.

But each time, he listens, he advices, he laughs (and sometimes, I actually catch him a little teary eyed -- we're just going to pretend that it's from great emotional response and not bad writing), and most of all, he inspires.  He motivates.  He pushes me to keep going, to keep trying, to just get it all out on paper.

I've never had that before.  A champion.  Someone in my court, no matter what, come what may, all in, no looking back.

So pardon me if I gush.  Forgive me for my sentimentality.  Excuse, if just this once, that I'm all googly eyed and giggly.

Because everyone should be this fortunate.  Everyone should have someone that will stand right next to them, pick out all the thorns, rub away the pain, and nudge them to keep moving forward.

I hope you do.  You deserve it.

Sorry, Dad.

I'm driving to work.
I'm in bed late at night, laptop open, working on a school project.
Sitting on the couch, watching some mindless tv show.
Pushing a grocery cart through the store, alternating between speed-shopping and contemplating ramming my cart into everyone in my way.

It doesn't matter what I'm doing.

When my phone rings, and the name "Dad" glares at me from the screen, I always feel the same.

A sucker punch to the gut.
The air rushes from my lungs.
Suddenly, I feel as if I may either pass out, empty the contents of my stomach onto the nearest (hopefully) empty receptacle, or both.
And the guilt.  The horrible, nagging, heart-wrenching guilt that follows as I watch the call pass, listen to the voicemail alert, and slip the phone back into my pocket.

One day I may regret this.  Sometimes I watch my phone sadly, wondering if he's calling to say he's sick, something's wrong, he needs me.

But for now, all I can hold onto is this small degree of separation, this minute piece of a barrier between alienation and the emotional onslaught that will most definitely hit us like a tsunami the next time we speak.

Promises are meant to be kept

Although I'm not particularly happy with the template, at least I'm up and running. This was a main goal of mine for the year -- to stop facebooking my life to death with one-line blatherings about my current state of mind and start thinking more about my words, to start writing more than just yipping into the night like a dog begging for attention.

In attempting to decide what all miscellany to include on this blog, I wandered across my flickr account, which is rather sad and barren of any activity in the last year or so. However. However, however, however ... seeing all those photos from my (failed) 365 days of self portraits, taken while I was wowing myself at the gym with my awesome personal trainer, made me realize how unhappy I am with my current state, or lack thereof, of fitness.

I'm not sure why it is so frustratingly difficult to plunge back into the deep end and stop eating like I have the metabolism of a marathon runner. I'm tired of beating myself up over snacking on junk, and irritated at myself for not leaving it all at the gym like I used to.

The truth is, I'm happiest when I spend an hour at the gym each day and eat like I'm training for the freaking Olympics. It's my zen. An odd zen, sure. But whatever, it's mine.

So. No more excuses. No more, "Oh, it's just one day off the gym, one more snack I have no reason to be eating."

I have all the knowledge and resources of months with my trainer, more willpower than should be humanly possible, and enough strength to get through anything. Why am I wasting what so many people wish they had?

The dread plague seems to finally be wearing off, and I did actually make it to the gym the day before I fell into a three day snotty slumber. The grueling effect on my legs from my one day at the gym is a constant reminder of how far I've fallen. Tomorrow I will return to the gym, tiny notebook of uber-routines in hand, and I will not --I repeat-- will not, let myself eat anything that will sabotage my goals.

There are too few days in life to squander them on feeling sorry for myself. I've done this before, I can certainly do it again. Who knows? In a year, I might just be walking across the stage flashing poses and flaunting my muscles for all to see. At my best, this was becoming a very real goal, but my fear of being on stage in front of the world made me skitter away from it.

But if this is the year for shedding my chameleon... if this is the time when I finally drop all pretense and stand in the raw and let my true self show? I can't think of a better way to do it.

It's time to start researching shows. And perhaps invest in some anti-anxiety meditation techniques!