Return of Saturn

I've always been the sort of person to just go after what I wanted. I was the first girl in my high school to participate in a male-dominated sport. The first girl in my CIF division, even! I scored the opportunity to co-host a popular radio show in a major market with my favorite radio personality. (Even if it was for just one night!) When I became interested in a guy, I asked him out. And, I didn't let the fact that he was a real-live rock-n-roll star stop me. I became a vet-tech and was assisting with surgeries before I was 18. If there was something I wanted, I figured that with enough heart, persistence, and determination, I'd get it.

Then, something happened. In my second year of college I found myself in need of a job. Attempting to be somewhat pragmatic, I decided I'd look in my future career field so that I could gain some experience along the way. The only problem was: I wasn't sure what my future career field was. I had no idea what I wanted to be when I grew up. Rather, I did know, but it suddenly seemed incredibly impractical. I'd always had a passion for medicine, whether it involved people or animals. But, while I enjoyed--and even excelled at--science, I lacked the confidence to get there. So, that's when I found myself floating along like plankton in the ocean.

Through the job line at my university, I found a job in [unnamed helping profession.] (Thanks, Feral Mom) The job entailed working with kids, which I not only loved, but was skilled at. This led to my finally declaring a major: psychology. A field I had never intended to study. I graduated college with a whole lot of luck. There were many lectures I never attended, many chapters I never read, and many projects that I didn't start until the last minute. "D means degreee!" I would chant to my friends.

It's been nearly 10 years since I checked that box to declare my major. I stayed in [unnamed helping profession] (thanks, Feral Mom) And even got a masters in the field, thanks to an opportunity presented to me at work. Well, I would have if I would have turned in the paperwork. For all intents and purposes, except the ones that matter, I have an M.S. [in field related to unnamed helping profession.]

I'm so dissatisfied with where I'm at, and I believe it's because for the last ten years, I've been floating along like plankton. Everything that I've achieved has been an opportunity that floated past me. It wasn't necessarily anything that I dreamt about, nothing I was passionate about. It was just something to do. I needed a job in college, I needed a major, I needed a job after college... Oh, a master's? Well, I guess I might as well...

Part II later.

For the last two nights I've woken up at 3am. With a craving. For tomatoes. So, in case anyone else is having similar issues I suggest the following: Grab one medium sized tomato of the variety of your choosing, cut into 1/8ths, sprinkle with a healthy amount of Lawry's Season Salt, and enjoy.

With that, it's back to sleep.

I'm starting to feel like Forrest Gump.

After I got home from work, I got dinner. But, before I ate, I went to the gym. Yep, that's day number 4! I forgot how much I love that sore feeling. It's a constant reminder of how much I'm challenging myself, and how much I'm actually rising to the challenge. I spent time on the treadmill as well since I've only got 12 days until the 5K. I hate the treadmill; cardio at the gym is so boring.

On the way home, I started to think about an ongoing situation involving an ex-boyfriend. (I, of course, will blog about this another day.) Initially, I was angry. And, as I was driving--sunroof open, radio on, music loud(ish)--I started to feel sad. Then, my eyes watered. As soon as the first tear popped out of my lacrimal duct, and slowly pooled in my eye, until it slid down my cheek, I just lost it. There was something about the way it felt. A tear so out of place on my cheek with the warm night and the loud(ish) music. The more I thought, the more it hurt and the more I cried. So, in the spirit of Forrest Gump, "I decided to go for a little run."

People are right about running. It does make you feel better. Suddenly, I realized I wasn't crying anymore. I was focusing on the feel of the mist on my face; thinking about how there's nothing like being alone, outside in the dark; meditating on my breath and the rhythm of my shoes on the concrete. I decided that the reason running works so well to make me feel better is that it's an incompatible response. Physiologically, it's really difficult to inhale enough air to remain upright when one's nose is filled with crying-induced snot. So, in order to avoid passing out, it's best to just quit thinking about stupid ex-boyfriends and run, Forrest, run!

How precious is this face? So, it looks like I really have no excuse not to keep this blog up as this message is being sent from my cell phone to my blog via Mobile Blogger.

Scary!

OK, so this blogging thing isn't getting off to a great start considering it's been a month since I last posted. I read so many wonderful, funny, insightful blogs and I always think, "Hmm...I wish I could be that [insert adjective here]" So, instead of being so damn critical, I've decided I need to just write for me.

Starting in February, I found myself in this funk. No, that's too mild of a term. Without meaning to sound dramatic, it was more like a crushing, soul melting, depression. Something I've never experienced before, and never want to experience again. After a few months of messing around with meds--which is a whole 'nother frustrating situation I'll blog about another time--I feel like I'm finally starting to come out of it.

I used to work out several times a week. I was feeling pretty good. Then, when this funk-like thing hit, that stopped. Saturday, I forced myself to go to the gym though. This started the ball rolling! (Treadmill?) Sunday, I went for a 13 mile bike ride, stopped off at the gym, and then rode home. Today, after reading DoctorMama's blog, I went for a run, came home and signed up for a 5K.

Now, this 5K thing probably doesn't seem like a big deal to most runners. I mean, pshh...it's 3 miles! Well, I'm the girl who used to ask for the bathroom everyday during P.E. so I didn't have to run. And when the coach caught onto that, I'd just sneak away from the group. In junior high, I took the F for the 15 minute mile. When my parents forced me to play soccer, I was the goalie, and I insisted I had much more important goalie-girl things to be doing while the rest of the team ran during practice. So, the fact that I've signed up to run. Voluntarily. No one chasing me with a sharp object even. Well, I'm pretty damn proud of myself!