An Open Letter to 22 Year Old Girls Everywhere

Dear 22 year old Girls,

Don’t try so hard.

You are beautiful no matter what you are wearing. You are 22. By definition, 22 year olds are beautiful to pretty much everyone.

And before you get on your, “she’s just jealous because I’m young” box, you can #STFU. 

I’m still young enough. I still get asked out by men almost every day. Seriously. And despite that “ask out” statistic, it may surprise you to learn that I never go out in public wearing only a sports bra and shorts unless I am going to log 6 or more miles and it’s 80 degrees with high humidity.

I was at a theme park this weekend, and a concert a few weeks ago, and at those two venues I saw many beautiful women in their late teens and early twenties dressed like back-up dancers in a music video for an up and coming artist.

I suppose there are times when that attire is appropriate.

For example, it's ok to wear this when you are actually working as a back-up dancer in a music video for an up and coming artist. Otherwise, that outfit isn’t going to fly as socially appropriate for 364 days of the year.

I’ll be the first to admit, many of the women sporting the “leopard print sports bra, denim shorts and high-top sneakers” look had rocking figures. They pulled off the look with toned bodies you could bounce a quarter off of, and yes, the men noticed too.

Men from every age group were staring at the beautiful exposed skin of these girls.

But all I kept thinking when I saw them was this: Girls, if you want to attract a man with whom you will share a meaningful and emotionally fulfilling relationship, maybe don’t start by dressing like a hooker.

Also, if your shorts are so short that the "crease" of your cheek isn't covered, your shorts are too short to wear out of the bedroom. Fo' Shizzle. Unless you're a prostitute, and you need to make rent. In that case, probably they're Ok.

While on the topic, don’t look around and think the girls who are dressed like hookers are getting boyfriends you would want. They might have boys who linger in their presence for a blink of time, but they are just boys.

Yes, I am saying it flat out: The men women attract while dressed-up as prostitutes are not quality men.

A woman who understands “understated sexy” attire for 364 days of the year is far sexier than the one who’s always dressing like it’s Halloween. On Halloween it’s socially acceptable to pull out the leopard print and feel free to dress like a back up dancer in a music video.

The other days of the year, I suggest that clothing should be treated like gift-wrap. The gift inside is a mystery, and it is worth waiting till Christmas to untie the bow.

Most men will even tell you, the anticipation of unwrapping this particular “present” is is almost as fun as any “gift” it contains.

Of course, the men who are picking up the girls wearing skimpy socially inappropriate clothing are just looking for something quick and easy. They like to celebrate Christmas Year Round. They’re the ones who tore through the wrapping paper in a frenzy as kids.

You know what else they were?

They were the ones who finished opening the gift, saw what it was, and set it aside to tear into the next gift without appreciating what they’d received.

Forget a Thank You note, they had no idea who had given them what.

I’m not saying to save yourself for Mr Right. I’m not preaching Abstinence. I’m preaching Self Respect.

There are a whole crew of blogs out there screaming the whole “Why buy the Cow when you can get the Milk free” theory... Cow? Free..? No, I never liked that analogy.

We aren’t cows. This isn’t milk. We are women, and these are our bodies.  And they’re worth a hell of a lot more than $3.80 a gallon.

Regards,

A Mom who’s Not Really a Prude, Just Concerned

Hear the kick

It’s starting again.

The doubt.

The self-doubt.

It eats away at us.

I hear it in my head. I hear it in the air. I hear it in the voices of the people around me. I wonder a little if it’s because the holidays kick us so hard that we can’t help but doubt our own greatness.

I don’t mean to suggest that the holidays aren’t great. I love them, I do. I love the excitement, the moment, the build up and the goodness that is inherently found wrapped up in the holidays. The friends looking out for friends, the scraping of coins so that charity can be handed out to those less fortunate, and the warmth and wonder of it all as people open their homes and host each other for gatherings that range from pretentious to casual.

But no matter what beautiful expectations you have awaiting you between Thanksgiving and New Years Day, there is some kind of emotional KICK that goes with this season.  

Here’s hoping that it’s not a kick in the face. 

~savor the run~

Challenge - REAL WOMEN

Ok real women.

A few people who've come by NofSahm in the last few days don't "know" what I look like.

Well.
Not to "toot my own horn", but I'm not a completely unfortunate looking woman.  On film.  Don't ask me to talk about the woman who lives in my mirror.  We have a tumultuous relationship.  But on film, I don't entirely suck.

So, in honor of the fact that I suspect you ALL DON'T SUCK EITHER ~

Post a photo of yourself on your blog that makes you feel beautiful, or epic, or Galactically Bada**.
Or all of the above is OK too.

It doesn't have to be a beautiful photo of you, if you prefer to keep your looks on the down low, have privacy issues, etc.  But post something that makes you reflect on how not only are you "good enough", to quote a friend, but how you are ACTUALLY SO MUCH BETTER THAN GOOD ENOUGH.

I'll start.  This is the photo of me on New Years Eve.  This is what I looked like when the clock struck midnight and 2012 began.

I hated this dress.
I felt fat that night.
I had mentally punched myself in the face about 200 times in the 48 hours before this photo was taken...

And it's also the photo that reminded me that women, for the most part, are blind.
Including me.

leave a comment and let us know where to find your beautiful photo.

the torture below

I have this theory.

We talk big.  “My worth is MORE than my appearance”.  But society tells us that IS NOT TRUE.  Appearance and worth are sadly tied, and until society changes the rules and the collective media comes to its senses, we have to live with it.

My Identity is tied so firmly to My Run, that when I'm run-less, I start to question everything.
Even things that are unquestionable.

I think that many many women are blind and only see what they think they see.  And they’re deaf, and can only hear what they think they know.   And sometimes they’re surrounded by thick dark impenetrable evil that cloaks the world.  The view from behind the darkness is distorted and false. 

For example, one of my friends is particularly stunning.  She has a laugh that’s like champagne and a smile that’s lovely.  But the reason that men stop what they’re doing to stare “inconspicuously” as she walks through a room is probably not champagne and smile related.  She seems to have no idea that her legs are the kind of legs people dream about, and yeah, I mean that how it sounded.

Another friend is so pretty that the first time I saw her photo I had to draw her.  Her beauty is classic.   Fresh, blond, fair, and tall, it's no wonder my son has a crush on her.  She’s athletic and strong.  Sometimes I hear doubt from her.  DOUBT?  WTF?  Why does someone who looks like you doubt her beauty?

Come to think of it, most of my friends seem to have no idea what they look like.  One or two realize they’re beautiful and either don’t seem to care (“I’m worth more than my looks”) or just roll with it (“I consider it a public service”). 

The rest see the worst, the flaws, the imaginary fat, the thick thighs, and the childhood scars.  They see what I never even notice, or what doesn’t exist.  They have no clue what they really look like. 

I wonder:  Do I have any idea what I look like?

Probably. Not. 

I caught myself in the mirror the other day and thought, “I’m ugly.”  It was a passing thought, but I didn’t bother to banish it.  For some reason, it rang of truth. 

I pulled a fleece over my head, put my hood up and went to the gym where I destroyed myself in the pool. 

Ragged breathing was all I could hear as I churned in the dark water.  Then when I could scarcely breathe, I ripped the gay purple visor off my head, abruptly breaking the bubble gum Britney and Fergalious feed,  I snapped a pair of black goggles into place.  I raked my body down the pool and back again for a few hundred meters, punishing myself with brutal speed.  My arms ached, crying for mercy, but I had none.

I kept thinking about how ugly I am.  That I am unwanted.  I am impossible. 

I don’t know; it was just a thought that wouldn’t go away.  Nothing could break through the shadows.  The lifeguard sat witness, blessedly unaware of the torture below the surface.

I soaked in the pain, ignoring the fire in my lungs and swallowed back the iron I tasted as I sucked in the chlorine laced air.   Recover, breathe, catch, kick, pull.  The rhythm served as punctuation.

I might be ugly, but at least I. can. f*cking. swim.

An hour later I could barely pull my weary body over the side onto the cold floor.  Clutching my towel to my chest, I stumbled toward the locker room.  Pink hands that were too tired to adjust the nozzle of the shower turned a knob, and my skin was pricked by water that quickly grew too hot.

Ah, the torture continued.

It was when I went to dry myself that I realized I must be possessed.  The still trembling leg I was drying was not fat.  It was muscular and curvy.  A quick inspection of myself revealed what I was beginning to suspect. 

I am not a Victoria’s Secret model.  Thank f*ck.  Imagine the stress that goes with that gig.

I am real.  I will never get fired for aging.  And not one part of me should be berated or punished the way I punished myself because I am real.

I have seen photos.  I know on film that I am not completely unfortunate looking.  WHY did I suddenly look in the mirror and NOT BELIEVE? 

The answer is simple. 

I am blind.  I only see what I EXPECT to see.

I AM DEAF, and only hear what I think I already know.

And when I say women are surrounded in evil, tell me friends, what would make my beautiful friends think they are anything less than exquisite? 

The darkness needs to go.

Next time that your friend tells you “you are the hottest mom ever”, see the honesty in the message and believe that you are THE HOTTEST MOM EVER.  When your husband , wife, brother, sister, guy or girlfriend says, “You are stunning”, I hope you will listen with your mind open to hear the truth of the message.

And I hope you will pay it forward.  Share the message with the beautiful people in your life.

You never know if the message you send, or comment you make, will be the light that breaks through and illuminates a path for someone who’s drowning in the darkness.

F.O.S.

This isn't the first time I've written about fear.

I think every runner has felt it to some degree.

It ranges from the physical fear that grabs at the throat every time I choose my start position at a 5K race to the 16 weeks of psychological terror that punctuated the phrase, "I just signed up for my first marathon....what if   (fill in the blank, there are a lot of blanks to choose from here)  ."

In general though, I don't suffer from those forms of fear any more.  Well, maybe a little, but at least the 5K fear is fleeting.  Now that I have four marathons under my feet, the first time marathon fear has been replaced by something stronger.  This new fear is potent.

I first tasted it after the Richmond Marathon '11, and it burned a hot path as it traveled to the pit of my stomach.  I quickly learned that too much at once can render me senseless, and the hangover the next day is nothing to joke about.

It's not really fear of failure, because I don't wonder if I can finish.  I don't question if I can get through the race...  I know I can.  I know that experience has taught me that I can get my sorry a** across the finish line of a marathon with a flu-like virus.  If there was an opportunity for "traditional failure" it was there, right?

No, failure isn't the fear.

I am far more afraid of sucking.

I have F.O.S...  aka, fear of sucking.

"Try not to suck"
(a sign on the RVA Marathon course)

What if I go out and do this and I suck at it again.  What will my friends, family, coach, peers, blog readers, and self think?  Won't they think I'm a selfish B*tch if I keep asking for their support if I suck at this sport?

After sucking at the Richmond Marathon...  I thought... well for a few minutes there, I thought I might not be a runner.  Shut the front door.

Nina Rosenstand, an ethicist I'd never heard of until Ethics a few semesters ago, said, "Courage is not the absence of fear, rather it is the appropriate response to fear."

I think the news here is that I get to say I'm either courageous ... or stupid.  You see, I suffered from bone jarring fear in the four weeks between the two marathons.  I felt it on every run, whether it was four miles or fourteen.

This was fear that made me nauseous.  Fear that stopped me mid sentence.  Fear that I could not ignore and yet I pretended did not exist.

This was the kind of fear I feared acknowledging.

In a lot of respects I live with the idea that if you acknowledge something, it can take the power away.  Like, admitting to a boy you have a crush on him is sometimes the easiest way to "get over him", or starting a public speaking engagement with, "Wow, this is a really intense crowd, I'm a little nervous" can pop the cork and release the tension of the moment.

Sometimes though, "speaking evil makes it stronger".  I mean seriously, if you learned NOTHING from Harry Potter, surely you learned this.

My main fear going into RBm was centered around the idea that if I failed, I had no one to blame but myself.  At RVA I had a virus that knocked me down for days.  At RBm, if I sucked, it was all on me.

me, and no one else.

I would have to claim responsibility for my OWN sucking if I sucked.

Of course, that thought is a bad one.  Then the pressure the fear grows to another level... and includes embarrassment.  People will know I just plain old suck at this...  And won't they wonder why in the world I'm doing this if I suck so badly?

Moreover, if I suck, how could I possibly find the courage to try again?  26.2 miles isn't easy.  It hurts a lot, and it's more of a mind f*#k that you could possibly know.  Why does someone who sucks put themselves through this?  There are plenty of other things I could be doing with my time...  


...shuffle board anyone?

I did not suck at Rehoboth Beach Marathon.  I wasn't epic, but I didn't suck.  I was happy with my plan, and I executed it the way I envisioned.  Within reason.  ~shower~

I wish I could say that the Fear of Sucking was completely extinguished by my success in Rehoboth Beach DE.   That it was left behind on the beautiful tree lined path, or had blown away in the gusts that whistled through Henlopen State Park.

I can't though.  It's still there.

However, today the appropriate response to that fear is to look ahead with confidence.  To keep training, and to set goals that skirt the edge of my abilities.

Because if there's one thing I am, it's courageous.


or stupid.

a.k.a. we hope for the best and run the plan....

If marathoning has taught me anything this year, it's that life is not within our control.  So if I was to run another marathon, all I can do on race day is hope for the best, and run the plan, and that will result in the best possible outcome for the day.

I will not guarantee the best possible outcome.  But, instead, the best possible outcome for THAT day.

Like Shifu tries to argue - I like to think that I can control things.  I can control my training, I can control my eating and sleep.  I can control my pace.  I can control...

not a whole lot else on race day.

We are all runners here, for the most part.

Some times we wake up, and we go for a run, and we channel Kara...  or we are RUN PRE... or our bodies are running machines.  Nothing can stop us.  Our lungs, hearts, legs, arms, core and mind work together and we cover the miles with ease.  Even blistering paces feel easy.

Sometimes we wake up with lead strapped to our feet.  Or poured into our quads.  We slug through our run with tired minds, legs, arms and core.  Our hearts pound in our chests, our lungs fight to exchange air.

And a lot of the time I have no idea when I'm going to have a good day, or a bad day, until deep into my run.

I can't control that, because I don't often know what's missing or been missed until after the fact.  I know where I went wrong on my 18 miles from hell in September of this year.  I failed to drink all day on Friday and stayed up late, through no fault of my own.  4 hours of sleep and no liquids = run fail.

I can't control the weather - be it wind, heat, rain or cold... or worse, wind... I said wind twice because it's twice as bad than anything else on that list.  I can't control the germs either.  I can wash my hands and douse the household in bleach, but it's all in vain, because all it takes to get sick is one sweet good night kiss from a 5 year old.

While I can control my training, I can't control the timing of an over use injury.  I can control my iron intake, but I can't entirely control the amount of ferritin in my blood.

There is nothing I can do but hope for the best and run my plan on race day, because I don't suck at running.

I mean, there would be nothing to do but hope for the best...  if I happened to be doing another marathon.

Not that I am doing one... but if I was, I mean...

Here's hoping.

Choice.

It's always a choice.  You can choose.

When life hands you lemons... you can make lemonade, or... squeeze one into a glass of Iced Tea and thank god you're a southern girl...

But sometimes I'm exhausted by all this choosing and lemon squeezing.  My hands are tired.  I want to put on a hat that says, "Cut me the Eff some slack people".  because ....

No matter how much I believe I can “DO” at once…

No matter how hard I try to be PERFECT…

No matter what I try to be for “Others”…

AND no matter how much I pretend that I am a freaking SUPER HERO…

Or even… ~epic~…

What usually ends up happening is that I become aware of something that skims the soul… an acid burn, it peels off a layer, and ….

I wake up.  human.

Human? 

Yes. 

Which makes me something like “marginally competent” to perform the jobs & tasks that are laid out before me.

And flawed. 

I make tons of mistakes. 

Sometimes they’re the OK kind though. I misspeak more often than I speak.  I remember things wrong more often than I remember them.  I can laugh at these things as long as no one is harmed in the making of these mistakes.  And that includes animals…. And children… of both the small kind and adult kind….

I think it’s desperately important to do that, by the way.  If you can’t make fun of your own mistakes, well, you’re missing a great target.  A target who gets your humor and who will think your jokes are freaking hilarious.  (I mean seriously, I crack myself up all the time)

Sometimes my mistakes are a bit more ~ complicated…

Not the kind you laugh at…  I’m trying to learn from them though.  And I forgive.  I forgive myself as needed, and I forgive others for their mistakes.  Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much. ~ Oscar Wilde

Anyway, my soul is burned right now, I’d like to smear a little salve on it to take away the sting.  I wonder sometimes if.... no... wondering seems like a waste of time.

I wish I was a little better at the things I’m not good at, then I would be less imperfect, and more acceptable,… but then, don’t we all?

Anyway.  Wishing and Wondering are a waste of time.  The thing to do right now is to go back to…

To being ~epic~. 

To pretending I’m a FREAKING ~Super Hero~. 

To driving myself forward with unbroken purpose toward the goals of which I have set before me.

To remembering why I think MY goals are important.

To being human, and loving myself despite that...

Lessons and Apologies

First off, I think it's important to remember that the written word doesn't always convey the way you think it does... for example:

Beyond the english lesson, there is something else we should consider seriously...

We've established that runners are weird.

I am a runner.

So by definition, I am weird.

I am also a runner who blogs.

Sadly, this does not make me a writer by definition.

I like to write.  I do.  It usually makes me happy.  Because for the most part I am honest, and generally in life I find that if you're honest with yourself, that you can be proud of what you've published on the blog.  Writing this blog is an escape.

And, yes, I have seen my name in print.  But that also doesn't make me a writer.  Thus, the name in print was in small print, not big print.

Still... despite the fact that some editor somewhere was so desperate for a piece about running that he published me...  I'm not always perfectly articulate in my communication attempts...

i.e....

Sometimes my message gets lost.

..."So the writer who breeds more words than he needs, is making a chore for the reader who reads." 

— Dr. Seuss

When I write on this blog, I write, generally, for my own entertainment.

If you find it entertaining, great.  Bonus.  Go me.

I write in a self depreciating style that is aimed at me.  If there is fun to be made, or mocking to be done ~ chances are better than good that the person I'm mocking is me.

Unless I'm mocking a politician.  Then all bets are off.

So let me explain.  When I talk about runners on this blog, I mean every runner.

fast, slow.  curvy, slight.  short, tall.  men, women.  coaches, athletes, volunteers, social elites, and kara.  We're runners.  All worthy of respect.

...“A person's a person, no matter how small.”

— Dr. Seuss

Those of us who are obsessed passionate give our best effort.

Effort is not measured in speed.

It's measured in ... well... I'm not sure how YOU measure effort.

I think it's probably measured in heart.

You know?  Heart.

Heart, as I see it, is balanced neatly somewhere along the lines of LOVE and COURAGE and SPIRIT.

It is the CORE.  The heart is MOST important or VITAL PART.

This is why I do this.  This has NOTHING to do with being first. or last.  This is about knowing myself and doing what I do because I love it.

For me, marathoning has less to do with natural ability, and more to do with love, drive, passion and courage, than any thing else I have ever done in my life.

So for me to say that I would rather not be the sweeper, was not a cut aimed at the runner who is the last athlete participant to finish the MTT route.  This isn't about anyone else.

Yesterday's post was not about PACE.
It was not about being LAST.
Or being FAST.

It was also not CLEAR.

If you read yesterdays post and thought that I was judging, or thought that I was making some kind of comment on speed in relationship to worth, I'm terribly sorry that that is what you read.  It is certainly not the message I was intending.

It was a post about me.

It was a post about friendships and the kind of friend who feels she can say anything to you, even if it comes out weird, because she knows you know what she means.  She's a runner.  Runners are weird, so by definition...

It was a post about the kind of friend who knows when to stick by your side and run your pace offering support, when to be the rabbit for the chase, and, finally, the kind of friend who knows that when you claim parcheesi, she is free to run ahead and pick off the red shirts as she sees fit.

It was a post about mental strategy and knowing yourself.  Or, specifically, myself.

It was a post about following my gut instinct and reacting appropriately.


...“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose. You're on your own.  And you know what you know. You are the guy who'll decide where to go.”

— Dr. Seuss

SLAP!

Yesterday I got a virtual slap.  Not from one of my best girl friends, like last time, but ~yes~ from a friend.

It stung a little.

Actually.  No.  It HURT like a b*tch.

I wasn't expecting it.

I tried to brush it off, because really, REALLY I had it coming, but. wow.


"Don't be that person."

Who knew?  I have become someone I can't stand. i.e. I am now "the recreational athlete who becomes so obsessed with their training that you cringe when you see their name in your inbox".


great.  effing. great.

And then with the sting from the slap still tingling, I went out to do my usual Monday Brick workout.  An easy ride followed by an easy run with KC.

So I spent the first half of the ride overanalyzing every aspect of overanalyzing my workouts while thinking about the slap (which had to do with... overanalyzing... not about triathlons... but ~no~ the irony was not lost on me...).

Hilly route with cars and two bikes.  Bad combination.  Distracted and 25mph?  Uh yeah.  uberBAD.

I finally confessed to Kc what was on my mind while we were slugging up one of the hills.

The reason I am over analyzing everything...
The reason I'm driving my friends crazy enough that they're willing to slap me before 8am...
The reason my husband just listed me for sale on e-bay for $8.87...

I'm oddly nervous.

About this race.

I'm afraid I'm going to let people down.

Isn't that weird?  Why would I worry about letting OTHER people down over what's supposed to be a "fun" Birthday Triathlon.  

No one cares.

This is like high school when you're new and you feel like everyone is staring at you, only, no one is actually staring at you because they're too worried that you - the new girl - is staring at them.

huh.

That was kind of telling there....

I'm truthfully afraid that I have trained for all this time, and I will suck.

And all these freakishly amazing TRI-friends of mine will see how badly I suck.  Any running greatness I may have ever achieved will be completely un-done by my suckage at the Triathlon.

I have this super little bike, so I can't blame a poor performance on my ride.

I trained & practiced transitions, so if I F*cK up I can't blame it on lack of preparation.

I can freaking swim. so if I choke in the pool, it's no one's fault but... my... own.

If I suck, it's because I suck.  

And if I was coaching someone, and they said all that, I would shake them firmly and say, "THAT is NO WAY TO MENTALLY PREPARE FOR ANYTHING".  But then, as I'm fond of saying, I'm not a coach.

I need to OWN THIS TRI.

So after I freaked out whined a bit poured my insecurities out onto the roads of the Hilly Hall, KC reminded me of something, whether she meant to remind me or not.

I'm not SpeeDee, World Class Kate, Du Q, Top 3 TMB, or The Witch Dr...

I'm GBA** GF.

No one goes by the acronym Galactically Bada** Girl Friend because they believe they are, indeed, a world.class.athlete.   They go by that acronym, and they name their team Galactically Bada** Running, because they KNOW how to bring it and have FUN on race day.

I do this stuff to have fun and test my own limits.  I do this with heart and passion, with an ultimate goal to get STRONGER and try new things.  I am here for the experience of it all.

The training is done.  The "hay is in the barn"...  I need to spend the next 6 days mentally preparing for the FUN I'm going to have when I bring it to my Birthday Triathlon.
Galactically Bada** indeed.

~Savor the Run~

Inspired or Annoyed?

I use Daily Mile as a training log.  It’s great, I write my splits in my notes, and this way I can go back a few months and see my progress.  Take last week, for example, when I ran my fastest mile since the f’ankle incident.  I cheerfully put my entry into Daily Mile, and then it published to my personal facebook page. 

The first time I set up my Daily Mile page and it published to my Facebook page, it was a happy accident.  Apparently I had checked a box, or clicked a button.  Initially I was going to un-do this ‘mistake’, because I thought it seemed a bit crazy to have the randomness in my running journal entry published on my FB.  Eventually I learned that if I edit the splits into the DM journal after the fact, my FB friends don’t see exactly how fast or how slow I’m running each mile.  They just see, “Nice quick little run with Kc” or “The Posse was out in FORCE today!” followed by the “g. ran 14.2 miles in XYZ minutes and felt great (blah)(injured)(tired).”

Still, sometimes I don’t have time to go back and edit, so I just put the splits up, or I put them up for my watch-less friends who, like me, keep track of how fast they’re running.

After a few months of Daily Mile Status updates on FB I started getting e-mails, comments, and IM’s indicating that random people were inspired by my fitness endeavors.  One friend told me that she started run/walking because she felt like if I could get up at 5am and hit the pool, that she could surely fit in a 20 minute walk/run after preschool drop off.  A friend's husband just tries to bike as many miles as I run in a week… apparently my cycling endeavors are putting a real strain on his cycling because he now has to match those miles as well.  


Another friend told me that she was inspired to aim for a half marathon this year, because I inspired her to “imagine the possibilities”.  


Could anyone ever say anything to me that was MORE impactful than that? 

I thought not.  But then I got a negative comment about my D.Mile posting this week.  Just an offhand snarky remark that I won’t share exactly.  And it made me think that my Daily Mile posts are… well, that I’m a braggart.  Am I?  

I suppose in a way, I am.

Look at me Me ME!  I ran XYZ miles at this pace!  and I. Felt. GREAT. ~ SO THERE~. 

I mean, that’s NOT what it says, but I suppose if you had a bad run, or are lacking endorphins from your lack of run day, or are a sour puss, or think that I'm bragging or whatnot… it might read that way.

To the person who made that comment…  On one hand, I appreciate it that you let me know your feelings on the matter.   On the other, I would be remiss if I didn’t tell you that the underhanded delivery made me a little sad.  I admit, because it's you who said it, this probably meant more to me than you. 

So, readers, what do you think?  


Do you think publishing Daily Mile posts on FB is obnoxious?  Do you think it's inspirational?  Should I un-click my publishing options and let my training log go back to being private?