It’s 12:12 in the morning February 12th, 2012.
12:12 2/12/2012.
I’m sitting here feeling heavy, drowsy, and a little depressed. It’s been a bad week, food-wise. It happens. We take the punches the best we can and hope tomorrow will be better. Sometimes it is, sometimes it’s not.
How many times have we eaten that burger and fries (and a candy bar 45 minutes later) because it’s “just one meal”?
Over the years I’ve become the connoisseur grandmaster of justifying my bad habits.
It’s just one meal.
I’ll start back tomorrow.
We have to celebrate. With food.
My foot kind of hurts.
Just one more hand of blackjack.
But here’s the thing: It’s not ever just one.
And even worse than the calories or the missed training opportunity? The psychological path of destruction we go down when we start convincing ourselves what we’re saying makes sense.
The toxic thinking perpetuates itself into everything we do.
I know personally if I start letting myself slip in one area, everything inevitably comes tumbling down beside it until I’m sitting at the computer at 11:30 p.m. refreshing Twitter wondering how I let the day become such a waste.
When things go bad, they go real bad; we know that.
But when they’re good—and they will go good—you know just how good it can be.
The thinking game goes both ways.
My dad said it best: “Act your way into right thinking.”
Just keep going if for no other reason than you know you should. And when you do? Things get good again. And we relish the moments.
We look for excuses to run.
We do pushups in the middle of the day for no good reason. Just because we like the dead arm feeling that accompanies it.
We pump our fists in victory when, instead of going to the kitchen at 11 p.m., we head for the bed because we know nothing good happens in the kitchen after 7.
Consider this nothing more than a simple reminder.
The mindgames can be good. Make them happen.
Brooke usually goes to sleep at around 10. I usually roll 11 or 11:30. And last night, as the night was winding down, all I could think about was waiting until she went to sleep so I could eat more food without her knowing.
Like it doesn’t count if no one sees me do it.
And it’s something I’ve done forever. Bowl after bowl of cereal after my parents went to bed (making sure to open the plastic bags ever so gently so they couldn’t hear it), Hot Pockets after my roommates were asleep… Bags of popcorn, soda, McDonald’s, etc.
It’s part of addiction. We do these things even though we know it’s ridiculous. We begin regretting it even before we do it and we do it anyway.
So last night, I kept an eye on Brooke, waiting for her to fall asleep, dreaming about the food. Mind you, we had already eaten dinner; it doesn’t matter.
But last night, something happened. I turned to her and was completely honest.
“For the last hour, all I’ve thought about is you falling asleep so I can go to the kitchen and just eat without you knowing about it.”
And we talked about it.
And she kept it simple.
“Why don’t you just stay and try to sleep?”
And it makes sense.
We’ve had a solid 12 days of October. I haven’t done the late-night hiding binge in a couple weeks. If I can stay honest about it, abstinence will become a habit. I’ve lived it. I’m currently living it.
So, we slept. And it’s worth it. No self loathing this morning; just a healthy appetite for a healthy breakfast.
We have to figure out a way to win these little battles because they lead to permanent changes. And we have to be honest even when it’s embarrassing.
Especially then.
Last night, I won a little battle. And today I feel better about myself. Positive thinking, baby. It goes a long way.
“Dude,” I said. “I’m not doing it.”
It was a call I had known I was going to make for a few days. I’d needed to build up courage to actually do it, and I finally had.
“What?” Jed replied. “Why?”
“I haven’t done anything for the past three weeks,” I said. “I haven’t trained at all.”
It was May, 2009, a week from what was supposed to be our first half-marathon, and I was quitting on my brother. Quitting on myself.
Six months had gone by from when we started and I was down 90 pounds. As much as I hate to admit it, a bad attitude had set in. I felt entitled. I felt accomplished. I felt complacent.
I felt arrogant.
For the first time in my life, I noticed girls occasionally looking my way. People were nicer to me. Life was better, school was better, dating was better. So maybe I deserved a little attention. Maybe I deserved to not run every day or eat right every meal or … or … or.
And so that’s what I did. I quit. Just like I had many times before, in 2003 and 2005 and 2007.
For three weeks I ate McDonald’s, gambled too much, and only ran when I felt guilty enough. It was the beginning of the end. The beginning of the inevitable spiral back to where I started.
And then, my dad called.
“Dude,” he said. “I’m flying in. I’ve secretly been training and I’m not missing the first half-marathon.”
Up until that point, it had been Jed and me doing this deal. Doing life and figuring it out as we went. Pa lived in Vermont and I rarely talked to him. But now he had joined the team and I couldn’t let him down.
I would run the half-marathon even if it killed me.
And it damn near did.
When I passed the seven-mile mark, I was in new territory. I had never run that far. Not a good situation to be in when you’re running your first half-marathon. By mile nine, my feet were so shredded I took my shoes off. And by mile 12, I was running on sheer anger.
But I finished. And I hugged my dad and brother. I even hugged a stranger.
And the fire was reignited.
It took some soul-searching to get over myself. It took a dad who is much wiser and a brother who cares enough to tell it to me straight.
This isn’t about me. It’s not about entitlement. I don’t deserve anything. It’s about life and finding ways to make it exciting. Satisfying. Worthwhile.
There are going to be times we feel things slipping away. Maybe it’s happening for you right now. Maybe it’s not. But it’s not worth it to quit. You know that and so do I. You know what is worth it, though? Stopping yourself dead in your tracks, kicking your own ass, putting your running shoes on and pulling yourself together. That’s what’s worth it.
That, and, y’know, being faster than your older brother. That’s worth it, too.
