Classifications

I never thought I'd fall into the cliche of my mid-20's trying to find myself. Yuck. It conjures up images of backpacking through Europe, all sorts of immoral experimentation and lots of excuses people my age can get by using the phrase "I'm finding myself."

But I do feel lost most days. Who am I? And what's really weird, is not too long ago, I had a very strong sense of self. I figured out very recently, though, my former sense of self was wrapped up in classifications. Who I am was routinely defined by who or what I was associated with. I didn't have to do much of the work. But now that I'm an adult, it's all upon me to show the world who I am. Confused yet? I've got a few examples:

I consider my high school years extremely successful and happy (a rare combo for the ages of 15-18 for anyone). I knew who I was: a drug-free, basketball-playing, God-worshiping, saxophone-playing, alto-singing, Green-Bay-Packer-obsessing, Advanced-Placement-A-achieving, nice-to-freakin'-everyone Grafton Blackhawk. Each of those associations meant something positive not just to me, but to the people who saw me associated with these groups. It also meant a positive group of people I was associated with, from the talented athletes (which I wasn't ) to the most brilliant of people (which I'll never be).

When I got to college, things got a little fuzzier, starting with the first rum and coke mixed for me at a party. Well, scratch the drug free part. And I no longer was among the brightest at Butler, nor the most artistic, and definitely not the most athletic, even in my own dorm room. But I still found associations, classifications that made me proud and confident. I was a radio-voicing, video-producing, sorority-starting, fraternity-boy-lovin', super-fan Butler Bulldog. Wearing the Tri Delta letters on my chest (or bag, or rear of sweatpants, etc., etc.) associated me with not only an amazing group of self-starting women on our campus, but women all over the country that raise millions of dollars to help sick children. Who wouldn't want to be associated with that? And my Bulldogs - two Sweet 16's and a National Championship game in the past 7 years - they're national sports media darlings that we get to call our own. And by virtue of paying out my nose for the next 30 years, I am associated with them.

But after college, it gets a lot more difficult to find a definition of self if you've never had to work for it before. That's not to say I didn't work hard during high school or college, but on the contrary, because I had no questions about who I was, I was able to focus all of my energy and deep thinking on my work. Now I feel like I'm in a haze, no, more like a ship, where I'm up on me one day, and super, super down on me the next, because now, really, all I have to associate with is myself.

This sense of loyalty to associations has gotten me in trouble, first with needy, negative hanger-ons in school, and now with bad companies that will use and abuse my talents and my energy without proper compensation, recognition or ability to move up. But that's another rant.

For goodness sakes, I don't even know what my name is right now. On half of my important documents, my last name starts with a C. On the other half, my last name starts with a Q. How should I know who I am when I don't even have a definitive last name?

I'm struggling to show which sides of myself to whom these days. Who needs to see exuberant, optimistic Mel, and who needs to see vulnerable, empathetic Mel? And how do I meld these extremely opposite parts of my personality into one consistent, reliable self that not only the world approves of, but I do too?

For now, I know what I am proud of. I'm proud to be from Wisconsin, the land of cheese, beer and ridiculously nice people. I'm proud to live in New Jersey, land of amazing food, radioactive waste, and radioactive personalities. I'm STILL proud to be a Butler Bulldog, and will be for a lifetime (or at least until I'm done paying back my loans), as well as a lifetime of pride for being a Tri Delta (which seems to increase as the years go by). I'm proud to be a wife, as undomesticated as I am, and I'm proud to be a child of God, even if I don't always remember to live in God's will instead of my own. I'm proud of being tall and blond with all the sunscreen and bad jokes that go along. I'm proud that people consider me a friend, even when I don't realize it.

And at this point, that's about all I've got. There's a lot of details to fill in, and a lot of room for improvement. But hey, I guess that's what Making One's Self is all about.

And maybe I'll just backpack through Europe instead.

Race Result

I realized that I wrote about my 10-mile race training, gross feet and all, but never reported my result (I guess that means I am a lousy sports reporter).

I finished the 10 mile Broad Street Run in 2 hours, 11 min. My first mile, I did in under 10 minutes (at which point I realized it was going to be a long day). Mile 2 took 11 minutes, Mile 3, 12 minutes. Mile 4 took 14 minutes, and then the blisters kicked in.

I walked mile five, past city hall, ran mile 6, walked miles 7 and eight, and ran miles 9 and 10. Well, run really isn't the correct term. Jog in place and lean forward would be more accurate.

Of course, the people who I ran with finished with the Kenyans in about 45 minutes (that's right, 10 miles in 45 minutes). They were bored by the time I crossed the finish line, so without stopping, we hiked the half mile back to the car as soon as I was done. I'm most proud that I didn't pass out until long after the hour-long car ride home or after discovering salt crystals had formed on my face from all of the evaporated sweat, or after my knees locked into 135-degree angles and would not bend or straighten another degree.

No long-distance races in the near future, but I am running the Central-South Jersey Komen Race for the Cure 5k on October 3rd. Despite it being 5 months after the Broad Street Run, I at least know I have the mental fortitude to go a measly 3.1 miles.

My feet are gross

After putting together my first five-mile run EVER this weekend, I took off my sneakers and went...
uck.

Not that I'm a pampered princess or anything, but my feet haven't looked this horrid since I played 12 months straight of basketball in high school. And even then, I rode the bench at least two nights a week, so my dogs got somewhat of a break.

We're two weeks away from the Broad Street 10 mile run. I'm in the best running shape I've been in a long time (not the best shape, per se, but best running shape). I'm proud of my mileage, and I'm proud of the mental blocks I've gotten past, including my go to "I hate running."

I hate running when it means I will or won't make the team. I hate running when I'm trying to impress someone else. I hate running when I force myself to keep up with another person I know I'm not fast enough to run with. I hate running when I'm not running for me.

Two weeks behind in my training, there's a big push to make in the next 14 days. If I can't run 7 or 8 miles by this weekend, I may be in trouble when it comes to finishing 10 miles in under the three hour mark.

But no matter if I make it or not, my pedicure appointment will be a great reward for the work put in.

Four Miles an Hour

I did my first four-mile run today... and it took me 54 minutes.

I feel like Ricky Bobby in "Talledega Nights," when he's going 28 miles an hour on a NASCAR track yelling, "I'm going fast! I'm going fast again!"

It's hard to keep in perspective that a month ago, I was struggling with one mile. At Christmas, Mrs. Caliendo was lapping me at the track.

The fastest I've ever run a mile was 8:45 in 7th grade. I had just finished cross country season, was in the "training camp" portion of basketball season, and Mt. Dew was the only performance enhancer we knew. Oh yeah, and I ran it indoors.

Right now, I'm gunning for a 12-minute mile pace, and I've got a month to go. That will get me to the finish line in 2 hours. Maybe I should start training with a cougar...

Make Yourself...Run

So apparently, I'm a glutton for self improvement.

Make Yourself was started to chronicle my career development, and well, now I'm too busy with my career to blog. Make Yourself stop working should be the title.

So while my work life and home life are stable and functional, I decide to, oh, challenge myself.

On a whim after a very disappointing attempt to fit into my favorite jeans, I decided I was going to do the Broad Street Run in Philadelphia on May 2. No big deal? It's 10 miles.

Background: I'm not a runner. I tried cross-country for two years in middle school and didn't come in last ONCE. I haven't run more than 2.5 miles at one time ever.

So now I'm Making Myself run. And run. And run.

I have 9 weeks to train myself to not only like running, but be vaguely good at it. Awesome.

Photos, training stories, and probably gruesome photos of road rash (I'm bound to fall sometime during the next 9 weeks) to come. I think I'm going to Make Myself...Cry.