Seriously, why is it so hard to get back in shape as we get older? I ran the Bay to Breakers (a 12K–7.5 miles for those of you who are metrically challenged) last May, and I haven’t run since (save two two-mile jaunts in June or July–I don’t even remember which month it was). B2B is only six months away now, and if I have any prayer of beating last year’s time, I need to get moving–literally.
Yesterday, in an effort to prepare myself for an hour and a half (well, 1:39 according to my official timing chip) of physical Armageddon (and to fit my butt into the new Seven jeans I bought on eBay), I dragged myself to the gym to give it the old college try on the treadmill. My hope was that I would be able to run two miles at a somewhat reasonable pace (two miles is my get-back-into-training-distance that I usually have no trouble doing). My Sunday adventure, however, was a much different story. After one mile, I had a huge cramp in my side and I was all but ready to drop to the ground. I had to stop and walk for a few minutes before I could increase my speed to a slow jog. And today, I’m in pain. Real pain. My quads are screaming for some Motrin.
I have no doubt in my mind that I’ll be ready for May 17, and I’m relatively certain that I can beat last year’s time. My thirty year old body, however, may have a different agenda. Let the battle of wills begin…
The thing about 30 is that time is of the essence. No, I’m not so dramatic that I feel I have one foot in the grave; what I mean is that time is of the essence because there’s so little of it in the day. When I was in my early 20s, I had all kinds of time. I could go out with my husband and my girlfriends, read three chapters of my favorite book, fold laundry, and still have a few hours left to waste my time with trash TV.
Now I have so little time that I forget basic life skills like eating my lunch at work, so when I have the rare opportunity to hang out with three of my long-time girlfriends (we’ve been through junior high and high school together), I usually jump at the chance.
Last night was one of our wild GNOs (now that we’reall 30, wild means home and in bed before midnight), and from Tami’s spontaneous and uncurable frog in the throat to Jessica’s heart-wrenching confession that her stepmom has cancer, it was comforting to reconnect to my younger self–even if for only a few hours, and it made me realize that no matter how old we get, we’re never too old to have BFFs.
There is only one place in the world where the Pussycat Dolls and Pat Benatar can coexist peacefully. Sunrise Rollerland, otherwise known as the location of my surprise thirtieth birthday party.
Oh yes, it’s true. I spent the Sunday night after my birthday rollin’ it up with baby boomers, pre-teens, and a weird forty-year-old employee in camo pants and a wife beater, who loved his job waaay too much.
It was the perfectly symbolic place for a thirtieth birthday party, considering the last time I was there, I was probably about fourteen. As I walked into the dank musty lobby, I looked around and realized that everything was still exactly the same. From the Old English crest that accentuates the medieval theme to the intense game of red light/green light, it was like I was in high school all over again–only better. Better because this time, I went with a date (my husband) and because I wasn’t wearing neon.
Even the music was the same–Heart, Belinda Carlisle, and Pat Benatar. They just have some new friends now.