this entry brought to you by the number 10

Ten years ago, I was a newlywed. Today I am a single lady.
Ten years ago, I lived in the same sleepy suburb I grew up in near my friends from high school. Today I live in a less-sleepy suburb near those friends and a lot of new ones.
Ten years ago, I had no idea what improv comedy was or that anyone in Boston performed it. Today I'm an established member of the community.
Ten years ago, the idea of even watching someone else move on foot for ten miles seemed impossible. Today it's something I've already done.
A lot has changed.

I was nervous leading up to Saturday's run. I hadn't done the long run the week before, and the most mileage I'd done at once was 6. I did a mile on the treadmill at work on Monday and it took FOREVER, so there was no way I was going to come in under 3 hours. I'd lose a shoe. Break my ankle. Coach Andy would get mad at me and kick me out of the program. My headband would suddenly not fit and my ears would freeze. Somehow, something was going to go horribly wrong and I would find a way to screw up and be a complete failure. I put on my sneakers, sure that humiliation was tying itself to my laces.

I got to the meeting point on time, did a little stretching, figured out the first part of the route, and was on my way.

Nothing really eventful happened. I saw a blue jay, which was nice. I smelled some pine trees and some fireplaces and some cinnamon rolls. There was a dead skunk. At least I think it was a skunk. Hard to tell. But I didn't have any sort of breakthrough or epiphany or great idea for a blog post. I just kept going. When parts hurt, I stretched them. When my mentor offered me water, I took it. I got lost once, and tried to figure out how standing at a crossroads between Saugus and Wakefield was symbolic, but it's not. I just kept walking, and passed the point where I was supposed to stop. No one was there to pick me up, so I kept going. For a total of10 miles.

I was one of the only people to finish their miles that day. People got hurt or couldn't make the time limit. My coach didn't realize that I had done it, but didn't seem all that surprised when I corrected him and told him that I had. And I had to admit that I wasn't that surprised either. I know, deep down, that this half marathon is something I can do. The hardest part of all of this has been figuring out how to believe the voice that knows it over the other, louder, meaner one that I'm so used to hearing. It's getting easier. A lot has changed.

About Mikey

This is a piece I did at the fundraiser last month. Everything I perform gets written long-hand in a marble Mead notebook, and I have a tendency to lose those notebooks. I don't want to lose this piece, so I'm putting it up here.

I'd like to talk for a second about Mikey. My sister Jill met Mikey DiPersio when she was 15. He was a Saint Bernard of a kid; big, goofy, always smiling, and always doing his best to make sure you were smiling, too. He loved Jill tremendously. He was fiercely loyal, and would do anything for her. And she was completely not into him. From the big sister perspective, he was perfect. Because we were obnxious teenagers, my sister and I weren't that close back then, so I was glad for Mikey, because I knew he'd take care of her in ways that I couldn't. He protected her from the jerks she dated, and was a shoulder to cry on when she figured out that they were, in fact, jerks. And he took care of me, too. When the stereo on my Buick Century needed to be replaced, he spent hours in the driveway, calibrating things to make sure the bass would make the windows shake and expand, but not explode. Which is important.

Then Mikey started to get sick. Because we were kids, we didn't worry all that much, but when a guy as big and strong as Mikey gets as skinny and drawn as he got, even a kid knows something's wrong.

I was with Jill when she got the call. We were up in her room, and she was on her princess phone. It was a clear one, and you could see the pink and purple wires inside. She picked it up, and for the rest of my life I will remember the way her head dropped and she crumpled against the desk she was sitting on. I will never forget the way all the blood left her face until she was as transparent as the receiver in her hand. And I will never, for the rest of my life, forget the sound of her voice as she said "What kind of cancer?", as though there were a response to that question that would make everything okay again.

Because we were kids, we didn't pay a lot of attention to medical terms. But we knew it was cancer, we knew it was in his blood, and we knew it was bad. And just like Mikey had always been there for her when she needed him, Jill sat by his side when he was sick. And when he got better. And when he got sick again. The second time hit him hard and fast, and and not long afterward, at 21 years old, Mikey died. That was 11 years ago, and I know not a day goes by that my sister doesn't think of him and miss him.

And that's why I'm running this race. To thank Mikey for being a brother to my sister when she needed one, and to do everything I can to make sure no one else's little sister ever has to lose someone they love.

technical difficulties

The donation widget over on the right there seems to be having a bad day. So here's the link where you can donate.

http://pages.teamintraining.org/ma/wdw11/rvanderste

You are all wonderful, well-dressed people who I personally admire and would like to hug for an uncomfortably long time.

I'm back. Sort of.

I hate posts where people apologize for not posting in a long time. But still, I feel incredibly guilty because I have been really, really lax. But I have reasons! REASONS!! And I will get into them now.

Well, I'll get into them in a second. Because first I want to talk about the fundraiser. Back in September, I got some amazing and hilarious friends together and did a show called "The Rhoda Monologues" at Mottley's Comedy Club in Boston. The show was a take-off of a show I've been doing for a few years called "I'm the Rhoda", where some friends and I explore the dynamics of female friendships and the built-in competitive dichotomy and other made-up words. Anyway, the show went really well, and people showed up, and we made a bunch of money and I was beyond thrilled. And then I went out to celebrate with my friends, and my wallet, with a bunch of money in it from the raffle, got stolen out of my bag. I was HEARTBROKEN. Absolutely destroyed. People had given me their hard-earned money, which no one has an excess of, and trusted me to give it to one of the worthiest causes on Earth, and I had completely fucked it up. So, like I usually do when I'm upset, I complained about it on the internet. And people came out of the woodwork to donate more generously that I could have imagined, and more than made up for what was originally lost. You did good, folks. You did really good. Thank you.

And then, I got sick. I've been sick with an ear infection for 24 days now. I've been completely miserable. I was in a lot of pain, I couldn't hear anything, my balance was off and I was puking. An all-around terrible time. And during that time, I did zero running. My team long runs went from 4 miles to 7 miles without me. I am WAY behind. I also did no blogging and no fundraising, and so I'm behind on that, too.

But I'm back now.

I still can't really hear out of my right ear, and I've got a lot of doctor's appointments left to go to, but I got approval today to run again. So, it's time to get back into the swing of things. I'll do my part if you'll do yours. As you may recall, I have a generous donor who is going to match all my donations once I get to 50% of my goal. I'm currently at 37%, so if my math is right, which is unlikely, we're about $400 or so from reaching that point. I'd like to hit it by my "recommitment date" of November 4th. Can it be done? I think so. If I can run 7 miles out of the box on Saturday, I think my awesome and generous internet friends can round up a few hundred bucks.

So!! It's business time. It's time for me to get back in the game, and time for you to make that donation you totally meant to make, like, a month ago, but forgot about. Let's get this done, okay? And then I can leave you alone and get back to sitting on the couch all the time.

I have always been a procrastinator. I was the girl finishing her homework seconds before passing it in. Waiting until the last day of the month to renew her inspection sticker for her car. Not saving any money during the month and then scrambling to pay rent. I still haven't written anything for my fundraiser show on Thursday. (You guys know about the fundraiser show on Thursday, right? The Rhoda Monologues? At Mottley's? 8:00? 12 bucks? With raffle prizes and amazing comedy? With tickets available at www.mottleyscomedy.com? Oh, you know? Great.)

I've always done it because it's never not been okay. I always manage to pull something out of my butt and make it work at the last second. It is becoming increasingly clear that that's not going to happen with this race. I can't just show up on race day and expect to be able to move myself 13.1 miles without putting in the work first. I need to do the training. I need to work to accomplish a goal. It sounds really weird, but that's not something I've ever actually done. Most things in my life have just sort of come easily to me. I'm really smart, so school was no problem. And when it was, I left. I have a lot of great friends who are willing to help me out with stuff I can't do myself. If something's too hard, I either don't do it or just get someone to do it for me. But no one can run this race for me. No one can make me eat the right things, keep the right schedule, put on my sneakers and put in the miles. Those are all things I have to do myself, and I have to keep doing them, all the time, in order for it to get any easier. This is not something I'm having an easy time of. But I'm trying to remember that the goal isn't just to get across the finish line, but to get across strong, on my own two feet. And to do that, I have to work for it.

I know I have a few readers who are runners. How in the crap do you keep yourselves motivated?

a crazy thing has happened

I have awesome fundraising news! First of all, I'm already at 23%, at just 6 weeks in, which I'm thrilled about. Second of all, there's a big "The Rhoda Monologues" fundraiser next Thursday, 9/30, at Mottley's with a bunch of hilarious people and cool stuff being raffled off. See www.mottleyscomedy.com for your $12 ticket or here's the gross ugly link to the Facebook event: http://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=119913118063655&ref=mf.

But that's only part of the really big news. The really big news is that an extremely generous donor has offered to match up to 50% of my donations. WHICH MEANS that all I really have to raise is $1700.00. WHICH MEANS that we're only $925 away, which is much, much closer than being $2625 away. WE CAN TOTALLY DO THIS. If 10 people give $92.50, we're there. If 20 people give $46.25, we're there. If ONE HUNDRED PEOPLE cough up NINE DOLLARS AND TWENTY FIVE CENTS TO HELP CURE CANCER, we'll be there. This is such an attainable goal, you guys. Let's get on it and soak this guy for all he's got!!

"They don't tell you about that in the brochure."

I have heard this phrase from at least 2 experienced sources this week when talking about my training. Last Saturday, it was Yassos, an interval exercise apparently used to gauge your speed, but which only served to frustrate and embarrass me enough to walk off the track and have a one-woman pity party for 5 minutes. There were tears. I'm not proud. TC assured me this was standard.

Then, Monday, it was shin splints. I went for a run like a good girl, EVEN THOUGH IT WAS RAINING, and my legs started to burn. The act of picking up my feet was painful. What was supposed to be a 4 mile run ended up being less than 2. I felt defeated. Weak. I complained to Vickie on the way home from the Run of Shame, and toward the end of the call, she said "You know, this probably won't make you feel better, but you're talking like a runner." I expressed my disbelief, probably with the use of vulgarity. She persisted. "Rachel. You're *complaining* because you didn't run as far as you wanted to, because you pushed your body too hard, because you want this so badly. You are a runner." It made me feel better.

Coach Andy refers to us as "endurance athletes". It's hilarious to me to think of myself as an athlete of any kind, but endurance is a word I'm familiar with. I've endured a lot. Everyone does, I suppose. Lots of people have endured things far worse than I'll ever have to. But we accept what we get, the good and the bad, and we roll on. Even when it hurts so much we think the next step will break something. But it doesn't. Sometimes we need to rest and ice a little, but we keep going. Push through it until the next unexpected obstacle comes up, and then we get through that one, too. We endure. Because there are an awful lot of things they don't tell you about in the brochure.

They`re not all good days. For every day where I`m all "Rah rah, I`m a runner, I can do anything! Protein! Stretching! Breathing exercises! Fuck your fear, like they say in improv! I`m a freaking hero!", there are ten where the inner monologue is darker. I`m too fat, too old, too tired. No one will donate, my writing is boring and contrived, I should just stop. Buy some ice cream. Have a cigarette. Stop kidding myself and accept the reality of who I am. I can`t change. Can`t make a difference. My knees hurt.

This is one of those days.

I`ve missed 2 runs in a row. A solo on Thursday, and the team run on Saturday. Right now I`m at home, in my room, watching Law and Order with a belly full of leftover Chinese food. If I stay here, I lose. I lose another day of training, more momentum, and a little more of my self-respect. In this scenario, who wins? My fear wins.

Fuck my fear.

Has anyone seen my sneakers?

Yes, you can.

Catholics are weird.

Maybe that's not what I mean. Maybe I mean "Italians are weird." Or "Bostonians are weird." Or "Have you ever been completely sure that you've spelled the word 'weird' correctly? Because I certainly haven't." Ahem. Anyway. What I want to talk about is the ceremony I saw in the North End of Boston about a week ago. I was down there to celebrate the Fisherman's Feast with some friends, with promises of aroncini the size of my head and a thing Lynn referred to as "the flying of the kid."

The Feast is a celebration of the Holy Mother, and a request for her to bless the local fishermen and help them catch a bunch of fish and return safely from the sea. A worthy enough goal, I suppose. To do this, they have a parade, tape a bunch of money together and present it to a statue of Mary that they carry down the street. And then they fly the kid.

The kid in this case was Diana, who I'm going to say was 11 years old. Diana appeared midway through the parade, dressed in blue, with ribbons taped to her legs. She was about 3 floors up on a fire escape with some cherubim and a woman who may have been her mom, but I don't think she was. After the cherubim recited some elaborate and enthusiastic prayers in Italian, Diana was attached to a clothesline, with one foot strung up behind her to appear more angelic or something. She stood on the railing of the fire escape, and the kindly elderly gentleman on the ground below began to pull on the rope that lifted her off the ground.

Diana knew what she was in for. Being "the kid" is an honor, and she had probably been mentally preparing for a long time for what was about to happen. But that girl was scared out of her fucking mind. Literally every part of her body started to convulse as she left the ground. Just as she passed the point of no return, she yelled "I can't do it!!" And with no hesitation, the entire neighborhood, self included, yelled back at her "YES, YOU CAN." Really, she had no choice. That old guy wasn't stopping for anything. But she held herself together and flew as gracefully as possible to the middle of the street where she was lowered to face the statue of Mary. AND THEN SHE HAD LINES. IN ITALIAN. WHICH SHE NAILED. She said her prayers and the old guy brought her safely back to the fire escape and we walked to the bar. I was too freaked out by what had just happened to scout out aroncini.

This past Saturday I had my first run with my Team. Going into it, I was terrified. I'm not sure why, exactly. I knew how far I had to go, I knew what would happen and what was expected of me. But still, terror. I started running and I was okay. Then I couldn't breathe, so I walked. I did this off and on the whole 2 miles - running until I couldn't and then again when I could. I think I was breathing wrong, honestly. I'll work on that. I reached a point where I wasn't sure where I was, or if I had lost the team. I started wondering what I would do if I had gone off course. Knock on someone's door and admit that I was too fat to find my friends? Wait for my mom to come get me? Maybe I should just sit down before something happens. I was thinking all this as I walked along the side of the road, when behind me I heard a grunt. "I think the stranger behind me is telling me to get out of the way. Or maybe he's announcing his appreciation for my sweet, sweet ass." But then I realized he had actually said something. He said "c'mon." He was encouraging me. I didn't want to let the stranger down, so I started to run again. As I did, I saw other members of my team on their return trip. "COME ON!! YOU GOT THIS!! THE WATER STOP IS RIGHT OVER THIS HILL!! YOU CAN DO IT!!"

And I did.

I am really scared of this whole idea. But I can do it, and afterward I can have aroncini the size of my head.

Yes, I can.

You're doing WHAT??

Okay, here we go.

Firstly, I want you to know that I know how stupid this sounds. I'm not a runner. I'm not an athlete. And I have no real concept of how far 13.1 miles really is or exactly what it takes to run that far. Who in the hell would do such a thing to herself? I guess I would.

It's been a hard few years. I got divorced and had to figure out how to live on my own. I got myself in debt. I had some spectacular romantic failures. I've gained and lost and regained weight. I lost several members of my family, one after a hard-fought battle with cancer. I had a cancer scare of my own. My parents split up, reconciled, split up again and each moved far away. I need a haircut. There have been a lot of things happening that I haven't felt in control of. There are a lot of things happening that are out of my reach. And I know that I can't cure cancer. There's a very good possibility that I won't be able to run this half marathon. But goddamnit, I can try.

I can try because it would make my Aunt Mary proud of me. She had breast cancer for years, and she toughed through it until the very end. I can try for Mikey DiPersio, my sister's best friend, who died at 21 years old after 2 bouts with blood cancer, to thank him for fixing my car stereo all those times. I can do it for myself, to prove that I can, and that some things are within my reach.

So that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to take my limited power and focus it on this race. I won't win it, but I'm going to finish it. I'm going to hurl this lumpy bag I've been living in over the finish line at Walt Disney World on January 8th, 2011. But I need you to help me do it. You can donate through the widget over on the right, there, or through this link - http://pages.teamintraining.org/ma/wdw11/rvanderste. In exchange, I'll keep writing. I'll fill you in on my physical progress, and all the emotional upheaval that I know will come with it.

Here we go.