The Can-Do Shower

To the outside world, it would have appeared I was at my own baby shower. No—I’m not referring to the shower I threw for my sister-in-law in absentia, where I had to fill in as the mom-to-be and open presents in front of friends and family (she lives in Germany with my brother who is in the Air Force). I’m referring to the happy hour I went to a few weeks ago, where dozens of people came to share a drink with one another after the final class in an 18-week Advanced Cycling Program that I created and coached at Gold’s Gym.

For the first time in my adult life, I stood in a room and felt a celebration happening around me, FOR me, whilst wearing a pink shirt with the words, “Push, push, push!” on the back, and the initials C.S.B. on the front. No—this wasn’t in reference to a baby girl whose name would start with “C,” this was in reference to me...the “Crazy Spin Bitch” and her drill-sergeant mantra to continue moving the pedals at pace.

All while engaging in “can-do attitude” – something of a motto for our class.

My boyfriend secretly hijacked the class email list to coordinate a celebration of the program in its final week. As a result, my 90- and 120-minute spin classes were filled with remarkably coordinated athletes sporting pink shirts (my favorite color) with messages on them for me to read.

After the final class on Friday, everyone was invited to come to the happy hour at Chili’s to get a few drinks and celebrate the end of the program. People arrived with cards and gifts in hand, congratulating me for a job well done and sharing stories with me about how much the class meant to them.

People thanked me for the opportunity to get stronger in their fitness.

For the experience of being coached again after 30 years, when they believed that time in their life was over after high school.

I was compared to a life coach. A counselor. A friend. A force.

People handed me bottles of wine as if it were a housewarming party; festive gift bags as if it were a bridal shower; and bouquets of flowers as if I were on Broadway. Homemade hats and T-Shirts in various shades of pink peppered the classes like a bachelorette party, each of them with sayings I regularly used in class.

One woman pulled me aside at the party to tell me something that she’d been hanging on to for weeks. She never wanted to let me know the ways the class affected her while I was teaching it, for fear that my knowing would alter the way I coached.

“I was a very unwilling participant in your class," she said. “My friend dragged me there because I needed something to take my mind off of things.”

Unbeknown to me, she was recently widowed and my class had become part of an “intervention” of sorts where her friend did the hard (and important) work of reminding her that life was still out there waiting for her to live it.

“You said something in those first few weeks in class that changed me. It allowed me to finally grieve. To move on.” She continued. “While we were in the middle of one of the hard songs, you asked us to feel the work that we were doing…all the sweat that was on our skin, the way it felt as it dripped down our bodies. The way it tasted on our lips, the way the pain felt as we were pushing the pedals, and how our muscles started to hurt just as we started to think that we didn't want to do this anymore. You told us that to work this way would suck. And to let the suck in. Do you remember that?” She asked.

And I did, or at least I was familiar with the concept and the way that I coach. So much of what I enjoy about training and racing are the endless parallels you can draw between a hard workout and a hard time in your life. They both require perseverance, a positive “can-do” attitude and the will to push through and see another day.

In training, it’s race day. The celebration of all your struggles coming together for a single, glorious moment as you cross the finish line and are rewarded with your accomplishment. In life, it’s the realization that there is a light at the end of the tunnel and you will find it if you are persistent enough to do so. Either way, the push gets you through the hard times and you realize that the struggle was worth it.

For this woman, Advanced Cycling Class allowed her to tap into that resource—the part of her that could push through and make it to the next day. And the one after that. And the days become weeks, and in her case—the weeks become part of a plan to complete a triathlon.

I was much more than a cycling instructor to her, and she was much more than a person who wrote a check to come to my class for 18 weeks.

Fitness is a funny thing. Yes, it’s good for you and keeps you physically healthy. But it’s also the only way most people are ever introspective. When you’re working out, it’s all about you. It’s a time to be selfish, to delve into all the things that make you tick. When you see results you are pleased. When you feel fatigue you are unhappy. Training calls upon a spectrum of emotions that allows us to be fully aware of ourselves for better or for worse. And this is why fitness becomes just as important for our minds, as it is for our bodies.

The happy hour lasted for a while, with many rounds of margaritas bolstering our post-exercise glow. I was honored that my classes thought so highly of me that they would thank me so graciously with their gifts and kind words, but I’m sure they’ll never realize that the real gift to me was the experience of watching them all change and grow through the program.

Many of the classes I taught included actual Ironman workouts that I had to do as part of my own training. There were times when I was sure that if I wasn’t responsible for motivating them through hill repeats, tempo rides and intervals that I wouldn’t have pushed through them so hard myself. The irony is that I created a program to train people in endurance riding, and they actually made me into a better athlete.

Last year I wrote a blog on “Showers for the Women of 2009,” titled so because I feel our society doesn’t celebrate women enough for the accomplishments they can achieve outside of marriage and motherhood.

Sure, the commitment of marriage and the birth of a new life are worthy of their fanfare—but I watched 65 people make a commitment to themselves to be in my class for 18 weeks. New athletes were born before my eyes. People who started the class to lose weight were finishing the program with registrations for their first races ever. Sparks were ignited, and the sport of triathlon is now being courted by a crop of new athletes who can’t wait to tackle goals they’d never even thought of until now.

I may not have a birth certificate to prove there is new life in the city of Syracuse, but if you come to any of the area races in town this summer, you can see it for yourself on the shores of the Finger Lakes and the roads of Central New York.

One day, maybe I will marry and have children. Those will be proud moments for me and I may find myself at my own wedding and baby showers being congratulated for these sacred milestones.

But it will be hard to find an event in my life that will compare to the first-ever Advanced Cycling Program, and being part of something that helped so many people grow and change in positive ways.

My thanks to all of those people who helped to celebrate the class, and their can-do attitudes.

The Flip Side of Injury

I used to shun the idea of the flip turn while doing my swim workouts.

For one, I am not a swimmer. I came to triathlon from running. All triathletes start from somewhere, and we tend to be rather possessive of our respective “background” sports. In a way, it gives us the opportunity to put a disclaimer on our weaknesses, while highlighting our inherent strengths in the multi-sport world.

Over the years I’ve taught myself to be a decent swimmer and have taken the time to register for weekend clinics so I can be at the mercy of swimming as an actual sport, rather than 1/3 of my training schedule.

(Another thing about triathletes, we’ll sign up for anything that’s meant to make us better—especially in the water where most of us struggle).

Swimming as an actual sport is a completely different experience than training for a triathlon.

I won’t pretend to know all about “actual swimming,” since I’ve only heard stories of athletes layering old bathing suits and pantyhose on to create drag in the water while they swim, leaving behind arms that sting with lactic acid in a way that makes you see God. My repertoire of strokes is nowhere near where it needs to be for me to have any business completing an Individual Medley (a series of laps where you use all four of the main swimming strokes). In fact, I consider the “dog paddle” to be among my official swimming strokes. And my backstroke is admittedly modified so that I a) don’t get water in my nose, and b) enjoy a lower abdominal workout while pulsing through the water.

Be that as it may, I have taken the time to get somewhat competent in the pool, mostly because my ego was stroked in a motivating way throughout my career as a triathlete. All it takes is for someone to inquire about my past as a swimmer in high school or college, and I start to fantasize about the raw potential that may be dormant inside of me.

In actuality, my past consists of my cousin and I creating our own synchronized swimming routines to the song “Fever” by Madonna, and seeing how long we could hold our breath under water while swimming from one end of the pool to the other. Still, something about the way I swim makes people believe that I'm good in the water.

I chalk it up to my, “lane-claiming-eye contact.”

At my gym there is limited time to swim laps since it is frequently worked in around such activities as “Hokey Pokey in the water” for toddlers, and the dreaded “family swim” which basically means there are no lane lines and people just frolic about in an unorganized way.

When a lane opens up, you can immediately suss out the athletes in the room. Goggles and swim caps appear from beneath bored thighs that have been pressed into plastic chairs for a half an hour as the clock ticks away at a maddeningly slow pace (accompanied by a background of splashing, screaming and “that’s what it’s all about!” sung in 10 different pitches). You need to be swift if you want to lock down the lap-swim lane when it opens up.

I usually lunge toward the water, immediately dip my toes in and sit on the edge of the pool. Then I proceed to jam my hair into the swim cap, while putting my best “eye of the tiger” face on. This must make people think I know what I’m doing in the pool—but really my expression is more about being disgruntled at having to swim, rather than forecasting any success I may have while covering 3200 yards.

Once in the water, I can hold a steady pace and am able to swim at more than one speed. I’ve mastered bionic breathing and have a pretty good stroke and kick, but Michael Phelps I am not.

I’ve been training for triathlons for five years now, and have never done a flip turn. My rationale for this is that in the open water during a race, there will be no wall to push off from. Therefore, why should I bother incorporating this skill into my swimming when all I need to do is get good at the forward progression of my body in the water?

But the other night I noticed a sharp pain in my elbow. It was in the arm that I use to push off the wall when I swim. That week I swam several interval sets, and started to realize that jamming my hand into the wall to turn around during a fast 50-meter sprint (16 times in a row) may have been the reason for the pain.

With nothing else to do in the water but think, my mind started to reel with possible pitfalls that could result from this “tennis elbow of the pool” issue. Within minutes I convinced myself that a “can’t get this wet” cast would have to be placed on me, or worse, the arm may have to be amputated altogether!

(Another thing about triathletes: If there is even the inkling of a threat to our ability to complete training as prescribed, we are “all in” for any solution that will enable us to continue working out like crazed cardio junkies).

Immediately I recalled my attempts to learn the flip-turn months ago. Water in the nose, flailing about, premature rotation that put me too far away from the wall to get any push, and (the best) hitting the wall for the push-off, but aiming myself to the floor of the pool so that I essentially used all of my force to launch my face toward a cement surface.

Flip-turns, for me, were a blizzard of bubbles and confusion.

All of this, better than amputation.

And so, I adopted the “sink or swim” mentality (pardon the terrible pun) and decided to just go for the flip-turn. I didn't want to end up with an arm that was too sore to swim at all.

Something incredible happened after that. All of my workouts improved. Not just in the pool, but on the bike and during my runs. The flip turns started to feel natural to me, and made it easier to keep moving along at a faster pace. This gave me a new confidence in my swim workouts, which in turn encouraged me to feel that confidence in each stride of my runs, and each “push” on my rides. It was as if some new facet of me as an athlete was unearthed that day, and I received a gift that enabled me to activate that “personal record” feeling I usually only experience in races when I realize I’ve bested my performance from previous years.

How could a flip-turn have such an impact on my training?

I think I’ve figured it out.

This year I’ve been really focused on trying to feel the same way I did in years past with my training, because part of me is really nervous that I’m not as prepared for this season as I should be. My mile splits in running have been a little bit slower than usual; and most of my cycling has taken place inside on a spin bike since I was coaching a couple of advanced cycling programs at the gym. In the pool I felt okay, but swimming isn’t going to make a dramatic different in my race times, so I didn’t care as much about any progress there.

The flip turn gave me the opportunity to be “new” at this sport again. Incorporating it into my swims made me think about those workouts differently. I started to look forward to swimming more than biking and running, which meant I became less obsessed with how my times were in those workouts. I had become so distracted by my doubts and fears, that I was holding myself back in those workouts.

Nailing flip turns reactivated my goals and renewed my belief that I am capable of anything. In this case, I was forced into a new skill out of necessity; but it has reminded me that the body is always up for improvements so long as you allow your mind to be on board, too.

Don’t wait for an injury or setback to come along and force you to do things differently. Challenge yourself to try something new even if it doesn’t seem necessary or useful for anything. You might be surprised by the domino effect that comes with one small change.

My Life in Madonna Maxi Singles

I recently got my hands on a fantastic collection of music: every maxi single that Madonna ever released. Last week, I watched the songs download into my itunes with the same fascination children employ while watching pieces of candy tumble into their trick-or-treat bags. And just as children see no problem with having 17 peanut butter cups in their stash, I have no problem with 14 versions of “Like a Prayer.”

While I was listening to the songs, I began to realize my mind was wandering back to very specific times in my life. In fact, with 470 songs at my fingertips—I was creating a chronology of my life based solely on Madonna Maxi Singles.

It all started with “Jimmy Jimmy” (1986).

This was the first Madonna song that I took the time to learn the lyrics for. If only there was such as thing as Google back then. You really had to feel a connection with the song to figure out what your favorite artists were saying in those days.

The process first required a good recording of the song to work with. That part could take weeks—what with the tape running out when you push record, having to wait for hours before the radio station recycled its song rotation so your jam would come back around, and then making sure the volume level was good enough to properly capture the audio in a way that would enable you to understand the words without mashing your ear up to the side of the boom box.

(On more than one occasion I would exit my bedroom with a corrugated cheek, thanks to my lavender boom box and its awesome striped plastic speakers).

At the age of seven, it was worth changing the topography of my face in exchange for Madonna’s pearls of wisdom.

“Why, oh why, oh why, do fools fall in love with fools like you?”

Brilliant, really. Brilliant because the boy that I was crushing on at the time was named Jimmy.

Three years later, I hit the double digits and it was only appropriate that my anthem became, “Express Yourself” (1989). While my classmates were rocking Skidz, Hypercolor T-Shirts, UMBRO shorts and every other trend at the time, my mom preferred to encourage me to be “unique.”

This was a fun way for her to keep me from complaining about the clothes I wanted her to buy for me, and instead get enthusiastic about the ones she sewed for me herself. Her plan worked as I realized it was way more fun to peruse patterns and colors in the fabric store; rather than the ubiquitous pre-packaged looks that plastered the mall.

I quickly wore out my recording of “Express Yourself, rewinding and playing the song for hours while prancing in front of the mirror perfecting choreography to the lines, “What you need is a big strong hand to lift you to your higher ground.”

I never progressed much past the actual (but dramatic) raising of my arm with my hand outstretched, while making what is now commonly referred to as a “duck face.”

By the age of 13, the infamous "Erotica" album was released. Around this time, I started writing really bad poetry in my journals to capture the endless heartache that ensues from middle school romance. Not that I had any romance in my life at the time, I just yearned for it. I pined for someone to rotate me in those awful slow dances at homecoming, always hoping that the object of my affection would come and whisk me away to one of the long tracks like, “Stairway to Heaven.”

It never happened, but that didn’t stop me from writing horrible love notes to boys that couldn’t care less about my feelings. The anticipation of receiving back a folded square of paper from one of them used to fill me with excitement—until I realized they had zero interest in me.

So it was fitting that on a long bus ride to Toronto to see “Phantom of the Opera” with my mom and grandmother, that I loaded my walkman with fresh batteries and silently debriefed my heart to Madonna’s “Words” (1992).

High school came and went, and I ended up in college still carrying a flame for a boy I had a crush on since the sixth grade. This was greatly encouraged by his behavior through the last part of senior year. We’ll call it, “friends with benefits-esque.”

I stupidly believed that "a' la carte" make-out sessions, dinner dates, four-hour phone conversations, and handwritten letters had something to do with actual feelings for another person, but that was an error on my behalf. I found this out when I traveled to this guy’s college to profess my love to him.

As “friends with benefits-esque” burst forth like a butterfly taking flight after months of incubation, I said THE words: I love you.

It didn’t go well.

“The Power of Goodbye” (1998) from Madonna’s “Ray of Light” album went on to become a source of therapy for me through all of college. I said a lot of good-byes.

“You were my lesson I had to learn, I was your fortress you had to burn.”

In true “fortress fashion,” I went on to withstand many battles of the heart through college. Dating jerks almost seemed like some kind of “half-credit” course I’d signed up for. Despite the warnings from friends about the questionable intentions of many of the men I dated, I carried on with my optimism.

“Don’t tell me to stop, tell the rain not to drop, tell the wind not to blow, ‘cause you said so.” Oh, how it resonated in my soul. “Don’t Tell Me” (2002).

After college, I was living in New York City with one of my best friends and was done with feeling sorry for myself. I decided that if I was going to feel pain, I’d rather have it mean something.

So I started training for marathons.

The alarm clock went off at 5:00AM, and I was out the door on a cold 8th Avenue by 5:30AM headed to Central Park where I’d feel myself come to life one layer at a time. My chunky white ipod only played about 80 songs because I never learned how to get music onto it without losing all of my songs.

“Die Another Day” (2003) came on frequently, and always in the beginning of the run where I was still half-debating about whether or not I should sneak back inside and bag the run for some extra sleep. But the song always encouraged me otherwise.

“I’m gonna break the cycle. I’m gonna shake up the system. I guess I’ll die another day.”

After three years, I moved back to Syracuse. Just to remind myself how much fun it was to date a complete jerk, I found myself one at the local gym. And I dated him on and off for about two years (that's another blog for another time).

Madonna’s new album, “Confessions on a Dancefloor” came out in 2005 and it couldn’t have been better timing. The tracks played continuously from one to the next, and provided nearly an hour of non-stop dance music that kept me from running my car into oncoming traffic on a daily basis.

At the time, I had a 45-minute commute to work, which is way too much time for an introspective loon such as myself to be alone with her thoughts. I broke it off with the loser boyfriend for the last time, and stuck to it in large part because the Confessions album was way too good to turn it down long enough to respond to any of his “please come back to me” phone calls.

“Sorry” (2005) was the order of the day. Every day.

“I don’t wanna hear, I don’t wanna know. Please don’t say you’re sorry. I’ve heard it all before, and I can take care of myself.”

Continuing the trend of “pain through fitness rather than heartbreak,” I continued to run marathons until I found a new passion: triathlon. By the time Madonna’s 11th studio album, “Hard Candy,” was released in 2008, I was well into the sport with several age-group wins and a thirst for victory.

When I heard the single, “4 Minutes” (2008) I was immediately into it. The song became a favorite pre-race track, and was dutifully blasted in my car on the way to every competitive engagement for that entire summer. While Madonna sang about having only four minutes to save the world, I thought about four minutes to save my race. Every second counts in triathlon, a sport that's ultimately comprised of six individual times. It's easy to look at race results and see where you fell short.

“Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.”

It’s 2010 and Madonna, described by a friend of mine as his “life icon,” still continues to make music that feels like a script to my soul.

My twenties are behind me, and so are the hesitations, doubts and fears. I’ve finally found the balance in life and am enjoying the stability that comes from a strong, solid relationship; a stable, rewarding career; and hobbies that are fueled by my passions—writing and fitness.

So it’s only fitting that I finish this blog on a good note…

“I’m gonna party, it’s a celebration. ‘Cause anybody just won’t do. Let’s get this started, no more hesitation, ‘cause everybody wants to party with you.”

“Celebration” (2009).

The Scheduled Life of the Spinsta

That’s right, I’m so busy I have to abbreviate words in my blog headline just so I can squeeze in the time to write said (super delayed) blog post.

In what seems like a tsunami of good fortune, I have been riding waves of self-actualization from the first seconds of 2010. The year began with a promotion where I saw my title change to include the word “Senior” for the first time ever. Then came the kick-off of a new advanced cycling program that I’m creating and coaching at Gold’s Gym—18 weeks of original workouts built for 90- and 120-minute classes designed to bring new athletes into the world of endurance training.

Somewhere in the middle of my full-time job as an advertising executive and my part-time job as a fitness instructor, I found time to be a freelance health and fitness writer with a weekly column and video series on triathlon.

Topping that all off, is the beginning of my fifth week of Ironman training—spilling into my life like an all-terrain gravy that seeps into every corner of your plate.

It’s a good thing I’m a “like it when my foods touch” kind of girl.

Believe it or not, I still have some free time and I’ve been using it to become the kind of girlfriend I’ve always wanted to be. Focusing on the future instead of the past, taking my boyfriend with me to spend time with my closest friends, and making new recipes that require me to find and use kitchen utensils that are more familiar with the back corner of my cupboard than they are with actual ingredients (measuring cups, mashers, prep bowls). Wine tastings. Family time. Foreign films. Scrabble. Naps. It’s all here in my scheduled life.

Despite my being super scheduled, I have been happier than ever this year. My anger has been limited to short bouts of road rage, and I’ve been feeling like my alter ego, “Betty Bitter Pants,” has left the building. I’m finally able to watch a wedding show on television without swearing aloud (though I’ll still change the channel after a couple of minutes—because how much can be said about cake toppers?).

I can even tolerate a little bit of PDA now that I’m realizing there’s more to life than finding love. The thing about a broken engagement—you find love, you have love, and then you lose love.

Then there comes a point when you realize that you survived that. That love isn't what you needed at all. What you needed, was to know that you could live without it. That life is still full and wonderful even if you are single.

Before I was engaged, I felt like my life was incomplete without that kind of commitment. How could I truly be a successful woman if I were going into my thirties unwed, with no prospects? It was like moving into a great house that had no kitchen.

Think of the housewarming party.

The guests mingle with joy in the grand foyer; sip cocktails as they peruse each room, their shoes click-clacking upon polished hardwood floors as they compliment the view of a great lawn through crystal clear windows. But then they leave, whispering to one another…

“Everything is wonderful, but she has no kitchen. How does she eat? How can one have a home without a kitchen?”

“The poor thing. All of that house, and no kitchen.”

“Maybe she’ll get a hot pot and make some Ramen noodles. At least it’s a hot meal…”

I ask myself how my 2010 would be different if I had been married by the age of 30 as I had hoped. When I was engaged, I was starting to feel pretty settled, as the struggle from my twenties had subsided and I no longer engaged in the drama of needing to find a man.

What happened when I broke my engagement, is that I ended up engaging in the drama of trying to find myself.

I became very busy.

I looked for ways to grow my responsibilities at work and turn my role into something more than it ever was in the past—this resulted in my being promoted to a position that didn’t even exist two years ago in the agency where I work. And a column in the local paper that has never ran before. And a brand new program at the gym that was never offered before.

Filling empty spaces with something new brought a sense of satisfaction to me, as I started to feel my own empty spaces fill with purpose. It was a sink or swim feeling in many ways. I knew I was stuck inside of a dark tunnel that in theory should have a light at the end of it, but I had to rely on my own inner-torch to illuminate the path forward.

I could have sat in the darkness with my face buried in my knees, but I've learned that anger and complaining rarely illuminate.

People complain about being scheduled. They want time to do things that make them happy—time for themselves. People talk about making time to pursue hobbies, travel, or tackle big projects that never seem to get off the ground. When you’re single, people assume you have all the time in the world. Without kids and a marriage to manage, everything is easier and more flexible. People don't understand how single people can possibly complain about needing more time. When you’re single, the world is your oyster!

I believe the world can be anyone’s oyster, if you want it bad enough.

Lately I’ve seen many people put into a position that has caused them to struggle financially, professionally or emotionally. Whether it’s a break-up, a lay-off, or the sudden unexpected loss of something or someone important in life. I’ve seen some game changers in the past two years.

It’s critically important to manage your time wisely during these situations—as there is no easier way to waste the time in your life, than to sit in the dark tunnel and complain about how terrible things are.

Take it from me. If there were a formula like the one smokers use to determine how many minutes of your life are gone with each cigarette, I’d be missing a chunk of time that was spent wasted on complaining and being angry. A similar calculation for me could have been one day off your life every time you date a guy that treats you like crap; one week off for every time you go back to one of those guys; and a day off for every time you’ve been laid off, fired, or otherwise unappreciated in a career environment. By this logic, I’ve probably lost a month—one of the ones with 31 days in it!

To the outside world, my life may seem bleak, maniacal and nutty. I’m always busy, and when I’m not busy I’m either sleeping, hung-over, or getting ready to be busy again. People always ask me, “How do you find the time to do everything?”

Lately it has occurred to me that maybe I need to loosen things up a bit and find more time to do the things I like. Then I realized that the reason why my calendar is always full, is because I’m already doing that. I make time for the things I like, and I book it.

Calendars aren’t just to keep track of meetings, appointments and reminders. Make a date with yourself to do something YOU want to do.

And if someone asks if you’re available that day, tell them you’re busy.

(Note to self, for added enjoyment of this post, listen to Lady Gaga’s song, “Telephone” and every time you read the word “busy” up above, pause and sing aloud: “I’m kinda busy. Kah-kinda busy.” The song is stuck in my head and it seems fitting at the moment).

*Image from Corbis

Old Resolutions for the New Year

When I was young, I used to dream of becoming a fitness aerobics instructor. I’m not sure why this was so appealing to me, but it was the only “when I grow up” scenario that seemed to be reoccurring amid the occasional daydreams of being a rock star, an actress, a princess, or a bus driver. (Our bus driver was always either singing Debbie Gibson at the top of her lungs, or stopping the bus to yell at us as she draped herself over the front seats, pointing a manicured fingernail toward the back of the bus where some high schooler tried to hold in a smirk until she was done. I think this made the bus into a rolling stage of sorts, and therefore appealing).

One of my first Barbie dolls came with her own stationary bike, and she was dressed in a teal leotard and pink belt. Jane Fonda and Kathy Smith regularly made appearances in my living room where my mom loyally did her workouts each morning. From a young age, the seeds were being planted to eventually find myself somehow tied to the fitness world.

If these seeds were planted during my elementary school years, middle school seemed to be the time when they would have surely been pulled out of the ground and deemed as duds. I wasn’t a svelte teenager, not even cute. I was overweight with pasty pale skin (often patchy, thanks to eczema), and routinely failed the mile-test in gym class. I was the stereotypical nerd who crushed on the popular boy, and believed I was being flirted with whenever slighted. The middle school years culminated with my being cut from the softball try-outs, a blow to my self-esteem for sure. At the time, A League of Their Own was a hit movie and the idea of being part of something that allowed one to merge fame and fitness in the same venue was mind-blowing to me. The coach suggested I try out for the track team, since the only thing about softball that I was able to grasp was how to run around the bases.

That summer I started to do a walking program that Kathy Smith came out with as a supplement to one of her VHS tapes. I walked miles upon miles around my town and started high school in the fall as a new person. I craved an outlet for my energy, and since I didn’t have any skills in sports on the field, I turned my attention to performance on the stage. I was a Gleek before there was ever a show to promote such a status, taking part in every music program my school had to offer. Chorus, band, girl’s chorus, swing choir, jazz band and the annual musical productions and NYSMA competitions were all part of my curriculum.

When spring came around, I decided to take the softball coach’s advice and I went for the track team. That first year was nothing great, but I started to find the same discipline in fitness that I’d cultivated in music and kicked things up a notch by running on the cross-country team the following fall. As a sprinter, I was never very good at running longer distances, but training with the team got me into the best shape of my life at the time. The next three years of track I enjoyed being part of a record-holding relay team in the 1600, and someone who regularly placed in the 100- and 200-meter dashes.

Throughout college and after graduation I continued to run to keep in shape, and to challenge myself against my own records. I sought alternative “stages” through my first few jobs, trying on hats in the advertising and publishing industries, which eventually made me realize I have a passion for writing. Over the years running and writing have started to become intertwined like a pair of best friends that are never apart. A steady pace over twenty miles of running would seamlessly flow into a steady stream of consciousness on paper, or vice versa. My mind seems to be connected to my feet and when one starts to go into gear, so does the other.

This became very apparent to me when I became a fitness instructor four years ago. I was a regular cardio junkie at the gym, taking step aerobics and weight-lifting classes, and doing spin classes to cross-train on days when I wasn’t running. The spinning instructor suggested I get certified in a new type of cycling fitness class called Group RIDE that Gold’s Gym was going to offer. I passed my certification test and started teaching my own class two times a week.

Becoming a fitness instructor has allowed me to wear almost every hat I’ve ever tried on (or pretended to try on). The 11-year-old girl who used to wear her swimming suit over tights and jump around the bedroom to “Like a Prayer” with a sweatband on beamed with pride as I took my place in front of the class for the first time. The up-and-coming track star that was buried beneath the softball-team-reject jumps with joy now that I can wear a microphone and share what I’ve learned about discipline and perseverance with the masses. And the writer in me glows with enthusiasm now that I’m a Contributing Columnist with the local paper offering weekly tips and advice in my very own column about triathlon training.

We dream about being many things when we are young. Armed with toys and imaginations and all the time in the world, we’re free to see a future that can’t hold us back. As we get older, the realities of life set in. Budgets, rules, limits. Self-esteem, insomnia, peer pressure. We learn the art of “the excuse,” and rationalizing why things must be the way they are. We forget that somewhere deep down, there was a dream. A seed that lies within the soul waiting to find light...waiting for us to till the land and tell the dream it’s okay to come out.

The new year is on the horizon, marking the end of another decade. All around the world people are thinking of resolutions, planting seeds to harvest in the new year. Making promises that they probably won’t keep much past March.

This year, consider going for one of those old seeds. One of the vintage dreams. Look inside your soul for something you used to save and cherish like a fine bottle of wine and open it. Twenty years ago I was playing with the Barbie and her stationary bike. Now I’m the blonde on the bike (sadly, sometimes in teal and pink). Ten years ago I was writing in my journal about wanting to be a writer. Now I’m a contributing columnist with a well-read spinster blog.

I’m realizing dreams I never thought I’d see come true, and things are unfolding and interlacing in ways that I never would have imagined. I’m encouraged by this especially after so many rough years both personally and professionally. I’ve been patient and persistent, yes. But most importantly – I never forgot the promises I made to the girl wearing her bathing suit over her tights. And I’m just getting started.

Pick-Up Lines – The New Pick-Me-Up?

Last night I went out to meet an old friend for drinks who, like so many friends these days, shared with me the story of his recent engagement. It’s the fifth piece of “super couple” news I’ve received in the past month. I chuckle to myself when I learn of these things, as it seems the movie of my life would have to include a crawl at the bottom of the screen to announce who is getting married, buying a house or having babies around me. In reality, it seems the other way around. The big screen is reserved for these all-important milestones while the other nooks and crannies of life carry on in the background.

After a couple glasses of wine, my friend excused himself to the restroom before we were going to leave. In what might have been one of the most awkward pick-up moments ever, a man approached me and asked if he could take my picture on Santa’s lap. (Santa, so you know, was visiting this particular bar to deliver another keg of Great Lakes Ale as part of the Beer Week event going on in town). Accompanied by some horrible country-pop holiday music playing in the background, I agreed to take the photo.

A flock of men gathered to take my picture with Santa on their smartphones, and my Chardonnay-laden giggle reminded me that the scene was getting ridiculous. I extracted myself from his red velour pants, feeling a mild static shock as I stood up. (In my mind, I “modeled through it” just the way Tyra would have told me to if I were on a shoot for America’s Next Top Model. Yes, I watch the show.)

My friend returned from the restroom just in time to see the flock of men disperse as Santa gave me a “high five.” Simultaneously, the man who approached me was now flanked by another, who began to talk about triathlon and how he wanted to change his fitness lifestyle. For me, this was a guaranteed conversation starter.

“Are you okay?” My friend asked. Based on what he’d just seen, it was a valid question.

I was aware that these guys (both 20 years older than me) had me in their crosshairs and were trying to pick me up – but I happen to have a pretty passionate sales pitch when it comes to getting people involved in triathlon, and I wasn’t about to let this opportunity slide. A little bit of wine mixed with a little bit of soul, and conversations like this become an amusement park of inquiry and persuasion.

My friend left, and there I stood with a pair of 50-year old cousins who bought me another glass of wine and stared at me curiously as our conversation took flight through a random assortment of topics. We went from triathlon to career goals, to stories about their ugly divorces (trending!) and children (one of their daughters was getting married – please refer to the crawl at the bottom of the screen).

At times they attempted to resume a flirtatious banter, but for the most part they seemed to be taking me seriously as someone who could help to change their lives (in the gym, not the bedroom). I felt like the pilot show for a sitcom – testing their interaction with me to see what they were all about. Losers just looking to score, or legitimately nice guys? I believe the latter is true.

I told them about my broken engagement and how I was in a new relationship that was going well; about Ironman; and my inability to follow recipes. They told me about being self-employed; their college days of competitive swimming; and characteristics about future in-laws that annoyed them. I was compared to sisters, “Wouldn’t Renee just LOVE her?” and privy to pre-supposed confessions such as, “If I come to your class, I’m probably going to fall in love with you.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s probably true.”

Some women take offense to being hit on – I’m not one of those women. If it happens to be annoying, I walk away. If it’s engaging (not necessarily in a carnal way) I’m game for an exchange of dialogue.

Blame it on my penchant for reality television and dating shows. It’s challenging to present yourself to someone for the first time, while spontaneously coming up with what you perceive to be an effective blend of words, movement and wit to keep that person interested. Many people suck at it. I’ve walked away from them plenty of times.

For the record, the cousins were well-dressed, polite, and worth the engagement.

Some of my readers know that I work in advertising and “ghost write” some social media pieces for a promotional campaign we’re doing for Remington. As such, I’ve been spending considerable time talking about pick-up lines and coming up with tips for men to impress women. Since the promotion goes so well with this post, I’d like to share the following link to a list of, “The Top 10 Looks That Will Get You Nowhere With Women.” Then make sure you try out the game (click on PLAY THE GAME in the top right corner). You might be surprised how much fun the pick-up can be if you just go with it.

Ironic sidenote: After all of my babble about triathlon, I should mention that I still can’t score with Trainer Patrice in the game!

Enjoy: http://bit.ly/28Pc9l

Happy Independiversary

One year ago, I was supposed to be married. I’m not sure if 10/24 is trapped in my heart because of what was going to happen that day, or if it’s from the time spent creating Save-the-Date cards and seeing those numbers in every font available on my computer. I was proud of my design. Proud, too, of the life I was embarking on. I was leaving the dating scene and stepping up to the prospect of “happily ever after.”

I tried to let the weekend come and go without indulging in any feelings about the milestone it could have been, but it’s hard to force emotional currents one way or the other. It felt like I was trying to pull the meaning off of 10/24 the same way I might have tried to peel a sticker from an apple.

If it’s not ready to come off and you continue to try, you’re likely to pull some skin away with it, too.

It’s not just the date itself that has been keeping me awake at night. About a month ago my ex-fiance called to tell me the tragic news that someone we had spent time with as a couple had unexpectedly passed away. Given that we’ve both moved on to new relationships, our correspondence has been limited to pleasantries and the occasional conversation about how things are going. Sharing the news of an untimely death was easily one of the most emotional exchanges we’d encountered together in more than a year. My immediate reaction was to be there for him, the way I would be there for any friend in that situation, but it was reminiscent of something more. Something that we used to be – partners in life’s hardest situations.

At some point, though, we couldn’t make it through one of those situations. We came upon an obstacle that was too large to ignore, and at the time we were unable to do anything about it except argue. And then fight. And then resent. It was no way to spend an engagement, and I couldn’t move forward with a wedding that was suddenly surrounded by so much doubt and pain.

Our wedding was postponed right around the time that I turned 30, and after several months of couples therapy, we decided to break things off. I will never forget the weekend I moved out. I have never cried so hard as I did packing my things to move on from the life I was so desperate to live, back into the life of the unknown. With the wedding canceled and a parade of empty boxes swallowing up my life as I knew it, the pressure “to make things work” was off and me and my ex were actually able to talk and laugh again. The combination was jarring. How could we feel so impossible week after week, but then find a sense of calm in one another on the day before I was moving out? One of life’s mysteries, I suppose.

What I’ve learned from all of this, is that even though we never married the way we’d planned, we’ve remained close within our hearts. I am connected to him in ways that are not immediately (or ever?) undone, and though I made the right decision to end the relationship, I shouldn’t expect to encounter would-be anniversary dates and emotional conversations about someone’s untimely passing without feeling some sense of that connection manifesting itself. What it means is that I almost married a good guy, but I didn’t go through with what might have been a great mistake. At times I wish that ours had been an abusive relationship, one with crystal clear reasons for why it was wrong and shouldn’t continue. What I had was a relationship that I didn’t feel passionately about. There were boundaries as to what could be comfortably expressed and shared – and my gut feeling told me that I couldn’t live that way.

The independent woman in me knew that it would be hard to walk away from a relationship that made me mostly happy, but it had be done. It’s not easy to do the right thing, and if you are independent, you know what’s right for you and are faced with hard decisions that test that self-commitment all the time. Being “independent” isn’t just about being able to do things on your own without relying on someone else. It’s about being strong in who you are, defending what you’re about and what you need to be happy. Marriage isn’t about “finding my other half,” because I don’t feel that I’m missing any portion of who I am, nor do I feel that I need to find someone to be the yin to my yang. I see marriage as the ultimate sharing of one’s soul – it’s not about anything that’s missing and needs to be found. Or about something that’s empty that needs to be filled. It’s about something that amplifies an energy that’s already there. For many reasons, my relationship with my ex fiancé did not work. One of them was because I felt my energy was stifled in some ways and I began to feel trapped in a life that wasn’t mine.

I made the decision to break things off and face the emotional tide that comes with ending one’s fairytale wedding. Hundreds of Save-the-Date cards were recycled. Teary cancellations with vendors took me off the radar as a bride-to-be, and the walls in our home became bare as my possessions piled up into moving boxes.

I stood in those rooms staring at the walls like a ghost from a past life. Some part of me would be lost in that house forever. Time passed and gradually things got easier, but never so easy as to forget what it felt like to face that fork in the road.

Go one way and be true to “society," go another and be true to myself.

I won’t say that it’s been an easy road – because more than a year after breaking my engagement, I’m writing this blog. But I will say that it feels good to know that I can weather the storm on my own and that despite the sadness I felt on my would-be anniversary day, I know that my heart is still in tact and I’m still moving forward. Even if there are times when I pause to look back.