Monthly Archives: March 2010

I ran a Half Marathon!!

Oh yes, yes, I did – along with the other 16,000 runners that ran with ME (yes ME!) on that perfectly crisp NY day. I now have the bragging rights to say, very nonchalantly of course, “Oh, yea, I ran a half”.

To me, the half marathon was 80% mental and 20% physical, and my emotions ran the gamut, here’s my account:

Miles 1-3: I can’t believe I am doing this, I am so proud of myself, running 13.1 miles in Manhattan! I am running in Central Park with 16,000 other runners; yes I am a runner aren’t I? Hot damn, life is good! This park is gorgeous, I have to come back and explore it! It’s a must! I am so badass! I feel alive, core is strong, legs are sturdy…I’m King of the World!

Miles 4-6: Wow, I never knew Central Park was so fucking hilly, I ran here in September and it didn’t seem that bad. So glad that I don’t have the urge to “go”, what a mess that would be, Thank You God! I am still feeling pretty good, legs are holding up, I so got this. I mean, I trained and I trained hard, I so got this. Go me!

Miles 7-8: Are you fucking kidding me? I’m still in this damn park? I gotta get outta of this fucking PARK NOW! WHERE’S the turn off? WHERE IS THE DAMN FUCKING TURN-OFF? GET ME OUT OF HERE! Hmmmm… I am still felling good, thank God I trained, whoa… that gal looks like she’s about to collapse, lucky me!

Miles 9-10: I enter Broadway, the epicenter of midtown Manhattan, I start singing at the top of my lungs and off so key (sorry fellow runners!) just because I am so damn excited to be out of the park and in the middle of Manhattan: “New York, Concrete Jungle where dreams are made of let’s hear it for NY, big lights will inspire you”. Man, I am running in the middle of Broadway!! How cool is this?! This is AWESOME! Tears start streaming down my face of pure joy as I realize what I am accomplishing. Oh CRAP, what is that? A side stitch? It better not be a fricking side stitch; hhmmm my legs are getting a little tired but you trained for this Deanna, you can do this, screw your legs, you SO got this- you’re in the middle of Manhattan running!

Miles 11-13: Holy Fuck, I feel like I am going backwards, I need to drink some water NOW. Two more miles, is that correct? Are they serious? I have to do another half in four weeks? Why the hell am I doing this? Am I on crack? Two more half’s, a 24 hour relay, and like eight 5k’s are in my future, will I be able to walk again? Holy shit – did you see that guy, his nipples are bleeding; I hope to high heaven that my nipples are okay, please God no bleeding nipples!

Finish Line: I did it! I did it! I did it!! Tears, exhaustion and so proud that I ran 13.1 miles, finish time: 2:19.

I never in my life thought I’d run a half marathon – in my mind – the half marathon were for the thin, the strong, ummm, my husband. I was all about the 5k’s – they were a feat, and the 10k’s were the Mecca races to me. So accomplishing this is like Tiger Woods winning the Masters – at the Top of his Game – prior to him screwing hundreds of women ‘cause this year, even if he does win, it loses something, right?

Posted in Mangia Mia Fitness Pia

Bring you’re A Game

My two-year old has hit the prime of the terrible two’s with the strength of the Hulk, the charm of Hugh Grant, and the speed of Superman. My house is child proofed for Hannibal Lecter. All kitchen chairs are tied to the table, there are no knick-knacks or picture frames around the house, cleaning supplies are above the sink, any other piece of furniture that can be moved is in storage and we don’t use any knifes, we cut our food with lasers.

The eyes in the back of my head were just not working properly, if they had I am sure I would have seen the little bugger unwrap a bar of soap and flush it down the toilet. I did hear some rumblings and when I got to the bathroom, he threw up his arms and said “I did it Mommy!” as if he just won a gold medal. The wrapper from the soap was on the floor, and that devilish grin told me everything I needed to know. I calmly walked to the phone and called the plumber. After I dialed the plumber and arranged an appointment I grabbed some water (hoping it would turn into wine, or a beer, or a shot of whiskey) and I took a moment to reflect on the havoc he caused the prior week: he had a liquid lunch of bubbles; made a Picasso with poo; stomped on a bowl of cereal; escaped from the house; ate a ¼ stick of butter; dumped over the garbage can; used his penis as a hose in my living room and chugged milk from the container like a teenager. And as I pondered this I realized that last week I had gotten a good night sleep every night, exercised, felt great and while he did everything short of bring on a plague of locusts I was on my A GAME – YES MY A GAME. Can you imagine if I was on my C Game? I’d be tied up in a chair somewhere, with a sock in my mouth! The nick-name Master of Disaster is so fitting isn’t it? And my husband wonders why I say I NEED to go for a run. Bastard.

The A Game means I have to up my energy, courage and strength to put it all on the line. I have to be focused and face my fears in the eye, in this case said two-year old son, and stare him down like a lion does his prey. And as every parent knows it ain’t easy! It’s exhausting to bring your A Game. To me the A Game is when you live in the moment, don’t get side tracked, or multi-task, you have the focus of Superman and the quick wit of Chelsea Handler. My A Game is not an everyday occurrence; it’s too much work. When I stare down my prey I melt like the Wicked Witch of the West, it’s just too much for any one person to handle, okay, it’s too much for me to handle.

When I took my Master of Disaster to the doctor, my kind, wise pediatrician witnessed his super powers first hand and he imparted this wisdom to me: 1) sometimes kids are just bad (nice right?) 2) keep him safe and 3) he’ll probably out-grow this behavior by four. I caught my breath, then my child before he toppled another tray of medical supplies and with the weight of an over active two year old dragging me down, slowly left his office. Oy-to-the-Vey? For another 24 months I have to be at the TOP of my GAME. In order to make sure the earth will still rotate on its axis I must be on my A Game for 730 days straight. That’s impossible, isn’t it? It’s like I have to be the Derek Jeter of Mommy-Land. How the hell am I going to out play, out smart and out wit my two year old? (Is CBS going to sue me over that one?)

I sigh a heavy sigh and realize that in life, you have to bring your A Game all the time, no matter what you’re doing; laundry, a board meeting, or struggling with a bottle of watered down bleach to get an abstract poop painting off your walls. And to the A Game, I raise the just confiscated juice box from the Master of Disaster and chant BRING IT ON! B-C & my occasional D Game, you’re going down! Okay, well, maybe not D.O.W.N, but definitely most definitely pushed, like a really hard push. Never fear my A Game is here well, it’s close, really really close by.

Posted in The Little Buggers

I &#9829 Food

“Food, Glorious Food! Hot sausage and mustard, while we’re in the mood —Cold Jelly and Custard”! Do you remember these lyrics from the play Oliver? Am I dating myself? The excitement that those orphan boys sing about food is exactly how I feel daily. I think about food 24/7. I know that’s nothing new for a lot of you – foodies, and dieters alike. However, I’m special (yes, yes, I am, my mom told me so!). I don’t just plan my meals; I plan my life around food. My errands, play-dates and basically anything that requires me to leave my house is factored upon when where, and what I will be eating. One evening when I was hounding my hubby about what we should have for dinner he shouts back “All you think about is food”. That was the first wake-up call.

How does this make me different than you? Well, I’ll tell you how sick I am. My father-in-law suffered a heart attack two weeks ago, thankfully he is in full recovery, however when we got the phone call, and as I was in the midst of running around packing bags and making phone calls to ship the kids off, ya know what popped into my head? “Oh, he’s at Winthrop, they have killer frozen yogurt”. That was my second-wake-up call; the siren went off telling me that I have a BIG problem. My family is thrown into crisis, and I’m thinking about frozen yogurt? What’s even sadder is the fact that I know a HOSPITAL has great frozen yogurt. C’mon really?

After working with a nutritionist for the last seven months through this Health Magazine gig (total loss in two years – 58 pounds, w/Health, well, I can’t tell ya yet!!), the guidance, and knowledge I received from the panel of experts has been life changing. The only issue now is that I’m an Equal Opportunity Eater. I don’t discriminate. My heart races and my palms get sweaty for a nicely grilled plate of veggies sprinkled with olive oil and sea salt as much it does for a greasy hamburger with blue cheese crumbles, sautéed onions and bacon.

I also use food for comfort, so does half of America, but, unlike the rest of America I seriously have been working really hard not to abuse food. Changing a 30 year habit is not easy. I journal my food on a daily basis, and writing that I inhaled a bag of veggies fries definitely holds you accountable. I also take the time to plan all my dinners, and for some reason planning that one meal makes breakfast and lunch fall right into place. It’s annoying, time-consuming but so effective, for me anyway – especially since I have potential to binge. When we were little my sister and I after our Saturday morning clean would storm off to the local deli buy a foot long hero each (my feeling stuffer of choice was chicken roll and mayo (chicken roll doesn’t exist anymore which might explain my constant twitching), a big bag of chips (each), and a bottle of soda. We’d gorge ourselves and our feelings. I learned to use food to comfort every emotion (I’m 100% Italian, stuffing our faces is a tradition) to celebrate, to fill a hole, funerals, depression, loneliness, to ease any type of pain or sadness.

After two years of losing weight, I have worked on the emotional side of my eating. Now Instead of running off and eating because I am celebrating, or sad, or down in the dumps, I try really hard to basically sit in it and feel the emotion. It can be a very dark place, and on the good days it’s joyous to feel the love and happiness around you – to feel happy because you are happy not because you ate a Carvel soft-serve sundae with caramel, marshmallow and chocolate sprinkles. I do feel that I got a decent handle on this issue, but what scares the pants off me is the simple fact that some days I can go off the deep end. Got into a fight with the hubby, stressed by the kids, didn’t make it to the gym, found out a friend has cancer, annoyed by sisters, friends, school moms – and look whose driving through McDonalds’ ordering the number 2 (super sized of course)! This behavior makes me feel like a pimply 7th grader about to get her assed kicked: weak. Man I NEED balance, balance baby balance, where are ya when I need ya?!

My family doesn’t share the same affection or have a love affair I have with food. My hubby is a fireman, so those damn FDNY chefs have ruined it for me, he doesn’t get excited for anything because he eats like a King (name it – gourmet or comfort, he’s eaten it). My little buggers, well, the six year old if allowed would live on starbursts, but since I have a dentist phobia I put a stop to that; his palate consists of pizza, pumpernickel bread with cream cheese, a buttered bagel, plain pasta and only his Grammy’s meatballs, he has told me and I quote “my meatballs got nothing on Grammy’s”. I may have a chance with the two year old – he may turn into a real food lover, however I am afraid that his starch loving plain butter eating damn brother is ruining it for him.

I guess I’ve come to the realization that I still have a lot of work to do. It’s a process people,a frustrating process. I do believe that in some ways I will always be in love and find comfort in food. Food and me, we ain’t divorcing anytime soon. I need to learn to love food like an ex – find the balance that food should serve a purpose as fuel for my body, learn from my mistakes and when I screw up, take it up in food court, reassess and start paying support to myself again. Sounds like a plan, right? I’ll draw up the custody plans now!

Posted in Mangia Mia Fitness Pia