Before I get too much farther along on this blog, I thought I should revisit a few topics, namely: where I come from, mentally and physically; my history as a runner; and how running impacts my relationship with my husband James.
(Yes, I am avoiding writing about running because no, I have not run any more since Tuesday.)
For as long as I can remember, I have been equally drawn to incredibly passive activities (read: sitting for 6 hours straight to finish a book) and incredibly physical ones (read: swimming at the neighborhood pool for 6 hours a day all summer so my blond highlights turned green from chlorine). Or, in other words, I love both mental and physical stimulation. In fact, I'm a bit of a stimulation junkie - mental, physical, and sensory.
Combine this with the fact that I come from a family of (tall) athletes and you have a recipe for a voracious eater. I love food - the taste of it, the smell of it, and - here's where the challenge arises - even the sensation of eating it. Standing at a fairly muscular 5'10" means I need a decent amount of calories to maintain healthy weight. But I'm no ultra-marathoner or distance swimmer. I cannot justify eating an entire box of CheezIts now, let alone when I was ten (yes, this really did happen).
I also happened to be one of those people whose physical body developed (height from 10-13 years old and weight from 13-16) more quickly than my mental awareness of it; that this happened in tandem with a significant withdrawal into my head and away from my body didn't help. I tried out for my soccer team freshman year with no clue of how soft I had become.
Okay, I was a soft wheezing mess.
So what happened? Schnucks happened.
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