I just want to elaborate on the food topic for a quick post because people give me way too much credit for my weight loss.  Let’s get some things straight.

• I didn’t really diet. I don’t deprive myself of anything I want ever really.  I didn’t religiously count calories, I didn’t have weight goals to hit.  Anyone on a diet plan with numbers you have to follow are far better than I.
• I weighed myself constantly.  I know you’re not supposed to do this but I was just learning my body and whether I gained 2 pounds or lost 2 pounds, it didn’t matter to me because my focus was whether I had a happy, fulfilling day or not.  If happy and fulfilling came at 260 or 160, so be it but the happy and fulfilling were not and are not contingent on those numbers.
• My weight came off over about a 2-year period, I’m still not at my goal weight and that’s fine if I never make it.  I’m happy 80 pounds lighter and I have put back on zero pounds since 2007.

NOW my diet and exercise routine is very different and I’m active but that’s not how I started.  I made simple changes that had huge effects on my mind and then on my body.  They weren’t always easy but they eventually became habit so here’s a quick list.

1) Get a To-Go Box Immediately
You might get a funny look but it works like magic for me.  If I go out to a restaurant, I’m getting what I want.  I don’t want to go to a steakhouse and get a salad.  I want a steak, maybe a burger.  And I probably want mashed potatoes or fries or onion rings or mac and cheese.  And bread.  And if that’s what I want, that’s what I will be getting.  I’m also the kind of person who feels obligated to clean her plate and who mindlessly eats.  Doesn’t matter how many fries are in front of me, if we’re talking, I’ll eat them all.

So these days I order whatever I want off the menu and when it arrives, if the portions look out of control and sometimes even if they don’t, I’ll immediately ask a server to bring me a to-go box.  I cut my burger or chicken parm or section off my orange chicken or whatever and toss half into the box.  I throw half of all my side orders in there too.  I put the box either in my purse or on the seat and eat what’s left on the plate.  By the time I’ve finished that, I’m usually full.  Not sickly full or tired but satisfied enough that there’s no point in going through the hassle of re-plating my take home box.

This doesn’t really work for fast food chains.  The thought of eating cold McDonald’s makes me want to gag.  You have to eat those fries on the way home because if they get cold, they’re done.  That brings me to #2.

2) Kiddie menus are your friends
That is, if you’re allowed to order off of them.  This mainly pertains to fast food but depending on the restaurant and the menu, it might work other places.  For instance, at McDonald’s a value meal is gigantic.  Nothing we haven’t heard a million times before.  The Happy Meals are so small if you’re relearning (or learning for the first time as I was) what a portion is.  That is why I love the Mighty Kids Meal.  It’s the perfect in-between.  A value meal will get you 10 chicken nuggets, a large fry and a large drink.  A Mighty Kids Meal will get you 6 nuggets and a small fry.  For comparison, the Happy Meal is 4 nuggets and a small fry.

My other suggestion for places like McDonald’s is to get a value meal and split it with your partner or your kid.  Kid might not want to do that which is why you’re lucky you’re the parent and can just do stuff like that!  That way you know you’re not going to eat the whole thing but you’re also not trying to salvage that Double Quarter Pounder for tomorrow *gag*.

Another place that has a great kiddie menu is Qdoba!  I actually think they might have an age-limit on theirs but if you’re grabbing it to go, they don’t know if you have a kid back at the house!  Their kids menu chicken quesadilla is the PERFECT size for an adult.  I think you get a small drink and a small handful of nacho chips with it.  I switched over to doing this when I worked in a plaza with Qdoba and I couldn’t bring myself to spend that much money every day or eat that much for one meal every day.  After eating off kids menus, it’s really interesting to see how much extra they give adults and actually experience what children are putting into their bodies.

3) Don’t Keep Deliciousness in Your Home
For me it’s ice cream.  I can’t have it in my house because I’ll eat it all really quickly and I won’t feel bad about it because I love ice cream.  It’s not cost-effective to buy a single serving of ice cream at a time but that’s the point.  Ice cream isn’t a necessity.  I don’t need to get it at the best deal in the largest quantity.  So I have to work for my ice cream.  I have to decide if I REALLY want it.  Maybe I’m just really thirsty?  Maybe I just need calcium?  Drink some water or some milk.  Nope, still want ice cream.  I’ll put on my shoes, walk or drive to the store or the ice cream place and pay for a cone what I could pay for a half-gallon at the supermarket.  And then I have to walk or drive back.  The nights that I really wanted that ice cream, it’s delicious and worth the time and gas.  Most nights I just don’t want to put all the effort into it so I pour myself a huge glass of water and get over it.  I had the choice and I opted for no ice cream.  Deal with it and drink your water.

Is this healthy eating?  No.  But let’s be serious, jumping from a life of fast food and salt to kale, almond milk and quinoa salads isn’t easy and might not even be something your aspire to do.  Never judge yourself for being honest with yourself and trying.  It doesn’t matter if people around you don’t see the effort it takes to resist getting one or two value meals at a drive-thru, you know the effort it takes and you have every right to be incredibly proud of yourself for making different decisions – or the same decisions and acknowledging the consequences.  It’s all about awareness.

Hopefully you watched that trailer of the upcoming documentary Dark Girls.  It’s a pretty captivating clip.

When I watched this preview I found it interesting that while I am aware of this problem, I was not grasping how deeply it was affecting people.  Hearing these women talk about how they wanted to be lighter was eye-opening for me because as a child growing up, I also wanted to be lighter…or darker.  I am sort of a light-skinned girl.  I am but only because I’m mixed (black/white), there was little chance I would have been very dark.  In my town you were more than likely white or maybe you were Asian (probably Cambodian but Indian and others as well) and then there were a few black kids. 

When I was very young, I wanted to look like my mother.  I’m sure part of my wanting to look like her came from our closeness but part of it came from wanting to belong somewhere. Nobody on TV really looked like me.  Absolutely nobody in my town except for my brother looked like me and I just thought blonde, straight hair and white skin was normal.  It’s slightly embarrassing how much I was in love with the show Today’s Special because I really really loved watching how Jeff (a white man) and Jodie (a black woman) interacted.  Today’s Special and Sesame Street.  Thank the heavens for them. It was the rare time I felt like there were other people in the world who had similar lives.  Because I totally lived with muppets.  Just kidding.

I still love how this show made me feel.

When I got a little older, into later elementary school/middle school, the few black kids that would be in my classes, I would be jealous of their hair and their skin color.  I didn’t feel light enough to be white and I didn’t feel dark enough to be black.  White people had similar hair.  Black people had similar hair.  I didn’t have either.  This was further compounded when I wanted to straighten my hair and all of the white(?) products were too gentle and the “ethnic” products were too harsh.   It wasn’t until my 20s, when I really started loving myself that I even stopped being jealous.  Now I’m just sort of in love with almost every type of woman.  Especially as an adult it’s been weird for me to realize how many black women go through so much trouble to have straight hair when I would have killlllled for the chance to have an actual afro.  GORGEOUS.  People still tell me I should “fro out” my hair, not realizing that my hair is not cool enough for such things.

Let’s pause for a minute and you can tell Ms. Badu that she’s not beautiful.  I don’t care if it’s a wig in this picture.  Imagine how much richer our lives would be JUST to see variations on that?  To have our eyes and minds working and processing.  Our monotonous routines enhanced by the little differences between us all?!  A feast for the eyes if we all were ourselves.

How is this not awesome?

Though light-skinned, because I wasn’t raised around many black people, I became a dark-skinned girl by default.  I hated my hair.  I didn’t date anyone until I was 23 and moved to Los Angeles.  Without knowing this was some sort of known phenomenon, I just never trusted that a guy would date me and treat me the way he would a white girl.  I know without a doubt that a lot of men find me attractive or would be willing to sleep with me, I get enough catcalls in the street to not have an issue with that but growing up I always felt like I was just some form of safe experimentation.  Do you really want to be with me?  White guys gave me the impression that they wanted to be with a black chick but also have the built-in insurance to deny it because I’m also white.

The only time I’ve ever heard the term light-skinned was from other black people and that also put me off because it made me feel like a prize.  I think there’s a lot of truth in it when the woman says that being darker makes you more of a sexual object.  I think a lot of guys really like me but I don’t look how love looks.  I’m not white.  I’m not a tiny, white girl.

I’m tall, I’m curvy, I have ridiculous curly hair, I’m loud and opinionated and I’m brown.  Is that a fairytale?  Is that who you see raising your kids?  Is that girl a romcom heroine?  Probably not if you’ve had a look at the media.  I’m pretty sure I’ve been left for not fitting into that image and it is disheartening.  I’m a bit of a Denise Huxtable and I don’t think many guys close their eyes and have this image appear.

Denise and I will make you a Gordon Gartrell shirt! Save your money!

So for me, watching this on the left side of the scale, I hadn’t ever imagined what it would be like on the far right of the spectrum.  I never imagined what it was like to have the rest of the spectrum, for my lack of better vocabulary, against you.  To have everyone reinforcing the same ideas.  I didn’t like how my hair was different and my skin was freckled but the minute I visited my family in Tennessee, everyone immediately complimented how I had “that good hair” and whether I believed them or not doesn’t matter, I still had positive reinforcement. These women don’t get that.  For some of these women, they’re disguising their hair from day 1.  If they fro it out, it’s the anomaly, even among women who otherwise look like them.  Imagine you went out your front door, just as you are right now and people just looked at you weird for wearing your hair down.  Or someone said thank god they didn’t have your skin color?  I can’t.  It breaks my heart.  And there’s certainly no refuge in the media.  Almost all of the black actresses are brown, reaffirming that dark black doesn’t really exist in our lives. 

So much thinking just from this short clip, I can’t wait to see what conversation the full-length documentary inspires.  Because a discussion needs to be had.  Feel free to discuss here if you’d like.  I’m always curious how other people feel.

Dark Girls is still fundraising and will be out later this year.  Feel free to donate here.

I went to see Prince at The Forum in Inglewood for his 21 Nite Stand / Welcome 2 America Tour.  He was playing all weekend but I was supposed to be in San Jose on Saturday and Sunday following and I lost count of how many shows Prince had already done so I bought a ticket for Friday thinking it might be my last chance.

My Thursday leading into Friday was wacky to say the least and I didn’t get much sleep.  I didn’t really feel like going to the show but what if I didn’t go and Prince didn’t perform any more shows for TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS?!  I would be devastated.

I get myself out of bed around 2pm.  The show starts at 7:30pm but, in truly cheap fashion, I refuse to drive to Inglewood and pay $20 to park when my ticket to see Prince was $25 including all taxes and fees.  Not happening.  Luckily for me, the 212/312 bus goes right from Hollywood to the Forum.  1 bus.  $1.50 to get there and another $1.50 to get home.  That is much more my speed.  And best of all, no gas used from my car.  I pulled up Google maps on my phone and checked it against actual Google maps and the Metro trip planner.  Everyone was in agreement, the 212/312 would do it.

Now, I had a sneaking suspicion that getting to the venue by a single bus would be too easy so I brought some extra money but the goal was 1 bus there and 1 bus back.  I waited at Hollywood and Vine for the 212/312 and around 5:15pm I see the 312.  This might not be so hard after-all.  But it’s the Short Line.  I ask the bus driver if he goes to the Forum, he doesn’t.  I wait.

15 minutes later I see another bus and it’s the 212!!!!  I ask the bus driver if he goes to Manchester/Prairie stop and he says no. Ugh.  He tells me just to get on.  It’s a lovely bus ride.  It drops me off right near the Forum.

Earlier in the day, I was not so excited.  I was having a low day and if you’re going to see Prince – having never seen him before but assuming – you need to upbeat, alert, ready to dance and feeling very, very sexy.

I did not feel sexy.  But approaching the Forum and listening to “Sexy MF,” my mood began to turn.  PRINCE!  I’ve loved Prince since I came across the video for “Diamonds & Pearls” video on MTV and found myself wondering why, at 7 years of age, I think I thought that I was attracted to this man.  It was a very confusing time for me.  I didn’t know what to do.  He looked so thin and tiny.  Not much bigger than I was.  It was weird.  Nothing was tingling but my heart was probably beating a little faster.

The show was phenomenal.  He commanded the audience exactly like you would expect Prince to do and he gave a performance that put performers have his age to shame.  The man is (now) 53 years old!  I still don’t believe that for a second.

I’m sad the audio on this isn’t better but it gives you a sense of the energy in the room.

Now earlier in the show I had mapped my return home.  I could either take the 212/312 like I had down or I could walk a ways and take the 210 closer to home.  I turned off my phone and continued to enjoy the concert.  At the end they pulled people by the stage up to dance with him and I was very very jealous.  There was a much older woman, probably at least 10 years Prince’s senior, putting women a 1/3 of her age to shame with her energy and dance moves. I don’t know how I paid $25 for that ($26.50 with my bus fare!) but I’m so thankful that Prince set that price.  At this point, I pull out my phone because I know that if I want to take the 212, I have to be out of there by 12:05am.  My phone tells me it’s 11:30pm and then dies.  Why?  I DON’T KNOW.  Because the universe loves to prove Murphy’s Law?

This person calls this the “panty-dropping” version of “Little Red Corvette.” An interesting way to put it but I’m not going to disagree.

The show appears to have ended though Prince has already done 3 encores at this point and I just have to choose.  It was an amazing show for $25 and going out on “Nothing Compares 2 U” is a great way to go out so barring he comes back and plays an additional 2 hour set or a 30 minute version of “Sexy M.F.” I can consider the night a success.

Absolutely nothing compares to Prince

I head to the bus stop and get there about 11:46pm.  Relief.  There’s plenty of time for the bus, doesn’t matter if my phone is dead and I see more people pouring out of the venue and know that Prince is done for the night. I didn’t miss any of it.

An older woman sits next to me and says she is also waiting for the 212.  She’s adorable and friendly so we talk about the show.  She has a contagious laugh and an incredibly bright smile.  She’s awesome.  At around 11:56pm she tells me she doesn’t think the 212 actually originates here this late at night.

???

She doesn’t even really pause on it, just tells me, pulls out a schedule and says the 115 can take us down to where it originates.  She is correct.  It doesn’t originate here.  I tell her I need to find where it does originate and somehow she convinces me that if I just sit here, we’ll be fine.  We wait. Again I think I should maybe find my way further down the 212 line and she tells me to wait and she’ll pay for my bus transfer.  I don’t need to her to pay it but clearly she doesn’t want me to leave and I’d feel bad leaving her here.  We wait.  A 115 bus never comes.  But two twentysomethings from South Africa do.  They sit next to us.  Now it’s past midnight and I don’t have a phone that works to call a cab.  Soon most of the bus lines will be stopping for the night and I am so far from home.

It's not a bad drive but it ain't around the corner

The older lady makes eye contact with the South Africans and they ask us if we’re waiting for the 212.  The older woman explains what we’re doing.  I explain what I’d like to do.  It turns out that the South Africans are also trying to get back to Hollywood and their phones are dead too.  Thankfully, at the suggestion of the South Africans, the older woman agrees that we should look for an alternative way home instead of sitting at the bus stop.

We walk up and down the sidewalks in front of The Forum.  We speak to some parking attendants that have no idea of the bus situation except that they’ll be stopping soon for the night.  We continue to walk and discuss options.  We do actually scan the parking lot because someone has to be going back to Hollywood but 3 people is a car load in itself.  Nobody’s driving a minibus.  The South Africans and I would really rather not cab it back to Hollywood because strangely enough, in a city where everyone drives and everyone is usually drinking, cabs are not a cost-effective alternative.  You don’t just hail a cab in Los Angeles if you’re cold or tired or scared or drunk.  It’s a financial undertaking and more than a handful of drivers will try and guilt you for paying with a credit card.

The older woman tells us that the 210 picks up at Crenshaw and will take us straight to Hollywood.  A parking attendant tells us Crenshaw is about a mile walk and it shouldn’t be too much trouble for the South Africans and me.  We don’t want to leave the older woman and if we walk to Crenshaw, we still don’t know where exactly the bus picks up or if the bus is still running.  Thanks to the older woman’s schedule, we do know the 212 is supposed to run until 12:55am.

Another parking attendant tells us that where the 212 is originating now isn’t actually too far of a walk.  Excited, we head off.  The 212 won’t take us directly to Hollywood but it will get us close and we figure that on a Friday night and almost in Hollywood we might be able to catch a less expensive cab.  With a general sense of where we’re heading, we joke about the not helpful parking people and the ones that managed to give us enough information to get here.  We pass by the bus stop we met and joke about all the good times we had there for the 10 minutes we sat there.

After about 15 minutes of walking we come up on a bus stop and there is a man sitting there.  GOOD SIGN!!!  We ask and he is waiting for the 212.  We have about 20 minutes until the final bus of the night begins its route.  In case you’ve forgotten, I’m supposed to be leaving for San Jose (at 4:30am this morning).  My bus is scheduled to start its journey back to Hollywood at 1am and I didn’t really sleep Thursday night.

Another man joins us at the bus stop.   He asks if we were at the concert.  He explains that he sells posters after the show but he fell asleep while the show was happening and woke up too late so missed out on his business.  He tries to entice us with $5 large glossy prints of Prince (prints of Prince!) from various decades.  We don’t bite but do discuss how Prince hasn’t AGED.  I believe smaller people don’t age as fast and I’m told Prince doesn’t drink or smoke and between the basketball and dancing, he’s probably always been in shape.  Still, he’s an enigma.  He just continually evokes the same feeling regardless of the decade.  How can a song titled “1999″ NOT BE DATED?  It’s Prince.  It’s even interesting to hear these South Africans talk about their experience of Prince.  Interesting because of the ignorance on my part and it had never occurred to me that white South Africans would be listening to Prince.  The girl said her mother played Prince in the house a bit and the guy said he really just knew of Prince because you just hear Prince songs along the way.  He did admit that he had kind of forgotten about Prince until they came to America and saw a billboard but when they did, they knew they had to see him.

At 12:55am, the 212 comes around the corner.  We have a quick celebration but cannot get on the bus fast enough.  The older woman, the South Africans and I feel that if nothing else, we’re getting most of the way home.  I don’t know if I’ve ever been more excited to be on a bus in my life.  The older woman looks at me, I can tell she’s exhausted, and says, “Well, Emily!  We made it!” and laughs.  She’s so lovely and full of light.  After that we fall into silence.  The usual crowd gets on.  A couple of homeless people, a group of way too loud teens, 5 men in drag putting me to SHAME with how much effort they put into looking beautiful tonight (sorry, Prince, it was a rough day but next time I will be there with sequins on!) and a crying woman with gauze scotch-taped to her forehead and back of her head.  A young man scoots up next to her and talks with her.  I feel better.  A joyfully smiling man in a wheelchair gets on.  We can’t really understand what he’s saying and he doesn’t have use of his arms either but he’s definitely talking to us and cracks up when we try and repeat back to him what we think he said.  A guy that, to me, looks scary and tough with tattoos and his head down comes from the back of the and secures the man in the wheelchair in place.  When it’s time for the man in the wheelchair to get off, the scary guy comes back up from the bus, wheels him to the door and tells him to have a good night and that he’ll see him tomorrow.  How kind.  And here I was, afraid.  Another chance for me to hold up a mirror and scold myself for being that person I try so hard not to be in life.  I hear you, self!  No judging.

I lean up against the window and though tired is an understatement, I realize tonight would not have been a normal night for me if I had just gotten on a bus after the show and went home, straight to bed.  Where are the lessons to be learned in that?  Where are the experiences?  The older woman sees her stop and tells us she’ll wait in the 24 hour McDonald’s for her connection instead of on the street.  She says goodnight and leaves us all.  Honestly, I’m a bit sad to see her go.  I’m sure I’ve mentioned that I think of myself as Dorothy from Oz a lot of the time and tonight the older woman is my Scarecrow.  Once she leaves, the South Africans and I continue on in relative silence and the bus driver surprises us by revealing his final stop is Hollywood & Highland.  Closer than I thought but still over a mile of walking to get home.

The South Africans and I part ways.  I take off speedwalking through the Friday night, Hollywood crowds.  I’m so exhausted this might as well be the last 6 miles of the LA Marathon.  I keep telling myself that I’m almost there, almost there, I just have to keep going.  I have only one scary encounter with a man across the street catcalling me so obnoxiously that I think he might actually come after me.  A car full of men yells out that I’m “so gorgeous” and a guy approaching me on a bike from behind says, “I hate that.  It doesn’t get them laid.  I don’t understand it.” Whoever you are, guy on bike, thank you for that.  Your delivery was so perfect I couldn’t stop laughing.  Also, it’s true.

I finally get home at about 3:15am.  I text my friend and tell him San Jose will be a no go for me this weekend.  I’m exhausted, I’m hungry, I’ll still be cranky in an hour, I have work to do this weekend and I don’t want to ruin his fun holiday weekend.

Tired? Absolutely. But as I lay in bed my cheap self does get a little joy at only having paid $3.00 for my transportation for the night.

My newest love is Grubwithus.  It’s very new to LA but the idea is just genius.  In fact, I can’t even explain it well enough so I’ll link you to the LA Times Blog post about it, you go read it, we’ll meet back here and I’ll just share my experience with you.

All caught up?  Good.  Those of you who opted not to, I’ll do a brief summary.  Grubwithus is like social networking over dinner.

Decisions, decisions

They set up the meals at restaurants around town on certain dates at certain times.  The menus are online so you can see what’s in store.  You pick the one that interests you and you pay.  You pay everything online then including the price of the meal, the tax and the tip.  You print out your meal ticket.  You show up, eat a family style meal with up to 7 other people, and then you go home.

There’s a lot more in the whole setup and running of it that makes it great but it’s probably just better that you sign up and play with the site on your own time.

As soon as I heard Grubwithus was starting up in Los Angeles, I knew I was going to do it.  I’m the kind of person who loves meeting new people and trying new things and I can feel really stagnant when my life falls into a very, very regular routine.  Grubwithus = new people + new experience + low pressure + FOOD!

I couldn’t make the inaugural meal so I chose to go to the second meal at Lala’s Argentine Grill on May 2.  I’m going to show you the menu and if you know me at all, you will understand why I hopped on this without question.

Meats and Mushrooms and Veggies, Oh My!

YUM.  So May 2 I leave work all excited.  I printed my meal ticket earlier in the day which has a little map, directions what to do when you arrive, the menu, a random fact and your name on it and I headed off to Lala’s.  I got there a little early and two people were already waiting.  They were both very polite.  We were seated and made some small talk.  It was nice because one of the guys was the Development Director of Grubwithus and the other guy is a writer so conversation wasn’t hard to come by.  Slowly others started to join the table and the conversation.  The nice thing is that if you’re signing up for this sort of experience, you’re more than likely someone that is open and personable.  If you’re not, there will be people there who are.

Grub's going going back back to Lala's Lala's. Om nom nom.

Once the entire table had arrived we had a start-up development director, a middle school teacher, a journalist, a fashion business student, a fashion design student, and a financial analyst.  Oh, and me.  Whatever it is that I am.  Here I was out to dinner with people I had never met before AND I WASN’T NETWORKING.  These were not actors and producers and PAs and whatever else.  We talked about running and traveling and jobs and hobbies.  It was so refreshing.

Even though the policy for grubbing is that everyone orders their own drinks (and drink bills are kept separate so no hassle!) we all agreed to split two pitchers of sangria.  Oh my heavens, it was good sangria.  And then the food came and I was actually IN heaven.  Lala’s had provided us with so much food for 7 people that we couldn’t fit it all on the tables we had been given.  We were putting plates on the seats around us and handing stuff off to the bus boys and then our lovely waitress decided we should just have an extra table solely dedicated to housing the meal overflow.

We ate, we passed plates, we discussed what we liked and didn’t like, we ate more, we talked about non-food topics.  It actually came out during dinner that half the people there had heard about Grubwithus through that LA Times post I linked you to which was funny because the guy who wrote it was at dinner!  Nate’s clearly good at his job.

As much as we ate, we still ended up with 4 take home boxes at the end of the night.  It was all amazing but I think if you gave me a bucket of those mushrooms, I would have eaten every last one of them.

At the end of the night, we settled up the sangria bill, grabbed a take home box and headed on our separate ways.

Nobody said they hate me, so that's good!

What do you do after you grub?  Unlike most social networking websites where you fill out all of your own info, Grubwithus has the people you dined with do the work and share something they learned about you at dinner.  Instead of me saying I ran the LA Marathon, 3 people might say that fact but all in their own way or what part stuck out to them the most.  It’s fun to see what you remember about others and what others remember about you.  You don’t have to write anything but you can if you want.

You can communicate with people through private messages or through the facts or you can start a group discussion about your meal OR, and this is one of the things I love most, you can just wait until you happen to grub with them again.

My next meal is coming soon and friends, I implore you, if you live in the Chicago, San Francisco, Los Angeles, New York, or Washington DC areas to sign up for this website.  Heck, sign up even if you don’t live in those areas and tell them you want them to come to your city next.  And since you’re signed up, if you travel to one of those places you can get your grub on.  It is so much fun.

Grubwithus Boston launches TOMORROW, June 1.  We all know how many amazing restaurants there are in the North End alone so get your grub on, Bostonians, and make some new friends.  I hope to see you around the table the next time I’m in town!

Here are some before and after pictures.

This is me nearing my heaviest which was after college (2006) and a blurry photo from 2010.

The first was taken during college and the latter this year at my birthday party.

So that’s why I’m a fat girl running.  It’s not a derogatory thing to me and I never hated myself for being fat.  As you might have read in my Orange Line Encounter post, I chose to to put on weight originally.  It spiraled out of control a bit from there but it kept me feeling secure for a long time while I dealt with my inner demons.  I’ll always be fat.  I’ll always remember what it was like to try and get my body from Point A to Point B and how much harder it was because of my weight.  Part of the reason I love running is because it’s so much easier than it used to be when I started, in part because I’m so much lighter.  I don’t think I’d have that appreciation if I’d always been this size.  I love that I can still remember the way my body moved when I first began running and how it moves now.

I would like to make it VERY CLEAR that while I had superficial moments along the way, I wasn’t ashamed and I never thought I was bad for being fat.  I felt different but I’m also mulatto, gap-toothed, curly haired and 6 feet tall so the media and world I was presented didn’t reflect me in any way so my size wasn’t an issue.  I didn’t really look at myself and say, “You need to lose weight. You need to be thin. You need to weigh 180 pounds.” Actually, there were two times I tried that “LOSE WEIGHT!” mindset and both times failed.  The first step, for me, was appreciating myself just as I was.  I’d get up and stand naked in front of the mirror and remain there until I could force myself to say something positive.  It was a struggle and a lot of the time I verbally complimented myself and didn’t even mean it.  But over time, after saying it/hearing it enough, it started to sink in.  “You might be a size 20 but Lord knows it’s a cute 20 with this shape.”  Over time I got comfortable with my body.  As I’ve said in previous posts, my body’s always been an uncomfortable subject for me not because of weight but because I don’t like men looking at it.  So once I got comfortable with my body at size 20, I could slowly take control of those concerns and fears.  I realized that even at size 20 or 22 men were still making comments and still looking at me and that creeper vibe is a reflection of them and not me.

As looking at myself became easier, I started asking myself, “Why aren’t you happy? How can you be happier? What is it you really want?” And as I figured out what made me happy, the weight came off and I started making choices to help that along.  It became a matter of thinking, say for instance, that a zipline has a weight limit of 220 pounds and I want to try ziplining.  When I sat down to eat ice cream I would remind myself that while the entire carton would be delicious, it would not help me zipline.  I ate less ice cream.  The only way I was going to be able to play on the beach with my friends and not be out of breath was to increase my fitness.  Decisions just broke down like that.  And in between all of that I would go to the Gap and try on clothes (that I had no intention of buying) and be amazed and excited as the weight just kind of fell off.  Again, it’s not that I hated being but fat but I knew that I was fat because I had issues and my weight loss was a reflection of all the positive changes I had made in my life.

I realize how simply I broke down the decision making and believe me, they weren’t easy decisions in the beginning and they’re not always now.  I stumbled and fell a lot along the way, I’m just a lot more educated about myself and food than I was.  Now when I’m sat in front of ice cream, I know that eating it will upset my stomach, make me groggy and sleepy, and that it contains a lot of fat.  But I also know I LOVE ICE CREAM.  And I’m willing to deal with those consequences every once in a while.  I used to eat boxes of cereal in a week.  Sometimes one a day.  Cereal isn’t worth it to me anymore like ice cream is.  Ice cream > a dress > cereal.  Today.  That might change.

Anyway, I just wanted to put it out there for anyone who wasn’t aware that I don’t say fat girl running in any sort of derogatory way, it’s just that I was obese.  Also for reference, I’m still fat but now I’m healthy and happy too.

I saw two different screenings of it and am going to pay to see it this weekend. You heard me right. I am PAYING to see this movie after I’ve already seen it. We all know how “thrifty” I am so that’s probably the biggest endorsement I can give.

It’s hysterically funny and really, really refreshing. It’s not a chick flick. It’s not a rom-com. It’s a funny movie.

It’s also really fun if you’ve ever had anything to do with a wedding ever.

I feel like America has seen me and has said that I’m okay. I really feel a part of America…I mean, there’s a biracial President headed to the White House and he didn’t have to pick or deny any part of himself to get there.

In true Em Rich fashion, I had assumed the best.  Much like election day, this hubbub over Barack Obama’s birth has affected me more than I thought.  America has seen me and has said that I’m…relatively okay…if I’m willing to be treated differently.  America has not accepted me.  As proud to be an American as I am, this is deeply saddening for me.

I’m realizing that my hometown might be a sampling of America more than I’d care to admit.  I grew up around a lot of racist people.  They didn’t know they were being racist.  They didn’t mean harm.  But they were.  A lot of “really great” racist jokes followed by, “You know I don’t think that but it is funny, right?”  Or a blanket statement about black people followed by, “But that doesn’t include you.”  Or sometimes people would throw on “You know we love you.” at the end because I guess that somehow makes it better.

SAY!  You don’t like all blacks but you like me?!  Well.  Aren’t I special?

It makes my stomach churn and my heart break to watch it play out on the national stage.  Because our President is brown there is a chance he is not American.  Every other President was definitely American.  Donald Trump even vouched for GW Bush.  George Bush is from Texas and so if you have a southern accent, who needs a birth certificate?

Being the Queen of Bestowing Benefits of the Doubt, I would maybe have cut America some slack if Barack Obama had two non-American parents, claimed to have been born overseas on American soil but with shady details and was not already the POTUS.  This is what bothers me when Donald Trump says he’s not racist.  Barack Obama is white.  He is.  Just like every other President the United States of America has ever been.  It’s not up for debate.  He’s white.  He’s also black.  But he’s just as white.  And so this whole thing is based SOLELY on the color of his skin.  Because he’s brown. Sorry, Mr. Trump, that makes you racist.  It sucks, I’m sure, to realize that so late in life but that doesn’t change anything.  The man had proved he was born in the USA and you continued to deny it for no reason.  You had no reason to deny it except that he’s brown and that just left room for doubt.

If for some reason Barack Obama was born with fair skin and light hair,  this wouldn’t have even been a question.  Not even necessarily because people wouldn’t have thought it but because people like Donald Trump would have felt guilty about accusing one of their own.  It’s easy when someone is clearly different.  You can dissociate yourself from them.  Harder when you see yourself in the person you’re attacking.

Barack Obama is white.  He’s also black.  He’s biracial.  The way I do my mixed math is that 1+1=3.  Black + white = black/white/biracial.  I consider myself 100% white, 100% black and 100% mixed.  Combining the two does not make 50/50, it creates 3 wholes.  It’s one of my favorite things about being biracial.  I feel so apart of everything.  I feel more than full (like 300% full).

So what does this mean for me if there is a white man in office who can be considered suspicious because his skin tone is darker than other white folk?  It means we’ve got way more work to do than is even comfortable to think about at the moment.  It also means I was wrong about a lot of you.  It means I haven’t escaped those judging stares and prejudices I thought I did when I left my hometown.  It means I have to be wary.

My favorite television show of all time is the original Twilight Zone series.  Towards the end of the first season, Rod Serling wrote an episode called, “The Monsters are Due on Maple Street,” in which a black out in a suburban town and the seed of a thought from a child about aliens causes paranoia that there are aliens in the neighborhood taking on the physical look of neighbors.  They turn on each other.  I couldn’t help but think of this episode while all this long-form birth certificate poo was hitting the fan.  How do you prove who you are when the people asking won’t believe the truth?

There’s an exchange at the very end of the episode between two aliens that has always stuck with me.  And yes, I realize how silly it sounds to quote aliens from a TV show but Rod Serling was just that good.  Here’s a link to the last 8 minutes of the episode where things get bad but I’ve pulled the exchange in text below if you want to skip it.

Second Alien: And this pattern is always the same?
First Alien: With few variations. They pick the most dangerous enemy they can find, and it’s themselves. All we need do is sit back and watch.
Second Alien: Then I take it this place, this Maple Street, is not unique?
First Alien: By no means. Their world is full of Maple Streets. And we’ll go from one to the other and let them destroy themselves, one to the other, one to the other, one to the other…

I’m certain I’m not the first person to see this comparison but it doesn’t make any less interesting to me.  That episode always left me unsettled and wondering what I would do in a situation like that.  But this birth certificate nonsense has proven that at his point there’s really nothing I could do.  It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known me, where I’m from or what kind of person I am.  It doesn’t matter how a part of you I feel.  I’m brown and in America that still means different and not okay…

yet.

I was driving home from work yesterday, heading east on Hollywood Blvd when I passed the Music Box.  The marquee informed me that Childish Gambino/Donald Glover was going to be performing that night.  As soon as I got home I checked to see if there were tickets left.  SOLD OUT.

Sadness.  I love Donald Glover.  He was that kid in some 30 Rock episodes who then wrote for 30 Rock.  I majored in Television.  That pretty much shot him to idol-status at the time.  My friends and I were jaws to the floor when we heard he was doing that.  Yeah, he’s awesome in Community and I love Childish Gambino but alsooooo he wrote for 30 Rock.  I do like his rhymes though and not just because he mentions mixed chicks in every song.  Seeing that the show was sold out, my little heart was defeated.

So I posted a tweet about it.

Here’s a question. WHY AM I NOT SEEING CHILDISH GAMBINO @DonaldGlover IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD AT THE MUSIC BOX TONIGHT?! #lifefail

Very shortly after that I received a reply from someone I didn’t know.

Good question.  you should.  i have an extra ticket if you’d like…

Long story short, I took a chance.  I stopped making dinner, ran out of my house and down the Music Box to meet this guy who offered me a Childish Gambino ticket for whatever I could afford.

Worry not, I made him promise not to kill me over twitter and I had told a couple of friends what I was doing so they’d know if I went missing.  Robert Stack’s voice from Unsolved Mysteries was narrating my entire walk to the venue.

I did not go missing.  I got to see a really awesome show for $5 and met someone new!  It was all very exciting and very out of character for me.  I probably won’t do it again but for this one night it worked out!

How was the show?  Well, he took the g out my waffle, all I got left is my ego.

You’re probably gonna want to pop your earphones in if you listen to this at work.

Oh and should this ever reach Donald Glover somehow, I would just like to note that I was the tall, mulatto girl with plastic black frames standing squarely in the middle of the floor.  I’m not saying you saw me but just in case.  Just saying.  That was me.

Wouldn’t that be the most anticlimactic post ever? Come with me, back to that Sunday and I’ll tell you all about my monsoonathon experience.

Sunday, March 20, 2011 (italicized and bold for dramatic effect!)

I did not want to run this marathon.  I was so busy the days leading up to it that I was skipping meals, not resting enough and just felt that I was not going to finish.  My mother was supposed to arrive in Los Angeles on Friday night.  I was informed by myriad sources that people can have trouble sleeping the night before a race so FRIDAY night is the night you want your best rest.  My mother was arriving at 10pm.  I made it very clear that I would pick her up at LAX and when we got back to my apartment, I would be going immediately to sleep.

Her flight was delayed.  So I picked her up at 2am.  2am on the night I was supposed to get my best night’s sleep.  The following day (Saturday) included a 5 hour WriteGirl workshop and the Expo.  I know, you’re telling me I should have skipped the workshop but it was a songwriting workshop and I just couldn’t miss out on the fun.  My mother and I spent a short time at LA Marathon Expo which was kind of interesting.  I would have liked to spend more time there.  I saw my name on the Honda car(!) and picked up my bib number and goody bag.  It was overwhelming.  I like running but hardly consider myself a runner or running enthusiast and here I am standing among moisture-wicking socks and Sweaty Bands and discount Brooks shoes and GU gel and Lululemon goody bags.  All of these brands I own or have tried.  I’m probably more of a runner than I thought.

SUNDAY.  I get up at 3:30am because I am SO tired.  I get up, dressed, drink water like someone about to take a urine test and shovel oatmeal down my throat because real talk, this fat kid does not like eating that early in the morning.  Once I’m set my mom and I hop in the car and drive completely out of the way to get to Dodger Stadium.  I live 4 miles away from the stadium on Sunset Blvd.  But Sunset Blvd is closed.  So I have take 42 (exaggeration) freeways to go 4 miles.  I get lost.  My mother doesn’t know how to use my Blackberry google maps so it’s kind of a mess.  I make it there in plenty of time.  It rains a little bit but nothing a New Englander such as myself can’t handle!

I say goodbye to my mom as she comes around to get in the driver’s seat.  I always have a hard time saying goodbye to my mother.  It’s strange and I’m not sure why it is but even as a kid I was just never okay with her dropping me off.  I did have a nightmare this one time that I think plays a part but without going into it, I sobbed like a baby when she dropped me off for ice skating lessons when I was 10.  It was startling to us all because it’s not like I was at sports camp, it was just a one hour lesson.  And so as I’m hugging my mother goodbye, again, she will be at the finish line, I’m trying to keep the anxiety out of my throat and tell myself there’s really no reason to cry.  She leaves.

I stare at Dodger Stadium looming before me in the dark.  Stadium lights are on and there is music coming from inside.  It seems eerie and completely out of place at 5am.  A spaceship set in the black with its lights drawing in the masses.  It’s cold out and misting but my blood is running hot.  My legs feel tight in my running pants and I’m glad to have just my tank top on.  I considered wearing a long-sleeved cold weather shirt but decided running will heat me enough.  Though I do wish I had remembered my trash bag for before the race.

In Dodger Stadium I head for the section of seats containing the LA Leggers.  Because I had sustained injuries that affected my training, I couldn’t run with the 12.5s like I had planned.  Once there I decide to run with the 13.5 runners and the 15 min walkers.  I spend the next few hours in my head.  A woman comes by and takes my picture.  She promises it’s cute but I’ve had about 7 hours of sleep in the last 3 days and it’s 5am. NOT CUTE.

There are cameramen videoing the runners waiting so there’s something to watch on TV.  Someone is dressed as Elvis.  People are dancing.  Oh to be so skilled at running that I could dress in costume!  Right now I’m just trying not to psych myself out.  It starts to rain.  Fudge.  It stops.  Hurrah!

My group is going to wait until after the starting gun goes and try and be the last people out of the stadium to avoid the cluster-eff that is 20,000 people running at the same time.  We wait.  I watch the handcyclists  take off.  I don’t have the arm power for that.  People are migrating to the starting line so I take the opportunity to pee without waiting in an hour long line.  The starting gun goes off somewhere in the distance.

Eep.  I’m at Dodger Stadium.  And I’m going to run to Santa Monica.  I am currently surrounded by land but am going to run to the ocean.  I am going to run what can sometimes end up being a 2 hour car ride depending on traffic.  The Kenyans will finish shortly after that 2 hours.

We make our way outside.  People are suiting up in ponchos and trashbags.  I’m offered extras that people have but don’t want to run in anything I haven’t been training in.  I did not train in a trash bag.  Besides, my blood feels like fire.  We watch thousands of people pass by, starting their 26.2 miles.  Spirits are up!  People are cheering! My nerves settle and this just seems like a big, fun, group event.  Almost like a carnival.  My legs feel solid and for a brief moment, 26.2 miles doesn’t seem far.  How is that even possible?  As quick as the thought comes, it passes.  Our mentor tells us we’re going to hop in the crowd and we do.

We start off walking for the first mile.  The course starts downhill and then climbs slowly uphill for the first 8 or so miles so we warned not let our adrenaline get us sailing the down the hill at mile one and burnt out for the other 25.2 miles.  I feel good!  I’m excited!  I’m gonna run me a marathon today.  I’ve done 19, what’s 7 more?!

At mile 1 the 13.5 runners separate from the 15 walkers.  We alternate running a minute and walking a minute.  I feel good at this pace.  The 13.5s are very welcoming and I feel like I’ve made a good decision.  These moments are surreal.  I keep thinking to myself, “This is a marathon!  This is a marathon!” but it doesn’t feel like that while I’m running.  It feels like I’m running through the streets of LA.  Like every other run I do but on different streets and with more people.  In fact, it feels easier than my 19 mile run because the marathon has water and Gatorade, people cheering and snacks along the way.  My 19 mile run included 12 ounces of water and my iPod.

Photo courtesy of Mathieu Marquer

As we run the rain falls more steadily.  People keep asking me if I’m cold.  I’m not.  The rain is actually pretty refreshing at this point.  It feels ridiculous.  It rained the day I matriculated to Boston University in 2002, it rained on the day I graduated from Boston University in 2006 and it feels overwhelmingly appropriate that it should rain the day I run the marathon.  Note to self: Wedding day, should I have one and it occur before the earth is devoid of water, should be indoors.  It’s so interesting to see people lining the streets and cheering for these runners.  Bands plays and drummers drum.  I feel like an observer.  Technically I am one of these runners for whom this hubbub is occurring but it doesn’t feel that way because the idea of me doing a marathon is insane.  I’m just glad to run alongside these runners and see what they’re experiencing.  We pass a couple in Little Tokyo holding a sign saying they’re from Japan and that we have their support.

I chat with runners on and off while taking in the sights.  This was the coolest thing I discovered along the route.  LA’s sister cities.  I should have seen this before now but I haven’t and so my jaw drops.  Were I not being timed, I’d stop and stare for a while. 

It’s surreal to see these huge mile markers as we pass.  Some miles feel short and some long.  We pass by Echo Park Lake.  My first apartment in LA was in this neighborhood.  Memories of my life at that time come flooding in.  Los Angeles was so NEW to me when I lived here.  Much like today, I felt like an observer to my life at the time.  Not really in Hollywood but getting to experience it.  I don’t feel like that anymore.  Los Angeles feels like home and I feel very grounded in the city.

We make our way past an area of town I frequented with my ex a lot…before he was my ex.  Again with the flood of memories.  When I saw the route of the marathon, I noted that it basically passed by every place I lived or spent time so the memories aren’t a surprise but the waves of emotion are jarring.  But we continue running.  The rain is steadily on but is switching between heavy and light.  As we make our way down Hollywood Boulevard, the rain is just heavy.  We’re passing by my current neighborhood and I tell one of my fellow runners that I “suppose I have to finish since we passed my house.” 

It’s raining heavier than heavy now.  Forget memories, water is flooding my eyes, my ears, my shoes.  The droplets are so thick and steady that it feels like we’re running under individual showerheads turned on full blast.  Only not warm.  There are strong winds and depending on direction we’re headed, it’s blowing against us.  Hard.  I see the kids from Students Run LA (yes, kids running the marathon) and their little frames and wonder how they’re dealing with this weather.

It’s strange how good I feel by the time we get about halfway.  And then the insole of my shoe somehow folds itself in half inside my shoe.  I don’t want stop so I keep running but reality sinks in that this might be doable for 5 or 6 miles but I have over 10 miles to go.  I stop at a bench.  I go to untie my shoe and!

My fingers don’t work.  Well, I guess technically my fingers work but my knuckles don’t.  They refuse to bend.  Fudge.  I untie and fix my shoes by spreading my fingers and catching the laces that way.  It takes a lot of effort.  I guess I’m a lot colder than I thought.  Now that I’ve stopped and realized my physical situation, I start to get in my head.  I’ve fallen too far behind the group to catch up so I continue on my own run/walking.

West Hollywood is my favorite neighborhood along the route.  Despite that weather, there were plenty of people cheering us on and entertaining.  The sight of well-built men dancing in nearly nothing was a welcome sight.

As I moved into Century City, I realize that more than my fingers aren’t working.  Hungry, I reach for my zippered pocket to get a Gu packet and while I manage to secure my fingers on the zipper, my arms don’t have the ability to push down to unzipper the pocket.  I try for maybe a quarter of a mile to get into my pocket and am terrified at how weak my arms are.  This cannot be healthy.  I manage to wriggle a finger in between the zipper and after more tries than I care to think about, I pull out the Gu.  My least favorite flavor.  I have to tear the top off with my teeth and use my palms to squeeze it out.  In this moment, this least favorite flavor of Gu is the tastiest thing that I have ever eaten.  It’s funny because although I feel strong physically and mentally, I clearly don’t have an accurate sense of what’s occurring.  I feel strong but my arms don’t work.  I feel like I can keep going but my body was deprived.  I start eating everything I’m offered along the way.  I felt like I was on a gameshow trying to grab at food without fingers.

I pass a medical tent handing out mylar blankets.  I decide that with still a handful of miles to go and the state my upper body is in, I should turn back and get one.  I do and when the blanket falls out of my hand because I can’t grasp, I’m asked to stop.  I stay at the tent until I can move my thumbs in a circle and wrap myself in a blanket.  I give up running at this point.  I really need to focus on staying warm, hydrated and nourished if I want to finish.

As I speedwalk through West LA, I’m able to observe a lot more of the marathon.  The rain is constant and unyielding.  The winds are pushing people every which way.  There are people laying in the street.  I see other runners basically carrying runners who are too weak to continue on alone.  I feel tired.  I have to pee.  I’m really cold.  My arms are nothing but dead weight.  I have about 6 miles to go and I know that as much as I want this to be over, the only way it can be over is to get to the finish line.  6 miles is a short enough distance that it’s just the easiest way for me to get warmth, food and home.  I’m too tired to think of any actual alternatives.   I tell myself that 6 miles is just a short run, 3 miles out and 3 miles back on any old day.  I wish the rain would ease up if just for a minute.  Parts of the course are flooded and as we take to the lawns surrounding, people are losing their shoes in the mud.  This marathon now includes obstacles.  I’ve gone from leaping around puddles to trudging through them.  My feet are soaked and while I can put one foot in front of the other, bounding across street rivers isn’t going to happen this late in the game.

The course turns down a tree-lined street.  In front of me is an older woman, running, with the names of 5 or 6 people written on her Team In Training shirt.  This woman is carrying all of these women on her back.  Probably a lot of pain.  Hopefully some triumph.  Through the rain.  Through the wind.  This woman is giving it her all.  I start to cry.  Of course I do.  Every single person on this course wants this.  Whatever reason we had in starting this marathon, in weather like this, we’re continuing for a reason.  And suddenly I feel a part of the people around me.  I want this.  I don’t want to stop.  I also don’t want my time to be as slow as it is and I want to run and I want my body to work like it’s supposed to and I want this.  I’m going to complete this marathon.  I want to do it.  I’m not just witnessing a marathon, I’m in it.  I’m in this rain.  I’m battling this wind.  My fatigue is a result of having come 20 miles in a tank top and capri pants.  My arms don’t work and I’m still going.  I wish I could chart my feelings.  The more excited and a part of this marathon I feel, the more daunting finishing seems.  The harder it gets to continue on.  I can’t tell how much of it is physical and how much of this is my mind and myself trying to dissuade me from finishing.

One foot in front of the other.  I just keep repeating the most recent mile marker I’ve passed.  My mind has shut down a bit and repetition is calming.  4 miles, 4 miles, 4 miles…  Less than 4 miles, less than 4 miles, less than 4 miles… 3 miles, 3 miles, 3 miles…

I turn onto the home stretch and I am too worn down to be excited.  I see the finish line but it might as well be another 26 miles away.  A sign tacked to a telephone poll says, “Congratulations Congratulations Congratulations” and I think that the sign should bite its tongue until I’ve actually crossed the finish line.  People around me start dropping their blankets and running for the finish line.  I consider it but am determined to finish and am afraid that if I do anything but focus on one foot in front of the other, something will go wrong.

Note how my hands arent grabbing the blanket but its tucked between those useless limbs.

As I approach the finish line my mind is completely empty.  I hear my name screamed by spectators.  I turn and through the rain I see my mother and my friends.  I give me them a lackluster wave and continue to the finish.  Somewhere inside I am excited but all systems are on survive.  I cross the finish line smiling (you know, pictures) and receive my medal.  I don’t want anything else to do with the marathon. I want food, I want to pee and I want to put on clothes.  I thought this moment would feel triumphant but the weather made it feel like someone didn’t want me to finish and I feel more like I’ve proved a point.  My mother hugs me, her eyes welling with tears.  It seems like days ago that she dropped me off at the stadium and I had to remind myself that I would see her again.  “Em!  You did it!”  This doesn’t feel like any sort of victory but when she says that I realize that I did do it.  And it’s kind of a big thing looking at their faces, even if it doesn’t feel that way to me.  I wish I had appropriate responses to their congratulations but I just keep telling them that I want food, I want to pee and I want to be warm.

I walked like my body was slowly turning to stone. It took me hours to warm up.  We went to the Cheesecake Factory and I ate bread like it was the first thing I’d eaten in days.

2 days post-marathon and I was back to normal.  I know it was a pretty big deal to finish the LA Marathon, especially considering the conditions and how many people dropped out along the way, but it doesn’t feel like any great feat.  I’m not sure why.  Part of me thinks I feel this way because if I can complete 26.2 miles, it can’t actually be hard and part of me wonders if the LA Leggers made it seem too attainable.  Even though it was a miserable experience, I’m looking forward to the next one.  Maybe if I get 2 marathons under my belt, this next one with a better time, I will feel like I’ve actually done it!