Taming the Phlegm. (T-Minus 199 Days)

Warning: This is not a fun post. I still don’t name the new prospect and I use the word phlegm at least three times. Read at your own risk.

I was prepared to make at least one of three grand, sweeping changes when I started this whole groove-finding journey. I fully expected to change states or jobs or form a romantic attachment (or five) during the 500 days, but as of 301 days in, there has not been definitive progress on any of those.

There are, however, a myriad of smaller changes that have been made and even more so that need to be. Among them, tweaking my diet after entirely too many months of ignoring signs and symptoms of a potentially larger problem.

I am honestly not sure the last time I ate a sandwich or bowl of pasta and didn’t go into into a coughing fit immediately after. Or feel pressure in my chest after a meal out or sudden trip through the drive-thru. And, more times than not, when all was said and done I was left with a gross, phlegmy (I really hate that word; it even sounds nasty) feeling after meals.

After analyzing all of this, as of a week and a half ago, I decided to give up gluten. At first I thought it wouldn’t be that big of a deal to go without bread, pasta or even beer, as much as I absolutely, positively love, adore and cherish it. The more research I do, however, the more places I learn it has the tendency to hide out. In addition to binding together grains like wheat, barley and rye, gluten often is used as a stabilizing agent in stuff like salad dressing, ice cream and ketchup, especially in the low-fat varieties I generally opted to buy. It can even be found in toothpaste.

Overwhelming, much?! I mean, I can’t tell you how many times I Google “Is ________ gluten free” a day or look over the list of ingredients in seemingly innocuous foods to find something like “wheat protein” listed. (I’m looking at you, Ben & Jerry’s).

Fortunately, there is a wealth of information out there and, thanks to the library, I have a pile of books on my coffee table like “Gluten-Free Girl” and “The G-Free Diet.”

I feel markedly better in just the last several days, but it has been, and will remain, a process. I think everyone would notice a positive difference if they started eating only vegetables, lean meat, fresh fruit and natural/unprocessed foods. Gone are the low-fat or reduced sugar varieties because I figure if my carbs are limited, I’m going all out on stuff like cheese and dressing and strawberry jam. And it’s so freakin’ good.

I am, quite honestly, not sure giving up all gluten is the solution or that there isn’t something else that still needs to get cut out from my diet. There are still times I get phlegmy (there it is again; sorry) after a meal and I can’t put my finger on what might have set it off. I am 90 percent sure everything I ate for dinner was g-free, but here I am still clearing my throat two hours later.

Giving up gluten just seemed like the trendy thing to do.

If I have learned anything from these books though is the right diet can literally change your life. These women were miserable for years because they ignored what their bodies were trying to tell them and/or didn’t have the resources to interpret what they were saying.

I was shocked at how many side effects of food allergies I exhibit and haven’t been able to figure out the source. If changing the way I eat alleviates the respiratory stuff, eases some of the joint pain, gives some psychological relief and improves the overall quality of life, I would rank it right on up there with forming a romantic attachment (or five).

Until then, I am going to crack open a g-free beer.

Falling into Me (T-Minus 204 Days)

About two weeks ago, I fell off my bike. And just like when I was a little kid, I pretended it didn’t faze me and I jumped right back up, got back on and pedaled my way home with blood gushing down my arm.

Unlike a 5-year old on her first two-wheeler though, I was going 16 mph around a tight turn, snapped into my pedals and firmly attached to a bike worth almost half a month’s salary. I went down hard. And it hurt. I was fortunate to have been alone and therefore not a hazard to drivers or other cyclists and even luckier not have sustained any serious injury.

Adrenaline got me home, but once I had time to examine, I realized I had busted up an elbow, scraped up one knee and somehow managed to bash the opposite inner thigh into black and blue oblivion. More than anything, however, the fall hurt my pride. And my confidence.

Plus, the timing of it couldn’t have been worse. A day earlier, I had dominated a 48-mile training ride and was flying high on how good I felt and how prepared I thought I was for the century ride coming up in six days. I had been training for five months and finally felt ready. I just had to get through one last short ride before a blissful few days of tapering off before the race.

In an instant, however, it all changed.

I am still not sure why I crashed, despite replaying it over and over in my head. Part of me hopes at least partial blame lies with debris on the path or an unexpected patch of wetness, but in the back of my mind I know I probably screwed up by being overly confident, spacing out or braking too hard, too late.

This self-questioning led to a lot of uncertainty over the next few days and I admittedly debated calling it quits altogether. I was so worried about being too hurt or too scared to finish 102 miles that I almost convinced myself it was better to just not even start. With a little help from some friends and the realization I couldn’t ignore the ~ing, my competitive spirit eventually won out and I decided to get after it.

I really wish this is where I told you I conquered the entire ride in record time, laughed in the face of endless hill climbs and made those 102 miles my bitch ... Alas, I did none of the above.

The first 25 miles were spent in relative ease, talking to riders around me and taking deep breaths around each turn, gaining more confidence with each successful (i.e. not wiping out) curve. The next 40, however, were absolute agony. While the hill climbs were physically demanding and, at times, led to the majority of cyclists getting off their bikes and walking, the downhill descents were what crippled me with anxiety.

I literally spent 40 miles – probably close to three hours – having panic attacks. This led to me braking on downhills, convinced I was going to lose control and crash, which not only pissed off everyone around me, but killed my momentum for the next climb and any mental toughness I had left. At the 65-mile mark, I sat on the side of the road for 10 minutes trying to get my breathing under control and not to break down and cry.

Passing cyclists made sure I was OK and one woman convinced me to get up and keep going, promising me we would leg it out together to the next water stop about seven miles later.

It was there my day ended.

I wanted to keep going and after 15 minutes of rest, I almost did. I wanted to finish because I told myself at the beginning I wouldn’t let fear get in the way. After talking with one of the first aid volunteers about how I hypothetically would get home if I hypothetically called it a day, I realized I was doing just that. It wasn’t the fear of not succeeding I was scared of, because I had already finished this event once before, it was the fear of disappointing those who donated money in support of the ride and of letting down the people who had backed me during the process.

And that particular fear is stupid if it means endangering yourself in the process. Even though the most difficult part of the route was over, I knew I was too emotionally-spent to go on, so I turned in my rider number, voiced my decision to the volunteer and began the call/text/twitter updates to friends and concerned parties.

I was embarrassed, apologetic, sad and pissed, emotions that were only slightly eased as the replies of concern and understanding came through my phone. In the midst of the barrage, however, there was one text conversation that meant more to me than anything else.

* If for some reason you’re still reading this, here comes your reward. *

A few weeks ago, I met and started hanging out with a man I have yet to come up with a blog-appropriate nickname for. It was, and still is, very early in the whole process and I wasn’t sure how I felt about letting him in to the emotional rawness of the day, but he responded with exactly what I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.

He told me I was amazing. That I had done amazing. That I fought through the fear and got exponentially farther than the starting line. That he couldn’t have done what I had done.

That he was proud of me.  

And it was in that moment, I decided to let him in.

Over the last few days, we have since shared many good conversations – together over drinks, on the phone while traveling and by text/email during the monotony of the work day. He is someone I want to get to know slowly and surely … and quite possibly completely. I think there is a mutual level of respect and inspiration there that has the potential for wonderful things.

Now I don’t want to say the busted elbow was worth it, but who’s to say I would be where I am without falling off my bike, finding the confidence to get back on and realizing the strength it would take to get back off.

Next entry: Why this one was written in complete absence of wheat and with the help of gluten-free beer.

Want You to Want Me (T-Minus 213 Days)

I have written so many blogs in my head the last couple weeks, it somehow escaped me that I never actually typed and posted them. Here’s a quick update on that job I was pondering the last time I wrote:

It seems the company’s convictions were about as strong as mine. They went back and forth with promises until ultimately, I got two automatically-generated emails from the HR department basically telling me thanks, but no thanks. It turns out I wasn’t supposed to get those emails and I was supposed to be told by phone they had decided to hire someone else, someone who was desperate enough for the job to take it for $15,000 less than I even would have considered.

In retrospect, I am glad they never made an official offer and put me in a position to have to turn it down because it was an intriguing job. At the time, however, I was hurt and kind of felt like I had been dumped.

Awhile back I mentioned going out on a lame date in an attempt to get over Sparks. I didn’t elaborate on it because it left me with a similar feeling of feeling hurt and dumped, even though I had little interest in the alternative. I met this guy at an all-you-can drink fundraiser for cancer research (a no-fail recipe for good stories) and I admired his use of a wingman to open conversation and then facilitate the meeting. He seemed interesting enough, so I gave him my number at the end of the night and agreed to a date when he called the next day.

It ended up being a perfectly innocuous evening between two new acquaintances. We had the default discussion of backgrounds, college majors and number of siblings, but the whole thing felt like an obligation and did not have any of that … zest … when you meet someone who you genuinely want to know everything about.

Even though I wasn’t really feeling anything, I agreed to a second date because he seemed all about it and I figured maybe round two would loosen us up a little more. Well round two never happened because he never called, and I was bitter I wasn’t the one who got to make that decision.

I realize it sounds selfish, but I wanted to be wanted and to be the one who got to say no. And it was the same thing with this job. They played it up like I was the first and only choice and said they would do everything to find the money for the right person, but after the first interview, they just never called.

And I was once again left rocking out to Cheap Trick in my head.

French Fries & Lack of Conviction (T-Minus 227 Days)

After returning from a week-long road trip to see friends and family last night, I set out for the grocery store in a quest to get vegetables, lean meat and all the fixings for a healthy dinner. After six hours in the car for the day and 1,200 total miles of driving, it seemed like the way to go. My plan, however, was quickly thwarted when I discovered the neighborhood store had closed for renovations while I was gone and, before I could think twice about it, I pulled a U and went through the McDonald’s drive-thru instead.

I could have gotten any number of their semi-healthy options, but I instead quickly ordered the Angus burger and fries … although I did get an extra side salad off the dollar menu and a Diet Coke which has to count for something. Right?!

Anyway, as I took it all home and geared up for a night catching up on bad DVR-ed television, I looked down at the mountain of food and laughed. I literally LOL-ed at the startling illustration of my complete lack of conviction. Talk about an epic fail on my part.

There are two more of the same grocery chain within a couple miles of my house and another store even closer, but in a moment of weakness, the glimmer of French fries was enough to completely throw me off track. And I quickly realized this penchant for switcheroos is far from limited to my food choices.

In addition to clearly not having iron-clad convictions for things like working out … or blogging … I have spent the last few weeks toiling back and forth with the prospect of a new job. Not just some light-hearted pondering, but from the single-minded approach of zero interest to the sudden 180 of looking for an apartment and outlining salary requirements and now, equally suddenly, to the emphatic belief it would be the wrong move for me.

I spent the last portion of my vacation on a friend’s 120-acre farm in the rolling hills of Western Maryland and this became the site for my latest professional reversal. For as much as I love nature, I am not a farm girl, but something struck me as we fed the horses at night and even more so in the morning, when I awoke to the most beautiful sunrise I can remember.

And it inspired me. If I didn’t have to drive so far back to return to reality, I could have stayed there all day and been moved to write for hours by that view. I wanted to create in the kitchen, sleep under the stars and get lost in what was around me. These things clearly are not enough to build a life off of, but I think I felt a flicker of passion and, dare I say, groove.

I’m not saying I want to pack up my things and go milk cows for the rest of my life, but I do know I want to be somewhere that makes me feel inspired … which has not been here and I am fairly certain is not the city where this new professional opportunity resides.

But hey, I’ll probably change my mind tomorrow once I remember all the convincing arguments I had for the other side. Or maybe not. There is still a big part of the story I’m not telling you … yet.