I had a really strange dream about my upcoming half Ironman Saturday night. But I should back up and explain what a hot mess of a weekend I had.
It’s been a few weeks since I openly asked for jeans suggestions and admitted I struggling with some weight and self esteem dilemmas. Fast forward to Friday and I still don’t have jeans. I come from work for my lunch and immediately start sobbing because I made the mistake of weighing myself Friday morning and the scale hadn’t budged. Not one single freaking bit. Rob was home to clean up my emotional mess. I pull myself together and go back to work. After work I swing into Peebles, the world’s worst “department store” and try on a different brand in a size up. Cue them not making it over my ass. Curvy girl problems.
You would think that by my age I’d learn to accept the fact that I am bottom heavy and carry all my weight in my ass and legs. Not all brands of pants are made for girls like me. And even at my lowest weight ever, I still had a round badonk, thunder thighs, and calves big enough to crush peanuts into peanut butter. I am built how I am built and that is just life. And I’m to the point in my life where I should learn to realize that I am going to be this shape forever. Maybe not this size, but definitely this shape. And that makes buying pants particularly difficult and unfun. Adult revelation, sigh.
I got home from work and from Peebles Friday afternoon and Rob witnessed my second full blown meltdown in a four hour time span. And he, being the most amazing, awesome, best husband ever, loaded me into the car and drove me 45 minutes to the closest mall. He proceeded to be very patient and pretend like he didn’t want to stab himself while I spent two gruelling hours trying to find jeans. If we lived anywhere but rurals-butts-ville-nowheres-land I’d have friends to go shopping with and it wouldn’t have ever gotten to this point. But he was nice and patient and shopped with me until I bought two pairs of jeans that I liked enough not to want to kill myself over (kidding).
Saturday around 12:30 in the afternoon, as I was getting ready to start putting my face on and head out the door to a work fundraiser, my mom called. She was upset. Through her tears she told me they had just put their dog down. Put my dog down.
I got Cloe when I was 12. She was my bribery puppy for doing well in school. She was my snuggle bug in bed for years. And even though after I left for college she became my parents dog, she was still my puppy.
She’s been sick for a while now. Cancer. Multiple types, all too far along for any treatment. And at pushing 13 years old there wasn’t much we could do anyways. Great Danes don’t usually live that long to begin with, so it was amazing really.
She had been sick for a while now. Arthritis. Her back legs barely held her tall, lanky, withering body up anymore. But she seemed happy and pain free, for the most part, so she lived on for a bit, being sick but okay. But Friday night she was vomiting up blood. Blood so thick and full of sickness it was black. And that was it. My parents conceded.
My mom told me all this, and I, so callously said, “And you didn’t call me this morning? Now I’ll never get to say goodbye. I would have come home. Why didn’t you call me?” As if their mourning wasn’t hard enough I had to make it harder.
|Griswold is going to be very sad this weekend when we go home and one of his best dog friends isn’t there to play with and steal treats from|
And again, for the third time in 24 hours, I melted down. I’ll never get to say goodbye to my puppy. It’s too late now.
In my sadness and frustration, I wanted to run. My brain screamed at me to go running. Outside. In the freezing cold. NOW. But work beckoned and I couldn’t. I pulled myself mostly together and headed out. And as I sat in my car across from the Smith Opera House I thought “maybe after work I’ll just go next door and get a drink.” How convenient there were three perfectly good bars next door. And then I remembered I worked in substance abuse, was at a fundraiser for sobriety, and would probably get fired if I followed through with drinking after work and my boss found out. So I moved on to option number three; food.
I’m not an emotional eater. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I cannot fathom stuffing my face while upset or crying. It makes me uncomfortable. But I was feeling out of options at this point and gave in. And now I’m back to square one of feeling bad about myself.
I had a really strange dream about my half Ironman Saturday night. I dreamed that my race was the day after Cloe got put down. In my sadness, I forgot to pack and just grabbed my bag with whatever was already in it. I got to the race and went to set up my transition and realized I didn’t have goggles or a wetsuit. I tried out the water temperature and figured I could swim sans wetsuit, and I then went in search of anyone who had a second pair of goggles they were willing to part with. I got myself some, but then there was an uproar as people realized we never got timing chips. So Ironman had to scramble to get some, get them set up with people’s numbers and passed out accordingly. And in the down time I noticed I didn’t bring my bike. So at this point I figured I couldn’t race since I couldn’t do the bike portion and ended up taking a DNS (did not start). And I was sad, but stuck around to watch Rob race, even though in real life he’s not running Ironman Syracuse.
And then I woke up and I was sad all over again.
And life will go on. I’m in a bit of a life fog right now it feels, but it doesn’t matter, because life moves on no matter what.
And this week I will run, and bike, and swim. And I will move on.