FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2010

It had been one of those days. 

It had been one of those self-pitying, feel like an idiot, heart hurts from rejection kind of days.

Yes, it was one of those.

But there are different reactions you can have to these. You can either lay in bed all day with a pint of Ben & Jerry's and the Bridget Jones Diary DVD or you can get up and take action against your mood. A few years ago I pulled myself out of one of these funks by visiting a barber and hacking off 11 inches of red locks. Eeek! But if I chose that route this time I might end up like this, and well that just wouldn't help the situation at all.

Instead, I decided to empower myself through some exercise. I've been conned into participating in a half marathon in April with four friends from college. I haven't been running much lately since living in London means that the sky could break apart into a drenching downpour at any moment. The weather is always a great excuse for laziness. But I can't let down my girls and this pity-party provided the perfect opportunity to get serious and kick this training into high gear.

It felt so great to wiggle back into my running gear. The racer-back tops, the flappy shorts, the ankle socks, the sneaks. I love my sneaks. I love Nikes. Definitely getting these before I come back to the US. Kidding!

So I'm feeling like a baller in my running clothes and it's time to get started. A little bit of training research had informed me that I should start with a couple miles every other day until I can do the couple miles without stopping, then increase the weekly mileage by 10% until I get to the point where I can do a long run about once a week. Running two miles without stopping might seem a cinch to some, but definitely not to me. In high school track my races were the 1600m relay and the 3200m relay, so the very most I ever ran in a race was half a mile. There was hardly any need to pace myself. Our ‘pace’ was a ridiculous bolt until your legs felt like jelly and it was all over in less than 2 minutes. Fortunately, I'm aware that this approach is not going to cut it for a half marathon, and I'm giving myself plenty of time to train.

I’ve mapped out some routes and it is two miles from my door to Royal Albert Hall (cool). Once I get going, I remember how great it feels to have my legs pumping so mechanically. Warmth starts to slowly creep into my thighs and my calves, my closed fists and arms punching the air as I use imaginary ski poles to pull myself through the next step. I'm free and I've got my legs to take me anywhere I want to go.

I start to think about where it is I want to go. The last time I was regularly running was last summer before I had a set plan for grad school or getting to London. (Was that really only a year ago?) It's always been hard to push myself without a coach screaming on the sidelines or a teammate in stride with me, so I decide to use the trick I used while running in Little Rock. I would set a goal, a reachable goal while running, and if I could make it to that spot, I would tell myself that I could do anything I wanted. If I ever felt like stopping to walk, I'd think: If I just go a little more, if I make it to that far tree instead of stopping now, I can do anything. I can even move to London. But only if I don't stop until I get to that tree. Might sound silly, but it works. This mantra became about proving to myself that I am capable of anything - of running until the next tree, or moving to London alone – anything.

This is what I'm thinking about when I reach Kensington Gardens last Wednesday. Only about a half mile to go, I've stopped for a breather a couple of times, but I’m feeling very empowered for getting up and taking action against my sour mood.

Flash back to 2008, my first day ever in London, when my mom and I have checked into our hotel at Earl’s Court. Jet-lagged, we ask for advice about zombie-ing around London for the afternoon, and they point us down the street to Kensington Gardens where we take refuge from the city in some stripey green chairs. We had just settled in with relief when a little man with a green box scrambled over, saying, You pay one pound to sit there! You want to sit? One pound! No, thank you, and we buggered off. I never would have thought I'd be living around the corner in two years time. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.

And now it's time for a new declaration, a new mantra to play in my head and keep me going. I want to be a writer, and I think if I uphold my end of the deal while running (don't stop till I get to that tree) then I just might have a chance. That's why I moved here, anyways. I've always piled so much on my plate that I haven't left enough time for reading and thinking and writing. I've lived most of my young adulthood running in so many directions, exactly like a chicken missing its head. I thought I would gain some focus and inspiration if I transported myself to this foreign fantasy land where I love the culture, history and literature. I thought it would come easily here, that I would have no distractions or creative blocks. It was naive reasoning, yes. But I thought it was a theory worth testing.

And now, here I am, and I've finally faced the facts that I'll always be distracted, creativity is never easy, and inspiration isn't something you can sit around waiting to stumble upon. These are all so obvious! I just needed to be plucked out of my natural habitat and see if it all remained true even in the most inspiring of cities - Yup, still the case.

Today is Friday. According to my new running regimen, I should have done my second 2-miler today. Instead, I woke up at 1, convinced myself that my cold might have returned, came to Coffee 4 You for a milkshake and the internet, and have made plans for the night involving wine and beer, despite afore-mentioned cold. Life hasn't changed much since I moved to London but at least I'm being honest with myself: I want to write; I want to run, but maybe not as much as I want to sleep in and drink milkshakes; and I'm capable of anything with a pair of good Nikes and some fresh air.

Back to school.

There are two reactions you can have on your first day of class. One is pure excitement, the other is utter disappointment, and I have had the delight of experiencing both in the past week.

I was happy to finally start class again last week. I'd been basking in my laziness and slight depression following the Maxwell/Gray euro-trip for far too long and it was time to find a little purpose again. Funnily enough this was not my first bout of sloth following a riveting summer adventure. For example, as a kid and then teenager I usually spent the week following summer camp in a state of letdown and boredom, my only productive moments being spent at the computer with a list of Qu!RkY new screennames in hand and the *bing* of instant messages from fellow pre-teen Arkansan Episcopalians. I was a pretty coooooool kid. The aftermath of my summer in Oxford was even worse because Facebook had been invented.

Needless to say, I neglected all of my To Do lists for about 3 weeks after I'd returned from the mainland, and I was pumped to head back to class. Especially because this class is about a subject I'm thinking I'll base my dissertation around: Globalization.

So class begins and I slip into a nerdy state of euphoria just looking through the syllabus - one of our assignments is a book review! And we even have the option of picking a work of fiction! Right on, Dr. Hough. I like a person who recognizes that there is truth in fiction. I'm looking through all of the recommended-but-not-required reading suggestions and I start imagining myself in the library sifting through these theories on globalization and culture and media. Of course this delusional idea of myself as a serious academic doing more than the necessary course-load fades out by the second week of class, but it's a good sign when you find yourself thrilled and that intensely motivated by a mere syllabus.

Also, our professor is fabulous. He's laid back, insanely knowledgeable, open for questions, and has a sense of humor. And it's a small class of only 5 of us. We're a mixture of Media and International Relations students so there's a good balance in the discussion.

Obviously I'm pretty stoked about this class.

Now, have I mentioned that I scheduled myself for 8 straight hours of class in one day? I didn't see any way around it... my Thursday evening class is required and the idea of the globalization elective on Thursday afternoons really tickled my pickle. So the all day Thursday combo will have to do.

Okay, fast forward to this very day when I start my second class. A class that's a requirement is never a good sign. This one is called Topics in Media Communications - vaguest title ever, but the point is that professors teach it in rotation and get to essentially choose what spin they want to take on it.

Well. Let's just say I am not impressed with this spin.

We got no little introduction about an overall objective of this class. She does keep saying that she wants to know what we already know so she can suit the class better to our needs (like this is an algebra class).

She opens up the floor by asking Does anyone here want to eventually have a career in media? Duh. Why else would we be here. What kind? So I'm thinking, if she's serious about tailoring this to our preferences, I might as well make my desires known, and I shout "I'M INTO WRITTEN MEDIA!" And that's about the last we hear about print media for the rest of the class :/ .

We do, however, get an extensive list of house rules. I'm fine with a strict professor - I get it, you're the boss, I'll turn in my assignments (relatively) on time and I'll try not to bust in 10 minutes late. But really, no going to the bathroom except for during the one break? This is a 4 hour class, lady. From 5:30-9:30 in the evening. So I'm going to need coffee, and I'm going to need water, and I'm going to need to tinkle, no doubt about it.

But okay, you're the boss, I'll obey. I am not a fan of pairing the strict-prof act with the I'm-still-young-and-hip-and-will-prove-it thing - please stop flashing your ankle tats and referencing last weekend's mosh pit because those things will not make me think you are one of us - you're limiting our toilet time, remember? If you do not trust me to use my bathroom time wisely, this is a friendship that just will not work.

I'm sorry, I'm really hatin' on the professor here. I don't mean to. I think it's just been a long day, and I was just a tad annoyed by the class. Half the time I just could not get an idea of where we were going with this - we watched several youtube videos, discussed a handout, but it was all still really vague. We'd watch a clip, then she'd open discussion with a totally unrelated question and expect some sort of debate while we're still trying to connect that topic with the video we just watched. Luckily Megan and I were sitting together and able to exchange skeptical eye rolls while I scribbled notes of wtf to her. I guess the main reason I was annoyed was that the professor was acting like this class period was the first time we'd been prompted by gray area topics like censorship and abortion and religious differences. We're grad students, we made it this far, right? I know it's important to be able to debate and understand both sides of an issue in order to develop your beliefs, but this is my 2nd to last semester of my MA, and these were exercises we did in my undergrad. I guess that's my beef.

At the end of class I asked the professor, So. This course title is pretty vague. If you were to rename it yourself, what would you call it? And her answer was How To Be A Bastard, and when my short fake laughter subsided (I'm thinking What...?? What does that have to do with anything?), she changed her answer to Philosophy of Censorship. Well, at least I have an idea now of where this is going.

To end on a positive note, remember how happy I said I was about my class on Globalization?