Hmmm...that's not comfortable

Several posts back, I wrote a list of 10 things I learned from Lucy.  In writing this blog and thinking more deeply about life back then, I realize that there is so much more I’ve learned from her.  Or, if at least not from her, then because of her.  One of the biggest differences between how I felt about life in New York and how I feel about life now is my attitude towards comfort.  Back then, all I wanted was comfort.  A safe, unencumbered life.

Comfort is a funny thing.  I love to feel comfortable.  I love my routine, my stability, my hole that I settle into.  But I’ve learned over time that to settle too deeply is dangerous.  It’s those times when I get too comfortable that I start to lose myself.  I get stuck in my routine, my repetition, and life suddenly starts being about what I should be doing next—according to my self-imposed schedule.  This urge to finish the schedule overtakes the desire to be happy.  Comfort takes precedence over satisfaction with life.  So now, I push myself.  When I find I’ve dug too deep into a pit of comfort, I decide to scratch at the walls.  I’ve realized that in order to stay awake and alive, I need to be uncomfortable every now and then.  I need to try something new or do something different.  I need to feel a flutter in my chest, a slight pull saying “maybe I shouldn’t do this, I’d rather be at home.” When I feel that flutter, I know I’m alive again…awake instead of sleeping in cushiony comfort. 

The first time I pushed myself in this way, was when I decided to move to Seattle.  And then I decided to start running.  So today, I present for you an episode of discomfort:

            Early February 2008 in Queens.  I throw on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.  I even find an old sports bra after digging through my drawers, struggling to remember if I own one.  I put on an old pair of ‘Roos (remember those?) with the soles so worn down and falling apart that they flap as I lift my feet off the ground.  I put Lucy on her leash and step out the door.  I walk for about 5 minutes to the corner of a cemetery nearby my apartment.  I had driven around it the other day—one mile around exactly.  And I start running.

            10 seconds later, I stop running.  Holy crap.  Running is hard.  Can’t breathe.  I walk about a block and a half and try again.  This time I make it 20 seconds.  My lungs are on fire.  Lucy looks at me like I’m crazy.  She jumps at me, seeming to say “Are we running or not?”  I ask myself, what was I thinking?  But I try again, wanting to do this.  Run for 2 minutes straight.  I feel like I just chain-smoked 2 packs of cigarettes, but I haven’t smoked in 2 and a half years.  Wow…how do people do this?  Walk for 3 minutes.  Run for 30 seconds.  Walk for 5 minutes.  Run for 30 seconds.  Must…get…oxygen…in.  Try again.  20 seconds.  I can’t do this.  Turn around and walk home.  Lucy looks at me curiously.  “That’s it?” she says.

            I silently apologize and walk in the door.  I shower, feeling horrible.  Then I sit at my laptop.  And I start reading everything there is to read about running.  Because this will work for me.  This is going to work.