Why is the date in the title of this post? So none of us get confused. This is a story from almost two weeks ago.
(I know. I’m sorry. For the past two weeks, I couldn’t think about a single other thing is this world besides improv. Therefore, I couldn’t even begin to write about running until I wrote out some of my unending (and wildly varying) feelings and emotions on improv. And I couldn’t write about improv until I had time to digest the whole thing, and work it all out.
I guess that’s what happens when you’re writing a continual, never-ending story about your life (a.k.a. this blog) – sometimes your life events are a little too much for your brain to process – let alone for your brain to try to share with other people. So, thanks for sticking with me. If you did. If you didn’t, sorry again. (Although, if you didn’t, you’re not reading this right now, anyway.))
The day after my big, humongous, life-changing (year-changing, at least) day of passing Basic at the Groundlings, I got to celebrate with this half marathon. Thank goodness, ’cause there’s nothing like 13.1 miles to deal with your feelings on something. Or at least try to. My first mile was my victory mile. I lightly jogged with my head held high. “I’m in Intermediate now, suckas! Watch me go!” I felt overwhelming, single-tear inducing joy as the news continued to sink in.
But the more it sank in, the more I really thought about it. And the more I thought about it, the more I was able to turn this (overall) good news into troubling news. (Now that you’re getting to know me a little better on this blog, you’re beginning to find out precisely how crazy I am over the things that really mean something to me, huh?)
The second mile was more a “What a tiny victory that was” mile. The third was a “Was that actually a victory at all?” mile. These were followed by the “Yeah, that definitely wasn’t a victory at all,” “Kevin for sure hates you, and passed you super begrudgingly,” and “You definitely don’t belong in Intermediate. Who do you think you are?” miles.
My brain continued to eat itself for the majority of the course. I went over every second of the final evaluation – well, every second of it I could remember, at least. I thought about what he’d said. What I’d said. I went through every scene, and every game from the second half of the semester. I thought about all the things I should’ve done differently.
I tried to pinpoint all of the things that made him think the second half was markedly worse than the first. Worse, I understood for sure. But that much worse? Was it really? I continued to pick every class apart and try to find the answer, until I got to the “my body is so tired as is my mind. I really need to try to not think about this for at least a little while” mile. I didn’t reach this point until probably mile 11ish.
(Don’t worry, for you sweethearts out there. No need to console me. Between the race and now, my craziness has been successfully calmed. For the most part. (I mean, I did pass after all!))
I “ran” really, super slowly in the half marathon today. Who am I kidding? I “walked” super slowly. I use the word “walk” in quotation marks, because I went so slowly that I don’t know if you can even call it walking. I finished in 4:11:59.
I had no speed goals for this half. I was coming off of a “marathon” (lots of word in quotes today…) the previous week. (basically a 26.2 mile hike that I completed way slower than any normal marathoner would’ve). Plus, I had a half marathon coming up in a different state the following day. I figured I’d give my body a break. I had a nice little jog for the first mile, then I pretty much sauntered the rest of the race.
So, I’m doing my best to quiet my chattering brain and lose my thoughts in music. I’m walking on my merry way, with my upper body dancing its heart out. I’m doing this sort of forward shoulder roll/pulling stomach in move, a few times over, pretty quickly in succession. I’m pretty sure that’s the standard reaction when “Baptize Me” from The Book of Mormon comes on your iPod. Sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I see a photographer. Awkward.
This is where I’ll pick up tomorrow with all the parts of the race that don’t relate to improv. (I know, I know. About time, right?)