Up for the countdown

Today ended Spring Break, that glorious week when schools close in order to take a deep breath and prepare for the final push to summer vacation. It is the week that, despite the inevitable fog that rolls in and keeps us impatiently bundled in our fleece, presents daffodils as evidence that easier seasons are coming. 

The close of this week also marks the start of the four week countdown to May 9th. It is a time I have simultaneously feared and anticipated. Since November Tina has shared tales of the four week competition countdown where your caloric intake is measured and timed scientifically while your already overtrained body is asked to push even harder. You stop being able to interact socially. You become an anorexic with muscles.

The four week countdown of hollowed out hunger includes bathing in citrus baths and slathering on hemorrhoid cream to help shrink and tighten the skin. This phase of insanity also includes painting on layers of bottled tanning lotion, tapering water intake, and posing through muscle cramps and light-headedness. These are the details that get doled out to you in small increments. If presented too early, they are the tidbits that would make a person choose to pass on bodybuilding competitions as an acceptable hobby.

"You won't be yourself," Tina warns. "You'll be forgetful from lack of carbs. You won't trust your own decisions." 

"I lose my car keys several times a week as it is," I reply as I hear her horrific forecast. 

"You'll be even worse."

At this remark I conjure up an image of people gathering in the parking lot of the grocery store to observe me as I dump the contents of my purse on the pavement in search of my car keys. As I squat down on the pavement to thumb through my assorted lip balms, tampons, gum wrappers, and paper clips, they tsk and shake their heads, "Poor dear, she is carb deprived," and they chase the spare change that rolls out in every direction from the tangled mound I am fingering.  

I blink away the image but what loiters is the feeling that I am completely unprepared for the mental challenge, the extreme dieting, and the hours of workouts that lie ahead. An odd realization because, since the first of November it has been dieting and hours of workouts. I have not had a single day without muscle soreness. You'd think I would be used to it all by now. I have lower body workouts so intense on a Tuesday, that my glutes are still cramping on Thursday--while doing  biceps curls no less. Since last fall, each body part has barely had time to recover before screaming for mercy again.

Never-the-less, this is where I am. It feels a bit like going into labor, where the fear of impending pain is mixed with the elation that, after such an arduous and long journey, the last leg of the trip will be like a Roman candle: explosive, intense, and then simply over. 

It is the place in every story where the weary warrior summons up one last bundle of strength and says, "Bring it on."

Earlier in this week, my ten year-old daughter and I had one of those days--the kind that turns instantly into a golden memory. After browsing thrift stores and snipping sweet peas from a hillside, we drove dreamily back up the mountain, and along the way we passed a group of tourists taking photos of themselves on the edge of a turnout. 

My daughter asked, "Why do people always take pictures of themselves in that turnout?"

"We all like to show we've been somewhere I suppose."

After a few moments she said, "But we're all somewhere. No one is no where."

I have reflected on her comment all week. If that is the truth, then as fearful as this place is, and as unqualified as I feel, it is somewhere. Even if I don't prove to be the weary warrior with one last bundle of strength.

And as scared as I am, it feels good to be here.