One Tough Mudder

Five days from today, I will become a Tough Mudder. If you don't know what that is, then I suggest you take the tough mudder ready quiz and then sign yourself up for a challenge! My main goal is not to die. This is something my sister has vowed to not let happen, so let's hope she can keep her promise. More importantly though, I don’t want to cry.  No, this is not a blog post about how I think crying is for the weak.  I think crying is good for the soul under the right circumstances.  In fact, I cry at Hallmark commercials on a fairly regular basis.  The problem is that when I was younger I had a long standing habit of crying when anything got physically tough.  Whenever I had to run the mile in elementary or middle school, I would cry that it was too hard and then instantly wanted to quit.  Of course, it didn’t help that my gym teacher would always yell at me to keep going (always seemed like serious yelling at the time – now I just believe it was misguided motivation).  In high school, we would have to run suicides on the basketball court and I was always slower, forcing us to sometimes have to run them again.  In those moments, I would double-over, crying, saying that I couldn’t do it and once again wanting to quit.  Of course, it also didn’t help that the girls on my team were giving me the evil eye and getting all bitchy because I was the slowpoke who couldn’t get her ass over the lines in 30 seconds.  But I think back to all the other times in high school when I wouldn’t cry, but instead use any frustration, anger, or sadness to propel me forward.  Did I cry because Algebra was hard?    Not really.  Did I cry when I didn’t get first chair in band?  Not really.  Did I cry when I finally told my kindergarten crush that I liked him and he rejected me?  Well maybe I cried a little.  Through college, I would give up on working out, saying it was too tough, I was too weak – the pain was just not worth the gain.  The point is that whenever something was emotionally or mentally challenging (challenging to me at the time, that is), I never wanted to cry and give up.  Instead I wanted to work that much harder at achieving what I set out to do.  So, why was it so easy to let anything physically punish me?  Why was I not willing to push myself in that area of my life just like I did everything else?  Maybe I was afraid I just couldn’t do it - so I just wouldn’t do it.  Then I started training for my first half marathon and I got lyme disease.  Right then and there, I wanted to cry and quit, but I kept pushing (especially when my sister was there “urging” me along even though I was going through fatigue cycles and hadn’t had time to properly train – I really wanted to smack her, but I love her anyway).   And I’ve been proud of constantly pushing myself in the physical ever since – testing the limits of my physicality – building my body stronger – trying Yoga, Pilates, TRX, swimming, running, and whatever else comes my way – all with the intention of building a better, stronger me.  And it’s not just on the outside, but on the inside as well that continues to get better and stronger.  (And when a guy strings me along and then decides to date someone else, I still won’t cry.  Instead I can debate with the girls in the office on whether the guy just has ED or some serious brain disorder that would cause him to make poor decisions).    


So here’s to hoping that this race proceeds to challenge me, but in such a way that I don’t blubber like a baby and try to quit at the first difficult obstacle.  I’m ready to dive into icy cold water, crawl under barb wire fences in the mud, get electric shock therapy, and get my behind up over the 8 foot walls!   I’m ready to be a TOUGH MUDDER!