Making a list. A very long list.

During the frenzy that is birthdays and holidays at the Saunders's house, Emma received Fab Girl Barbie -- the tagline on the box said "Intern by day, fashionista by night." Among other things, she comes with "coffee" and fake eyelashes. What else does an intern need? My only hope that by the time intern Barbie needs to get a real job, Mattel has the good sense to design "Stay at home Ken."

As it is the end of a very long year, I've struggled with the right tone for this posting. A year in review? A lyrical synopsis of fits and starts and the overall failure to kick start my running again juxtaposed against the challenges and successes at work and the fact that I needed 2 days of vacation not to enjoy the holidays with my family but to wade through 2 months of laundry? Nope. That's too 2009.

A look ahead to 2010 with vows to make time for myself and my running? Commitments to run harder and faster with consistency and passion? A vow to reclaim my abs? Also too 2009. Besides, look where it got me.

So, as I make a list of resolutions (and, according to the Wall Street Journal, you are more likely to effect behavior change if you actually state a resolution), I have a fairly standard list (dig out from the 3,714 emails in my inbox and take control of my organization, stop using the laundry sink as a recycle bin, drink more water) and a list that points to something harder (be more present with my family, be kinder to my aging mother, stay connected with my friends). That thing harkens back to my aha moment of 2009: it came from an honest and inspirational blog posting by Iron Matron back in November.

I've spent a lot of time pretending I don't care about my age. But I do. And what got me most about this posting, and some of the complementary posts by Marathon Mama and others, is that I'm 43, not almost 40. I'm still constructing a life that seems to be hurdling by. When they write about kicking the asses of their younger selves, they are talking about literally kicking the asses of their younger selves in competition. I want to kick the ass of my younger self for wasting so much time in my late 20s and 30s. I am so lucky to be where I'm at and I get and appreciate that, but I'm faced with a trifecta of choices that are gated by age. If I step back from this career opportunity to be more present with my family, will I get it again? If I don't figure out how to fit training into my life this year, will I miss the opportunity to ever be competitive? I want to have another child, and for that, between health and financial concerns that I just don't have time on my side for, it seems like the opportunity has already passed.

All of this conjures up a lot of sadness for me as I look ahead to a new year. For someone who thrives on hope, it mostly sucks, but it is forcing some serious thought around where I want to be when I'm looking back from 53.

So, my underlying resolution is to face this. To be willing just to be where I am. To enjoy my family and my life and worry less about the things that at some point will just be things along the way that brought me something meaningful, but ultimately passing. To be brave enough to let go. To trust that fear is not the right driver. Hope and faith and belief are. To remember that it's okay to dream big and small. Those are the things I want to share with my kids, and to do that, I have to be present. And honest. And brave. Piece of cake.

Here's to a new year!

Stupid Endorphins

First, a word about age. It's not helping my mental state with regard to running to realize that in the running world, 43 is geriatric. Thankfully, it appears that this is more skewed toward men, as evidenced in the coverage of the NY Marathon today.

“A lot of people were writing him off, saying he was too old,” said Ryan Hall... “But if there was one other guy who I wanted to see win this race, it was Meb. He’s like an older brother to me.” MUCH older. Dude, he's 34, not 97.

Meanwhile, Derartu Tulu, a 37-year-old mother of two, had the kick of her life for the last half mile to beat the women's field. Nobody mentioned her age or the fact that she can throw out a half-mile kick out of nowhere despite her maternal status. Suck it up, boys.

But back to the blog. I have bigger worries than my advancing age. What is it about running? I mean really, I should just quit. It's now just embarrassing. I was thinking I should try something new -- like a triathlon. Because I have done such a good job at focusing on one sport, why not try three at once? I was thinking Sprint. A quick start. Something to invoke other muscles that I am sure used to exist in my body somewhere. Not an Ironman. A small one. The two hottest moms I've met recently do tris. One does big ones, one does small ones. Both hot. I am vain and desperate enough to divert my running fantasies back to my abs and only my abs.

Alas, the idea is not sticking. I don't know if it's my complete inability to focus on more than one thing at a time or if it's my complete inability to give up on running a kick ass marathon some time in the next few years (or category three, my idea of an awesome bike has flowers and a basket on it), but I'm skeptical. I miss running. I love running. I love running far. I love running away. I love running back. I miss my nasty toes. I miss my running coach.

And I really miss the endorphins. I've thrown everything at work, but I'm starting to numb. I realized yesterday that this is the longest span in my life I've gone without exercise, the absurdity of participating in the marathon a few weeks ago aside. My brain needs a break. This afternoon, I went out for a short trot in the fabulously bright sun that is Colorado. Something about the pavement knocks everything back into place. Even when I'm not running, I'm a runner.