Yesterday, I heard the phrase “Kara, what’s your bandwidth?” at least half a dozen times at work.
My bandwidth was pretty maxed out around noon.
I work a job that can be pretty demanding, and there are days my small team pulls a lot of hours. By mid-afternoon, one of my co-workers was eyeing the mini-fridge (which holds the major food groups: yogurt and booze) and said, “In the next hour, I’m cracking open a beer.”
I really, really, wanted a beer—there was only one reason I didn’t join her. Yesterday was Wednesday, and Wednesday is the day I have my running group.
I have been competitively running for fifteen years. I’ll go through periods where I’ll take a hiatus, but always find my way back. My running group is the one night a week where I can 1) run with other people and 2) get a solid, quality workout in. But man was it a pain to go to.
I b*tch about going to my running group every single week, without fail. It’s a far metro ride, the workout is way longer than I’m used to, and I usually don’t get home before 9 p.m. It also always seems that Wednesday is the day when things pile up at work, and it’s a hassle to get out on time. Yet, no matter how much I complain, I force myself into it week after week, for one reason only:
My running group, and the obscene workouts we pull, is what sets my week back to zero.
I am an extremist by nature, and therefore prone to the domino effect. To me, skipping my running group is sort of like eating a cupcake for breakfast. If you eat a cupcake for breakfast, chances are you’re going to want a second cupcake. Then at lunch, when you’re offered French fries or salad, you’ll probably sit there thinking, “Well I already had a cupcake for breakfast, so I might as well have the French fries and call this day a wash,” and things spiral from there.
Skipping my running group screws up the rest of my week—my workout pattern, my eating habits, my work efficiency—I know it sounds ridiculous, but that’s what happens.
So I didn’t join my co-worker for a beer. As soon as 6 o’clock hit, I grabbed my bag, biked home as fast as I could, and grabbed my racing shoes for practice. Our workout was on the National Mall last night, rather than the high school track we typically run at. The workout killed, the D.C. humidity sucked, and I woke up today with that feeling when you’re so proud of yourself for being tired and sore.
And this morning, I had salmon and veggies for breakfast.