Advice from a dentist

I love my dentist, Dr. B. He's funny, eccentric, tells it like it is, and he really loves dentistry. For a long stretch, the approach of my twice-yearly cleanings filled me with guilt and dread because I knew I was not flossing as often as I should. (Which is to say, I would floss relentlessly for two weeks before the appt with Dr. B and hoped I could pull one over on him.)

At one such appointment, he bursts into the room with typical high energy, laughing, smiling, "How ya doing?!" "I'm kicking myself for not flossing and I'm afraid to admit it," I say. "Why do you feel so bad about it?" he asks. For a brief moment I think I've found a wormhole in the dental universe, that it actually doesn't matter if you floss regularly. But then he elaborates, with a bit of advice that I've found useful is countless situations since: "I'm mean, it's just flossing. Don't get emotional about it, just get it over with. You'll feel good."

Don't get emotional, just get it done.
You'll better afterward.

I had intended to start running seriously again at the beginning of January. First Run was a good start, but I found in the weeks that followed that I was psyching myself out of running: I'm too tired. I didn't eat well today. I've got too much work. I deserve a break. It's too cold, and the gym is too far away. I have 81 hours of Gilmore Girls episodes on the DVR, and the show isn't going to watch itself.

Really, I was worried about how hard is to get going again, how much longer 26.2 miles seems when you're struggling through mile 3. I was kicking myself for letting my fitness slide (again) and for not having gotten myself in gear yet. When you're in that state of mind, a weird inertia takes over in which continuing to do nothing makes more sense than trying to do even a little bit. Because what's the difference between a tiny bit of work and zero work, when measured against a goal as a big as a marathon? I've got a stack of unread magazines calling my name.

Don't get emotional about it, just do it.

The second weekend in January, I woke up to my typical Sunday morning routine: scrounge some kind of breakfast that is mobile enough to eat on the couch while watching a steady stream of political talk shows. When I finally clicked off the TV, a fuzzy half-formed thought emerged, "I should go running." Before I could let my consciousness get involved, I forced the actual thought out of my brain and went into autopilot: running tights, fleece layer, swig of water, shoes on, out the door.

I was actually a 1/4 mile from house before I let my conscious brain in on the action. That's right. You. Are. Running. As I headed up East Shore Road past the summer camps that are closed up against the cold, past the frozen bay full of ice fishing shanties, past the stubbly snow-covered cornfield, I thought about that day in Dr. B's office.

You'll feel better afterward.

Vermont had been cloudy for endless weeks and months, until a brief few hours that day when the sun came out. I ran evenly, the cold stinging my eyes only a little behind my sunglasses. I felt better for having gotten out the door, than I did for the run itself. The sun - actual bright sun! - seemed like the reward for not talking myself out of it.

I ran four miles that day, my longest run of 2010 and my longest run in 3 months. I believe now, there is more to come.