I knew you were trouble

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the best work out songs are born from heart break. You know what I’m talking about. A lyric full of self-righteous indignation over a peppy, slightly frantic beat. Think Cee Lo Green. Think Beyonce. Songs that make you want to get into a relationship just so it can end in some terrible, soul-destroying, heart-ripping manner and you can listen to them on repeat.

It makes all kinds of sense. These songs are about celebrating gut-wrenching agony. They make you WANT to be miserable. But not to wallow in it – actually, yes, to wallow in it – but in an angry, peppy, active way! Whether this heart pain be of the metaphorical or cardiovascular variety makes no difference. “To the left to the left” works either way.

It also doesn’t hurt that they generally involve incredibly catchy melodies and some (usually female) amazing vocal runs. Runs! The parallels are infinite. So I thought I’d post today about my favorite breakup/work out songs:

i want a f**ing pumpkin spice latte (and other first world problems)

Yesterday, I went on my usual Sunday long run. It was one of those beautiful days, cold yet sunny, so that you get to wear a coat AND sunglasses (is there anything hipper?). I forewent my usual loop from my house in South London up to Battersea Park, along the Thames, and back. Instead, I decided to make an outing of it: run across the river, to Hyde Park, and take the bus home.

So where I typically find myself jogging alongside foliage and water, communing with nature, yesterday, I found myself window shopping as I huffed and puffed my way down Sloane Street, passing Knightsbridge and into the park. (Btw, the holiday display at Harvey Nichols is amazing!). I’m not sure if it was the constant audience afforded by a busy street, or the stick figure mannequins at every turn, but I felt super motivated and had a great run, banging out a solid 9 miles in 80 minutes. When I finished, dripping with sweat, panting, muscles tight, I knew what I needed. It came to me with resounding clarity, an image fully formed in my brain: a crimson cup speckled with snowflakes.

I have a confession: I am a slave to the Starbucks Christmas Cup. This is shamefully hypocritical for the following reasons:

1. I consider myself a coffee connoisseur (I say things like: “wow, the smoothness of the finish really balances out the limey acidity. Do I detect a hint of cranberry?”)

2. I’m a critic of consumerism (mass production depresses me)

3. I’m an environmentalist (I insist on carrying around a reusable coffee cup)

Yet, once a year, all of this sanctimonious integrity goes flying out the window because of a bit of red paper. I don’t know what it is exactly – the adorably cheerful drawings, the sense of occasion, the fact that you are drinking Christmas – but when Starbucks unveils it’s holiday lineup, I am a slave.

bring it

My favorite thing about running road races or climbing mountains or basically any other insanely demanding endurance sport is not the feeling of accomplishment you get upon finishing. Nor is it the reminder that, when put to the test, the human spirit is capable of overcoming the starkest of mental and physical barriers. It is not the feeling of camaraderie with like-minded crazies or the free race day t-shirt that is always too small for me because when I registered two months ago I was sure I would drop at least 2 sizes by the time the race rolled around. It’s not even the medals just for participating (a rare concession in adult life). Nope. My favorite part of athletic events is carbo-loading the day before.

Tomorrow I’m doing the Nike Run to the Beat London half marathon. The temperature will be hovering around freezing (London decided to get seriously cold last night), and I have to get up at 6 am on a Sunday morning, but none of this matters. Why? Because for one blessed day, I get to eat pasta by the bucketful without any remorse (okay a little tiny bit of remorse, but old habits…).

To all of my followers except my mom who by some cruel twist of biological necessity is gripped by the mundane details of my day-to-day life (“and what did you do after you finished your salad? You ate pumpkin soup? That you made yourself? Wow!! Bravo”): my sincerest apologies for any time wasted reading this post.

Don’t let this stop you from sending me good vibes from your warm beds tomorrow morning (and envying my bagel/cereal/cookie consuming tonight). Wish me luck!

and there’s no stopping us right now

The zone. Such an important part of running. When I’m in it, and I mean like in it, I’m that girl you hate, lapping you at the park without even the decency to look miserable. When I’m out of it, each leg lift is torture. I begin to believe in heaven if only to explain this sisyphean hell I have found myself in.

What I’m listening to plays an integral part in my zone. A friend emailed me last week saying she’d started her jog with Edgar Allen Poe’s complete works on audiotape.

DURING the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country.

Oof. This makes me not want to live let alone exercise. I almost can’t think of anything worse. Maybe Paradise Lost? On the other hand, a great song, a really fucking awesome song, is a magic elixir enabling you to run through nausea, pain, impending bowel explosions.

I can’t explain what makes a good running song for me. Looking back, I notice patterns -the two months of gangster rap that made me feel like such a badass – but mostly my taste is completely random. Techno, hip hop, pop, oldies, country. Slow, fast, highly instrumental. There is no formula. It just has to uplift me. And even this happens in more ways than one –  blatantly peppy (think “Call me Maybe“) or heart-wrenching and soulful (think “Skinny Love“).

What I listen to when I’m running reflects my taste in music about as much as what I wear when I’m running reflects my taste in clothes. It doesn’t. Unlike my running wardrobe which has consisted of the same three sets of spandex-y black pants (long, shorter, shortest) for four years, my music preferences are volatile, changing weekly or monthly. Though the really inspiring stuff can stay on for years.

So in the self-centered spirit of blogging the mundane details of one’s life, here’s a list of my current five favorites – with a half-hearted attempt to explain the je ne sais quoi of why these songs, why now.

once x 10^100 bitten, finally served

After years spent youtubing and before that facebooking and before that Nickelodeon(ing?) and before that thumb-sucking as a way to put off the more necessary activities of applying for jobs and before that writing my thesis and before that studying physics and before that learning to tie my shoes (respectively), I have finally learned a lesson in procrastination: Don’t do it.

I have London and its fickle weather to thank for this epiphany. You see, I run. At least three times a week. It’s the one thing I actually accomplish with a modicum of dedication. I’ve done multiple half marathons. I time myself and eat glycogen filled jelly beans and chart my elevation gains and losses. But note: I still do not call myself a runner. Somehow, despite all this, I can’t manage the non procrastinating, sanctimonious, purity of the real runner.

Almost every time I go out I have to force myself to put on my sneaks, finding a million odd jobs to do in the process (I should probably reorganize my shoes and clean my hiking boots, while I’m at it I might call my mom and find out how her work dinner went last night, speaking of dinner, I’m hungry I might just have a small snack, shit I have to wait an hour before I run I just ate).

In London, this process consistently bites me in the ass.