I fail at achieving my goals. I almost wrote that I fail at goal-setting, but realised that 'goal-setting' totally isn't my problem. I set some very big goals for myself, when I set them. No, I fail at doing what I set out to do. I always have, for as long as I can remember.
Most of the things I have that I feel proud of I have attained with little effort and virtually no planning whatsoever. I worked hard to hold onto these things that make me proud, but how I got them in the first place to even know I wanted to hold onto them? Beats me. Maybe I'm lucky; maybe I'm in the right place at the right time (a phrase I dislike intensely, for those of you keeping track).
The goals that I actually set, though... oh how I fail at them. I've got some very fancy running goals: to run 20 miles in three weeks was my March goal (it was random, I ran a lot the first couple weeks then figured out I could totally do it); for April, 60 miles for the month; this week's smaller goal was to hit 18 miles.
Maybe these seem like lofty goals since I'm so new at running, but they felt attainable to me, right up to the moment I didn't get there. I was three miles short of my goal last month, and another three miles this week.
I know what you're thinking: get over it. Right? Of course, it's not the bane of my training, these three wee miles. I know this. I can still make my goal of 60 for the month, right?
My frustration is the knowledge that I know I should be able to reach it, and I intentionally didn't pick some unrealistic, un-achievable goal. I should be able to do it, I'm ready to do it. Except that I'm totally not. My body is tired, so I'm resting. I just feel guilty, like I should be doing more. Guilty towards what or whom, I haven't any idea but it's very big guilt (have I mentioned that I'm a recovering Catholic?).
So, my running shoes are lying right where I kicked them off this morning, and I'm resting. Even though I wanted more miles before the end of the week. Even though resting makes me feel bad. Even though I see the runners from my balcony when I go outside to smoke (got you, didn't I? Now you're really annoyed with me). The runners outside make me jealous; I want to dash outside and catch them, and make them tell me how they feel when they get all tripped up with failed goals.
Next week: 20 miles. Just 'cause I know I won't.