Knock, knock. Who's there?

My 2 ½ year old son, Benjamin, loves knock-knock jokes. Most evenings at the dinner table, the following conversation can be heard in my home:

Ben: “Knock, knock.”

Someone Else: “Who’s there?”

Ben: “Umm, a gorilla.”

Someone Else: “A gorilla who?”

Ben: “A gorilla sitting on the counter.” Then we all crack up into hysterical laughter (don’t worry, none of us get it either).

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Ben and his knock-knock jokes, not because I think he is the funniest 2 year old in the world (and he is, but that’s just my completely objective opinion), but because of the question they ask: “Who’s there?”

I identify myself in a lot of different ways: I am a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister. I am a data analyst, a friend, a lover. What’s been confusing me is what other people have been calling me. Last week I was having my knee checked by an orthopedist. I gave him a brief history of me: lost 70 pounds, kept it off 20 months, changed my favorite sports from TV watching to running and triathlons. He examined my knee and then started a sentence with: “Well, athletes need to….” I was incredulous. I was so angry that I couldn’t even hear the rest of his sentence. Why was he talking about another one of his patients – this athlete – while he’s examining me? It literally took me about 2 minutes before I realized he was talking about me. I was the athlete. And of course, I was too embarrassed to ask him what that sentence was, so I have no idea what it is that athletes need to do. But that’s OK. I’m not an athlete.

During my last health coaching session with Peter K, I told him that I just haven’t been enjoying my workouts lately. He replied, “But, Ali, you’re a runner.” I’m pretty sure I turned to Peter and said, “No, I’m not” (I don’t remember this for absolute certain, but since I usually argue every point with him, I’m guessing that I disagreed). I just can’t believe what all these other people are seeing.

Yesterday I did a 10 mile run in Central Park before work. It was early, dark, and cold. With every step I thought, “I can’t do this, I shouldn’t be doing this.” After a while I realized that this run was going to be 10 miles long whether I enjoyed it or not, so I might as well put some positive thoughts in my head. I thought about my first half marathon, and how amazing it felt when I finished it. I remembered the encounter I had with a woman at Weight Watchers about a year ago. She was convinced I had cut in front of her in the weigh-in line (let’s think about this; how eager is anyone to get on that scale?). I apologized anyway and let her in front of me. Then she looked me up and down and said, “Umm, I don’t think you belong here. This is a Weight Watchers meeting, you know.” Then there was the woman in my spin class, who once gestured to my entire body and said, “So, how do you get to look like that?”

I continued with my run and tried to see myself the way others see me. I felt the strength in my legs and my lungs. I realized that I was going to run 10 miles before most people in New York even woke up. I remembered that the old me, “Fat Girl” used to idolize athletes and wished she knew how to take care of her own body that well. Of course, I usually thought about that while I was plowing through a pint of Haagen Dazs Mocha Chip ice cream.

Tomorrow’s run is 6 miles, three with my running partner and 3 on my own. I wonder who I will be on that run: “Fat Girl” or “Fit Girl”? Will I be the data analyst worried about the presentation she hasn’t finished for her conference next month, or the athlete who could run 6 miles with one leg tied behind her back? Knock-knock. Who’s there?