A spoonful of masochism

It's been a punishing few days at work. First, the HiLite website went down on Friday, the same day the paper came out. Then, I faced the ire of some upset readers after they read a particularly sensitive staff editorial. What's interesting is I had control over none of this. The staff's Web team is in charge of the nuts and bolts of the site and the staff editorial was decided upon and written by the student editorial board. Regardless, as the adviser of the newspaper, I'm in a unique position; I'm directly responsible for nothing yet I'm indirectly responsible for everything. And as a visible first line of defense, I often get to feel the brunt of the scrutiny that is an inevitable part of the job.

But rather than lashing out at others, I responded this weekend with a bit of self-punishment in the form of some pretty serious workouts. I've responded this way for a long time. My earliest memory of "therapy via exercise" was in early college after my girlfriend of two and a half years and I broke up. I was devastated to be sure, but rather than wallow in my misery, I hit the gym. There was something about pushing my body to its physical limits that allowed me to clear my head and mellow the pain and inner turmoil I was feeling. I would come out on the other side of those workouts tired, drenched in sweat, often unable to lift my arms above my head, but somehow feeling better than when I went in.

Since those early days, I've found a true therapeutic benefit to exercise. Don't misunderstand me; I'm not suggesting that I somehow damage myself or my health via these bouts of exercise. Rather, I use the inner pain or confusion as motivation to push myself externally. And when I emerge on the other side, it's a sense of renewal I feel. It's a feeling that's akin, I imagine, to a Native American who completes a vision quest, albeit without all the peyote or the near-death experiences.

It's always been difficult for me to admit when situations are beyond my control. I understand that concept, but I don't embrace it, and as that sage Tom Petty sang, it's the waiting that's the hardest part—the waiting for the situation to resolve itself, the waiting for the reaction that I know will come, the waiting for a time when I won't think about the problem during every waking minute. So I find activities to fill that time. Exercise seems the logical choice, and it's rarely failed me.

This weekend was no exception. After a 10-mile run yesterday and a one-hour weight workout followed by a five-mile run today, I came home to find that the website's back online and the sponsor of the club who was upset over the editorial e-mailed me to let me know, while she still doesn't agree with the viewpoint, she understands the process and the students' right to publish that opinion.

And I feel better. While the problems in my life won't ever stop or completely go away, it's good to know I've found a way to cope—a healthy way, that is. While I can't control every situation, I can control how I respond to those situations.

Happy running.