Typed Out

I have a tiny notebook calendar I carry in my gym bag.  If you leaf through it, from now until November, each day has a note written on it.  The note, in my handwriting, tells me what type of workout (or rest) is on tap for that day. Each day. For the next 20-something weeks.

I leafed through that tiny notebook calendar this past weekend, reviewing that little piece of stapled-together papers that will, starting today, dictate my every waking thought for the next six-ish months.
"Today, I have to run 2 miles."
"Thursday...Thursday....sprint intervals at the track."
"Better pack my gym bag tonight for the strength session tomorrow...."
"Saturday night? Oh no, sorry, I've got to get to bed, to rest for my 18-mile run tomorrow."

I've planned to try and get the workouts done in the morning on most days - setting a recurring alarm for 6:30am to make sure I get it out of the way before the rest of the day goes into blitz mode.
It sounds crazy, but this is the kind of preparation that I'm hoping will make life easier in the long haul of weeks to come: preordaining the workouts so I can track the progress and avoid potential hazards.
Seeing the course already set out on paper is equal parts relieving and terrifying: viewing my life, plotted out day-by-day - through the next two seasons of weather, even.
Why is it relieving?  I don't have to scramble to piece together a workout for  Wednesday, four weeks from now.
Why is it terrifying?  I know exactly what I'm doing on a Wednesday evening, four weeks from now.

I like to believe I'm relatively spontaneous and easy-going, living each day as it comes, not worrying too much about next week or even two months from now.  I try not to stress too much, and if there is a crisis, I'm usually the calm one around, soothing everyone else with a no-worries attitude.  So, knowing what's supposed to happen on July 23rd is a little unnerving.  And why?

Because I've realized, staring at this little calendar, that I'm certifiably Type-A.  And I've essentially condemned myself in the mere creation of this calendar.  All those years of valiantly staving off the impending doom of being labeled "uptight" and "control freak"...and here I am, staring at my own handwritten verdict of a personality disorder.

I was under the false assumption that my easy-going nature inclined me to plot out this little notebook, because I don't freak out, so naturally, I have a plan somewhere drifting through my consciousness.  Might as well jot it out on paper.
I now realize that it's because I'm Type A and will know what's happening four week from now which is exactly why I'm NOT freaking out when that Wednesday rolls around - because I'm pretty sure I've already made sure it's going to be a non-issue, and every day will go exactly according to my plan since it's written right here, in red pen on paper.  Red pen on paper means, obviously, that is the authoritative verdict for that day, this is the right way to do things, and you can't go back and change your answer.
I mean, mind. You can't change your mind.

I realize now that if I didn't know what was happening on that Wednesday night, and if there was something shocking or unexpectedly bizarre or otherwise a major roadblock to my training, I'd definitely be letting my Type-A flag unfurl in all its glory, red pen or no.  I'd be that one silently freaking out in the corner - because what am I supposed to do, now that I don't have a workout plan for Wednesday?   Because I also have to take into account that this will affect the rest of the week, and ohmyGod potentially the rest of the entire four months that are left, andholycrapnowIhavetoreconfigureeverything...

Let's just say, at the end of the day, my every waking Type-A thought is not only dictated by this notebook, but also soothed into a subtle undertone of calm, knowing that at least I have a plan.

So, fingers crossed that there are no major roadblocks.
And that I will obey my 6:30am alarm for the next six(-ish) months.