Sunday, March 25, 2012

In the Running

Sam Costa was a singer and voice actor on the show Much Binding in the Marsh, a comedy show on BBC radio and Radio Luxembourg broadcast from 1944-1954.  So no, I've never seen or heard it but I did run a Half-Marathon yesterday named after the guy.

Running.  Racing.  Running.  Racing.  Ugh.  All my best-laid plans go right out the window as soon as I pin the bib on my shirt.  Well maybe that's not totally true because once, when I ran the Mini to pace one of my running buddies to a PR, I actually set mine.  It was not his day and as soon as he gave me the I am hating life right now and will never run again high sign, I took off. 

So when I don't try, it works out.  Funny.  Story of my life.  (No, no, I will not digress...I will NOT digress!).  I loved that day in Indy and can remember each mile clearly.  How I felt.  What I was thinking.  What the quick math equaled in my head when I did the down and dirty addition as I came off an even dirtier 2.5 mile track. 

And now, one day after I ran a race in honor of a Sephardic Jewish-Portuguese man, I'm critiquing again.

The curse of a runner.  I could have finished 3 minutes faster.  Why did I go so slowly through that water stop?  20 seconds right there.  Did I go out too fast again?  But if I had gone out slower I wouldn't have had time to make it up.  Is that chick seriously ahead of me?  Oh, I don't THINK so.  The list goes on, but the high points are usually the same.

I signed up for yesterday's race a couple months ago.  It was to be used as a gauge to determine how the Cleveland marathon training is coming along.  I was certain a few weeks ago that I'd never be able to run CLE, let alone this time trial since you can't really do either of those well with just a right foot.  After a serious heel/Achilles/calf scraping and the subsequent phone call to Amnesty International to report it, I've been able to ease back into the training.

Reasonable first mile pace.  Stayed patient.  Mile 2.  Patience over.  I began to run consistent miles, ranging from 7:57-8:04.  Feeling good.  My running partner was behind me, yet close enough that I could hear his shoes striking, making me feel slightly guilty for not being back there with him.  So I went faster to avoid that nonsense.  I had enough in front of me to deal with and figured since I drove to the race, he'd get over it.

Mile 8 was when the voices started talking louder than the music was playing.  Should I keep passing people?  I know better.  Not my first time.  Gotta save something.  Tank can't be empty for the last 5k.  Those voices are utterly annoying.  After shutting them up several times, I clicked my iPod forward to a louder, faster song.  I had to be louder and faster.  Like, now.

Mile 9.  Same people around me.  There was one woman in particular who was running strong and she and I had been doing the infamous passing back and forth of one another for a few miles.  I wish instead of the instant I am going to destroy you feelings which surface as that happens, I would just buddy up with the person.  Oh well...Rome.  My DNA probably isn't going to change overnight either.  I stayed ahead of her and ultimately ended up beating her, but it was far from total destruction.

As people started to pass me (fine - those whom I had passed way too soon miles earlier), I thought to myself:  just let them go.  Do not fight it.  They are ahead of you for a reason and you clearly have more training left to do before the big race.  That's why you're here anyway; today isn't what it's about.  Good.  Glad.  Settled. 

But wait!  Hold on a cotton pickin' second.  That is stupid talk.  Don't let them go.  You stay right here with them because the time is now.  There might not be another chance.  They could keep right on moving forward toward their own goals and agendas, and then the opportunity would be gone forever.  A wasted chance.  How much regret that would be. 

Go.  No.  Yes.  No.  Now.  No.  That whole thing is more exhausting in and of itself than the actual physical part.  More exhausting than the cumulative training, the cumulative time spent dissecting every morsel of information and what you know to be true about what it is you're doing in that very moment.  No question.

Is there ever a right answer?  I don't know.  But when I crossed the line yesterday, I realized there is at least a better approach.  A better way to exude patience, and a more exacting time to hold back nothing and just go for it.

Quite simply the bottom line is, I love running.  Everything about it keeps me coming back for more.  And until I figure out how to race - really race and cross that line with a qualifying time as I exhaustingly and undeniably whisper "finally" to myself - I'll keep lacing up.  Until maybe I just don't love it anymore.





Thursday, March 22, 2012

Today

I've been running crazy these last few days and just left a fittingly crazy lunch.  Some good future blog material along with some decent potential work came out of that 90 minutes.  After reenacting the high points in the parking lot with a fellow appreciator, I drove away south on I-69 in complete silence.  It is rare - in fact, almost never - that I drive without music or some information stream coming loudly through the speakers.  But today, I wanted to hone in on one special subject matter.

My memory is decent.  Ok, it's like a steel trap.  I was purposely recalling specific memories, all of which were making me smile.  Upon so doing, I was immediately reminded of another one of my favorite Salinger quotes... Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.

Sometimes we can't just leave things the way they are.  Sometimes, for the greater good, things have to change. 

No one likes it.  Change sucks, frankly.  Unless you're going about it with a mustard seed of hope.  Hope that both the greater and the good are fulfilled in ways which somehow even surpass what we had previously, if only momentarily, imagined.

In the words of the late great Christopher Reeve:  Once you choose hope, anything is possible.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Grand Theft Auto

A few days ago Liv graced me with her presence as we drove through car lots in a dual effort to identify her preferences and, unbeknownst to her, provide some thorough entertainment value for me.  She is enrolled in Driver's Ed and will have her permit in late July.  Which means my sole reason for existence right now is to purchase some sort of tank-like vehicle to keep her safe...and out of the driver's seat of my car.

A couple months back I asked the soon-to-be-yikes-driver if she was looking forward to checking out cars together.  Her response?  "Well, I don't have to look much farther than the garage, do I?"  She's good.  I do enjoy when I see glimpses of my personality shining through.  It gives a parent this false persona of man, am I doing a good job.  (And no, I will not admit that at least once or twice I actually did consider giving a fifteen year old an Acura.  Have mercy on my brain.)

I really had no idea what kind of car Liv would like.  Oh sure, I ask.  But her answer for that is the same as it is when I ask her how her day was.  Or if she's hungry.  Or if she remembers being debriefed on the whereabouts of her real, leathery-like, alien parents who breathe fire out of one nostril at a time, in sync to Bach's Concerto for Two Violins a la that fountain outside the Bellagio in Vegas.

As we slowly cruised through Preferred Auto (I have no intention of buying her car there but she doesn't know that), I studied her body language carefully.

"You like that one, sweetie?" 
<silence> 
"Um ok, what about that one?" 
<eye roll>

Lovely.  She's walking, I thought to myself.  Maybe I could resurrect my yellow Huffy with the basket, bell and sparkly thing-a-ma-jigs in the spokes.   Actually no, that won't be necessary since she's not leaving the house and will have no phone to call for a ride.

I've read about parents like me that cause this behavior.  I suck.  My kid is spoiled and yet, I'm about to spend X-grand on her nonetheless.  I'm smarter than this.  Yes I am.  Oh hells yes I am!  I think I can...I think I can...I think I can.  Wait till you see the could and the can and the will in THIS engine, sister!

"Mom, Mom!  I like that one!  A LOT!" 


Chevy Impala.  I think my new car will be silver.



Monday, March 19, 2012

Oh Those Ides

It's past the middle of the month.  No idea where it has gone, or the first two prior ones really.  Now that I think about it, I'm not sure where the first fifteen years of my sweet little girl's life have gone either.  Sugary she isn't lately, but that is another matter altogether.

As horrible as I have consistently been told this is - I am not a Spring fan.  How can you not like Spring?  That's not normal!  A dollar each time I've had to endure rebukes like that and I would have so much money I'd be gyrating at half-time of the Super Bowl, defining it as decent and recreational.

Apparently it is also normal that my sweet daughter holes up in her bedroom like I have the plague, vacillates between engaging in some WWF and turtle shell retreat move every time I try to hug her, and is bothered by my air consumption on a daily basis. 

It's Spring, my kid can't stand to be around me, and I'm abnormal.  Fine.  Ok.  But here's the thing:  Compared to what?  Compared to whom?

Trigger points are individual and no one else can quite get them.  Just can't.  Well-intentioned people who care about you try to understand, but the automatic reactions are not lessened. 

The appropriately shortened acronym for people who have "Winter Blues":  SAD. Seasonal affective disorder.  I have Spring affective disorder (well, since I have it - maybe disorder is too strong...).  Sure, for those flower-pot-perennial-loving-springers, this may be hard to grasp.  But likewise, I find it cuckoo that anyone can dislike winter.  The fires, the cocoa, the trees!  The decorating with lights and sparkles and sentimental mementos, the music, the cheer, the annual progressive dinner with neighbors...come on!  Ugly sweater parties, cookie baking, secret Santa's, Operation Christmas Child, trying to figure out the family schedule and who needs to be where when...the list of happiness and anticipation is endless for me, therefore I really need to stop before I feel like run-on sentencing or putting on a glittery sweater and boots in this yet-to-be-80-degree day.

Living in the Midwest, four seasons come and go.  I enjoy three of them.  That's not a bad ratio.  75% from the field back in the day and I would have loved that Fall-Winter sport even more.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Pay It Forward

Emerson wrote that "In the order of nature we cannot render benefits to those from whom we receive them, or only seldom.  But the benefit we receive must be rendered again, line for line, deed for deed, cent for cent, to somebody." 

Sounds logical enough, but do we ever actually live by this principle or are we seldom even considering it?

I like what reformer and temperance advocate, Lily Hardy Hammond said about this never-ending matter.  She said, "You don't pay love back; you pay it forward."  Man did Lily bust on the upper-middle-class white Americans for their collective failure to examine the stanchions of racism.  Particularly, she lambasted them for the absence of universal health care and effective social welfare systems across the board.  Basically, the criticism towards most of the socioeconomically advantaged white Americans was for apathy.  Laziness.  No concern whatsoever.  Not my problem so don't bring it to me attitude. 

Ick.  Deplorable.

If there is one thing that drives me battier than anything else (barring what future blogs may state or moods may dictate), it's when people cry, moan, and complain about being malcontent, then sit back and do nothing.  Really?  Can they not see the glaring irony?

Much like LHH said about little being able to change with regard to racism and race relations in our country until the underpinnings have been examined and dissected, 'tis true of anything.  But unfortunately, I find human beings - myself included at times - to be simply uneager to delve deeply into anything.  Honestly, if we spent the same amount of time trying to examine, dissect, address, and correct all the crap we complain about (politics, taxes, health care, unemployment, each other) as we did listening to ourselves yap in circles about it, maybe we'd get somewhere.

Realizing this no small feat, here's what I suggest in the meantime:  Take action.  Do something nice for someone else.  Start small, like some random stranger that you encounter each and every day as you go about the perceived drudgery ahead of you.  

I like to pay for the person's order behind me at McD's.  I go there once or twice a month for an oatmeal and large coffee ($3.23 please).  As I am in line, I'm carefully watching the person behind me in my rear view mirror, unaware of the fact that what they just ordered is on the stranger in front of them.  A very small gesture yet, I wonder if, when they get to work, they tell someone what occurred.  And then, that person is somehow inspired to do something nice for someone at some point throughout their respective work day. 

Sure, it could be wishful thinking, but the concept isn't all that hard to grasp.  I know how I feel when someone does something nice for me without being asked, or even (almost) anonymously.  It's a nice little slice of unexpected love and it makes me want to reciprocate.

I'm not trying to sound like the 2007 Miss America contestant from South Carolina (anyone got a map, such as?), but I do know change won't happen without anything in motion.  And the movement is forward. 

Backwards never accomplished a thing.


Plantarschmantaritis

Ran this morning.  If that's what you can even call it.

Dear Left Heel,

I really don't want to hate you.  I need you.  Therefore, I implore you:  please be in tip-top shape when I toe the line in Cleveland on May 20th.  For the love of all things meant to keep me sane, Just Do It.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

With My Luck He Owns TJ Maxx

Writing equals a release.  A creative outlet.  A place to kick back and let go of the things that are keeping you awake at 2am...although I was up and at 'em last night and still have no idea why.  Therefore, will not be writing about that which I can't remember.

Instead I have decided that yes, it most certainly is ok for me to write about dating mishaps on this blog.  I mean, why not?  I'm done crying about it (it like there was just one) and have learned to enjoy (read: use for the good material it is) the doozies.

Here goes.

I'm kind of a conundrum when it comes to dating.  You will read things like, "And then he opened the door for me and I wanted to slam his finger in it."  Sentences later, you may read, "My god is he the sweetest human being on the planet...he brought me Blue Orchids."  Note:  Orchids are my favorite.  I dig their meaning and exotic style.  Blue Orchids and I'm a goner.  Postscript Note:  Yep, I am a White Stripes fan and "Blue Orchid" is the first track on their Get Behind Me Satan album.  Connect the dots as you will.

When I "dated" in Elementary School, it was off to the Roller Rink we went.  That un-airconditioned, sweat-filled fire trap.  We'd meet there, me in my favorite hot little number jeans complete with the embroidered roller skate on the right cheek pocket, buy our $1.00 tickets, get the stub and race to the drink counter.  "Two suicides, please," my boyfriend would order, yelling over the blaring Funkytown coming through the speakers.  Aww, suicides, I thought.  He's been reading Shakespeare!  

Silly me.

Oh how I loved that roller skating rink; oh how I did not love KK (initials only, as if they'd ever validate these accounts anyway).  He was nice and all, but no spark.  Even at age 10 a girl knows a spark.  So after I got done rolling around and around on a hamster-wheel-sized cement floor, racing KK as Another One Bites the Dust cranked, he too bit the dust.  For anyone that tries to grab my hand and make me skate side-by-side to Total Eclipse of the Heart has another thing comin'.  Judas Priest.


When I "dated" in Middle School, well, I guess I didn't.  I looked like a boy in Middle School.  Complete with the Vinnie Barbarino feathered hair and Goody comb in my side pocket, that sucker was ready to be called upon and manhandled in one fell swoop at a moment's notice.
Wah-ha-ha-ha-howwww...I was not.

High School dating sucked.  Sure, at first I was "in love," but who wasn't?  Ah, my first L-O-V-E.  Check him out now and you will find that he is still in the same hometown running his Dad's business, and is the head Shriner - riding in circles on a tricycle during parades and circuses.  As my sister likes to say, "I could have been in show business."  No, I'm not knocking the guy or the memories...he was fine and We'll Always Have Paris.  Or, Minerva. 

In the spirit of saving all the really good stuff for last, I will close before I even get there.  College you ask?  Ohio State?  Oh, I got my Dad's money's worth alright.

My favorite "official" date from the 1991-1995 years:  a blind one.  The first and last one I've ever attended.  My ex-friend set us up.  She assured me he was fantastic in every way.  She grew up with him.  Trust her.  Whatever.

TJ (no protection here, that was his real name) knocked on my apartment door one Saturday evening.  Upon opening it, I immediately closed it in a total Pavlov meets self-preservation move.  I quickly re-opened it after desperately trying to compose myself and subsequently invent a sickness which produced head to toe contagious spotting.

We walked down the three flights of stairs - all of TJ and his bright orange head of hair well ahead of me - as he jabbered non-stop about how much I was going to love his "ride."  All I remember is that it was shiny, black, gaudy, and loud.  Maybe a Chevy Beretta.  I don't know.  That's beside the point.  The point is - I could not be a decent passenger and give the "all clear on my side" indication as he drove us to the Spaghetti Warehouse (no matter) because I could not turn my head left or right due to the amount of tension in my shoulders.  I now had no potential love connection, one less girlfriend, and forthcoming wasted Italian food. 

I tried.  The whole drive there, I really did.  I mustered up an attitude adjustment and all.  But when that guy dropped me off at the front door because I was "too sweet" and he was sure "I'd melt" (it was spitting trickles of warm raindrops), my patience limit was fully exhausted. 

Yet in we went, his tree trunk arm around my waist (STRIKE 3 x 3 x 3) and sat down.  To this day, I can still tell you how many people were in that restaurant.  I counted each of them for the longest-ten-minutes-of-my-life-straight in an effort of avoiding eye contact with TJ at all costs. 

Of course, when I excused myself to the restroom and upon my return was informed that my dinner had been ordered for me, the only eye contact necessary was with our waitress.  She too, was a good Italian girl and knew the high sign for get me a to-go box and then the hell out of here. 

Per favore! 



Sunday, March 11, 2012

Short {or not} and {always} Sweet

Friends.  I could go on about this subject forever.  Suffice it to say that we all understand the importance true friends play in our lives.  How invaluable they are.  How life without them would be troublesome, lonely, and dauntingly gray.  One great big giant suck fest, to be sure.

Today I was dually reminded how lucky I am on this front.  Chels.  She is my life-long best girlfriend in this whole wide world.  Met her in 5th grade.  Hated her.  She attended a rival elementary school and rival we did on the softball field.  Fast-forward 30 years and we have a closeness that can only be described as understood and impenetrable.  We haven't lived together or just down the street from one another in a very long time, yet we both conclusively know no one else (barring the husband role) is filling the other's shoes.  Ever.

Long periods of time can pass when we don't speak.  Life gets busy and we just live our respective ones.  Yet we can call each other out of the blue and are right there in the thick of current events.  (No, not "world" events...she's not like that.  I cheat on her for those kind of conversations without fear of dissolution).  Inexplicably, there is no catch-up required.  We just kind of know.  She and I have finished each other's thoughts and sentences for as long as I can remember.  Interrupting is a form of love with us, not disrespect.  It's uncanny really.  People hear us communicate and are in awe.  I trust her with my life; she has free rein and never hesitates to use it unabashedly.  She sets me straight when I am crooked and I love her the more for it.  Much of this, I'm sure, can be attributed to our history. 

The woman has seen me at my best, my worst, and everything in between.  She's seen me laugh (lots of laughing!), cry tears of both joy and pain, talk my way out of things that you can't make up...live this eye of the hurricane sort of existence.  She showed me how to do certain things (wow, I guess she was worldly at one point), use certain things, get through certain things.  When Olivia was born, she was the first face I saw in the hospital room other than the usual participants.  She was the first friend I called when I was sick and the first one to cry along with me as she yelled that I better not check out because she'd kick my ass if I did.  I could go on as originally mentioned, but I won't.  The rest is sacred and something I treasure.  Our friendship is timeless.  Immeasurable.  Solid.

We spoke today.  It's been awhile.  Her voice, as usual, was a soothing balm to everything in me that is in need of a little tune-up.  It was not a long conversation, but it didn't need to be.  We ended with the usual, "Love you!" and back to our respective lives we went, a little warmer, a little fuzzier, a little more thankful to be in this world.

And so it is that I find myself grateful for friendships that are equally as sweet, if not (yet) as long.  People pop in and out of our lives all the time.  This we know.  What causes us to pause is the ones we don't see coming.  The ones we want to stick.  The ones we know we'd miss if they disappeared.  The ones we size up against the backdrop of a life-long friend and find that, indescribable as it may be, the same level of understanding and immeasurability is present.  Somehow, we experience the same smiling when they call, and the resultant warmth as we listen to the now familiar voice with its soothing melody and perfect mix of care, frankness, and funny.  How rare.  How special.

As said friend uttered to me today:  this is a beautiful world.

I Draw the Line at Granny Panties

"Mom, do we have any plans the weekend of March 9th?"  Olivia asked me this question roughly a month ago.  I vaguely recall responding in the negative.  But oh, how it's all coming back to me now...

CAUTION:     

FOUL LANGUAGE, BAD PARENTING (x2) and a lot of UNCLASSY AHEAD.

This is the weekend Liv brought home her "daughter."  A practice baby if you will, for her Child Development class.  The whole point of the assignment is to teach the students just  how hard it actually is to be a parent.  And thus - you guessed it, avoid becoming one.  Which means NO SEX before marriage.  Abstain you teenagers!  Abstain.

So I picked Liv up at 2:45 Friday afternoon.  Out she walked from the main entrance of Homestead with a raggedy car seat, the baby sort of propped up in it, and the diaper bag containing all the necessities right on top of its head.  "Do you get points taken off if you suffocate it?" I asked.  First eye roll.


We live 1.2 miles from the High School.  The baby started crying (a/k/a devil-like shrieking) before the garage door went up.  My weekend suddenly looked very bleak.  There wasn't much time until we had to leave to meet Sam and Alex (John's girls, ages 23 and 18) at Glenbrook.  Jack, Sam's precious 5-month old son, would join us.  Looking back, I wonder if he felt slighted a bit.

Liv and I waited and perused in Barnes and Noble for about 10 minutes before they arrived.  All was quiet on the baby front as it relaxed on the ground in its car seat while I read Runner's World.  Immediately after Sam, Alex, and Jack walked in and pleasantries were exchanged, all hell broke loose.  "Come on!  Seriously?" quipped Liv, completely disgusted.  Alex gave me the look, we both kind of laughed under our breath, and into the mall corridor we went.

Part of the assignment was to notice and record how strangers in a public setting responded to a fifteen year old with a baby.  Liv expressed concern for other's reactions, as she didn't want to be thought of as "skanky."  I enjoyed that comment almost as much as I enjoyed her complete oblivion to what that might make me...Super skanky?  Ho-ho-horrible?  Instead, we were all a little shocked when these total mall strangers expressed amusement and empathy, saying things like, "Oh, I remember when I had to do that.  It sucked."  Or one guy, who had to be in his early twenties but masked it well with several piercings and ill-fitting to-the-ground-pants clamored, "Hey honey (to his wife(?) pushing their(?) child in a stroller) git a load a this!  That ain't real, is it?  Nah...no way!  What is that thing, a doll?!  Well I guess that'll teach 'em not to have sex in school, huh?!"  You tell me, sir.

That fun fest occurred in store number one.  I successfully purchased a floppy hat which I will soon prance around on the beach wearing, while Liv, looking completely frustrated, stood in a corner feeding her baby, still in its car seat but now on top of a clothing display.  I walked over to her and asked how I could help.  "You can't."  She may have had a point.  When those words spewed with wrath from her lips, I was immediately reminded of a little something I may or may not have done as a wet behind the ears mother.  We moved to Chesterton when Liv was 6 months old and she began pulling up - ready to explore every inch of our new house afoot - right around 9 months of age.  I, with one arm carrying my What to Expect After You're Done Expecting book and the other hoisting Liv, moved the fake wooden memory trunk that doubled as a coffee table to the end of our bed so she would not scar her perfect face on one of its corners.  Go me.

Several days later, I was dressing her on the bedroom floor between my side of the bed and the armoire, which was maybe 4 feet away at best against the wall.  It was our little "play lane" and I tickled her, read to her, loved her there frequently.  Freshly changed, jumper buttoned from footsies to neckline, I raised her up over my tilted back head, locking eyes and smiles as only we knew how to do.  Ready to venture back out into the living room, Liv still high above my head, I walked around to the front of the bed ramming my shins right into that damn trunk as my real baby went soaring across the bedroom!  Time stood completely still as I watched, in slow motion, two huge blue eyes at ceiling level, widening with fright by the second.  She plunked down into the non-play lane (k/n/a the danger zone) as I leapt across the bed, ready to size up the damage.  I wondered what kind of Doctor one calls for a dane bramaged 9 month old and her mother, whose stomach was now located in her ankles.  I sped-dialed the pediatrician, was assurred that only her wind got knocked around, and was on the local Child Protective Services watch list until I moved to Fort Wayne. 

So yeah...my unharmed fifteen year old may have had a point that I couldn't help her in store number one, but I asked anyway.  We got out of there in a hurry and Liv and the girls strolled into store number two, Victoria's Secret.  Well fed, the baby remained quiet long enough for Liv to acquire several unnecessary yoga pants and T-shirts to carry around until she was ready for a dressing room.  I walked around VS aimlessly, thinking of the real life oxymoron that was happening right before my eyes.  Several employees - way too young and out of shape to be dressed in all black (not helping) spandex and lycra, with tape measures draped around their necks as if I'd ever want their stained mitts sizing up my boobs - began commiserating with Liv about the situation.  "Yeah, dude, I was like, no way!  I locked mine in a closet all weekend and just took the F."  Collective laughter.  I have no worries about the family unit or our future generation whatsoever.  Don't be silly about that.

Devil shrieking, round 17, happened before we could even make it to the dressing room.  "I am going to punch you in the face!  You are a CRACK BABY!  Mom, shut this thing up...pleeeezzee!" Liv said through clenched teeth.  Now, while I would like to say she was purposely that dramatic, it simply wasn't the case.  I could actually see and feel the frustration and stress ravaging through my poor child from head to toe.  And, I liked it. 



I liked it even more when she followed up her Jerry Springer-like comments with, "I AM NEVER HAVING SEX!  NEVER!"  Whew.  I almost believed her.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Timing

As I drove west across northern Indiana today in the midst of a beautiful warm and windy afternoon, I was deep in thought.  The kind of thinking that you know you're fully engaged in, but yet, you also kind of feel like you are simultaneously sitting in the passenger seat watching it all go down.  Perhaps I subconsciously knew my thoughts were revelatory; or rather, I wanted them to be. 

The sunroof was open, the radio was blaring, the shades were on.  Spring air filled my car as an enveloping warmth of memories flooded my thoughts.  Something about weather's smell that takes me down memory lane. 


As an '80s song started screaming from my iPhone, I was transported back to the Minerva High School track.  That cinder circle my spikes used to fly around effortlessly until I either caught the one annoyingly gifted girl ahead of me or the boy du jour's attention as he pretended not to watch.  It was all about timing.  When would I make my move and which move was more important?  What "win" was I really after?  I only had 4 laps and just under 6 minutes to make this decision, mind you.

That scenario, one of many, reminded me of a time in life when things were easy.  Sweet and innocent (well, High School innocent-ish) prevailed, and no future worry other than whose house was sponsoring the weekend party was on anyone's mind.  Why in the middle of a time when materialistically I had nil, did I fail to realize I had everything?  That the most pressing decision I had to make was should I run faster or look good doing it so maybe I could get a ride home in a Trans Am with T-Tops makes me shake my head and smile. (...I walked home, by the way).

Today as I past the little houses on tree-lined streets complete with actual sidewalks lovingly begging to be crossed, I felt happiness on two clear fronts.  In that moment - built-up by winding country roads, perfect music and beaming sunlight - I was extraordinarily thankful for having a wondrous childhood complete with experiences which could be triggered by sweet smells. 

Of equal if not more importance, I was also exceptionally thankful for having the ability now as an adult to discern when I'm actually right smack dab in the middle of running those 4 laps.  And for the faith and certainty to know that when the race is over, I'll get home one way or the other.  Even if I have to limp a little bit.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Hindsight

I have been wavering the last 20 minutes over whether this post should be totally laconic or lengthy and rant-like.  As with anything in life, I'll go the best route known as moderation.  (I'm the queen of do as I say not as I do, btw).

So...on this day 13 years ago I was married.  For the second time.  Not a great resume for someone who, for all intents and purposes, is "normal."  Some may even go so far as to say I am, by worldly standards, "accomplished."  Whatever.  On this day, I feel anything but.

There is some good news however, just as there always is once you catch the light at the end of that godforsaken tunnel.  As I reflect and consider what the $!@! just happened with the last 14 years of my life - I find myself contented.  Blissful actually.  For what once was a state of walking through motions - a state of not feeling anything other than robotic, dissatisfied, unloved and misunderstood - is now a complete state of relief. 

Did I ever truly think I'd find myself saying these things, much less believing them?  No.  Not a chance.  I was utterly miserable as I went through each and every stage of grief, just as those pesky and scholarly counselors promise you will during times of tumult.  Those "Top Five Life Stress Events" have books published about them, seminars you can attend about them while sitting next to depressing strangers, and I'm sure coffee mugs and other catchy souvenirs describing how you ultimately survived them.

Now that I am on the other side, drinking coffee out of my favorite un-sloganed trough and am able to reflect, I find that what has been the most cathartic for me is quite simple.  The realization that I went down swinging, as I tend to do, and will no longer be impetuous in any future relationships (should there be any...that's another post entirely) has been a welcoming eye-opener and crucial lesson learned. 

Could my alternative answer have been that it was any of the following:  we never had anything in common, he didn't make me laugh, was jealous of aforementioned worldly accomplishments, never planned anything, discussed anything or could follow when I did, was anti-social, mean-spirited, selfish, and literally made me feel as if I had nothing to offer to the sinking business we were pretending to run?  Of course.  And that short list would all be true. 

Instead, I choose to be me.  A me that, while forever scarred, will heal and be better for it.  I choose to leave the baggage in storage.  I choose to laugh.  I choose to move and dance and sing.  I choose to spend time with a fleet of friends or perhaps just one very special one someday that makes the bumpy road to date all worthwhile.  One thing is for certain on the journey yet to come:  there's no looking back.

Happy Anniversary to me.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Here. We. Go.

I'm off.  Literally and figuratively, but mostly literally.  Of late as everyone knows, and especially today.  (First, to get the easy literal one out of the way:  I'm blogging.  Why this took so long for someone who loves to write is unknown).

Pretty sure the hardest thing I'm going to have to deal with regarding this blog is reining it all in.  My thoughts swirl at warp speed; there is typically no rhyme or reason.  More like a Kevin Bacon six degrees of separation thing.  A thought will pop, leading me to another focal point stemming from an obscure part of the initial thought.  Not many people follow when (on rare occasion) I reveal how I connected the deranged dots.  No, I do not have ADD.  I do, however, have an affinity for people who are able to completely follow my disorderly thought path.  The ones who laugh on cue as they're interrupting me and we finish the conversation in unison.  Yeah, those are my favorite human beings on the planet. 

Though lately the numbers are staggering.  Or maybe decreasing is a better way to state it.  Not sure if it is because I'm getting older and wiser (seriously?), or perhaps more impatient if that's even possible, but I find there are fewer and fewer people I really want to be spending quality time with.  I am acquainted with more people now than I have been at any other point in my life, including that little Columbus campus containing 60,000 undergrads.  Yet there is a divide.  A partition.  Some self-imposed barrier that I have architecturally designed and carefully constructed. 

Look out when that sucker comes down someday.  In the meantime, I'm appreciative it's keeping out more rain.


"Among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and even sickened by human behavior. You're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them—if you want to. Just as someday, if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. It's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. And it isn't education. It's history. It's poetry." 
--J.D. Salinger