Sunday, February 23, 2014

On Family

There's no way to do this topic justice, so suffice it to say I will do my best to not be my typical verbose, yet somehow convey the understood.

My parents and younger sister made the 3:45 trek here yesterday afternoon for Liv's birthday.  We do what we always do: ordered pizza, played euchre, made fun of each other, and laughed hysterically.  As we were sitting around the high-top kitchen table, it dawned on me that not too long ago - as in over Thanksgiving - another family sat in the exact same spot doing the exact same thing. 

Both times, I watched the dynamics carefully.  Families come in all different shapes and sizes.  They come from all kinds of walks of life, varying backgrounds, experiences, troubles, and situations.  Yet, the one thing they all share?  Stories.  Both past and present, story telling occurs and is narrated in such a manner that the one thing which pervades is love.

Sarah:  "Remember that time you tried to take my head off with your hair brush because I wouldn't let you in the bathroom?"

Me:  "No."

Me:  "Remember that time we camped out on the screened-in porch and I only told you yes because you knew Jeff Walker was sneaking out to walk half-way across town to see me and you threatened to tell Mom and Dad?"

Sarah:  "I only remember the one who showed up in all leather and chaps on a bike that rumbled so loudly you couldn't hear Dad yelling at you."

Me:  "That was your other sister."

Some things never change, nor would I ever want them to.  While we were perusing in the home goods section of Gordman's late afternoon my sweet baby sister, standing next to our Mother, held up a Best Daughter In The World picture, looked at me all straight-faced-like and said, "Hey Beth, look what Mom just gave me."...

And yet, families are the ones who also know what buttons make you cry.  Which past experiences caused you to almost fold and become a recluse who would no longer come to visit or make it in for Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Timing is everything.  Families have the element of time on their side to retell the stories of the past, and with precision timing, weave in the current. They know what each other has gone through, is going through, and will go through.  They know what each other is willing to put up with and what they won't ("I calmly told the misogynist contact-lens-fitter-guy that I was done being spoken to like that and best of luck finding any woman who would let him stick those sausage fingers and all that condescension in their eyes either....")

They know that when your daughter is turning 17 you start to think about the next phase of your life.  They know you love them so much that you're willing to sleep on your own couch - and to wake up even earlier than usual to make coffee that is stronger than usual, if that's even possible.

Families are the ones who rush to your side when you can't breathe; when you are getting divorced; when you have cancer; when life just pummels you out of no where.  And they are also the ones who look like this after celebrating time spent together...for none of those reasons other than time permitted and they love each other.  Unconditionally.



Saturday, February 22, 2014

Happy Birthday, Bean.

17 years ago tomorrow, February 23rd, my one and only child was born.  The anticipation of that day overwhelmed me.  I was 23 and of course, knew everything there was to know about being a Mom based on "What To Expect When You're Expecting" told me.  I read that book out loud daily, as well as a lot of Shakespeare, so as to educate my unborn baby and pave his or her way to forthcoming genius.  As the chapters went by, my belly continued to grow.  The deeper the topic, the bigger I became.

I was put on bed rest in my 35th week of pregnancy.  Apparently all the nesting which included organizing closets and washing the floors a hundred times over caused this baby to be ready early.  Not surprising given my penchant for being on time (as in 10 minutes early) for everything.

Rest?  Not my strong suit, even when I was pregnant.

But after almost 9 months of following textbook instruction so this kid would be born without issue, I wasn't about to muck it up now.  I laid in bed for a week straight bored out of my gourd praying for this child to come.  Olivia would be her name if she was a girl; Nolan if a boy.

Truthfully, I thought I wanted a boy.  I wanted to throw a football, a baseball, and bounce a basketball with my baby boy.  I wanted to tee off on the front 9 and yell "Four!" as we drove into the slow pokes in front of us.  I wanted to size up every girl he tried to bring home and render her a little tramp who was in no way good enough for him.  I wanted to be the Mom who wore his jersey, baked cookies for him and the rest of the State Champion team and high-fived him after all his triumphs.  I wanted to be the Mom whose shoulder he cried on when his heart was broken, and the one woman he could count on when his dreams weren't coming true.  I wanted to be there for him through thick and thin, through and through.

Yeah looking back, I guess I wanted a son so I could live vicariously and somehow fill a void which had yet to be filled by any boyfriend to date.  On some level, I suppose I still want to be that woman, albeit in a totally different capacity...

5:30 am - water broke
5:32 am - shower
5:45 am - on the way to the hospital
6:30 am - locking myself in the bathroom to have this kid on my own since I was in pain and the coddling by everyone was on my nerves
6:50am - hanging on to the handicap bars and squatting down ready to dump this baby on its head, simultaneously inventing some new birthing technique to be used in third world countries / lesbian communes where "We Only Need the Seeds" is stamped on the entrance sign
7:15 am - door being broken down
7:20 am - in a bed hooked to an IV.  Whatever.
9:47 am - the tiniest, most beautiful being brought into this world, swaddled, and placed in my arms
9:48 am - tears of joy; a complete feeling of peace and unconditional love that I had yet to feel in my 23 years of life; my proudest moment; the one thing I never wanted to take back and knew would forever change my outlook on everything, forevermore.

Hello, Olivia.  I've been waiting for you.

-----------------------------------------

Dear Beanie,

Last night, as you walked into the kitchen laughing - with that beautiful smile on your face - I saw a strong, confident, happy young woman.  And yet, through these same eyes, my same lenses, I could see as if it was yesterday the baby girl who crawled around on my kitchen floor.  The one who sat in a high chair with spaghetti stains around her mouth so thick I thought they'd never come off and you'd be stuck working as a clown in the circus. 

I remember so clearly the nights I'd cry due to lack of sleep, as you cried for me, wanting to be held.  Or fed.  Or changed.  I had no idea - that freaking book was useless.

I remember putting you in a swing and watching you fly through the air giggling.

I remember singing Silent Night as your sweet smelling head was nodding off on my left shoulder while we paced the house, just the two of us.  Alone.  Silent.  At night.

I remember when you learned to talk.  And you never.shut.up.  Why, Mama?  Why?  How come that is? 

Man I miss those days.  What I wouldn't give for you to want me to hold you; for you to talk to me again like you couldn't use enough words to convey what you wanted me to know.

You no longer sit in a swing; you sit in the driver's seat of a car. 

You no longer smell like Johnson and Johnson's Baby Shampoo; you smell like something that makes me glad I lift so I can take a swing at all those teenage boys.

You no longer need me to teach you the basics; you instead ask about colleges, PhD's, and if God is real.
_____________________________

Just like I had no idea how to be a Mom, I had no idea how blessed I was to have given birth to a girl.  From the moment I held you, I knew it was mean to be...that I couldn't care less about throwing a football or baseball with you - I just wanted you to be safe and to know you were loved beyond measure.  I wanted you to know that God put you in our lives for a reason, and that He made you wonderfully and uniquely you.

And wonderful and unique you are. 

One year from now, you will be considered an official "adult."  But tomorrow, next year, and every year thereafter, you will still and always be...my baby girl.

You make me proud, Liv.  For 17 solid years.

I love you,
Mom

Friday, February 21, 2014

In My Prime

It's Prime Time Friday.  What's that mean you ask?  Different things to different people, I'm sure; however, to me it means the following: sitting in my kitchen listening to a playlist of the same name, one glass of Riesling poured, one Greek pizza in the oven (what's up with Greek / Hawaiian / Mexican pizza anyway?  Pizza is Italian, people and nothing trumps a good Italian, duh).  My "baby" girl is turning 17 on Sunday therefore I rearranged my entire running (and life) schedule in order to accommodate her and the bevy of teenagers who are about to invade my crib.

Marathon training called for 20 miles tomorrow.  Given that I'll be up until at least 3am making sure everyone is behaving to the best of their 17-year-old abilities (thank you to some good friends who are on the way over with the sole task of feigning their best interesting so I don't fall asleep), I knew running 20 at 8am would be out of the question.  So, part of my Birthday present to Liv was to run this afternoon.  And run I did...

35 mile an hour winds precluded me from going outside lest I land in Kansas, so to the Y I went.  The mental fortitude which must be mustered in order to drive 5 miles so you can spend almost 3 hours inside a stank tank is no joke.  Thankfully, I have many personal experiences from which to draw strength.  A few of my own hard times, sure, but mostly, when I have a bit of a daunting task in front of me, I think of my friends.  Those who are in the midst of difficult times, who are traversing laborious waters, and who are heading for shore.  Sometimes as well, I think of others in this world who are struggling in ways which we cannot even begin to comprehend and I immediately realize just how blessed I am to be able to run at all.

Those thoughts and some serious heavy metal on the way over, and I was ready to bust a move.  Boston is not the course (or so I've been told) to PR.  Which is exactly why I'm going to.  As Eminem likes to say:

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow
This opportunity comes once in a lifetime yo
          (You better)

So, I totally disregarded the "60 minute max" sign-in sheet at the Y and proceeded to hang up my keys, my sweats, and my North Face.  I climbed aboard the #5 treadmill knowing full-well it was gonna be a long ride back to the station.  The treadmills stop at an hour.  Shut down as if you've somehow single-handedly derailed them.  No matter.  Knowing this and my running math like the back of a sleepy left hand at 2am, I planned to run 7 miles, reset, start back up and run another 7, reset, and finish the last 6. 

7 miles an hour = an 8:34 pace;  I need to run a pace of 8:22 for 26.2 miles in Boston to PR (well, more than PR but I want to run 3:39).  So what do I run on a treadmill?  7.5 which is an 8:00 flat pace, of course.

We've been running outside in weather which can only be described as complete and utter bullshit.  I FINALLY qualify and THIS is winter's reward?  You know, I love the seasons.  Spring is my least favorite (Yeah, yeah, I've taken enough abuse about this statement, but it just is and I can't see it changing any time soon) and I love the other three seasons almost equally.  Fall wins as it should, given I'm a sports fanatic who decorates for Christmas every Thanksgiving weekend and by that I mean Halloween, effective immediately.

So, I'm cruising along at mile 17 and by this point, I'm happily running a 7:30 pace (8.0 on the dreadmill) and what do my wondering eyes should appear?  Some jerk face climbing aboard the #6 treadmill with a look of contempt towards yours truly.

Whaaaa?  What did I do?  Little 'ol me?  Seriously, dude.  Be nice or I will destroy you.

Now, in his defense, it may have been the Willow Smith Whip-my-hair-back-and-forth thing whereby sweat was flying off my ponytail like a Banzai Spray N Splash sprinkler that was so off putting.  But regardless, I was warmed up and he was...not.

By the time he figured out how to use the treadmill, I was fast approaching mile 19.  I had been passing the time by watching him push the up arrow ever so nonchalantly until he was exactly .1 faster than whatever pace I was now running (8.2 for me; 8.3 for him).

Silly, silly man.

It was at exactly this point that I decided to run 21 miles.  Just because I can, not to mention 7/7/7 is like a Winner! on every slot machine I've ever seen.  Couple today being the 21st and jerk face needing to be taught a lesson, and it was settled.

Mile 20 was 7:00 flat.  His fat finger began to shakily push the down arrow and I turned my head to the left in a non-nonchalant manner and gave him my best "white flag?" look.

One more time he tried, and I was momentarily impressed with his tenacity.  So impressed that I ran a 6:19 mile to finish the third 7 mile installment in just under 55 minutes.

Mentally, today was an amazing day.  Physically, this Riesling needs an ibuprofen chaser.  For apparently, any mother of a 17 year old daughter should probably act her age.

Maybe next year.  This year is Boston.

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Where'd You Go Bernadette

(Exactly 2 months to the day from now...the Boston Marathon.)

Think way back to the last time you worked out.  For me, it seems like forever ago even though it was at 5:30 this morning.  It feels so long ago to me because it wasn't one of my best performances.  I was excruciatingly tired and still sore from lifting so much on Tuesday morning.  The compounding affect was definitely taking a toll.  But I went anyway, and once I got there all it took was a little Kickstart My Heart to kick start the rest of me.

I like that when situations go badly - or at least, not as well as they normally do - that the pain seems longer ago than it actually was.  Our brains have a way of protecting, of putting everything into proper perspective.

Think way back to your early dating career, for example.  Things seemed to be going well and then suddenly, inexplicably your date blurted something - probably something trivial like, "I've always wanted to go to Italy too!  But I get sea sick and I've seen those gorgonzola boats in the Venetian," something that you knew you could never un-hear.  Of course, you were still going to try and make the most of the evening (as in, forcing yourself not to get up and walk home), but you knew there was now no other end game.  Some things cannot be overlooked.  Conversely, think about a different, happier outcome with someone else whereby you got to the fourth or fifth date in a row, or dare I say, even the second or third month, and despite that much time together, that much exposure and change to your prior life, there were no colossal blunders, no gaffes, no violations of your world view.  A relationship beckoned...

It seems so long ago to me (even though it was last week) when I finished one of my now all-time favorite fiction books.  I was immediately captivated; couldn't wait to pick it up again so as to find out more about all the intricacies and complexities; and laughed, oh how I laughed, literally howling at certain excerpts, throughout the entire read.  And then - at the final close, when it was all said and done, I cried.  The beautifully woven plot and its characters with such a deep love for one another in a totally nonplussed situation came to an end. 

So I cried some more.

And then, as I gazed up at some of the other books on the shelf which I've read in the past, I realized that they made me cry too, but for completely different reasons.

One book, had way too many pages and thus took way too long to read.  Tears over wasted time.

Another was so poorly written and constructed that I couldn't get past the first page.  Tears over "why did I even buy this thing?"

And yet another book had no substance, no plot, no direction, and no foundation.  The characters were boring, had no spark or connection, and I don't remember laughing once throughout.  Tears over a bad pick.

You just know, unquestionably, unequivocally know when a book was a good one when there are no regrets for reading it in the first place.  You know when you remember everything that happened, in chronological order, and what the characters must have been feeling during those times.  You know when you're in the first chapter and you are already looking ahead to the protagonist's future together.  You know when you get to the climax and there's the proverbial fork in the road and the characters are at a stand still.  You know when you open to your inspirational-themed bookmark and you're tempted to read ahead to find out where they end up, but you don't, for fear of somehow changing the author's intent and ruining it altogether.

But mostly you can be certain when, every time you see that book on your bookshelf, you long to pick it up and read it all over again.  From the very beginning.




 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

Running in Shorts...Almost

Can I write a blog in 18 minutes or less?  What am I, lining up at a race?  Can I run this thing in under 21 minutes...in under 46 minutes...in under 1:45...in under 3:45...

17 minutes.  Let's go.

When Boston training began at the end of November, my crazy running buddies publicly declared that regardless of weather, once a month we would be wearing shorts.  Kind of like a "Take Your Kid to Work" day when you're in the thick of a multitude of sales, audits, new hires, and the like - only your office has heat.  And a chair.

I rolled in this morning at 4:44 am to the sight of six bare legs standing in front of the mailbox, the one which doubles as a keys/shoes/baked goods receptacle for at least an hour three days a week.

"Capri tights count as shorts."  "It's in your best interest to be agreeable this morning; I had a rough night," I announced mid-door slam, only half-jokingly.

"Well, we'd look questionable in those things anyway," one of them muttered, pretending not to be scared.

"You look that way ALL the time and aren't you guys going to Yoga tonight?  Oh how you help me substantiate my point(s) even when you don't realize it."

On and on it went this morning, our first morning without stupid cold temperatures and biting wind.  Happily, while we were without those things, we were not without a shortage of smack-talk, as the four of us have signed up for a half-marathon next month.

At one point, around mile 6 on our way back with 2 to go, Doug turned back and yelled kindly said:

"EYES UP, Baby!  It's not that big of a hill!"  "Keep your eyes up and the rest of you will follow!"

Typically by this point, my eyes are rolling; however today, I drew a parallel as I often do with running.  It started, as it also often does, with a song immediately popping into my head:  Keep Your Eyes Open by NeedToBreathe.  Irony, I do love you.

There are days, weeks, months, even seasons when I have no idea what's up ahead.  Do I have plans in place?  Goals to accomplish?  Things on my radar?  Of course.  Utterly rhetorical questions.  But can I always see how I'm going to get there?  Also rhetorical; not always.

Sometimes all any of us can do is put one foot in front of the other and keep on moving forward.  Eventually, we're all gonna end up right where we're supposed to be anyway.  Even if we have to run into brick walls, trees, and porta potties along the way since we aren't wearing our contacts.

(Right on time.  Sam Costas Half?  We'll be ready for you.)



Sunday, February 16, 2014

Recovery

Hey, whaddya know, it's snowing.  Goooood Morning, Fort Wayne!  You know it's been a brutal winter when you were out running around yesterday in 24 degree weather and all you had on was a hoodie.

My feet hit the floor roughly 45 minutes ago and I was instantly reminded of 17 little miles yesterday.  The new leaf of a non-potty mouth which I've been trying to turn ever since reading A Catcher in the Rye in my early teen years is still viciously swirling around in the air, like a tornado headed for Kansas.

You know how some people wake up on a Sunday morning and instinctively turn on the TV?  Yeah, me neither, but I know they are out there, God love 'em.  Instinctively I, of my own accord, hit "Brew Now" with such ferocity that I fear I may end up sans a pointer finger.  Which would really put me at a disadvantage if I ever decide to pick up and learn how to use those Vic Firth's again.

So instead, I began to search on-line for a particular Italian pasta seasoning mix that my mother has put me on a mission to find for her. I had given my parents a gift basket of all things Italian related for Christmas 2 years ago:  capicollo, crostini, focaccia, cappellini, gnocchi - you know, anything ending in a vowel.  Oh, and a DVD of The Italian Job just in case they missed the theme.  Turns out she loved this now seemingly extinct seasoning mix from the Old Country, so I went where you go when you can't hop a flight to Naples or find stuff anywhere else:  Amazon.

I had NO IDEA! you could purchase food on a recurring basis from Amazon.  Blimey that's genius! (I think we have English in the roots somewhere, too; but we're such a melting pot of mutts that really, we'd make Genealogists hang it up in favor of finding some personality.  And sunlight.)

Of course the Italian seasoning mix was no where to be found, but the trip wasn't all for naught.  Because right before my very about-to-need-bifocal-eyes was a big, fat stroke of serendipity.  A bag of ORGANIC CHIA SEEDS, Ancient Superfood of the Aztecs, was readying itself to go from Tenochtitlan to my on-line cart.

Now, am I also part indigenous, you may be asking yourself?  I suppose it's possible and let's be honest, those crafty folks HAD to have been the originators of the Melting Pot anyway, at least based on the pictures I've seen.

But that's not why I was interested in making a 2lb. bag purchase of the tiny magical seeds.  I was interested because according to my recent lipid panel, I have high cholesterol.  My Google search immediately told me that to rectify this, I should:  a) get moving, b) lose weight, and c) stop smoking.  Google was cutting me off at the knees, so I went with option d) chia seeds.

You see, I am now "of a certain age," which is bullshit code for: everything starts falling apart.  We'll see about that.  Doesn't 40 know that I am Italian?  One phone call.  Either initially, or from jail, but I'm not going down without swinging.

From my hair stylist's (and by "stylist" fine, I mean "takes-the-gray-and-trailer-out-colorist") chair yesterday, I made an appointment at the Optometrist's office. If they had a drive-through, I would bypass reading that stupid chart and just order 4 boxes of "Stronger Strength One Pump Doesn't Dry Out So Quickly With Light Bifocals" and be on my way. 

Once I leave there - all able to see what's ahead of me again - I totally plan to swing by Ulta and buy a vat of face cream containing a smidge more retinol.  From there, I will bypass Coldwater Creek and Talbots and instead, hit up White House Black Market.  (Just because you can shop at Limited Too doesn't mean you should.)  There is a fantastic little black dress at WHBM that is calling my name.  Come in HERE, Runs Like Wind Against 12 Year Olds...

Also in my Amazon Shopping Cart?  Another book.  "Yes Your Teen is Crazy!:  Loving Your Kid Without Losing Your Mind."

So far, so good.  Or at least until Friday night when a bunch of her friends come over to celebrate her 17th birthday and one of them decides to call me "Ma'am."








Saturday, February 15, 2014

Training, Mothering, and What I Got for Valentine's Day

Apparently it's been 11 days since the last post; I assure you, it has not been 11 days since I've run.

Last Saturday, we ran for 2 hours on not so great terrain.  And by 'not so great' I mean I face-planted on the way back.  Thankfully, since it was so cold, all the Michelin Man attire padded my fall which my running buddy swears looked like a Yeti doing a "penguin" in Sochi or some such thing.  Thankfully also that liar can run.

This morning we knocked out 17 miles in a much more graceful and less eventful manner.  The sun was out; the snow was sparkling; the spirits were high.  My hips and calves are out of love with me presently, but my insides are busy at work, negotiating a falling back in love strategy solely on the basis of this Riesling. 

Ah, love.  Let me tell you about my Valentine's Day.  First you should know that I abhor Valentine's Day, Sweetest Day, Bosses Day, Neighbors Day, Grocery Store Clerk Day, Freemasons Day, and every other made up Hallmark Holiday.  Now, if there was a Sarcasm Day, I would fully expect my mailbox to be overflowing with cards (which, side note:  I much prefer over flowers - unless they are Blue Orchids.)

Made up holidays are for suckers and, I suppose, the bon vivants of the world.  If we are in love with someone, we ought to show that love all the time, each and every day, day in and day out.  AND, might I add, certainly not in the way society tries, despite itself, to demonstrate:

"Kanye Gives Kim 1,000 Roses for Valentine's Day."  I could give a rat's ass bigger than hers.

"Kanye Gives Kim an IQ above her Louboutin shoe size and some make-up remover" and I might read the article.  Nah...never mind.  Who am I kidding.

My Valentine's Day was spent 2 doors down having dinner with two twice divorced women friends.  (I'm having a Sesame Street moment whereby the number of the day thing is happening in my head.  Good lord it's a miracle I can focus and get anything at all done, even in the course of a post; i.e. this Riesling is delightful).

Olivia received flowers and a card on our front porch yesterday, which I retrieved per her instructional text.  Her social calendar/conscious decision to never be close enough to me that we share the same airspace rendered her unable to bring them in the house herself, so what's a mother to do?  I mean, really.  It's only the 4th year in a row she's received Valentine's presents and I have received...instructional texts on what to do with them. 

Unconditional love.  It's why I was (and forever will be) able to find a vase, carefully open and mix the flower power food and lovingly fill the entire thing with water.  I didn't mind.  It makes her happy, and that makes me happy.

Sometimes even when we aren't getting what we want, what we were expecting, or what we think we deserve, doing the right thing for those whom we love unconditionally brings incalculable joy. 

Someday.


Tuesday, February 4, 2014

Day Whatever


WARNING:  If sentence structure, grammatical correctness and unoffensive etymology are your preferences, just stop while you're ahead.  Because while I know how to write like that, none of it will be happening right now.  I am in a mood.  Once, a religious shrink concluded after an hour and a half of listening to my thoughts on life, that I had "pressurized speech" when I get upset (he meant passionate) about something.  Well color me book #67 in his reference guide and reimburse me $150 bucks.  Riveting.

I am usually, like hardly ever, in a mood.  Seriously, I would cop to it if it were true but it's just not the case.  I laugh like crazy, am crazy, have fun, and am thankful for that which occurs on a daily basis.  Therefore I have deduced that my present mood stems from lack of sleep.  Hey, how about that for an appropriate "I promise to blog about my Boston training" segue?

Ok, I am freaking tired.  I forget where I left off (side effect of tired), so let's start here:  last Thursday my alarm went off, per usual, at 4:10am.  Went to see Evan at 5:00am and worked out every muscle above my waist (except for the waist, mind you, because that sucker plagues me.  Thanks, genetics.  You still suck.).  Worked all day, per usual.  Came home and was immediately ignored, grunted and eye-rolled at, also per usual.  Made dinner and whatever else happened.  On Friday morning, I ran 6 miles at 4:45am with the usual suspects.  I kinda feel bad for those guys - dealing with me and my non-moods - but I'll never tell them I feel badly about it.  Mostly because they are always ahead of me and it's in everybody's best interest if no words fly out of my mouth when that is occurring. 

Why only 6 miles instead of the typical 8, you may be thinking?  Oh.  Easy.  Because the following day was the first 20-miler in this training regimen.  Now, I have no idea the location of some of you reading this blog.  However suffice it to say, that this has been and is THE WORST weather in the history of all things meteorological for Spring Marathon training.  And Saturday was no exception.

The trails are snow covered.  The roads are ice covered.  The treadmill was not an option - not after having run 14 and 15 miles respectively the preceding two Saturday's, and not after doing so inside the YMCA where only airport and mall people watching surpasses.  So, one of the two usual suspects, in commendable fashion, met me at 7am to conquer 20 miles on a route which neither of us has ever driven, let alone run.  We crossed over a road that begins with "US" and from there ventured so far into uncharted territory that at one point, my buddy muttered, "Well, at least you're going to die doing something you love."  Shockingly, he knows me well enough by now to realize how to say things which prevent any recourse or argument (meaning only a polite, differing viewpoint).

We finished those 20 miles - soaked to the bone since it had been sleeting / raining / snowing / spitting / pick any miserable verb and it's true - for 3 solid hours.  I won't even mention that the last 4 miles heading north on one long, seemingly endless stretch, was completed only through acrobatics and swearing that would make any Cirque Du Soleil sailor proud.

Yesterday, we ran at 4:45am again.  Maybe 6 1/2 or 7 miles...no one knows for sure since we all ditched our watches in favor of trying to stay upright while channeling our best Michelle Kwan's.  And even though I tried to get to bed at a decent hour last night, even settling in with a book which is turning out to be one of my all-time favorites (drips with sarcasm), good sleep did not ensue. 

Thankfully this morning at 5am, Evan was NOT in a mood and may have even wisely said as I was bench pressing for the zillionth rep:  "Good job, you actually are pretty strong."

Which is exactly what I thought when I got home, picked up my special coffee mug gifted to me by Liv's best friend customized with inappropriate language, filled it with coffee strong enough to bring in police dogs, and broke the handle.

Thank you, irony.  I will remember you well on April 21st.