Nicaragua - Overview and First Night

I think I'm ready.  Not only do I have a bit of time right now, but I feel back to normal - ran 13.1 miles this morning, went to church, got groceries, am drinking white wine...no malaria or dung fever to report...yep, back to being me.

Liv's Youth Pastor was also enrolled in the same Master's program through Bethel College I just completed.  We know each other well, so it didn't surprise him at all when I said during a break one day about a year ago, "Hey Todd - can I go on the Nicaragua Mission's trip with you guys?"

He actually seemed excited about the prospect and laughed when I quickly followed his "Yes!" with, "But you can't tell Liv AND you have to come up with a really good reason as to why you asked me to go.  K?  K.  Thanks, buddy."

Months passed and it was kind of just forgotten until the postcard(s) arrived in the mail, outlining the details, training dates, and the people who were going on the trip.

Liv:  YOU'RE GOING?
Me:  Yep.
Liv:  Why?
Me:  Todd asked me and I really want to experience it, especially along side you.
Liv:  Simultaneous eye roll and sigh.
Me:  (Internally)... Ha ha.  Mi hija el mad-o.

There were 22 High School kids and 7 adult volunteers who went.  For 6 weeks prior to the trip, we all met every Wednesday night at the church to prepare, pray, and learn about what we were going to potentially experience.  Nothing we did in those 6 weeks prepared me for what I saw, felt, and continue to think about on a daily basis.

We left the church at 5:15am on Saturday, June 16th for the 3 hour bus ride to Chicago O'Hare.  Landed in Miami around dinner time, and arrived in our final destination - Managua, Nicaragua - at 9:00pm local time (11:00 EST).  Long travel day, but many excited Americans.

At the airport, we again loaded a bus and listened to Jairo, our Food for the Hungry (FH) Director, explain what we were about to embark upon as we drove through the dirty streets of the capital city.  All I will say about the driving in Nicaragua is as follows:  a) if the malaria, gang-bangers, human traffickers, or drug lords didn't kill us at some point during the week, surely our bus driver or other fellow Nicaraguan drivers would; and b) I was totally the BEST 16 year-old driver ever (Dad!).

We listened to a very cute Jairo tell us about the scenery, the people, and the place we were going to be staying that night.  It was called the "Nehemiah Center," and it's where all FH partners stay while in Managua as it is clean and safe - safe since FH hires uniformed armed guards to carry AR-15s around the compound all night while we fall asleep worrying only about Gringo-loving mosquitoes.

After we turned off the main pot-holed road complete with what seemed like thousands of people, there was a sign indicating the Nehemiah Center was just through a gate up ahead.  Whew.  We were all exhausted, dirty, and starving.  It looked like a well kept camp ground; the quiet was a little eerie, but overall, I was expecting much worse in terms of accommodations than what I was looking at through the thick night air. 

We hopped off the bus and onto a very large tiled patio with several tables and chairs set up for dinner.  There were old-fashioned wicker chairs on one side, as well as several hammocks hanging from the open-air roof.  Very cozy, I thought.  The combination of several smiling faces simultaneously yelling, "Hola, Amigos!" and scent of home cooked whatever allowed my guard to come down slightly.  My gaze stopped looking in all directions for scopes, red dots on my fellow traveler's foreheads, and the best escape route to save me and my child, in favor of sitting down and eating.

The food was amazing.  We had beans and rice (I quickly learned we would have this every meal, every day), perfectly cooked chicken breasts with a delicious onion-y sauce, cheesy potatoes, and plantains (fried bananas) which were my favorite.  All this was washed down with pinaya juice - also my favorite - kind of like pomegranate only better and a prettier shade of purple.

What a warm welcome.  We dutifully took our plates into the kitchen since we were there to work, of course.  Man...had that only been the toughest work we had to do all week...

Off to bed we went.  The girls had two rooms adjoined by one shared toilet and one "shower" that spit out a few ice cold trickles every now and then.  Yes, this Ritz Carlton lover was in a room with nine bunk beds, two sinks, a crap-ton of suitcases, and eight other slap-happy, overtired females.  I fell asleep the second my head hit the pillow - complete with a smile on my face and the A/C remote in hand.  Happily, there was air conditioning...

When my iPhone alarm went off the next morning, I awoke to find my "bath" towel (think more like hand towel) on top of my sheet in an effort to warm my shivering, balled up body.  I tried to whisper to the others, but since my lips were blue, no words were coming out.  I gingerly stepped out of my bottom bunk, flipped on a light, and saw eight other sleeping beauties underneath their sheets and hand towels.

Beth...it's FREEZING in here!  What does that thing say?

Yikes.  It wasn't even in Spanish.  I had no excuse, other than it was in Celsius.  Guess I should have paid more attention in Science so I would have known that 16 degrees Celsius is kinda nippy.

And so it began. Our first official day started by walking outside with our eyeballs fogging over...

Oh, how cold could it be, sissies?

The Welcome Dinner!

   

Nehemiah Center Patio

Goat-o, get out of el house-o

Still can't compose all my Nicaragua thoughts so I continue to divert.  Instead, allow me to tell you about my recent cleaning efforts.

I used to go crazy with the cleaning.  Think bleach sticks in my back pocket, rubber gloves, buckets, and Lysol wipes in every room.  However, happily I have eased up on all that nonsense, hired Sara to clean monthly, and spend my time doing other things.  Like not picking up sticks, limbs, or trees in my yard.

I'm on a mission to downsize ASAP.  Want to move sometime in the next few years, so this is a must.  Now I knew I had a lot of stuff - stuff being synonomous with crap - but I had no idea what was...ahem...left behind.

You know how when you're in the midst of something you can't necessarily see what the heck is happening before your very eyes?  You just kind of walk around numb, all Eyes Wide Shut-ish, trying to pretend the situation is definitely NOT happening?  Yeah.  I'm sure that is exactly why I have so much useless shit left over.

In no particular order:  a bowling ball, table saw, 3 radar detectors, enough bear trinkets to put my address on another DNR list, a camo filing cabinet, some ground blind netting (I think...it also may have been an aid in my future planned demise), suitcases, computers, 1930's sewing maching, 6 boat compasses, a super sweet hand-painted (bears, duh) saw, and plenty of pictures of me.

All in my garage as I type.

Friday and Saturday cannot get here soon enough.  The good news is, I'm sure most of this junk will sell.  The bad news is...I have to see the kind of people who are interested in buying it.

Good night, Nora.

Since I have waaayyy too much to share about the Nicaragua trip, I'm going to do what I do best:  multi-task and write this quick, interim post before I start blogging about that.

I'm back.  Malaria-free - which was questionable for the last 2 days.  I'm feeling 90% at 5:30pm on Wednesday, so I've already messaged my trainer and will be there promptly at 6am tomorrow to get this rice and bean butt back in shape.

When I picked Liv up from Bball at 4:45pm after speeding home from Toledo meetings, I found my final paper from my final class in the mailbox.  Graded.  I'm sure most of you know the class was on Esther.  Almost too good of a setup to be true for, well, you know. 

I may have a few feminist tendencies and opinions, but I assure you I kept most of them to myself in an effort to go out with a bang.  Straight A's thus far (and by "A's," I mean two have some marking after them - clearly due to those profs battling Parkinson's causing a slip of the pen).  Much like my customers do when I hand them a proposal, I flipped to the last page.

Woman-hating, arrogant, multi-lingual know-it-all.  Would it kill the guy to give a solid A? 

10 classes.  7 regular A's and 3 A's given by diseased-stricken professors.  3.895 in a Master's program.  On a 4.0 scale.

Seriously?  What is my problem?  Especially after being where I was recently?  I'll tell you.

Subjectivity.  He gave me an A- sheerly because he could.  There were no tests, no multiple choice answers.  There was no black and white anything except the text within those little ten chapters about a woman who outsmarted all the men around her.  And although I used the 15 required references, I "focused on Fox's commentary too much," - Fox being not only brilliant, but outlining the antithesis of my Parkinson Prof's dissertation. 

Oh, and I used "trenchant" in place of his preferred "sarcastic."  No comment.

But guess what?  I AM DONE!  Woo-hoo!  First call tomorrow?  Registrar's Office so I can get the real diploma mailed to me.  I'll love it when "You've Got Mail" enters my mind.  Speaking of...Nora Ephron died.  Not that I am happy about that, however I am encouraged by her writing.  It wasn't that great - all very conversational in style and the only thing she said of any interest was with regard to her divorce and some interesting men she dated afterwards...which means...

Someday, while wearing a Boston Marathon jacket, I will be writing that book after all.  Maybe I'll call it "4.0."

Glad it's only Sleepless in Seattle these days.

Unwanted

Yesterday when I went downstairs to the former man-cave, I noticed something.  It smelled a little funny and the running sock I had just put on was wet.  Great.  Water.

Roughly a quarter of the cheap carpet-over-concrete was soaked.  Using my sage-like troubleshooting skills, I deduced it was coming from somewhere.  I also quickly deduced it was taking way more time to figure out than I cared to allot to something so stupid.

Neighbor Phil:  Hello?

Me:  Have I mentioned your being retired is fantastic, or that you're my favorite neighbor?

Phil:  Parker and I will be down in a second.

He's the guy that has (in no certain order): 

• Shown me how to use a string trimmer.  They sell string separately, you know...in different colors.
• Shown me how to use a snow blower.  I feel like a bad ass after that whole thing is done.  A frozen, sweaty mess is always good for the psyche.
• Laughed at me for not having the patience to learn how to use a zero turn mower.  Really?  Those side steering sticks are as useless as the ones on the Ellipticals at the Y.  Plus, I don't chew tobacco.
• Ridden shotgun in our other neighbor's car to bring my car home from a pool hall.  Oops.
• Called me when his wife had a headache to find out if her iPhone was at my house or in the street somewhere between our two abodes.  Her oops.
• Corrected my grip, back swing, and every other thing I (according to him and my 92) was doing wrong on the course.  I do love golf.
• Watched a chick flick with his wife and me on NYE, after whipping up some delicious appetizers and making sure the straw in my wine glass never clogged.

And...he's the guy that came down yesterday with his son to tell me I had a pinhole leak in my main water line.  One that obviously had been leaking for at least 2-3 weeks and needed immediate plumbing help.

Two air-movers later - along with one industrial-sized dehumidifier, $480 bucks, and a suggestion from a 12 year-old that I should make that room into a "woman-cave" so I would know about these things sooner - and I'm all set.

Spiderwoman Kate

I just completed my final paper in my final Bethel class.  Well maybe that's not entirely true.  It's my final class until I start up Master's Degree # 2.  I'm still completely convinced some future commencement ceremony will provide yellow sashes and a super summa Latin title.  Ridiculous they do not.  I smell a provost petition my next go 'round.

The class is on the Book of Esther, and obviously we had to pick some topic within that short narrative to expound upon.  So, I picked characterization.  How could I not?  Delving into what makes people tick is what makes me tick.  Understanding people's backgrounds, life experiences, wants, needs, desires, fears...all of it.  That woven web is the beauty of life, really.  Including, I suppose, all the spiders that get caught in the never ending stickiness...

I used to be afraid of spiders.  Now I have an uncanny knack for spotting them from afar, trouncing them, and sending them swirling down plumbing pipes back to the sewer where they belong.  With all the other venomous losers.

Wait, wait, wait!  That metaphor is so cellophane even I can't stand it!  Just pretend you had no idea what I was talking about. 

(I really do dislike spiders, though.  As well as most of the metaphorical ones.) 

Back on point.  Characterization.  Yes, that.  As I was writing my final paper, dissecting Queen Vashti's reasoning behind telling King Xerxes to go ___________himself when he commanded her to parade around buckcherry naked in front of a bunch of drunken men, I realized it reminded me of my favorite former TV show - Lost. 

(Btw, I did provide fair warning that my thought process is kind of hard to follow occasionally, therefore I have no feelings of shame or empathy right now).

Lost was a character study.  While it had twists, turns, invisible friends, tailies, Others, other-Others, incest, aliens, and a whole slew of additional totally normal subplots, the overarching theme was one of what makes people tick.  What binds people together.  What causes people to manipulate.  What attracts people to one another.  What becomes understood between people.  What goes unsaid between them.  You know...all the crap that kept me coming back week after week.

I miss that show terribly.  Kate, the female protagonist, had this thing-ish for Sawyer, but it was really only so she wouldn't have to face her real feelings for Jack.  Sometimes she was annoying, but mostly she was cool.  She knew more than she gave herself credit for.  Really I bet she figured the whole thing out inside the first season, even though she alleged to be confused throughout the remaining ones.

Lost has been off the air for a while now although it feels like forever.  Which means, I guess they're off the island and back to their fake little pre-plane crash lives while I'm pretending to be satisfied with watching Modern Family in its place.

There's definitely no Jack on that show.  Or anywhere else.

On a Break

Finally.  A salad, glass of Riesling, and blogging. 

This is a break in and of itself from a final 15 page paper and presentation which are both due on Thursday.  Thankfully, it is the very last class.  I'm not sure my Hebrew-Greek-Aramaic-German-English speaking professor would pass me if he and I had to put up with each other any longer than that.  Last Thursday I said, "You know, I'm really not a feminist.  It's just that you give me no other choice." 

Literally, the man vacillates between his regular voice and about 12 other dialects.  Fine.  Annoying but fine.  Until he starts using his "female" rendition - specifically mimicking Esther and Vashti.  It's this high-pitched, little girl, "Help Me!  Help Me!" kind of voice, his smug face making it even more appalling.  He knows by now how totally offensive this display of weird is, and he (along with the rest of the class) always looks over at me for a reaction in the midst of his gong-worthy stand up routine.  I've had plenty to say, plenty to push back with, and plenty of big blue eye rolls.  Which all adds up to a 10% A for class participation. 

Ph.D. J.E.R.K.

Anyway, 4:30 on Thursday can't come soon enough.  The Master's diploma will be mailed to replace the fake one I received  in April.  A break from class is just one of many that I sorely need and am about to take.  After a lengthy crying jag (made instantly better by a soothing and comedic voice who knows me well) earlier, I decided my downsizing starts effective pronto.

First, the house stuff.  From the stupid man-cave to every nook, cranny, and closet in this place - it's going.  I simply don't need it all, use it all, or want it all.  Well, maybe the shoes.  But aside from the shoes, I'm downsizing.

Secondly, my communication.  Seriously you ask?  Yes, seriously!  I am on an official monk-like talking sabbatical.  And it is exactly in this spirit why I will not elaborate any further.

Thirdly, yeah...thirdly.  Here it is.  Running.  (Now are all the tears understood?)  My heel just can't do it. 

This left heel problem has been going on since stinking March.  It's not working and the more I try to run through it, the worse it gets.  Even had it scraped again on Wednesday.  It was THE WORST scraping I've ever had. 

I made it clear to Tom that he needed to fix it once and for all, which apparently was code for try and rival a bone marrow biopsy on the pain scale.  That part was successful; the once and for all part was not.  I stayed off it Thursday and Friday with the intent of running 15 this morning.  Got through a not so impressive 8 before I had to bail.  Epic fail.

So here I am, still feeling slightly off-kilter at my newfound downsizing.  Going from a constant hundred miles an hour to coasting at Sunday driver speed is kind of terrifying.  But I know I can do it because I have to.  I'm long overdue and sick of being stuck in between gears.

Nicaragua, cross training, and a clean house...here I come.  Just don't ask me about it because I'm not talking.

For at least a week.

Post-Cleveland Moi

So it's officially been 2 weeks since the Cleveland marathon.  I'm happy to report that not once have I looked upon that race with any regret.  Fine, maybe once the typical, "wth happened to you at mile X?!" popped into my mind, but for some strange reason I've been super content since then.  In crack-addict fashion, I signed up for the Monumental in Indy on November 3rd.  One.  More.  Time.

Seriously.  Just one more.  (Blogs can be fiction too, people).

Yep!  Back at it.  Worked out at AR a few days after I got home and ran even sooner.  That's always a good sign of how race ready you were - the recovery period.  Much more accurate than the finishing time, I think.  Maybe I'll write Boston a letter.

Anywho.  Did a long run yesterday at a pretty good clip with the group.  I'm a much better runner when I don't think about what I'm doing.  I just go.  And talk.  Until that forces me to realize what's happening with the wind I'm sucking so then I just listen.  I wish I had the freakish genetic propensity to do like, 3 marathons in 3 weekends.  I actually know someone who did that.  Jury's still out on him since I beat him in one of those aforementioned races.  He PR'd the second one and then turned right around and PR'd his PR.  Double jerk. 

All kidding aside, it's runners like that who inspire the rest of us trying-to-be-athletes to do better.  To keep pushing.  To go harder.  And to never give up on whatever our goals may be.  It's a way of life, and if you ask me (which clearly you do since you're reading this), it's a good one.  There are a lot of other ways of life that could be chosen instead.  For example, you could choose not to exercise at all, not to be a productive member of society at all, not to take chances at all, not to learn from mistakes at all.

All of those examples among countless others are totally foreign to me.  Wasteful.  Sissy-ful.  Instead, we ought to be embracing the times in our lives when we did stupid things (Oh...you didn't?  Now that's fiction...), dissect them in an introspective manner, and be the best "us's" we can be.

Pretty sure my best me is sub-3:40.  Like 3:39:59.  Give or take not at all.

I've loved Cleveland since I was a little girl.  It's always given me stories to tell. 

Still do...still does.

The Pretenders

After spending 2 nights in Chicago this weekend for Angela's 40th, I realized something (other than she's turning 40):  I am in the middle of everything.

Five of us were there Friday night; Saturday around noon the other four arrived.  Five and nine, respectively.  We had a great time.  I met Devin Hester whose come-on and smile was met with, "Sorry, I'm a Browns fan."  I met Bruce the homeless (?) guy who met my smile with, "Just one of those big bills would help me out."  I met the masseur, a fellow Buckeye (two smiles) with extremely talented elbows.  I met super snotty women in the Nordstrom shoe section who didn't smile at all.  And there were a slew of others with various kinds of smiles or not, for various reasons or not.

Middle seating position after eating the best Mexican food I've ever had

As I tend to do, I took every bit of it in.  People watching is a past time, sort of like an art form.  It's all very interesting, what people do, why they purport to doing it, and how others around them react.  Mostly though, I find it saddening.  There are a lot of unhappy people.  A lot of people who are simply disingenuous no matter how hard they try to be otherwise.  Which somehow makes it even more obvious and painful.  If I had a tally sheet and walked around with a clipboard all weekend (as our buddy Barry did in the dicey joint known as The Hideout announcing to the very irritated bouncer-cover charge money taker-bartender-jack-of-all-trades-woman that he was on "the list"), the findings would have been entirely disproportionate.  True to themselves people are hard to come by these days.

This I know.  Whether I'm in the Windy City or back home in the Fort, there just aren't many people who do what they say, say what they mean, or really even know the difference.  And if I try to discuss this with anyone of significance, that'll just put me in the middle of an argument or a migraine.  I digress, but only slightly...

The middle.  I sat in the middle of two and four couples all weekend (wishing at times there was someone's arm around me, both to keep me close and out of that position).  I am in the middle of a book, the middle of my last class, the middle of the pack when I run.  I'm in the middle of my life, live in the middle of my neighborhood located in the Midwest, and am in the political middle more often than the left or the right.

Even worse, I function middley (made up words are allowed when lamenting).  It's always been this way - and I've always been kind of pissed about the whole thing really.  Am I goodish at most things?  Maybe.  Probably.  But not elite.  Not exceptional.  Just pretty proficient at whatever I try.  Golf - decent.  Tennis - decent.  Educational endeavors - decent.  Running - decent.  Work - decent.  Riding a motorcycle - decent.  Parenting - decent.  Cooking - bad example, but this whole annoying gist is sufficient anyway.

Yes, I am thankful for being able to pick up on most things quickly and easily.  But landing somewhere and totally excelling, I've never done.  Frankly, I think the whole thing is a curse.  I have a ton of interests.  I dabble in a multitude of things.  But what if I finally picked just one?  One sole focus.  Would being superb at one thing trump being pretty good at a bunch of things?

My neighbor, Phil, recently said, If you spent as much time golfing as you did running, you'd kick serious ass.  You'd be scratch.  But, do I really want to do that?  And of even more consequence, am I being true to myself when I can't decide?  This question plagues me.  Almost as much as thinking about a sole non-Devin Hester with his arms around me again.

No matter, I guess.  I'm too busy being respectably average at too many things.  And anyway, someday if he ever does show up, maybe he'll drive in the middle of the road. 

While he listens to me tell him what we're going to go do.

Burning Rubber

Walking into Absolute Results yesterday, even I had a moment where I wondered what's wrong with me.  I'm still hobbling around somewhat - legs, back, and other annoyances are all good to go, but this tendinitis in my heel thing is not.  That will take more time, more patience, and more adjustments.  So when co-workers asked yesterday when I was planning to run again and I answered, "3 hours ago," they collectively rolled their eyes.  Non-runners.

Let the record show I should probably not have run and they may have had reason to ridicule.  I wasn't exactly fast out there.  The "rule" is after a race, you are supposed to take as many days off as miles you completed.  Does the genius originator of that rule realize that's almost an entire month?  Non-runner.

Not only did I get through 5 miles yesterday morning, at 5:00pm Liv and I went to see Evan.  I love that place.  Although yes, as I was yanking my hair up into its Pebbles position, I was having the standard conversation (battle) in my head.  But those two shut up quickly once I gingerly stepped on to the elliptical.  After a few rough steps, I found 250 of them per minute again.  Didn't you just run a marathon?  "Yeah.  But that was 4 days ago."  Non-runner.

Yesterday's workout was intense.  I requested we step it up, and step it up we did.  After lifting heavier weights than usual for many more reps than usual, after "do as many on your toes push-ups before 40 on your knees," after "take those 5's and press them above your head for 60"...I put on gloves.  Not my favorite blue boxing gloves either.  A pair of black jersey you-could-garden-in-these gloves.  I didn't ask, I just followed him outside where I moved an earth mover tire.  10 times in a row x 2 sets. 

I got into a low squat position, put my jersey-gloved hands underneath, exploded up and tossed that sucker over like the (former) Governator was watching.  I LOVED IT!  I guess it was mostly because there was a boot camp class standing outside as well, and they weren't doing much other than giving me strange looks as I was sweating and grunting and smiling.  I suppose I also loved it because it was something new.  Another challenge.  Another step on the road to Boston.

Evan could tell.  He knows me well enough by now to not give me the woes me "you should be proud of yourself for just completing it in that heat" speech.  It's not that I don't appreciate it, believe it, realize it, or accept it - I do.  It's just that I am a runner.

Stray Cats

Feed them once, they come back for more.  Give them the tiniest bit of encouragement, eye contact, communication, or something to drink and we've got ourselves an instant problem, Houston.  

I constantly waiver between the new nice and patient leaf I've convinced myself I turned some time ago, and my old leaf that occasionally shows up unannounced.  At times, I welcome that old friend.  Sure, I feel badly after it arrives, but it does fit like a glove in those moments it's most needed.  Like for example, when I am working away at my desk and someone walks into my office and wants to chat incessantly about who gives a shit stuff.  Do I look like a water cooler kind of girl?  I know it's mean.  I know I should care.  And honestly - I probably do, just not right then. 

If I look busy, I am busy.  If I don't look busy, I'm thinking about what I need to do next which equates to about-to-be-busy.  If I don't make eye contact with you while you're hovering over my desk, please leave.  My shoulder cannot magically speak, so are you really happy with looking at it for FIVE straight minutes?

Ok, that's the old leaf talking.  The newly turned leaf stops what it's doing and says, "How are you?  Please tell me more."

Thank god it's summer and I have a few months before anyone thinks about leaves.

Learned and Remembered in 3:56

Thank goodness that's over. 
(Yes, that statement can usually go either way, but right now I'm referring to the marathon).

Even when I am maximally exhausted, I detest bad grammar and punctuation.  Therefore, realizing I do not possess the wherewithal right now to avoid either, this post will be in the form of a list.  And completely random at that.

It's been a year and a half since I've run a marathon.  26.2 miles never gets any shorter.  These are the various nuggets which came crashing back to me today.  (Emphasis on crashing...)

1.  Cleveland is cool.  Super cool.  There was a Tribe game going on both yesterday and today at Progressive field.  The districts are fun.  There are new bars.  Jazz bars.  Outdoor bars.  Sports bars.  Steakhouses.  Cozy Italian restaurants.  A huge library.  Museums.  Art.  Chic hotels.  And a new Casino.  I'm going back either soon or permanently.  Or, maybe both.

2.  A race with 20,000 participants should have separate starting times for the Half and Full Marathoners.  Further, newbies should get the hell to the back or at the very least, start where they are supposed to start.  If I wanted to trip over stupid people, I'd go to the Roller Dome.

3.  Pace Groups.  Verdict is still out on this one.  It's the first time I've tried it, and I'm not sure I would do it again.  If I had my druthers, I would run the marathon with 3 other very reliable people (as in, great friends) the whole way.  I love the camradrie, the banter, the feed you get off of each other.  What I do not love, is this forced feeling with strangers - ones that have no regard for proximity or a straight line.  One annoying-for-at least-4 miles guy literally looked over at me at a water stop as he was both cutting me off and seconds away from a right hook only to mutter, "Hey, I'm in the same group." 

4.  And speaking of water stops...what a cluster.  Today was brutally H-O-T (more on this in a minute - or, however long my minutes really are), so I knew to stop at every single station.  Problem was, so did everyone else.  All 20,000 of them.  The volunteers did a great job given the circumstances, but it was a nightmare getting over without getting trampled or pushed or groped.  Even more troublesome was that the pacers somehow managed to magically stay hydrated without entering the choas or losing time.  It was like running a Fartlek in the middle of a marathon trying to catch back up with them.  Clearly not recommended.

5.  It was 63 degrees and overcast at the start of the race.  Had it stayed 63 degrees and cloudy the entire time - man, would finishing times have been drastically different.  It was easily 86 degrees when I hobbled over the final mat (92 on my drive home).  Not only that, but the sun was beating down the entire time we were out there.  I wore a hat and stayed on the sidewalks whenever possible to catch a tree every now and then.  When I got back home a couple hours ago, I stopped out front of my neighbor's house and yelled up to her on the porch, "The @&!*'ing marathon!"  She laughed and came down to the car to get the recap.  Before I could even begin she said, "Gheese...you got some sun!" 

6.  I was on pace through 14.  Even made friends with Jordan, the pacer from Kalamazoo.  He is 27 years old, does these things every other weekend, and was within 3 seconds of the required 8:23 every single mile.  Oh, after mile 5, that is.  Mile 4 was 7:53.  Jerk.

7.  Mistakingly, the entire first half I thought, "I got this."  Even more alarming, dare I admit that I even thought, "This seems slow and pretty stinkin' easy."  And then, 100 yards later - all hell broke loose.  I came out of a water stop, behind as usual, tried to catch up as usual only...yikes.  What is happening?  Oh.  Nothing is happening!  It was like I was running in place.  Stupid race.  But then, I heard 3 airhorns go off and saw my Mom and Dad standing next to Liv.  I busted a move like Young MC and tried to get back to my happy place.  Good.  Yes.  Got it.  Um, don't got it....stupid race.

8.  The stretch to mile 20 was horrid.  It was there that I decided this was positively my last marathon.  Turns out I'm more of a Half-Marathoner.  Swimming?  Cycling?  Definitely getting a bike.  Or, some knitting needles.  No!  This race is mental over physical.  Do NOT think like this, idiot.  So...I picked it up.  Problem was, "picking it up" meant going from like, 8:55 to 8:40.  Waaayyyy over pace.  Just as we did not understand what "respect the distance" meant when we ran our first marathon, likewise I did not understand what "you can't race-race in this kind of heat" meant.  Now I know.  When I wiped my face at mile 17, it wasn't wet.  It was gritty.  Salt oozing out is never a good sign.

9.  I remembered to use Body Glide like it was my job before I left the hotel.   In all the right places except under my iPod arm band.  I have the world's worst chaffing ring underneath my left armpit.  Very attractive and even more painful.  Water, air, and clothing cause me to gaspingly suck in a quick breath and hold back tears.  On a postive note, it is taking the focus off the pain in my lower back, left heel, calves, and quads, so maybe a skanky left arm is not all bad.

10.   I am Italian, but let it be known that I am officially sick of carbs. Paleo sounds perfect right now. In fact, some sauteed cabbage and mushrooms would be heavenly.

11.  When I got back to the room after the race, I had 16 texts and several more emails and Facebook messages.   It's difficult to convey how special those messages were to me in that moment.  As I was spent, drenched, sore, a little disappointed yet simulaneously feeling tough-ish since I didn't stop running as many others did, I sat there smiling.  It's good to have friends that genuinely want you to succeed, and commisserate in complimentary ways when you don't.  I am exceptionally blessed to have such fantastic people in my life.  To have other athletes - way better than you could ever hope to be - say they are proud of you and mean it...wow.  Unbelievable human beings.  Love.

12.  I have the best parents in the world.  Totally supportive no matter what, come out to see me run for a few minutes (of the 3:56) after having just gotten back from vacation, spend time with Liv... just super great.  Yes, I get a little post-marathon weepy, but the older I get the more I am realizing the things in life to treasure above all else.  God.  Family.  Genuine friends.  Real relationships.  Laughter.  Support.  Unconditional love.

13.  No matter that I didn't hit my goal time today.  I finished.  Upright.  I didn't quit, nor will I.  Boston will see me someday and in the meantime, I vow to continue to enjoy every minute of it. 

.1.  Liv walked right up to me after the race, gave me the longest, tightest hug I've had in years and said, "Good job, Mom."  She even allowed me to kiss her on the cheek in response and tearily whisper, "Thanks, sweets." 

And for that...I would have turned right around and run that sucker again.  Off the clock.

Today I Run

In honor of the big day, I'm posting a poem I wrote in February. 3:40. Let's go.


MOVE ALONG

Running after dreams,
shattered, brand-new
Running to cross the inevitable finish line,
hurting and bruised
Running for the glory only seen and celebrated in reflection


Running from fears, running from pain
Today I will run and I will run without gain
I will run today, with a power to live!
With my love and my pride and my hate
I will not think - the noises and thoughts will my legs overtake


My muscles will pump and the blood will flow through
My joints will ache and my emotions will drain
My heart will pound as broken it cries
But through all of this I will run on, pushing the verge
Knowing that where I’m going is better than where I’ve been


Change, grow, move, shape
My body has limits
But my mind is doing the work
And my mind is strong
Run today, today I run

Seriously?

...is exactly what I said running east down Broad Street at the start of the Columbus Marathon in October 2009.  I know this because my running partner made fun of me after the race.  At lunch, while I was literally curled up in a ball in a booth, we all recapped the 26.2 miles worth of festivities and he said, "We weren't even .5 miles into it and she was going crazy."

I wasn't going crazy.  There was a wall of women walkers locked arm in arm singing to the birds or some shit.  All I wanted to do was get around them.  So I apparently uttered, "Seriously?!" loud enough that they might comprehend and move aside as any considerate non-athlete would do.  They must have, because it was the first time I broke 4 hours in a marathon.

Hopefully Sunday will be the first time I qualify for Boston with a slightly faster - ok, 12 minutes or so faster - finishing time.  I know what needs to be done, I just need to go do it.  Not only so I can get to Beantown next April, but so I can have my life back.

Because I need some serious sleep.

I'll Take Single for $100, Alex

I've been receiving a lot of messages the last couple days and I must admit - I'm torn.  Half of me gets totally pumped when I read the "good luck!" and the "you can do it!" well wishes, and the other half wants to pretend this is any other week with any other long run coming up this weekend.  Appreciation and avoidance all wrapped in one neat little post-race aluminum foil blanket.

Welcome to my brain's typical inner workings.  Yes...No.  Do it...Don't. Go...Stay.  Why...Why not?  If I didn't know my Irish-Italian family, I'd go Jewish.  Yep, I would peg me for a Jew as I question the hell out of everything.  I would kill it on Jeopardy.  Even if I didn't have the right answer, I'd at least ask it the right way.

Once when I was on trial in Columbus, I remember asking the lawyer why he wanted an answer to whatever question he posed.  There were chuckles in the jury, but I wasn't laughing.  I was serious (and quite young so I'm sure it seemed disrespectful, but whatever, he was an old idiot). 

So imagine my surprise and subsequent restraint when one of my girlfriends asked me last weekend if I was going to watch the new season of The Bachelorette.  "Are you kidding me?" is what I wanted to ask her, followed by, "Are you sure we're friends?  Aren't friends supposed to like, oh I don't know...know each other?" 

Yet in true kismet of my sarcasm form, last night when I was unable to sleep or concentrate on any words on a page, I grabbed the TV remote and there it was.  And it was even more painful and unimaginable than previously assumed. 

There was this very pretty (albeit, a bit Jiminy Cricket-eyed and too much gloss on the lips) blond woman in a very pretty (albeit, way too crazy ornamental for any non-Taj Mahal establishment) evening gown welcoming all the bachelors to the show.  Ok, really?  Just the premise makes me want to puke wedding mints.

This reason-stereotypes-exist-woman is standing at the end of a promenade under an of course gigantic crystal chandelier that made the sparkly sheen on her augmented lips even more blinding.  I was looking for any indication that the prop people are as dumb as the "actors" so maybe the thing would come crashing down on her head and put us all out of our misery.  Except my friend, who would be so bored she'd probably have to re-read Fifty Shades of Grey.

So out of some form of transportation come the potential suitors to introduce themselves to a pretty woman that they want to marry.  Oh, yes.  Of course they want to marry her.  Don't be silly.  Why wouldn't they want to marry a total stranger that they meet for the very first time under an unfortunately sturdy crystal chandelier?  Every keeper's dream.

Contemptuously I'm watching this, wishing I had my iPhone near by to un-friend my moron friend.  The first guy, kinda cute, rolls up in a limo and is shockingly normal.  Dressed well, nice smile, reasonably genuine, he introduces himself, gives her a quick hug and departs.  Fine.  Tolerable. 

The second guy, however, rolls up in a skateboard.  Totally out of place.  Sure, if there were ramps and chain link fences and dogs barking and a the only glass was from a bong instead of a giant light fixture, it would have been appropriate.  If the dude would have yelled, "Veni-Vidi-Vici!" I may have been interested.  Instead, my bitterness was affirmed.

And then.  Then there was the guy who comes in walking as if he had just tossed back 62 shots of protein shake, maintaining such forced eye-contact that you expected his future bride to immediately transform into an alien and a giant "V" come flashing up in PowerPoint transition style across the screen.  He immediately drops to one knee, kisses her hand and says the following in a Barry White meets 900# telemarketer voice:  It's not the number of breaths you take, it's the moments that take your breath away and this is one of them. 

Sometimes, I burst into laughter at such stupidity.  And other times, I just give thanks for finally being able to fall asleep.  Alone.  No questions asked.

Irreplaceable

Today is the day Mothers everywhere are celebrated.  I've already received my first text and I am about to go to church where I've already prepared for crying.  No eye make-up can be worn on Mother's Day.

Today is the day I remember on an even deeper level just how blessed I am.  I have a Mom and a Daughter that I could not possibly love any more than I do.

Today is the day I recognize and appreciate the innumerable things my Mom has given up for me, and value that she knew me first - before life and all its innocence-stealing occurred.

Today is the day I feel bonded and connected to an entire Mothering community; one in which we all tip our hats to each another and acknowledge the sometimes thankless job it is.  We acknowledge the heartbreak, the frustration, the exhaustion, the joy, and the utter willingness to do it all over again.  And we reluctantly acknowledge that when the day comes when our children will no longer be under our roofs, those wings we gave them to fly will work.  Through mascara-free tear-filled eyes we will watch them soar, with trembling smiles on our faces.

Today all kids - young and old alike - will say only nice things about their Mothers.  They will talk to their Mothers. They will be with their Mothers.   Some will miss their Mothers and Grandmothers alike. They will respect the circle of life and all its underrated serenity.

On this day, I both celebrate and am celebrated.  On this day, I will listen as Liv talks with me more than usual, allows me (maybe) to hug her, and will sit next to me for at least 90 minutes eating pizza and watching a movie as per yearly ritual. 

And on this day, I will look at her and pause -  remembering that a sickness which threatened to prematurely annul my role as a Mom almost made me miss the best job I will always love.  Then I'll hug her a little tighter  - even if she does the teenage squirm shuffle.

The one I celebrate and the one who celebrates me (I know it)

Pride and Prejudice

It was with reluctance that I started having someone come in once a month to clean my house.  Most probably, it was due to a combination of pride (I can run a sweeper), frugality (I already own one), and a don't-invade-my-personal-haven sort of thing (why are you going to know where I keep it?). 

But as with all things in life, something had to give.  I simply could not keep up the frenetic pace in which I operate and simultaneously manage to stay off the Health Department's Most Wanted Inspection List.  Plus, tooth paste-speckled mirrors and ring around the loo are public enemies #1 and 2 to me.

Enter Sara.  Sara came highly recommended by a friend at church.  I was told that they "bus them in" every morning and they clean like banshees.  I had no idea what either one of those things meant but I needed some help, so I called her.  No...wait. I take that back.  I called her driver.

Sara is Amish.  She was an 18-year old Amish girl when she began coming the last Thursday of each month, and she is now a 20-year old married Amish girl.  I know this because last night I attended her "English" reception in Decatur with Liv and her best friend in tow.

A few months ago, Sara told me with a beaming smile that she and "John" were getting hitched.  Good luck with that, darlin'.  I returned the smile and congratulated her as any non-bitter divorced human being would do.  And then she asked me.

Are yous a comin' to the weddin'?

Um, sure.  I mean, are we allowed?  Obviously, I had no idea what their cultish beliefs are, other than the whole stereotypical no electricity, no deodorant thing.

Of course you can come!  It's my dream that all my English ladies I clean for will be there.

Well then, it was settled.  To an Amish weddin' I was a goin'.  Sara is the sweetest and I'm always up for new experiences.  Once I attended a Kingdom Hall with my buddy, Yaves.  It was interesting, enlightening, exceptionally long and dare I say, fun on some level.  I left there feeling totally welcomed, but still an Evangelical Christian nonetheless.  Similarly, I was confident my religious beliefs were not in jeopardy when Liv, Mariam, and I hopped in my engine-powered car and headed to Amish country.

I had no idea she rides as far as she does to clean homes.  The drive took forever.  Once we past Arnold's Drive-In on the main drag in Decatur, it was easily another 30 minutes through no man's land.  The GPS shockingly directed us correctly, otherwise there would have been no way to discern one house from the other.  Barn after barn after laundry-out-back barn we passed until we came to the house where Sara grew up.  It's the same house she and John will live in with her parents and gaggle of siblings until they save enough money to buy their own horses and such.

After passing numerous buggies, horses and the glamorous remnant droppings, we slowly drove down the long gravel driveway to a very large and quaint homestead.  Everything before our eyes was as expected; well, other than the BMW's, Mercedes, and Caddy's lining either side of the gravel.  That was just plain weird and wrong, kind of like seeing a big yacht or mobile home parked in a neighborhood where you instantly know covenants are being broken.  Sara's English customers have nice rides...

I kinda wanted to jump out of the car and yell, "Are you excited to see us, Clark?"  But it was awkward enough and it's zero fun wasting classic movie lines.  (I did hear someone call one of the zillion kids "Eddie" - which made me smile and an Amish guy end up inadvertently confused).

After entering the pole barn, we were immediately greeted by Sara's excruciatingly shy but kind and hospitable mother, who asked us if we wanted to fix our plates.  The barn was segregated into two areas:  the right side was a well-oiled assembly food line manned by all women; the left was the eating area with plastic covered picnic tables lined up horizontally.  It was a big crowd on both sides, and unlike the yard out front, people were mixing well inside.

I took it all in, including the food.  Oh, that food.  Homemade noodles, ham (which I even ate), and mashed potatoes (ditto) scooped from a pot as deep as an Olympic-sized swimming pool via a ladle as heavy as the weights Evan insists I try to heave above my head.  The girls were unbelievably attentive, informing us that more "lettuce" was coming.  (I'm on high alert with the lettuce lately, given my Digger neighbors installation of a life-sized plastic ornamental rabbit on the border of our lawns).  The salad came out and I took that in, too.  Good thing I only know one Amish person and run a lot.

As we took our seats at the picnic table, I sat quietly and ate - completely soaking in every bit of what was happening around me.  This new environment.  This lifestyle which we English construe as bizarro world, shut off from reality.  But is it?  Or are we the strange ones?

Some days I could argue either point.  That community functions on a level most of us run ragged every day to accomplish.  Every person I encountered treated me, upon introduction, like I had just given them a basket full of puppies and some gold bullions.  Their roles are clearly identified, and even if a woman aspires for more, you wouldn't know it.  The men are respectful of their wives, their children, and one another.

They are happy people living in a happy little world, enjoying each other and the simple things in life.  And to that, I raise my flute filled with not champagne and say, "Kudos to you, Sara and company."

Wake Up Call

2am.  That is exactly the time, give or take 3 minutes on either side, that I awaken every single night in a flash of heat.  It doesn't matter what I eat, what time I have gone to bed, or where I am sleeping (let's not get too excited - my house, my parent's, or a hotel while racing/vacationing alone). 

This has been occurring since November 2010 when the magic medicine which I consumed to alleviate the hackneyed annoyance had to be stopped.  Fine, it's not like it's the end of the world or anything.  Except it sort of is when I can't fall back asleep.  My brain has a tendency to continue to swirl on high alert even during resting hours.  That too, would be fine if I was solving our economic or health care crises, thinking of ways to bring fresh water into remote areas of the world, or even figuring out my second and third shots on a par 5.  But alas, I just think about stupid stuff. 

(At least last night drummed up some laughter as I recalled my shopping spree in Qwonset Hut yesterday where, as the aromatic combination of incense and weed burned, I purchased a magnet for my office which reads:  I am one bad relationship away from having 30 cats) 

My Mom sleeps with ice cubes next to her bed and sinks a wrist into them when she's awakened.  Some women sleep with a fan spinning above them.  Some women just deal with it. 

I suppose I fall into the latter category.  Frankly, there's really no other choice than dealing with whatever comes our way.  Death, taxes and...morning.

The Best Part of Wakin' Up...

Happily, coffee also helps me run faster.

On Being A Dude

If I had balls (literally...metaphorically I'm well-equipped), I would be able to state the following idiom tonight:  I was sweatin' my balls off while grilling out. 

In an effort to eat as much protein as humanly possible before the 20th, I bought enough chicken to make Colonel Sanders look silly.  If you ask me, the only proper way to eat chicken is doused in Sweet Baby Ray's and charred black and grill-striped. 

Grilling is not my strong-suit, mind you.  I have discovered and embraced a myriad of household deficiencies over the past 16 months.  Weeds.  Stupid they need pulled so often.  Gutters.  Someone really should invent an automated mechanism which sends the crud out along with the water.  TV.  Who cares.

How hard can it be to operate a grill?  I can start it just fine.  Turn the nozzle on the tank to the Open position as the helpful arrows indicate.  Check.  Lift the cover.  Check.  Turn on all four burners.  Got it.  Hit ignite.  Flames.  Good.  Close the cover to let it get all nice and hot.  I even remembered to clean it first, scraping off the remnants from the Fresh Market burgers I grilled the other night. 

The problem I faced with the plump and juicy BBQ breasts was the doneness.  They looked Cooking Light worthy from the outside, so I smugly took another sip of my Riesling and looked around at the insane amounts of green in my backyard.  I felt like a true manly-man for a brief second - sans the wine, I think a Growler is the dude thing to drink before spatting over a shoulder.  Just as I was about to tong them on over to a fresh plate, I simultaneously noticed a bee hive under the deck railing and the pink inside the centers.  Great.  Like I need an Epipen injection or salmonella poisoning 17 days before my face becomes splotchy enough and my stomach explodes all on its own.

I cannot seem to figure out which way to turn those ADA compliant dials to make the flames become hotter.  I know...I know, you'd think all you would need to do is turn one all the way to the right or left and visually inspect the flames underneath to see if they shoot up any higher.  No luck.  And I was too hungry to attempt any further troubleshooting.  So I just stood there patiently, deciding what kind of pizza I'm ordering tomorrow night.

All this - and last week after I broke some pottery Liv made me when she was little, I had no choice but to march into Lowe's and purchase some JB Weld. 

I'm wearing heels tomorrow.  Begrudgingly.

May Flowers

Yesterday I awoke in a slight panicky mist.  May 1st.  Uh-oh.  It's May.  May is here!

Less than three weeks and I'll be lining up in downtown Cleveland.  The place I used to go when I was a little girl to watch my beloved Tribe play baseball.  The place I used to (and still do) proudly display on jerseys, T-shirts, and hats.  Browns, Cavs, Indians.  It's the place Chels and I used to drive, like Thelma and Louise, when we'd skip school.  Hello?  Tower City Mall?  Yes, we are on our way.  We'll smell the perfumes in Neiman's and give a shout out to Chemistry. 

It's the city in which she and I had dinner and drinks before flying out the next morning to go on a Carnival Cruise four months after Liv was born.  The city I'm hopefully going to rock and roll through on May 20th - remembering along the way that it is also the exact same place I spent 35 days in a hospital going through a healing process.

Ah, the process.  Isn't everything a process?  This marathon training has been a 5 month process.  It will have a conclusion (hence, the slight panicky mist).  Boston or not.  The sales process.  Sold or not.  The relational process.  Solid relationship or not.  The parenting process.  A productive kid or a tat-bearing delinquent who decorates the basement till their late 40's.  The life process.  Lots of ways that one can go, isn't there?

Life goes on all around us whether we choose to actively participate or not.  As this morning's dense fog begins to lift, I see van Gogh-like irises staring right back at me.  Looking at me as if to say, "Yep...here I am again.  Like perennial clockwork."  Sure they're dormant for a season, but then up they come, reminding us that we love sweet smells, beautiful colors, and the anticipation of summer warmth.

Later April showers.  Time to enjoy this month!

Now What?

For the third time in my life, I graduated on Sunday.  It is my first Master's Degree, although I wore a black gown complete with a non-Aeropostle hoodie signifying the College of Theology instead of a green jacket. 

I  used to loathe people who were "professional students."  You know, the kind that have 27 initials and dots after their name and are forever writing "dissertations."  But now - now I sort of want to become one of those people, if I'm not unawarely doing it already.

At least that much I know with certainty.  I can neither imagine the cessation of learning nor the idea of staying quiet about what we've learned.  Whether it's from textbooks or real life experiences, sharing knowledge with others is paramount. 

How remiss are we if we don't look out for one another?  We're all in this great big thing together, and we have been placed exactly where and when we are for a specific purpose. 

People who walk around this world aimlessly amaze me.  While I am certainly not exempt at times, I am fully aware that there's some calling I've yet to answer.  As we marched triumphantly (obeying our Master of Ceremonies in Biblical reenactment) across campus to the gymnasium for commencement, I was overcome with joy.  As tired as I was, as lost as I sometimes feel, as difficult as some of that coursework was...it was a serenely peaceful walk. 

Church bells were producing a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace (my favorite), which of course caused me to tear up for the first of about six times that afternoon.  Liv thinks it's funny; she purposely makes it her teenage mission in life to purchase the most gut wrenching sappy-sap cards she can find, as I'm relatively certain she's become a bookie on the side and has an over/under going on somewhere.  I bet she cries harder than the time she did at church on Mother's Day when they flashed pictures up on the screen...and it wasn't even me...

We were met in the auxiliary gym by an applauding choir, lined up on both sides.  Teary eyes number two.  I still can't quite gauge with accuracy if it was due to the impending graduation or a trip down basketball memory lane.  Either way.  Less mascara.  Walking into the filled-to-capacity gymnasium, I made the trek down the middle aisle to the third row.  My parents and Liv were seated exactly where they knew to be (following in Dad's Master's footsteps; he has a hoodie, too).  I waved, smiled, and was thankful for my Catholic roots which taught me how to sit and stand on queue like a champ.

Dr. Sarah M. Kilemi was the brilliant guest speaker from Kenya.  She, along with her loving and supporting family, traveled 24 hours across the oceans to receive an Honorary Doctorate Degree and deliver a speech that moved me to tears (three through six).  At a very basic level, she discussed the need to help people.  To give more than we receive, to love more than we need to be loved, to be humble, and to serve. 

Lots of people say that stuff.  Lots of people agree with that stuff.  Very few people do that stuff.

I don't know if a Master's Degree will help me to be more of a doer than I already am or not.  I don't know the answer to "What are you going to do now?" when I'm asked.  And I don't know exactly what road I am supposed to be on...just yet. 

But thankfully, I do know how to spot roadblocks from a much greater distance than when I was younger.  You won't hear me argue about whether it's from the degree or the (seriously?) experiences, just as long as they get out of my way.  There's lots to do.

They've been to all three  (More tears)

The only time all day she wasn't texting (More wine)

From my loving sister...

Who knows me well!

Ibuprofen.

Why is it that when we each say, "I will never do that again!" we mean it with the utmost sincerity, but given the right set of circumstances, it goes immediately out the window along with the fantastic dinner you just consumed?

I am not 19 anymore.  Clearly.

The perfect storm.  Super fun friends, off the charts humor and laughter, a fair amount of amiable competition, and way, way too much wine.  Or whatever it was.

Oddly, all I can think of right now is that I'm sure they're all still sleeping - snug as little bugs in rugs - and will wake up and go on about their days like any other.  All the while, I can barely spell and am feeling like a Red Cross volunteer in my own home. 

My ex-friend's birthday is in 11 days; her birthday party is in 13 days.  Here's hoping she likes the blue-plate special and shuffleboard tournament we're having.

We Have a Quorum

I had lunch today with couple friends of mine at a Mexican restaurant.  That woman could eat Mexican food 21 times a week and never get sick of it.  I already feel nauseous.  Too much cheese and it's rare I ever say those words.

So this couple has been married for oh...4 years maybe?  They were each married once or twice before and are totally in love.  It's sickening cute.  Finishing each other's sentences and stuff.  Eye contact, she throws her head back when he makes her laugh, light touches on the arm, whatever.  I have no idea why I tolerate it.

Wait.  Yes, I do.  They are fantastic friends.  He was (is) a customer of mine and, after getting to know me, insisted I meet his wife.  So thankful I did because she and I laugh like crazy (well, mostly she laughs at me with my sagas but more on that in a minute).  Additionally, she has a shoe problem.  Far be it for me to "fix" anything with a fairly new friend - I kind of suck at that anyway - so I allow her to buy many more pairs of shoes than her feet could ever possibly feel like wearing.  Oh, and I got her into running.  She's officially hooked and participating in the Indy Mini next weekend.  Wish I could go!  Next year.

It's been a while since we've all seen each other.  Work, kids, and life have been getting in the scheduling way.  So we carved out 90 minutes to slam some chips, salsa, and cheese together. 

Yeah...(smirking)...what's new, Beth?

I totally know what they mean every time they ask this.  They want to know about any miserable dates I've been on recently.  For several months I've had zero stories for them, so their vicarious nosey little lives have been dull.  However, today I didn't disappoint.

You won't believe it, so let's just have a beer, shall we?

I tried.  I tried to avoid the whole recap of what was perhaps, the most ridiculous way I've spent a Friday night since 1989.  But alas, they know me too well.  They know I cannot keep funny stories inside for long since my hands want to move along with my speech at a hundred miles an hour as I recount the festivities.

Short version:  a friend of "friends" who non-psychotically asked if I would be so kind as to tag along and attend a "quick Birthday cocktail party," then we'd meet up with our mutual friends shortly thereafter.  Wasn't so much that.  More like a dinner with people I wouldn't normally hang out with.  Sitting next to a guy that I wouldn't normally hang out with, and don't want to ever again. 

Fine if the story ends there.  There were some highlight film comments which I skipped because I've worked hard this past week to cause permanent amnesia.  But the story continues because Mr. Get A. Clue hasn't left me alone all week.  Message after message after message.  Today was the first day of silent bliss.  TGIF.

Additionally, he even sent messages to our mutual friends asking "what's wrong with Beth?"  Funny.  In my earlier dating career, I may have asked the same question.  He's apparently a little shocked that I'm not interested because "most women are."  I'm not most women.

This woman is learning from her mistakes.

(Aside:  Some things I'm just a little slower at than others.  And as long as I am not one second slower than 3:40 in Cleveland, I promise not to dwell on the fact it has taken me roughly 40 years to (almost) figure out the other.) 

The Rose of Tacloban

I have a shoe problem.  I have an undeniable, innate obsession with shoes.  Always have.  My Dad used to call me "Imelda"when I was little, although I just smiled and thought it was synonymous with "sweetie," or "honey." 

My realization of this is not profound; rather, I realize it all the time and don't care.  To coin my least favorite phrase in the history of overused stupid statements: it is what it is. 

I do however, remember when it became absolutely essential that I own a certain pair of shoes.  I HAD to have them; I would DIE without them.  ...Clogs.  Wooden clogs.  We were visiting my grandparents in Ashtabula and we drove around that entire town until I found the exact pair I wanted.  Two-toned.  Strap around the ankle.  I insisted we look while we were there because my friends would not be able to shop in the same store and thus, could not have the same ones.

That was second grade so you'd think my parents would have known it wasn't going to be an easy path ahead of them.  Of course I was more than willing to walk or run that path as long as my kicks were appropriate, new, and no one else had them.  That was key.  The comfort part came later.

Fast forward to the summer between 8th grade and High School.  Chels and I were all consumed that summer - as we laid out in her backyard sandwiched between baby oil and sweat-smelling terry cloth beach towels - with what we'd be wearing on our big day.  Our big day when, indubitably, the red carpet would be rolled out for us by some letterman-jacket-wearing heartthrobs. 

Think stonewashed jean skirts, button down shirts, Swatch watches, big permed hair complete with penny roll bangs, and....what shoes?!  No way, no how could I walk into that high school with older boys standing there all Fast Times at Ridgemont-ish wearing the wrong shoes!  I lost sleep over it until my ever understanding Mom took me back to Belden Village Mall for the umpteenth time and we purchased...wait for it...white boat shoes that I "tied" in curly-Q's on the side.  No lacing.  Don't be absurd. 

I went to Israel 4 years ago and one of my favorite stops was the Naot Shoe Factory.  When our pastor announced we were going there for "a little bit," my friend Erin looked over at me and asked, "Is that possible for you?"  Turns out yes (since it was a loooong walk home), and I successfully purchased two very cool pairs.  Summer sandals and black and tan look-like bowling shoes. Both are off the charts comfy with Velcro closures.  Wear them all the time.

I honestly don't know what it is, this inherent love of footwear.  It is the thing I notice first about people when I meet them, right after the hands.  This cerebral information provides me with everything I need to know about a person in the first 10 seconds.  Spot on every time.

Basketball shoes, track shoes, cross country shoes, softball shoes, pool shoes, dressy shoes, funky shoes, two-toned shoes, tall shoes, summer shoes, warm and fuzzy slipper shoes, and lots and lots of boots...I guess not much has changed.  Except my closet is much more organized.  Oh, and my taste in flooring. 

Two for Tuesday

Training not only continues, it has officially been ramped up.  Kind of like that presentation you've known for over a month you have to give and all of a sudden it's tomorrow, so it's crunch time.  I am in official Cleveland crunch time.

Personal training at Absolute Results is happening 3 days a week rather than the twice a week it has been since late November.  Two of the days consist of isolated arms and core; the other day is nothing but legs.  Inevitably, inside of 30 minutes instead of breathing like a horse, I'm hobbling around like I have just ridden one cross country delivering some mail.  But not this past Tuesday.  Tuesday I was on fire.

It was a two-a-day for me, as I ran a speed workout at 5:00am (8 x 800's @ 6:50 pace, 1:30 rest) and hit AR at 4:00pm.  Usually my workouts there with Evan are 90 minutes.  But not Tuesday.  Tuesday lasted 2 hours. 

Oh yes.  2 full hours of non-stop, heart-thumping, sweat-pouring competition against poor, unaware fellow attendees.  I started with a 10 minute warm up on the elliptical since Evan gave me the death look when I started to move towards the treadmill.   (My heel is hanging in there, but pounding out 2 fast laps at a time on the track for 4 miles never does it any favors.)

There are 3 ellipticals and 3 treadmills all in a row, directly in front of a mirror.  To my left was a very pale woman who, as my friend Angela would say, needed to tone it down a bit because the personality explosion was distracting.  I tried to crack some jokes with this newbie, but she was looking at me with disdain which is always nano-secondly hurtful.  She apparently had become an aware attendee.

To my right was some guy that Evan should have first hooked up to an EKG and had sign numerous disclaimers so as to avoid future legal ramifications after he plunged to his death from walking at 21 miles an hour for 30 seconds.  Yes, I do realize this all sounds arrogant and harsh but come on - I was not the only person thinking it AND...let's all just stick to what we're good at, shall we?  I'm not going to actuary school anytime soon either.

And then...then there is Leslie.  Leslie is about 17, obvious cheerleader and narcissist, and clearly dumb.  Ok, I'm trying here.  Let me rephrase.  Clearly naive.  As she struts around, she sizes me up.   Really? Really, seriously?  This is the second time she's done it; the first time I acted my age. 

In that moment, as we were side-by-side on the ellipticals, the place could have been teeming with Olympians chanting "Cleveland!  Cleveland!  Cleveland!" while Springsteen's Born to Run was blaring and it would not have even registered with me.  I was on a mission.  No way was whatever her little brain mustered going to happen.

[She "had to go to the bathroom" and hopped off after roughly 3 minutes.  Mission accomplished.  Adult 1, Child 0].

So that was the first 10 minutes at AR on Tuesday.  Let's just say I was ready for the next what was supposed to be 80 minutes.

Rep after rep after rep with those stupid weights.  15lbs, 20lbs, 25lbs.  No rest in between.  I was drenched and loving every minute of it.  My arms were so spent by the end of that hour and a half that when Evan said, "Last thing.  Take those 5's and do arm circles.  30 forward, 30 backwards, 3 sets," I wanted to kill him.  It is nothing if not embarrassing when you can't even move 5lb weights 180 times. 

Whew.  Done.  Well...almost.

After the other newbies had left ("Hey Evan, when those little scamps come in here, they're worse than a sewing circle,"  I might have said), he reminded me that I told him I wanted to box.  And I did want to box.  Just not right then.

"Put these on," demanded Evan. 

I can honestly say I've never actually put on a pair of real boxing gloves.  Never curled my fingers up tightly at the top where they seem relatively safe and then locked-in with Velcro around the wrists.  I started hopping left and right with that boxer rhythm thing, clinking the royal blue gloves against one other while bobbing my head around in a facade of cockiness. 

My tiredness was completely gone!  It was like the previous 90 minutes had not even taken place.  I knew even before the first punch was thrown that I was in love.  So much for fixing my impetuous problem, I thought.

Evan put on some hand pads, we moved out into the open, and Eye of the Tiger came on (it's all about the timing...look out Laila Ali!).  He told me to start punching and I just stood there like, well, show me how exactly.  One, I like to do things correctly and two, I wanted to make the most out of this extra innings workout.  Preferably while keeping my back intact and spasm free.

Punch!  Punch!  Punch!  Left, Right, Left, Right...out wide, out wide, inside, inside, inside, quick, quick, quick!!! 

I went kuh-RAZY.  Several 3-5 minute rounds of punching was THE most invigorating, most fun, most I can't WAIT to do this again feeling I've had in a long time while exercising.  I could hear my fists hitting those pads.  I could hear 5 months of lifting coming to fruition.  I could hear Evan realizing he'd found a way for me to push past my pain, push through the tired, push to the end with fierce effort and concentration.  Come on, May 20th.  It's crunch time.

We stopped at 6:00.  I un-strapped the gloves, smiled, wiped my face, and started towards the front to leave.  Instinctively, I turned back around, marched directly to a 25" square and completed one box jump in perfect CrossFit-like form.

It was the cherry on top of a box full of sugary sweat-ness.

I Love Dicks

Sporting Goods, that is.  Specifically, the new commercial that makes me want to run even more than I usually do...if that's possible.

Inspirational runners.  Running in rain, over bridges, in groups, all fast and furious. 

As another pair of running shoes with too many miles are retired into their box, and the decreasing race finishing time is Sharpied on the outside of it making the viewers (ok, me) tear up in vicarious victory, these are the words that pop up on the screen:

Get Out There

Every Morning

Every Mile

Every Marathon

Every Season

Thank you to Dicks everywhere for inspiring me with less than a month to go.  Bring it.

Four!

I bought some new golf clubs a couple weeks ago.  And by new I mean a full set.  The whole shebang.  Figured the lavender Spaldings had seen better days.  Just to say Spalding and golf in the same sentence must surely be offensive to those who know what they're doing out on the links.

Actually, I'm not that bad.  My very first job was at Great Trail Golf Course.  I really loved it.  You drove up this "back road" hill to get there.  First, you went by the corner cemetery with the old-fashioned red water pump that we drank out of mercilessly after riding bikes or playing ball, and THEN you drove on past hottie hot hot Fred Bay's house. 

(It's ok that you don't remember dating me, Freddy.  You were a Senior when I was a Freshman.  I just wanted your picture and football jersey to show Chels.  And clearly, since your Dad was a Reverend and I liked rock n roll, I was never going to be able to call you Ren so we were doomed from the start.)

Anyway, at the top of that back road hill was a fork.  Left was the route we ran for cross country practice.  Right, and you wove around pretty trees and cool houses as you looked at the tee boxes which always needed watering.  Finally the club house appeared and out I would jump from my parent's car ready to begin the grueling work day as a cook, cashier, maid, golf starter and pretend golf "pro."  Something about being in that musty club house peering through the huge rectangular smoke-stained picture window at all the guys in their clashing plaid attire made me want to be out there.  They were always laughing, always drinking beer, and always swinging clubs.  How bad could a game like that be?

My parents would occasionally take my sister and me out on the course.  I think they thought we just liked to ride along in the carts (which, we did) but I always wanted to play.  Come on - there was a score involved and someone won. 

Can I hit one, Dad?  I can't really remember the first time I actually swung a club but I do remember the first time my ball went OVER the water on that par 3.  And landed on the green.  Hook.  Line.  Sinker (not literally obviously, I birdied that hole as I got better).  I can still picture that whole scene like I played the course yesterday.

I DID play Sunday afternoon!  18 holes at Brookwood.  Supposed to be a foursome but turned into a twosome.  It was the most fun I've had golfing maybe ever.  No matter that his Uncle used to own the course (divulged to me at hole #4ish).  No matter that he plays in the City tournament every year (divulged to me at hole #12ish).  No matter that there wasn't a person within a 6 mile radius that didn't call him by name the entire day.  And no matter that he stole my thunder on the back nine after it was all just starting to come back to me.  

I had three or four 4's on the back nine.  Respectable.  I out drove him at least three times (What?  Blue and Red tees you say?  Did we not play in America?  Interchangeable.)  But it was that stealing of thunder thing that really did me in. 

Par 4, laying 3 on the green, 25 or so feet from the cup.  I listened intently as he read the green, told me the break, pointed at where to aim.  Got it.  Lined up...for par...back goes the new putter...looks good...looks good...and it's in!  Woo-hoo!  I danced around like I was back at Great Trail after just hitting the ball over that ginormous pond!  I LOVE THIS GAME!

And 5.6 seconds later he sank his 23 foot putt for birdie.  Like it was as usual as breathing.  Good thing we're partners when those other two show up next time.

Cancer Free

Today is my birthday. No, not the actual one when my Mom gave birth to me, but my "born again" birthday. 13 years ago today I had a Bone Marrow Transplant which saved my life. Literally. Had I not gone through that process to rid my body of leukemia, I would not be sitting here writing this.

I tear up every year on this day. Things come to mind which I don't think about all year really, until this day. The smells and tastes which made me throw up, the hair falling out, the constant lethargy, the battle, the love and support...all of it. But most of all what comes to mind is the entire process.

Not only do I become highly emotional every year on this day, but no matter what day of the week it falls on - the church service closest to it always speaks to me in some very specific way about the entire experience. God had a way then, a way during, and a way now. Incredible.

Yesterday in church, we listened to a sermon on the well-known story of the parting of the Red Sea. We've been camping in the book of Exodus lately, and I couldn't love it any more. Big fan of the Old Testament. There are many who continue endless, unsuccessful pursuits to discount the entire Bible. They do this by questioning things that seem too unbelievable to fathom. Well there's no way THAT could have happened...

Some try to suggest that this Exodus excerpt did not actually take place in the massive body of water known as the Red Sea and instead, happened in the Sea of Reeds. The latter is a marshy, itty bitty body of water and so of course a strong wind may have been able to part a tiny sea, they allow. Exodus 14:29 says that the Israelites went through the sea on dry ground, with a wall of water on their right and on their left. Ok...let's pretend this all went down in the Sea of Reeds. When you hear "wall," do you think like, 18 inches? 2 feet maybe?

Doesn't matter. Those discounters say it was no miracle since it was only a little bit of water. And to that, I say...it's still a miracle! God either drowned those miserable Egyptians in the Red Sea or in 18 inches of water.

But more than that, the point is this: even as the Israelites were sarcastic to Moses, afraid of the 600+ chariots in Pharaoh's army coming in full force after them, they were perfectly in the center of God's will. They just didn't know it in the middle of their incredible hardship.

And so it was with me 13 years ago. God uses our experiences, our free will choices - both the good and bad ones - to put us right where He wants us to be. We need to be receptive to the teaching and lessons we are receiving in the midst of adversity, distress, and fatigue. As God instructed Moses while simultaneously scolding him...we need to "move on" (Ex. 14:15) which, in the Hebrew is better translated to "move forward."

In their case, they had no place else to go - another step and they were in the water facing certain death.  I didn't want to step foot into that hospital in 1999 either.

Just as He saved the Israelites from the Egyptians, He saved me from cancer. It's funny how when we read Facebook posts or listen to others recollect their stories, God is only said to be "good" when they get that promotion or when their cancer is cured or when their relationship is restored.

But what if those things never happen? That answer is easy. God is good always. He is an all-knowing, always in control, never changing God.

It's a little thing called life that is none of those things. And I give Him thanks for that, too.

Happy Cancer Free Birthday!