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.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
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.)
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.
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, April 23, 2012
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!
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!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Either Way
I took the pictures in this post one day on my way home from work. It was maybe 3 weeks ago. I literally stopped in the middle of County Line Road, which is not shocking except when you do it for a non-train related reason.
Driving and singing along, I looked out the passenger window and was mesmerized. It was kind of like watching a movie or commercial where you instantly start laughing because the background looks so fake. Too perfect. So I did what any responsible driver would do - went from 60 to zero and started snapping pictures. They've been on my phone ever since and I didn't know what to do with them until now.
Maybe the sun will shine today
The clouds will blow away
Maybe I won't be so afraid
I will understand everything has its plan
Either way
Those are lyrics from a decent song with a pretty simple message which is: things will either be right or they won't. It's really just a matter of how much darker and drearier we allow those clouds to become. And how much we each can, will, and choose to tolerate in our lives in the meantime until we realize no more! You can leave all that rainy stuff in Seattle! Don't you go bringing it all back here, we've already had that rain!
Simple lyrics convey the simple message. We have absolutely no control over the weather and we have absolutely no control over people. Things will either be right or they won't, but one of those two outcomes is certain. No amount of talking about the inevitable clouds will make them move until (and if) they are good and ready.
In the meantime, I'm gettin' out in my own little sunshine that's breaking through.
(with both the new Adidas and the new clubs!) No more rain!
Driving and singing along, I looked out the passenger window and was mesmerized. It was kind of like watching a movie or commercial where you instantly start laughing because the background looks so fake. Too perfect. So I did what any responsible driver would do - went from 60 to zero and started snapping pictures. They've been on my phone ever since and I didn't know what to do with them until now.
Maybe the sun will shine today
The clouds will blow away
Maybe I won't be so afraid
I will understand everything has its plan
Either way
Those are lyrics from a decent song with a pretty simple message which is: things will either be right or they won't. It's really just a matter of how much darker and drearier we allow those clouds to become. And how much we each can, will, and choose to tolerate in our lives in the meantime until we realize no more! You can leave all that rainy stuff in Seattle! Don't you go bringing it all back here, we've already had that rain!
Simple lyrics convey the simple message. We have absolutely no control over the weather and we have absolutely no control over people. Things will either be right or they won't, but one of those two outcomes is certain. No amount of talking about the inevitable clouds will make them move until (and if) they are good and ready.
In the meantime, I'm gettin' out in my own little sunshine that's breaking through.
(with both the new Adidas and the new clubs!) No more rain!
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Take-Advantage-Rent-A-Car
It's taken me over 2 weeks to cool off enough in order to write about my 'lil mishap in Florida over Spring Break. It will take much longer before Olivia is able to convince (read: teenage manipulate) me again to go on a "girl's vacation." My idea of a girl's vacation varies grossly from whatever she was thinking.
While I really like Liv's best friend and her best friend's mother, it is difficult to share a vacation with others, as we are all undoubtedly aware. Trying to align interests, relaxation styles, spending habits, Final Four Buckeyes viewing, how much talking is permissible before coming up for air...it's all very tricky. Requires patience.
(Fine, yes. I could end this post here and enough would be said, for my idea of patience also varies grossly from its actual definition.)
So, Florida. Liv and I arrive roughly 6 hours after the other two. They pick us up in my rental car at the Advantage-Rent-A-Car kiosk, which is in a strip plaza about 3 miles away from the airport. It's roughly 8:45pm, and I'm spent from watching Liv ignore me the last several hours.
Immediately after descending the shuttle bus steps, I am greeted with, "Um, Beth, I need you to fix this. Instead of the $350 it was supposed to cost for the rental car, it's now around $900." Apparently the employee who came up from down south (?) and normally doesn't work at this location strong-armed her into taking the unnecessary insurance. The infamous insurance scam, as if there is just one. Oh, and a couple of tanks of gas were added for convenience. $6.18 a gallon is nothing if not convenient. The usually-not-there employee indicated she could easily remove these options once I arrived if we decided against them, presumably also in the name of convenience.
I explain, calmly at first, what needs to occur. Please remove this insurance which we do not need, add me as driver (we'll pay the extra $10 bucks a day) and if you can, please also remove the 36 gallons of convenient fuel.
No, I can't do that I'm afraid, says VeJa (Vee-Jay).
This is going nowhere quickly. Oh I think you can VeJa and yes, be very afraid.
"Why not?" I ask, still maintaining a semblance of composure.
Because it would require closing this entire reservation which would cost you another $200 security deposit, then reopening a new reservation which would also require a $200 security deposit.
VeJa and I were locked in a two-fold battle: as tired as I was, as dry as my contacts were, I was not about to blink.
Do you understand, ma'am, that if you don't have USAA or State Farm Insurance that, should you get in a wreck, it will cost you over $10,000 to...blah, blah, blabbety blah...and do you have USAA or State...
"Ok. Here's the deal. It will NOT cost us one penny more. We are NOT paying the insurance you, or some impostor Southerner employee, forcefully and unnecessarily talked my friend into purchasing. Do you understand? Because if you don't understand, understand this: I will stand outside of this drug ring front and make such a scene for these incoming renters to see that they will shuttle on over to Avis and you will need to call the police and have me incarcerated for disturbing the peace."
I understand (no "ma'am" anymore and I'm using the eyes in the back of my head now). But I really can't do this tonight because my computer won't allow me. It just won't. Do you know how computers work at all?
[Like toothpicks are holding my eyelids open]
Here is the phone number of my Regional Manager. His cell phone number. You can call him in the morning and he will take care of this for you.
With that, I ride shotgun back to my hotel and can't think of any other place I'd rather be.
I call the Regional Manager in the morning, poolside, Mich Ultra in hand.
VeJa told me all about this. What would you like me to do exactly?
I exactly tell him. Succinctly, reasonably, nicely even.
We can't do that. It would require another security deposit and furthermore if you were to get in a wreck and unless you have USAA...
"I have had it. I am on vacation. You are interrupting it. Your idea and my idea of taking care of this as VeJa said you would....not the same."
I don't know why he would have said that.
"I don't know either, Mike, and I really don't care. What I care about is that you are causing me to lose my patience and neither of us can afford for that to happen right now. You and I both know that what your not-usually-there employee told my friend was borderline fraudulent."
Are you threatening me, ma'am?
"Not yet, Mike, no."
(Raising his voice...as I'm raising my game) Well then WHAT would you like me to do?
"Same thing I answered when you asked me the first time. Your not-usually-there employee told my friend she could opt to remove the incontestably extraneous insurance once I arrived if we decided against it and, if you pull up the original reservation, you will see that it is not on there."
Well I'm not sure why she would have said that either.
"So what I hear you really saying, Mike, is that this is your fault?"
What? My fault?
"For improperly training your employees."
(Yelling now...) I don't know WHAT you want from me! I don't KNOW! But if you come back to our location, ask for Sam and bring your original contract, we will start over and remove the insurance.
"We'll be there at 5:30."
---------------------------
We arrive at 5:30 that afternoon and all goes shockingly smoothly. Sam is nice-ish, handling the barrage of questions I throw at him for clarification purposes rather patiently.
So sir, I highly recommend you do NOT turn down the insurance because it would cost you $10,000 if you were to wreck...and do you have USAA or State Farm...
"Helloooo (in my best Jerry to Newman impression) VeJa."
Ladies. Did you get everything taken care of?
"You Mothe...Yes, we did."
You're all set. Have fun the rest of your vacation and see you Tuesday.
"Thanks, Sam. See you then. <fire him>"
With our chests puffed out, we strut back to the Toyota Camry. No matter that we just made an unnecessary trip back to the airport less than 24 hours after Liv and I arrived. No matter t'all. No insurance at all. No worries at all. Off to dinner we went.
The rest of our trip was as expected. I ran in the mornings, came back to the ridiculously too-small- for-four-females room, showered off the Florida sweat, put my suit on, grabbed my books and headed to the beach.
By Monday morning, I was counting the hours until our Tuesday afternoon flight back home. I'd had enough sun, the Buckeyes had lost, and I...I was just ready. The girls asked if we could go to Busch Gardens through closing time. Sure, why not. What's another $100 bucks at this point? Especially after we saved a ton at Advantage.
The park closed at 7:00. I was taking back seat driving instructions from a 15-year old who consulted her iPhone for directions to the closest Mexican restaurant. The music in the car was loud and the conversation coming my way was even louder. Going home tomorrow, going home tomorrow...
SMACK! into the car in front of us I collide. There is NO way that just happened. None. Are you _______________________________kidding me?
Ha! I guess VeJa was right about that insurance, huh, Beth?!?
There is NO way she just said that. There is no Murphy. There is no Law.
And thankfully...there is no damage. Whew. Dodged a bullet, an almost drug addiction and an involuntary manslaughter conviction on that one.
The kid who gets out of the car is just that - a preppy 22-year old wearing Sperry's, a yellow polo with the collar flipped up, and some plaid shorts. He's driving a brand new Camaro his Daddy just bought him which I'm certain is usually parked in their driveway next to the family yacht. I half expected Rodney Dangerfield to pop out of the trunk.
"Sorry. We're good here, right?"
Um, well, yeah, there's like, no damage, so um, I guess so.
"Thanks, sorry about that."
But I'm gonna need something from you. I mean, like your insurance information.
"I'm on vacation. We're leaving tomorrow. Here is my business card and cell phone number. Call if you have any issues, but I'm sure you won't."
We drive away. The car is silent until I burst into hysterical laughter. Oh yeah, I'm definitely on the other side of my there's no going back. Until my phone rings and it's Sack Lodge.
Hello, ma'am, this is Chris. I'm gonna need you to text me a picture of your Driver's License and Registration.
(Whatever) "Chris, when I get back home tomorrow night, I will text you my insurance agent's name and policy number and they'll handle it, mmm-k? After all, that's what insurance is for."
I spoke to him again briefly the next day. He assures me during that conversation there is "no internal damage." His family butler had crawled under the vehicle to take a peek. No worries. Nothing to see here.
Oh, except this:
I can't wait to see my Mother's Day present this year.
While I really like Liv's best friend and her best friend's mother, it is difficult to share a vacation with others, as we are all undoubtedly aware. Trying to align interests, relaxation styles, spending habits, Final Four Buckeyes viewing, how much talking is permissible before coming up for air...it's all very tricky. Requires patience.
(Fine, yes. I could end this post here and enough would be said, for my idea of patience also varies grossly from its actual definition.)
So, Florida. Liv and I arrive roughly 6 hours after the other two. They pick us up in my rental car at the Advantage-Rent-A-Car kiosk, which is in a strip plaza about 3 miles away from the airport. It's roughly 8:45pm, and I'm spent from watching Liv ignore me the last several hours.
Immediately after descending the shuttle bus steps, I am greeted with, "Um, Beth, I need you to fix this. Instead of the $350 it was supposed to cost for the rental car, it's now around $900." Apparently the employee who came up from down south (?) and normally doesn't work at this location strong-armed her into taking the unnecessary insurance. The infamous insurance scam, as if there is just one. Oh, and a couple of tanks of gas were added for convenience. $6.18 a gallon is nothing if not convenient. The usually-not-there employee indicated she could easily remove these options once I arrived if we decided against them, presumably also in the name of convenience.
I explain, calmly at first, what needs to occur. Please remove this insurance which we do not need, add me as driver (we'll pay the extra $10 bucks a day) and if you can, please also remove the 36 gallons of convenient fuel.
No, I can't do that I'm afraid, says VeJa (Vee-Jay).
This is going nowhere quickly. Oh I think you can VeJa and yes, be very afraid.
"Why not?" I ask, still maintaining a semblance of composure.
Because it would require closing this entire reservation which would cost you another $200 security deposit, then reopening a new reservation which would also require a $200 security deposit.
VeJa and I were locked in a two-fold battle: as tired as I was, as dry as my contacts were, I was not about to blink.
Do you understand, ma'am, that if you don't have USAA or State Farm Insurance that, should you get in a wreck, it will cost you over $10,000 to...blah, blah, blabbety blah...and do you have USAA or State...
"Ok. Here's the deal. It will NOT cost us one penny more. We are NOT paying the insurance you, or some impostor Southerner employee, forcefully and unnecessarily talked my friend into purchasing. Do you understand? Because if you don't understand, understand this: I will stand outside of this drug ring front and make such a scene for these incoming renters to see that they will shuttle on over to Avis and you will need to call the police and have me incarcerated for disturbing the peace."
I understand (no "ma'am" anymore and I'm using the eyes in the back of my head now). But I really can't do this tonight because my computer won't allow me. It just won't. Do you know how computers work at all?
[Like toothpicks are holding my eyelids open]
Here is the phone number of my Regional Manager. His cell phone number. You can call him in the morning and he will take care of this for you.
With that, I ride shotgun back to my hotel and can't think of any other place I'd rather be.
I call the Regional Manager in the morning, poolside, Mich Ultra in hand.
VeJa told me all about this. What would you like me to do exactly?
I exactly tell him. Succinctly, reasonably, nicely even.
We can't do that. It would require another security deposit and furthermore if you were to get in a wreck and unless you have USAA...
"I have had it. I am on vacation. You are interrupting it. Your idea and my idea of taking care of this as VeJa said you would....not the same."
I don't know why he would have said that.
"I don't know either, Mike, and I really don't care. What I care about is that you are causing me to lose my patience and neither of us can afford for that to happen right now. You and I both know that what your not-usually-there employee told my friend was borderline fraudulent."
Are you threatening me, ma'am?
"Not yet, Mike, no."
(Raising his voice...as I'm raising my game) Well then WHAT would you like me to do?
"Same thing I answered when you asked me the first time. Your not-usually-there employee told my friend she could opt to remove the incontestably extraneous insurance once I arrived if we decided against it and, if you pull up the original reservation, you will see that it is not on there."
Well I'm not sure why she would have said that either.
"So what I hear you really saying, Mike, is that this is your fault?"
What? My fault?
"For improperly training your employees."
(Yelling now...) I don't know WHAT you want from me! I don't KNOW! But if you come back to our location, ask for Sam and bring your original contract, we will start over and remove the insurance.
"We'll be there at 5:30."
---------------------------
We arrive at 5:30 that afternoon and all goes shockingly smoothly. Sam is nice-ish, handling the barrage of questions I throw at him for clarification purposes rather patiently.
So sir, I highly recommend you do NOT turn down the insurance because it would cost you $10,000 if you were to wreck...and do you have USAA or State Farm...
"Helloooo (in my best Jerry to Newman impression) VeJa."
Ladies. Did you get everything taken care of?
You're all set. Have fun the rest of your vacation and see you Tuesday.
"Thanks, Sam. See you then. <fire him>"
With our chests puffed out, we strut back to the Toyota Camry. No matter that we just made an unnecessary trip back to the airport less than 24 hours after Liv and I arrived. No matter t'all. No insurance at all. No worries at all. Off to dinner we went.
The rest of our trip was as expected. I ran in the mornings, came back to the ridiculously too-small- for-four-females room, showered off the Florida sweat, put my suit on, grabbed my books and headed to the beach.
By Monday morning, I was counting the hours until our Tuesday afternoon flight back home. I'd had enough sun, the Buckeyes had lost, and I...I was just ready. The girls asked if we could go to Busch Gardens through closing time. Sure, why not. What's another $100 bucks at this point? Especially after we saved a ton at Advantage.
The park closed at 7:00. I was taking back seat driving instructions from a 15-year old who consulted her iPhone for directions to the closest Mexican restaurant. The music in the car was loud and the conversation coming my way was even louder. Going home tomorrow, going home tomorrow...
SMACK! into the car in front of us I collide. There is NO way that just happened. None. Are you _______________________________kidding me?
Ha! I guess VeJa was right about that insurance, huh, Beth?!?
There is NO way she just said that. There is no Murphy. There is no Law.
And thankfully...there is no damage. Whew. Dodged a bullet, an almost drug addiction and an involuntary manslaughter conviction on that one.
The kid who gets out of the car is just that - a preppy 22-year old wearing Sperry's, a yellow polo with the collar flipped up, and some plaid shorts. He's driving a brand new Camaro his Daddy just bought him which I'm certain is usually parked in their driveway next to the family yacht. I half expected Rodney Dangerfield to pop out of the trunk.
"Sorry. We're good here, right?"
Um, well, yeah, there's like, no damage, so um, I guess so.
"Thanks, sorry about that."
But I'm gonna need something from you. I mean, like your insurance information.
"I'm on vacation. We're leaving tomorrow. Here is my business card and cell phone number. Call if you have any issues, but I'm sure you won't."
We drive away. The car is silent until I burst into hysterical laughter. Oh yeah, I'm definitely on the other side of my there's no going back. Until my phone rings and it's Sack Lodge.
Hello, ma'am, this is Chris. I'm gonna need you to text me a picture of your Driver's License and Registration.
(Whatever) "Chris, when I get back home tomorrow night, I will text you my insurance agent's name and policy number and they'll handle it, mmm-k? After all, that's what insurance is for."
I spoke to him again briefly the next day. He assures me during that conversation there is "no internal damage." His family butler had crawled under the vehicle to take a peek. No worries. Nothing to see here.
Oh, except this:
I can't wait to see my Mother's Day present this year.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Familiarity
My Mom's 60th Birthday is coming up and we are having a family celebration in Ohio at a local winery. I'll be bringing back some Buckeye reds for one of my favorite Hoosier wine snobs, and I'm sure some flavorful whites for yours truly. Conversation and laughter over vino is the best, pretty much regardless of venue.
My sister and I decided that we wanted to purchase some emerald earrings for our Mom from us. "Us" equals Sarah Beara, her husband, my two nieces, Liv and me. Our Dad already bought an emerald necklace for Mom, so now he's just got to figure out a special place to take her so she can wear it (hint, thank me later). I'm looking forward to family time with everyone as I don't see them nearly enough.
Sarah looked in Ohio for a pair of emerald studs but had no luck. They are for Mom's second ear piercings - the double piercings on top - as she will not ever wear anything other than the hoops Dad got her forever ago on the bottoms.
Our Mom is wonderfully simple like that. It's the little things that please her: dish towels, Hallmark cards, lilac anything, and home decor. I realized this today as I was texting Sarah back and forth with pictures of the four pair of available emerald studs, trying to determine which to purchase. The girl behind the counter said: "I like these the best." To which I instantaneously replied, "She won't like them. Too shiny."
Sarah and I agreed in less than 30 seconds which ones looked like Mom. I paid, text my sis back a "Done!" and answered an affirmative to the girl when she asked if I would like them wrapped.
"Here is our old wrapping paper, I have one piece left of that print which I like the best, and here is our new wrapping paper."
"Oh, definitely the new. She'll like that better."
Sure I was in a hurry and on a mission, but I even had to correct the cheap blue bow she tried to put on top of the pretty paper. Mom would have cringed. It dawned on me as I left the store that I just rattled off careful observations about a tiny pair of earrings and some patterns on wrapping paper. And it somehow made me happier than the purchase itself.
Guess I got some of Mi Madre's genes after all.
My sister and I decided that we wanted to purchase some emerald earrings for our Mom from us. "Us" equals Sarah Beara, her husband, my two nieces, Liv and me. Our Dad already bought an emerald necklace for Mom, so now he's just got to figure out a special place to take her so she can wear it (hint, thank me later). I'm looking forward to family time with everyone as I don't see them nearly enough.
Sarah looked in Ohio for a pair of emerald studs but had no luck. They are for Mom's second ear piercings - the double piercings on top - as she will not ever wear anything other than the hoops Dad got her forever ago on the bottoms.
Our Mom is wonderfully simple like that. It's the little things that please her: dish towels, Hallmark cards, lilac anything, and home decor. I realized this today as I was texting Sarah back and forth with pictures of the four pair of available emerald studs, trying to determine which to purchase. The girl behind the counter said: "I like these the best." To which I instantaneously replied, "She won't like them. Too shiny."
Sarah and I agreed in less than 30 seconds which ones looked like Mom. I paid, text my sis back a "Done!" and answered an affirmative to the girl when she asked if I would like them wrapped.
"Here is our old wrapping paper, I have one piece left of that print which I like the best, and here is our new wrapping paper."
"Oh, definitely the new. She'll like that better."
Sure I was in a hurry and on a mission, but I even had to correct the cheap blue bow she tried to put on top of the pretty paper. Mom would have cringed. It dawned on me as I left the store that I just rattled off careful observations about a tiny pair of earrings and some patterns on wrapping paper. And it somehow made me happier than the purchase itself.
Guess I got some of Mi Madre's genes after all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Girl Crush
A couple weeks ago I was in the kitchen making dinner while Liv was sitting at the table. Why I'm not sure, since there was zero indication food was nearing ready. Of course nothing like an unset table, clean dishes in the dishwasher begging to go back to their homes as if they had been on vacation, or a Mom rushing about the fridge, stove, sink triangle could have possibly indicated otherwise to a 15 year old.
20 minutes later after competing with her iPod for communication, dinner was on the table. I prayed, she grunted, we ate, rinse, repeat.
But for some reason, she did not pull her typical Anne Frank on me and instead pulled up a stool and sat at the bar while I cleaned up. Let's not go crazy people, she was in the room...I was not about to push my authoritative luck by asking her to dry.
She turned on the TV (puke). A new show called Missing was on some channel; no, I never have any idea which one unless it's Modern Family or HGTV anything (1290). It was the premiere of Missing, with Ashley Judd as the lead character. I've always thought Ash was super cool. I call her Ash because obviously we non-famous people know intimate details of actor's lives by reading their bios in the likes of STAR, US Weekly, OK! Magazine and my personal favorite, National Enquirer.
The plot is about a stay at home Mom who is married to some CIA guy who blows up in the second scene while he's out of the country with their only son. Their son had gone back into the hotel to retrieve his teddy bear when BOOM!...Dad's car ignites. Ash is understandably a mess; she meets their son at the airport back in the States and 10 years pass. She's out jogging with girlfriends daily, her son is about ready to enroll in college, and they have a quaint little home which Ashley can afford on her new gig as a floral arranger and some understood life insurance money.
I'm watching this as my hands are pruning up in the scalding Dawn water, I haven't showered since the squeezed in elliptical session 3 hours earlier, and my kid's eyes are going to roll right out of her head at any moment. Yet, what is Ash doing on my screen? Why she's conversing (and gasp! laughing!) with her kid as they are running together at a fast clip on their perfectly manicured trail system, her pony-tail is maintaining its form and health beautifully, and once she showers off her almost-broke-a-sweat, she drives her completely clean vehicle to her dream job where she begins to position Blue Orchids in glass blown vases for happy customers who never complain.
I hate her.
Actually no, I don't. I am making fun of the show, yes, but now it's interesting to me because I'm laughing at the premise. We learn that Ash met her husband in the CIA (or whatever acronym of scary they were employed) and she too is trained and dangerous just like her dead husband. We find this out because (shocker) her son goes missing. It's all very involved and I'm thinking...well, as soon as they find him isn't the show cancelled? Kaput? Finito?
Hold your horses. The husband is alive!
Ok, at this point I really don't care. My pots and pans are finally clean, Liv has stayed in close proximity to me for more than 15 minutes without brute force, and I'm tired from real life.
The next morning I read a review of the show and was immediately intrigued to learn that Ashley Judd had been ridiculed for having a "puffy face." I reread that line about 4 times. She was eloquently described through the use of nouns misused as adjectives such as "cow" and "pig." Really? Um, ugly she ain't. Ah, but the critics messed with the wrong chick. Super cool has a little something to say about this...
Ashley is a Harvard scholar, she serves as a global ambassador for YouthAIDS, and has testified before the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Oh, and I think her Mom is Naomi Judd and her sister is Wynonna. I could have that backwards in that country music is not my favorite genre (no, Tom Petty is most certainly NOT country, he's iconic...listen to The Waiting or American Girl sometime).
Anyway, the girl is well read. She's multi-lingual and exceptionally well-spoken in any language. She came back swinging in The Daily Beast with an essay she dubbed "The Conversation" and used the opportunity to influence women and men alike in the on-going damaging and self-destructive link between our outer presence and inner self-worth. She said the following:
"The Conversation about women happens everywhere, publicly and privately. We are described and detailed, our faces and bodies analyzed and picked apart, our worth ascertained and ascribed based on the reduction of personhood to simple physical objectification."
Tell 'em, Ash.
This scholar from the University of Kentucky with a post-graduate degree from Harvard understands that we minimize ourselves by allowing other people's appraisals of our outer shell define our inner core. She discusses how her psyche has evolved as she matured, saying, "I do not want to give my power, my self-esteem, or my autonomy to any person, place, or thing outside myself."
Oh how I love her.
Here's an enlightened human being who has learned to rid herself of what she calls "otheration" -- tying our inner self-worth to others' criticisms and bullying. Ash correctly attests in her essay that this is often a woman-on-woman crime. No question. Women frequently disassemble and criticize other women's appearances as sport, much like men do in their sizing up of the titles on business cards. In fact if we're honest, we all do quite a bang up job of clinging to the false hope that a layer of war paint or a fancy ride will mask our secret feelings of unworthiness.
The truth is that we actually undermine our own integrity and dignity when we define ourselves and others by this stupid outer presence thing.
Without question, we've got it all wrong. The real skinny is that our presence is how we make people feel.
Somehow Ashley made the conversation I didn't have in the kitchen with Liv all better. The show still kind of sucks, but her character does not. She reminded me that having a brain far surpasses any superficial outer presence. Development of a peaceful, purposeful inner core is what matters. We are all works in progress. And I for one, like it that way. Stagnant anything is horrid.
All this and Ashley Judd is a huge basketball fan! Yeah, that woman isn't missing a thing.
20 minutes later after competing with her iPod for communication, dinner was on the table. I prayed, she grunted, we ate, rinse, repeat.
But for some reason, she did not pull her typical Anne Frank on me and instead pulled up a stool and sat at the bar while I cleaned up. Let's not go crazy people, she was in the room...I was not about to push my authoritative luck by asking her to dry.
She turned on the TV (puke). A new show called Missing was on some channel; no, I never have any idea which one unless it's Modern Family or HGTV anything (1290). It was the premiere of Missing, with Ashley Judd as the lead character. I've always thought Ash was super cool. I call her Ash because obviously we non-famous people know intimate details of actor's lives by reading their bios in the likes of STAR, US Weekly, OK! Magazine and my personal favorite, National Enquirer.
The plot is about a stay at home Mom who is married to some CIA guy who blows up in the second scene while he's out of the country with their only son. Their son had gone back into the hotel to retrieve his teddy bear when BOOM!...Dad's car ignites. Ash is understandably a mess; she meets their son at the airport back in the States and 10 years pass. She's out jogging with girlfriends daily, her son is about ready to enroll in college, and they have a quaint little home which Ashley can afford on her new gig as a floral arranger and some understood life insurance money.
I'm watching this as my hands are pruning up in the scalding Dawn water, I haven't showered since the squeezed in elliptical session 3 hours earlier, and my kid's eyes are going to roll right out of her head at any moment. Yet, what is Ash doing on my screen? Why she's conversing (and gasp! laughing!) with her kid as they are running together at a fast clip on their perfectly manicured trail system, her pony-tail is maintaining its form and health beautifully, and once she showers off her almost-broke-a-sweat, she drives her completely clean vehicle to her dream job where she begins to position Blue Orchids in glass blown vases for happy customers who never complain.
I hate her.
Actually no, I don't. I am making fun of the show, yes, but now it's interesting to me because I'm laughing at the premise. We learn that Ash met her husband in the CIA (or whatever acronym of scary they were employed) and she too is trained and dangerous just like her dead husband. We find this out because (shocker) her son goes missing. It's all very involved and I'm thinking...well, as soon as they find him isn't the show cancelled? Kaput? Finito?
Hold your horses. The husband is alive!
Ok, at this point I really don't care. My pots and pans are finally clean, Liv has stayed in close proximity to me for more than 15 minutes without brute force, and I'm tired from real life.
The next morning I read a review of the show and was immediately intrigued to learn that Ashley Judd had been ridiculed for having a "puffy face." I reread that line about 4 times. She was eloquently described through the use of nouns misused as adjectives such as "cow" and "pig." Really? Um, ugly she ain't. Ah, but the critics messed with the wrong chick. Super cool has a little something to say about this...
Ashley is a Harvard scholar, she serves as a global ambassador for YouthAIDS, and has testified before the U.S. Senate Foreign Relations Committee. Oh, and I think her Mom is Naomi Judd and her sister is Wynonna. I could have that backwards in that country music is not my favorite genre (no, Tom Petty is most certainly NOT country, he's iconic...listen to The Waiting or American Girl sometime).
Anyway, the girl is well read. She's multi-lingual and exceptionally well-spoken in any language. She came back swinging in The Daily Beast with an essay she dubbed "The Conversation" and used the opportunity to influence women and men alike in the on-going damaging and self-destructive link between our outer presence and inner self-worth. She said the following:
"The Conversation about women happens everywhere, publicly and privately. We are described and detailed, our faces and bodies analyzed and picked apart, our worth ascertained and ascribed based on the reduction of personhood to simple physical objectification."
Tell 'em, Ash.
This scholar from the University of Kentucky with a post-graduate degree from Harvard understands that we minimize ourselves by allowing other people's appraisals of our outer shell define our inner core. She discusses how her psyche has evolved as she matured, saying, "I do not want to give my power, my self-esteem, or my autonomy to any person, place, or thing outside myself."
Oh how I love her.
Here's an enlightened human being who has learned to rid herself of what she calls "otheration" -- tying our inner self-worth to others' criticisms and bullying. Ash correctly attests in her essay that this is often a woman-on-woman crime. No question. Women frequently disassemble and criticize other women's appearances as sport, much like men do in their sizing up of the titles on business cards. In fact if we're honest, we all do quite a bang up job of clinging to the false hope that a layer of war paint or a fancy ride will mask our secret feelings of unworthiness.
The truth is that we actually undermine our own integrity and dignity when we define ourselves and others by this stupid outer presence thing.
Without question, we've got it all wrong. The real skinny is that our presence is how we make people feel.
Somehow Ashley made the conversation I didn't have in the kitchen with Liv all better. The show still kind of sucks, but her character does not. She reminded me that having a brain far surpasses any superficial outer presence. Development of a peaceful, purposeful inner core is what matters. We are all works in progress. And I for one, like it that way. Stagnant anything is horrid.
All this and Ashley Judd is a huge basketball fan! Yeah, that woman isn't missing a thing.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Don't Be A Hater. Seriously.
Life. It's surreal sometimes. So much so, that when things happen which are beyond belief - beyond being able to put into words for fear no lexicon could do proper justice - you have no choice but to sit back and remain silent. That is, until such time as the subject of the unbelievable circumstances is back on their feet again. Back to the person you once knew, in the reality in which you knew them.
It was January 2008. My early mid-life crisis in full swing, I decided to join a program at the YMCA which promised to teach those in attendance how to complete a Half-Marathon. I was a runner "back in the day," but that day was literally one child, one Bone Marrow Transplant, one+ sour relationships and 20 years ago. No matter. I was in. Indy Mini...here I come.
The class, PR Training, was every Tuesday at butt-crack-early-o'clock and taught by an elite female runner. We learned proper nutrition, proper technique, proper etiquette when running insane numbers of miles (like, spitting is only allowed after 4 or more miles) and generally how to complete 13.1 miles in a race without looking like a total nincompoop. Oh, and we ran once in awhile too.
Being very Type-A, I did not miss a class. I think I may have even sat up front and reused my name tag every week. But more than those details, what I remember is meeting two fellas and instantly thinking: they seem nice; they seem committed to this program; they're going down.
The class was not all that big. Said two fellas, myself, one or two women walkers, and maybe another guy that was (and obviously is still) forgettable. We'd sit there trying to wake up from a collective slumber, pretend to listen, and mentally try to gear up for running the daunting 3-4 miles which our Bible-like training sheets inside our pretty folders outlined. Seemed easy enough at first. I clearly remember the raising of hands after one class to indicate who was staying to run outside; all but the walker hands went up.
You went to Yale?
"Uh-huh."
Did you like it?
"Uh-huh."
What do you do?
"Lawyer."
[Figures]
So, you went there on a running scholarship?
[I had heard another person running along side mention this interesting fact. Let me tell you, as I was running next to this guy, I thought...man, was obtaining a running scholarship SUPER easy back then or what? 'cause he kinda sucks. However, I was also slightly concerned and unabashedly sizing him up with these newfound facts since, as noted earlier, I planned to annihilate him and the other nice guy.]
"Yep."
[Well this guy's a talker. Total social butterfly.]
We finished the whopping two miles and obligatory "tell me about yourself since we're going to be puking together at some point" questions, and back to our respective cars and worlds we went.
That was over 4 years ago. Over 3,000 miles ago. Over conversations which consisted mostly of "Why do we love running again? Why are you sleeping in again when we have a speed workout this morning? Do you want to just stop, call this 20 miles and get a beer? Look out! A car!"
You know...things like that. The easy things. The light things. Things that make you go hmmm (especially the post-run beer).
We all trained towards one common goal: the mighty marathon. Sure, we got through that PR training program like champs and even broke our sub-2 hour first Mini Marathon time goal. 35,000 people is a lot of people so while we didn't run together during the race, we compared times once back in the Fort. (Fine, he won. And the trophy was purchased. Along with the creation of a blank Excel spreadsheet that used some Archimedes spigot algorithm to determine Runner of the Year accolades henceforth). We were hooked. Marathon...here we come. Life was gooood.
So like clockwork, we followed our plan. Monday: get the junk out of our legs run; Tuesday: speed at the track; Wednesday: 5-8 easy miles; Thursday: tempo run; Saturday: long run. For weeks and weeks and weeks, four of us met religiously at the Y or the Middle School track to tackle the work ahead of us. At 5:00am.
The camaraderie, the friendship, the suck fests, the laughter, the love, the injuries which ensued, the races, the post-run protein shakes that caused runs in and of themselves, the constant support - can only be described if you were there. I am a woman of many words, yet there simply aren't any to convey this collective effort. The bonds that were formed were forever, even if truly in hindsight, they were short lived.
After 3+ years together, two of the four of us moved out of state. Our kids became older, our jobs somehow became even more demanding, our interests changed, our lives changed. Our running careers together just sort of faded. And I guess perhaps, sadly, so did our friendships. I clearly remember being at a marathon together - in fact, it was the last one we all attended together - and my partner said to me (after ribbing him once we hopped off the Metro): "Look, you can be in the circle or out of the circle, which do you want to be?"
------------------
The morning of March 27, 2012, there is no place I'd rather have been than in that circle. I was sitting in my office beginning my work day, when my iPhone displayed the following text:
Southwest Allen County Schools on lock down due to shooting in the area.
My one and only child is a freshman at the High School in SWACS. My stomach immediately sank as I read that text. I bolted out of my office, ran down the hallway to our front desk and asked our Admin Assistant if she had heard anything, as her kids attend the same school.
"It's fine. It wasn't at the school, it was just in a neighborhood close by so they're taking precautions."
I didn't exactly feel any better. I went back to my office and immediately sent a text to my daughter asking her if she was ok, demanding that she text me back with an answer and I would handle the principal if her phone was confiscated. Yet again.
She did, and she was fine. Whew. In the meantime, I had already sent a text to my buddy and customer downtown who for whatever political reason, knows everything that is happening around here real time.
He responded that yes, he was aware and the shooting was in a particular subdivision.
Shit. I know people there, I thought. Good people. So I sent back a message at warp speed asking if any names were released. It's a big neighborhood...I'm sure it's not...
And then I saw it. On my phone. In print. The name of the people's house where this shooting had just happened. Oh my God. Oh my God. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just burst into tears.
My running partner. My friend. Someone made a mistake, this information is not right. Take it back! What do I do? What do I do? I need to DO something. No make this stop! Make it stop.
People were swarming into my office at this point because I think I was literally hysterical. I don't really remember any of it. Surreal. Pain blocked out. Whatever it was, I don't want to remember how I felt in that moment ever again. A person should only have to lose a friend unnecessarily once in a lifetime. Twice is too much to bear.
The first call I made was to our other running partner (a/k/a one of the 3 amigos) who happened to be back here in Indiana for work. I was overwrought and incomprehensible. Screaming into the phone I said, "You have to come here! Now! Right now! We have to go..."
And then we were both just silent. I was weeping, he was I think whispering. I don't know. The rest of the day is still a blur.
----------------------------
Thank God he is going to be ok. Truly, to God we give thanks. There is no explanation as to why this happened and, even if one is mustered up some day - I for one don't give a rat's ass what it is. This guy, my former friend and running partner, is one of a kind. He is a man after God's own heart and has been since the day I first met him. Sure, he's sarcastic, witty, crazy brilliant yet remarkably humble; he is, for all intents and purposes, as normal as they come in a life that perhaps is a little bigger than they normally come. But that's why those who know him love him.
To all the haters out there who don't - those who speculate, gossip, and wrongly condemn when the plank is still in their own eye - all I can say is...seriously? Seriously you want to bring down a man who we should all aspire to emulate? What is wrong with this world?
To whom much is given, much is expected. I used to tell him this when I could sense the big circle in which he lived seemed a smidge suffocating. People want nothing more than to knock you down when you're at the proverbial top. It's inexplicable, really. Yet his character and priorities remained then, as they will remain now, undaunted regardless of the people who fail to have either.
While I cannot comprehend what he's been through, I do know what I expect he'll do: continue to live by example as he models God's image through the gift of forgiveness, draw on the strength of his true family and friends, forge even deeper relationships with those dear to him, and get back at it with his head held high.
Oh yeah. And run.
Sweet Mother of Pearl.
It was January 2008. My early mid-life crisis in full swing, I decided to join a program at the YMCA which promised to teach those in attendance how to complete a Half-Marathon. I was a runner "back in the day," but that day was literally one child, one Bone Marrow Transplant, one+ sour relationships and 20 years ago. No matter. I was in. Indy Mini...here I come.
The class, PR Training, was every Tuesday at butt-crack-early-o'clock and taught by an elite female runner. We learned proper nutrition, proper technique, proper etiquette when running insane numbers of miles (like, spitting is only allowed after 4 or more miles) and generally how to complete 13.1 miles in a race without looking like a total nincompoop. Oh, and we ran once in awhile too.
Being very Type-A, I did not miss a class. I think I may have even sat up front and reused my name tag every week. But more than those details, what I remember is meeting two fellas and instantly thinking: they seem nice; they seem committed to this program; they're going down.
The class was not all that big. Said two fellas, myself, one or two women walkers, and maybe another guy that was (and obviously is still) forgettable. We'd sit there trying to wake up from a collective slumber, pretend to listen, and mentally try to gear up for running the daunting 3-4 miles which our Bible-like training sheets inside our pretty folders outlined. Seemed easy enough at first. I clearly remember the raising of hands after one class to indicate who was staying to run outside; all but the walker hands went up.
You went to Yale?
"Uh-huh."
Did you like it?
"Uh-huh."
What do you do?
"Lawyer."
[Figures]
So, you went there on a running scholarship?
[I had heard another person running along side mention this interesting fact. Let me tell you, as I was running next to this guy, I thought...man, was obtaining a running scholarship SUPER easy back then or what? 'cause he kinda sucks. However, I was also slightly concerned and unabashedly sizing him up with these newfound facts since, as noted earlier, I planned to annihilate him and the other nice guy.]
"Yep."
[Well this guy's a talker. Total social butterfly.]
We finished the whopping two miles and obligatory "tell me about yourself since we're going to be puking together at some point" questions, and back to our respective cars and worlds we went.
That was over 4 years ago. Over 3,000 miles ago. Over conversations which consisted mostly of "Why do we love running again? Why are you sleeping in again when we have a speed workout this morning? Do you want to just stop, call this 20 miles and get a beer? Look out! A car!"
You know...things like that. The easy things. The light things. Things that make you go hmmm (especially the post-run beer).
We all trained towards one common goal: the mighty marathon. Sure, we got through that PR training program like champs and even broke our sub-2 hour first Mini Marathon time goal. 35,000 people is a lot of people so while we didn't run together during the race, we compared times once back in the Fort. (Fine, he won. And the trophy was purchased. Along with the creation of a blank Excel spreadsheet that used some Archimedes spigot algorithm to determine Runner of the Year accolades henceforth). We were hooked. Marathon...here we come. Life was gooood.
So like clockwork, we followed our plan. Monday: get the junk out of our legs run; Tuesday: speed at the track; Wednesday: 5-8 easy miles; Thursday: tempo run; Saturday: long run. For weeks and weeks and weeks, four of us met religiously at the Y or the Middle School track to tackle the work ahead of us. At 5:00am.
The camaraderie, the friendship, the suck fests, the laughter, the love, the injuries which ensued, the races, the post-run protein shakes that caused runs in and of themselves, the constant support - can only be described if you were there. I am a woman of many words, yet there simply aren't any to convey this collective effort. The bonds that were formed were forever, even if truly in hindsight, they were short lived.
After 3+ years together, two of the four of us moved out of state. Our kids became older, our jobs somehow became even more demanding, our interests changed, our lives changed. Our running careers together just sort of faded. And I guess perhaps, sadly, so did our friendships. I clearly remember being at a marathon together - in fact, it was the last one we all attended together - and my partner said to me (after ribbing him once we hopped off the Metro): "Look, you can be in the circle or out of the circle, which do you want to be?"
------------------
The morning of March 27, 2012, there is no place I'd rather have been than in that circle. I was sitting in my office beginning my work day, when my iPhone displayed the following text:
Southwest Allen County Schools on lock down due to shooting in the area.
My one and only child is a freshman at the High School in SWACS. My stomach immediately sank as I read that text. I bolted out of my office, ran down the hallway to our front desk and asked our Admin Assistant if she had heard anything, as her kids attend the same school.
"It's fine. It wasn't at the school, it was just in a neighborhood close by so they're taking precautions."
I didn't exactly feel any better. I went back to my office and immediately sent a text to my daughter asking her if she was ok, demanding that she text me back with an answer and I would handle the principal if her phone was confiscated. Yet again.
She did, and she was fine. Whew. In the meantime, I had already sent a text to my buddy and customer downtown who for whatever political reason, knows everything that is happening around here real time.
He responded that yes, he was aware and the shooting was in a particular subdivision.
Shit. I know people there, I thought. Good people. So I sent back a message at warp speed asking if any names were released. It's a big neighborhood...I'm sure it's not...
And then I saw it. On my phone. In print. The name of the people's house where this shooting had just happened. Oh my God. Oh my God. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I just burst into tears.
My running partner. My friend. Someone made a mistake, this information is not right. Take it back! What do I do? What do I do? I need to DO something. No make this stop! Make it stop.
People were swarming into my office at this point because I think I was literally hysterical. I don't really remember any of it. Surreal. Pain blocked out. Whatever it was, I don't want to remember how I felt in that moment ever again. A person should only have to lose a friend unnecessarily once in a lifetime. Twice is too much to bear.
The first call I made was to our other running partner (a/k/a one of the 3 amigos) who happened to be back here in Indiana for work. I was overwrought and incomprehensible. Screaming into the phone I said, "You have to come here! Now! Right now! We have to go..."
And then we were both just silent. I was weeping, he was I think whispering. I don't know. The rest of the day is still a blur.
----------------------------
Thank God he is going to be ok. Truly, to God we give thanks. There is no explanation as to why this happened and, even if one is mustered up some day - I for one don't give a rat's ass what it is. This guy, my former friend and running partner, is one of a kind. He is a man after God's own heart and has been since the day I first met him. Sure, he's sarcastic, witty, crazy brilliant yet remarkably humble; he is, for all intents and purposes, as normal as they come in a life that perhaps is a little bigger than they normally come. But that's why those who know him love him.
To all the haters out there who don't - those who speculate, gossip, and wrongly condemn when the plank is still in their own eye - all I can say is...seriously? Seriously you want to bring down a man who we should all aspire to emulate? What is wrong with this world?
To whom much is given, much is expected. I used to tell him this when I could sense the big circle in which he lived seemed a smidge suffocating. People want nothing more than to knock you down when you're at the proverbial top. It's inexplicable, really. Yet his character and priorities remained then, as they will remain now, undaunted regardless of the people who fail to have either.
While I cannot comprehend what he's been through, I do know what I expect he'll do: continue to live by example as he models God's image through the gift of forgiveness, draw on the strength of his true family and friends, forge even deeper relationships with those dear to him, and get back at it with his head held high.
Oh yeah. And run.
Sweet Mother of Pearl.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Scraping By
If the marathon training itself doesn't render me incapacitated, the PT it causes me to endure surely might.
My left heel has been acting up since early March. And when I say "acting up," what I mean is that the little S.O.B. is not cooperating in any way, shape, or form. In fact, it causes my form to fail so miserably that those around me no longer first think of my birthday when I scream 911.
At one point last month I really thought my quest for Boston was over. No way could I train while hobbling along on a bum heel. I iced it, swore at it, massaged it, stared at it...nothing worked. And since there is some rule about lining up on race day completely shit faced, I decided to make a phone call.
I met Tom Seifert in 2008, after my first ever 10k (WarBird) race. It was about 3 months into the newfound passion. My body was not yet used to the constant toll I tried to explain in an indirect "let's run as fast and as far as possible right away" kind of way. So after I gimped to that are-you-kidding-me-this-is-so-not-6.2-miles-finish-line, I smelled brats and beer and saw some guy manning a massage table. No brainer. I grabbed a beer and moved like there was a runner-up trophy for a polio-a-thon over to that table.
Tom had no regard for proximity that day and he still doesn't. Personal space does not resonate with him. But for some reason you couldn't care less as he is twisting you in such a way that you immediately reconsider your current career in favor of attending The Mongolian School of Contortion. All you can think is that Cirque Dreams would definitely be more fun than ever running another 10k, let alone training for a marathon.
However, since I can't do Caesars or the Fort Wayne Embassy right now, marathon training it is. And in that I desperately need this heel to cooperate in order to get through it, back to Mr. Why Are You So Close To My Face I went.
Don't get me wrong, he works wonders. This is the second time I've had my heel scraped.
Scraping = the equivalent of brass knuckles digging into your muscle tissue to break up the "stuck" crap. Brass knuckles with serrated edges, that is. It's not for the faint of heart.
But neither is the marathon.
My left heel has been acting up since early March. And when I say "acting up," what I mean is that the little S.O.B. is not cooperating in any way, shape, or form. In fact, it causes my form to fail so miserably that those around me no longer first think of my birthday when I scream 911.
At one point last month I really thought my quest for Boston was over. No way could I train while hobbling along on a bum heel. I iced it, swore at it, massaged it, stared at it...nothing worked. And since there is some rule about lining up on race day completely shit faced, I decided to make a phone call.
I met Tom Seifert in 2008, after my first ever 10k (WarBird) race. It was about 3 months into the newfound passion. My body was not yet used to the constant toll I tried to explain in an indirect "let's run as fast and as far as possible right away" kind of way. So after I gimped to that are-you-kidding-me-this-is-so-not-6.2-miles-finish-line, I smelled brats and beer and saw some guy manning a massage table. No brainer. I grabbed a beer and moved like there was a runner-up trophy for a polio-a-thon over to that table.
Tom had no regard for proximity that day and he still doesn't. Personal space does not resonate with him. But for some reason you couldn't care less as he is twisting you in such a way that you immediately reconsider your current career in favor of attending The Mongolian School of Contortion. All you can think is that Cirque Dreams would definitely be more fun than ever running another 10k, let alone training for a marathon.
However, since I can't do Caesars or the Fort Wayne Embassy right now, marathon training it is. And in that I desperately need this heel to cooperate in order to get through it, back to Mr. Why Are You So Close To My Face I went.
Don't get me wrong, he works wonders. This is the second time I've had my heel scraped.
Scraping = the equivalent of brass knuckles digging into your muscle tissue to break up the "stuck" crap. Brass knuckles with serrated edges, that is. It's not for the faint of heart.
But neither is the marathon.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
It's the Climb
Six. I've lived in a total of six houses in my lifetime, excluding one dorm room, a few apartments, and a house that arguably should have been condemned based on loose fire codes, yellow tape and a chalk outline of a body. My Dad was none too pleased about that post-freshman year summer home.
Of these abodes, hands down my favorite was 400 Adelaide Street. It was the corner home in which I grew up complete with every tomboy's dream basketball court in the back yard, and I adored it. Even though I loved each and every room on the inside, I spent a great deal of time outdoors. Beautiful trees adorned the lot; they were my true (and slightly safer) first summer home.
Just off center in our front yard was a giant oak. It's the first tree I can ever remember climbing. I would sit there, wave to my parents and smile a toothless grin for the camera. That tree was like a stage.
Out back, next to my court, was an even better oak. My Dad hung a rope swing from it at one point, making it perfectly appealing and homey. After completing scheduled shooting drills, I would take a breather on that swing. Just sitting and swinging, all the while looking up and planning my journey straight to the top. Purposeful, yet peaceful. I guess some things never change.
That great oak was more of a nest. A nesting tree it was. Though thankfully, I cannot remember any birds being in my way as I climbed to the top. I do not get along well with those thorny little creatures.
My friend out back was one big daydream, helping me visualize scaling its divergent branches as I wondered which one would ultimately hold on to me the longest and with the most ease. It provided a sweet stillness, underneath and in it, bravely being sturdy when I was not.
Most magically, it somehow stopped time. And in so doing, allowed me to use those stolen, essential, and sobering moments to contemplate life's next charted courses. The ones I knew I needed to take in order to get to where I didn't know I was going.
That resplendent oak provided safety and respite when I had no idea what my future held. It was ever-present. A good, old-fashioned provision of consummate solace. With deep-seated roots.
Post-Semantics-Script: Not deep-seeded...'Cause everybody knows seeds that are sown too deeply won't grow, blossom, or ever see the expectant sunshine on the other side.
Of these abodes, hands down my favorite was 400 Adelaide Street. It was the corner home in which I grew up complete with every tomboy's dream basketball court in the back yard, and I adored it. Even though I loved each and every room on the inside, I spent a great deal of time outdoors. Beautiful trees adorned the lot; they were my true (and slightly safer) first summer home.
Just off center in our front yard was a giant oak. It's the first tree I can ever remember climbing. I would sit there, wave to my parents and smile a toothless grin for the camera. That tree was like a stage.
Out back, next to my court, was an even better oak. My Dad hung a rope swing from it at one point, making it perfectly appealing and homey. After completing scheduled shooting drills, I would take a breather on that swing. Just sitting and swinging, all the while looking up and planning my journey straight to the top. Purposeful, yet peaceful. I guess some things never change.
That great oak was more of a nest. A nesting tree it was. Though thankfully, I cannot remember any birds being in my way as I climbed to the top. I do not get along well with those thorny little creatures.
My friend out back was one big daydream, helping me visualize scaling its divergent branches as I wondered which one would ultimately hold on to me the longest and with the most ease. It provided a sweet stillness, underneath and in it, bravely being sturdy when I was not.
Most magically, it somehow stopped time. And in so doing, allowed me to use those stolen, essential, and sobering moments to contemplate life's next charted courses. The ones I knew I needed to take in order to get to where I didn't know I was going.
That resplendent oak provided safety and respite when I had no idea what my future held. It was ever-present. A good, old-fashioned provision of consummate solace. With deep-seated roots.
Post-Semantics-Script: Not deep-seeded...'Cause everybody knows seeds that are sown too deeply won't grow, blossom, or ever see the expectant sunshine on the other side.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Bad Girl, Good Friday
It's been five days already since Good Friday. I really have no idea where time goes, a sure sign of getting old. But I am not yet so old that my memory is failing me. Still a whippersnapper about that.
Every year I attend Good Friday church service. It is, much to even my Christmas-loving chagrin, the most important day for Christians. The day that Jesus was crucified by the Romans after being handed over to them by His own people (although it wasn't really a Friday, it was a Wednesday if you study carefully).
Good Friday is the day in which we remember how thoroughly sinful we are, yet how much our God loved us then and loves us still. How much He wants to be in relationship with us at all times - the good...the bad...the empty...the full...when we try and hide and when someday if we don't, we'll be with Him forevermore (Rev. 21:3 - check it out. It's the whole story and point of the Bible repeated one last time).
So the ONE DAY a year where extra special reverence is demanded, I am sitting in church early preparing for this solemn remembrance. Service begins at 1:30; it's roughly 1:10 and not many people have yet arrived. I'm 4 or so rows back, right side, aisle seat. Soft music is playing, black attire is abundant, smiles are absent, the mood is heavy.
I feel myself tearing up a bit and then I hear it. A conversation. I look across the aisle to my left and some guy is on his cell phone. Talking. On his cell phone. Carrying on a conversation like it's nothing. I am flummoxed. Confused as to what he is actually doing and confused at my immediate rage.
Focus. Stop. Ignore him. But, I can't. It's like when you see an accident being cleared as you're finally coasting by after having been at a total standstill for an hour. You know you're not supposed to look, but that just makes you want to take pictures. So now, I don't want to just ignore him, I want to pummel him.
Really? Why are we here? Did Jesus die for us so you could have a (struggle, conflict, expletive) conversation before you flippantly tell Him thanks? What is so (again) important that it is imperative you talk to whomever now? I was fuming inside, having this internal debate and guilt-like feeling, thinking, This (yep) is causing me to not feel very Christian right now and clearly I'm supposed to since I am in church...
I calmed down and he hung up. The whole scene reminded me of the cleansing of the Temple (Matt. 21:12-17) when Jesus was furious and drove out the moneychangers because they were disrespecting His Father's house, turning it into a "den of thieves."
This thief wanted to steal his phone after that little stunt.
Instead, I prayed for patience and gave insufficient thanks for what God has done for me - that day and every other.
Every year I attend Good Friday church service. It is, much to even my Christmas-loving chagrin, the most important day for Christians. The day that Jesus was crucified by the Romans after being handed over to them by His own people (although it wasn't really a Friday, it was a Wednesday if you study carefully).
Good Friday is the day in which we remember how thoroughly sinful we are, yet how much our God loved us then and loves us still. How much He wants to be in relationship with us at all times - the good...the bad...the empty...the full...when we try and hide and when someday if we don't, we'll be with Him forevermore (Rev. 21:3 - check it out. It's the whole story and point of the Bible repeated one last time).
So the ONE DAY a year where extra special reverence is demanded, I am sitting in church early preparing for this solemn remembrance. Service begins at 1:30; it's roughly 1:10 and not many people have yet arrived. I'm 4 or so rows back, right side, aisle seat. Soft music is playing, black attire is abundant, smiles are absent, the mood is heavy.
I feel myself tearing up a bit and then I hear it. A conversation. I look across the aisle to my left and some guy is on his cell phone. Talking. On his cell phone. Carrying on a conversation like it's nothing. I am flummoxed. Confused as to what he is actually doing and confused at my immediate rage.
Focus. Stop. Ignore him. But, I can't. It's like when you see an accident being cleared as you're finally coasting by after having been at a total standstill for an hour. You know you're not supposed to look, but that just makes you want to take pictures. So now, I don't want to just ignore him, I want to pummel him.
Really? Why are we here? Did Jesus die for us so you could have a (struggle, conflict, expletive) conversation before you flippantly tell Him thanks? What is so (again) important that it is imperative you talk to whomever now? I was fuming inside, having this internal debate and guilt-like feeling, thinking, This (yep) is causing me to not feel very Christian right now and clearly I'm supposed to since I am in church...
I calmed down and he hung up. The whole scene reminded me of the cleansing of the Temple (Matt. 21:12-17) when Jesus was furious and drove out the moneychangers because they were disrespecting His Father's house, turning it into a "den of thieves."
This thief wanted to steal his phone after that little stunt.
Instead, I prayed for patience and gave insufficient thanks for what God has done for me - that day and every other.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
15 and Counting
Please Lord.
Please let me get through Liv's teenage years and still only be addicted to running.
[Me] (yelling up the stairs as music blares through her closed door): Hey Beanie?
[Liv]: <sigh> WHAT?!?
[Me]: What are you doing?
[Liv]: <sigh> Nothing.
[Me]: Want to come down here with me?
[Liv]: <sigh> No.
[Me]: Why not?
[Liv]: <sigh> Cause I'm doin' stuff.
I love Riesling. Amen.
Please let me get through Liv's teenage years and still only be addicted to running.
Scene 1. 8:00pm last night
[Me] (yelling up the stairs as music blares through her closed door): Hey Beanie?
[Liv]: <sigh> WHAT?!?
[Me]: What are you doing?
[Liv]: <sigh> Nothing.
[Me]: Want to come down here with me?
[Liv]: <sigh> No.
[Me]: Why not?
[Liv]: <sigh> Cause I'm doin' stuff.
I love Riesling. Amen.
Monday, April 9, 2012
WWF
I'm old enough that when I see those 3 letters - WWF - the first thing that pops in my mind is an image of Hulk Hogan. But no longer. Words With Friends. I am hooked.
I bucked the iPhone system for as long as humanly possible. Really. Never been a fan of mainstream anything and I still loathe when people copy-cat me. Yes, childish but I don't care.
So in an effort to stand up against both peer pressure and hypocrisy, my Windows 7 phone and I were just fine for a long time. Sure it was the size of a personal protection device and looked like an alley cat had made love to it, but that relationship endured until the bitter end.
I've always been a Scrabble enthusiast which should not flabbergast anyone in that I am in love with words and use as many as possible at all times. So imagine the level of awestruck when I found out I could be engaged in a constant battle of word wits throughout the day! Screw that HGTV Dream House anyway, like I have time to pack or get a second job to pay the property taxes...
Nope, I don't play WWF with just anyone. Made the mistake once of accepting a game from a high school classmate who continued to play words like can and fan and ran or the occasional high roller of bran. Obvious Facebook stalker, found out where I live, and was in the car playing the rhyming game with his kids on their way over.
But I do play recurrently with another high school classmate. A very competitive one indeed, who just happened to lose earlier today due to "not being able to dump a Q in time."
The follow-up text exchange (as initiated by said former classmate while I was playing my violin):
Can't believe I lost to you by default.
Um, sorry...what? Default my ass.
Whatever...there will be an asterisk on this win for you...like Bush in 2000!
Hey, maybe Nader had a "u" for your orphaned "q"...
I don't miss that Windows 7 phone one iota.
I bucked the iPhone system for as long as humanly possible. Really. Never been a fan of mainstream anything and I still loathe when people copy-cat me. Yes, childish but I don't care.
So in an effort to stand up against both peer pressure and hypocrisy, my Windows 7 phone and I were just fine for a long time. Sure it was the size of a personal protection device and looked like an alley cat had made love to it, but that relationship endured until the bitter end.
I've always been a Scrabble enthusiast which should not flabbergast anyone in that I am in love with words and use as many as possible at all times. So imagine the level of awestruck when I found out I could be engaged in a constant battle of word wits throughout the day! Screw that HGTV Dream House anyway, like I have time to pack or get a second job to pay the property taxes...
Nope, I don't play WWF with just anyone. Made the mistake once of accepting a game from a high school classmate who continued to play words like can and fan and ran or the occasional high roller of bran. Obvious Facebook stalker, found out where I live, and was in the car playing the rhyming game with his kids on their way over.
But I do play recurrently with another high school classmate. A very competitive one indeed, who just happened to lose earlier today due to "not being able to dump a Q in time."
The follow-up text exchange (as initiated by said former classmate while I was playing my violin):
Can't believe I lost to you by default.
Um, sorry...what? Default my ass.
Whatever...there will be an asterisk on this win for you...like Bush in 2000!
Hey, maybe Nader had a "u" for your orphaned "q"...
I don't miss that Windows 7 phone one iota.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Never By Any Other
Rarely do I call people I like by their full first name. Based on multiple relationship factors, sometimes it takes me longer than others to shorten a first name, come up with something completely unrelated to it, or use another spin-off altogether.
I have just one daughter but a slew of special epithets I've given her over the years: Bean, Beanie, Bean-dip, Livvy, Liv-Lou, Lou-Lou. Similarly, I love when she refers to me as: Mama, Mama Bear, or the ever smirk-inducing, "Yo, mi madre."
Today as I was thinking of all the names I have been called throughout the course of my life (the nice ones thank you), I realized that the creative gifting of a new moniker is absolutely my favorite kind of endearment to bestow and receive. As it goes, the best things in life are free.
Beth Anne Nappi.
My given name. The one on the birth certificate which was handed to my parents along with the souvenir forceps they used to yank me out. No. My full name is not Elizabeth and no, I did not have any idea what "nappy" meant until I went to the melting pot that is Ohio State.
It's just Beth? Are you sure? I roll my eyes when asked this question. (In fairness, I do not roll my eyes when anyone asks if I am sure of my last name of late...)
Sometimes names are incredibly simple because nothing can trump the meaning behind them. For example, I call my Mom "Mom" and my Dad "Dad" because that says it all. No one can ever replace them or the relationship. Those titles have inherent superiority.
When my sister first came home from the hospital, I was 3 1/2 and used to ruling the roost. After trying to drown her with a cup of water as she lay in her bassinet all sweet-like, smelling good, and destined to overtake my territory, I told my Mom she needed to go back to wherever she came from because she had problems with her head. "Spothead" is what I coined her for awhile, even though I realized in relatively short order that she was kind of cool to have around for tormenting purposes or to snuggle with occasionally.
Since Spothead was no good after her blond hair came in (also cool: telling her on a consistent basis she was unrelated to me and our brunette parents), I've called Sarah "Sarah Beara" for as long as I can remember. She calls me "Bether."
It's interesting that there is never any official ceremony, tribal dance, ritual, glass clinking or cake eating that goes on when someone grants you a nickname. I can neither tell you the time nor the place someone began to call me something other than Beth; however, I can tell you what some of those names are and exactly which family member or friend bequeathed them.
Anyone I grew up with in the village = Nap. In fact, when I was with Chels (not ever Chelsea) recently, I smiled warmly when she added my picture to the Nap contact in her phone. It would not matter where in the world I was - if I heard someone say, "Hey, Nap!" I'd know instantly where they were from.
My Dad calls me BethAnnie (no space or breath in between when pronounced for proper effect). My Mom simply calls me Beth, just as she called her Mom "Rit" - short for my grandmother's first name, Rita. I asked her once why she didn't call her Mom, and the response was a good one: it's not necessarily what you call someone as much as it is the tone in which you say it.
Beth-a-may-mucho; Begonia; Bethie. With love from the grandparents.
Betty. Former co-worker that still uses it every time I see him.
Grasshopper. Former running buddy and dear friend who uses it when he is lovingly imparting wisdom upon me (code for: Hey dumb ass...listen up.)
Sweetie. The suckers that clearly don't know me well enough but are trying to win me over only to get immediately kicked to the curb for the run-of-the-mill effort.
What's in a name? Oh so many things. They can cause you to question if you'd carry yourself any differently if you had been given another one. They can, at times, make you wish maybe you had been. They can represent a time period. They can bring back memories, evoke story-telling, provide a genealogy and give a sense of heritage that can never be taken away. They are in and of themselves a little ryhthm of love.
But most of all when a name is dressed up a bit like a beautifully wrapped gift, it connotes a bona fide meaning to both the donor and the recipient - forever solidifying the understood so much more than any unnecessary scotch tape.
I have just one daughter but a slew of special epithets I've given her over the years: Bean, Beanie, Bean-dip, Livvy, Liv-Lou, Lou-Lou. Similarly, I love when she refers to me as: Mama, Mama Bear, or the ever smirk-inducing, "Yo, mi madre."
Today as I was thinking of all the names I have been called throughout the course of my life (the nice ones thank you), I realized that the creative gifting of a new moniker is absolutely my favorite kind of endearment to bestow and receive. As it goes, the best things in life are free.
Beth Anne Nappi.
My given name. The one on the birth certificate which was handed to my parents along with the souvenir forceps they used to yank me out. No. My full name is not Elizabeth and no, I did not have any idea what "nappy" meant until I went to the melting pot that is Ohio State.
It's just Beth? Are you sure? I roll my eyes when asked this question. (In fairness, I do not roll my eyes when anyone asks if I am sure of my last name of late...)
Sometimes names are incredibly simple because nothing can trump the meaning behind them. For example, I call my Mom "Mom" and my Dad "Dad" because that says it all. No one can ever replace them or the relationship. Those titles have inherent superiority.
When my sister first came home from the hospital, I was 3 1/2 and used to ruling the roost. After trying to drown her with a cup of water as she lay in her bassinet all sweet-like, smelling good, and destined to overtake my territory, I told my Mom she needed to go back to wherever she came from because she had problems with her head. "Spothead" is what I coined her for awhile, even though I realized in relatively short order that she was kind of cool to have around for tormenting purposes or to snuggle with occasionally.
Since Spothead was no good after her blond hair came in (also cool: telling her on a consistent basis she was unrelated to me and our brunette parents), I've called Sarah "Sarah Beara" for as long as I can remember. She calls me "Bether."
It's interesting that there is never any official ceremony, tribal dance, ritual, glass clinking or cake eating that goes on when someone grants you a nickname. I can neither tell you the time nor the place someone began to call me something other than Beth; however, I can tell you what some of those names are and exactly which family member or friend bequeathed them.
Anyone I grew up with in the village = Nap. In fact, when I was with Chels (not ever Chelsea) recently, I smiled warmly when she added my picture to the Nap contact in her phone. It would not matter where in the world I was - if I heard someone say, "Hey, Nap!" I'd know instantly where they were from.
My Dad calls me BethAnnie (no space or breath in between when pronounced for proper effect). My Mom simply calls me Beth, just as she called her Mom "Rit" - short for my grandmother's first name, Rita. I asked her once why she didn't call her Mom, and the response was a good one: it's not necessarily what you call someone as much as it is the tone in which you say it.
Beth-a-may-mucho; Begonia; Bethie. With love from the grandparents.
Betty. Former co-worker that still uses it every time I see him.
Grasshopper. Former running buddy and dear friend who uses it when he is lovingly imparting wisdom upon me (code for: Hey dumb ass...listen up.)
Sweetie. The suckers that clearly don't know me well enough but are trying to win me over only to get immediately kicked to the curb for the run-of-the-mill effort.
What's in a name? Oh so many things. They can cause you to question if you'd carry yourself any differently if you had been given another one. They can, at times, make you wish maybe you had been. They can represent a time period. They can bring back memories, evoke story-telling, provide a genealogy and give a sense of heritage that can never be taken away. They are in and of themselves a little ryhthm of love.
But most of all when a name is dressed up a bit like a beautifully wrapped gift, it connotes a bona fide meaning to both the donor and the recipient - forever solidifying the understood so much more than any unnecessary scotch tape.
Friday, April 6, 2012
Sideways
No...I don't mean the movie, although I loved it and have zero idea why in the world it took me so long to finally watch it from start to finish.
(And yes, I'm back from the hiatus known as "Seriously, what was I thinking going on vacation with two 15 year-olds?" More on that special trip later).
In the meantime, in the spirit of needing a quick fix today I will a) post this and b) explain why it was ridiculous to think it a good idea to invite an Iron Man on a run.
Swim, Bike, Run. All reasonably hard work individually, so why anyone in their right mind would set out to do them all at once is beyond me. (Yes, I'm going to do one someday but no matter now). Many people tell me that "Marathoners are crazy!" and on some level they may have a point. So imagine what it says when a marathoner thinks an Iron Man is crazy.
Actually no, if I'm honest, not crazy. Crazy good. Crazy in shape. Crazy athletes that make the rest of us pretend athletes wish we were cut of the same genetically altered cloth.
How far do you want to go? I ask innocently.
Oh, like 2 miles...I am sooooo ick about running. Honestly. Not my thing.
Fine. 6 it is. That's what an Iron Man really means when they say 2.
Let's start out super slow because I kinda want to pick it up on the way back.
Now I've run with this sandbagger before so I'm ready to puke already at what "pick it up on the way back" actually means. I know the strength. And I know sandbagger also knows and is loving every minute of this reverse psychology session.
The Garmin starts up. Yep. Yeppers. Exactly what I expected. The first 4 miles were anything but what a normal human being would consider slow. As I'm gasping for air, I am also looking at this gazelle-like creature who will readily and honestly admit that they are a much better swimmer and biker than runner. Running is kind of like an afterthought. A necessary evil in the Iron Man trifecta.
Some people just have a way of pissing you off unintentionally. Yet, you can't really get mad at an inspiration. All you can do is sing "A-nni-hi-la-tion" to the tune of Rod Stewart's "Infatuation" in your head on the way back by yourself while Iron Man is picking it up.
(And yes, I'm back from the hiatus known as "Seriously, what was I thinking going on vacation with two 15 year-olds?" More on that special trip later).
In the meantime, in the spirit of needing a quick fix today I will a) post this and b) explain why it was ridiculous to think it a good idea to invite an Iron Man on a run.
Swim, Bike, Run. All reasonably hard work individually, so why anyone in their right mind would set out to do them all at once is beyond me. (Yes, I'm going to do one someday but no matter now). Many people tell me that "Marathoners are crazy!" and on some level they may have a point. So imagine what it says when a marathoner thinks an Iron Man is crazy.
Actually no, if I'm honest, not crazy. Crazy good. Crazy in shape. Crazy athletes that make the rest of us pretend athletes wish we were cut of the same genetically altered cloth.
How far do you want to go? I ask innocently.
Oh, like 2 miles...I am sooooo ick about running. Honestly. Not my thing.
Fine. 6 it is. That's what an Iron Man really means when they say 2.
Let's start out super slow because I kinda want to pick it up on the way back.
Now I've run with this sandbagger before so I'm ready to puke already at what "pick it up on the way back" actually means. I know the strength. And I know sandbagger also knows and is loving every minute of this reverse psychology session.
The Garmin starts up. Yep. Yeppers. Exactly what I expected. The first 4 miles were anything but what a normal human being would consider slow. As I'm gasping for air, I am also looking at this gazelle-like creature who will readily and honestly admit that they are a much better swimmer and biker than runner. Running is kind of like an afterthought. A necessary evil in the Iron Man trifecta.
Some people just have a way of pissing you off unintentionally. Yet, you can't really get mad at an inspiration. All you can do is sing "A-nni-hi-la-tion" to the tune of Rod Stewart's "Infatuation" in your head on the way back by yourself while Iron Man is picking it up.
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