Unsubscribed, Milestones, and Crying

What a whirlwind the last two days have been.  You may recall I am not a roller coaster fan.  Once, someone tried to use a Cedar Point pickup line which was met (after the "oops, I do an ill-timed laughing thing") with immediate disdain at the thought of being inside an amusement park.  It's pretty much repulsive to me. 

And yet, the ups and downs of the last two days have Deloreaned me back to The Magnum, The Beast, and even a thousand times on The Cheetah Chase at Busch Gardens.  Hey, I may hate amusement parks, but I've always adored being a mother. 

From the 50 degrees yesterday to the school closing/work from home day today; from the "ugh I feel like I just got punched in the gut" yesterday to the "man, this is unbelievably awesome!" today; to the "I'm digging my hair" yesterday to the "where is a hair twisty and a paper bag?" today...what an absolute up and down, corkscrew of a ride it has been.  All in under 48 hours.

Such is life, 'eh?

The alarm went off at 4:10am yesterday, as per usual.  Evan had a packed house and for some reason, that equals the equivalent of my Italian grandmother's hot, tiny, aroma-filled kitchen with about 20 of us interrupting each other while 40 hands are a flailin'.  Since no one can get a word in edgewise, people somehow think that by raising their voice someone will have to hear whatever the hell they are saying.  Uh, no.  Not so much.  By the time I realized how nutty it was inside of Absolute Results yesterday (Hey Beth, did you get 20 in when I saw you, Saturday?  Oye, Steven, WHERE are you going tonight?  Hey, I won't be here Thursday, going to Florida.  Hey look!  A bird!  How many reps?  OMG, Steve, are you new?  He said 15 of each! [that was my contribution to the chaos]), all I could do was smile and keep throwing punches with 10 pound weights in my hands.  I don't think EvanHitler can keep time, by the way. 

I met a good friend for lunch yesterday and it was a long conversation.  Mostly because by the time I arrived, I looked like Alice Cooper.  Ugh.  So much for the good hair day.  But here's the thing: instead of crying on the way up the coaster, I finally had the cry I needed to have on the way down.  That one final...I'm off this thing cry.  The realization that I went on it even though I was afraid to, I rode it at warp speed, and now the ride has come to a complete and final stop.  I sat in my car in the parking lot of the restaurant before walking in, just sitting, staring, kind of waiting to raise the lap belt and step back onto solid ground.  Once I mustered enough composure to grab the door handle, even though my stomach was still in knots, out I went.  Back into the world of I'm only riding the old-fashioned cars from now on.  

(And only with girlfriends.  Or a chauffeur if he calls me "Miss Daisy" / "Your Excellency").

After lunch, I arrived at the high school for a two-fold reason:  I filmed a video for the LLS campaign which kicks off next week, and I had an appointment with Liv's guidance counselor.  Apparently there is a big change for the incoming 2015 Seniors.  And also apparently it is espionage-punishable if any of these kids even hint about its composition to their parents.

I've met her counselor exactly one other time (note:  Liv, this is your THIRD year in High School, so see?  I'm not totally up in yo grill.).  He was thoroughly prepared in anticipation of my questions surrounding the whole what the heck is dual credit vs. college credit vs. what transfers vs. does she qualify vs. does she even TALK to you about this stuff? that just as I began to be impressed by his preparedness and settle in, it was an immediate wow.  Just wow. 

There was so much to navigate and dissect and understand and yet, I knew from both his face and the screen staring back at me that Liv had it all under control.  I sat down, breathed a sigh of relief, started to smile and yep... cried.

Man I am in so much trouble at graduation.  There's no way.  I suppose I'll just have to start banging to "Poison" or the apropos "School's Out" instead of Pomp and Circumstance.  Criminy.

As he started to explain how Liv is right on track with her credit hours, her course selections, her GPA, her application to go through a local college starting in August whereby she will be there 1/2 a day 3 days a week and whatever else he was saying...I trailed off.  I mean, his voice trailed off because I stopped listening.  Instead, all I heard was her little giggle as I pictured her flying high in the baby swing I used to hand crank and send her into the high heavens until dinner was ready.

Now, she's flying on her own.

After the long, reflective walk back into my office late afternoon yesterday, I sat down and began to answer emails.  In felicitous irony, this one greeted my no-longer-bifocal-wearing eyes first:

I have funny friends.  I am unsubscribed, for at least another 9 1/2 years, you jerks.

Next post:  All things Boston.

Cheated

8:03am?  Wait.  Right.  Daylight Savings Time just went down. 

When I first moved to Indiana from Ohio back in 1997, I felt like Eddie Murphy must have felt when he went to Queens in Coming To America.  Really?  What do you mean they don't sell beer in gas stations, have drive-thrus where you can buy a six-pack and a Slim Jim, or change their clocks in "this part" of the State?  That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard.  I just had to take my car to some creepy Breaking Bad-like emissions station place so I could pass a goofy test before I plunk down $450 bucks for ONE license plate, and now you're telling me they don't Fall back or Spring forward here either? 

Turns out that be careful what you wish for thing is sometimes true.  They may have been onto something.

After 20 miles on the iced over greenway yesterday, I could have not lost that hour of sleep and been pretty appreciative.  We haven't been able to run on the greenway in months, so to see our old friend brought an instant smile to our faces.  "Hey...I remember you...let's do this thing." 

It was a decent run, despite almost cracking my tail no less than 6 times.  When you can actually see the ice gleaming up ahead, you can run around it; it's those covered by pretty, white, innocent and pure-looking snow parts that can potentially wreak havoc.  Alas, we avoided any graceful falls, stopped at mile 10 to make a new belt adjustment (having Sponge Bob hips is not useful at times like this) and ran back in negative split style.  20 miles by 9:15am is a good start to any Saturday.

"Hey, Liv, be ready by 11:00, we're going out for a while."
"Why and who's we?"
<ugh>
"Am I seriously like chopped liver?  I know darn well you're not doing anything right now; I also know that you were awake pretending to be asleep when I got back from running and opened your door to check on you; and I also know that on occasion, I can be fun.  So get your butt IN THE CAR by 11:00 or you're not doing anything tonight.  Capish?"
<her "ugh">

So we ran errands and whaaaa?!  Actually talked?  Ok, I am liking this Saturday so far.

But then, of course, it came to a screeching halt because she was texting away during our "bonding time" making side plans to go work out.  Two things:  she knows I'll never tell her no to working out with friends and I.hate.texting.  So, so, much lately.

Ok, no problem.  I got two decent hours in with my getting-ready-to-leave-the-nest kid, so I'm good.  Ah!  I will go grocery shopping while wearing an incognito hat and pretend to be totally zoned out, and then I will go get a long overdue massage.  It's still early, so this will totally work.

Good plan except the only place that had any Saturday openings (schedule ahead, schedule ahead, got it) was Massage Envy.  I'm not a huge fan of that place, primarily because it's like a Costco.  They try to strong arm you into a membership right after massaging your own normally strong arm into a relaxed state of oblivion.  I hate feeling the guilt of "yeah, you just did something super nice for me - which I paid for, but that aside - and now I'm not going to agree to this sales ploy."

Yesterday, however, I was not a fan of that place for different reasons.  Firstly, as I'm sitting in the "relaxation room" (Woodhouse has cornered the market in Fort Wayne on this kind of room... schedule ahead, schedule ahead, got it) I see the Massage Envy Times or whatever home grown magazine they have sitting there, begging me to read it.  "How to Plan the Perfect Date" is headlining the cover, along with two beautiful, clearly in love about to go hiking, picnicking, and whatever-elsing individuals.  Just as I am about to lean forward and grab it out of pure curiosity under the justified heading of one giant educational endeavor, I hear my name.

<Chris, can you just work on the upper right shoulder and that knot/Gibraltar rock thing the entire time?>

Reason number two I was a non-fan yesterday:  it was only a 30 minute massage.  That's all they could squeeze in given my lack of scheduling abilities.  But because they are so thoughtful, they give you 5 minutes to undress and 5 minutes to get redressed, so really, it's a 20 minute massage.  As we walked down the hallway, I assured him I would not need 10 full minutes to accomplish those tasks, so let's shoot for the 26-minute massage package.  That's 3 minutes short of 4 miles on a good day.

He agrees and just as I was starting to relax, it was over.  Just like that.  In the blink of an eye.  I have no idea what even happened but it went something like...it started, it was amazing, and then it was over.

I laid there, with my head in that circular placeholder thing which leaves the sweet ring around the face reminder that you are supposed to feel better!  Only I didn't.  It wasn't long enough.  And I felt cheated by time once again.

Living by the watch when you're running is one thing.  You get to the checkpoints and you look.  Ok, I'm on pace.  I'm doing this.  I'm gonna get there.  Or sometimes, you're way behind and no matter how hard you push, you can't get there.

The older I get I'm realizing (as obvious as it is) there is not one thing any of us can do to stop it, to slow it down, or even go back.  Time goes on whether or not you want your kid to grow up, to hit a certain milestone age, to make a song stop playing, or to get the cookies out of the oven before they burn.

There is zero way to stop time in this life, but if there was, I'd read that article for sure. 

Whoop...time to get ready for church so we're not late.  I got this morning's prayers all lined up.

Morning conversations

4:10am:  "Going back to bed, have a good run."
4:10:03am:  "K"
(Me simultaneously closing and rolling my eyes while tossing and turning)
4:11am:  "Ugh, never mind.  Peer pressure!  On my way."

We've already logged a lot of hilly miles this week, and in roughly 8 hours, we are going to log 20 more.  I really wanted to fall back asleep this morning for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being:  I was/am straight up tired.  But by the first quarter mile, as the crisper than expected air hit my face, I smiled.  Right decision.

Running elicits an immediate sense of peace, of purpose, of calm for me.  When I'm out there, so many thoughts fill my brain at once; yet somehow, it's as if they are all coming at me in slow motion, mercifully allowing me to dissect them with surgeon-like precision.  Some thoughts are hilarious recounts of quips that have made me laugh so hard I will never forget the moment they were uttered and by whom; other thoughts are not so funny. 

Many are somewhere in between, allowing me to find my groove and proper pace instead of swinging my still (always) sore triceps back and forth so fast, as if somehow making it hurt more will make everything else hurt less. 

"Beth and I are going to do negative splits at the half.  What pace are you going out, Doug?"

"Not very fast to start, like 6:45."

(I mumble something unladylike under my breath from about 10 steps behind them)

"There are a lot of turns, and you finish straight up hill," I try to yell over my panting.

"Aw, man, you didn't tell us that! " Doug yelled back, not panting, as I was swinging my arms out of necessity instead of pissed-offedness trying to get up that sucker without losing pace.

"Yeah...how's it feel?" I sarcastically respond to the infamous hill-lover. 

These are the kind of conversations that take place, along with making fun of Moody Blues- background-music-playing-all guy-yoga classes as cross training.  Oye vay.

No agendas other than one goal.  It's more refreshing than the cold air on a sleepy Friday morning.
 
See you in the morning, 20 miles.  We have a lot to discuss.

Thornbirds

Sometimes, something which happens in the course of the day will inspire me to write.  Ok, I HAVE to remember to blog about that later, the little transcriptionist inside my head diligently notates.  But by the time the day is done, so am I.  Really all I want to do is come home, slip into some cozy sweats and a North Face, pull my hair into a pony, light the fire and just chill.  It doesn't happen nearly enough.  Though as soon as I'm done with this entry, tonight will mark the first time in March it's definitely happening - mostly in honor of the premiere of Suits at 9pm - but also because I am in desperate need of some chillaxing.  And a massage, I could really use one of those too.

"Man, you're movin' today!" Doug said during yesterday's hilly 8-miler.
"No s%@*!" retorted a normally expletive-free Mike.

"I run best when I'm mad."

Maybe that's the secret - channeling all things negative into one giant positive.  Actually, it's no secret at all...it's life.  I read a quote in the latest Runner's World which instantly resonated (I'm thinking of wallpapering my office in quote-laden sticky notes, that's how much I love and appreciate good ones):

Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.                          
      --Haruki Murakami, author of What I Talk About When I Talk About Running

Accept it wasn't optional for one man over 2,000 years ago.  It's been interesting to me to hear of the things people are "giving up" during this Lenten season which began yesterday, Ash Wednesday.  Some people give up Facebook.  Others give up chocolate.  Or coffee.  Or some other vice.  On and on with the eradicated things in a futile 40-day effort to repay the price which was gifted for our salvation.

And it's all just stuff.  We give up stuff.  The irony is, we don't need the crap in the first place.

You wanna know what I'm giving up?  Me.  That is, the "me" that was trudging along blindly without any fortitude or intentionality.

That is NOT to say I'm going back to the old me who foolishly planned everything either.  I can't.  You can't.  We can't.  The unknown is supposed to be unknown for a reason - so we can learn and grow on the path towards our final destination.  It's the journey and how well we choose to live it that matters.

Learning from mistakes.  Righting wrongs.  Being strong in the face of adversity.  Saying what you mean.  Meaning what you say.  You know, the basics which we so easily take for granted or push to the side in favor of skirting fears and trying to control our own destinies.

I know I'm destined to fail at times.  I know I'm destined to screw up a lot of times.  I know I'm not always the person I think I am or that deep down, I secretly want to be.  I know when it's my fault.  And I know this because I live with me and the reminders every day which is kind of punishment enough.

However, I also know there is hope in this world even though more times than not, all things negative threaten to rob us of that novel idea.  But I choose to continue to believe in it nonetheless, because I recognize things for what they are.   

For the next 39 days of Lent, I am going to journal nightly and get back to my roots. (Note: Chels, coming to visit...please make me your famous turkey tacos and find a flatter pillow so my neck doesn't get all jacked up-thanks, love you.)  I'm a big believer that's where we should go when we're lost, when we need comfort and guidance - back to the basics.  As it says in John 15:5:  "I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." 

So true.  We need Him.  Because we do a mighty fine job of messing everything up when we forget that, and besides, I like hope.  Unlike suffering, it is not optional for me.

"Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all."  --Emily Dickinson

 

On Family

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

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

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

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

Me:  "No."

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

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

Me:  "That was your other sister."

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday, Bean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Beanie,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And wonderful and unique you are. 

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

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

I love you,
Mom

In My Prime

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silly, silly man.

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

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

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

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

Maybe next year.  This year is Boston.

Where'd You Go Bernadette

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

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

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

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

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

So I cried some more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Running in Shorts...Almost

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

17 minutes.  Let's go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Recovery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someday.

Day Whatever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditions, Celebrations, and 82 days

Last year, when I was campaigning for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, something crazy happened.  I qualified for the Boston Marathon.  Finally.

In the midst of what can only be described as a complete and utter whirlwind, where 3-4 hours of sleep per night became the norm and a 17-day stint of pneumonia threatened to put the kibosh on anything other than dry toast, I packed my bags on a Friday afternoon after work and drove 9 hours to Birmingham, Alabama.  By myself.

The LLS campaign was one of the proudest and most worthwhile moments in my life.  Raising money to tell cancer to go screw itself, all in the name of an amazing 4-year old little dude named Greyson, was indescribable.  The camaraderie, the support, the solid friendships, and the all out effort is something I will never, ever forget.

Now, prior to being asked to run for the campaign, I had already signed up for a February 17th marathon.  In Alabama.  Why, you ask?  Good question.  Originally, I had trained all summer and was signed up for a "normal" marathon in Indianapolis on November 5th.  Yep...right here in good 'ol Indiana, less than 2 hours from home.  Roughly 2 weeks before that marathon, something similar to this dialog happened:

<Liv:>  Mom, where are we taking Mariam for her 16th Birthday?
<Me:>  When?
<Liv:>  November 5th.  I told her we'd take her to Chicago, so say Chicago.

Ok, so what's a Mom to do other than ask her only daughter if she had maybe noticed the training which had been occurring ALL SUMMER?  With a look of complete angelic ignorance, she indicated she had not taken the slightest notice and mumbled something about how it wasn't her fault because I always run.  

It's never her fault, I should not have been surprised, and Chicago was a ton of fun.  (I love Mariam to pieces, second "daughter" that she has become over the years).  Liv and I have been through a lot together in her (almost) 17 years and my (always, henceforth) 29 years.  Alone girl-only vacations are a staple and a tradition with us; never will a race take precedence.

Upon completion of our celebratory birthday weekend in the windy city, I came home and looked for Boston qualifier races.  Training was done, and there was no way I had the patience or wherewithal to continue running 40+ miles a week through May which is when most Spring marathons take place.  So...Alabama it was.

That trip was also one I will never forget.  Left Saturday morning, straight down I-65 through Nashville (where, mind you, I would love to be right.this.very.second), went to packet pickup, back to the hotel, room service, work, movie, bed.  Up on Sunday morning, toed the line, needed a 3:45 to qualify, ran a 3:41, hit the shower, and back on the road an hour later for the 9 hour trek home.

The whole way back to the Fort, I felt much like Sally Field must have sitting next to Burt Reynolds.  Well, other than she's kind of annoying and whiny and I was by myself.  But, you get the point.  Bad ass central.  After going through a divorce less than 2 years before that, whereby I was told I had to "stop running and submit to everything I was told" if I wanted it to work, there's really no other way to describe how I was feeling in that moment.  Very free.  Very healed.  Very ME. 

Much like the marathon, sometimes life is nothing more than an endurance test.  And, I cannot wait to write more about that whole topic in future posts.  Because much like I did during the campaign, I have decided to blog about my training leading up to April 21, 2014.  When I will be in Boston - the one place that I am finally good enough, strong enough, and doggone it...wait.  Was that Sally Field or Stuart Smalley?

Whatever.  I'm going.  In 82 days.

First 20-miler coming up this Saturday.  (Snow, you can take a number and go screw yourself right behind cancer.)

Ah, Artists.

The Grammys.  Yep, watched 'em.  Well, I mostly watched them and of course, as a non-musician, really what I did was rip on some of the outfits while I continued to be enamored with people who ARE actual musicians.  You know, the ones who can make a beat out of anything...even sans the Bop It! which is still snuggled nicely into the game closet, silently waiting for someone to turn it on after years of neglect. 

I am also kind of enamored with John Legend and his hottie of a wife. She's a blogger (and ok fine...a SI model but I tolerate it only because she loves to write, loves her newlywed life, and loves her hottie musician husband) who is unapologetic towards her haters.  And man does she have a lot of them for some reason.  Jealous?  Sure.  Unwarranted?  Maybe.  Irrelevant?  Definitely. 

If you read her blog, you will note that she could give a rat's ass about other people's assumptions regarding her character or how she lives her life. You will also note that her clearly in-love-with-her husband cooks her breakfast and writes little excerpts about the things he finds endearing ("She likes McDonald's Sausage McMuffin with Eggs when she's hungover.  Or crabby.  Or NOW.").

Here's what I noted:  me noting things while watching those two.  Now, noting the noting is annoying and doesn't do a thing to help my obvious afflictions or whatever diagnosis you would like to render.  But alas, just like Mrs. Legend, I don't care.

The parallels were easy for me to draw, even though I draw worse than I sing.  All of her loves all of him.  And all of him loves all of her.  Through flaws and imperfections, bad cooking, haters, stressful situations, the unknown, they are rocking it...together. 

As I watched her watch him sing, I smiled.  As I watched them shut out the rest of the people around them, albeit politely, I smiled.  As I watched them all dolled up, but knowing full well (well, as "full well" as her blog allows) that they normally chill at home in sweats and undone hair, I smiled. 

And when they laughed the way in which only two people who are truly in love and have the exact same sense of humor can laugh, jiggetty-jiggetty-boo! was I glad the TV was turned off.

Swallowing Camels

I've been attending the same church now since 2005.  After 31 year of Catholicism, something deep within me continued to nag and give me this uneasy, unsettled itch.  Not to totally renounce my roots  (I'm incapable of that anyway) - I had a burning desire to learn more, because I wanted to feel more.

Sure, I felt my knees crack every time we genuflected or knelt throughout Mass, but I also felt like a poser, like someone who was there simply walking through the motions.  I knew when to sit, when to stand, when to shake hands and say "Peace Be With You."  I knew when the notoriously late family of eight would walk in and make a beeline to the front pew, all dressed to the nines holding hands like drunk teenagers do as they stumble through overcrowded Haunted Houses in the Fall.  But did I feel anything towards God?  Did I feel "religious?"  What was I supposed to be feeling anyway? 'Cuz whatever it was, I was pretty sure the crappy thoughts running through my head weren't it...

So what do we do when we don't feel like we want, like we have unnecessarily expected, or like we have convinced ourselves we are entitled to feeling?  We leave.  We bolt to another church faster than you can say 'Coffee and Donuts.  Free with fake fellowship after the service.'

Now, am I being hypocritical and saying that my switch to another church was a bad decision?  Not at all.  Here's why:  it is a teaching church.  And for someone who is only "all in" after incessant question-asking, testing, and embarrassing amounts of over-analysis, that was important.  Furthermore, I need to know what I am supposed to do.  How in the world can I decide if I've succeeded unless I know what the rules are, what the goals are, and whether or not I have achieved the aforementioned benchmarks?

(Side note:  A lot of exorbitant fees, a lot of wine, and a lot of true-always-there-for-me-friends-and-family have patiently and kindly reminded me of this personality flaw.  To those lifesavers I say not only THANK YOU, but I have my list of things to do in order to rectify this, and I'm working on it.)

We went to church last night.  It was the second sermon in a series on literally, my favorite verse in the entire Bible.  The series is entitled  'Swallowing Camels' based on Matt. 23:24: You blind guides!  You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel.

No, that verse in Matthew is not my favorite; however, it is intrinsically linked.  Swallowing a camel and straining out a gnat simply means that sometimes, it is all too easy for us to "major on the minors."  We humanly tend to focus a HUGE amount of time, effort, energy, and worry over the small things, at the expense of focusing on the things which are important to God. 

(And yes, you true-always-there-for-me-friends-and-family, I AM in fact thinly veiling this message right now...hang with me.)

What are the important things to God?  My favorite verse explains:

And what does the LORD require of you?  To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.  --Micah 6:8

When I first read the Bible - really read it and FINALLY understood that it is this beautiful story...an active story which we are all a part of, right now, right this very minute, as the story continues to unfold...this verse stopped me in my tracks.  I had no idea why.  I just underlined it and kept reading.

Today I am a little closer to understanding why.  I'm sure it has a great deal to do with the fact that it says we are required to do something.  Super.  I got this.  I can make a list and check stuff off as its accomplished.

Wrong.  The Hebrew translation and those pesky verb tenses, I swear.  "Require" is actually interpreted as "requiring" as in now, every day, all the time.  Ok, fine.  Maybe.  Maybe I'm still in.  First though, maybe I should understand what it is that He is requiring and then I'll decide because it would be silly of me to decide without knowing.  Psh, please.  Who does that?

Last night's sermon dissected the second requirement, the love mercy part.  It's easy to gloss over and think it means "hate when people get treated unfairly."  Which it does and which we should.  But alas, absolutely, and amen brother!, it means SO much more than that.  Hebrew, you're killin' me.

In Micah 6:8, the word for love is "ahavah" and the word for mercy is "che'sed."  Interestingly (or, what I like to refer to as of course it does, how ironic), we are not told to do or show mercy, but to love it. 

Yikes, that's a tall order for a short girl who is all about doing and scared shitless of loving.  (Go ahead, find the verse where it says not to swear.  Christians get a bad rap of being hypocrites; we're actually just normal, sinful people who know unequivocally that Jesus is our Savior.)

So what kind of mercy are we required to love if we can't "do or show" it?  This kind, as it's defined by the Hebrew that is going to make me less scared one day:  a loyal, steadfast love that comes from deep within the heart and just won't quit.

When that definition popped up on the screen last night I started - out of both habit and the 'ol inherent defense mechanism - to roll my eyes.

And then they started rocking Amazing Grace super loudly and the rolling was simultaneously interrupted by tears and asylum-like laughter over how long it has taken me to begin to understand this stuff.

It was at least 8 years ago when I first read Micah 6:8, blindly.  Today when I read it, I finally see.

Cliche THIS, 2013

I helped Liv write a few essays for her English class in 2013.  Mind you, this was after meeting her teacher during Parent-Teacher conferences back in October and coming to the immediate conclusion that he may or may not be aware of a guy named Shakespeare.  (All I could think of when I met him was butter:  Country Crock->Blue Bonnet-->Sonnet.  I have no idea how I got there either, but the dude made me crazy and has no business teaching English.) 

So, it was on.  And by "on" I mean that when Liv asked me to help her write an essay on MacBeth, I was all in.  Should-Be-Teaching-Gym-Class-Instead was going to give me 100% and some extra credit just because. 

Prior to that assignment, I also completed another whereby I was told asked nicely to compare and contrast two medieval novels. 

"I've only read one, Liv, so there's no way," I adamantly explained.

"That's ok, I haven't read either," she said with an Honors English smirk.

There are other moments in 2013 which also left me speechless.  In fact, some of these moments are far too personal to write about, not for the mere reason of oversharing, but rather for fear of unintentional injustice.  Sometimes, there are simply no words which convey the level of emotion, appreciation, and pause that life has a way of beautifully intertwining into the mundane and expected.

Sometimes, the exciting and unexpected hit you like a ton of bricks.  And take down that carefully constructed wall made of jade.

Thank you, 2013.  It happened when I least expected it.

November Rain

After I got back from the last 5 mile run before Saturday's race, I flipped on the outside lights.  Hair wrapped in a towel, boxer shorts and tank top a sportin', I shuffled across the front hallway only to be startled by zombies and a way too young fireman at my front door.

What the hell?  Isn't it raining out?  Isn't it fast approaching the 8:00 shut-this-thing-down-time?  I had half a bag of Sour Patch Kids and 2 bars of dark chocolate in the pantry, candy-wise, to my name, and the dark chocolate is off limits.  I'd grab that first if this place caught on fire.  Is the term "Scrooge" being juxtaposed as I write this?

Liv and I - standing with my wet hair like a live mannequin on display - were communicating through makeshift sign language as if we were sweeping the house for intruders. This, in turn, eventually caused the pint-sized Kurt Russell and clan to give up on our candy-free abode.  Thank goodness.  And to think all I really wanted to do this Halloween was dress up like a cougar.

Tomorrow is November.  Even though Fall officially started in September, I've only ever considered Fall to be here when it feels like it.  So, welcome my favorite season.  I feel you alright.  It's been way too long.  Your smell, your aura, your crisp breath of fresh air, and your ability to make me want to stay under the covers all morning until the piping fresh coffee hits my lips...

My little sister (as in the one who is four inches taller) text me earlier in the week and wanted to know what is on my Christmas list this year.  What a loaded question, I thought.  Asking me what I need makes me as silent as a Tibetan monk contemplating how he should style his hair. 

"Well, I could use a dust buster."

"WTF, are you our mother?  Give me something better than that."

I couldn't.  I can't.  I don't need anything.  Well, other than wine.  I could always use some Riesling. 

Christmas came early for me this year anyway.  Or maybe my surprise 40th present came a little late.  Either way, it arrived and has been the best gift ever so far.

No more refraining, and no more trick-or-treaters dressed up like fireman walkin' in the cold (almost) November rain.  Only cougars sitting in front of fires looking outside at the snow.

parenthetically whimsical

Time.  Where does it go?  People often wonder the question aloud flippantly.  Sometimes the question is posed whimsically.  As with all things, the consideration I have on a topic is pretty much (completely) dependent upon my mood (emotional state and/or is Griffin House or AC/DC playing...). 

On my drive back to the Fort from the D-train earlier today, in between lamenting over the Tribe's non-existence again in the ALC playoffs and someone slamming into my 2-month old car with a grocery cart full of ice picks, I began whimsically trying to locate the time.  Am I seriously already 40?  Is my baby girl really going to look at a college next week?  Are my parents of the age that I used to think was like, a HUNDRED?   

There was no complaining, only contemplation.  Just thinking about where things stand, as they say.  And after realizing in short order that I am simply thankful for life's current stance, I started reminiscing. 

Great.  Another one of these kind of posts, you ask all rightly so-ish?  In my defense, YOU try and box it out with those little bastards inside my head who undeniably know sentimentality is my biggest weakness, yet refuse to become hard-hearted, indifferent, or god forbid, pragmatic. 

When I care about something, or more accurately, someone, I can remember to a frightening extent all kinds of granular details.  I can tell you what they were wearing on a particular day, a sentence they uttered under their breath when I was pretending not to listen, an email exchange, the weather on any given day we spent together, etc. 

And so it was earlier this afternoon when I remembered “Chip” - (please) - a teddy bear Joe gave to Chels the day she got her wisdom teeth taken out and her entire, ginormous face looked exactly like a Chipmunk.  (We grew up with an Alvin, so she went straight for originality).

I remembered Chip because Liv is getting her wisdom teeth extracted this Friday.  Can’t wait.  The only other time she’s been under general anesthesia was when she was in second grade and had her tonsils (and adenoids, but I refuse to use the clearly man-derived acronym abbreviation) removed.  As my sweet baby girl was awakening, she flew into a fit of rage befitted for an angry, fire-breathing dragon protecting the castle’s virgin princess as she is moronically waiting for her stupid knight in that cliché of a freaking tower…wait, where was I going with this?  Oh, right.  I’m totally looking forward to it.

All of it.  When the time is right.  (Which is a good song by Griffin House.)

An Open Book

Admittedly, I find it cute and amusing when someone says the following to me: I know you, Beth.

As much as I wish this was not the case or will be viewed by anyone with seventh-grade mentality as immodest, I am a smidge complex. The layers that Blooming Onion appetizer thing at Outback boasts?  Child’s play.

Are there some people in the world who know me better than others? Rhetorical. Are there some who’ve only known a particular part of me, a part I purposefully chose to allow them to know? Rhetorical as well but I'll give you a clue: the majority.

We all conclude daily whether or not we know someone, particularly someone we just meet. We use "know" synonymously with I could hang with that person easily and go have a beer; they seem really cool.  Subsequently, we use THAT whole conclusion synonymously with man we have a lot in common. But how much do we really know about someone?  I mean really, truly know?

For example, I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that my friends might use some quasi-nice adjectives to describe me (I said friends, not haters.)  Yet, who among men (or women – it’s a saying, people) would know that I relish bookstores and libraries? Honestly, I think most of them would argue  they know there's no way, that I'm just trying to somehow trick them into believing there’s another petal on that onion. But they'd be wrong and I'd be further amused.

I adore books. Not in the traditional "I like to read" sort of way; rather, in an "I am absolutely in love with them” sort of way.  Being a lover of language, I’m not sure if this is due to the adrenaline rush literally being surrounded and ensconced in books causes; or, from the mere idea of the endless possibilities they contain.   Maybe it’s simply because I know the story I want to write.  And how I (still stupidly) long for it to end...

I have a particular affinity for used bookstores. You know, the kind of stores that are bursting at the seams with so many books in racks and bins spilling out onto the sidewalk, beckoning me like dark chocolate and Riesling to come hither and have a look around. How can you not be immediately seduced by the countless titles calling out from the unsteady makeshift shelves haphazardly strewn outside? Stretched out are endless rows of real and imaginary tales beckoning to be discovered by just the right person; that one person with whom the story will resonate, their own life drawing an eerily similar parallel.

Because we MUST know how the story ends.

Once, I picked up a book about Tristan and Isolde.  When I stopped rolling my eyes, I noticed an inscription on the inside cover which read:  “1989 – To my dear friend JK, this needs no explanation.  Always, Anne”  Those words alone stirred up so many immediate emotions.  Where the hell was the dark chocolate and whiskey Riesling hiding in this place?  I had no idea who JK or Anne were, but I absolutely wanted to know their fate…how their story ended.  Come here and tell me, Anne.  That way, I can either rejoice with you or punch you in the head to knock some sense into you.

I've been this way for as long as I can remember. I used to ride my yellow Huffy down to the public library and just sit for hours, secretly wanting to be in charge of the Dewey Decimal System which seemed very Nancy Drew-ish in all its early mystique.  I finally got up the nerve and announced my selfless volunteer position to the Library Director a week after visiting regularly. She laughed; I was serious (her name badge was totally filed under “B” in that cataloguing system.)

The smell, the temperature, the rows and rows of knowledge kept me coming back for more. And as I grew up and found myself away at college, it was that Library anchoring "The Circle" just down from Mirror Lake where I'd go in the middle of the night to rehearse the plays I had written, providing me solace in a time of uncertainty.  Yes.  Yes, I was in control of those endings when I couldn’t even see what my beginnings looked like.

People who "know" me may think it’s silly that I consider such things about plain, old, used books. But I actually think it is because they are so ordinary, so unremarkable in their existence that they are of such unique value.  They are used books, hand-me-down narratives, second and third-time-around stories.  They’ve been beaten up, abused, laughed at, cried over, held tightly, and anxiously awaited. 

These books carry with them the indelible marks of everyday humanity. Much like the people who read them.  The end.

 

The Final Countdown

When I open my mailbox and see Runner's World nestled between all the junk, I immediately smile, bounce resolutely back down my driveway, and remember all the reasons running has enriched my life.  So many reasons for which to be thankful indeed.

This morning I finished reading the September issue (hey, the target audience always likes to be ahead).  Of course I started with the article entitled "Break The Rules," so it was of no surprise that one of my favorite lines was contained therein:

We are each an experiment of one.

Thank god, was the first thing I thought.  How could I deal with two of me?

Last evening, I echoed that same sentiment as Liv and I were at the High School registering for her Junior year, which is crazy enough in and of itself.  An extra $35 bucks so she could park in the "general lot."  Generally, this is costing me an arm and a leg and a whole lot of lost sleep.  She is a mini-me through and through, and coupled with my ability to remember the past in all its pegged-legged Guess jeans, Coca-Cola sweatshirt wearing, 1982 Dodge Challenger stick shift driving glory, I may have to revert to some of my late '80's-early '90's tactics to get through these next few years.

For some reason when Liv retrieved her student ID, there were two cards.  Puzzled, she shuffled down the hallway - pretending still not to know me - when she mumbled sideways and over her shoulder, "Wonder why I have two?"

"I don't know, but lemme tell ya, parenting one of you is all I got.  Love you, babe, but one is enough."

She appreciates the same kind of humor as well.  Real-world is always way funnier to me than forced Jim Carrey-esque efforts.  And in real-time, as Liv and I stood in the never-ending parking permit line, I sent Chels a text.

Were WE this stupid in high school?

She replied immediately, as if she could sense my pain 3 hours away:  I think we were dumber.

Her response made me laugh x2.  Her word choice always cracks me up, along with her (usually) spot on insights.

"Well, for what it's worth, I STILL loathe stupid, fake cheerleaders.  They are the dumbest."

"Same!  Some things haven't changed!"

As I am inside what Europe annoyingly sang back in those all important, moral-forming '80's, I'm especially thankful I know what I like.  And definitely what I don't.

How Much Can You Know About Yourself if You've Never Been In a Fight?

It was early February and I hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time.  My friend and co-hort, Angela, had sent me a simply stated text:  “Stopped at a light by a White Castle.  Sign says they’re taking Valentine’s reservations.”

She has a way about her, that one.

She also has another friend whom she tells me about once in a while.  I don’t quite remember, I think her name is Charlie or Rocky or…wait.  It’s Phoebe.  That’s right.  Angela insists upon sharing stories about this woman with me, mostly because we like to note the extreme plausibility of an alter-ego existing.  A bedazzling one, to be certain.

Since Angela and I are good friends, obvious line-quoters, and do everything in good taste, we immediately agreed to crown Phoebe’s alter ego, “Regina Phalange.”  In reality, however, when surrounded by the typical commoner, her majesty regularly goes by “Pheebs” for short.  Not that she’s short, mind you, but there’s something intimate about calling someone by a name other than their first one.  And we like Pheebs.

We like her because she is messy.  Not unkempt Zul seeks the Keymaster messy; experience messy.  Apparently, she’s been through a lot of crap in her life – of the usual and unusual variety alike – and remembers all of it.  Hell, she can even remember to turn the stove off in twenty minutes. 

Not only do I sit Indian-style with my hands clasped the moment Angela dials my extension and starts the conversation with, “You will LOVE this one,” I also cringe in anticipation, waiting to hear about Pheebs’ latest stalker-de-jour.  No matter how jacked up the story unfolds, I always end up channeling an incurable strain of sorority-cheerleader harpy.   I want to both laugh in Pheebs’ face and befriend her all in one fell swoop.   But mostly, I just want answers to questions.  There will be so many!

“He was how old?  What was she gonna wear, leotards, two-tanks, stilettos, and gold bangle bracelets adorning her entire radius and ulna?  Good god, like she even knows how to crack gum anymore.”

“She seriously threw a right hook when he wouldn’t leave her alone?  Like, Fight Club punch? Good thing she can run fast.”

The stories, while endless and requiring no caption of “You cannot make this s@!# up,” are wearisome.  They’ve quickly become exhausting to both Angela and me, so I can only imagine how Pheebs sometimes feels about all the feculence. 

Lately and admittedly, I’ve been letting Angela go into voicemail, even if I’m in the office when she calls.  Her delivery is more monotone, the stories more hackneyed, and my patience for platitudes has only ever been rivaled by one person.

“Really, that jerk face tried to impress her by talking about his Rolex, his place in Aspen, and the slew of Swiss models and vehicles he stores in his checkerboard floor-lined museum of a garage?  You and I both know she couldn’t care less about money, and that loser can’t tell time, ski, do it, or drive, so c’mon!  Tell me what Pheebs did next!”

“She didn’t do anything, didn’t say a word.   She was just deathly silent when I asked her about the whole thing.  And that’s when I knew she meant it.”

Pheebs giving up is like Moses devouring that pork chop he’s holding in his hairy palm.

Yet the elephant-like irony which Angela and I were grappling over was this:  don’t you have to try to accomplish something first, before actually waving the white flag?  Pheebs hadn’t given up, because she hadn’t been trying.  She’d been avoiding, ignoring, and once in a while appeasing just to keep her relentless friends off her back.

Why did she or anyone else have to adhere to some absurd societal standard anyway?  Her jerk friends know full well she doesn’t need some dude for any of the reasons those broke, wrinkly, perma-smile, sequin-wearing bamboozlers on the prowl at Chop’s need dudes.  Those Midwest floozies are the ones hanging on to every manther’s word which you know they can’t hear over everyone else’s fake laughter anyway.  They make total spectacles of themselves by tossing their fried hair back until an innocent, twirled up finger involuntarily catapults their head right back into place.  Or, conveniently, right smack dab into Richard Rich Sr.’s lap.  Hook.  Line.  Something.

Not to mention, one super-duper jaded Pheebs.

Yet, she had gotten to a place where she was totally fine with her new normal.  And I had selfishly accepted that no more jacked up stories would be coming my way, and Angela and I would be relegated to discussing only real business.

Enter the cliché.

“You will LOVE this one.”

“Nope, I can’t take hearing about it so what else you got?”

“Seriously, this is different.  She wasn’t looking.  It was this whole thing, totally on the up and up, she met him, he was kind of aloof so you know…she was immediately intrigued.”

“Whatever, we know how this story ends.”

I was in no mood to hear about how someone I thought I respected had relented.  How she was now two-timing her druthers in favor of some guy she met when she wasn’t looking.  Hey Nicole Kidman, I don’t give a flying you-know-what if he is Tom Cruise.  Open your eyes.  You have 8-ish inches on him. 

“Fine, I give, what’d she say?”

“Mostly it’s what she didn’t say.  I could tell by the embarrassingly annoying giggle-thing as she was trying to tell me.   I guess it’s easy and …

“Wait,” I interrupt.  “Can he keep up with her in ways that matter?”

“I asked her the exact same thing, because you and I both know what happens when they either can’t or refuse to try.” 

“And?”

“She told me begrudgingly, that was a rhetorical question.  Apparently, he isn’t one bit off-put by her sometimes smarts, mostly because he is smarter; but you and I also know hell will freeze over before she ever admits it to him.”

“Uh-oh.  She never says any of that.”

“I know.  And there was more, something along the lines of wanting to be with him when she wasn’t, thinking about him way more than she ever anticipated, kicking his ass at all-things Milton Bradley, haiku-writing, running, and a bunch of other Hot Pockety gooey kinda stuff that made me want to puke.”

“Yikes, Pheebs is in trouble,” I say to Angela.

And we both just hung up.  Nothing else needed to be said.