WOTY2.0: Fearless

Campaign update in one word?  Wow.

Sure, I know what you're thinking.  "Wow, she never just says ONE WORD about anything."  And you would be correct.  But in my defense, this is an important subject matter and I don't think any of us should ever stop talking about it until cancer is no more.  Eradicated.  Obliterated.  Kiboshed.  Kaput, 86'd, ixnayed...oh, right.  Less words. Got it.

So here's the deal.  People have been working non-stop.  Events are in full swing (thank you, James Ball and Peter Franklin Jewelers for last week), the asks continue every day, and there's no sleep till May 31st, or, Brooklyn for all you fans.

To date, the Fort Wayne team total is:  $45,000 and counting!

Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been continually reminded what a difference their collective effort is making.  Olivia and I attended the Boy and Girl Brunch at SweetCars Saturday morning.  While there were scores of people and really cool cars (think Cobra II driven by Jill Munroe, my least favorite Angel of Charlie's), something was noticeably absent:  The Boy and Girl of the Year.

Caleb is sick.  It's not uncommon to go through peaks and valleys during the course of treatment.  But when that happens, you are instantly put on high alert.  Fighting infections becomes exponentially more difficult.  Your body is busy trying to fight the cancer and has zero time or ability to fight things like a cold.  And as we all know, we can literally only take so much at once.

That's when it's time to send in the cavalry.

Gianna's cavalry arrived at Bishop Dwenger High School on Saturday afternoon.  Cancer invades not just the body.  It simultaneously invades, and pervades, every aspect of people's lives in one fell swoop.  It does not ask for permission; it does not ask for forgiveness.  It just shows up, unannounced and unwanted. And it is our job and duty as members of one big, crazy, intertwined family, to help.

Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers attended Gianna's benefit to supplement the mounting costs of her treatment, much like the overall mission of LLS.  Every effort matters.  I think sometimes people make the mistake of saying, "I can't do very much so what's the point?"  The point is this:  it's cumulative.  It adds up.  Doing something is always better than doing nothing.

Just ask Erin.  I was scrolling through Facebook before I logged on to write this and there she was!:

Erin is the daughter of great friends of mine, and a classmate of Gianna's.  To see this 9-year old sitting there in support of her same-aged friend who is in the middle of a fierce battle, reminds me just how short and sweet this life is.  Quotes about friendship immediately flooded my brain...a good friend will bail you out but a true friend will be right there, sitting next to you... 

Chances are afforded to us every so often in this lifetime.  A chance to forgive, to forget, to move on.  A chance to apologize, right a wrong, and become a better version of you in spite of yourself.  A chance to ignore fear and surpass last time performances solely on the basis of you know you can; like taking that shot at the buzzer, throwing that Hail Mary, or nailing that first kiss.  Fearless do-overs are a beautiful thing.

I want these kids to have their own firsts.  I want them to have their own learning experiences and their own do-overs because that's what life is all about.  We course correct along the way.  And it's high time cancer is off the course and out of the way. 

So while the effort of one five or ten dollar donation might not seem like much, what if EVERYONE YOU KNOW AND I KNOW AND WE ALL KNOW did that?  I may have pretended to hate math in high school, but it's that whole power of numbers thing.  Addition, I believe it's called... Speaking of numbers, if there is only six degrees of separation between any of us and Kevin Bacon, I think that dude should donate.  Who's on it?

Nothing happens if we don't try.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm

WOTY2.0 and Spring Break: Week 3

"Is this it, Mom?"

Feeling like Mother of the Year, I reluctantly answered my sweet, yet apparently-I-like-to-forget-she's-seventeen year old:  "Yep, pretty much."

"But does it like, DO anything?"

"You mean other than being one of the world's seven natural wonders?"

Clearly I've forgotten what it's like to be a seventeen year old girl.  Back in the day, if my mom had announced we were going to the Grand Canyon on Spring Break, I would have politely declined in favor of, I gotta practice my free throws, Mom.  Or watch paint dry.

To her credit, Liv is still very much appreciative of the last 5 days.  I tempered my excitement at the "big rocky thing that looks the same from all directions" as she shivered, threw an arm around her, smiled, and said...Ok, let's roll.  You've officially been to the Grand Canyon.

I may not have had that kind of reaction if our drive there had not been its own debacle.  After leaving our hotel in beautiful Sedona we started the trek north, on a road which instantly causes you to wonder aloud if your affairs are in order.  About half-way there, it happens.  A gust of air and a lot of noise...

When we landed in Phoenix two days prior, I quickly realized it was going to take a lot of extra effort to make this trip fun for Liv.  The weather was better than Fort Wayne but hey, so is Antarctica's lately.  It was not conducive, however, to anything which remotely resembled the possibility of her returning to school with a tan. 

So at the rental car counter, I asked if there were any convertibles available.  I'm all about multi-tasking.  We could have fun, rock out, AND she could catch some rays on the way to our destinations.  Big 'ol Mother's Day card that plays Christina Aguilera's I Turn To You...here I come.

"We have convertible Camaro's."

Instantly transported back to circa 1989 prom:  "Perfect."

(Actually I think it was a Trans Am with T-tops.  And this I only remember because it rendered the Aqua Net hair in danger of reaching neighboring states complete with the obligatory penny roll bangs a total wreck by the time we got there.)

After finding out that the upcharge was the equivalent of Liv's first year college tuition, I opted instead for an even better choice: a soft top Jeep.  Much more me; much more we're going to the Grand Canyon!

Ok, I've always wanted a Jeep but I may have seen the error of my ways even before leaving the underground parking garage at the Phoenix airport.  Not only is unzipping that thing very Middle-East in all its revelry (writer's license, people; don't hit me up with the anti-Semitic anything or I'll send you Chels' contact info and she's a feisty Jew of a best friend) but it's kind of like when you're on a really cool road trip to nowhere, a sign appears, and instantly you scream, "Hey!  Let's go to L.A.!"  only to be bored and tired two exits later.  Brilliant in theory; total time suck in practice.

It was too chilly to go open air on the drive to the Canyon.  My unbelievably gracious, hospitable, and forever friend with whom we're staying in Scottsdale had put everything back together like a neat little puzzle.  Except half-way there, it decides to come undone. 

"Grab that thing, Liv!  Before it flies away and starts rolling around like those desert cacti!"

The entire thing looked as if it was going to be uprooted like a mighty oak and land in Kansas next to some red shoes and a scarecrow.

"Mom!  I can't hold onto this thing any longer!  My arm hurts!"

Part of me wanted to bust out in hysteria; the other part still wanted the giant Mother's Day card next month and knew better.

"Just pull over," Liv begged, her arm in danger of being numb, limp or possibly amputated.

Literally, both sides of the road looked exactly alike:  nothing but nothing and desolation surrounded by beautiful mountains far off in the distance.

"Ok, got it," I proudly announce mid turn. 

And then I see it.

One pickup truck containing two heads roughly 20 feet away.  My stomach sank.  And we all know how I excel at trusting my gut in ALL situations. 

"Mom, are you re-zipping that thing or something?"  "Wait.  Why is that look on your face?"

Sometimes I tell Liv too much; other times, not enough.  The joys of parenting.  Toughest job I (and other parents, I'm sure) have ever loved.

"Just got some dust in my eye, sweets.  No worries."

Well, other than the two still smoking shotgun slugs I stumbled upon while walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep.  It was a scene straight out of Breaking Bad sans the portable meth lab, but NOT sans those two drug cartel guys who had zero lines to rehearse.  Ever.

I love new experiences.  And as I shared with Liv on the drive back to red rock safety shortly thereafter, it's about taking life in, learning from it, determining what you like and don't like, deciding with whom you choose to do things (you preferably both like, but compromise lovingly if not), etc etc.  You know, the serious talky-talk quasi-lecture kind of thing that I'm sure was more about me trying to feel like a better mom than her actually listening since she knows everything anyway.

Here's what I know:  fifteen years later, I am beyond thankful to be here to share these types of experiences with her.  There was a time when I thought she'd grow up without a Mom.  A time when I thought I would miss being there for her first lost tooth, her first heartbreak, and her first near death experience with a faulty Jeep on 89A in the middle of the desert. 

Without a bone marrow transplant, without the determination, perseverance, and knowledge of doctors, and without the support from scores of people that have their own unique experiences and stories, I wouldn't be writing this. 

I've written numerous texts and emails this week as well.  Mostly back and forth to Olivia (as in, Valencic-Miller) cheering her on as she continues to wonder how things are going, if we're on track, if this or that got done.  I remember all too well. 

We ARE on track, things ARE getting done, and she, along with 4 other candidates, is making a difference.

57 days until the gala.  Which means two things:  8 weeks left to donate and if anyone would like to stand next to me that night be forewarned:  Scottsdale has fantastic shopping and I may have purchased a pair of shoes which finally make the height on my high school basketball roster NOT an accidental typo.

Please consider helping the cause.  Donate, come to an event, come to the gala, or all of the above!

On behalf of parents of sick kids...sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors who have or have had sick loved ones...and cancer-surviving mothers of teenagers everywhere:  THANK YOU.

It matters.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm

WOTY2.0: Rising to the Occasion

I have no idea what day it is.  Thursday?  I think it's Thursday.  Someone once told me (probably my Mom...she did end up being right after all) that the older you get, the faster the days go by.  And the weeks.  And the years.

What she didn't tell me is that, when you are in the middle of something which you are incredibly passionate about, you wake up on a Monday morning and ta-da!  You blink and it's Friday night.  Sleep has been taking a back seat, coffee is riding shotgun, and somehow I'm managing to fit more words into the course of my days than ever before.

Yep, this thing is a miracle indeed.

We are in Week 2 of campaigning and the view from my new vantage point is pretty wondrous.  The five candidates involved in this year's effort are amazing.  And yes, believe me, I am totally aware of all the clichés, stereotypes, and whatever other subsequent blabbety-blabs ensue after making a statement like that.

Except, they ARE amazing and they are doing incredible things together.  The trick when you're going after a goal is tuning out all the ancillary noise, because in the end, it's insignificant.  What's the saying, haters gonna hate?  Let 'em is what I say.

Here's why.  In addition to a myriad of reasons, meet one of the most important ones, Caleb:

Caleb is this year's Boy of the Year.  This photo was taken last Thursday, one day after the Campaign Kick-Off, as he's walking into the hospital for treatment.  In his hand, he holds a John Deere tractor which Mel picked out for him and we gave him at the kick-off party.  Gianna received an art set; drawing is one of her passions.  I know nothing about farming or drawing.  Ask me to draw an ear of corn and the phrase "starving artist"  is suddenly redefined.

But I do know something about passions.  We all have them scattered within us; sometimes they are realized, sometimes not.  For the next nine weeks, this year's Fort Wayne contingent is doing all they can to ensure Caleb, Gianna, and multitudes of other cancer patients will have the chance to seek, find, and pursue theirs to the fullest. 

(So attention Starbucks:  we will not run out of energy if you will not run out of Venti cups.  Don't even get me started on "Trenta."  It's too much.  Literally and figuratively.)

My friend and WOTY candidate, Olivia, goes to work every day and carries out her passion for teaching teenagers.  Yesterday, I received a text from her that simply said, "Look at this." That's all she had to say; I could feel her emotion through the phone.

Here is what I saw:

An anonymous envelope.  Filled with two-fold inspiration.  Was it from a parent?  An admin?  A fellow teacher?  Olivia has no idea, nor does anyone else, hence its anonymity. 

I choose to think it's from a student.  Maybe even a girl who is struggling to find her way, her meaning, her purpose, her value, her worth, or her own identity.  One who, despite her constant efforts at trying to please others in an ongoing quest for self-acceptance, has a deep-seated love for the human race.  And she wants to help.

Or maybe that student is a boy who is struggling to find his way and his own set of values much like his female peer, but he doesn't want to seem uncool by quoting a Golden Age of Freethought orator.  (Note to teenage girls everywhere: go out with the guy who does...TRUST me.)

But isn't this what it's all about?  Coming together as a united front to be motivated by others with whom we live our daily lives for the greater good?  To make a difference?  To read things like:

"We rise by lifting others... Thank you for all that you do - it matters."

We may never know who donated to the collective cause, nor do we need to.  We need only remember that in this world, every life matters.  And it's our job, our duty, and our honor to keep going...to fight the good fight on behalf of those who are struggling...to pay it forward, and most certainly...to give others a lift.

Keep rising, guys.  You're doing this thing.

WOTY2.0: The Stories We Tell

The last four days have been a lock stock and barrel whirlwind, to be sure.  Wednesday night was the official campaign kickoff at Club Soda.  Let me tell you how that went, because it was an absolute profusion of sentiment.

As per my usual lately, I was completely blindsided by the emotional opulence the night brought.  And also per my recent usual, I was pretty much ill-prepared for how to deal with it properly.  As we walked in, there were many familiar faces in the cozy, surround-by-glass-on-two-sides room.  I greeted my long lost and newly engaged buddy with a giant hug and a “Mikey!” screech; he’s running for Man of the Year (sorry, dude, I know you donated to my campaign last year but one word:  Olivia. <still love you>!).

Other hugs and greetings were exchanged by all and the program commenced.  This is Melanie’s first year as the campaign director, and she’s doing a fantastic job.  Stepping into the ring was a giant leap of faith for her and she’s knocking it out of the park.  She gave an overview of the evening, explaining the time lines along with a multitude of other details before turning it over to Gianna’s Dad, Chris. 

Gianna is this year’s Girl of the Year.  She’s 9 years old and has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, the most common childhood leukemia.  That girl is quite possibly THE most photogenic child I’ve seen in my entire life with a head full of beautiful dark flowing curls.  She is bubbly with lots of personality and a side of sparkly attire.  Gianna was making her own rounds, holding hands with Caleb, the 4 year old Boy of the Year, while brightly smiling through her hot pink lipstick adorned mouth.   She is the picture of perfect effervescence.

Chris began to recount “the story.”  Cancer always has a story, does it not?  Something Chris poignantly said, I remember myself all too well:  it’s the unknown that is the worst.  Once the diagnosis arrives, time stands still.  Nothing makes sense.  It’s as if words become nothing more than faint and distant echoes; people react and respond in ways you’ve never seen or thought possible; and fear takes a swift stranglehold.  His voice began to crack as he disclosed that Gianna has something called the Philadelphia Chromosome.  My ears perked and a chill immediately shot down my spine.

The Philadelphia chromosome (Pc) is a reciprocal translocation between chromosome 9 and 22.  I know this because I had it, but I had no idea Gianna did until the moment Chris announced it.  He went on to say the odds are instantly cut in half when Pc is present and I watched from the back of the room as many eyes began to water, the side conversations coming to an end.  “As Gianna likes to say, ‘CANCER SUCKS’,” Chris told us before concluding the gut-wrenching story.

Melanie told me I would be speaking at some point to announce this year’s candidates and go through their care packages and other housekeeping items.  Yeah…I spoke.  Immediately after Chris.  All I can say is that there are moments in life when things make just as much sense as the times when they do not.

As Mel introduced me, that same faint, distant echo I heard the day (December 12^th, 1998) my Doctor told me I had leukemia showed up out of nowhere.  Kind of like the moment you know you’re about to run into that person after a long absence and you freeze, shell shocked by the overwhelming emotions which come flooding back to the surface, no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury them. 

Through muffled sounds, somehow I knew when to stand up and walk up front.  And somehow I knew even though I had nothing prepared to say, introducing the candidates in that moment wasn’t going to happen.  This campaign is so much bigger than any of us  (excluding Caleb, Gianna, and their families) in that room, and I needed to acknowledge a few things first.

Cancer is stupid.  So, so stupid.  I remember watching my parent’s faces just as I see Gianna’s parent’s faces now; I remember their pain of not being able to do anything to make it stop, to take it all away.  I remember feeling the pain on my own face simultaneously, as I looked at my tiny daughter, wondering if she would grow up without her mom.  Fear of the unknown.  How does this story end?

But hey, Gianna…I also remember when the Doctors told me I had the Philadelphia chromosome too – and yet I’m standing her today so you can see what hope looks like.  Someday, YOU will be doing the same thing.

I love when people come into each other’s lives to share experiences.  Far too many times we believe things we read or hear from sources that are either suspect or have their own agendas.  Sometimes, the stories people throw out there in an effort of personal catharsis end up damaging others and thwarting any future hope, as unintentional (or not) as it may be.  And it is our job to stand together and say, “Hey, unless you’ve walked in these shoes, you can’t know.”

What we DO know is this:  the landscape looks different than it did 15 years ago because of R&D; there are choices and options and ideas and people who care.  People who are working together to find a cure.  And some of those people reside right here in Fort Wayne.

We will all keep working as hard as we can together over the next 9 weeks.  Because we all know it matters, and we all know the characters in every story are special and unique, just like the stories themselves.  Unknown endings and all.

So keep rockin’ those curls and that smile, Gianna.  We're on your side.

(To help make a difference, please go to: http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
and donate.  Thank you!)

 

 

 

 

A Year Later: WOTY2.0

Last year, I endeavored on a journey which was ineffable.  When I was asked to campaign on behalf of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in an effort to raise massive amounts of money in a short amount of time, truthfully, my stomach sank.  While I already knew my answer was a resounding "YES," I was scared.  For many reasons.

Hearing that the prior year's Man and Woman of the Year raised somewhere around $50,000 each, I knew the task ahead would be daunting.  What if I fail?  What if I let people down?  What if people tell me no?  Those things have all happened to me throughout my lifetime on more occasions than I care to recall; yet, I am able to do so with precision detail.  The memories never leave me alone. 

I envisage every time I've failed; all the times I have let people down (mostly those whom I've loved, just for an added dose of guilt, pain, and suffering); and all the times when the answer in the end was "no."  I was scared it would happen again.  Aren't we supposed to learn from our mistakes / avoid traveling outside our perceived comfort zones for the purposes of self-protection and self-preservation?

Further, my stomach was in knots on the other end of the phone due to my straight up indecision.  Indecision in and of itself throws me into a tizzy. 

"Beth, are you there?  Do you need time to think about it?"

<The voice in my head>:  OMG, are you silent right now?  What?  For the first time ever, you have nothing to say?  Are you not thankful after being saved?  You're alive for a reason, you know.

<The other voice in my head>:  Yeah, only I still have not yet figured out what that reason is and I'm not sure I even deserve to still be here.  No one else made it.

<Voice of reason>:  Stop being a martyr.  Martyrs annoy you.  Excuses annoy you.  Complacency annoys you.  DO something about it.

<Voice of emotion/doubt/fear>:  Where the heck are you when I'm dating/in a relationship?

"I'll do it.  I am all in."

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

The money we raised in Fort Wayne last year made a difference.  It mattered.  We came together as a united front to tell cancer - We will NOT relent.  We will NOT give up.  We may not have yet found a cure, but you will at least know we were there.  Fighting together.

It was an unbelievable journey and to this day, I am unbelievably grateful for all the support of family, friends, and complete strangers.  Because when it comes to cancer, none of us are immune.  We have all been affected by it someway, somehow, and many times, in profound, life-altering manners.  Life is NEVER the same after a diagnosis. 

But here's the thing about life:  you can either face it, or run away from it.  And I choose the former. 

This year, I'm choosing it again as I support my neighbor, friend, and quite possibly separated-at-birth-by-7-years (my only disdain for the woman) sister who graciously agreed to become a candidate for this year's campaign.  Here's how it happened:

I sit on the LLS Nominating Committee/Board/We Decided Last Week We Need a Better Descriptor Team.  There was some turnover within LLS after last year's campaign; and honestly, no one was stepping up.  After such a successful team effort involving many, many people just months before, it felt like a huge kick in the gut.  Like the collective wind had been taken out of our sails and we were just bobbing up and down, alone, far from shore or anything that even made sense.  A few men had committed to campaigning; ZERO women had committed and even worse, there were no more names on the list.

We threw around some ideas and feigned excitement.  In the end, we decided the best decision might just be to approach a local hospital and have some nurses in the Oncology unit form a "Women's Team."  Until...

I was sitting in my office at work one day and an email from Patti O'Neal (owner of Cakes Boutique:  https://www.facebook.com/CakesBoutiqueFtWayne) arrived.  Patti is also on the committee and in fact, is supporting the other WOTY candidate (Say whaaaa?  Women, competition, clothes and they can STILL get along for a good cause?  Yeah.  Adults fighting cancer, people.)

"I have the perfect candidate.  She just left the store.  I would be surprised if she doesn't commit.  Oh!  And she said Beth's her neighbor...Beth, hope that's ok!"

I was flummoxed.  Literally, I just moved to this new neighborhood 4 months prior to reading the name Olivia Valencic-Miller on my screen.  How is this happening?  Oh yeah, she's the cool neighbor!  I remember now...

Liv and I moved to our new home last September. September 27th to be exact.  I know this because the F4F half-marathon was the day after and note to self:  bad, bad idea to be on your feet moving desks and chairs and couches and stuff for 17 hours the day before a race.  Epic fail, but fun nonetheless. 

As Liv and I were standing in our driveway, boxes hoisted high upon our shoulders while sweating grotesquely and profusely, a little car comes zipping around our cul-de-sac.  Screeching to a halt, I see this bubbly, blonde, smiley woman (totally not sweating or grotesque) yell out to Liv, "Hey Olivia!  You moving in?" 

On and on they carry this comfortably familiar conversation while I'm standing there like chopped liver.  "Um, hey, I'm Beth."

Head nod. "You social?"

And the rest, as they say, is history.

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

Olivia and I became fast friends, not really hanging out much initially, but there was just this understood and immediate bond.  I had no idea why.  At least not at first.

One day we were talking (I think when she bailed me and my dead battery out before work one morning; Liv texted her for me) and we began to share some of our back stories.  I mentioned the usual:  divorced, Liv's my only kid, in sales, go to Emmanuel, moved from a house near Homestead...

"I'm a teacher, at Homestead."

"Cool, what do you teach?"

"English"

(Ah, now I know why I like her so much.)

"I'm actually the English Department Chair there."

(A lot.)

"I've always enjoyed writing.  I clearly remember my parents taking me to Back to School Night when I was in 7th grade whereby my English Teacher told them I was a 'pretty' writer."  "My Mom elbowed me to shut up because she knew I was about to tell him that was a bad adjective choice in context."

Olivia laughed.  We went on a bit longer with the neighborly pleasantries, and then somehow it came out that I had leukemia right after Liv and I moved here from Ohio when things kind of all went south in a hurry.

"How old was she when you were sick?"

"Not quite two."

"I had your daughter last year in my English class.  She wrote about you."

"What?"

"I feel like I knew you before I ever met you.  I remember reading about a single mom battling cancer as her parents were getting divorced and how you were in the hospital for over a month and she only got to see you twice."  "Her story stuck with me; she loves you greatly."

By this time, I'm in tears.  I would have never known. 

As I continue on this incredible journey called life, I become even more acutely aware that God brings people together at just the right times, for just the right reasons.  People come and go, popping in and out of our lives all the time.  Some we forget; others we know there's no way we ever will.

Even before something happens, all of us inherently know when we are about to share something so profound with a person, a team, a group, or a community, that the unification and common end-goal will change us at our core forever.

And so it begins for us.  Our team.  En masse once again to do our part in finding a cure.  We are in this thing together.  No matter our gender, our skin tone, our socioeconomic situations, our cars, our shoes, our similarities, or our differences or our misunderstandings - we ALL hate cancer.  None of us can stand to be rendered defenseless, watching helplessly as we or those whom we love lose someone to its ugliness.

"I'm doing this for you, Beth."  That's what Olivia told me.  In the midst of a never-ending To Do List, this single mother in the eye of the storm is raising two young kids while selflessly teaching other people's kids about Longfellow and what it means to give back.  She's leading by example as she makes positive changes and choices in her own life.  She's outside of her comfort zone.  She's making a difference.

And I am proud of her. 
Let the campaigning begin. 

Watchmen

Exactly 5 weeks from today, I will be in Boston.  Hopefully by this time of the evening, we will be sitting downtown enjoying post-race activities, good conversation, and lots of laughing.  It won't even matter that my hips will be so sore I'll be hobbling around like Kathy Bates paid a visit to my hotel room.

I've been improvising the runs lately.  Not totally off track - no pun intended - just slightly off the plan a little.  Hey, story of my life and course corrections are nothing if not endurance building.  I typically run on Friday mornings, but last week the weather was once again a jerk.  So, I pulled a two a day on Thursday, cross training in the morning; abandoning all things "should do" and lacing up the shoes in the late afternoon.  It was beautiful outside and snow was on the way.

With only one layer on the top and bottom for a change, a pair of lightweight gloves, and some shades, I hit the end of the driveway smiling.  Ah.  Peace and...no.  No quiet.  I was jamming.  Music lifts my spirits like nothing else.  I'm kind of hooked on an Alanis Morissette song right now, so she and I were hanging at a fast clip with our Guardian.  Just as I cruised past the covenant-breaking Cousin Eddie RV a few houses down, I saw her.  And I don't mean Alanis.

Crap.  Crappity-crap-crap.  She's way faster and she's smiling.  Can I run backwards or would that be too obvious?  I had forgotten that the leader of our PR Training group has lived here for years.  She's been to Boston; she's won lots of local races; she is no joke out there.

Hey Beth!  How far ya going?

Um, just 6.  You done already?  (mind you, she's almost home)

Well I was, but I'll go with you!!

Swell.

It's kind of like when you're on the treadmill at the Y minding your own business.  You don't necessarily mean to pick up your pace when some well intended soul hops on next to you.  But then it just kind of happens and before you know it, you can't breathe and you quickly realize you have hit middle age in one big ass fell swoop.

So she and I are talking about kids, comparing the stories of teenagers, instantly making the pain of the now really stupid pace seem like sugarplums and fairies.  We hit the greenway and headed east.  The weather was weird; warm-ish and bright out, but mounds of dirty snow and broken branches still splattered the once in a while clear path. 

The good news in all of this is that my new bright orange race shoes no longer looked like first day of you're getting made fun of school shoes.  I ran through mud, water, stones, mulch, pretty much every kind of terrain sans a piece of gnarly-hard (even though you only chewed it for a second before popping your jawbone) Bazooka.

Ok, I'm gonna head back now so I don't have to run through that huge snow pile.  Sorry if I slowed you down!

Oh, so soon? Ok, thanks for coming with me for a bit.  And uh, no.  You definitely didn't.

(How I got that out verbally in response is an act of something miraculous)

Ok, 1 more mile east and then time to flip and get this one in the books.  So just as I was back to both a comfortable pace and the tunes, I see another impediment on the greenway.  Like, a lot of them.

Great, no where to run, I thought.  The song instantly starts blaring in my head.  Thank you, Paul Stanley.  KISS this.  Why does everything instantly equate to a song anyway?  Gotta work on that.  Maybe over the weekend.  Loverboy!  Damn it!

A new Starbucks is under construction on the south side of the road.  I saw a Bobcat being operated by what must have been either an illegal alien or a 4 year-old.  A gaggle of Amish teenage boys stopped watching whatever their little bro was trying to do because I guess they've never seen pasty white shins coming at 'em before. 

Man, there's no song for this.  Not only am I going to have to navigate a John Deere, I'm going to have to fight my total incuriosity of what is happening in roughly 10 more strides. 

Yo, wuz up Vanilla Ices?

I have no idea where that came from.  Seriously.  All I can cop to is that I was overtired, deliriously happy to see rays of sunshine, and in an ornery mood.  By the time it flew out of my mouth, I was already past them and wondering if I actually said it out loud.

Little things like that entertain me for hours. 

Here's hoping I can find something highly entertaining 5 weeks from now on the course.  Preferably, something that will last exactly 3 hours, 39 minutes, and 59 seconds. 

Or maybe if I'm lucky, even a little less.

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.