You're Watching What?

For the last three years my TV has been a device I've used largely for Office and 30 Rock marathons and the occasional it's-way-too-cold-or-I'm-way-too-lazy-to-leave-the-house workout sessions.  I'd easily go a couple weeks without turning it on, finding clipping recipes out of my various cooking magazines, reading, writing, running, or blowing things up in the kitchen to be infinitely more entertaining than the boob tube. 

I've always held myself to be somewhat superior to those who watch TV often. I feel much more sophisticated, a renegade, really, in my dismissal of the harbinger of all things socially relevant. I read, I blog, I write poems, surely I cannot be brainwashed by that insipid box.


But a couple weeks ago the TV (a hand-me-down from my parents) actually died.  The sound is fine but the screen rolls in waves and squiggles, not pleasant to stare at for any length of time.  So I've been TV-less for many days now and, I have to admit, I rather miss it.  I miss the 30 Rock intro music.  It has crept up in my dreams more than once. But my real concern isn't my current lack of DVD capability (althought that is a mild frustration), my bigger issue is that I crave really, really bad television.

I blame the gym.  They have those groovy little HD contraptions glued to every machine and they have the Bravo Network, which means I can watch hours upon hours of reruns of Top Chef All-Stars.  And I can cattily giggle at Joan River's snarky ripping apart of all things fashionable on the E channel.  I've even watched Real Housewives of Atlanta, heaven help me.  And I found myself connecting emotionally with one of the characters who not only married an ex-con but now wants to open a funeral parlor.  I liked her eyeshadow.  WHAT IS GOING ON?

I'm telling myself that this is really just the inherent laziness of late winter doing me in mentally.  I've lost it.  My mind has rejected the cold and, unable to survive without heaps of escapism, has turned to TV trash based in warmer climates or involving scantily clad celebrities who can't wear Armani to save their lives.  Once it's sufficiently warm enough to quit the gym and return for 6-7 glorious months to the pavement, I'll leave my new found TV obsession behind.  Happily. 

But for now, bring on the mental junk food.

Tallulah

I met Stephanie while in law school.  She, Kat, and I were inseparable, and many of my posts at the birth of this blog were inspired by our threesome's experiences with New Orleans, studying, and testdriving as many fancy cheeses and cheap wines as law school loans would allow. 

The bulk of my girlfriends, aside from Kat and Steph, are single.  Kat and Steph are two of my dearest ladies, and they also happen to be my closest friends who are married.  As is befitting that station, first comes love, then comes marriage, and now there's a baby carriage in the mix...

Steph is a Mama now, and has only recently entered that (I imagine) tenuous, thrilling, exhaustive period of figuring out how not to break the baby.  Itty bitty babies seem highly breakable to me, despite billions of them surviving babyhood every year.  I imagine this fragile-ness would feel all the more acute if you were actually said baby's mother.  So despite her son's big, healthy babyness, I imagine there is an element of "holy crap, I hope I don't screw this up!" coursing through her days, which would only be exacerbated by lack of sleep (again, this is just supposition on my part, I know when I'm sleepy I pour coffee in my cereal, and I would think as a mom there would be a worry that one would confuse, say, baby wipes and clorox wipes, or baby powder and boric acid...although hopefully nobody keeps baby powder and boric acid next to each other).

Steph's birthday is tomorrow and more so than any other year I know she is in awe of what changes the last year has brought.  To wrap marriage and a new baby in the same year just seems, perhaps, to be an overabundance of blessing.  How does a heart grow that much love in twelve months? And how do you embrace it on 3 hours of sleep?

Stephanie, you are the best of women and the best of friends.  You are everything a son could want in his Mama: strong, brilliant, beautiful, full of smiles, quick to tell you when you're wrong, and quick to cushion that hard truth with kisses.  You love well and gently, and your son already knows and cherishes that in you.  I hope your birthday is full of baby snuggling, naps, and cake.  And I pray the next year is full of marvels, both at motherhood's gifts and life's penchant for surprises.  You have hugged and loved me through three years of law school and beyond, and mothered Kat and I through any number of heartaches, frustrations, and joyous moments.  You have practiced motherhood as an awesome aunt and loving stepmom.  You've been a mama-to-be for years, and now it's a joy to see you embrace it with your own bundle of slobbering, gurgling, burping babyness.

Love you, lady!  Happy Birthday!

On Second Thought

My last post bemoaned my inability to train properly outside for my upcoming Half-Marathon and debated the merits of "wimping out" to the 4 mile race. I've been thinking it over and I've decided not to wimp.  I ran 6 miles this afternoon.  I was slower than I'd like but I'm going to credit one minute of that pace to the inherent slowness of running on snow-packed sidewalks.  When I ran on the well-cleared pavement around Lake of the Isles, my pace was very normal. 

I'm just stating this and sending it out into the innernets so that I feel all the more obligated to actually refrain from wimpage.  I won't be as well-trained as I'd like come race day, but I'll be well-trained enough to survive. And sometimes, survival is all one is shooting for. 

Wimping Out?

I signed up for the Get Lucky 21K (a less intimidating way to say "half-marathon") a couple months ago.  At the time, it seemed like the perfect motivation to get my butt outside on the pavement despite the general threats of wind, ice, snow, frozen dog poop, etc.  In actuality, the race has been looming over my head every time I opt for the gym (and its I-hate-the-treadmill cop outs after 3 miles) over sub 20 degree (much less negative) temps.

The race is a month away and I'm nowhere near ready.  Since November the most I've run in one bite is 4 miles.  Add to that the pesky (and ridiculous) neck injury that sidelined me for a couple weeks and you've got the makings for a pretty craptastic race a few weeks from now.  I got an email yesterday that the Get Lucky Half was relocating to St. Paul from Minneapolis due to some permitting issues and due to the change of venue they're allowing people to downgrade from the Half to the 7K (4 miler).  I am sorely tempted.  4 miles is completely doable, not to mention infinitely less miserable than 13 miles after weeks of injury recovery and FREEZING, Hell-No-I-am-Not-Running-Outside-When-It's-Negative-12-Humans-Should-Not-Live-North-Of-Missouri-Is-My-Eyelash-Frozen-To-My-Hat-Again? temperatures (forgive the dramatics, I am not from here and still find "here" to be kinda ludicrous). 

But I know I'd feel somewhat disappointed if I "wimped out" and did the shorter race.  Yes, St. Paul is not where I want to run.  And yes, I'm ill prepared.  But I've been slim on training before and managed alright, minus some vicious next day aches.  I know I would survive the Half, it would just hurt.  And maybe I could use some Ouch in my life.  But is it really worth it?  What am I trying to prove?  And to whom? I can sign up for another spring Half, one that would allow me a bit more time to train outside in slightly warmer, sunnier weather, and perhaps have a pleasant race experience instead of a miserable one.  And the TC Marathon is still months away, if I don't kick off racing season in March, that certainly isn't the end of the world.  When I ran the marathon the first time, my "kick off" for the process was the Stillwater Half, which happened in late May.  So why am I pushing myself to do this nutty March thing?

Just talking to myself, really.  I have a few days to decide if I want to switch races.  Until then, I will either continue to berate myself for being a "wimp," or I will find a way to couch the switch in a more pleasing light. Did I mention I bought a bunch of green St. Pat's Day doo-dahs to run with? The likelihood of neon green false eyelashes staying in place is much higher with a 4 mile run...

Tylenol Moments

There are multiple levels of friendship.  Upgrades and downgrades dependent on your comfort, length of acquaintance, how much you've had to drink.  These things ebb and flow, to be sure, but I've always been pretty careful to create and maintain a solid group of top level friendships and a copious number of mid level relationships to keep things interesting.  I'm an extrovert, and like all extroverts, I thrive on the creation of new relationships, new inside jokes, new dependencies, new shared experience. I seek out such things and have no trouble, in general, in forming a tight knit family of friends.

It has been harder for me in Minnesota, however, than anywhere I have ever lived.  I made friends faster with locals in Morocco, where my language skills were embarassing and my country of origin occasionally offensive, than I have in my new home.  I credit that in part to cultural differences and the habits of life in this  Upper Midwest city.  Many people I met here were from here.  Maybe they moved away for a chunk of time, but they always came back.  That is high praise, of course, for the city itself.  But that kind of experience means you have everything in common with 85% of other young Minnesotans who also grew up in Apple Valley, Golden Valley, Pick A Valley, etc., and nothing in common with a girl who thinks 40 degrees is cold and inserts "y'all" and "mercy" and "heavens" in more scenarios than most Minnesotans would think possible.

I don't know how a non-Upper Midwestern introvert would survive here.  I at least have the benefit of brazen presumption of awesomehood.  I am an excellent friend.  I make excellent cookies.  I tell good stories.  I'm funny.  I can assure you that you will want to be my friend.  And that confidence worked in my favor up here.  I don't want to admit to how many times I invited myself along to various events in conversations I wasn't wholly a part of.  But that "Hi, I'm Rachel. I'm not from here. Does the snow ever melt? Want to be my friend?" attitude eventually did win me friendships, or opportunities for friendships. 

But it has still taken time, lots of time, to build friendships that feel important. It always takes time to connect to someone, but without the daily warzone of law school or Peace Corps or college, the progress is much slower.  I have a handful of friends who I care for deeply and I think the feeling is mutual.  It has been a long time coming but a tiny moment of friendship flashed upon me tonight that I wanted to record for posterity.  It's a really silly, simple thing. 

Nice, somewhat cursory friendships are comfy and quick to invite you to a movie.  There's no risk there.  Sometimes they might even ask you out to dinner, or maybe over for a party.  It's only with time that cursory, maybe accidental friendships build a foundation of habit and comfort that stand up to the more mundane favors of life.  I met my current Bible Study coleader maybe 18 months ago.  We were tossed together for co-leading purposes strictly due to our living in the same part of town and being available at similar times.  We didn't know each other exceptionally well at the time and I imagine we both were hopeful and trusting that God had the nuts and bolts figured out on how our personalities would jive.  In coleading with Dan over the last two years I've found him to be a kind, solid soul with a remarkable thirst for knowledge and laughter.  He's a dear friend.  Important.

Tonight he called me around 8 p.m., sounding like a lukewarm cup of death.  And in the exhausted voice of someone desperate for a coma, he asked if I by any chance had some Tylenol PM on hand. Poor kid.  I drove it over, felt his forehead, told him he had a temp and needed to go to bed. He agreed and I hope he's completely knocked out as I write this.  He thanked me and I wished him happy, health-improving dreams.

 As I was driving away, I was happy to have been there. Happy to have felt his forehead, happy he was tucking in with a bit of comfort (though drug-induced). But mostly I was simply happy he'd asked me for help. His friend.  It's the simple exchanges that communicate the most.  The movies and dinners and parties are so forgettable. The grand gestures so rarely happen.  But an extra pillow for an unexpected guest. The swapping of books because you both love Austen. The I'm-in-the-neighborhood-drop-in-for-tea. The pained request for Tylenol.  They're what real friends do. Not mid level friends.  Not the superficial ones. 

Real Friends bring Tylenol.  And Real Friends ask for it.