First Day of School, Redux

Tomorrow I start a new job.  As required by all First moments, this requires both a new outfit and a blog post.  I remember standing on the front steps in Arkansas, letting mom take my picture with my adored blue satchel before heading to my first day of kindergarten. This is my clumsy attempt at similar documentation, this time with the outfit sprawled across my bed, no jewelry chosen as of yet (probably just pearl studs), shoes overly shiny:

I'll be overdressed, I'm sure.  But I'm overdressed for the majority of things (parties, grocery shopping, cleaning the apartment, running) so that's really just par for the course. 

I was terrified when I started at the Commission.  I had a hunch I'd be good at the position for which I was hired but I had no real proof to support such an instinct.  Law degrees are nifty things but I don't know that they prove much aside from an ability to work tirelessly (often in pursuit of lost causes) and smile optimistically in the face of awe-inspiring debt. 

A large portion of my "hunch" was buried in genuine interest for the subject matter at issue, and overall geekiness over subject matter is probably attractive for most employers.  I spent the first several months googling terms, laws, and acronyms, and mispronouncing any number of parties/entities (I'm sorry, but an entity termed MISO should be pronounced like the soup, just to save a lot of people a lot of embarrassment).  But I do think after three years, I was decent at my job.  It, like most positions, would be a job one would get better at with time and experience, so I still had enormous amounts to learn from those who'd been there far longer than I.  But I felt like I was helpful, a benefit to my employer, which is really all you're working towards when you're young and inexperienced.

Of course, having only reached that point of feeling helpful maybe a year ago, I'm now right smack dab where I was three years ago. I am now looking square into the expected experience one has with a new job: weeks, possibly months, of feeling like a burden.  I think most employers hire for potential.  While I know that aspects of my experience thus far, in addition to my education, were what led my new employer to make the offer, I have to assume a good part of making those decisions is simply a hunch on their part that the person in question seems capable of learning the ropes quickly and being helpful sooner rather than later.

There are many, many things that I learned while serving the Commission.  Many of them were things that would provide no benefit to anyone outside utility regulation.  But some are broader, more general, not only about the energy sphere and all its eccentricities (that's the nice way of saying "craziness"), but about Work and what it means to be good at what one does.  I was surrounded by experts and those that were best at their chosen niche were those who readily admitted when they did not know something and immediately sought to remedy that deficit.  It seems like a simple skill, the admission of ignorance, but that balance with a determination to fill in the vacuum with knowledge, is a powerful tool.  And, really, the only method by which one excels at anything.

Abraham Lincoln (I think) said, "whatever you are, be a good one." I think that's my goal. "Great" would be awesome, one of these days, but for now I'm just looking to be good, helpful, someone without whom the day and the work would be a bit tougher. Until then, I'll just have to dress the part, and pray for teachers as brilliant as those I left behind.

It's What Dads Do

This post, initially, was going to be about our family dog, Rocko.  After over 16 years of companionship, Rocko died.

To say that he "died" is the kind way of saying he was "put down," the latter being both a recognition that at such an advanced age the death was likely welcome and necessary but equal acknowledgment that death is against the base nature of all creatures, even if it's for their own aged good. 

But instead of Rocko, this post will be about my Dad, who did the dirty work today.  My mom and sister are out of town, and I was in a hearing until late and could not join Dad at the vet.  I should be more honest about that.  It's true, the hearing ran late.  And it's true that the trek from downtown St. Paul to my parents' particular suburb in rush hour is especially harrowing.  But in all likelihood, had I wanted to watch Rocko die, I could have done so.  I could have been there. I just didn't want to go.

I imagine Dads get stuck with these tasks often, the painful jobs that make the rest of the family uncomfortable.  I'm sure it isn't strictly my family where this tends to be the case.  It's a bit stereotypical, I realize, but my Dad has always been the Rescuer and my Mom has always been the Healer.  The former gets far less praise than the latter as being Rescued, more often than not, does not feel particularly awesome.  It usually involves late night phone calls when the bills can't be paid, middle-of-the-work-day phone calls sobbing over car breakdowns (maybe this is just me), stressed out quasi-arguments over finances, life plans, big decisions, and stupid mistakes. Dad rescues.  He makes the plan.  He solves the problem.  He swoops in and makes everything okay.  But it's generally Mom's sweet "I love you"s and teardrop-drying that wins the smile.

Rocko is no exception.  Rocko has been a part of our family for sixteen years.  My sister, at 18, cannot remember a home without his once frenetic activity and more recent soft, elderly plodding. We've discussed Rocko's demise often over the last year.  His eyesight had failed him, he often seemed confused, it hurt him to move, and he was sleeping for longer and longer portions of the day.  Months ago we spoke about these things in a "we" voice, communal, a team.  But over the last few weeks as the decision grew closer, I'm sure Dad sensed the womenfolk's shying away from responsibility.  As Rocko is truly my brother's dog, I'm sure my little brother would have joined Dad.  But distance makes that difficult and so my Dad probably knew he'd be doing this alone.

I know that there have been a million moments in my thirty years on this planet in which my father has taken an arrow so that I avoided harm.  And I imagine the vast majority of those bruises were things I'd never know about.  Attendance at piano recitals after hours spent commuting between jobs, cheering me on at softball games despite who knows what plumbing disaster, helping me with homework on days he was exhausted.  And those are just the ones that I can fathom.  There were many, many more incremental sacrifices, small moments of which I have no knowledge where he chose my benefit and the benefit of my siblings over his comfort. 

So now, a few days before Father's Day, I am thankful for my Dad.  Not only for shepherding our family dog into death, but for all the other large and small rescues and sacrifices that he has accumulated over his 30 years of fatherdom.  There is no doubt in my mind that a large portion of my happiness today is owed to the man who has constantly worked to make sure my happiness was possible, achievable, and supported.  I don't say thank you enough and I imagine I don't know half of what I should be thanking him for.  So, thank you, Dad, for Rocko, for the sacrifices I know nothing about, and for all those rescues, large and small, literal and figurative, that made life infinitely sweeter. I love you!

Getting Serious

Marathon Training 2011 begins for me this Sunday, Father's Day.  In all likelihood, I won't do any actual training til Tuesday, the 21st, due to other obligations on my first running days.  But it's good to pinpoint a start date, good to count the weeks pre-Marathon, good to remember how hard this was two years ago and how hard it will be to best my last race time by nearly one minute per mile.  Shaving a half hour off my race time, even if just a laudable goal, is daunting. Yikes!

But part of what will make it doable is a more whole body approach this time.  In 2009 I was just terrified by the prospect of running for 5+ hours.  It seemed like such an impossible goal, I trained like clockwork and kept religiously to my little training schedule for fear that one falter on day four of week nine might somersault into a Marathon Nightmare of Doom.  This time around, whether I can finish is no longer a question.  But in order to get better, I can't just do exactly what I did last time and hope for some magical different result.

First off, I need to lose 10 lbs.  More would be good.  Less would not be the end of the world. But less weight to carry just means my legs can carry the rest of me a little further, a little faster.  I'm not sticking to any magic diet plan, I know this isn't rocket science.  I'll be tracking what I eat, how I exercise, and making sure I'm eating at least 90 grams of protein a day, preferably more. 

Second, my upper body/core strength is laughable.  And doing 26.2 miles on strong legs alone just doesn't cut it.  So I started the 100 push up training program today.  It's a six week program to get you to the point of being able to do 100 push ups consecutively.  Right now I can do 8 (yes, 8, REAL push ups, I could do more on my knees).  I think that will be a great addition to my runs 3 days a week and pushups are great for arms, shoulders, chest, and core strength, which is good.  Through that process, or maybe when the 100 push ups challenge is complete, I'll add some more specific abdominal work.  But as I tend to enjoy ab-specific exercises about as much as I love jell-o (ie. not at all), I'm going to admit to delaying that torture slightly.

Third, cross training.  I signed up for my first sprint triathalon (.25 mile swim, 17 mile bike, 5K) which scares the snot out of me. One of my projects for the brief interlude between Old Job and New Job next week is to purchase a bike rack, pick up the high school wheels from the parents' house, and take that hot pink puppy for a spin.  I may need some new tires or other gadgetry, but I think she'll do just fine for the race.  I'll also order a "real" swimsuit since all of mine are aesthetically pleasing but not really suits meant for swimming (lounging with big sunglasses, yes).  Part of the trick, and another thing I'll do next week on one of my free mornings, will be to lay out the marathon training schedule and pencil in cross-training for swimming and biking.  This will be tough, but doable, and could be helped by the fact that the new job is gloriously across the street from the Greenway.  So once I'm settled, I could potentially ride to work on pretty days, which would be a great way to enjoy the sunshine and rack up some mileage.

Fourth, get a handle on weekend indulgences.  This is just a creature of summertime frivolity, and not one I'll worry about too seriously quite yet.  By the beginning of August or so in 2009 I'd developed a rule while training that I'd have alcohol one night a week and by September and for the month leading up to the race, I never drank.  That was perfectly comfortable and I plan on doing that again.  I do love sitting on patios in the evenings with friends having a glass or two of wine.  But that could easily happen two, three, sometimes four nights a week in the summer.  It's okay to indulge a bit now, enjoy this early summer sunshine, but after 4th of July I'll start seriously paring down such indulgences.  They won't help me lose the weight, and they're just not necessary for my enjoyment of good company.

Fifth, and most important, it's time to get the game face on.  I've been running off and on recently, some pauses for injuries (neck, stupid stupid stupid Red Rover injury), some pauses for being out of town, lazy, whathaveyou.  Marathon training is always a priority.  It has to be, because otherwise you find yourself mid-August having never run more than 11 miles.  I love that required structure in my day and I also love that post-run, post-accomplishment feeling that makes a long dinner with friends or a stroll around the lake feel that much more decadent.  But if I'm serious about the race, serious about doing better than last time, I need to not only commit to myself that it's a priority, but I need to communicate that to friends.  It's always hard to feel like a wet blanket, to say you can't meet for brunch on Saturday because you need to run 15 miles, but my friends and family are lovely folks and they'll support what keeps me happy and healthy.  I just need to be articulate in my priorities and firm in my resolve to stick to the program.  It'll all be worth it when I get lots of hugs at the finish line.

And, the underline beneath it all, and the Truth destined for permanence on my right foot after the race: Hebrews 12:1.

Dumbest Injury Ever.

I brusied a rib playing Red Rover.  There's no way to talk your way out of that one, really.  No way to make it sound less embarassing as a 30 year-old woman.  I bruised a rib playing Red Rover and now it hurts to breathe and I can't sleep on my left side (my favorite) or my stomach (my second favorite).  To add insult to an already insulting injury, I burned my back like mad this weekend thanks to long runs, long walks, and outdoor art fairs.  So I can't sleep on my back either (my third favorite).

This leaves my right side (least favorite).  If I do anything to that part of my body I will have to sleep sitting up. 

Bruised ribs from childhood games-gone-wrong.  Sunburns creating the worst tan lines imaginable.  Return of the Freckle that Looks like a Piece of Dirt.

I love summer.  Even when it hurts.

Formerly Far-Flung

I did not expect to be the kid who lives near the parents (especially given how far North these parents live).  As the eldest of three, and thus the first to leave, I got quite adept at living several states (and the occasional ocean) away for roughly a decade.  For this reason and many others, I always expected to hit the trail sooner or later and land in some Southern state where people have no clue that curling is an actual sport and not what you do to your hair on Friday nights.

But my brother is firmly planted back in St. Louis and my kid sister is headed to Texas for college, which leaves me, the former far-flung child, as The Kid That Lives Nearby.   This role has solidified of late as I've accepted a new job that I can see being solid grounding for a career based in the Cities.  No more poking around looking at jobs in Virginia, Texas, Louisiana, where I kept expecting to end up.

But when I accepted the job, I was surprised to find how happy I was at the prospect of life here.  I have found true, sturdy, beautiful friends here, friends I'd hate to leave behind.   And after years of living far away, there is something wonderfully warm and secure about living near one's family.  Being able to stop over at the family house after church to play Scrabble, to be around for discussions on when we should put the family dog to sleep, to be a quick 20 minute drive from a spare washer/dryer and no judgment when I toss in muddy sneakers after a trail run...all small things, but important.

It is hard for me to imagine life here without my sister.  She is, perhaps moreso than my parents, the reason Minneapolis seemed like a good idea four years ago.  Having left for college when she was 5, I was easily tempted by the lure of teenage sisterly-ness. Funny, I came here in large part to be a part of the life she built, and in the process I accidentally built a life of my own.

Which happens to no longer be far-flung from the people who gave me life in the first place. 

Life is a funny, glorious thing.