Professional Running Cheerleader?

Today was the Moment of Truth for my Learn to Run Clinic.  We've been training together, little by little, over the past 10 weeks and this morning was the crew's first 5K.  A couple of girls sped up and went at their own pace, which was awesome to see, and I stayed with one runner, R, who reminds me a lot of myself when I was starting out. Her goal was to finish in under 45 minutes, and we did that with 5 minutes to spare.  She was ecstatic to cross the finish and I was thrilled to see her suckerpunch a personal hurdle.

I don't think I'm a great coach for a group.  I worry that I'm running too fast or too slow for individual clinic participants (and you are always running either too fast or too slow for somebody).  But I really enjoyed solo runs with the 1-3 ladies in the group who needed a bit more cheerleading.  I like the one-on-one.  I like telling funny running stories to help them pass the time between splits.  I like promising them that they will not, in fact, die, if they run another 4 minutes.  And I love watching that transformation from person-who-can't-run-one-minute-without-gasping to person-who-just-ran-three-miles. That's a marvelous leap in 10 weeks and I feel humbled that I got to be a part of it.

I do wonder sometimes what I would do if I wasn't nerdily in love with All Things Energy.  I'm genuinely challenged, inspired, and supported in my current job and energy regulation is something I find fascinating (I know, it's weird to be enthralled by administrative and utility law but somebody has to enjoy it, right?).  But I love other things, too, such as baking, writing, and running.  And the more I run with other people, especially those who are just starting out, the more I feel like I would be a good little professional running coach.  Not a coach for elites (hahahahahahahaha), but a coach for the "normals" out there.  People who, like me a few years ago, are frustrated by their lack of athleticism and decide that the only way to remedy the issue is to get moving.  I'm a good cheerleader for those who've forgotten how to cheerlead themselves.  I'm not sure how I'd describe that on a resume, but I think it's a skill worth developing.

Way to go, my intrepid crew of Runners!  I hope to see y'all rounding the corners of Lake of the Isles this summer!

I am a New Woman! (PG-13 for a bit of running-related gore)

After today's run (the first run of the year that would qualify as "warm"), I sat down on my living room floor to attend to what has become a post-run ritual: the rebandaging of my left next-to-the-big-toe toe.  Sometimes there's blood, sometimes it's ust impossibly sore, but after every run, I nurse that little guy back to some semblance of normalcy.  He's pinkish, angry, and I can feel my heartbeat in that tiny littly nub of flesh.

I'd begun to debate going to the doctor. Is it broken?  Can you "break" just the top part of a toe (images of bone chunks floating under my skin)?  Will they tell me not to run?  I kept putting it off because it never really stopped me form logging miles.  It would hurt badly at the beginning of a run but once I was warmed up, it faded to a dull wince.  And once you've got 10 miles under your belt, really, what's another ache?

Tonight, while bandaging, I also started trimming my nails, and then I settled on the painful duty of trimming The Toe That Hurts.  After one snip a HUMONGOUS flood of water (right?) gushed
 out of the top of my toe.  It made a small pool in the carpet.  Evidently, instead of breaking a toe, I'd been harboring the blister to end all blisters under my nail.  How does that happen?? And what is more amazing is that this little guy has been paining me off and on for over six months.  Half-marathon?  Trail 15 miler?  This guy was just killing me. 

I'm tempted to go running again tonight just to see how different my foot feels.  Glorious good-as-new toe!

Marking Progress by Freckle Accumulation

Today was my first run with a tank top, sunlight on bare shoulders.  Mind you, said sunlight disappeared after ten minutes behind a nice grey cloud, but there was sun for a brief, wonderful moment.  In honor of said event, I had my sister take the following picture of my very pale, mildly speckled (this would be my winter coat of freckles, I guess) shoulders:

My plan is to take another picture the day before I run the Marathon in October, after a summer's worth of 10, 15, and 20-milers (yikes!).  Maybe I'll even get someone to play connect-the-dots in some fun, celebratory way. 

One-Day-in-Ten

Last week I had some trouble getting enthused about my wardrobe.  Unfortunately, we were still in some sort of weird Minnesotan spring-winter (sprinter?) hybrid and I shivered the whole way to the busstop.  But I'm completely sick of all winterish clothing and have officially ruled out anything remotely reminiscent of the snowy season. 

(Note: for my handful of dedicated male readers, this blog post is going to be laden with accessory concerns and other general girlishness.  I recommend you check back soon for my next running or baseball or meaning-of-life-related post.  This is going to bore you silly.)

Anyway, wardrobe concerns are stressful for me.  My office is professional in nature but on the days I'm not in hearings or meetings, the dress code is pretty comfy.  No jeans per se, but definitely nothing a person has to worry about.  Unless, of course, you are me.  I blame my mother. I don't think she has ever left the house not looking beautiful (which isn't difficult for her), she just always looks lovely and stylish and put-together.  I assume there is a Southern element to this, too, as I do think we Southern women tend to value our appearance to "society" (or, in my case, the high-steppin' crowd of downtown St. Paul, Minnesota) and just generally shudder at the thought of venturing outside without, gasp, mascara. Yes, I realize I sound ridiculous.

I settled on a black tunic and leggings and heels.  Nothing mindblowing.  But, as I mentioned earlier, my disgust for winter led me to dig around in all jewelry nooks and crannies for something that could liven up such a funereal get-up.  I settled on the necklace/earrings below, which I'd never worn before, and, as you can tell by the fish face that adjoins many of my head-tilted-to-the-side ponderings, I was rather half-hearted in my confidence over the choice:

Note the quizzical does-this-bloom-and-pearl-combo-look-ridiculous-and-kinda-Victorian-in-a-not-awesome-way expression.

My suspicions were confirmed when a coworker said, "wow, Rachel, you look so theatrical today!" Yikes.  I can't say I was looking to inject drama into the halls of state government with the chosen ensemble.  But I can work with the theatre theme.  I got a couple compliments in the skyway, mostly from women over 70 wearing bright jumpsuits, which further proved my coworker's point.  This was not a necklace for novices.  This was a necklace for women seeking to be centerstage.  Better to just embrace that than be encumbered by it.

I spent the rest of the day not thinking of or being bothered by my necklace. It began to grow on me, when I'd catch it in the mirror, and I rather liked it by the time I got home.  I hadn't really thought of it again until thumbing through my phone's photos, looking for something I snapped a couple weeks ago, and came across the picture above.  How silly my momentary obsessions!

Sometimes my appearance trips me up, as I'm sure it does all women.  And unlike most women, I have the added burden (benefit) of having lost a large amount of weight a few years ago and I'm still trying to figure out what beauty means to me.  I was smart, and not much else, for so long, it's hard for me to grapple with the somewhat shocking idea that I can also be pretty somedays.  Nothing traffic-stopping.  Just a typical "pretty," that doesn't get in the way of being labeled smart, funny, productive, whathaveyou. 

It struck me, while thinking about the necklace, of my literary reference for beauty, Anne from Anne of Green Gables.  At one point, Philippa describes Anne as a quiet beauty, someone who's just fairly average 9 days out of 10, nothing to get inspired by or worked up over.  But on that 10th day, she is fantastic.  Theatrical, maybe. I always thought that was the perfect kind of pretty, to have your appearance fail to register as anything beyond average for the bulk of one's life, but to have these special, deliberate, marvelous 1-day-out-of-10 moments when the sun hit you at an angle everyone appreciated. 

So, I've decided the necklace inspired one of those days.  It was a 1-day-in-10, because the little old ladies called me "precious" and my coworker said "wow." 

So the quizzical expression above will henceforth be replaced by a 1-day-in-10 smile.  I did always love the stage.

My Name is Rachel, and I am a Planner

I am a planner.  I plan things.  I plan most things. My Outlook calendar is intense. And I'm confused and inspired by non-planning types. I've always envied the easygoing people of the world.  The non-planners.  The go-with-the-flow-ers. The spontaneously-drive-to-Utah-because-it's-Utah people.  From my perspective they have an almost superpower ability to shut out the world's responsibilities and simply love what the world provides for entertainment.  I do find that rather amazing. 

I've always wanted to be easygoing.  And many of the adventures I've pursued and the avocations I've loved (Peace Corps, acting, traveling) have surrounded me with people whose laidback attitude gave me a glimpse of what a non-Type A person gets out of life.  But even as a Peace Corps volunteer (and all the hippie mojo that requires) I was rabid about my lesson-planning.  Diligent in my use of Arabic flashcards.   I even think I asked my mom to mail me American index cards because the Moroccan ones I found were a different (read: wrong) size than I preferred.  I, of course, had to tame my uber-planner tendencies to adapt to Third World timetables and over time I came to cherish how slow the world moved there.  But I was never really relaxed, always happy but always anxious.

 I used to be embarassed by my planning obsession.  Invites sent weeks in advance.  Reservations made with a keen eye to how long we'd want at dinner before making it to the theater with enough time for a cocktail and a few minutes to read our programs in undimmed seats.  Drives to new places with half an hour to spare, just in case there was traffic, just in case elephants escaped from the zoo and comandeered the bridge.  I brushed aside the importance of planning when casually talking about future activities to friends.  It's no big deal.  Come whenever you like. Just RSVP when you get an idea of your number. Sure, you can bring your brother, boyfriend, stepchild, dog, clown school instructor.  I'm totally easygoing.  Totally.

I don't apologize for it anymore, which I assume must be a sign of age, maturity, and/or acceptance that there's no fighting my base nature.  And now I love this side of me.  I've seen the anxiety in friends tasked with planning a shindig and I get great joy in relieving others of that stress and crafting things myself.  Just as it stresses some people to no end when they have to plan an event, it stresses me when I have no control over avoiding disaster, rearranging mistakes, smoothing wrinkles, and just making sure everyone is happy. 

And that's what it's always about.  Happiness.  I love to watch people smiling, laughing, relaxing because they know they have no responsibilities, nothing to do, nothing to contribute other than joy.  I like the noise of conversation, waves and hellos thrown across rooms, hugs.  Within the wide confines of planning, I am spontaneous and brave.  The structure I can bring to a day gives me great latitude to craft the experiences I want, unhampered by last demands on my time. 

Tonight I'm hosting 60+ people for a dessert function.  I have some cleaning to do, but also planned into my day: a run, lunch with a friend, errands, and a good chunk of time devoted to running the iPod on some bad 80s Roxette numbers and dancing around with the dog barking.  The trick, I think, in making a Type A life a happy one is the focus of The Plan.  Planning for the constant mitigation of disaster is exhausting and soul-crushing.  But planning for happiness, that can never end poorly.

Peace

The current non-spring in Minnesota has had me thinking of prior springs in warmer locales.  Most notably, of Morocco.

Morocco has been on my mind more often of late due to the recent bombing in Marrakech.  And that news, coupled with my perpetual chill up North, has made me lonely for a specific rooftop years ago.  I'd be curled up on a thin, floral mattress ( ponj) with a well-scribbled journal, listening to drums, eating sugared peanuts (cowcow hlloah).  I'd fall asleep that evening listening to a nearly-defunct CD player try to play Beck's Sea Change album and I'd awaken the next morning to meet friends for eggs (beeda), fried onions and tomatoes (bsla oo matesha), and hot, crusty bread (khobz).  It's strange the words that stay with you.  Loved foods, greetings, blessings, goodbyes, "does the taxi meter work?", "poor thing," God, family, thirsty.

When I first saw the photos from the bombing site, my thoughts were self-serving. I hope it's not Cafe Toubkal.  I loved that Cafe.  As if the specificity of my love should grant a certain handful of human beings grace over another handful.  Toubkal is safe, so I've learned.  The cafe that was bombed was a second story restaurant, Cafe Argana, which overlooked D'Jemaa al F'na.  I ate there once or twice when Cafe Toubkal was too busy (Toubkal was cheaper so it got the bulk of my Peace Corps "salary").  I have no endearing recollection of Argana, other than a particularly spicy mustard for the pommes frites, but I have memories of that square, the hubbub of all those cafes and that market and those taxis and those drums, that make Argana feel like a particular blow to my psyche.

At least 16 people are dead, courtesy of a supposed suicide bomber, perhaps Al Qaeda.  The cafe was targeted, I'm sure, due to its penchant for attracting tourists.  At any given time the likelihood of killing an American or a Nationality-friendly-to-Americans would be high.

I never thought the purpose of Peace Corps was to bring about any sort of enduring change in a volunteer's village/locale.  Build a well, maybe. Draw a world map. Teach some kids the lyrics to a lot of Cat Stevens songs. What exactly does that do? Essentially nothing.  But the "Peace" part of it, in my mind, has a lot more to do with forging friendships, telling jokes, breaking bread, helping and being helped. Especially in countries like Morocco, where the anti-American sentiment can run very high, I think the most peaceful thing I might have done involved simply convincing a few dozen people (more?) that I was, in fact, nice. Nice. Kind. With parents who worried about me. Aversion to dried goat meat. Disaster in the kitchen. Altogether harmless and normal.

It continues to break my heart that the part of the world I so fell in love with, that northwestern corner of Africa, must be torn apart by violence.  I say "must" because it does seem to be a foregone conclusion.  Morocco is the most westernized of the Arab countries, the country in the region with the strongest ties to Europe.  It struggles to balance that embrace of Europe (to the point of discussing EU membership every once in awhile) with a deeply-rooted, deeply felt pan-Arab brotherhood. In the midst of seeking to provide more rights to women, more freedoms to all in some minor contexts, it has also voiced disapproval of terrorism and Al Qaeda more vocally than other Arab regimes.  It has supported American efforts to pursue terrorists abroad and, for that, Morocco is punished.  The bombs in Casablanca in 2003, now the bombs in my favorite square in my favorite foreign city, they all seem to be a warning to a country desperately trying to move forward while maintaining cultural and religious authenticity. 

Because I believe in God, a good, just, loving, full-of-Grace God, I have to also believe that the areas of the world rocked by religious and political violence can somehow, someday, move toward peace.  While it is impossible for me to picture a Morocco at this point that is immune from such attacks (is any country immune?) due to its precarious positioning between Allah, Peace, and Progress, I have to believe that my inability to imagine it does not make it truly impossible. 

I also have to believe if the world were simply more connected, not by facebook or iPhones or email or texting, but by physical connection, that the world would be capable of greater peace.  Hate comes so much easier when you can shape an enemy in your mind without any regard for truth.  But if you walked their roads, sat in their cafes and ordered their foods, watched their Mamas play with their babies, listened to their prayer calls or their hymns or the sound of their children skipping rocks in their rivers...

I just have to believe that bombs would be harder to throw. 

One of my favorite sayings in Moroccan Arabic was an exchange of "thank yous" that occurred fairly often.  Like any language, different types of "thank you" required different responses.  But there was one that particularly moved me.  After saying, "shukran" (thank you) for some good deed or help or assistance, sometimes the response I'd receive was "la shukran allah wajeeb."  I'm not sure how to directly translate it.  But it's essentially, "no, do not thank me, it is what Allah expects/requires."  I think God requires that response to all images of human suffering.  I think for every bomb, every flood, every tornado, every war, every rape, every murder, our ache for another human being, no less a child of God than ourselves, should require no thanks nor interpretation.  My hope is that over time, in tiny human-sized increments, we might connect with one another enough, Christian and Muslim, to recognize that God expects love of us.  Not bombs.

Mud and Mascara

I accepted the fact, long ago, that I am a prissy, squeal-at-the-spider-and-ask-the-boy-to-kill-it type girl. Despite a stint in Peace Corps, a decade of softball, and multiple hiking, fishing, and camping trips, the truth remains that I feel naked without mascara and I cannot fathom going to the grocery store in sweatpants. 

Running has been an interesting adventure for me in many ways, not the least of which is the gradual realization that my pursuit of the perfect shade of copper eyeshadow (it's out there, I can feel it) does not negate the worthiness of my sweat. Every race I run I line up at the start and do what every other runner does, I size up everybody around me.  I wonder if they're faster, slower, if this is their first race or their 50th. I debate how much more body fat I have than the girl-child standing next to me and I come to the conclusion that if we were stranded on a desert island, I would at least be the last to die. The vast majority of women at these races do not wear makeup to run.  I get that.  Totally legit.  You sweat, makeup can smear, clog the pores, and the race is often damn early and lipstick just doesn't seem that important (to some women) at 6 a.m.  I don't judge them for that, and if anything, on occasion I envy their nonchalance.  I, however, am different.

I wear mascara to every race (and every occasion whereby I am deemed "in public" because I have a hangup about my redheaded translucent eyelashes).  I'm quasi-addicted to lip gloss so that usually gets tacked on, too.  And for the sake of not scaring small children, I might sweep a bit of blush on my cheeks to help the freckles blend a bit better.

At no race has the juxtaposition of my perfect sweep of mascara and the activity upon which I'm to embark proven to be more opposed than at the Trail Mix 2011 25K, which I slogged through this morning. Trail running is messy regardless of the circumstances.  Today, however, was especially challenging because 1) it snowed and 2) the snow melted. What would have been a mildly soggy run, became a slow traverse over hill and dale punctuated by mile after mile (15.5 of them, to be exact) of black, sticky mud.

As would be no surprise given my affection for lip gloss and all things stereotypically feminine, I tried to be dainty about the mud at first.  I tried to figure out small sidesteps around the worst of it, losing seconds here and there with the mental geometry games of getting foot A and foot B to solid ground C without a tumble.  That lasted for the first 4 miles or so.  Coming down a hill after the second water stop, foot A made a solid landing in 3 inches of black slime that crept up my ankle and into my sock before I had the footing to wrench it free. Several nearby runners heard my horrifed, fiddle-dee-dee Southern groan of "Ewwwwwwwww." But once you've dipped a full foot in the mud, there's really very little purpose in being ladylike.

By the time the second lap stretched before me (the race was two laps of 7.75 miles of trail), I was reveling in the worst of the mud pits.  The occasional stretches of hard, dry ground felt tough on my knees after the softness of sludge, and the sick, thick splash of mud on my calves was a welcome distraction from the ache in my lower back.  My nose began to run in the cold, and sleeves became kleenex quickly, another girlish hint of propriety tossed casually aside out of necessity. 

By the time I rounded the last edge of trail and came in view of the Finish, my shoes were black and my calves were streaked with alternating streaks of dry and fresh mud.  I'd slipped at mile 12, catching myself with my right hand wrist-deep in gook, which was promptly wiped on my thigh, so a nice brown handprint greeted the casual observer. I was frozen and exhausted, calves twitching and stomach churning, by the time I made it to my car. 

I turned on the engine and waited for the seats to warm as I willed my fingers to lose their numbness. I flipped down the visor and peeked in the mirror, a habit borne of two decades of girlish primping. I could feel a layer of freeze-dried sweat at my hairline, hidden by my St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap, and was interested to find I'd managed to splash a wee spot of mud onto my right ear.

True to form, my mascara looked fantastic.

Last Gasp

The last half-mile of my run this evening was accompanied by a blustery last gasp of winter in the form of small spitwads of snow.  There was nothing flake-esque about these morsels.  They were snowballs valiantly fighting the urge to be a commonplace raindrop.  I cheer their effort, and I cheer their eminent failure.

Thin layers of snow-clay glaze the sidewalk cracks that guide me home,
wet, brown reminders of last week's ice.
Bashful hints of green tease a handful of tree limbs, tiny specks of promise amidst a sea of
dirt, salt, grime.
Not a pretty season.
But a welcome one.

The Stations of the Cross

Growing up Baptist, I never really heard the phrase, "Stations of the Cross" in the Lenten season.  I can recall seeing images of Christ in the Garden, his nearby disciples sleeping (that was always the image that struck me most as a child, Christ looking lonely), or of Joseph of Aramathea taking His body to a newly-carved grave, rolling a stone across its entrance.  I know that the Stations are in thousands of churches, carved in sequence along a thousand walls, keeping watch over a million pews.  But the Stations were not a part of my particular religious upbringing, so they were new to me.

My dear friend, Fiona, planned a hike in reverence to these stations and invited me along.  About a dozen of us showed up on what was, in my memory, the sunniest and warmest Saturday we've had since Autumn.  We traipsed around the Lebanon Hills area, walking 5-10 minutes, stopping to read one of the fourteen Stations, saying the Lord's Prayer, moving on.  I walked mostly with a friend, Matt, and in between our supplications to the Cross we talked about baseball and work and church and various mutual friends. I also spoke with a few people I'd never met before, going over the typical pleasantries of "where do you work?" and "where are you from?" before focusing on Jesus's betrayal by Judas or his taking up of the Cross.

It hasn't been the best couple of weeks.  I was tired as much from being sad as from being busy.  So the sunshine was lovely but a bit too much for my determined-to-be-grumpy mood.  My heart wasn't in the readings, even my insistence in muttering the final lines of the Lord's Prayer when everyone else ended with "deliver us from evil," (lots of Catholics in the bunch, whose shortened form of the prayer just seems unfinished to me) was born as much from habit as from annoyance. Not a great attitude for spiritual reflection.

But by the time we reached the final station, listened to the final reading where the tomb is closed up following Christ's death, my heart had softened a bit.  The last of the stations is dark and desperate, a glimpse of the world without Grace. The tomb sealed, pending Resurrection, and the promise of Easter still yet to be fulfilled.  How sad and unsteady a moment, how heavy must be the World's collective heart.  But, as Christians, we see the glimmer, the Hope, inherent in that rolled stone, because it will soon be rolled away.

I am not grateful enough on any given day for the blessings of Easter.  But I do try to remember those blessings, try to have them in mind, which is what the Lenten season requires of Christians.  I'm haphazard at giving up anything for the season (again, not something Baptists put much stock in), and I often find myself more wrapped up in the prospect of a new Easter dress than a new life in Christ. But with every misstep or failed priority I do try to remember what I should reflect on, the burden I should have had to carry had Grace not lifted it for me.  And at the final station I was moved by how lucky I must be.  I stand in a field on a sunny day with a dozen other believers who think walking around in the last of the snow reading Scripture sounds like a good way to spend an afternoon.  I talk about baseball in between stations and contemplate grocery lists for tomorrow's errands.  I have no wars to wage outside my door, have no fear that my faith will get me killed.  I look up at a Cross in the middle of a field with no anxiety save that for my soul. My heart is heavy for all those who lack that freedom.  And for those, like me, who fail to remember what it may cost.

Stu

One of my colleagues, Stu, is retiring tomorrow (we've hoped against hope that it was all an April Fools' Day joke but, alas, he seems determined).  I don't know that I've ever stated where I work so I won't break tradition now by speaking of it too closely, but I believe I've made mention before that I work for the State of Minnesota. 

Stu has been a public servant at the agency where I currently hang my hat for longer than I've been alive.  As he browses my blog fairly often, I won't belabor that point.  Suffice it to say, I was terrified by that level of experience when our boss first delivered me to my little grey cube.  I was told that my neighbor could answer any question I might have and that I should pester him accordingly.  Stu and I went to lunch that first week, just the two of us, and he proceeded to ask me what I knew of economics.  My blank stare probably unnerved him.  Beyond a layperson understanding of preferred stocks and enough recall of Keynes from college to be dangerous, my grasp of Econ was about as graceful as a pig in heels. I'm a lawyer, does that evoke any form of confidence? I could write well, I knew my way around a statute, and I was curious.  I'm not sure I sold him on my worth at that point but we at least established that we could talk about books.  Lots of books.

I pestered him often that first year and routinely in the year and a half since.  "Stu, I have a question..."  "Stu, do you have a minute?"  "Stu, I don't understand..." "Stu, does this make sense?"  "Stu, can you explain..."
While he left teaching to join the agency staff decades ago, in every answer he was a Teacher.  Never patronizing, never unkind, always happy to brighten the darkness around any number of issues that popped up during the day.

But it isn't the professional counsel that I'll miss most (although I am tempted to call him at home for a few choice dockets).  I'll miss the 8 a.m. meeting of the Quiz Crew to fuss over Isaac Asimov's daily quiz, followed by a reading of the same set of cartoons (nobody can do Sally Forth or Dilbert or Doonesbury like Stu).  I'll miss slow wanders to the Lobby Shop for my coffee and Stu's 60 cent milk.  I'll miss Stu's chivalry, always opening the door.  I'll miss his voice over the wall reading any number of quotes from various Red and Blue-affiliated interests.  I'll miss being teased for my quasi-love of Ayn Rand (but I'm a Liberal, Stu, I promise, just a conflicted one).  I'll miss his asking me how my races went, how my training runs went, how I liked this or that play/book. I'll miss his "good morning," as we both made our way to desks shortly before 7 each day.

I think the best type of colleague is the one that makes everyone around them better at what they do.  Everyone who worked with Stu was a better economist/analyst/lawyer/regulator for having known him.

And the best sort of friend makes you recognize the better person you could be.  It isn't a matter of judgment, but of displaying, without fanfare or expectance of praise, what Goodness and Integrity look like in a walking, talking, breathing human being.  I am a better person because I met and worked with Stu, and I will miss him for it.

Arms and the Man

In college I assistant stage managed (ASM) Shaw's Arms and the Man.  At the time, I was a theatre major, and ASMing was a requirement for that course of study.  I was loathe to forego an opportunity to be onstage for the stress of backstage turmoil but I swallowed my pride and hoped for the best.  A dear friend was the Stage Manager and, honestly, I'm rather surprised our friendship survived that experience.

Last night I attended the Guthrie's performance of Shaw's play in their proscenium.  And I was struck by how little of the story I remembered.  I remember cues, certain costumes, certain pieces of the set that rolled away during dress rehearsal (resulting in my sacrificing myself before the wrath of the Director), a line or two, and a long, long night of finishing the set mere hours before showtime.  I remember waking up on the floor of the theatre, curled up in a heap of velvety curtain, shaken awake just in time to shower before my first class.

I remember that show, not as a performance, but as the experience that made me hate the process just enough to drop the major.  I loved (still love?) being onstage.  And I was a very good actress.  I would hazard a guess (based on professorial comment) that I was also a pretty kickass ASM. I took the bullet when necessary and I sweat blood for that show.  But at the end of the run, I despised every inch of that set, the direct opposite of how I felt after acting.  It was an easy decision, dropping the major, as much a result of exhaustion as it was critical thinking.

But last night made me wonder if my life would have been different had I finished up the requirements, stage managed another show, graduated with the theatre degree.  Not a lucrative career path, to be sure.  I likely still would have done Peace Corps, but I might have been more likely to side with a trip to New York upon my return than I was to fill out law school applications. 

I don't regret where I am now and I don't regret the path I took to get here.  I do wonder how this life compares to the ones I might have known had I taken other bends in the road. There will be more bends, I'm sure. And George Bernard Shaw and his play will prove to be only one groove, one turn that led me to somewhere I haven't seen yet. 

And I like that.

 

The Leader of the Pack

I recently took up a part-time seasonal gig at a running store near my apartment as a running instructor for a Learn to Run course.  I have around six dedicated participants who agree to follow my lead and train for 10 weeks for a spring 5K.  Some used to run, some never ran, some hate the idea of running, and all agree that sunshine makes any run a bit happier.

As anyone who has kept up with the running elements of this blog would know, I am not fast.  I am comfortably mediocre when it comes to speed, averaging a 10:30 mile for runs less than 6 miles, and closer to 11:00 for most half-marathons.  So I was initially shy about applying for the instructor position due to my unshakeable feeling that All Runners Are Twig-Thin and Run 7 Minute Miles. How could a Human Who Likes to Run But Who Is Not Twig-Thin and Does Not Run 7 Minute Miles be so bold as to lead a course on running?  The audacity!

This is ludicrous, of course, given that I know many, many normal-sized humans who are excellent runners and I would never deem them anything LESS than a true blue runner.  But, alas, I haven't quite fixed the bug in my brain that tells me I am not, and will never be, a Runner (capital "R").  Marathons, half-marathons, I'm still just a fast walker in fancy Asics.

Self-doubt notwithstanding, I really wanted the job.  And now that we're in our third week, I can say that I enjoy it.  The natural cheerleader in me thrives on encouraging the downhearted so I'm drawn to the frustration that beginning runners feel.  A leader in such a course doesn't need to be fast, in fact, it's better if they're not.  They just need to love to run, love the process, love the practice, love the inch by inch sucesss of increasing mileage. A few of the girls are a little speedier than the others so I pace my time between the two groups, speeding up or dropping back to cheer as needed.  They ask me questions about blisters, food, carbs, stretching, socks, and shoes. And, generally, I have answers.  Not perfect answers, but answers born of a few years on the road, a few injuries, a few mistakes (do not, under any circumstances, eat a tuna salad sandwich before a half-marathon in 90 degree heat unless you want to throw up).   We talk about the day, the weather, work, trips, and training.  It's a brief respite on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays, that reminds me why I run in the first place.

Not because I'm good or because I'm fast.  But because I've never met a mile I regretted running.

The Road Never Breaks Up With Me

I ran my first half-marathon of the year this morning, despite a complete failure to train adequately and a Friday evening spent crying in a Walgreens parking lot with my Mama on the line, listening to her tell me I am, indeed, a lovable person.

Breakups are never easy, but because this one was not initiated by me, it came as a bit of a shock. I suppose, upon reflection (13.1 miles allows for a lot of that), I saw it coming.  And I suppose it was necessary.  For all the happiness I felt in his presence, there was something missing he was more willing to name than I was.  He's older, perhaps he is actually wiser.  I can accept that.

I spent all of last summer, all of those races, single.  It wasn't a bad gig, but I missed, badly, having a boyfriend to cheer me on, or at least meet me for burgers after particularly long runs.  I missed looking for his hat in the crowd.  And I missed his texts wishing me good luck.  I was happy, looking forward to today's race, to know that that was back, that I had someone to meet for breakfast afterwards, someone to tease me a bit for the pained limp down the stairs.  To have lost it mere hours before race time was, in a word, difficult.

But races always make me feel strong, whether I'm having a particularly speedy day or if I'm slogging through with every ounce of Little Engine That Could-edness I can muster.  I thought of The Boy often, but I didn't think of him the whole time.  It seems like a simple thing but I will say that I'm impressed by my ability to focus on the task at hand when other other areas of my life simultaneously implode.  It has never been difficult for me to run hard and well after a breakup (done it before), just as it has never been hard for me to focus at work/school when disappointment was the undercurrent of my day.  My heart detaches from my brain nicely, I guess, in most instances.  I wasn't thinking of him when I crossed the finish.

The road does not break up with me.  It breaks my heart on occasion, it exhausts me, it frustrates me, but it is always a steady, stable presence.  Whether I'm counting miles or minutes, its solidness is something I crave on days that the rest of my world feels wobbly.  I like the dependability of pain, I like the ache as I climb out of my car and walk slowly to my apartment.  I like the silly hungers after a long run, my bizarre desire for anything as long as it includes ketchup, and the happy exhaustion that graces the rest of the day. I like the drumming of shoes on pavement, the pulse of swinging arms to the Florence + the Machine or the Queen or the Rolling Stones or the Mumford & Sons playing through my earphones.  I like watching people pause, watching them walk at mile 10 and then watching them pass me at 11.  I like the solitude and solidarity of running, and I needed it today.

It was a strong, well-paced run on a day I could have allowed myself to be sloppy.  It was a minor victory after what felt like defeat.  So I am grateful for those 13.1 miles, and all the heartache it allowed me to ignore for 2 hours and 28 minutes.

Singsong

A trip to Florida for spring training this past weekend found me sitting in the bleachers watching my family's team, the Cardinals, beat my current city's team, the Twins. Bleachers are my favorite place to sit as it's easier to smell the dirt and beer just tastes better in the bleachers. And while drinking said beer and listening to my boyfriend talk baseball trades with a Pittsburgh fan in front of us, there was that holy and distinct sound of bat* connecting with bound leather that reminded me of my own days of well-worn gloves and polyester sliding shorts. (*note: my Dad read this blog and emailed me to correct my use of "metal" in the prior sentence since aluminum bats have never been allowed in MLB baseball.  The crack of a bat sounds like metal to me, but I concede that my aluminum-based childhood bat usage likely colors my aural experience. Thanks, Dad.)

Softball took up a long chapter of my childhood.  I joined a T-ball team the summer after kindergarten and played slightly longer than a decade before hanging up my cleats in favor of the spotlights of high school theater. The majority of the girls on my various teams have been forgotten, as well as the majority of the wins and defeats.  A few coaches stick out (some fondly, some not-so-much), a few awesome plays, a couple injuries, but only one at-bat has survived in the half-life since I quit the game.

I wouldn't say I was ever a great ballplayer.  By the time I quit, I was a very good shortstop and a competent second base.  I was also never a powerhouse at bat.  I hit a handful of homeruns in my decade of play, and most of those were only homeruns due to errors on the other team's part.  Despite my slighty-better-than-mediocre mediocrity, I can be proud of how well I learned the game and how dedicated I was to a sport that, at first, seemed destined to destroy all childhood joy.

My first couple of years playing I remember having fun.  But I also remember being HORRIBLE at bat.  Once they took the T away and I had to swing at actual pitches, I was just a mess.  I'm sure I cried a good bit over it, although I don't remember doing so.  I just remember the burning knot of anxiety that formed in my stomach when I was on deck, my brother playing in the dirt on the other side of the backstop, my dad smiling and shouting support from those noisy, shiny metal bleachers. We were in Arkansas then and softball was a hot sport. The bats left too long in the sunshine would burn the skin, and I can remember the taste of hot, still Southern air when I would take my practice swings with that burning bat.

My dad would practice with me at home, tossing pitches that I could never hit.  I'd get frustrated and probably start to cry and he'd get frustrated and tell me to shake it off.  After a few too many minutes in that routine, we'd switch to playing catch, which I was infinitely better at.  Dad would hit grounders at me and I'd dive around in our backyard with my dog chasing my heels, or he'd stand at the top of the hill at the side of our house and toss monstrously high pop flys to my waiting glove below.  I was a good fielder, and it was definitely easier to strengthen my assets than force me into a skill I was loathe to master.  My bat and that ball were just not meant to be friends.

I suppose that's why I distinctly remember the game where I got my first "real" hit, the first time my bat hit the sweet spot on the ball and sent it in a solid, unforgiving line just above the head of the shortstop, grounding to the fence with a left fielder on its tail. I can remember the sound of that hit, coupled with that sharp, nearly painful vibration of metal traveling from palm to elbow to shoulder, like I'd just stepped out of that batter's box, bat tossed towards the dugout along first base (we were visitors that game). 

Before that at bat my dad had said often (usually after patting me on the back after another strikeout) that I just needed to keep practicing and if I kept my eye on the ball, one day I would make the two connect.  This is common, overly common advice.  Keep your eye on the ball.  Keep your eye on the ball.  It was some phrase in Swahili that never settled in my brain to make a formidable impression.  I can watch the ball all I want, Dad, and typically I watch it sail right over the plate because I'm too scared to swing.  What does "watching the ball" have to do with anything?

I remember the team I was playing for at the time was coached by a drunk, Billy, who yelled at us often.  The parents would step in when he got rowdy, and he didn't last many seasons coaching.  He was actually a very good, deliberate coach when he was sober.  And he genuinely wanted us to win.  But I remember his breath and that cup of tobacco spit as he'd wave me out of the dugout and tell me that "if you're going to strikeout, at least strike out swinging."  I wasn't his hitter and he knew it, so why waste effort on the girl that just watches the ball land in the catcher's mitt?

Our team that year had hideous maroon tshirts, I think sponsored by a garbage collection company, which I wore with either black sliders or an equally hideous pair of hawaiian shorts.  The Day of the Hit was a hawaiian shorts kind of day.  I walked past my parents and my brother, likely jumping off bleachers or killing bugs or inflicting injury on himself or others at that point. My dad likely yelled his encouraging phrase of the inning (that must get monotonous for parents of underachieving athletes) and I'm sure my gut was hollow and I was just hoping for minor embarassment, hopefully to be rectified by a good play or two in the infield later on.  I'm sure my mom said something along the lines of , "You can do it, honey!" and I just moped my way to the box.

Billy wasn't too drunk that day, but he was mean anyway.  I had three balls and one strike at the point when Billy yelled, loud, exasperated, and simple, "Swing!"  I remember looking at him, probably scornfully, and then looking over at my parents.  My dad was picking my brother out of the dirt and talking to him with a stern expression and my mom was watching me and smiling, blithely waving her hand as if I was doing an excellent job up there.  At that point I just figured swinging would be the fastest way to get the moment over with and so I settled in and leaned my weight against my right leg, hands grasping a good two inches above the end of the bat which I held at an angle slightly lower than normal since before the game my dad had mentioned sometimes I held it a little high.  Harder to swing it around that way.  

This time, this pitch, I saw the ball as it left the pitcher's hands.  I could see it, watch it, the way you watch an egg roll over a counter, fall, and splatter on the kitchen floor.  It was an easy, rolling egg, kind of pitch.  And for the first time I hooked my elbow a bit higher before bringing the bat around to twist at the waist, watched that egg, the sweet spot of that mud-crusted egg, crack at the thickest part of my bat.  I remember Billy's yelp of surprise and hearing my dad yell, "Go, Rachel!" and while I know I ran, know I got a double, know we lost the game, I don't remember much beyond that moment.  Only the arc of the pitch, Billy's "Swing!", my mom's sweet smile, and my dad's emphatic direction stick out on the periphery of what I felt.  It's what I felt that remains. 

It's the feel of diamond dirt beneath tennis shoes (I didn't get cleats until I played in St. Louis a few years later), the marking of that line with my right foot as I stepped into the box, the slow slow tense of the right shoulder as it lifts up, and the swift, strong twist of the hip as I pivoted towards the ball ("point your right hip right where you want to hit that ball," quoth Billy), that remains.  And the sound of that metal-on-leather choir, the singsong of the game, echoes through each tap and crack and minor hit and grand slam of baseball. Every spring.  Every year.

And maybe that's one reason why I love it so much.

From Here

My dad and I went to the Shakopee auction on Friday night.  We got there too early and left well before the normal three hour event wrapped up.  We came home with nothing, despite a couple of attempts at a food processor (for me) and some well-stocked tackle boxes (for dad). We shared a not-good pretzel (what is that cheese stuff made out of anyway? melted tonka trucks?) and largely sat and watched a small slice of Americana unfold.

Despite many differences and my penchant for bleeding-heartedness, my dad and I share a certain element of romanticized love for our country.  I say romanticized not because we're naive or silly but because I think each of us, in our way, recognizes how things should be long before we decide the proper path to that result.  We each recognize the goodness in simplicity and communal solidarity and the likelihood of corruption when things (government, church, restaurants) get too big to be handled effectively.  We may differ in the party we align our (both of us) tenuous allegiance to today, but I think our hopes and worries are probably painfully similar.  And both, at their core, stem from a hope that we are directing our path in a way that honors God first, country following far, far behind.

I only mention this now because I imagine some of my father's attachment to our Friday activity was similar to my own. Some of that enjoyment was likely inspired by a good dose of patronizing people watching (who in heaven's name needs a box of dog costumes?!) but some of it was inspired by the good kind of people watching, the kind that makes you think, "yes, this is how it should be." 

Before the auction got rolling the announcer opened up with a sad and common story.  Fred (or Joe or Hank or Charlie, I forget), who'd lived in Shakopee all his life, who'd raised his kids in Shakopee, whose youngest went to the high school, went to the doctor because he wasn't feeling well and came home with a diagnosis of cancer.  There's going to be an auction in April, catered by our friends at Buca di Beppo, and we're selling tickets for $10 apiece, every cent to Fred and his family.  She spoke and encouraged sales for less than 3 minutes, probably sold half a dozen tickets right there.  No doubt she'll sell them every Friday for the next month, and they'll be pushing them at the cashier's window when everybody pays their night's tally. 

My first thought, upon hearing this announcement, was, "yes! this is how it should be! In a perfect world, this is how communities should act."  But Shakopee is not a perfect world.  So why limit perfection to Perfection? A perfect world, in tiny increments, can exist in auction houses on Friday nights selling bad pretzels and taco-in-a-bag. 

I'm co-leading a bible study right now on C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce.  It is one of the most gratifying spiritual exercises I've ever experienced, and one of the toughest mentally.  For those who don't know the story, Lewis explores Heaven and Hell by way of a busride between the two.  An ancient Catholic thought was that souls in Hell would be given a "day off" out of Hell, a sort of merciful respite from damnation.  Lewis used this concept to bring those souls to the outskirts of Heaven, to allow them to glimpse that side of eternity and, perhaps, realign their perspective in a way that got rid of self-involvement enough to contemplate Grace.  Each of the lost souls Lewis examines is self-absorbed in some way or another, it's the link that binds the lost together.  Whether it be shame, or pride, or addiction to recognition, or lust, all of the sins that make it impossible for the souls to visualize God are sins that place Self far above the Almighty.

In one especially powerful conversation between a lost soul and a "solid person" (Heaven's inhabitants), the Heavenly person says:

There have been men before now who got so interested in proving the existence of God that they came to care nothing for God Himself...as if the good Lord had nothing to do but exist!  There have been some who were so occupied in spreading Christianity that they never gave a thought to Christ...Did ye never know a lover of books that with all his first editions and signed copies had lost the power to read them? Or an organiser of charities that had lost all love for the poor? It is the subtlest of all the snares.

This passage has been resonating with me since I first read it, weeks ago, bouncing off the edges of my brain and resurfacing at seemingly odd moments, like when I'm debating the worth of a used food processor at a small town auction.  I think it struck me while the announcer was talking about this stricken townsmember because her plea for ticket sales and her description of the dilemma were in the same tone of voice.  They were of equal import.  The request for aid was a statement as much as it was an actual invitation. It is a plea but it is also a Truth, that we, as a community, should wrap around this man and do what we can.  So tonight, in this auction house, we will sell a few tickets, and then we will sell a few more.  Because that is what good people do, it's what a community should be, and it's what the struggling, the poor, are promised by the Lord, in the person of the Church.

Now we weren't in a church.  And I have no way of knowing whether the people who bought tickets were Christians.  I didn't buy one.  But it struck me that the Church fails, miserably and often, in addressing the needs of the poor, in doing exactly what God tells us to do when he tells us to take care of them.  And because the Church fails, the State steps in.  Poverty is a broad, terrifying thing, but the wealth and power of every Church in America, together, could eliminate it in this country.  We do not.  The Church fails.  There are great strides made, wonderful sacrifices, glorious dedication from men and women and children at various orphanages, soup kitchens, halfway houses, AA meetings, prisons, and wrong-sides-of-the-tracks.  But it will never be enough unless charity grows out of a love for the poor translated into a duty to serve, and not a duty worth nothing more than a tithe. 

 When the auction announcer began her ticket sale for Fred, she appealed to his roots.  He's from Here.  He grew up Here.  He raised his kids Here.  As a community we should rise up and serve him, honor him, bless him in every way we can.  It struck me, I suppose, of how powerful it would be to make the same statement about every single human being on the face of the planet.  If "here" is but a synonym of "God's child," then we are all guilty, everyday, of ignoring our brethren. 

If every single person is from Here, from Him, rather, then we should all be buying tickets.

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.

An Unexpected Pause

For the past week I have fought (quite valiantly, I think) a sinus infection plague with every intention of avoiding the doctor.  Last night, as part of that avoidance, I took some NyQuil in hopes that it would knock me out and, by proxy, suckerpunch this bug.  Instead, it suckerpunched me.

I passed out around 1 am, grew faint on a walk back from the restroom, blacked out and woke up when my face smashed the carpet, jerking my neck backwards in a ridiculously painful arc.  I stayed on the floor for at least 5 minutes, willing the room to stop spinning.  I crawled back to bed, debated the likelihood of dying from a snapped neck this way, fell asleep before I cared enough to google those odds.

So it was the neck injury, which vibrates with pain every time I glance up or down, that made me finally schedule an appointment, by which time I had a doozy of a fever. So I'm now fevered, drugged, and largely immobile, in enough pain to actually watch Nancy Grace for ten whole minutes before digging deep and mustering the strength to grab the remote.

The doc said this sort of injury can take up to six weeks to heal.  SIX.  WEEKS.  I cannot fathom that, or what it means for my training for my first half-marathon of the season this coming March. For now, I'm just doing everything I can to get healthy again (hello, antibiotics), drinking a lot of water, and hoping that six weeks is a scare tactic to make me take the injury seriously.  This is an unexpected pause, and I pray a brief one.

Technology is Neat

I received a set of crochet hooks and a how-to book for Christmas.  I've always liked knitting scarves (never cared to learn how to knit anything else) and I'd been eyeing a fellow bus commuter's awesome crochet projects for a few months and figured maybe a change of yarn method was in order. I want to learn how to make a hat, dangit.  A cute hat.  With a flower on the side.

I will not admit to how many hours I have spent staring at the first page of the crochet book.  I just do not think my brain processes pictoral instructions well.  Maybe it's the same part of the brain that processes maps because those who know me recognize my complete idiocy with maps, too.  I get lost in the mall. Blurg.  Anyway, I have tried over and over and over again to make a stupid slip knot and a stupid initial link of crochet chains.  I have cursed at an innocent ball of yarn, I admit it.

I'm tucked in at home sick today and all the sudden the wonders of sudafed inspired me to give the crochet book another whirl.  The book is a disaster and will never be touched again. But the answer to my frustration? YouTube.  There are a ridiculous number of videos on beginner crocheting on the web.  I can start the video, pause it, rewatch it, cuss, unravel, rewatch, and...victory!  This one below is the one that finally gave me my Eureka moment:

Genius. No more staring cross-eyed at that flippin' book.  No more questioning my worth as a woman because I can't master a basic handicraft.

And the proof? My first line of single crochet stitches:

Doesn't look like much now (and please ignore the glaring hole), I know, but I figure by July I should be able to make a hat without bursting into tears or threatening a defensiveless skein of yarn with a trip to the dumpster. Thank you, YouTube!

When Your Tongue is Screwed in Backwards

One of the first warnings I have that I'm about to be smacked with a doozy of a headcold is that everything I eat tastes like onions.  Everything. Pineapple=onions. Yogurt=onions. Onions=onions. It's a fascinatingly bizarre occurence. And it has been happening for about as long as I remember. Today I discovered a new tastebud warning in that Coke tastes like turkey. Have you sipped turkey before? Have you sipped a Coke expecting to taste turkey?  These aren't experiences I would want to share with anyone.

I only mention it on my blog because the turkey drinking made me realize how easily I take for granted one of my five senses.  And it also made me question the art/humor of God in designing a body that reacts to pathogens by warping expectations. What area of the brain is responsible for communicating and labeling taste expectations? That knowledge is housed somewhere.  Before I bite an apple I can imagine what an apple should taste like.  Before I drink a Coke, I know that it should not taste like turkey.  But somehow, when my brain and body are busy fighting an infection, that knowledge gets pistol-whipped.

I always tell myself to treasure my senses.  My sight, my hearing, touch, and smell. Taste gets left out sometimes because it seems almost unimportant.  You can live and act within society without any manner of disability lacking a sense of taste.  But on the occasions that my sinuses implode, I'm reminded of how grateful I am that 99% of the time, turkey tastes like turkey, and Coke tastes like Coke.

The Books I Go Back To

My Uncle Rodney gave me the first book I remember being daunted by. I was too young for Jane Eyre when I received it, and I remember attempting to read it twice in that first year before settling in with enough vocabulary (and gumption) to tackle Bronte.  I was 10. It was in the window of age underlined by the move from Arkansas to St. Louis.  Bronte went with me, and Jane was my first friend in my new city.

Since then my Uncle Rodney has given me books.  Many books. He mailed a monstrosity of a box of them to Morocco when I complained of having nothing to read.  I don't remember how many books he mailed to Africa, but it was in the double digits, and I read every single one within three weeks.  Those books are still in Africa, left behind due to my speedy evacuation, and I have no doubt they've found their way into many happy Peace Corps hands since their arrival on the continent.

Within that box was Geek Love and Feast of Love, two books I return to often. As I do Jane. I devour books pretty rapidly and I find it hard to part with them.  And among the Books I've Read, there is a small, treasured bunch I'll refer to as The Books I Go Back To. I'll eliminate The Bible at this point.  It doesn't belong amongst mere novels and poetry volumes, as it's The Book of Truth that has been beside and within me since I could read. I grew up in a Bible-loving home, and so that Book is a constant, the heartbeat beneath the bookshelf.

The Books I Go Back To are listed below.  Some (The Flounder, Atlas Shrugged) were read and reread but now are revisited largely for certain passages or chapter.  A line of The Flounder is tattooed on my back so I suppose that one, in particular, is with me for life.  Some other books, like Jane, are old, dear friends that I reread often but are more like quiet companions that do not need a revisiting, the story is so well cemented in my memory.  Others, like Suite Francaise, are recent additions to my revisiting pile, and may or may not become lifetime members. But, for what it's worth, here are the Books I Go Back To, beginning with the first one that truly engrossed me. 

Jane Eyre, C. Bronte
Wuthering Heights, E. Bronte
Anne of Green Gables, L.M. Montgomery
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis
Suite Francaise, I. Nemirovsky
Geek Love, K. Dunn
The Flounder, G. Grass
Atlas Shrugged, A. Rand
Walden, H. Thoreau
The Tower and The Winding Stair and Other Poems, W.B. Yeats
Idylls of the King, A.L. Tennyson
Of Human Bondage, W.S. Maugham
Eliza Stanhope, J. Trollope
The Trial, F. Kafka
To Kill a Mockingbird, H. Lee
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, J. Joyce
Man Walks into a Room, N. Krauss
The Feast of Love, C. Baxter
Sonnet 71, Shakespeare
Voyage Au Maroc, E. Wharton

Molly's Walkin'

My lovely friend, Molly, is raising funds for the Komen 3-day walk in memory of her mother.  Molly's one of my dearest friends up here and I'm very proud of her excitement and courage in attempting an exhausting ordeal for the sake of all those who have been and will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Sadly, Molly's story and her loss are not unique, but I believe her desire to spread awareness and optimism is a testament to her mother's grit and the grace of God.

Please take a moment to check out Molly's new blog page, which will detail her training and fundraising efforts.  Share the link with any and all who might be inspired to donate and I'll keep you posted on her progress (I'm expecting to share in some long training walks this summer). Go get 'em, girly!

Molly's Blog

Sunshine Makes the Snow Almost Worthwhile

There are good days to be had, regardless of single digit temps, thanks to the sunshine that January and February generally promise.  The incessant grey of early winter gets to me, so despite the often colder months of mid to late winter, I much prefer January and February's sunshine to December's cloudcover.

We traipsed around Elm Creek Reserve in Champlin on Saturday and snowshoeing tends to keep the heart rate peppy enough to avoid chills, but it doesn't safeguard the face from the biting wind. My cheeks were chapped enough to cause tears (below 10 degrees and my eyes can't hack it, they water like mad) to sting the skin. I didn't need blush for church this morning.

But negative wind chills notwithstanding, I will always be grateful for the promise of Spring inherent in a bright, blinding Sun.

Confidante

I have a dear friend, Sandy, who has become enormously important to my running/eating habits in the last 4-5 months.  Sandy and I have only known each other for a few years.  She was one of the first true friends I made up North, and I believe I latched onto her in part because she was from Virginia.  Hallelujah, a fellow Southerner!

While she moved back to Virginia, thanks to the glories of internet communication and a couple excellent visits, we've remained close.

Sandy and I share a common struggle in that weight/food have always played a large role in our self-perception and self-acceptance.  We've both lost large amounts of weight in the last few years and we both found running to be both a supportive element of that weight loss and an important boost to our occasionally flagging sense of self-worth. We're both goal-oriented gals and we thrive with a hurdle before us, conquering problems and pursuing specific accomplishments just lights a fire that keeps us going when the going gets a bit annoying. Sandy rooted for me from afar as I trained for and ran my first marathon and I committed to one day returning the favor.

A few months ago Sandy and I decided we'd correspond several times a week (pretty much all work week) and detail how we're doing food and exercise-wise.  Being accountable to someone is a powerful tool and just the threat of having to type out, "I ate 473 Cheez-Its," is enough of a bummer to make me second guess purchasing those little spawns of Satan. Neither of us was too married to a specific food plan, although we kept to Weight Watchers points for awhile. Our pursuit was always a pursuit of balanced eating, runner-supportive eating, and understanding why it is that we occasionally break down and lose control over what we eat. We were striving for the ability to recognize why we crumbled and what mental black line separated the good days from the bad. 

It isn't an exercise I imagine everyone understands.  While Sandy hasn't struggled with an eating disorder the way I have, she has struggled with her body, and so she recognizes the pain that sometimes accompanies Food, and how, for some people (I'm speaking of myself now) it can feel less like comfort and fuel and more like kryptonite. It's like a war, really, with battle scars and flashbacks and crippling anxiety.  And Sandy is one of the handful of people on this planet who I can say, "I really wanted to eat the hamburger but I was afraid I'd have a panic attack" to and know she 1) doesn't think I'm crazy and 2) knows that, in the end, I will always be okay.

I fight less with Food (it deserves a capital letter today) when I'm happy with how my body works.  And I'm happy about my body when I'm pursuing physical goals.  I no longer need to be a size 4.  A size 8 is a perfectly healthy, legit size for a woman. But I do need to feel that I'm getting stronger, that the Food I eat is purposeful and destined for action.  I enjoy Food when I can articulate why I'm eating it and I'm happy with that reasoning. Eating for fuel, because I'm running 10 miles tomorrow, because I lifted weights today, because I'm happy and want to celebrate a special occasion, because the mango is on sale and it's my favorite, because the new recipe for sausage and kale soup is so perfect, because my boyfriend's taking me out to dinner and strawberry shortcake is his favorite...these are all reasons my heart supports and embraces.  Food can be a lovely component in such instances. But if I'm eating only because I'm bored or tired or lonely, that's when Food stops being a component of my day and instead begins to consume it.  That's when the good days turn bad. 

I say all this because Sandy has been a large part of helping me understand that about myself.  It's a struggle I have been exhausted by for over half my life and it's a struggle I expect to continue for as long as I live. It will never be easy, and the panic attacks will still happen, and the crushing anxiety over the simplest of menu decisions, but I'm better equipped now than I have ever been.  And Sandy is a large part of that new-found comfort and courage.

While I've been growing and understanding myself in that way, tripping over emotional/mental hurdles from time to time, waiting for Sandy to dust me off and send me a cyber hug, Sandy has been struggling with a wholly physical hurdle.  In her pursuit of her first marathon, Sandy was injured.  She'd broken the 18 mile mark in her training and her IT band, and subsequently her knee, gave out on her.  It's a heartache and frustration I have never suffered from and I have struggled to know how best to support her as she watched her marathon training dream get sidelined in the interest of simply walking without shooting pain.

After surgery a couple weeks ago, Sandy is now on the mend and thinking of running and racing again.  She has started a blog and as she's a groovy little writer, I highly recommend you track her journey of recovery and, ultimately, victory at a finish line sometime this year. Sandy's blog is a lot like Sandy, realistic as to the likelihood of struggles and pain and also gloriously optimistic about her ability to conquer the hills before her.

Sandy has been more than a confidante to me, she has been a rock on the days Food feels like it owns me, and I have tried to be the same support to her as she has struggled to maintain her optimism throughout her current struggle.  She is a blessing to me; I thank God for her. And this is merely a blogpost thank you to Sandy, my marathon buddy and my sender of emails, and an internet ether-based "you can do it!" as she begins her recovery.

Rock on!

Back in the Saddle

After a good two months of shunning running (just listen to that full-bodied rhyme), I've recommitted to the pavement.  I've decided to run my second marathon in 2011 and for some bizarre reason I decided to announce on Sunday that my goal is to run it in less than five hours.

This is rather ludicrous.

My last (and first) marathon (Twin Cities 2009) was completed in five hours, 30 minutes. I was just thrilled to survive! I ran the whole way and was coherent enough to drink a beer and eat a Jucy Lucy after the finish, loved ones and dedicated cheerleaders beside me. It was one of the happiest and most exhausting days of my life.  But the further I got away from that day, the more exhausted I became at its memory.  The adrenaline of training, the weeks and weeks of 18 mile training runs, the thrill of its newness and my fear of failure kept me going.  But once it was over, I shuddered at the thought of putting myself through that again.

In 2010 I decided early on that it was not a marathon year.  The half-marathons had always been a more enjoyable distance and so I decided to tackle six half-marathons in six months instead of training for a full.  I ended up doing seven half-marathons, the last of which was a personal best made more perfect by my companion, kid sister, Caroline. By the end of the racing season at the end of October, I was exhausted again.  Seven half-marathons is a different type of exhaustion than training for the full.  The full was a slow and steady build to one crazycrazycrazy physical adventure.  The seven half-marathons involved seven months of maintaining a very specific level of fitness and that maintenance really did run me down after awhile.

It was at that point of fatigue that I realized something about myself.  I kinda like exhausting myself. I like pushing myself to the point where my body tells me, "nope. that's it. you're done."  And then I like answering, "not quite yet."  In the months after 2009's marathon and 2010's half-marathon bonanza, I rested and enjoyed my rest in ways I never did as a non-runner.  I think when you've made your body do extraordinary things you tend to love it a little more, treat it a little kinder, take care of it the way you'd take care of a priceless machine.  As a fat (lets not mince words) non-runner, I would freak out over the 4-5 lbs I'd gain over the holidays.  It just seemed like such a desperate endeavor to get rid of the weight.   Now, as a runner on hiatus, I weighed in after New Year's, looked at that extra 4 lbs and just thought, "well, that needs to come off before the half-marathon in March."  It was functional. The way I think of my car, "need to get the oil changed before vacation." It's not a terrifying thing.  I took some time off.  I enjoyed my time off.  And now, it's time to restart the engine.

In the two months since my last race I've opted for long walks until the cold forced me into the gym and onto the Stairmaster. I gained a few lbs, as noted above, but nothing disastrous, and nothing a few weeks of focus won't fix.  The pounds don't worry me near as much as the goal of a sub-five hour marathon. Because now that I've said it outloud, now that it's communal knowledge, I feel like I've shaken hands with God.  This is what I promise to do. This is what I will accomplish. Er, wish me luck...

In my first marathon I worried about finishing.  I have no such fears this time. I know I can run 26.2 miles and my legs won't actually fall off. But I'm not so sure of a five hour marathon.  My fastest half-marathon was 2 hours, 18 minutes, just shy of a 10:30/mile pace.  Prior to the 2009 marathon, my only half-marathon was at 2 hours, 30 minutes. But I would say my average showing is right smack dab in the middle of my fastest and slowest times.  I've run several half-marathons right at 2 hours, 25 minutes.  That doesn't leave much wiggle room at all for coming in under five hours, especially given the second half of the marathon is just a wee bit rougher than the first.

But I'm reminding myself that prior to my first half-marathon, the thought of running one was a joke.  The same can be said prior to my first full marathon.  So while my eyebrow naturally raises at a goal of sub-five hours, I'm also game for the challenge.  Today was my first day of training, my first recognition that the miles from here on out are cumulative and each one is important.

I have had a lovely rest. 

Now it's time to run.

The Merits of Cold

This blog is full of references to my general disdain for all things winter-related.  I've complained a bit here or there of my complete confusion as to why perfectly logical human beings choose to settle in a place where subzero temps are too commonly the norm. I'm perpetually cold in my apartment, I sleep with six (6!) blankets, and the 5:40 a.m. trudge to the busstop with double digit negative windchills has inspired a number of quasi-homesick postings.  I try not to whine (so unladylike).  But I believe it's fairly plain that I miss my South-of-the-Mason-Dixon upbringing, and New Orleans in particular, quite vehemently.

That being said, there is merit to the chill. I spent this New Year's Eve dashing about a friend's backyard broomball rink (that's me in red behind the rink's owner, Adam, who's clearly more skilled than I):

It wasn't the first time I'd played broomball, and I know it won't be the last as I've signed up for a church team starting up in the next few weeks.  It's a nutty, spirited, occasionally vicious game that always leaves me with a random bruise here or there and the sneaking suspicion there are muscles in my butt that God created strictly for the sake of broomball.

After the final round of play, a couple of us ladies plopped onto the rink and made snow angels, rolling around like 8 year-olds, with hair falling out of ponytails, skin kissing ice, giggling as we skidded and reveled in the last evening of 2010. The night was cloudy and starless, but as I rested on the ice and stared skyward, the wind gusted and blew snow off the trees, sending tiny pinpricks of white to swirl and shimmy to the ground. 

It was a happy moment, made happier by its brevity and the promise of hot mulled wine and good friends inside. I can appreciate that simple, visceral experience of coming in out of the cold, entering a warm home with the soft glow of expectant hugs, the ripping off of cold socks, the wrapping 'round of a well-worn blanket.  I love that slow, subsiding ache as the cold, inch by inch, leaves my fingers.  And I love to hear the hoot and howl of wind as it begs to enter every nook and cranny and every nook and cranny politely says, "no."

The cold is an evil, hateful thing if you're alone.  And I imagine the extra hours of darkness and the bite of ice are made more miserable without the company of dear souls.  So while I ache for Home (and the aching is that much deeper when you have no immediate plan to return), I am grateful for warm spiced wine, specifically perfect hugs, rosy-cheeked laughter, fellow snow angel makers, and the myriad opportunities to make the most of the frozen part of God's creation.