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.

Dear 2010,

There are years that seem rather amazing in how much change they wreak on a body. The change is continual, with a million whiplash-inducing surprises (pleasant and otherwise) keeping me on my toes.  Years that become watersheds.  2002 and 2003 were like that for me, the pre- and post- Peace Corps bookends of my life.  2005 was like that, the pre- and post- Hurricane Katrina year.  And 2007 was like that, the year I graduated from law school, left my favorite city in the world, moved somewhere that allows one to walk on water in wintertime, started running, started to lose those 80 pounds. 

The years since the move have been momentous in quieter ways, more of a building-up and breaking-down in intimate increments.  All that falling-in and falling-out of love business in 2009-2010 was enough to exhaust me, but good in its way.  And the marathons, the half-marathons, and travels, and new friends were enough to make the crappier bits of this year passable.

2010 wasn't stellar, but it was a solid showing, full of highlights (Barcelona, running a half-marathon with my kid sister, celebrating my 30th birthday with my best best best friend by my side, other smaller, slower moments involving walks to my car in the rain, fireworks, first kisses, groovy bands that left me sweating and disgusting from hours of dancing, perfecting the art of the gingerbread cookie, singing at my Grandmother's piano).  It wasn't a watershed year in and of itself, not a year that I will look back on as particularly remarkable, but it's a year that feels like a beginning of very good, very blessed things.  And those are years worth loving, too.

Thank you, 2010, for being a happy, instructive chunk of experience. Thank you for new friends and new lessons, and the healing of wounds. Thank you for the optimism you've inspired and the miraculous community of family and friends that you've blessed me with to see me on to next year's adventures.  Thank you for providing me, even on the cloudiest days, with endless justification for happiness and hope.

Love,
R

My Taste Buds' Interpretation of Heaven

I truly believe the best elements of cooking, the tried-and-true, home-tastes-like-THIS, type recipes are the ones fashioned by a combination of love and meager means.  Home-cooking is not five-star restaurant cooking.  It's a culmination of accidents, family folklore, and not-great-but-not-awful dishes that simply bookend years of childhood.  For instance, my Mom went through a phase when we lived in Arkansas of really loving, and pushing, the Taco Salad with Catalina Dressing.  There were kidney beans involved. Cheap shredded cheddar. Iceberg lettuce. Tortilla chips.  When I think of elementary school, Catalina dressing is never far from my thoughts.

My family never made bread pudding.  But it's the sort of dish born of some quiet moment by a fire years ago that I think must be not unlike the catalina-dressing-taco-salad creation of my younger years. Mind you, bread pudding has evolved into one of the more treasured of Southern gustatory endeavors.  The Catalina-Taco-Salad has not quite caught on with that level of enthusiasm. But I bet the first women to dream up bread pudding were not unlike my Mom.  Good, busy, thoughtful Moms who found something pretty yummy that worked, something simple that incorporated what was in the cupboard and didn't require a trip to the grocery store, or the market, or the fields. And it was dirt cheap.

Stale bread, milk, eggs, sugar.  There are only four ingredients to the simplest of bread puddings.  And like other brilliant food combinations (tomato+cheese, banana+peanut butter,  chocolate+anything), its simplicity is what makes it great.  Other genius Southern fare arose out of similar circumstances, gumbo, for instance, is nothing but leftover pig mixed with perfect spices, rice, beans, okra, and the most powerful of Gulf resources, the Shrimp.  It's a dish born of what was handy and what could be caught or grown oneself. Bread pudding, likewise, was a child of necessity, born of a mother's desire to serve something special and sweet without the pocketbook to afford the extra flour a cake would require.

Despite all the ills associated with carbohydrates and fats and calories (and I have suffered my own share of battles in that minefield), I have never believed that food, truly good food, was an evil.  It's a gift and a blessing, a provision of manna in the wilderness. The best of foods don't come out of factory concoctions and field testing.  The best comes from love and making-do and the passing on of secrets and the greasing of Grandmother's best cookie sheet, Mama's rolling pin. The best of foods never mean harm, only love and sustenance, only a small slice of shelter on the days the world seems bent on cruelty.  I do not believe it is wrong for food to be a comfort. In fact, in all of the worst days in history, I am positive joy was shared, peace delivered, love communicated, at a million tables around the world.  There was, and always will be, bread, and sugar, and eggs, and milk. So even on the worst days, the meager days (literal or metaphorical), Heaven waves hello from the tongue.

The NOEL was in the Cupboard

I do not remember a Christmas without the ceramic NOEL. Four greenish, redish ceramic letter candleholders that would grace my Grandmother's piano in Mullins, South Carolina and now hold court on top of the wood cabinet beside her refrigerator in Columbia. 

They aren't an exciting piece of Christmas decoration.  My Grandmother and my parents each own much more impressive nuggets of frivolity to ring in the season.  But these letters are a small sliver of family experience that remains important.  They've been in the family for over 50 years, having been a gift from a family friend who used to babysit my dad when he was a toddler. They're simple and unremarkable, but it's hard to picture Christmas without the NOEL.  Or the LEON.  Or the ELON. Or the NOLE. Or, my personal favorite, the LONE.

Rearranging the letters was just something everybody did.  You did it preferably when Grandmother's back was turned.  Maybe she was digging in the pantry for the cookie tin of fudge.  Maybe she was adding pepper to the chicken bog.  Maybe she was sitting in the living room, crossword puzzle in hand.  But if you walked by the letters and they happen to be spelling their intended word, well, somebody needed to rectify that.

My dad poked around online and found out that these dear letters are not, in fact, a novelty.  They are everywhere.  So we are clearly not the only family with this tradition and I like to wonder how many other kids grew up rearranging the ceramics to Grandma's chagrin.  My dad bought a set for each of us kids and he gave me mine last year.  A small gift, but a very important one.

For the life of me, however, I could not remember where I tucked them.  My apartment is very small, so there really are few places where anything of a decent size could be lost.  Under the bed? Nope. In the closet? Nope. Forgotten rung of a bookshelf? Nope. The infamous drawer-that-shall-not-be-opened? Nope.

I was rather heartbroken by the loss and had even begun to search online for a replacement. (Note: For those of you who want one of these, I recommend waiting til after the holidays.  Somebody out there is jacking up prices on these bad boys and I just don't condone black market ceramic peddling)  But, in the midst of a baking escapade yesterday and the pursuit of a long lost wire whisk (never found it), I opened a cupboard that never gets opened as it requires a chair for me to reach.  And there they were, spelling L-O-N-E all on their own.

They're sitting on my window sill now.  And while the broken window blind, cigar box,  and #1 Lawyer mug may surround them with a bit of non-holy non-Christmas reality, I believe they look right at home.

The Garden Level

When I was looking for a new apartment over a year ago, I heard anti-garden level apartment shpiels from everyone.  The level most likely to be robbed.  The level with the least sunlight.  The level most likely to be burdened by backed up sinks, noisy upstairs neighbors, and crappy heating. 

I've never been robbed (and honestly, I think the bars on my windows are kinda pretty).  I get plenty of light.  My sinks have been fine (notsomuch the occassional toilet issue).  My next door neighbors are the noisy ones, courtesy of a boisterous toddler.  And my heating issues were copious until I called my landlord and said, "well, I'm cold. And the heater sounds like a cat stuck in a washing machine." 

I really love my little home. It's ridiculously small, yes.  But I'm only one person and have no need for large amounts of space.  I'm walking distance from my favorite brunch place, my favorite bluegrass place, my favorite coffee place, my favorite lake, my favorite spring roll place, my favorite ice cream place, my favorite place to buy milk and peanut butter, and my favorite place to buy and sell clothes.  In short, I could survive quite happily without ever getting in my car, which is ideal.

And now I've discovered a new benefit to garden level urban living in Minneapolis.  When we get a doozy of a snowstorm, I'm as cozy as can be thanks to the igloo-erific view of snow drifting up my window. 

A ribboned and tinseled silver-stemmed tree Perches on the edge of my 2nd hand desk
And the smell of butter and sugar and sugar and sugar
Warms the kitchen in its Christmas-themed mess

The warmth of my oven can't reach the window
Can't free the ice 'round some neighbor's squealing tire
But it toasts my insides, roasts them from within,
Replaces the snow drifts with a cushion of fire

My first near-blizzard, in my favorite nearly-Home
Builds bricks of winter against iron-graced glass
And as the wind whips it higher, encasing me in white
This sleigh-bells-ring-are-you-listening? oatmeal cookie heat must last.

Lipstick

On my thirtieth birthday I wore red:

red reminiscent of skinned knees

and four-eyed eyelids puckered by November allergies.

A red sweatshirt I wore in the third grade,

A yellow star in the center and rhinestoned clouds weeping rhinestone tears.

Thirty years and a sweatshirt still lingers.  And the smell of dirt beside a Southern jungle gym, red sweatshirt ripped at the shoulder by some ill-timed leap.

Red hair is less red against Red Diva lipliner.

The red I never wear crept into a plastic bag, clutched by my mother as she searched for her own mother's perfect shade.

Only grownups wear red lipstick.

Only daughters search for perfect reds for perfect mothers as they valiantly embrace age from hospital beds.

Not too orangey.

Not the pink-tinted one.

The Revlon with a touch of blood in it, of earth, of grownups and children and warm, Sunday mornings spent in churches without fans.

Reds with a touch of Texas in them, Arkansas, or Minnesota, or Tennessee, a splash of a few months toasting sisters in Times Square or South Korea or all-the-sisters-sound-the-same-on-the-phone

  Reds bought and lost and kept in a million handbags in a million places beside a million men, many of whom never matter at all.

Reds of childhood sweatshirts hanging from monkey bars too far apart, and of Mamaw's lips, soft and loveworn, pretty for the World,

Sticks to the wine glass

And the cup of sweet tea

Both sipped in loved company,

Both moments made perfect by their color.

Finishing Strong

I started off this racing season with a goal of running six half-marathons. I ran seven, and the seventh was, by far, by fastest and most fun. I figured I'd recap this quasi-crazy summer adventure before detailing why this last race was my best.

Minnetonka Half: Gorgeous course, beautiful day, lots of happy spectators, but it was way too early in my training. The race was early May and I'd initially leaned towards Fargo (late May) being my first of the season. I signed up for Minnetonka for a purely emotional reason. Recent breakup, heartbroken, I needed some sort of I-am-woman-hear-me-roar type endeavor to remind myself I was a tough, tough cookie. It served its purpose but man it hurt. Definitely on my list for next year as it's a lovely race, but this time I'll train better.

Fargo Half: My first trip to North Dakota! I ran it with a dear friend, Katrina, and it was an excellent course. We arrived at the start mere seconds before gun time due to traffic and it began to rain as soon as we arrived. Happily, the rain ended by mile 4, and the flat, sunshiney course with tons of awesome spectators made for my fastest half other than the one today.

Minneapolis Half: Miserable. Absolutely miserable. Too hot, too humid, and I walked a sizeable chunk because of some out-of-nowhere hip pain. I think I was partly dehydrated, too. This was the only race that I seriously considered just walking away from midway. The course was fine but it was just not a good running day for me.

Red, White, and Boom Half: This was enjoyable to an extent but largely because it was so retched. It was ludicrous how much rain poured down, by mile 3 my shoes were completely soaked and my festive red, white, and blue blinking light headband had fritzed out and was impossibly tangled in my hair. My ipod also bit the big one that day and just decided it didn't want to work in the rain. But by mile 7 or so I was so wet and everyone around me was so wet that we were just all kinda enjoying it. I started splashing in the puddles on purpose and just gave up any hopes of getting a decent time. My friend, Molly, was there to high five me at the end and it takes a TRUE friend to stand in the rain for that long.

Urban Wildlands Half: Another rainy one but not near as rainy as the July 4th race. It was humid so the rain actually helped cut the air a bit and cool me down. It was a decently paced race for me, which was great, and my parents came to cheer me on at the finish. My friend, Kristen, ran it as her first half so it's always nice to know a fellow crazy soul is slogging through the miles with you.

Salomon Trail Half: My only trail half-marathon and my slowest time. Second only to the Monster Dash for most fun. This race helped me discover that I loooooooove trail running. I ran into a tree at one point and also managed to acquire about 50 stickleburrs at one time (those are fun to pluck off while running). I also pretty severely injured a toe that bled like the dickens, I could feel the blood squishing in my sock, so this was also my most painful race. But I loved running up and down the hills, hiking the tall ones, checking out the gorgeous fall colors. I honestly think I hurt as much after this one as after the full marathon last year. I limped for a few days. My body had never done that amount of hill work and it's just a different leg muscle experience running trail versus road. I will definitely do this one again.

Monster Dash Half: My final race of the year, which I ran with my kid sister, Caroline to fundraise for the Epilepsy Foundation. It was Caroline's first half and despite having knee problems the last several weeks, she was a total trooper! She's younger and smaller than me so her pace is naturally faster but we stayed together the whole time and I think my slowing us down a bit probably saved her a bit of pain. We finished just shy of a 10:30 pace, which is definitely my fastest, and we had excellent cheering from Mom, Dad, and Caroline's boyfriend throughout the race. We celebrated with omelets the size of our heads and cinnamon rolls at Pannekoeken Huis.

My mom asked Caroline after the race if she would be "hooked" on races now. Caroline smiled and shrugged and said, "probably, just like Rachel." It is a feeling you can't describe to non-racers. There really is nothing like the feeling just beyond a finish line. Even if you're not fast, even if the race hurts, crossing that line makes for a good day. Because life throws us all sorts of impossible situations that never seem to really end. There are struggles that ebb and flow and weave and sleep and reawaken. But a race is a finite, powerful thing. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And getting through each mile is a minor victory, leading up to that moment of completion. It's a strong reminder of how deft the human body is at recognizing a challenge and rising to meet it. And on the days the world feels hard, it's a nice memory to return to, cling to maybe, as proof that what feels unlikely, even impossible, sometimes only requires one more mile.