You Say Potato

It's easy to feel full of gratitude and happiness on Christmas. Kids playing quietly on the carpet with new toys and games, jolly holiday music humming through the air, delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, and close friends at hand all lend to warm feelings and holiday memories. My heart is overflowing with love and joy.

Even now as I sit on the computer, my boy is contentedly singing Christmas music as he works on a Lego set. Unaware that anyone is listening or paying attention to him, he is content; his soft voice reminds me of the innocence and joy of childhood that Christmas should celebrate. And even though each of us may observe Christmas for different reasons, it still should be a day to observe peace and give thanks for our many blessings.

I am intrigued by some Facebook posts from friends who continue to visit the controversial topic of "Happy Holidays" versus "Merry Christmas", and how Jesus is offended if we don't actually say, "Merry Christmas". Interesting to me, I guess, because while I love Jesus, it absolutely makes no sense whatsoever to me to wish a "Merry Christmas" to someone who observes Jewish tradition. Or, why would I offer a "Merry Christmas" to a person who doesn't recognize the holiday at all? Am I worried about offending these people? Perhaps, but moreover, it just doesn't add up. It would be like offering a steak to a vegetarian. It wouldn't be well received; he has no use for that ribeye.

Maybe I am being controversial here, but in my mind, Jesus still represents what He came to earth to share: love. Who are we to create divisions and complications that need not be (and in His name, no less)? Would Jesus really want us to argue over politically correct statements? I still maintain that no one is going to "win another over for Jesus" by spewing hatred and self-righteous statements. You don't need to accept my code of ethics and faith anymore than I do yours. I might misunderstand or lack appreciation for what you believe, but I certainly hope I always respect your position. In my humble opinion, there is a whole awful lot of disrespect and lost love to argue about the difference between us.

Can't we all just agree to love each other and be grateful for what we each bring to the table?

Listen, I may hear something really fabulous in church on Sunday (the pastor is hip and hilarious). I may really want to share a piece of what he taught because it was clever or spoke to my heart and has the potential to provoke profound conversation. I may even refer you to the church's website to check out the teaching because I think the words could be interesting or applicable to you.

I know you may not know (or care to know) Jesus, and I don't care to force Him on you. But, I hope you know His love by my compassion for you, because there are things about you that I really can't stand. I show you love because there is something bigger in me that dictates that kindness. I'm really grateful I have that glowing furnace inside, because some days, I am really not likable (let alone lovable), but you just might be able to tolerate me if there is even a dim hue of kindling light. That's God's radiance in my life that isn't easily smoldered- even when I'm ugly and ungrateful.

I can't really explain it. When I find something I like, I recognize it instantly and need to make it mine. I know what I want and I relentless pursue it. I have been called "detrimentally determined", but sometimes when something--some feeling--gets ahold of me, I can't easily shake it. I want it with me always. I didn't even really have to pursue this little light of mine. It found me. God got ahold of me and has never let go.

Regardless, I am not upset if you wish me, "Happy Holidays" because that is what you genuinely feel from your heart. I'll take your version of "Merry Christmas" (or lack thereof) if it means we are continuing to encourage love and generate peace. I feel gratitude for even the distance and differences between us because this is how we learn more about ourselves and continue to stretch and grow. How else might we actually fully experience life--and ultimately love--otherwise? Teach me, stretch me, and love me, already!

"Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to a better understanding of ourselves." -Carl Jung

The Modern Man

How do we define "The Modern Man"? I have had countless conversations with girlfriends about what constitutes a man of the times. Of course, he is handsome, hardworking, successful, and stylish. He understands the latest trends and fashions, but he is seemingly unconcerned with the clothes he wears. He keeps up to speed with current events, and his reading list reflects his intellect. By today's standards, however, The Modern Man must embody qualities that extend beyond himself and that of his workplace. He is expected to do more than merely provide financially for his family.

It's complicated for The Modern Man. He must be helpful to a fault without looking for a pat on the back. He knows when to offer assistance, and when to abstain from offering his opinion. He still opens doors for the woman in his life, but doesn't open his mouth when she just wants to emote. He knows how to fix a running toilet, but understands he can't "fix" his sad spouse by telling her to "suck it up". He is debonair and gracious, but self-assured and can command a car in rush hour traffic.

Every woman wants a Boy Scout. Whether or not we readily admit it is entirely a different story, but we all want a man who can tie a taut-line hitch knot, pitch a tent in the wild wilderness, wrestle an alligator, or essentially MacGyver his way out of just about any unexpected and perilous situation. It doesn't hurt if he looks good in a uniform, either. Women want a Marlboro Man.

Why?

At the heart of it all, we still want to feel protected. We love a rugged man who isn't afraid to get down and dirty and use his hands. Today's Modern Man needs to be both a provider and a protector, just in case we wrangle any trouble in suburbia. It's in our DNA. It's innate. Evolutionarily speaking, women have always been the "weaker" gender in need of protection from saber tooth tigers. As fiercely independent and autonomous as we like to think we are, women are still extremely delicate and desire to be handled as such. It makes us feel feminine. We want to be cared for and assisted (when we ask for it).

The Modern Man must not only be Marlboro in manner and Boy Scout in behavior, but he must also be responsive around the house, as well. What do I mean by this? We really want a guy who can handle himself in and out of doors. We love a man who is rugged enough to fall trees, but sensitive enough to help us bathe the kids and get them ready for bed at night.

The controversy, as I see it, extends beyond the mixed messages we send our men, however.  I have a profound issue with assignment of praise. That is, why do we still think it is a great commodity to find (or have landed) a man who is a "good father" to his own children? Why do we sing the praises of a man who is a "good husband" to his spouse, by virtue of listening to her daycare concerns? Why must we continuously over-inflate the ego of a man who "helps around the house" by picking up his own dirty underwear off the bathroom floor?

In this day and age where most households are dual income families, it seems only fair that a man should lend a hand with the laundry or wash a few dishes, particularly if his wife is working, too. Even women who don't work outside the home cannot honestly be expected to assume all of the household responsibilities while still juggling endless kid stuff. Chauffeuring to ballet classes, organizing the carpool for football practice, baking 700 cupcakes for the school holiday function, and never ending (fill in the blank here: orthodontist/pediatric/optometrist/dental) appointments dominate the calendar. Why do we still think a "good man" who vacuums the floor is hard to find, or that if, indeed, he can handle a Dyson, he is worth his weight in gold?

The problem is not men-- it's women. We have been programmed to believe a contributing man is a commodity. Perhaps it was the poison from our own mothers' lips, but spoken into my generation were words of condemnation and reproach, not for failing to find The Modern Man, but for failing to repeatedly express whole heartedly to him his value. We are expected to write in the sky how utterly fabulous he is for unloading the dishwasher or understanding how to separate the whites from the darks.

How do I know this? My own mother tells me all time how "good" I have it with my spouse. The man I married does, indeed, pull his domestic weight. He isn't fearful of the grocery store and knows his way around the kitchen. He is a very hands-on dad who doesn't "babysit" his kids-- he engages with them because he cares for them. We are a team in the responsibilities of childrearing; I wouldn't have had it any other way. Sure, it has taken a few years of training to get him on board with making the bed in the morning, and he will be the first to tell you he is looking for the star on the chart next to his name for helpfulness. And I will admit, I resent having to constantly tell him what an amazing contributor his is-- shouldn't this just be the case? Am I not contributing, too? I have been told (by several impartial, outside sources) that I would make a miserable 1950s wife. I can't argue with the obvious.

Please don't misunderstand me. People who are closest to me will tell you I am an avid believer in handing out compliments. I firmly believe if you are thinking something kind about someone ("Your eyes look amazing with that color sweater!"), you should share the sentiment. I am the ultimate cheerleader and encourager....but I despise it when people ask for repeated positive reinforcement, particularly when it comes to aiding with the everyday mundane existence.

I happen to know plenty of single fathers who single-handedly do it all. They cook, clean, taxi kids around town, and grind out the evening homework, all while managing to hold down a nine-to-five job to put food on the table. These men do it because they have no other option. The kids are theirs and in their custody. They don't earn extra honors or accolades for sitting up all night with a barfing one, either. It's what they do because they are responsible parents. Is this a Modern Man? Nope. I say it's a loving man.

Ultimately, The Modern Man is the one who can captivate our attention and hold our hearts. He isn't just a Renaissance Man or Jack of All Trades. He is the one you wouldn't trade because he anticipates your needs and fulfills them without provocation. The Modern Man doesn't require acknowledgment for being a responsible, helpful, sensitive man. It's built into the framework of who he is because he knows how to love. Shouldn't that be innate?

Anticipation

My boy has been waking up with great enthusiasm each morning, eager with anticipation to open the day's Advent calendar. At first light, he climbs out of bed and rummages around his dimly lit room, digging through the mountain of Lego pieces on the floor to find (what else?) his Lego Advent Calendar. He holds his breath, tears into the appropriate number, nimble fingers trembling, only to exhale in elation when he discovers the daily treasure. He tears through the plastic wrap and immediately sets to work, constructing the latest vehicle or figure.

At what age is this no longer the norm? When do we stop caring about the little things? When did life get so complicated that a small Lego figure no longer suffices for sheer excitement and utter joy? I still feel anticipation about a great many events and items I am looking forward to, but all too often it seems I am wishing away large portions of my life--weeks, even months-- to get to the next marathon, the next trip, the time spent at home in California. Where is the anticipation in even the smallest happiness of today?

In the return car ride from her big swim meet tonight, Owen said, "Now that this weekend is over, I can't WAIT for next weekend..." (her campout with the IP tribe). I had to laugh to myself. I admit I felt annoyed that we suffered and sacrificed in ways this weekend she won't understand until she is a parent, yet now it all seemed so futile--gone as quickly as it came, and with what seemed like little appreciation.

And yet, I deeply understand her need and desire to attach hope and happiness to the next best thing coming down the pike. Maybe this is just how we are wired, she and I? Maybe we need to attach happiness and hopefulness to things that are to come, tangible things, but just out of reach. Maybe the boy is more like his father and can live in the minuscule merry moments and find contentment there. I think I really envy that and long for a taste of it.

I wish Christmas would hurry up and get here already.

Faith Exposed

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." - Hebrews 11:1

I'm finding I have trouble with the details. For as organized and detail-oriented as I like to think I am, life really is in the details. I'm learning that I just cannot STAND losing sight of the big picture for the stinkin' details. I mean, if we can't see the forest for the trees, what is the point, anyway?

I'm taking a photography workshop at the local museum this weekend. It has been hugely educational and inspirational, but also a real exercise in faith. It's so easy to see what I want to photograph, but actually capturing that image is a different story. The instructor acknowledged it is difficult to capture on command the way he is asking us to do; that is to say, it is hard to be told to point and shoot at the ocean and tell the story of only water. What does that mean? How can we possibly take a picture of the sea and not include the sandpipers looking for their morning meal or the sunrise's reflection on the wet sand? How can we possibly omit the pelicans in formation overhead, or the sea foam's froth left behind a retreating wave like the foam residual in my cup long after the latte is gone? It's perplexing. I want to include it all...are these not the details that tell the whole story? I want to know the WHOLE story instantaneously. I want someone to give me all of the information up front. Please s-p-e-l-l it out for me.

This tends to be the theme in my life at large. When I study, I want the whole outline before I break it up into palatable bites. When I investigate new geography, I want to look at a map of the entire area before I can gain my bearings. When I was a kid, I used to peak ahead in the books I was reading to see what was going to become of the heroine (embarrassing as it is, I still do this sometimes...).

Wandering around the landscape today to scout for photos felt oddly surreal. There was so much I really wanted to capture, but somehow I lacked a clear sense of going about that. It was as if I was afraid to start because I didn't want to fall short of the real story that needed to be told. I couldn't even begin, not knowing the ending. I learned so much just marching around the dunes or shuffling through the mulch (fire ants, I am not a fan) to get to the place I thought could possibly be the right place.

One butterfly, in particular, was especially frustrating to me. Not only would this creature not corporate with me, but it was defective. I wanted a picture that would somehow hide it's tattered wing, but every shot seemed to accentuate that imperfection. It annoyed me. Then I realized I am not all that different from that tattered winged insect. I'm broken, too, so why hide the obvious? Are we not all worn and imperfect in one way or another? Why not embrace it?

Each of us in the workshop took a great many photos. It still amazes me to think that sixteen people can be in the same place, photographing the same scenery, and turn out such radically different photos. The story means something different to each one of us. I'm pretty sure I grew in leaps and bounds today, absorbing what the instructor had to say, but more so, by taking in what my peers turned out. It was the compilation of stories that brought the understanding of the importance of emphasis on detail.

And, yet, there is still such utter disappointment in knowing just how many of those details are altered in Photoshop after the image is taken. Nothing is perfect to be certain (see broken butterfly), but knowing just how much we can change a photo to create something more appealing to the eye feels like cheating to me. Hiding a broken wing in the original captured image felt legitimate to me, but cropping, enhancing, enriching, embellishing....it feels like a facade. And really, is this any different from what we do in our everyday lives?

I have issues focusing. I can't seem to stay true to one task before I am ready to run around and move onto the next. I want to know NOW how my life is going to unfold, where I am going to be in five years (or next year), and find myself impatiently wishing away the details to get there. If life is about the journey, why am I so restless for the ride? Why am I not able to just enjoy today? What does it mean to truly be content?

Maybe, just maybe, it's because I feel as though my life in pictures doesn't always accurately portray reality. It's borders on fantasy. It's not always real. Parts of it are, sure, but other parts I have altered or even convinced myself are okay, though they are not always representative of what I truly desire. Who am I and what do I want? Is my life merely snapshots, pieces of a story I am trying to create, but failing miserably, carelessly lost by neglecting the details? What am I photoshopping, as if to convince others the picture is better than the true image?

Photography is therapy. It's a language all its own, but it translates into so many other disciplines of my life, sometimes it really scares me.

I Heart Savannah

23,000 people at the starting line of Savannah Marathon and a party in the street it was. Under the majestic, massive oaks, weeping with Spanish Moss, we huddled together for warmth in the dark and early hour Saturday morning. I felt like I was sleep walking, exhausted, headed into the race. It's true I ran a marathon 6 days before, but I felt more mentally than physically depleted.

We had driven to Savannah the day before race day after a leisurely morning and breakfast out in Peachtree City. The day started off jovial with great anticipation and excitement. Somewhere along the lines of getting lost in the woods and one too many dirty convenient stores for a potty stop in the middle of Georgia, the excitement began to dissipate. We were tired, cranky, and starving, but determined to reach our destination with the pressure of doggy drop-off before the kennel closed, and getting to the race expo before 7 pm Friday night.

I wasn't really worried until I talked to my friends (who had already reached Savannah, been to the expo to pick up race bibs and timing chips, and were happily drinking beers at a local pub by the time we rolled into town) and was told just how hectic the venue was. The concern mounted once we realized just how ill-equipped the city was to handle an extra 20,000+ people, particularly during evening rush hour. It was gridlock traffic and wall-to-wall people everywhere.

The race expo was on the Island, which means there was only one main artery to get there- a four lane bridge (two lanes of traffic each way) that spanned for about 3 miles. After sitting in relentless traffic for 20 minutes and literally not moving through the intersection, Mad Scientist unloaded the bike and told me to charge it. I was honestly a little frightened to navigate the nightmare before me, uncertain of where I was going, with only my dying iphone for a map. I reluctantly took off my Uggs and pulled on my cleats, clad in tight jeans and a only thin top. The wind blew through me as I climbed out of the car. I grabbed a sweatshirt and hit the road. Mad Scientist took the cranky kids to try to find the hotel and some long overdue food; they really were troopers. The thing about the man I am married to....when he gets hungry, he is a forced to be reckoned with and it is not pretty. I was happier to take my chances with a bridge into the sky loaded with agitated drivers over hanging with hubs with low blood sugar. Yikes.

Freezing, starving, thirsty, tired, and without real direction, I followed the masses along the sidewalk as long as I could until it dumped me onto the street. No more than 30 seconds in the road, a woman sitting shotgun in a car opened her door into me and dumped me on the street. At least I wasn't asleep anymore. I was more determined than ever to get my race packet and felt pretty bitchin to be on a bike when all the signs read "no pedestrians, no bikes" on the way over to the island.

I caught up to a nice looking man dressed in business attire. His khakis and pink collared shirt tucked under his vest told me he was business casual for a Friday, but the $400 loafers on his feet told me nothing about this man was casual. He was handsome. His wispy blond fell in front of his piercing blue eyes, and his perfect teeth were dazzling when he smiled with that Southern charm. I was smitten. This guy would know the ropes, I was certain.

"Hey, are we allowed to be on this bridge on foot?" I asked him, trying to sound nonchalant. I'm sure the fear in my face betrayed me, or maybe just my wild hair from the wind, because he looked at me like I was as insane as he felt in that moment.

"Well, sweetie," he said in his polite Southern drawl, "I run this bridge every weekend, so I don't see why not."

That's the thing about most of the Southerners I have met....true Southerners, always have a pet name for complete strangers immediately, and they want to accommodate even strangers no matter how ludicrous or desperate the situation.

Having made a friend, I immediately felt better. That good feeling, however, left me just as quickly when we saw people walking back toward us and discovered there was a police officer at the top of the bridge, turning pedestrians away. My business casual buddy had a few not-so-polite words for the cop before we, too, turned around, defeated.

"What are we going to do?" I whined, hopeless about the pending doom. My mind was seriously foggy from lack of any kind of food or beverage and I was crashing.

"I don't know what to tell you, sweetie. Maybe we can hitch a ride....although that might be easier for me without a bike." He motioned to my wheels. He then lifted one of his heels out of his Italian loafers to reveal an angry bleeding blister than was so irritated, it was now soaking the bottom of his pants. I could see his other pant leg was stained with blood, too.

"Look what I get to run with tomorrow," he said.

I cringed and looked away. "Eck. I am so sorry....I wish I had a Bandaid to offer you."

We exchanged a few more niceties and parted ways. My mind was racing with impossible thoughts of how I was going to get to that convention center to get my race number. I knew I couldn't go back to the hotel without it and the clock was ticking. Not only did the expo close at 7:00, but we were supposed to meet up for our ghost tour that evening by 6:40. It wasn't looking promising.

Coasting down the bridge against traffic, I was pissed....genuinely mad. Nothing about the day had been easy or fun and now it was looking like I wasn't even going to run an official race without the proper paperwork. What was the point?

I have been told that my greatest asset and worst fault is that I am a "doer". I can't not do what I need to get done. I am going to conquer whatever ails me if it kills me before I quit. I hate being told no and I hate defeat. I am okay losing in competition, but if it is a personal goal or race within me, I just can't let it go until I know I have done everything I can to make it the best. Nope. Going back to the hotel without what I came for was absolutely not an option.

I started surveying the cars headed at me, crawling to the top of the bridge, still locked bumper to bumper. Every car was loaded to the brim with runners who wanted the same thing I did. They were all headed to the convention center to get their goods and enjoy the race festivities and vendors. Almost as much fun as running a race is perusing the pre-race expo with all of the super chic gear and latest geeky gadgets guaranteed to make anyone race cuter and run faster. I was so disappointed to not be there already. 5:30 by my watch now.

I rolled down the bridge even slower. I actually unclipped one of my feet and clicked along, happy to hear the rhythmic, even sound of something in my head besides angry horns honking and people screaming at each other in frustration. I started clicking harder, almost smashing my foot into the concrete, hoping it would jog something in my brain, some kind of solution for the issue at hand. I saw some women walking up toward me. Clearly they were runners, all wearing their racing shoes and happily making post race plans.

"Um, they're not going to let you over the bridge." I told them as I rolled by. "I just tried that song and dance and it was shut down at the top."

They responded politely, but kept walking, I guess thinking they were as smart as I did about fifteen minutes earlier. Just before I reached the base of the bridge, I spotted her--my angel in a shuttle. Her door read "Private" but I wasn't deterred. I rolled up alongside the door and knocked on it. Startled, she opened the double glass doors.

"Hey, do you think I might hitch a ride over the bridge with you? I just need to get to the other side and then I'll leave you..."

She looked at me pensively as if to turn me away, but honestly, I think she felt sorry for me in my pathetic, desperate state. My face was totally flushed from the whipping wind, I am sure my lips were blue by that time from the same frigid air, and I'm thinking my eyes were pleading for her help.

"Oh, alright. I have to get to the Hilton to pick up some guests for a party downtown, but the hotel is right next to the convention center."

I didn't wait for her to change her mind. I raced up the stairs, bike over my shoulder, and grabbed the first seat in the empty shuttle. "What's your name?" I asked the driver. Her hair was cropped boy short and she spiked it with gel. She made a haphazard effort to hide her tattooed arms, but it was obvious she had sleeves on both. She had several piercings in both ears, but didn't sport any earrings, maybe as dictated by her job. Her face was cute and her eyes were warm. She might have been the Hillside Strangler, but I was elated to see her as long as she offered me shelter from that wicked wind off the water and my ticket to race legitimacy.

"Bean," she answered my question. "Are you here for the marathon?"

We exchanged a few pleasantries before I saw my business casual buddy coming down the bridge toward us.

"Bean, would you mind terribly if we stopped for this gentleman? He was so hospitable and kind to me, is it okay we if give him a lift, too?"

She opened her doors again, on in stepped loafer man, happy to see us, professing his eternal love. He got off the call he was on and profusely thanked Bean, our new best friend.

Not long after that, we came up on the runners who had ignored my warning of cop-kill-joy.

"Bean? May we let these people on the shuttle, too, please? They need to get where we are going and it's a no-go at the top."

Once again, Bean stopped in the crawling traffic to let more runner bums on the bus. That ride was the longest shuttle run for the shortest distance I have ever experienced. At the top, my vested friend had a few blessings for the cop who had turned us away earlier. It took us 30 minutes to travel less than 3 miles to the other side, but a joyous ride it was. One of the women we picked up was from Florida, her orange Gator sweatshirt a giveaway from the start, the other three ladies were from Georgia. The faster they spoke, the less I understood (loafer guy later told me it's because they were from some hick area in the state). Turns out the blond Southern gent was from Savannah, but had a residence in Atlanta, as well. He told me his name was Brandon.

We got to the base of the bridge, tipped Bean, and exited before waiting in the final mess of traffic to the convention center. We knew we would be faster on foot by that point. Brandon unloaded my bike, as any true Southern gentleman would, and I walked it next to him. He told me all about the barges in the port and explained why the river smells like it does. We talked about everything and nothing, but walked that final mile as perfect strangers in perfect harmony, wanting the same thing.

Near the door, we parted ways again when he met up with two other guys and I excused myself for the final mad dash. It was after 6:00 now and the hall was packed with runners from all over. I met two other women and we chatted it up up the stairs into the building. They were half marathon virgins and I couldn't help but squeeze their hands and jump up and down to share their enthusiasm. A security guard stopped me at the door and told me the bike couldn't roll in. That is where I had a breakdown.

"Okay, what happened to Southern hospitality?" I asked him. "Listen, you don't want to know what kind of day I've had. I just want my race bib and timing chip. I won't even stay in the expo. Please just let me pass through and I will be in and out of here so fast, you won't even know I was here. Please. You're killing me right now...."

He turned his head, as if to say, "I never saw you". I put my hand on his shoulder as I pushed through the crowd. I tried to take the path of least resistance, but it was impossible with the herd of fit, beautiful bodies all around me. Toned, lovely legs all around me, working their way to the fitness convention, falling in a line to get their goods.

I zipped in and out of people, made it inside past another security guard who told me the same thing, but the same tactic worked with him, too....why must we guilt people to get them to allow us to do something seemingly so harmless and innocent??? With coveted race number and chip in hand, I bolted out of the building the fastest route I could find, ducking through some curtains and out another set of doors. 6:20. I followed a crowd to the water where it looked like they were waiting for a water taxi. Yes, there was that pesky issue of how i was going to get back to the hotel now....Mad Scientist kept texting me to ask me that same annoying question. I told him I would figure it out.

I grabbed a geeky triathlete looking guy and asked him about the ferry. He complimented me on my bike that is not really mine and told me that one of the ferries was broken down, so the only remaining one was taking an extra amount of time to get passengers across the river. It was going to be at least an hour or more. I looked at my watch again. 6:25. I was never going to make the 6:40 ghost tour and I could feel my heart racing and my stomach sinking. Defeated again. I thanked tri guy for his time and picked up the bike and ran up the steep set of stairs that led back out toward the front. I was exhausted, but determined to make it happen.

I hailed a cab at the top, but she already had people in the back and was going the opposite direction of where I was headed. It was settled. I had to ride back over the bridge. It was getting dark and the traffic was relentless. I rode down the long stretch into the distance of what appeared to be the right way. The bridge seemed so very far away. I stopped a guy parking his car on the side of the road and asked him if I was headed in the right direction. He confirmed it, and told me I might not make it over with the cops out. I told him he didn't want to hear how I already knew all of that and then some. I pedaled on.

There was  cop in an intersection directing traffic, so I casually rode by him as if I were headed right, away from downtown Savannah and the pending bridge. After turning, I realized there was yet another police officer at the base of the bridge. Lord. How was I going to make this happen? I pedaled by him and pretended to be on the phone. With his back to me, I lifted the bike over the concrete center divider of the highway and hightailed it up the bridge. He started yelling at me, but I ignored him. Terrified, I pedaled as fast as my tired legs would take me in tight jeans. What started as such a cute outfit that morning was really becoming my nemesis. Now my race bag plagued me, too, bumping all over while slug over my shoulder.

My heart was beating out of my chest and my quads burned with fury, but I ignored those, too. Breathless, I reached the top of the bridge and for a single moment thought about how fortunate I am to be alive. When was I ever going to be on this bridge again on a bike? The view was spectacular. O had to take one moment to drink it in. The sky was red velvet. The boats floating into the harbor moaned sorrowfully. The wind cut through me like a blade. Then I was scared. The traffic on this side was speeding at full force, and the wind was fierce. I was afraid and it fueled me. I raced down the other side as fast as I could, clipped in and at full speed, as aero as I could be in my compromised state without a helmet, even.

Cars whipping by me, the base of the bridge on this side was like a freeway offramp with a blind turn to exit. I was convinced I was going to die. Daunted, I pedaled faster, trying to time my exit with the break in cars. It was hairy. A car actually clipped my elbow around the blind bend, which rattled me and rocked my line a little, but I pedaled faster. My legs were numb. I had a headache from the day's events. I was questioning my sanity to ensure all of this for the sake of a marathon. Was I selfish? What if something dreadful happened to me and my kids were left mommyless, all because of a long run? Stupidity.

Off the offramp, through a few intersections, down MLK Blvd and onto Bay. I knew I was almost there. Loafer guy, I mean Brandon, told me how to get to the hotel while on the shuttle. I called Mad Scientist to tell him where I was. All of my happiness and feeling of being victorious left me when he told me he was on the other side of the bridge, looking for me. Ugh. WHY did he drag the kids through that mess when I told him I would work out a way back? More stress.....I knew he would be annoyed....

I pedaled to the hotel, completely depleted. I could barely spell the last name at the front desk when asking for the room key. 6:40. Maybe we could still make the tour. I hauled the bike up a flight of stairs to the room. Plans to shower, change, and curl my hair were completely out of the question. Mad Scientist rolled in with two tired, grubby grommets. They were eating pizza on the fly.  Out the door we went on foot (because I hadn't worked out enough before my race) to catch the trolley for the ghost tour downtown.  The cobblestones hurt my feet, but maybe I was just in need of an attitude adjustment. I had my number. I was elated.

The tour was great, but all I really wanted was a shower, a meal, and a bed. Mad Scientist had run all over to get waters for everyone, and that was much appreciated. I think I chugged a gallon immediately. I was happy to be sitting inside a moving vehicle again, instead of fending any off my shoulder.

Post tour, we walked to Panera and ate. They were actually out of bread....I guess the runners over ran them and not a bagel was to be found. For someone who never eats bread, I so desperately wanted carbs and was disappointed. It still was the best soup I had ever eaten and I ate as if it were my last meal. We dragged our sorry selves back to the hotel and I stood in the shower for a lifetime while Mad Scientist ran all over town trying to find my pre-race meal and Gatorades. It was a great act of courage on his part to take on the masses in town that night. Mayhem.

I didn't sleep at all. I woke every ten minutes, looking at the clock, certain I was going to oversleep. The street hummed with busy cars all night and the sounds of the city. Someone's car was towed around 3:00 am and buses rumbled by. I finally got up just before 6:00 am and stood in the shower again, now really contemplating my sanity for enjoying this kind of chaos. Finally, fueled, hydrated, and dressed, I was out the door. Our hotel was only a quarter mile to the start, a huge bonus for everything it lacked in quality.

The bustle of people running by warming up energized my sleepy head. I marveled at the lovely oak canopy above me, considering how very old they must be and all the life they have witnessed in that town. To think of the stories they might tell if they had words was simply an amazing thought to me. It was dark under their old outstretched arms, but somehow felt warmer, somewhat shielded from the wind. I stumbled into my designated corral, looking for my comrades. They were nowhere to be found, so I did what any reasonable person might do--I struck up conversation with the random stranger standing next to me. It was his virgin voyage for the marathon, so again, I found myself doing the little happy dance and sang him words of encouragement. He seemed grateful for the vote of confidence.

I recognized a couple standing behind me, and then it occurred to me the man was wearing the Atlanta Marathon technical tee. We chatted about the race we had shared days earlier as if this was commonplace, like we had planned to meet up for coffee on this very morning. All was well in the world of marathoning. It was a good ten degrees warmer than it had been at Atlanta, too, so while 45 degrees is not warm by any stretch of the imagination, it was balmy comparatively. I really had to pee and debated leaving the corral for a quick bathroom break, but decided it was too close to curtain call.

The race director made the executive decision to roll the start in waves, and we were on our way. Rhianna's "Please Don't Stop the Music" was pounding all around us as we pounded down the streets of Savannah. It was dark and dreamlike. I saw Kimmie, Chris, and Lisa within the first half mile. They were running together and they were moving with the 3:30 group. I knew I would not be hanging with those girls today. My legs just said no, and I was okay with that. I fell behind a woman who was wearing her running group's shirt. The back read, "Heat, hills, humidity: welcome to Atlanta." That sounds about right, though the weekend before, the hills made up for the lack of heat and humidity.

Miles 3 to 7 were an absolute blur. I have no recollection of how I even got to mile seven, except for the fact that I was on the shoulder of the 3:40 pace guy. Andre was from Hollywood, Florida, and he was a super sweet, smiley guy. Late forties, he told me he had never run faster than a 3:40 marathon. This was not a good sign. Most pacers run a pace they can very comfortably hold, in case they have a bad day out there (common practice for a marathon). There were about twenty of us skittering around Andre, adjusting our footing, trying to find road space. One woman in particular was driving me insane because she kept stepping directly in front of me. If I moved over, she seemed to be there. After the fourth or fifth time she nearly tripped me, I said, "Okay, you are going to have to signal before you turn..." She got the point and moved to Andre's opposite side.

It's an odd hobby we share. Running. Why? Pointless, right? Paying hundreds of dollars in all of these races to run. Dodging spit in the road, smelling the awful city smells in the slum we were running through, I questioned the state of my head again. Why was I here?

By the time we got to mile 11, there were only about eight of us still trotting alongside our fearless pace leader. I enjoyed running next to this one guy because he just looked pro. I had earbuds in and didn't feel like being chatty, but I assumed it was his first marathon; he seemed nervous and he asked Andre every mile if we were on pace. Mile after mile, we had extra time in the bank, but slowly, that cushion became smaller. Pro guy had on arm warmers and compression socks. I loved him immediately. His face was darling and his dark hair framed it. His cheekbones were pronounced, and his dark eyes were anything but dark. When he spoke, his southern accent drew you in. I didn't let on that I was listening (focused and involved in my music), but I could hear him chatting with Andre. He might be telling you off, but you would think it sounded lovely because he was so dashing and lovely was his voice. He was tall and built like a runner. His gait was seamless. We marched on.

Mile 17 and Andre was fading. Cute Pro Runner guy started to panic.

Desperate, he started polling his fellow 3:40 peeps. "What are you hoping to run today?" he asked when he got to me.

"Honestly, my legs are a little spent, so I am just trying to survive out here. You look great. You are running really well. You need to get in your head and run your own race. You totally got this," I told him.

He was like a little boy, face full of fear, looking for reinforcement. He wasn't having it.

"Listen to me," I said again, "you trained for this and your body is primed and ready to go. Andre is falling off pace. You need to run what you know you are capable of running. You don't need a pacer. Get in your head and go."

He smiled his lovely smile at me and trotted off ahead. I left Andre, too, not feeling much better than he looked. Mile 18, I took a Cliff Block, knowing I was rolling the dice by taking it too early. 8 long miles might take their toll on my belly. Why do we do this again?

The next two miles genuinely sucked. I really just wanted to die. I still had to pee and had sharp side stitches. At mile 22, I decided I couldn't feel any worse if I actually stopped to pee, so I did the unthinkable and went into the porta potty. Those really just are disgusting and punishment for some kind of bad behavior I have had recently, I am sure. I came out, still holding my breath, and actually felt better, if not for the empty bladder, at least for the mental break of stopping.

Survival is the best I can describe miles 22-24, and then mile 25 I found my legs. I actually felt good again, not like I could run forever good, but well enough to get the job done and actually pick up my sorry pace that had declined from mile 20 on. I saw Chris on the road in front of me and put my hand out to her as if to tell her to join me. She sprinted ahead of me, but then quickly let me go. I kept passing people that final mile, which made me feel kind of badly, but really I just wanted to be done. That was a long mile, and once I found the final shoot, I was so happy....until I realized there was another turn and another .2 to go. I saw Lisa now. Again, I put my hand out, and ran past her. She didn't look well, but I knew she was almost done. I crossed the line in 3:44 and change, a minute slower than the previous week. This tells me that either that is just what I am going to run a marathon in now, or that possibly Savannah was an easier course and I could have had a better race there had I not raced the hills days before?

I never found Pro Guy again at the end, a disappointment because I would have loved to ask him what he ran. I know he killed it. Kimmie had come in 3 minutes previously to Chris, Lisa, and me, so the four of us huddled for a quick photo op. Mad Scientist and grommets were waiting for me at the finish with Gatorade and smiles. I felt like I had to vomit and my body temperature was dropping quickly. We left the girls, and walked the two miles back to the hotel and I sat on the floor of the shower for a long time, thinking about the day. I did it. I ran two marathons inside of a week and it felt great. The time didn't matter because the time out there was amazing. Each race was so different from the other....there is no way to compare them, other than the distance. I would do it again in a heartbeat, and any excuse to get back to Savannah. I heart that place.

Atlanta Marathon Reflections

I haven't run a marathon in so very long, and now I remember why. It hurts. It really just hurts, and there is no polite way around that simple fact. Atlanta is a beautiful, albeit insanely hilly course, and I loved every minute of it...even the suffering (and suffer I did from mile 19 home).

My best girl, Jen, flew all the way out from San Diego for the event, and it was nothing short of heaven to think of running on her shoulder again. She quickly told me, however, her plans to run around a 4:20 marathon since she hasn't attempted one in over a year. We huddled together in the starting corral for warmth and then agreed to part ways, particularly because she told me she was going to stop for a port-a-potty right off the bat. Empty bladder and feeling good, I decided I was too impatient to wait for that kind of action.

The morning began with a temperature of 34 degrees. I could hardly bring myself to peel out of my outer layer of sweats and strip down to skimpy running skins. I rationalized that my arm warmers and compression socks would help keep me warm. I debated the beanie, too, but in the end threw it over the gates to Marc just before the gun went off.

The thing that struck me most about the course is just how very relentless the hills were. Mile one, and we were immediately charging down a long, steep incline under the freeway (here I think it's actually called an "interstate") overpass. I decided to try to fold in with the 3:40 pace group and see how long I might hold on. Jumping back into the marathon to wet my feet with racing again, I thought anything under four hours would make me happy.

I managed to roll up and down the mountains with those guys (interestingly, it was all men in the group) for about the first four miles. I looked at the first few mile markers and found they were running ahead of pace. When we ran through an aid station around mile five, it occurred to me that I no longer had them on my hip, so I figured they must have stopped or seriously slowed to adjust for the extra time they already had in the bank. I felt good, so I pressed on, duped by another guy with a 3:40 sign on his back. Initially thinking he was one of the leaders of that sector, I ran on his arm for a while before coming to realize he just wore the sign so his comrades would know and recognize him. Apparently he felt good, too, because he just kept plugging forward. Off we went.

I was cold....not just cold....like cold to the bone where I could not shake the cold. My face my cold. My legs were cold. My shoulders were cold. My gloves actually had frost on them from dribbling water from aid stations, only to have it freeze....it was that cold. The early miles took us all around downtown and midtown, so the large buildings kept us in long, dark shadows (I never even saw the sun until mile 11). It was a cold, dark start. One would think I wouldn't complain, since all I do is bellyache about the heat in Florida, but there was no denying the bitter cold and frosty wind whipping through said buildings. I kept hoping I would thaw out, but that just never happened.

Hill after hill after hill, up and up and up, and then down, down, down....it was insane. It became apparent to me that I really was not trained for such a mountainous course. My quads were starting to argue with me. Around mile 8, they ran us through the Atlanta Zoo; it was a beautiful park with bike trails traversing the (wait for it) hills. When we rolled down toward mile 9, I almost lost all composure and started to tear up. I was overcome with emotion. The liquid ambers were ablaze and their gold and crimson leaves were something out of a storybook. It was unreal the way they were shedding their leaves as we passed by, we the unassuming runners. I felt very small under something so magnificent and not worthy of their beauty. It became so obvious how much I have to be grateful for and how very blessed I am to be alive and running. I mean, how many people can really run for 26.2 miles without pain (without pain is a relative term here, of course)? Who am I to witness this creation? I desperately wanted a camera and think I will go back to try to capture some of the beauty.

Out of the Gothic gates from the park, over an old, eerie bridge, onto the upper portion of the park. There was a Halloween dog parade going by on the other side, and when I say parade, I am talking about literally hundreds of dogs passing opposite us in costume. I went from being tearful to hysterical with laughter. Maybe I was already delirious? There was an interesting character running on my arm at that point who I repeatedly ignored because he seemed a little, um, unstable in some of his commentary. I simply pretended I couldn't hear him with earbuds in my ears.

The neighborhoods we weaved up and down through were spectacular. There are no words for the eclectic architecture and ancient character of the houses. The fact that they were decorated for Halloween made them even more creepy looking. Amazing. It felt surreal. Mile 13 marked the half way point and for the first time (really) I looked at my watch and realized I was running ahead of where I really should have been....1:45, so 3:30 pace, which I knew I would never maintain. The question was just how ugly would the blowup be? I was going to find out in about, oh, about an hour, or so....

The most amazing thing to me about the marathon is the people it not only attracts but those it brings together. Around mile ten, after running through a beautiful neighborhood with enormous Colonial and Victorian houses, we came into what was very clearly a ghetto hood. On any given day, I assure you a little white girl had no business running through those streets, yet here we all were- all ethnicities, colors, creeds, religions, both genders (and some in between)- running in perfect harmony. I passed a group of Hispanic teens waving a huge Mexican flag, waving everyone through. The course lead us through a pedestrian walkway/tunnel that was completely painted with graffiti. I was so happy to be out of the wind and considered walking just to thaw out for a while, but decided that might be counterproductive. Again, my mind went to thoughts of, "What am I doing in this environment?" but today, in that moment, it was seemingly as natural as if I were to be walking on the beach.

More hills. And then there were some hills. And then we ran up and down some more hills. I was starting to hurt. I knew my pace was starting to slow, but I really didn't even care. The miles clicked away....until about mile 16 and the gross reality was 10 whole miles left. My legs were not happy and they were letting me know it. There was a really annoying dude who had cat-and-moused with me for miles. I kept trying to either drop him or let him roll ahead because his idea of personal space was clearly different than my own. I thought I had left him at the porta potties a mile back, but there he was again, right on my arm. I decided more drastic measures would have to be taken to drop the leach, so I decreased my pace, and it felt good....maybe a little too good? I was going with that pace.

By mile 19, I definitely was feeling my humanity and hating the climbs. Mile 20 is really what separates the mortals from the immortals, and today it was very apparent that I was going to fall into the mortal category. I just couldn't even stomach the idea of six whole more miles. Against my better judgement, I took a few blocks for some quick glycogen, praying it wouldn't shred my stomach. One went down okay, so I took a second. The next two miles were me plodding along, telling myself that "slow and steady wins the race", knowing full well I wasn't trying to win anything....I simply wanted to survive now feeling that death was imminent. I told myself if I could still smile at the volunteers, I was at least not totally coming apart, so I made a point to do so. It made me feel better to thank them for their time in the bitter cold. The 3:40 pace group caught--and passed-- me, so I knew the 3:45 guys would be on my heels.

Mile 22 and Marc joined me. This is where I really wanted to come undone, but decided I couldn't stomach his Pollyanna cheering or sarcastic chastising if I slowed my pace even more. I plodded forward. "F@#$ this" was all I said to him, despite knowing that kind of language is highly offensive to a man who never curses- ever. He said something encouraging, but I really didn't want to hear it. He got the message that I wasn't in a chatty mood when I began to ignore his comments and inquiries. I couldn't help it. I really wanted to continue running solo, but there is no nice way of saying that to someone who wants to support you.  It wasn't until he started loudly cheering and rallying spectators on the sidelines to cheer for me that I managed to get out one word, "Stop".  I asked him to leave me in my misery, but instead, he ran a few paces ahead, taking pictures and running circles around people. One of the volunteers at a water station said, "Wow, you look so fresh!" to him. His response was, "Yeah, as if I just started..."

The Blocks did give me new legs, and even though my stomach wanted to reject them, I managed to choke down two more. It's always the same miserable dichotomy: my stomach hates the nutrition when I run, but my muscles are desperate for something to keep going. My legs were depleted and frozen; they really didn't want to continue. Mile 23 brought some comic relief with chalked words on the course. One of them read: "Run, you bitches", which for some reason, I found hilarious in my delusional state. The next one said, "Take a bus. That's how we do it in the UK". The following words of wisdom were, "You are running more today than I run all week". I needed something to occupy my mind to diffuse the pain so I chewed on those words for a while.

Luckily, miles 24-26 were pretty uneventful. Marc said I managed to pick up the pace and pick off a ton of people as I worked my way up and down to the finish. I really cannot recall what the roads held- I just wanted to be done so I could get more clothes on....desperate for warmth.  I finished in 3:43, which I can totally live with. I would be lying if I said I wouldn't have liked to maintain the 3:30ish pace I had been running through the half way point, but the reality is, I am not trained for that kind of course. It is literally impossible to hope for something one has not trained properly for (hills). I worked my way through the mayhem at the finish and found Marc on the other side, waiting with extra clothes. I peeled out of my tank and pulled on a long sleeve shirt, two sweatshirts, a beanie, and pulled a pair of sweatpants over my shorts. I still couldn't feel my body. Marc said my lips were blue.

So, now I have Savannah to look forward to this coming Saturday. It will be good to get out there and run again, though post race today, I couldn't hardly sit down on the curb while we waited for Jen to finish (in her predicted 4:25 time). My legs are spent. I guess that is exactly how I like it. I feel alive.

Peace on the Beach

My sister is coming! My sister is coming! I can't believe my sister is actually coming! She is gracing Florida with her very presence! After visiting once with an ex-boyfriend years ago, she swore she would never enter the state again, but I guess she must really love me. She and her new husband arrive Thursday and I can hardly stand the days that are going to drag in between.

In this small town, I guess we are going to be spending a lot of time at the beach. Actually, we have boat plans with Eddie and Lotte Friday afternoon before they leave for the Keys, and we have a turtle hunt on the books Saturday night. The turtles are laying eggs and the babies begin hatching between now and October and it is just magical. For all of the culture I have had a difficult time acclimatizing to here in Florida, there are some things that I just absolutely love.

My friend, Tammy, and I have sworn to go turtle hunting once a week until the season is over. I say "hunting", forgetting the very meaning of the word here means something very different from how I mean it (though, here, I believe that word is "huntin'"). It's like being in high school again and it feels like we are doing something really shady, even though it is completely legal (as long as one doesn't "molest" the nests). We leave after 9 or 10 pm and walk the beach for hours, combing for any signs of a mama turtle (flipper tracks in the sand, a large hole). Once a nest has been established, the turtle people stake them off with tape and signs and posts so careless beach goes don't mindlessly trample the eggs. Apparently, these people come around on their quads daily to attend to this matter.

Anyway, Saturday night was amazingly magical with all of the babies we saw and the eggs waiting to be hatched. Sadly, we saw a few dead ones and compromised nests in light of the storm that just missed us; Irene caused some serious waves and dune damage/ beach erosion,  leaving lots of baby turtles confused and in distress. Sad. But we did manage to see a few and the sky was a beautiful hue, overwrought with stars and constellations. It was so peaceful on the beach- therapeutic, even. I could have stayed for hours more.....if the bugs had not eaten us alive. Even still, with Tammy, it is never an early night. I love the beach. It is my solitude.

I feel so grateful for the routine and network I have in place now. The kids are growing and thriving. Marc has a stable income and job he loves. I am starting to spread my wings and branch out into different interests and projects. This is never the life I would have chosen in my small-minded, hard-headed world. If I had a crystal ball and you told me I was going to have to move with Marc's job years into our marriage, I think I would have thought long and hard before marrying him, because leaving California was just never in my narrow scope. I guess that's why we can't predict the future and it's better we don't always know what tomorrow might bring. Change is hard. It flat out sucks. Transition for some of us can take a lifetime, but I am just now learning how to fly.

Moving On

Speed felt great today. I felt as though I could run for days. I know I am either having a good day or Barry is having a bad day when we run in step. I caught a swim this afternoon with Natalie, as well, which was really nice in the afternoon sun. We had a swim meet last weekend and I love *love* watching the kids race. They did so well and Marc and I are so proud.

Marc has a trip on the books to the Keys to do a relay swim with Eddie and another guy, Nathan, except that now Nathan is in the hospital with a blood clot. Enter Marc's brother, John, as second string. He is so fabulous, he is flying out here in the eleventh hour to save the day and swim the third leg. Love that guy. Marc is requesting that we (the kids and me) go, too, but there is nothing I like less than the Keys. It is so quintessential Florida, I could die. The water, the boats, the random people, the fishing...I'll pass on all of it.

I am ready to get spanked by the fast boys tomorrow. I love Thursday unspoken speed work. My legs whine for days post run.  I'm still running in some Newtons Tom sent me to log some miles in for a while. I must say I am ready to move back into my Nikes, but the time apart has definitely made my heart grow fonder for the Swish.

Scenes Through a Cable Machine

Life is a collection of pictures. I can easily look at old photos of my kids when they were teeny tiny, sitting in the kitchen sink for a bath, and reflect on the happiest time of my life. Events are marked with photos: births, baptisms, school plays, graduations,  weddings. I know I want to capture every milestone and moment worth remembering, savor it, pour over each one at a later date.

Our trip to California was nothing short of blissful. My sister's wedding came off without a hitch, every detail executed with perfection. The site was a slice of heaven, a winery nestled in the hills, braided with vineyards. The sunset that night was surreal and the weather was ethereal. My baby sister looked mermaidesk in her gown trailing behind her. Many are the photos of me bent over, adjusting her dress, fluffing the rear of that tiresome train.

Looking back through photos of the evening sums up the whirlwind of magic. The kids looked angelic in their wedding party attire, adorned with flowers, and most of the guys were unrecognizable to me in their three piece suits. Somehow men marginally attractive become majorly handsome in silk ties and vests. The setting could not have been more beautiful with grapes and wines barrels in the backdrop as bride and groom took center stage for the first dance. Of course, we all followed, and then danced the night away with a fabulous DJ.  Pictures of us on the dance floor make me laugh now (um...my cousin and I taking off our skin-tight slips while dancing- we wanted out!). I never wanted the fleeting moments of our trip home to end.

The wedding was the highlight, no doubt, though I regret to admit now, I originally dreaded. I worried about the toast I had to give (it was fine, and Marc said my tears were a nice touch), I worried that my boy would err down the isle with rings in hand, I worried about last minute drama that seems to always crop up in highly-charged emotional situations. Fantastically, nothing was remiss and I worried all for naught.

I really did try to absorb and relish every moment, captured in pictures, too. We did so much in a relatively short amount of time. We went to the beach (though freezing!) and trolled the tide pools to turn up treasures. We toured the flower fields like tourists. We hiked my beloved mountains I miss so much, and the kids went bouldering (no snakes, thankfully!) high above the deep scars of the valleys. They played in the creek, with nary a worry about an overgrown reptile devouring them in a death roll. We dined with friends, delighted in restaurants we had long since forgotten, and mostly fell back into the rhythm of our old lives. It was as though not a day had passed, though it has been almost four long years since we have called San Diego home.

Of all the things we did and people we visited, nothing felt like home as much as my running time. Back to the horse trails in the hills, and back to running the coastline of the Pacific. At last, it felt as if I were parting my hair on the correct side again, with the ocean where it should rightfully be. As luck would have it, I was even able to acquire a much coveted race number for the La Jolla Half. Long since sold out, the ever-popular race was all but lost to me this year. Had I had more advance notice about the wedding, I would have legitimately signed on for the race myself. Though my buddy Bruce's email bemoaning his injured hamstring and offering the clambered for prize was a terrible misfortune for him, it was insanely lucky and perfect timing for me. I could have kissed him when I met up with him at coffee; instead I threw my arms around him, feeling like I had won the lottery. It was a high.

Running La Jolla is unlike any other race. I always say it's my favorite, though my best running friend, Jen, would argue I say that about every San Diego race. I think I enjoy the grueling agony of it, all of it. I knew I was in trouble mile one when I couldn't remember what a hill looked--much less felt--like. The announcer had reminded the participants at the start of the "character building hills", and about mile 11, believe me when I tell you I had enough character for a whole cast. Even still, it was majestic. One really cannot appreciate the serene beauty of towering craggy cliffs, carved by the fingers of relentless waves until she leaves for a time. And. I. do. now. The ocean has never been so blue. The air has never been so salty. The fog has never been so lovely. The colors have never been so vibrant. It is home.

It goes without saying I miss my old swim workout (the most fun I can ever hope to have in the water with Speedos as far as the eye can see). Being with Sickie and Terry was like a dream, and chasing Jonathan's feet was as familiar as if I had been there the day prior. Everyone looks the same. No one has changed in four years. Everyone still parks in his same parking spot, everyone still swims in her same lane, and everyone still does the same workouts, day in and day out. The monotony of it is comforting.

And now I'm back in a place that feels anything like home, sitting on the lat machine, mindlessly watching other gym-goers through the cables. Some feet are shuffling, unenthusiastic to be in attendance.  Still others are scurrying like mice on meth from one machine to the next, eager to crank through the workout and log another day in the life. And I linger on the bench, unable to get my mind back into the swing of things, everything is shrouded in gray. Gone is the vibrancy that was a kaleidoscope only days before and miles away. So cranky was I on the morning run of thick air and menacing heat, I sought out the solace of the darkness in-between groups. I ran just behind the boys, but far enough in front of the girls I didn't have to listen to anyone's stories. Why? Why was I being so unsocial? These people have never been anything but kind and welcoming to me. Why was I punishing them with my silence, my first run back?

Maybe it was less to punish them and more to protect them from my putrid attitude in desperate need of adjustment. In that moment, I hated everyone. I hated Marc and his stupid job that moved us so very far from home. I hated my sister for having the picture perfect life in San Diego I so desperately long for. I hated my friends back home for welcoming me with adoration, only to have to leave them again. I hated those I was running with here and their cheery chatter of business as usual. Mostly, I hated myself for being so disgustingly ungrateful and unkind. What was wrong with me, anyway? I got on the treadmill for five additional miles before I felt suitable for human consumption.

Today the laundry seems the insurmountable  mountain, and the mail collects in a tidy pile on the kitchen countertop. Bills need to be paid, chores need tending to, kids need educating, and there is a birthday party to be orchestrated. My heart is broken that my baby is turning eight years old. Does that make me old, too? I know I am in charge of my happiness. No one place or person can give or take that from me, and no one place should influence the status of my heart. I'm okay knowing that we will settle back in again, difficult as it is to always make the transition. Four years might as well be four weeks with regard to the level of comfort I feel with the routine here. I have done several double and triple daily treadmill "bonus mileage" sessions this week in an effort to guard against negative speak.

Ten fast miles with the boys tomorrow. They will park in their designated parking places and we will run the prescribed course as usual, step by step. Maybe the creature-of-habitness here is really not all that different from my cohorts on the West Coast. Though the cast of characters is smaller and not as varied here, characters there are, and we still want much of the same. We desire relationships and pursue cohesiveness, mile after relentless bloody hot mile. We long to be connected and encouraged and uplifted--sometimes carried-- among the trials we face. Running has always been the vehicle to that happier, more positive place for me. It's hotter than hell here already, but we keep running. This is how we roll.

Entrepreneur And?

There are a lot of really random birds in this state. I think I am going to have to start capturing some of them on film because they are almost too bizarre to be true. These are what Jabberwocky dreams are made of, my friends. I observe the most ornithological specimens when I am walking the dog out in the preserve, creepy swamp sounds all around me. I hate nature.

Last night we went to a dinner honoring Marc's boss. Geeky scientists sure do party like rock stars. If I had to listen to one more person talk about how fabulous the Treasure Coast is now that they have all this biotech, specifically the representation from Marc's company, I was going to vomit. In fact, I am certain I had to choke some back when the boss' wife gave her emotional speech about her "Entrepreneur of the Year" husband. I was so embarrassed for her, I wanted to crawl under the table. I get it. The guy is like a legend when it comes to research, but with his increasing notoriety and the success of the company, so increases my nightmare's longevity. Why am I such a hater? If only I drank. With scientists abound, it was an exciting evening filled with fabulous conversation, so much so, I counted the painful minutes until it was time to get out of there. I'm so anti. Check out their posh centerpieces...

The highlight of the day today was the track workout. 1 mile, 2 half miles, 2 x 1 mile, 2 half miles, 1 mile. My running friends make fun of me for always desiring the longer stuff. I detest 400s, so when Dr. Jim sent me the text yesterday giving me a heads-up on this morning's workout, I was satisfied. I am not sure if he is seeking authorization when he does that, or merely stating the facts, but in either case, he wore his Newtons, too, so we were twins in our obnoxious neon ultra-eighties kicks. I kind of dig the shoes.

The wind off the water was howling by the end of the set; I was grateful to draft off Barry, despite the wind he was blowing. Even though it has evolved and changed locations a few times in the last three and a half years, track remains a favorite workout for me. The core group remains intact, and that is what is most important. I love my life when I can meet up with regulars for a great run, and then coffee with them afterward. Is this town really so bad, after all, as long as there is Starbucks?

I am back in the pool, too, after a three month hiatus, and I love that my skin smells of chlorine again. It was ugly, but I managed to grind out 2000 by myself. Alone. With no one to talk to. For the whole time. In a lane without anyone else. Feeling like a superhero, I gave the report to my nine-year-old, "Hey, I swam two grand." Without even looking up from her mesh swim bag as she put away her gear, she said, "That's it?" It's a sad day when one's nine-year-old passes her in both interval speed and workout distance. Guess I need to get a little more agro, especially if I want to look halfway decent in that bridesmaid's dress for my sister's spring wedding.

Pineapples and Black Racers

Want to know something else Floridians love? Pineapples. I will never understand the fascination, but apparently it is a sign of hospitality. Taken originally from the days of Christopher Columbus when he picked up the fruit on his second voyage, the pineapple is a symbol for welcoming others. Apparently Spaniards began associating this fruit as a sign of entry into villages when one was set out for them. Then, in colonial times, the pineapple became a table centerpiece for large meals when company would come celebrate. Guests staying over would be treated to the "pineapple room", that is, the room that was decorated with pineapples, from doorknobs to bedposts.

Where we are now, pineapples are plentiful, which I find hilarious and odd at the same time. They are carved into mantles, and etched into entryways. They sit perched on grand entry gates at driveways, and adorn trellises along homes. Growing up where I did, I think I became accustomed to whatever is the antithesis of the pineapple of hospitality. A burning cross? A "Do Not Enter" sign? Californians are many things, but we are not known for our warmth or Southern Hospitality, even in So Cal. We like our space and fiercely guard our possessions. We enclose our yards with privacy fencing. We are selfish with our driveways, and we argue about property lines. While the weather is hospitable enough to have the doors open nearly year round, we hide behind privacy glass and peer out our peep holes with great distrust before granting access to the Fed Ex person delivering our packages from Apple. No, we are definitely not a warm and welcoming breed, so the pineapple thing still freaks me out a little from time to time.

Today was warm enough for nature to feel welcome. While I quite enjoyed a fancy spiderweb in our backyard this morning, I could do without the black racer who met his match on the street just in front of our driveway. Though I am not a fan, I do feel sad for an innocent snake who ventured out on the first hot day only for it to be his last. Who are we that we are superior to a slithering snake, that our 2 ton vehicles crush the very life of a lowly animal? It almost makes me sad enough to forego my car and walk everywhere....until I remember the encroaching summer heat upon us.

Today's heat even got to my girl, who had to grab an impromptu nap in the middle of her science reading. I'm guessing mollusks are not her thing. I can't say I was all that thrilled to be teaching bivalves and cephalopods, either, and a nap would have been just the ticket if I didn't have another kid buzzing around the house looking for trouble to stir up. I love my life when all the windows are open with a cool breeze blowing through the house, and all I can hear above the sound of the pool's waterfall is the peaceful rhythmic breathing of my sleeping child.

All in a Sunday's Work

Today was a beautiful, awe-inspiring day with all of our many friends out running the 10K. After a little hiccup in the kids' race (they all ran off course, like clueless little sheep, following the feet in front), everything went off without a hitch.
Marc, as usual, ran under an alias, his latest trick; he and Barry always try to outdo one another by choosing something (or someone) random or ridiculous to run under. It never ceases to amaze me how men can talk to each other in such candid and insulting tones. The very idea of me telling a girlfriend that she is fat is absurd, yet men do it all the time. I think the insulting banter they engage in is their way of connecting with each other. We women caudal each other. We encourage and uplift. We console and converse and check in. We hug and nurture each other, kiss, and cuddle. Men? They smack each other and compare hairlines. They exchange numbers from the latest scale reading, and try to injure each other in "play" fighting. Their insults often escalate to physical interludes, and the greatest injury wins.
Even post-race war stories count for a lot. The ongoing "rivalry" among Marc, Travis, and Eddie continued to play out today in the 10K. All talented athletes in their own right, but Travis has qualified for Olympic trials in his running. Marc and Eddie are naturally talented, but Marc's handicap is his eating, and Eddie has a propensity for slacking in training without a motivator (friend, race, or otherwise). So, when the three get together, they love to compare Buddha bellies and talk about who is "in shape". To ninety-eight percent of the American population, these guys are as fit as racing horses, but in comparison to the throttle they normally are accustomed to humming at, they may not be in top form as of late.
Of course, they all finished relatively close to each other, albeit not as close of a race as last year (and two minutes slower for Marc and Eddie), yet they still have to talk about who is the "fattest" and "slowest" when slogging along the course. They relive the highs and lows of each mile, comparing blisters and boating side stitches. They insult each other for subjecting others to their naked bodies, chests exposed in the absence of shirts on this warm February morning. They compare jelly rolls (please) and poke at love handles. Somebody please shoot me if a girlfriend ever tells me I am fatter than I was a year ago. How do they endure it?
Post run, we went to Eddie's parents' house on the river for some kayaking and paddle boarding. With conditions as they were today, paddling the board was so peaceful; I could have gotten lost out there among the spoil islands. The only sounds to be heard were the fish jumping from time to time, or the faint sound of the water as it lapped under the board. It was so calm, in fact, it almost sounded like a whisper as it swished past the board alongside me. I must be better about capturing these moments on film because my little man looked like a big kid when he took a stab at the paddle board and maneuvered his way into the urchin-crusted poles of the dock. It almost would have been funny if I weren't so stressed about him destroying Eddie's newest hobby board. There are advantages to living in a swamp when there is water all around to swim, paddle, and play in. If only I didn't worry so about the many creatures that lurk in the depths below, always certain the whisper of water under my board is a gator stalking his prey.

I love my life when I fall into bed at the end of the day, still smelling like sunscreen (despite the many hours spent swimming in the pool, and three showers since the river), throughly exhausted from the day's events. If you told me five years ago I would be paddling out to some random islands in the Intercostal in Florida, I would have said you have the wrong woman. Today, I didn't feel so bad about my swamp situation, sitting poolside with a view of the river, while the kids chirped happily among their friends. I am beat.

And Then There Was Light

I love my life when I am sitting poolside on a cool, breezy day conducting school. My girl is next to me doing math, and I can hear my boy inside Beethovening it on the piano. Finally, finally it clicks--everything. She is understanding quadratic equations (kidding....it's only division) and he is actually reading the notes, rather than relying on his remarkable photographic memory to play something he has only heard once. They really are such different children, it is amazing they came from the same womb, but sometimes they are actually in sync with their "ah ha" moments. Hers may come in the form of numbers and his in music notes, but I love when they "get it", whatever the "it" happens to be. When it comes in twos, it is that much sweeter.

My car is filled to the roof with race packets, teeshirts, and paperwork for our running club's annual10K. It was interesting driving the bus to morning workout in the dark, relying only on my side mirrors because the rearview one was rendered useless with the amount of boxes piled up. This Sunday should prove entertaining watching all the testosterone hash out the final meters as they pound their way down Marigold Lane into South Beach. I always feel so proud and inspired by the fast guys when they are in that setting, man versus man, mano-a-mano, or is it pie-a-pie? It's great to see Marc passionate about something/ working for something without even really wanting it, especially because he's such a natural in all things athletic.

On the list of things Floridians go crazy for: the shuttle launch. Today was no different. Discovery's last voyage and the natives are going wild.