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.
