If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. - Max Ehrmann
I detest winter. When I was a kid, it was okay, probably just because I didn't know any better growing up in Minnesota. We had seasons, bad weather makes you thankful for the good, and add some shit about being hardy. I do actually feel like a total dick when I complain about being cold and think about ancestors living in sod houses a few generations back. Poor me, in my house with a furnace, having to put on an extra sweatshirt and stocking cap or wrap up in my Wookiee snuggie to stay warm. I bet the sod house folks would have loved my Wookiee snuggie, I can almost hear June:
"Cletus, this is so much softer than the straw we've been laying on!" Not accustomed to so much flowing fabric, she almost tripped over one of the young ones.
"Shut up, woman, straw was good enough for Jesus," as he leaned into the fire, snot frozen from his nose.
Or something like that. That probably happened yesterday in Appalachia.
The point here is my dislike of gray season. I feel like I make lots of progress on myself for seven or eight months out of the year and then winter hits and pushes me back. It depresses me and makes me want to crawl into a cozy cave under a pile of quilts with Alli and Joey where we would tell stories, cuddle, and hide until the sun and above freezing temperatures came back. The worst part of it?
The lack of outdoor running with the Bitches.
Please, and I am begging you, don't write me a message with a list of all the cold weather gear I should invest in to make outdoor running enjoyable in -4 degrees. Don't tell me which shoes to buy or how to put screws in my shoes for better traction on the icy spots. I don't fucking care. Really, I don't. I am so glad that so many of you enjoy cold weather running. Go you. I've decided that temps under 20 are basically ridiculous and temps under 0 are a fucking nightmare. Add the super cunts of weather, wind and ice, and it's not something I'm particularly interested in in any way.
Snow CAN be pretty. But I'm pretty sure that anyone talking about the beautiful snowfall and how it's magical or whatever bullshit is believed is also not responsible for snow removal at his or her residence. The first six or eight inches I like, "Fine, this is good exercise," but the 12+ inches in 24 hours leaves me cursing, "Motherfucker," under my breath as I rage scoop while the mouthbreathers up the block stare in awe that a woman can do more than grow babies. And during these fits of shovel rage, I can't help but wonder why I live somewhere where the thing that makes me feel the most right--leashing up the Bitches, throwing on a pair of Asics, and going to church--is something I can't enjoy all year long.
I signed up for the Pittsburgh Marathon this year to motivate me to run more in the winter and spring. Every other marathon I've completed has been in September or October. Pittsburgh is May 1. Since it's sponsored by Dick's Sporting Goods, this really is #runfordick, albeit part two. Since I don't trust the myself on the ice running with the Bitches, we're relegated to short walks in the sub-zero temps and longer walks when the temps are a bit milder. The running?
The Dreadmill.
Sigh.
I am learning to love it. Audiobooks and podcasts help. (I will take advice on good podcasts, so hit me up!) Varying workouts helps--switching up the inclines and speeds. But sometimes, I just gotta go in and pound out the miles. It's well-documented that I am no speedster. Any pace between 9:30 and 10:00 is super cool by me, so a solid 6 on the dreadmill with a 2 incline gets the job done. What's been really fascinating about learning to love the treadmill is watching other people on them. Watching a strong runner on a treadmill is pretty cool and mechanically interesting to me. The foot strike, the posture, the stride. I try to see what I can emulate in those runners.
The rest of us are kind of a shitshow.
The ones who barely try and could not look less interested in working out. The women who come in twosomes to speed walk and gossip. Guys who run with their hoodies up. "Adrian!" The couples who never leave each other's side and surely have joint Facebook accounts. The ones who don't wipe down the equipment when they're done. (Sidenote: You fuckers that don't wipe down equipment when you're finished are disgusting. You are probably anti-vaxxers and growing a measles-polio hybrid in your basement. I repeat: YOU ARE FUCKING GROSS.) The ones who have the incline too steep or the speed too fast and are actually holding on to the machine for dear life.
I ended up in an unplanned competition with a hanger on-er yesterday. Five miles was the plan with the incline varied 1.5 to 2.5 and the 6.0 pace. (This would be a walk in the park for a lot of people I know and I salute you.) I was in a couple miles and listening to Amy Poehler's "Yes, Please." I hopped to the sides for a second to wipe sweat and take a swig of water and he appeared.
He was an unassuming-looking, middle-aged man. While there were a great many options for open treadmills, he selected the one directly to the right of me and began staring at my treadmill screen. His man brain must have computed that he could keep up with my lady parts. (Remember, I'm not fast.)
He tried.
He panted.
He held on for dear life.
He kept looking over at my screen and I remembered a comment one of the girls I ran with back in 2010 made: "You aren't fast, but you can go forever."
Part of me wanted to just hop to the side for a second and tell him all that. I wanted to tell him that the best part of running is learning to stay in your lane. To me, it's never been about anybody else. My jog is someone's run and my run is someone's walk. And that's okay.
When I hopped to the side to grab a drink at the four mile mark, I glanced at his screen. He was still hanging with everything he had, but he'd cranked the speed back to 4.5. Since he still looked like he may have needed an inhaler, I was relieved when he stopped at one mile. I also hope he keeps coming back to the treadmill shitshow. Lots of people didn't even try on Tuesday and all of us felt fat, slow, or stupid at some point while working to get in shape. I don't know this guy, but I know he can figure out the secret: The only competition is with yourself.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
Monday, January 18, 2016
Holy cow...
It was the summer of 1990, specifically June. Faithful readers are familiar with the first part of this story, but I have to make sure that we're all on the same page here, capiche? I was 12 and stoked for the summer, because 12 means lots of swimming, softball, and tennis, with TV breaks for important programming like The Price is Right, TBS Night Tracks, and Welcome Back, Kotter re-runs.
Up your nose never loses its charm.
But back to being 12, enter one bench swing and a pack of friends. A particularly impressive game of jumping from the swing ensued. I spent the first several rounds standing on the back of the bench swing, holding on to the top bar tightly, and helping propel the swing for the jumps of my comrades. They eagerly squished into the swing in packs of threes and fours, the middle children jumping first, and shrieking with the delight of youth freed from elementary school. We weren’t too cool for the playground--shit I don't think many of us still are. I could probably make a couple calls and recreate all this nonsense. It would just require plane tickets and an amount of planning typically reserved for professional choices.
My turn to jump came and I was mad air all the way. I was flying! Kicking and screaming in the best way possible until gravity sealed my fate and I landed in hole on the ground with a very sore ankle, at which point there was just kicking and screaming. Being from a small town with no hospital or acute care clinic, the best thing to do was call the parents and get home. Home where I sat from Friday night till Monday when it was decided that I needed to go to the doctor. I didn't really want to let on how much it hurt because trying to be tough is in my nature and I figured that my parents wouldn't be too thrilled about doctor's bills and insurance claims. Yes, I actually already worried about that type of shit by the tender age of 12. Virgos and ulcers for lyfe!
There was a water feature in the doctor's office and all I could think about was how much I had to pee, but the overactive imaginer in me assumed I shouldn't go because there would be all kinds of tests and I would definitely need to provide a urine sample for my bum ankle. I hoped he would have a kind smile like Trapper John, MD, and that he would say, "Everything will be just fine, Julie." That's really all I ever want anyone to say to me.
The x-rays showed four fractures.
While I'm fairly confident that there was some crying and drama about all the things I was going to miss over the summer, I've blocked all that out. I considered sitting still as an average 12 year old would and found ways to amuse myself by considering what would one of my heroes of those days, Jessie Spano, do?
I totally got loaded on diet pills and broke my other ankle during a bad bender.
Okay, that's complete horse shit, but it's a pretty fun visual.
No, I hooked my bike pack filled with books to my crutches, I exhausted my parents’ old record collection, I played a bunch of Mario Bros on the old school Nintendo, I watched tons of sports, and I smashed tennis balls into the garage door when the crutches made way for the walking cast. And in all the cast signing that summer, I never noticed my foot growing and my toes of my right foot stretching out of the cast. All the toes except my big toe, which stopped growing with that broken ankle and gave me an extreme case of Greek foot, dashing the hopes I never knew I had of becoming a foot model, but securing a philosophy that function is usually more important than form.
The sports watching was a bit all over the place at first with ESPN randomness, a love of tennis because it was one of the few sports where you could see women kicking ass, and then, of course, baseball. Cable television with TBS and WGN afforded two reliable options: You watch the Braves or you watch the Cubbies. I picked the Cubs and I offer you complete clarity on why: Harry Caray.
What a hot fucking mess.
I loved him instantly without really understanding why.
Since Chicago wasn't forever away, it seemed like a good fit. The stadium was old-looking, which I thought was cool. There were some decent players--this was back in the days of Andre Dawson, Ryne Sanberg, and Mark Grace, who I developed a giant crush on, something I now find hilarious since blonds don't do it for me. But he played first, so we had something in common.
Caray was a treat. Anyone with that type of enthusiasm was cool by me. I didn't grasp the booze-propelled quality of it at the time, but I loved him. "HOLY COW!" and "CUBS WIN!" became staples in my vocabulary. It was the 7th Inning Stretch that was the real selling point, Allah only knows how many beers deep, leaning out of the booth, "And uh, one, uh, two..."
It's gold. Actually, it's probably a fucking miracle he never fell if we wanna get granular about it. But, dammit, he was a good one and an original. After he passed away, I didn't really make much of an effort to watch the Cubs, so I guess you all know where my fan's heart truly lay and here's why.
A couple of years after the broken ankle, I was in Chicago with my mom for a national youth conference. We were with a large group of kids and teachers from Minnesota, but happened to have one night where there wasn't a scheduled activity, so mom asked if I wanted to go to Harry Caray's restaurant for dinner. Duh. Of course I did!
"Wouldn't it be funny if he were there?" she remarked as we were leaving the hotel.
I doubted that would happen, but was pretty excited at the prospect of what types of baseball stuff might be there and just knowing that it was his place was good enough for a middle schooler. A short cab ride and we were there. It was quite busy, so I just people watched as we waited for a table and when the host was seating us, I asked something along the lines of, "Does Mr. Caray eat here often?" I assumed her, "Yes, he does," was just being polite until we sat down and WHO WAS AT THE NEXT TABLE?
Mayor Richard Daley.
Just kidding.
He was there. Harry Caray. HOLY COW.
"Do you think he would sign a menu for me?" I asked my mom, trying my hardest not to look like a complete dork, which for a girl in middle school is basically impossible. "Or a picture?"
Never before was I so glad that my mom always had a camera on her.
"You'll just have to ask," was her reply.
You wanna talk about nervous. He was so loud. There were mere feet between us, but I felt like he was already yelling in my ear. Budweiser bottles littered the table. I took a deep breath.
"Mr. Caray, I'm a Cubs fan and I was wondering if you would sign this menu for me? Maybe let my mom take a picture?"
I have no idea how sheepish I sounded or if I was confident. I was in the presence of a god as far as I was concerned.
He looked up at me, his glasses as thick as old Coke bottles, "Well, only if you sit in my lap!" and he laughed that laugh. He laughed that laugh that I can still hear, typing this almost 25 years later.
This is the closest I ever came to believing in Santa.
Up your nose never loses its charm.
But back to being 12, enter one bench swing and a pack of friends. A particularly impressive game of jumping from the swing ensued. I spent the first several rounds standing on the back of the bench swing, holding on to the top bar tightly, and helping propel the swing for the jumps of my comrades. They eagerly squished into the swing in packs of threes and fours, the middle children jumping first, and shrieking with the delight of youth freed from elementary school. We weren’t too cool for the playground--shit I don't think many of us still are. I could probably make a couple calls and recreate all this nonsense. It would just require plane tickets and an amount of planning typically reserved for professional choices.
My turn to jump came and I was mad air all the way. I was flying! Kicking and screaming in the best way possible until gravity sealed my fate and I landed in hole on the ground with a very sore ankle, at which point there was just kicking and screaming. Being from a small town with no hospital or acute care clinic, the best thing to do was call the parents and get home. Home where I sat from Friday night till Monday when it was decided that I needed to go to the doctor. I didn't really want to let on how much it hurt because trying to be tough is in my nature and I figured that my parents wouldn't be too thrilled about doctor's bills and insurance claims. Yes, I actually already worried about that type of shit by the tender age of 12. Virgos and ulcers for lyfe!
There was a water feature in the doctor's office and all I could think about was how much I had to pee, but the overactive imaginer in me assumed I shouldn't go because there would be all kinds of tests and I would definitely need to provide a urine sample for my bum ankle. I hoped he would have a kind smile like Trapper John, MD, and that he would say, "Everything will be just fine, Julie." That's really all I ever want anyone to say to me.
The x-rays showed four fractures.
While I'm fairly confident that there was some crying and drama about all the things I was going to miss over the summer, I've blocked all that out. I considered sitting still as an average 12 year old would and found ways to amuse myself by considering what would one of my heroes of those days, Jessie Spano, do?
I totally got loaded on diet pills and broke my other ankle during a bad bender.
Okay, that's complete horse shit, but it's a pretty fun visual.
No, I hooked my bike pack filled with books to my crutches, I exhausted my parents’ old record collection, I played a bunch of Mario Bros on the old school Nintendo, I watched tons of sports, and I smashed tennis balls into the garage door when the crutches made way for the walking cast. And in all the cast signing that summer, I never noticed my foot growing and my toes of my right foot stretching out of the cast. All the toes except my big toe, which stopped growing with that broken ankle and gave me an extreme case of Greek foot, dashing the hopes I never knew I had of becoming a foot model, but securing a philosophy that function is usually more important than form.
The sports watching was a bit all over the place at first with ESPN randomness, a love of tennis because it was one of the few sports where you could see women kicking ass, and then, of course, baseball. Cable television with TBS and WGN afforded two reliable options: You watch the Braves or you watch the Cubbies. I picked the Cubs and I offer you complete clarity on why: Harry Caray.
What a hot fucking mess.
I loved him instantly without really understanding why.
Since Chicago wasn't forever away, it seemed like a good fit. The stadium was old-looking, which I thought was cool. There were some decent players--this was back in the days of Andre Dawson, Ryne Sanberg, and Mark Grace, who I developed a giant crush on, something I now find hilarious since blonds don't do it for me. But he played first, so we had something in common.
Caray was a treat. Anyone with that type of enthusiasm was cool by me. I didn't grasp the booze-propelled quality of it at the time, but I loved him. "HOLY COW!" and "CUBS WIN!" became staples in my vocabulary. It was the 7th Inning Stretch that was the real selling point, Allah only knows how many beers deep, leaning out of the booth, "And uh, one, uh, two..."
It's gold. Actually, it's probably a fucking miracle he never fell if we wanna get granular about it. But, dammit, he was a good one and an original. After he passed away, I didn't really make much of an effort to watch the Cubs, so I guess you all know where my fan's heart truly lay and here's why.
A couple of years after the broken ankle, I was in Chicago with my mom for a national youth conference. We were with a large group of kids and teachers from Minnesota, but happened to have one night where there wasn't a scheduled activity, so mom asked if I wanted to go to Harry Caray's restaurant for dinner. Duh. Of course I did!
"Wouldn't it be funny if he were there?" she remarked as we were leaving the hotel.
I doubted that would happen, but was pretty excited at the prospect of what types of baseball stuff might be there and just knowing that it was his place was good enough for a middle schooler. A short cab ride and we were there. It was quite busy, so I just people watched as we waited for a table and when the host was seating us, I asked something along the lines of, "Does Mr. Caray eat here often?" I assumed her, "Yes, he does," was just being polite until we sat down and WHO WAS AT THE NEXT TABLE?
Mayor Richard Daley.
Just kidding.
He was there. Harry Caray. HOLY COW.
"Do you think he would sign a menu for me?" I asked my mom, trying my hardest not to look like a complete dork, which for a girl in middle school is basically impossible. "Or a picture?"
Never before was I so glad that my mom always had a camera on her.
"You'll just have to ask," was her reply.
You wanna talk about nervous. He was so loud. There were mere feet between us, but I felt like he was already yelling in my ear. Budweiser bottles littered the table. I took a deep breath.
"Mr. Caray, I'm a Cubs fan and I was wondering if you would sign this menu for me? Maybe let my mom take a picture?"
I have no idea how sheepish I sounded or if I was confident. I was in the presence of a god as far as I was concerned.
He looked up at me, his glasses as thick as old Coke bottles, "Well, only if you sit in my lap!" and he laughed that laugh. He laughed that laugh that I can still hear, typing this almost 25 years later.
This is the closest I ever came to believing in Santa.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Moving Through Fear: Part 654...
"Humans need love in their hearts like cars need gas in their tanks." - The Dirty Lady
I wrote that in 2011 and it popped up on one of those memory feeds on the Facebook. The snarky bitch in me immediately assumed I must have been high on yoga to come up with that. And then the part of me where the feelings rent a little space remembered that I wasn't always so callous regarding love.
The last relationship really took a lot out of me.
There, I said it. I really loved him. I still can't pinpoint whether or not I was "in" love, frankly, because I don't know that I am capable of that. I'll own that and don't know that the verbiage is really that important to me. I do know that there was a time where I would have walked through fire for him, which sadly, I don't think he ever knew. Us finding each other was sort of like finding Bigfoot because there aren't many never married, childless, attractive people in the Midwest. I thought I hit some type of lotto, but it was a the Titanic from the start. Not in some terrible, "Jack, draw me naked" type of way, but because I had such high hopes for us. But that fucking iceberg. Our iceberg was a mass of junk--addiction, fear, mental health issues, insecurities, anger, abandonment--you name it and one of us probably carried the baggage of decades of hurt and bullshit. He was transparent with me from the start, though, so it wasn't like I didn't know what I was getting into, so I suppose I have to chalk it up to another case of hope triumphing over experience.
Finding the balance between guarding my heart and allowing myself to trust people again after the end of this relationship has been ridiculously difficult for me.
Ask anyone who knows me what makes me happy and your top answers would be the Bitches and running, preferably with the Bitches. My adoration for Alli and Joey is complete to the point of obsession and something I share with anyone willing to listen. While both dogs and humans are incredibly social creatures, our ability to tap into our connections with other people is critical to our happiness. As much as I might like to spend my days hanging with the Bitches, dazzling them with my wit and iPod karaoke skills, I need more human connection to really feel like I'm part of this thing called Life.
It's easy for me to think, "Sure, I'm connected," and go through the list of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, blogs, and on and on. Having lived such an isolating life of shame and fear when I was sick certainly impacted me profoundly--just because I didn't have alcohol or other drugs in my system didn't mean I trusted people or felt I was worthy of positive attention. That said, a clear mind continues to give me the ability to search, learn, and do the work to make my life more meaningful and connected to other people. Like any lady would, I asked myself, "How the fuck to do I do that?"
I get uncomfortable.
Healthy routine is good for me, especially in respect to race training or eating habits. Sticking with the plan there is critical, but those are things in which I feel good about total control. Connecting with the other humans is gonna require getting uncomfortable. Until yesterday, I'd been in the routine so long, I'd forgotten the rush of being uncomfortable.
How did you stretch your wings, you ask? I did something really terrifying.
Recovery Queen talked me into participating in the Recovery Art Show last year when I worked on my piece, "The Big Picture." That was scary, but I also felt pretty insulated because it was Recovery Queen's project and a super safe space to put something out there. "What I lack in skill, I make up for in honesty," was the mantra. I really have no idea what, if anything, anyone thought or felt when viewing that work. I was surprised how deep my emotional response was during the creative process, so I continued messing around with it a bit after the show, even creating a few pieces I found amusing or provoking enough to hang at home. I'm really fortunate that my house is a bit of a gallery, so looking around my home and seeing something of mine near the work of an artist I respect was kind of a trip.
When I saw a post about wall space remaining for this weekend's Art Maze, a few thoughts went through my mind. First, "I wonder if I am good enough? There are some super rad, talented people participating in this." Then, "I need to get a hold of Recovery Queen and see what she thinks." That was followed quickly by, "Of course she'll tell me to reach our to the organizers because she always encourages people," which was followed more quickly by, "You should probably be thankful that you have a friend who is that encouraging," which finally led to my texting her and thinking, "I'm hungry." I"m always hungry.
Her response was quick and I know her well. I immediately reached out to the organizer because if I waited, I wouldn't have done it. Running off the end of the dock, while not always appropriate, has worked out alright for me lately. The brilliant news is that he was gracious enough to say yes.
It was only when I ran down to the space yesterday on my lunch break that I really remembered the terrifying and exhilarating rush of being uncomfortable. (Of course, that's tempered with the fact that, in true Schooly fashion, I picked a room, started nailing and writing on the wall, only to notice a name note on the door after the fact. I immediately assumed I had stolen the most important artist's room and through a series of messages to the organizer, proclaimed, "I fucked up." I imagined tears, yelling, and perhaps, bullets. Thankfully, he was kind and patient in my "How do I make this right?" rant. Also in true Schooly fashion, the name note was some weird remnant of the previous tenant and of no relevance to the show. The drama.)
Back to the rush. We forget that fear and excitement are cousins. I do love those little canvases and would have been perfectly content with them up at home, but, at least for the next two days, uncomfortable beats content and I'm pushing a little of my love out into the world.
I wrote that in 2011 and it popped up on one of those memory feeds on the Facebook. The snarky bitch in me immediately assumed I must have been high on yoga to come up with that. And then the part of me where the feelings rent a little space remembered that I wasn't always so callous regarding love.
The last relationship really took a lot out of me.
There, I said it. I really loved him. I still can't pinpoint whether or not I was "in" love, frankly, because I don't know that I am capable of that. I'll own that and don't know that the verbiage is really that important to me. I do know that there was a time where I would have walked through fire for him, which sadly, I don't think he ever knew. Us finding each other was sort of like finding Bigfoot because there aren't many never married, childless, attractive people in the Midwest. I thought I hit some type of lotto, but it was a the Titanic from the start. Not in some terrible, "Jack, draw me naked" type of way, but because I had such high hopes for us. But that fucking iceberg. Our iceberg was a mass of junk--addiction, fear, mental health issues, insecurities, anger, abandonment--you name it and one of us probably carried the baggage of decades of hurt and bullshit. He was transparent with me from the start, though, so it wasn't like I didn't know what I was getting into, so I suppose I have to chalk it up to another case of hope triumphing over experience.
Finding the balance between guarding my heart and allowing myself to trust people again after the end of this relationship has been ridiculously difficult for me.
Ask anyone who knows me what makes me happy and your top answers would be the Bitches and running, preferably with the Bitches. My adoration for Alli and Joey is complete to the point of obsession and something I share with anyone willing to listen. While both dogs and humans are incredibly social creatures, our ability to tap into our connections with other people is critical to our happiness. As much as I might like to spend my days hanging with the Bitches, dazzling them with my wit and iPod karaoke skills, I need more human connection to really feel like I'm part of this thing called Life.
It's easy for me to think, "Sure, I'm connected," and go through the list of Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, blogs, and on and on. Having lived such an isolating life of shame and fear when I was sick certainly impacted me profoundly--just because I didn't have alcohol or other drugs in my system didn't mean I trusted people or felt I was worthy of positive attention. That said, a clear mind continues to give me the ability to search, learn, and do the work to make my life more meaningful and connected to other people. Like any lady would, I asked myself, "How the fuck to do I do that?"
I get uncomfortable.
Healthy routine is good for me, especially in respect to race training or eating habits. Sticking with the plan there is critical, but those are things in which I feel good about total control. Connecting with the other humans is gonna require getting uncomfortable. Until yesterday, I'd been in the routine so long, I'd forgotten the rush of being uncomfortable.
How did you stretch your wings, you ask? I did something really terrifying.
Recovery Queen talked me into participating in the Recovery Art Show last year when I worked on my piece, "The Big Picture." That was scary, but I also felt pretty insulated because it was Recovery Queen's project and a super safe space to put something out there. "What I lack in skill, I make up for in honesty," was the mantra. I really have no idea what, if anything, anyone thought or felt when viewing that work. I was surprised how deep my emotional response was during the creative process, so I continued messing around with it a bit after the show, even creating a few pieces I found amusing or provoking enough to hang at home. I'm really fortunate that my house is a bit of a gallery, so looking around my home and seeing something of mine near the work of an artist I respect was kind of a trip.
When I saw a post about wall space remaining for this weekend's Art Maze, a few thoughts went through my mind. First, "I wonder if I am good enough? There are some super rad, talented people participating in this." Then, "I need to get a hold of Recovery Queen and see what she thinks." That was followed quickly by, "Of course she'll tell me to reach our to the organizers because she always encourages people," which was followed more quickly by, "You should probably be thankful that you have a friend who is that encouraging," which finally led to my texting her and thinking, "I'm hungry." I"m always hungry.
Her response was quick and I know her well. I immediately reached out to the organizer because if I waited, I wouldn't have done it. Running off the end of the dock, while not always appropriate, has worked out alright for me lately. The brilliant news is that he was gracious enough to say yes.
It was only when I ran down to the space yesterday on my lunch break that I really remembered the terrifying and exhilarating rush of being uncomfortable. (Of course, that's tempered with the fact that, in true Schooly fashion, I picked a room, started nailing and writing on the wall, only to notice a name note on the door after the fact. I immediately assumed I had stolen the most important artist's room and through a series of messages to the organizer, proclaimed, "I fucked up." I imagined tears, yelling, and perhaps, bullets. Thankfully, he was kind and patient in my "How do I make this right?" rant. Also in true Schooly fashion, the name note was some weird remnant of the previous tenant and of no relevance to the show. The drama.)
Back to the rush. We forget that fear and excitement are cousins. I do love those little canvases and would have been perfectly content with them up at home, but, at least for the next two days, uncomfortable beats content and I'm pushing a little of my love out into the world.
Saturday, January 2, 2016
#runfordick...
Many of you are well-aware, one of my life goals is to master the double entendre. I may get my Millennium Falcon-shaped hot tub first, but with these long-term goals, I don't get as hung up on the order in which they are achieved... But yes, the double entendre. What is the point of language in life if not to catch a giggle at the innuendo, be it slightly ambiguous or outrightly offensive. It doesn't have to be all James Bond "Goldfinger" or even sexual, for that matter. Remember when Bobby, sang, "Everybody must get stoned..."
A moment for our patron saint of music and poetry. Let us groove in the First Church of Dylan:
But let's be honest, the double entendres that are even remotely sexual are usually the best.
Yes, I'm the one giggling at the grocery store when the clerk asks, "Would you like a sack for that?"
It's so juvenile, I know, I know. Painfully juvenile. But it's so much better than walking through life with the stick up the ass, growing old and waiting to die acceptance that too many people have.
When I started posting my Portland training runs as #runfordick, I certainly raised a few eyebrows. Has she completely lost it and going full-on Schumer, like this is some sort of catch a dick experiment? Is there a runner named Dick in her sights? Is this some charity thing she attached to or some feminist movement? Is the running to get in better shape for previously mentioned Schumer context?
The Schumer context was probably believable when you take into consideration the fact that this exists.
In the real world, though, they go to Tinder, weigh more, and have guns and dead things in their pics. The Solo cups are a really fantastic touch, though. And why isn't anyone smoking?
But back to Dick. Yes, Dick is a human. He's a brash, loud-mouthed, trash talking friend of mine who is equal parts asshole and Care Bear. And please, don't take the asshole lightly, he's a major league asshole and would take that as a compliment. He has more opinions than the Supreme Court. (Like right now, if he's reading this, he's already forming what shithead comment he's gonna make about Bob, just because he knows how much I adore Bob.) Dick is a social media friend--we've only actually hung out one time in like four years. We know all the same people and since we both love a good game of poke the bear, we are kindred spirits. Of course, we like to troll each other, so it's almost like having an extra brother where neither of you left middle school and you pick on each other constantly, but it's bloodsport at this point.
Dick's favorite line of picking on me is mocking my posts about running, about how many miles it was, or how I am so slow I look like I am walking and people should be running from me. Then I'd have to fire back something about his love of spandex wrestling men or tell him to go cry about the death of country music. Meh. It was actually popcorn worthy when we were both on a tear. And there was that poetic thread about diarrhea.
#runfordick was pure reaction to him. It was, "Make fun of my sacred shit and I will dedicate every run to you. I will make you a part of something you profess to hate." And let's be real, it's pretty fucking funny. This wouldn't have worked for a Mark or a Brian. It's that beautiful double entendre running through this world of "that's what she said" jokes.
I thought about retiring it after the Portland Marathon was finished or with 2015. Or maybe I will turn it into an actual event with a cartoon of Dick falling into a sarlacc pit on the back. The race that lasts a thousand years...
A moment for our patron saint of music and poetry. Let us groove in the First Church of Dylan:
But let's be honest, the double entendres that are even remotely sexual are usually the best.
Yes, I'm the one giggling at the grocery store when the clerk asks, "Would you like a sack for that?"
It's so juvenile, I know, I know. Painfully juvenile. But it's so much better than walking through life with the stick up the ass, growing old and waiting to die acceptance that too many people have.
When I started posting my Portland training runs as #runfordick, I certainly raised a few eyebrows. Has she completely lost it and going full-on Schumer, like this is some sort of catch a dick experiment? Is there a runner named Dick in her sights? Is this some charity thing she attached to or some feminist movement? Is the running to get in better shape for previously mentioned Schumer context?
The Schumer context was probably believable when you take into consideration the fact that this exists.
In the real world, though, they go to Tinder, weigh more, and have guns and dead things in their pics. The Solo cups are a really fantastic touch, though. And why isn't anyone smoking?
But back to Dick. Yes, Dick is a human. He's a brash, loud-mouthed, trash talking friend of mine who is equal parts asshole and Care Bear. And please, don't take the asshole lightly, he's a major league asshole and would take that as a compliment. He has more opinions than the Supreme Court. (Like right now, if he's reading this, he's already forming what shithead comment he's gonna make about Bob, just because he knows how much I adore Bob.) Dick is a social media friend--we've only actually hung out one time in like four years. We know all the same people and since we both love a good game of poke the bear, we are kindred spirits. Of course, we like to troll each other, so it's almost like having an extra brother where neither of you left middle school and you pick on each other constantly, but it's bloodsport at this point.
Dick's favorite line of picking on me is mocking my posts about running, about how many miles it was, or how I am so slow I look like I am walking and people should be running from me. Then I'd have to fire back something about his love of spandex wrestling men or tell him to go cry about the death of country music. Meh. It was actually popcorn worthy when we were both on a tear. And there was that poetic thread about diarrhea.
#runfordick was pure reaction to him. It was, "Make fun of my sacred shit and I will dedicate every run to you. I will make you a part of something you profess to hate." And let's be real, it's pretty fucking funny. This wouldn't have worked for a Mark or a Brian. It's that beautiful double entendre running through this world of "that's what she said" jokes.
I thought about retiring it after the Portland Marathon was finished or with 2015. Or maybe I will turn it into an actual event with a cartoon of Dick falling into a sarlacc pit on the back. The race that lasts a thousand years...
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