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...
Sunday, December 27, 2015
Paging Dr. Wanker...
I was walking through the grocery store earlier, picking up a few things to do some meal prep for the week, when I had a couple of self-discovery moments. First, when Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot" shuffles through the ear buds, it's really hard not to dance. Really hard. When the pigs try to get at me...
The other moment caused me to pause in my tracks. I saw one of the Hims. You know, a Him--one of those dudes that did something to you or said something to you and it put a placeholder in your life. Good or bad, there's a memory there. This one was particularly humiliating as his placeholder was in his office and he decided to give me a lecture about pre-marital sex while he held my birth control prescription hostage. I was a grown woman, I'd graduated from college, and that lecture was the last thing I expected. Looking back at my life at that point, with all the booze and drugs I was ingesting, if a doctor were going to make a moral judgment on this patient, the judgment should have been, "Praise be, she's using contraceptives!"
But I let him blather on and threw another brick on the "Things that are Wrong with Me" pile. It was already a fairly impressive pile at that point.
That whole scene played out in my head while I was standing there watching him, just walking through the store, probably to buy dinner for his wife and legitimate children and grandchildren. Although I never went back to that particular doctor, I hadn't realized the degree to which I had internalized that shame I felt that afternoon. His name, his nurse's name, which exam room we were in--I remembered all of it from the freezer section.
At that point, I really just wanted to get out of the store and go home, but of course he was in the checkout line next to me so I turned up the ear buds.
And then I remembered a worse experience at a doctor.
We place a lot of faith in doctors. We expect them to have answers and knowledge. We expect them to be able to fix us in our acute situations. After all, they go to school for many years, internships, residencies, and on and on and on. Actually surviving the training shows a lot of gumption, whether or not someone will actually be any good at practicing medicine is an entirely different conversation.
I'd been in a long-term relationship with someone who I knew fucked around on me, but the extent to which it happened didn't become clear until after the relationship ended. I was embarrassed and ashamed. But most of all I was terrified. I wanted to get into my doctor immediately and get a full battery of tests done. Reality Bites was correct, the rite of passage for our generation was the HIV test.
I wasn't able to get into my regular doctor, so I ended up calling around for the first available appointment that accepted my insurance. When I arrived at the clinic, I was still pretty keyed up. I'd managed to stay sober, so I was pretty happy about that. But my terrified had switched to pissed off. That's the bitch about trusting someone. I had only slept with the person I was in the relationship with for the past five years, yet there I was in that fucking waiting room, feeling stupid and used. Throw another brick on the pile...
When the doctor asked why I was in today, I explained that I wanted to have STD testing done, including an HIV test. I know I was pissed off and panicky, but I really just expected him to be professional. I knew the insurance wouldn't cover everything, but I didn't know how to put a price on peace of mind. So I asked that he just do the exam and get the samples so I could go about my day. And wait.
So he did just that.
But then he felt the need to be funny.
"Maybe you should start boiling your dates," he said.
A medical professional actually said that. I don't know if he was trying to break tension or being a judgmental dick, but the right thing to say would have been something about when the labs would be back. He didn't know that the woman sitting on his exam table was a rape survivor who managed to get sober and thought she found someone with whom she was going to spend the rest of her life until it blew up in her face. He didn't know that, but I will not make excuses for his ignorance. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. Me today, I would have verbally eviscerated him and filed a complaint with the medical board. Me then was so sad and tired that I didn't say anything at all.
My mouth gets me in trouble from time to time. I talk about things or use words that make other people uncomfortable, but I guess I feel like I have to now. I have to speak my truth and use my voice now because of all the times I didn't have the strength to in the past. When I think about it, I am always reminded of one of my favorite poems by the incredible Audre Lorde:
A Litany for Survival
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children's mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive
- Audre Lorde
The other moment caused me to pause in my tracks. I saw one of the Hims. You know, a Him--one of those dudes that did something to you or said something to you and it put a placeholder in your life. Good or bad, there's a memory there. This one was particularly humiliating as his placeholder was in his office and he decided to give me a lecture about pre-marital sex while he held my birth control prescription hostage. I was a grown woman, I'd graduated from college, and that lecture was the last thing I expected. Looking back at my life at that point, with all the booze and drugs I was ingesting, if a doctor were going to make a moral judgment on this patient, the judgment should have been, "Praise be, she's using contraceptives!"
But I let him blather on and threw another brick on the "Things that are Wrong with Me" pile. It was already a fairly impressive pile at that point.
That whole scene played out in my head while I was standing there watching him, just walking through the store, probably to buy dinner for his wife and legitimate children and grandchildren. Although I never went back to that particular doctor, I hadn't realized the degree to which I had internalized that shame I felt that afternoon. His name, his nurse's name, which exam room we were in--I remembered all of it from the freezer section.
At that point, I really just wanted to get out of the store and go home, but of course he was in the checkout line next to me so I turned up the ear buds.
And then I remembered a worse experience at a doctor.
We place a lot of faith in doctors. We expect them to have answers and knowledge. We expect them to be able to fix us in our acute situations. After all, they go to school for many years, internships, residencies, and on and on and on. Actually surviving the training shows a lot of gumption, whether or not someone will actually be any good at practicing medicine is an entirely different conversation.
I'd been in a long-term relationship with someone who I knew fucked around on me, but the extent to which it happened didn't become clear until after the relationship ended. I was embarrassed and ashamed. But most of all I was terrified. I wanted to get into my doctor immediately and get a full battery of tests done. Reality Bites was correct, the rite of passage for our generation was the HIV test.
I wasn't able to get into my regular doctor, so I ended up calling around for the first available appointment that accepted my insurance. When I arrived at the clinic, I was still pretty keyed up. I'd managed to stay sober, so I was pretty happy about that. But my terrified had switched to pissed off. That's the bitch about trusting someone. I had only slept with the person I was in the relationship with for the past five years, yet there I was in that fucking waiting room, feeling stupid and used. Throw another brick on the pile...
When the doctor asked why I was in today, I explained that I wanted to have STD testing done, including an HIV test. I know I was pissed off and panicky, but I really just expected him to be professional. I knew the insurance wouldn't cover everything, but I didn't know how to put a price on peace of mind. So I asked that he just do the exam and get the samples so I could go about my day. And wait.
So he did just that.
But then he felt the need to be funny.
"Maybe you should start boiling your dates," he said.
A medical professional actually said that. I don't know if he was trying to break tension or being a judgmental dick, but the right thing to say would have been something about when the labs would be back. He didn't know that the woman sitting on his exam table was a rape survivor who managed to get sober and thought she found someone with whom she was going to spend the rest of her life until it blew up in her face. He didn't know that, but I will not make excuses for his ignorance. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. Me today, I would have verbally eviscerated him and filed a complaint with the medical board. Me then was so sad and tired that I didn't say anything at all.
My mouth gets me in trouble from time to time. I talk about things or use words that make other people uncomfortable, but I guess I feel like I have to now. I have to speak my truth and use my voice now because of all the times I didn't have the strength to in the past. When I think about it, I am always reminded of one of my favorite poems by the incredible Audre Lorde:
A Litany for Survival
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children's mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive
- Audre Lorde
Monday, October 19, 2015
Runner's Diary: Portland Edition...
Since I don't like to carry my phone during a run, the Kodacrome in my noggin takes mental notes and I see what I can string together for all you folks later. I may be a social media whore most of the time, but I like keeping these close.
Runner’s Diary: Portland Marathon
The alarms, yes, I set multiple alarms, began at 5 am. I should point out that that is an everyday occurrence—three alarms is the reg for me. There’s the wake-up, the “You better have your shit together,” and “Your ass better be heading out the door” alarms. It works.
Oatmeal was McGuyvered with the hotel coffee pot 123 minutes from start.
I was assigned starting corral F. “F is for fucker,” I reminded my cheering section after I was asked several times. I know my cheering section might not always appreciate my mouth, but I DID help them remember my starting corral. I visited with a cool chick named Anna, who was from Seattle, and a wacky mother-daughter team of half marathoners from California. Note: Portland runs a marathon and a half marathon simultaneously and the first 11 miles are run together. If you are considering the race, go for the marathon. All the best views are after 14.
Mile .25: Some poor lady went down like a ton of bricks a few people in front of me. Of course, the folks around her helped her up and checked on her. I hope the next 26 miles went better.
Mile Three: A ginger held open the door to the porta-john for me. They do have souls.
Mile Seven: Cheer groups ahead, fun. I wonder what they… oh Christ, they are dressed like pirates. Why do adults enjoy dressing like pirates?
Mile Eight: Someone yelled, “BARF!” Hundreds of eyes scanned the ground. We were all starting to stink at that point, so the potential stank was not a worry.
Miles Seven through 11: This industrial park sucks and it is really hot. Railroad tracks everywhere. I thought Portland was beautiful. Holy Jesus, that lady with the walking poles is taking up a lot of space. I will not trip on the poles, I will not trip on the poles.
Mile 10: Solo trumpeter plays “Eye of the Tiger” on repeat. I am sad for him. I pit stop to remove my bib from my shirt and attach it to my shorts. The shirt has got to go and I have zero pride left. Don’t like the jiggle, don’t look. I ate a lot to get this sexy. Plus, at least I am not soloing Survivor. Holy nuts, he is wearing a beret like the video. Sadness has turned to reverence.
Mile 11: Fuck, the pirates again. Now they are singing. I miss the trumpeter.
Somewhere between 14 and 20: Holy shit it smells like weed. Oh look, a Mile 420 sign. Yep, they gots all the weed there. Contact high. Why isn’t Cypress Hill playing right now? Ghost of Steve Jobs, don’t let me down now…
Mile 15: Tall, hot, bearded Portlander walks his bike (vintage 10 speed) against the marathon traffic. He smiled. I smiled. There wasn't time to ask if he wanted a salty motorboat. #missedconnections
Mile 17: St. John's Bridge. Holy. Beautiful. The 45 degree (okay, it felt that steep, but I haven’t done the trig to figure out if that is legit), 3/4 mile to get there was forgiven. I stopped to stretch with several others and enjoy the view. "I only thought about jumping for a second," I deadpanned. The man in the orange shirt appreciated the joke more than the Japanese couple.
Mile 19: A man walked down the street with a black cat perched on his shoulder. Awkward eye contact with the cat ensued. Those things are so weird. A dog would never look at me like it wants to eat my soul.
Mile 19.5: I had enough sass left to yell at a group of people grilling and hanging out in their yard, "You guys are pretty quiet!" The crowd erupted.
Mile 20: Angelic young boy proudly holding sign that says, "Make Mile 20 Your Bitch!" I stop, look him right in the eye, and say, "I don't know who your parents are, but I like them."
Mile 21: The solo trumpeter returned. I think. I may have just imagined him because it was fun.
Miles 22 & 23: Lots of people. Some check my bib and cheer, “Go Schooly.” I’ve taken to winking at them because who doesn’t want to cheer for a flirty, shirtless, stinky girl?
Mile 24: “We are on Winning Way, how can we lose?” I commented to a middle-aged dude. “How CAN we lose?” he replied. It would have been a perfect moment for a slow clap, but who the fuck as the energy for that bullshit at this point?
Mile 24.5: Puking blond runner being comforted by the Greek God of the Portland Fire Department. I considered shoving a finger down my throat.
Mile 25: I eyed a man wearing a "Team Beef" shirt. I was slightly scared after the homophobic incident in Beresford, but inquired where his home was. "Idaho." I ran faster.
25.5: The oldest homeless fella in Portland screams, “Get your bitch asses out of my city!” Unsure as to whether the “city” to which he was referring was the sleeping bag, the block, or Portland, I trudged onward.
In all seriousness, there are so many homeless people in Portland. I realize there is a culture within the homeless population and that some people prefer the life, but what really struck me was how young the homeless population there was. READ THIS.
Runner's Diary Mile 26: ODB hit the Shuffle for my final song of the race. The ODB was my favorite doughnut at Voodoo Doughnuts. Remind me to tell you the Cock and Balls story from Voodoo sometime. #circleoflife
Mile 26.2: I smiled like a dorkus as I crossed the finish line and marched right up to a blond lady who was handing out medals and said, “I’ll take that.” No crying like in Chicago. A young man handed me a rose and said, “Congratulations!"
I wandered around the finisher area and ate all the food. Seriously, I had orange juice, chocolate milk, grapes, yogurt, potato chips, and mini candy bars in my guts within moments. After the Sioux Falls marathon, my body was like, “SUGAR!!” and I downed a Coke. After the TC Marathon, my body was like, “SALT!!” and I sucked down lots of chicken broth. The past two years, my body has been like, “JUST SHOVE CALORIES IN ME, YOU DUTCH BEAST!!”
In other news, I smelled like the ass of death and you could have salted a pretzel with my jawline.
Mile 28: Wearing finisher's shirt and medal. Lady rolls by slow and yells, "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" at me.
All the miles after: ALL. THE. FOOD.
I adored Portland and will return. My sole/soul desire to return to Great Plains was my Bitches, and not just because they snore far less than my travel companions. Alli and Joey make my world. They would like Portland.
Runner's Diary Plane Ride: Arm’s length from three screaming babies and I never swung. #growth
Runner's Diary Dog Pick-Up: Alli did laps, Joey jumped like Tigger, and I smiled like a fool. The signature on my receipt would not hold up in court. The gal who helped me load up the Bitches commented on what a nice dog Joey is: "She is so nice to humans and other dogs." I beamed. My little asshole is growing up. They were super chill the rest of the day, so they must have done their own little doggie marathon out at the farm.
Runner’s Diary: Portland Marathon
The alarms, yes, I set multiple alarms, began at 5 am. I should point out that that is an everyday occurrence—three alarms is the reg for me. There’s the wake-up, the “You better have your shit together,” and “Your ass better be heading out the door” alarms. It works.
Oatmeal was McGuyvered with the hotel coffee pot 123 minutes from start.
I was assigned starting corral F. “F is for fucker,” I reminded my cheering section after I was asked several times. I know my cheering section might not always appreciate my mouth, but I DID help them remember my starting corral. I visited with a cool chick named Anna, who was from Seattle, and a wacky mother-daughter team of half marathoners from California. Note: Portland runs a marathon and a half marathon simultaneously and the first 11 miles are run together. If you are considering the race, go for the marathon. All the best views are after 14.
Mile .25: Some poor lady went down like a ton of bricks a few people in front of me. Of course, the folks around her helped her up and checked on her. I hope the next 26 miles went better.
Mile Three: A ginger held open the door to the porta-john for me. They do have souls.
Mile Seven: Cheer groups ahead, fun. I wonder what they… oh Christ, they are dressed like pirates. Why do adults enjoy dressing like pirates?
Mile Eight: Someone yelled, “BARF!” Hundreds of eyes scanned the ground. We were all starting to stink at that point, so the potential stank was not a worry.
Miles Seven through 11: This industrial park sucks and it is really hot. Railroad tracks everywhere. I thought Portland was beautiful. Holy Jesus, that lady with the walking poles is taking up a lot of space. I will not trip on the poles, I will not trip on the poles.
Mile 10: Solo trumpeter plays “Eye of the Tiger” on repeat. I am sad for him. I pit stop to remove my bib from my shirt and attach it to my shorts. The shirt has got to go and I have zero pride left. Don’t like the jiggle, don’t look. I ate a lot to get this sexy. Plus, at least I am not soloing Survivor. Holy nuts, he is wearing a beret like the video. Sadness has turned to reverence.
Mile 11: Fuck, the pirates again. Now they are singing. I miss the trumpeter.
Somewhere between 14 and 20: Holy shit it smells like weed. Oh look, a Mile 420 sign. Yep, they gots all the weed there. Contact high. Why isn’t Cypress Hill playing right now? Ghost of Steve Jobs, don’t let me down now…
Mile 15: Tall, hot, bearded Portlander walks his bike (vintage 10 speed) against the marathon traffic. He smiled. I smiled. There wasn't time to ask if he wanted a salty motorboat. #missedconnections
Mile 17: St. John's Bridge. Holy. Beautiful. The 45 degree (okay, it felt that steep, but I haven’t done the trig to figure out if that is legit), 3/4 mile to get there was forgiven. I stopped to stretch with several others and enjoy the view. "I only thought about jumping for a second," I deadpanned. The man in the orange shirt appreciated the joke more than the Japanese couple.
Mile 19: A man walked down the street with a black cat perched on his shoulder. Awkward eye contact with the cat ensued. Those things are so weird. A dog would never look at me like it wants to eat my soul.
Mile 19.5: I had enough sass left to yell at a group of people grilling and hanging out in their yard, "You guys are pretty quiet!" The crowd erupted.
Mile 20: Angelic young boy proudly holding sign that says, "Make Mile 20 Your Bitch!" I stop, look him right in the eye, and say, "I don't know who your parents are, but I like them."
Mile 21: The solo trumpeter returned. I think. I may have just imagined him because it was fun.
Miles 22 & 23: Lots of people. Some check my bib and cheer, “Go Schooly.” I’ve taken to winking at them because who doesn’t want to cheer for a flirty, shirtless, stinky girl?
Mile 24: “We are on Winning Way, how can we lose?” I commented to a middle-aged dude. “How CAN we lose?” he replied. It would have been a perfect moment for a slow clap, but who the fuck as the energy for that bullshit at this point?
Mile 24.5: Puking blond runner being comforted by the Greek God of the Portland Fire Department. I considered shoving a finger down my throat.
Mile 25: I eyed a man wearing a "Team Beef" shirt. I was slightly scared after the homophobic incident in Beresford, but inquired where his home was. "Idaho." I ran faster.
25.5: The oldest homeless fella in Portland screams, “Get your bitch asses out of my city!” Unsure as to whether the “city” to which he was referring was the sleeping bag, the block, or Portland, I trudged onward.
In all seriousness, there are so many homeless people in Portland. I realize there is a culture within the homeless population and that some people prefer the life, but what really struck me was how young the homeless population there was. READ THIS.
Runner's Diary Mile 26: ODB hit the Shuffle for my final song of the race. The ODB was my favorite doughnut at Voodoo Doughnuts. Remind me to tell you the Cock and Balls story from Voodoo sometime. #circleoflife
Mile 26.2: I smiled like a dorkus as I crossed the finish line and marched right up to a blond lady who was handing out medals and said, “I’ll take that.” No crying like in Chicago. A young man handed me a rose and said, “Congratulations!"
I wandered around the finisher area and ate all the food. Seriously, I had orange juice, chocolate milk, grapes, yogurt, potato chips, and mini candy bars in my guts within moments. After the Sioux Falls marathon, my body was like, “SUGAR!!” and I downed a Coke. After the TC Marathon, my body was like, “SALT!!” and I sucked down lots of chicken broth. The past two years, my body has been like, “JUST SHOVE CALORIES IN ME, YOU DUTCH BEAST!!”
In other news, I smelled like the ass of death and you could have salted a pretzel with my jawline.
Mile 28: Wearing finisher's shirt and medal. Lady rolls by slow and yells, "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" at me.
All the miles after: ALL. THE. FOOD.
I adored Portland and will return. My sole/soul desire to return to Great Plains was my Bitches, and not just because they snore far less than my travel companions. Alli and Joey make my world. They would like Portland.
Runner's Diary Plane Ride: Arm’s length from three screaming babies and I never swung. #growth
Runner's Diary Dog Pick-Up: Alli did laps, Joey jumped like Tigger, and I smiled like a fool. The signature on my receipt would not hold up in court. The gal who helped me load up the Bitches commented on what a nice dog Joey is: "She is so nice to humans and other dogs." I beamed. My little asshole is growing up. They were super chill the rest of the day, so they must have done their own little doggie marathon out at the farm.
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Lonely, but Not a Hunter...
This blog has to start with a disclaimer. It isn’t written for my AA friends to ask me to join them at meetings. It isn’t written for my Christian friends to ask me to join them at church, or my running friends to ask me to a new group run. It’s not about fellowship. It’s not looking for a date. I’m just feeling the need to be completely transparent about something because I am sure I am not alone in my feeling.
I am lonely.
Loneliness isn’t about being by myself—I have no issues there. I like going to the movies by myself, having lunch solo, and running in the company of canines. This issue isn’t about needing to be around other people. I have many great friends in my life. This issue isn’t about self-esteem; I am an exceptional human today. Hell, being exceptional may even be part of the problem.
It’s a lack of connection.
It’s like you’re sitting in a stadium full of people and it looks like they’re all talking and cheering, but you don’t hear a thing. You’re on the 50 yard line, they don’t notice you, and you look right through them.
As long as I can remember, I have been lonely. I couldn’t be cuddled because I was too hot. I couldn’t watch because I made people nervous. I felt like a nuisance, a burden in the way of whatever the people around me were working to accomplish. (Remember, I’m the girl who even sent my imaginary friend away to live somewhere more relevant.) So I isolated, especially into books. Always wanting to be somewhere else, books were the perfect outlet for me. I could go anywhere. I could be anything. (Sing a few bars of Reading Rainbow, I know you want to. It’s cool.)
I also discovered pretty quickly that humor was my way in with people. Being lonely as a child sucked, but as soon as I learned how to make people laugh, I was hooked. For the record, it was Elvis Presley impressions on the playground. Some of you may remember. As always, what I lacked in substance, I made up for in style.
Hours of adolescence were spent walking and rollerblading in solitude. Thinking, not thinking, wishing I felt more connected to people, wishing maybe I would go out on a date before I died, and generally making everything better or worse than it actually was, like adolescents tend to do. Part of me has always loved people, but you fuckers wear me out. Or maybe I wore myself out trying to entertain you all.
And then it was off to college! YES! College, the place where I thought interesting people lived. They talked about interesting things. There was no way I could be lonely in college. No way.
I was surrounded by people—fun people. My roommate was a trip and I met lots of cool people. I also started drinking what seemed like no more than anyone else. The first time I got really good and drunk, it was like the lights turned on and I saw color for the first time. Skipping down 28th Street, laughing with my new friends, I thought that was it. I was light and silly, not serious and worried about politics or the environment. I could actually loosen up and have a good time. Liquid confidence. And the lack of hangover made me think I’d found a better version of myself. All it took was a little alcohol.
But I was still lonely.
The shitty part was that it never felt like the better me again. It’s the trick of it. I sure tried to replicate it. I was a bit of a social director in the dorm. I knew who to call to find out where the parties were, where girls could drink free, all that nonsense. Then the wheels fell off the bus. I’ve tried to write about that night dozens of times and the balance of telling too much and not telling enough is where I struggle. So today I will tell you this, when a young woman in her late teens goes to a friend of a friend’s house to a party, she certainly doesn’t expect it to change her life forever.
I was beyond naïve when it came to guys; I’d never been on a date or had a boyfriend. I was lonely. I was drunk. I remember being dragged up a flight of stairs and not entirely sure what was happening, but realizing I was stuck. The most disgusting thought during the rape was, “Well, you always wanted attention from a guy. Here you go. This is what it’s like.”
Hell of a thing for a lonely girl to think.
Of course, some would say, “Boys will be boys, “ or I was “taken advantage of,” but I’m gonna go ahead and call it rape. There’s like a one in four or one in five chance that you will be sexually assaulted while attending college, so I am gonna go ahead and call it rape.
Some of the party friends caught wind that I’d hooked up with this guy and instead of having the courage to talk about what happened, I made some joke about socks.
They called me Socks for the rest of the year.
They didn’t know.
The shitty thing about rape is that you never leave the scene of the crime.
The shitty thing about being lonely is that you are certain that no one could or will ever understand you.
The shitty thing about booze is that it tells you it takes all the troubles away.
Outwardly, I kept up the funny, party girl thing for awhile. Under the surface, I was raging. I was usually doing too much of something—booze, drugs, food, exercise—whatever. Anything to not have to face myself and the unlovable, unworthy, disgusting, sometimes violent mess of a person I was. By my third year of school, I was starting to push the good people away. The solo drinking got to be more and more of a thing. Isolation was easy; at the core, I had no idea how to accept love, be it friendship or romantic.
The old trick of moving to a new place didn’t help the loneliness and the partying escalated. I picked up a new trick, though—hang out with people who drink and use more than you and not only do you get to feel morally superior, other people don’t think you’re so bad.
Throw in a run of relationships that were never going to work, from the violent one who forgot to tell me that he had a fiancée to the dealer to the ones sick with addiction and it’s no shock that I have not allowed myself to connect meaningfully, intimately with another human. Honestly, I figured most guys were morons.
Having recently tossed myself back into the dating world, I asked my friend, Mr. Hardy, “Do guys typically show up on time and not drunk/high when taking someone out?”
(I should tell you that this happened to me for the first time ever recently, someone showing up on time and not fucked up.)
To paraphrase his response, if you’re 20 and going over to bone, then showing up slightly intoxicated may be acceptable. But a nice girl on a date, that is strange. He thinks I’m fishing in the wrong ponds.
And my therapist agrees.
Balls.
And where the fuck are the right ponds, then?
I used to think that intimacy was impossible, then I thought it was completely fucking terrifying. Now I think it’s a matter of finding another human who is equally exceptional as I am.
Till then, I’ll be lonely.
I am lonely.
Loneliness isn’t about being by myself—I have no issues there. I like going to the movies by myself, having lunch solo, and running in the company of canines. This issue isn’t about needing to be around other people. I have many great friends in my life. This issue isn’t about self-esteem; I am an exceptional human today. Hell, being exceptional may even be part of the problem.
It’s a lack of connection.
It’s like you’re sitting in a stadium full of people and it looks like they’re all talking and cheering, but you don’t hear a thing. You’re on the 50 yard line, they don’t notice you, and you look right through them.
As long as I can remember, I have been lonely. I couldn’t be cuddled because I was too hot. I couldn’t watch because I made people nervous. I felt like a nuisance, a burden in the way of whatever the people around me were working to accomplish. (Remember, I’m the girl who even sent my imaginary friend away to live somewhere more relevant.) So I isolated, especially into books. Always wanting to be somewhere else, books were the perfect outlet for me. I could go anywhere. I could be anything. (Sing a few bars of Reading Rainbow, I know you want to. It’s cool.)
I also discovered pretty quickly that humor was my way in with people. Being lonely as a child sucked, but as soon as I learned how to make people laugh, I was hooked. For the record, it was Elvis Presley impressions on the playground. Some of you may remember. As always, what I lacked in substance, I made up for in style.
Hours of adolescence were spent walking and rollerblading in solitude. Thinking, not thinking, wishing I felt more connected to people, wishing maybe I would go out on a date before I died, and generally making everything better or worse than it actually was, like adolescents tend to do. Part of me has always loved people, but you fuckers wear me out. Or maybe I wore myself out trying to entertain you all.
And then it was off to college! YES! College, the place where I thought interesting people lived. They talked about interesting things. There was no way I could be lonely in college. No way.
I was surrounded by people—fun people. My roommate was a trip and I met lots of cool people. I also started drinking what seemed like no more than anyone else. The first time I got really good and drunk, it was like the lights turned on and I saw color for the first time. Skipping down 28th Street, laughing with my new friends, I thought that was it. I was light and silly, not serious and worried about politics or the environment. I could actually loosen up and have a good time. Liquid confidence. And the lack of hangover made me think I’d found a better version of myself. All it took was a little alcohol.
But I was still lonely.
The shitty part was that it never felt like the better me again. It’s the trick of it. I sure tried to replicate it. I was a bit of a social director in the dorm. I knew who to call to find out where the parties were, where girls could drink free, all that nonsense. Then the wheels fell off the bus. I’ve tried to write about that night dozens of times and the balance of telling too much and not telling enough is where I struggle. So today I will tell you this, when a young woman in her late teens goes to a friend of a friend’s house to a party, she certainly doesn’t expect it to change her life forever.
I was beyond naïve when it came to guys; I’d never been on a date or had a boyfriend. I was lonely. I was drunk. I remember being dragged up a flight of stairs and not entirely sure what was happening, but realizing I was stuck. The most disgusting thought during the rape was, “Well, you always wanted attention from a guy. Here you go. This is what it’s like.”
Hell of a thing for a lonely girl to think.
Of course, some would say, “Boys will be boys, “ or I was “taken advantage of,” but I’m gonna go ahead and call it rape. There’s like a one in four or one in five chance that you will be sexually assaulted while attending college, so I am gonna go ahead and call it rape.
Some of the party friends caught wind that I’d hooked up with this guy and instead of having the courage to talk about what happened, I made some joke about socks.
They called me Socks for the rest of the year.
They didn’t know.
The shitty thing about rape is that you never leave the scene of the crime.
The shitty thing about being lonely is that you are certain that no one could or will ever understand you.
The shitty thing about booze is that it tells you it takes all the troubles away.
Outwardly, I kept up the funny, party girl thing for awhile. Under the surface, I was raging. I was usually doing too much of something—booze, drugs, food, exercise—whatever. Anything to not have to face myself and the unlovable, unworthy, disgusting, sometimes violent mess of a person I was. By my third year of school, I was starting to push the good people away. The solo drinking got to be more and more of a thing. Isolation was easy; at the core, I had no idea how to accept love, be it friendship or romantic.
The old trick of moving to a new place didn’t help the loneliness and the partying escalated. I picked up a new trick, though—hang out with people who drink and use more than you and not only do you get to feel morally superior, other people don’t think you’re so bad.
Throw in a run of relationships that were never going to work, from the violent one who forgot to tell me that he had a fiancée to the dealer to the ones sick with addiction and it’s no shock that I have not allowed myself to connect meaningfully, intimately with another human. Honestly, I figured most guys were morons.
Having recently tossed myself back into the dating world, I asked my friend, Mr. Hardy, “Do guys typically show up on time and not drunk/high when taking someone out?”
(I should tell you that this happened to me for the first time ever recently, someone showing up on time and not fucked up.)
To paraphrase his response, if you’re 20 and going over to bone, then showing up slightly intoxicated may be acceptable. But a nice girl on a date, that is strange. He thinks I’m fishing in the wrong ponds.
And my therapist agrees.
Balls.
And where the fuck are the right ponds, then?
I used to think that intimacy was impossible, then I thought it was completely fucking terrifying. Now I think it’s a matter of finding another human who is equally exceptional as I am.
Till then, I’ll be lonely.
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