I am not sure I have the answer anymore. I feel like I used to know who I was in this world: mom, daughter, sister, wife, friend, Jesus lover, Californian, runner and sometimes triathlete. I felt very confident in my place in the universe, comfortable, and most often happy. These days, nothing really translates. I live in a foreign land, my faith has been shaken with the recent death of a friend, I question why God would leave me here in the desert feeling alone and forsaken, and now I don't even have my best stress reliever-I can't even run. I am a swimmer.
Marine Corps marathon is this weekend and I am depressed that though it was on my to do list of marathons, I won't be attending. Laying on the massage table last Saturday, Sharon encouraged me to reevaluate my place and who I think I am. I know I have been rattled to be shifted out of my hometown and now to try to stand up again here in this one. Everything feels off-kilter, and not just the imbalance of my feet in light of this injury. Like my back that is aching in light of a new workout routine, everything is just a little tweaked in my world without the familiarity of home and the morning run. How can it be adjusted?
Sunday I met the group at South Beach to ride North to the Inlet, though Lori and I turned back early to make it home on time. The wind was grueling, in our faces. Lori looked at me and said, "This is what our hills are here
"Yeah, but at least where I'm from, the hills come with some reprieve-you get to go down the backside of them!" I told her.
Here, the wind blew its angry fury directly at us all the way North, which allowed us to only go about 17 miles per hour. On the way home, however, we were loving screaming along the coast. I loved moving along without the threat of falling down a mountain at that speed. It was great and I am hoping to make it a staple workout for a while, if the schedule will allow for it.
I love Gene. As my new found swim coach, he is the newest man in my life. I brought him coffee Tuesday and he was so happy to be part of Lori and my "coffee club" as he dubbed it. He told me at 73 years old, he can still swim 73 fifties on just over a minute base. I was impressed, after all, since he is an old guy.
Marc dropped into the gym this week while I was there working out, waiting for the kids to finish their gymnastics routine. I love that after twelve years of being together, we still love being together. I can look at him from across the gym and he makes my heart sing. I tried to pretend I didn't know him. Would I think he were cute if he were not my husband? Absolutely. Is he kind of spazzy the way he does his abs on a flat bench? Yep. Cute. It brought back memories of seeing him in the gym in college when I didn't even know his name, but I appreciated his adorable qualities even back then. With all of our stupid inside jokes and idioms, with his randomness and my sarcasm, something about us just works. In all of this mess and chaos and unfamiliarity, he is my anchor.
We leave for Georgia for a week on Sunday and I am counting the days to cooler weather. Ye haw.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Monday, October 06, 2008
Discipline
The weekend was great. Marc was crowned "King of the Jungle" for a second year in a row after winning a local 5K without even trying. I just love that title. Maybe I will start calling him Tarzan instead, though I think he needs to be furrier for that to apply. I love being married to a local celebrity when friends bring me newspaper articles about him to the gym. Love that guy. He has discipline. He owns more workout gear than regular clothing. His bike on the trainer is a permanent fixture in our living room now because he is on it twice a day (why break it down and take it back out to the garage?). We don't own furniture; we own equipment. We like to think of it as a lifestyle, right?
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
I often hear the word discipline associated with exercise. Usually, it is someone asking me how I am "so disciplined" to get up at 4 am every morning, day in and day out, week in and week out, to go work out. My answer to the appalled is always the same, "How can I not? It is my sanity. "
The morning is my one piece of the day that is mine...no kids music playing in the car, no little voices whining at me for something, no one to answer to and my time to simply zone out.
These days, however, discipline means something entirely different. It means not working out, as in not running, and not bearing weight on my injured feet. It means sleeping in until *gasp* 5am since the gym is not open before that ridiculously late hour. This is one of the most difficult things I have ever done because everything in me wants to forget about the whole healing process and run right on through it. I long to pretend there isn't a problem and forge ahead with new orthotics to solve the problem. Of course, I know I can't or every other effort would be in vain. Why waste time icing, massaging, getting physical therapy and electro stim, while still visiting the chiropractor for a miracle if I continue to do the damage by running anyway? Why give up wearing flip flops (it is hot here in Ugg Boots) and suffer through acupressure if I am not committed, disciplined to not run? I am not a very joyful healer. I am not meant to be a non-exerciser.
Discipline extends to the kids, of course, too. They are masters at trying to negotiate for every little thing: eight more minutes past bedtime, one more book to be read, another video ("Pretty please?"), dessert on a designated non-dessert night. At five and seven years old, my kids really know how to continue to try and exhaust me until I almost finally give into the begging for chocolate milk. There I am, being disciplined, telling them no over and over again. The parallel here is obvious: undisciplined parenting makes for sloppy kids and undisciplined workouts make for a sloppy body, right? Well, usually, until one abuses her body to the point of injury and has to aqua jog-God forbid. There has to be something in between but I have just never been good with moderation in anything. I am convinced my kids will rot out their teeth and develop diabetes if I allow them junky treats, just as I am convinced I am going to become obese now that I am not running.
Today I took my daughter to the pediatrician's office where she was diagnosed with a sinus infection. After being prescribed antibiotics, she was told to stay out of the pool for at least 48 hours. Frantic is not even the best word to describe her reaction to this bad news: "Mom! I can't miss workout. I have to swim. Swimming is the best possible exercise! Can I do a different workout tonight if I can't get in the pool?" Who does this child belong to? I told her she needs some discipline in her life already. I went to spin this morning and I lifted. Twice. Tomorrow I see my boyfriend, Gene, at pool number two. The bottom line here is, I miss being a Californian and now I miss being a runner. I miss, dare I say it, sweating in the steamy heat here. Two weeks into my non-running program and I miss the feeling.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
The New Pool
Okay, I have a new plan and it is called swimming at a new pool with some familiar faces and a new coach. So, even though I have to pay an additional fee on top of what I already pay monthly elsewhere, and even though it requires me to make a second trip across town after the initial one to the gym, I think it may be the ticket to greater happiness in the water. Can we really put a price on that?
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
Barry was the one who suggested I come on over and swim with the infamous Gene, who I have heard about for a year now. Honestly, I just didn't want to have to adjust my routine and shift everything around to accommodate a man out West at a different facility. I finally gave in this week and I am so glad I did-I liked Gene immediately. Maybe the word loved is even in order to describe my feelings of devotion for him, despite the fact he clearly hails from New York and has that awful accent. Maybe I am just attaching a superficial savior status to the man who I am certain is going to make me an accomplished swimmer and, more importantly, teach me how to love this sport.
It was raining when I showed up for workout on Tuesday. Gene was under an umbrella, pulling his little cheat sheet out to give us each individualized workouts. I think there might have been seven of us, including me. I even bought a new Speedo for the occasion because what can't a new outfit fix? Though it is two small, clingy pieces of blue and black and white, the suit did inspire me to swim a little more like a professional and believe me, I was all about business. I was there to make it count. Unlike Don, who yelled insults from the sidelines, Gene is kind and more diplomatic about technique. "You have a fairly decent stroke." He told me. "But you need to work on that entry and catch. You are allowing your thumb to enter the water before your fingers and that is a shoulder problem waiting to happen."
He went on to have me do tons and tons of drills and then some more drills. All I could think about by the end was getting out and getting my coffee. As I climbed up on deck, there was a familiar face looking at me, but I couldn't place him. This is a small town, or have I mentioned that? Then I remembered. Last week, while in the library with the kids, I received a call from Abbe. As I blabbed with her about meeting for spin that night, I realized a man was watching me very intently. Afraid it was one more person in this ridiculous town to tell me to get off my phone in an "inappropriate place" (its a library, come on!), I quickly hung up with her. The staring man surprised me, instead, by asking me, "Are you from California? I hate to peg you, but I couldn't help but listen to you, and you sound like you are from California." I think I looked at him blankly for a while, because he quickly offered me his hand, "Hi. I'm John. My wife and I moved here from Redondo Beach and I know a Californian when I hear one. What brought you here?"
Where to begin? Was this man a friend or foe? Could I tell him honestly my disparaging thoughts and great disappointment or should I smile politely and, in agreement, nod that this is, oh absolutely, paradise? There we were, my new friend John and me, hanging out in the "L" section of kids' books reminiscing about the good old days on the other coast. He told me his parents are here and that is how they landed in these parts. He told me he used to work for an aquarium in So Cal, but life on The Island is not so bad. Hmmmm. I decided I would try to be polite and save my arsenal of negativity; he meant well, after all.
I recognized him as John from the library as he rolled into the pool just as I was leaving. I didn't recognize him right away in his pool uniform of black jammers. I think I was just thrilled to actually have a few bodies in the water so I was not left staring at the crabs on the bottom, as is the case at the other pool. There seems to be a promising crew at the new place and I love the coach. I even have a few running buddies who are meant to drift in and out of workout, true to slacker colors. Could be fun.
I think as time goes on, I settle in a little more. No longer am I anxious and anxiety-ridden about our state of being, but I cannot say I am content. I miss so much about my old life and what it means to be a Californian. I miss the air turning cooler and the quick option of driving two hours to the mountains for some snow. I used to miss the old routine, but now I think I just miss what it is to be California culture. I am not a fisherman or a boater or a seventy-degrees-is-cold- weather-complainer. I am a Californian still trying to make sense of what it means to live on a tropical island in an ocean I never thought would be my permanent beach.
As I write this, my seven year old is spreading out and admiring her six ribbons from last weekend's swim meet. "Mom," she just asked me, "Have you ever seen so many ribbons in one place? Have you ever won this many ribbons?"
"Not even close, my lovely, not even close." I told her.
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