Reluctant Redneck

This past week a whirlwind after hitting the routine in full swing and trying to get back on East Coast time. I swear, it gets harder to get caught up every time we make the trip and come back to what I will never call home. With a renewed sense of myself after spending a brief nine days in the Promised Land, I come back here indifferent. I didn't want the 4:30 am Welcome Back Committee. I feel guilty for their warmth and unconditional love for me when all I can think about is my former life. I abhor the same six or ten mile loop we run like mice on the wheel day after day, after running much varied terrain all last week. At least I take solace in the idea that upon our return here, the morning temperatures are now in the 70's at the start. Will tights weather ever be upon us?


This got me thinking about how running just isn’t for the faint of heart. When summer temperatures here climb to the obscene, sweating takes on new meaning. Even at 4:30 in the morning, until just recently, we were uncontrollably dripping wet. Despite the fact that we wear so little clothing (we may as well all be running naked), we are seriously hot. My shorts have never been so non-existent, and let's just say that if a sports bra wasn't necessary, it would not be worn. I joke with most of the guys how "redneck" they really are ("Whatever, Malibu Barbie."), but truth be told, I really like most everyone and we are a tight-knit group. With perspiration flinging off pumping limbs, spit flying, and noses farm-blowing, I’ve shared more bodily fluids with these running partners than I have in some intimate relationships. The running here doesn’t afford the luxury of cooling off in shade or catching a breeze; it forces us to visit putrid portable potties and put thirsty lips to slimy water spigots (never before did I even know what this word was).

So why can I not look my running friends in the eye when they ask me how the trip home was? Why do I simply blow it off as "fine" and tell everyone, "Oh yes! It's wonderful to be back here." Getting on the plane to return to this coast is still a deliberate act of sheer will and they all know it. They know I'm full of it to wear the mask and smile politely. I'm like a fish out of water and everyone knows I'm suffocating, but they kindly offer to help pick me up and throw me back into a puddle. My friends coax and caudal me, shuttle me back into the routine with this dinner and that party, and then I'm okay.

Running with Barry and Gary every Friday is therapy, too. They always give me some perspective (as well as much laughter)and here it is this week: I have great friends here. People even like me. We have many, many, many activities in which our family always participates and our social calendar is usually booked solid. My friends are my life here. But when I think about returning to work, or where I would like my kids in school, where I would like them to grow up, the answer is always the same. It is not that I am above the people or routine here. It simply still feels- even after more than two years- like I am parting my hair on the wrong side when I get out of bed every morning. I still have to correct myself when talking about heading away from the ocean- it is West and not East to head to the mainland. I still draw comparisons and feel like there is so much life I am missing out on back home.

I am not sad or resentful or upset anymore. I am resigned to the idea of this for now and I will appreciate my friends every step of the way. Then I am going to hope that they all decide to move to the West Coast to continue to be part of my world because I cannot seem to adapt to life here. I already asked Barry to take the Barr in CA and his response was, "Never again" so prospects are not good. I sure will miss these people, if not their climate.

Driving down the grade and heading into Hollywood to meet a friend for dinner last week still feels comfortable. Driving the 101 is home. Sitting in traffic on the 405 is a non-issue because it is a small price to pay to live in paradise. Fighting for a parking spot in a crowded lot brings me back to days of driving as a teenager and learning how to be defensive. Standing in an endless line for a cup of coffee is business as usual. Smog is a way of life. I miss it every single day.