I Don't Want To

Post holidays and so much work to be done....not just with writing, but with packing up Christmas and then packing up the entire house for Saturday's move. The puppy is so much work, too. An infant in the house would have been an easier than a super sloppy spazy lab. John has come and gone, and with him, so much of the Christmas excitement and joy. While he returns to the Promised Land, we go back to our lives as we were before. Post holiday blues are even more blue without family around. There is SO MUCH to be done and I don't want to do any of it. I don't want to clean or pack or lift or load or haul or clear or organize. Moving is fun but so overwhelming, too.

Love

Love that it's almost Christmas. Love that we got our tree tonight and decorated it by the fire. LOVE that is it going to be in the 20's here tonight. Love our new puppy---gorgeous boy! Love that my brother-in-law is coming here next week (counting the days). Love that it's almost my birthday. Love that Marc and I will celebrate our anniversary next week. Love that we are moving to another house and I can get rid of more furniture and "stuff" (is that why people always ask if we just moved in here, though we have been in this house for two years???). Love that my sister and I talk all the time because I love her to pieces. Love that my girl cleaned up at the meet in Gainesville last weekend and is SO close to JOs....kills me. Love all of my running friends and all the fun we had at the Shaf's house and the scandalous party. Love this whole season and everything is means. Love that I can't stop listening to Christmas music and thinking about love....

Contagious Discontentment

Today was a scary roller coaster of a day. What started out with me promising myself I would have an open mind and a good attitude, came full circle back to "Not a chance in this lifetime."

Marc and I have decided to look for a house to pur...to pur....to purchase. There. I said it (wrote it) in black and white. We are thinking about considering the possibility of purchasing a house on the island. Here. In Florida. On the opposite coast I desire to live on. I went out with a realtor today, and it is really interesting to think about the people I encountered along the way in the span of a few hours, and how they influenced my emotions.

The morning began with a women's group and me "haphazardly" paired up with a woman with whom I have never had a conversation before. I poured my heart out (and shamelessly cried to this perfect stranger) about how sad and lonely my life feels since it has been "off track" and bizarre post Exodus out of The Golden State. I blubbered on and on about how we have just returned from a fabulous trip to Peach Tree City to see my old friend and ex-roommate. Roberta, too, was very disgruntled to have to leave California for her husband's job seven years ago. Upon their departure at that time, I remember thinking, "Wow, poor little soul. How dreadfully awful to have to move out of Paradise....". Little did I know how the chips were going to fall and that I would be in the same predicament only a handful of years behind her. I digress.

I shared with Emily, my partner, that our trip to Peach Tree City was amazing. Halloween was excessively fun with a surplus of kids crammed onto golf carts so full, they were dropping off in the streets as if they were turnips falling off of truck in transport. The weather was mild and the houses were decorated to the hilt, to my delight. We had a week of old friends and new ones, we rode bikes and explored, we tooled around on the golf cart and dined in civilization.

The only minor setback really, was my daughter's run-in with a scorpion. Apparently we missed the memo that states these disgusting arachnids are in abundance, and one would be wise to shake out her shoes before stuffing her foot into them, especially without socks. No matter. A quick (and expensive) trip to the emergency room imparted the knowledge that scorpions this side of the Mississippi are not poisonous, unless one happens to be allergic. Experience a scorpion in Arizona, California, or Texas and you may not be as fortunate. We'll chalk that up to one advantage this coast has over the other: scorpion stings far less apt to cause bodily harm or prove fatal. Again, I digress...

I continued my story to Emily about how getting back to The Sticks and reality really stinks. We came home to bugs in the pantry, an ant farm in the kitchen (I really need to break down and allow Kelly the Bug Man to treat the inside of the house), a $480 electric bill (and that is without a week of AC, a letter informing me of an accumulation of monthly maintenance charges on a savings account I was not aware was in existence, a dead goldfish, a mountain of mail to sift and sort through, and zero Internet access. The schedule resumes and school is in front of us again.

Emily was very kind and encouraging. She had some uplifting words of wisdom and actually made me feel better about my current life chapter. She mostly reinforced that what we are doing here in not in vain, and that if the kids are healthy, happy, and thriving, what else really matters? Does that mean I am to sacrifice my happiness indefinitely? I am not sure, but for now, I guess at the very least, I am to try to continue my journey with seeking gratitude and worry less about the issues that plague my consciousness daily. I left the group determined to keep an open mind about the properties we were off to look at.

I was not impressed. I can't help it. The truth is, I cannot picture myself living for an unspecified amount of time in anything the realtor showed us today. Can't do it. Can't stomach it. Can't imagine it. Don't want to even try.

How did we even reach house hunting status? I am not really sure. I think it all came to a climax when we had to deal with our ridiculous landlords one too many times, and we felt we should at least consider our other options. Certainly we could pay less on a mortgage than we do in rent every month, but that would be the ultimate betrayal to the Land that I love. How can I possible go against every grain in my body and commit to purchasing land here when everything in me wants to get on a plane and fly away and never come back?

After feeling positive and hopeful for the future upon pouring out my guts to Emily this morning, I went on to meet a man working in the bank (who helped me with said monthly maintenance fees) who commiserated with me about the "lameness" of the town we share in common. Ethan is a transplant, too, as it turns out, and though we started as strangers sitting opposite from each other, only an oak desk apart discussing Custodial Accounts, we became fast friends and pledged our loyalty to each other to get out of Dodge, so help us hurricanes. We even shook on it.

Fast forward then to swim team this afternoon, and another conversation with the kids' swim coach brought more clarity on the subject. Scott, too, is dismayed with the older-than-dirt country club population here and wants to start over somewhere else. Disappointed with the lack of team growth in the last five years, he and his partner would like to make a fast exit to Anywhere But Here. We share the same thing in common, and it is called Discontent. I wonder if it is contagious? Does this town just breed it? Does it grow like cells in a Petri dish more rapidly than bacteria itself?

So, this all leads me back to square one and that is this: I really cannot bring myself to seriously considering home ownership here. Yes, the kids are desperate for a dog, and true, we despise our landlords, and of course, ultimately we could save money and build some equity in a house, but I fear the risk far outweighs any potential benefit. So, I suppose I continue to live here with one foot in and one foot out, the foot out fidgety and forlorn, wild and wanting to run away.

I hate to think I am spreading the Discontent further around me. I wish I could say the buck stops here, but sadly, the longer we live here, the more apparent it becomes to me that we are just a bunch of broken people, living gypsy lives, waiting for the next best thing that is not just going to happen along one of these days. What are we waiting for? We are no better than the old people who retire here and wait to die.

I want to live.

Hold With Hands

My chest is heavy
My heart is grieved
My soul is empty
I cannot breathe
Though I want to run
I've forgotten to walk
Though I want to sing
I cannot talk
The sky has lost its vibrancy
The wind whispers emptiness
The sea no longer soothes me
The oaks speak grievances
I used to think potential
So many dreams to come
But now I just feel useless
To bleak I have succumb
All around me lives unravel
Brittle shells of delicate glass
To myself, I am a stranger
Can't see tomorrow for the past
The questions left unanswered
I know I'll never understand
Why in life we cross paths with some
And others we long to hold with hands

Summer Time and the Living is Fine

When the girl is in mild climate, it's fine. My run on the horse trails was peaceful and fragrant. The cool morning air carried with it the smell of chaparral and sweet jasmine. My only company were the thoughts running through my head, elated to be back to something familiar.

I traced the rusty red trails with my feet for several miles, lost in thought. With hardly any light to begin the day, I felt rebellious to be out on my own, as though lost in the wild somewhere. For a moment, I had myself convinced of this adventure, until I reached the street and was brought back to reality by wild honking. The lunatic was only Tracy, on her way to catch a crazy run up some mountain.

I told myself I would turn back after only 20 minutes, knowing I had a race the following day, but of course, I didn't. I promised myself I wouldn't punish my legs with hill repeats up and down the street, but I couldn't resist. Perhaps that is why my legs just wouldn't go any faster than they did for the 15K. I really don't care. I had a great time running and I can live with 1:08. I beat my brother-in-law by three minutes, which is great, considering all the smack he talked on the drive down. Hanging out with John allows me to feel closer to Marc while he is not here. While I couldn't let him trump me, I feel I have lost most of my competitive edge, and it feels fabulous.

I chased some guy in an American flag Speedo for the second half of the race, and it made me emotional. Proud to be an American, elated to be living free, excited to be back in civilization where people actually do wear silly, attention-getting get ups. I wasn't arrogant enough to think any of Speedoman's cat calls were for me, running on his heels. I came in fourth in my age group, which never feels great. I think I would rather be 20th than be that close to a podium finish.

As we tried to high tail it out of there, I found Speedoman at the finish and asked him to pose with me in a picture. He must have thought I was a freak, but he put his arm around me and smiled for the camera anyway. I sent it to all of my Florida friends.

God bless America.

Summer Solstice

For me, there has always been something so romantic about the fall. Ever since I was a child, I loved when the wind would change and the Santa Anas would roll through, and the smell of crackling fires filled the walk to the school bus. Despite the threat of fires, I loved the dry, cool air and cherry lip balm that sealed my parched and thirsty lips. Even though I didn't grow up somewhere where there are "true" seasons, Southern California offered enough of a change in climate that the air was different and the turn in temperature at least warranted sweaters and jeans and license to drink hot chocolate. Mornings could be in the thirties and evenings brought crisp air that begged for an after dinner walk through the neighborhood.

Even in the absence of "true" leaves changing colors and falling from deciduous trees, as an adult, I loved running down the pool deck to jump in the water before our feet froze to the cement. I loved the steam off the jacuzzi and the boys club that sat in there and owned the pond. I loved knowing that getting in the pool would be warmer than the air outside, so I may as well get wet and get moving on some yardage.

And now, here I suffer yet another ear infection because the water we swim in is as warm as soup. How I have not stroked out, I am not sure- perhaps because I never push myself hard enough to be in any danger of that happening? I dropped my car off to get tires today and ran home at 9:00 am. In those 2 miles, all I could think about was how I wanted to drop dead and I may not make it back in time to get my kids from camp. Even still, there was a contentedness in me that I have not known in a long, long time. I almost didn't recognize it at first. The sun seared my back and the glare off the pavement made it nearly impossible to choose my steps. Desperate for sunglasses was I, stupid enough to think a hat would be enough. Sweat dripped from my face and rolled into my eyes, adding burning insult to injury, mocking my stupidity for thinking I could survive a late morning run- the second of the day.

Yet, still, I was content. Maybe because I know the trip home is inside of two weeks, I feel calm and at peace. As much as I detest leaving Marc for many weeks on end, I delight in the idea of seeing people and catching up with friends. I love the idea of our trip to Tahoe and a drive up the coast to San Fran this summer. I cannot wait to workout at my old gym.

Maybe my death run today wasn't so deadly because I can think about and look forward to our trip to North Carolina this fall, where it will feel like a "true" fall. I still am not sure how weather affects me as much as it does, but I somehow never feel human when I try to operate under such compromised oven conditions. How am I still not "used to it" after three years? I am dreaming about 58 degrees in the Pacific and rolling hills and chilly morning air. I can't wait to run the cliffs along the coast and drink in the beckoning blue sea. I long for a time when we can redefine our lives and figure out what really drives us and move on.

At the heart of it all, I still come back to who I am and I know that first and foremost I am called to live a certain way. I shouldn't be so negative and I need to be grateful for all of Creation all around. I need to love nature (even gators- eek) and give glory to the One who makes it all. I have no doubt God calls each and everyone of us to a purpose. The difficult part is trying to decipher what that looks like and what that means. Sometimes the code is seemingly impossible to crack when it comes to what He is saying in and through our dreams, hopes, interactions, doors opening or doors closing. I always want things my way, but does that necessarily mean it is His way? Often times, I am too frantic to even try to figure that part out.

I tried to reconcile those thoughts on the run back to get the car at 11:30 am, but by then I was really fried.

Didn't I JUST say...

...I was craving the Pacific Northwest??

I received a call from a dear friend from San Diego days today. I haven't heard from her in ages. Her son and Owen were best buddies in Kindergarten, and their family relocated to Connecticut at the same time we moved here. Ami has been a wonderful support person, with regard to advice on how to tolerate a move, make friends, find a new dry cleaner, etc (they have moved 6 times in the last 6 years!). She just told me her husband took a job in Seattle six months ago and has been commuting. They just decided two days ago to make the move back to the West Coast this summer.

Life is so unfair. I am so jealous, my stomach feels sick inside. I am truly happy for their family, as they deserve every amazing wonder and opportunity this life has to offer, but it pains me to think here we still are, lost in the jungle, and time is marching forward. It's like there is still a huge hole in my heart, an emptiness I cannot reconcile. Most days I feel okay, but then news of something like this hits me and I am completely sidelined, sucked up by a pit of despair that seems insurmountable to climb out of.

I know some of this goes deeper than living in this provincial town. Some of this black hole stems from the idea that my children are growing up, I am not getting any younger, life is passing us by, and here we still are- living a life that I never imagined for my family. In a way, it is sick and demented and ungrateful, knowing that Marc has a wonderful career here, we are together as a family, I can be with the kids freely, etc, etc. I guess the rotten, spoiled, Malibu child in me seeks attention sometimes and needs recognition, pathetic as that may be. I guess I really am just not that flexible to roll with life's punches, evident from a very early age. Perhaps this is why I have ever so much sympathy for my own children when they cannot make sense of the world in which we live and the windy road we often find ourselves on.

When I am with my kids, I feel driven with purpose. I think even Marc kind of gets it now and wants to arrest my tantrums with patience and compassion. When I am running with my friends in the morning, I feel relatively okay. Speed today was great. Being with that crew makes me feel like I can do this, I can make it- everything is going to be okay. That for whatever reason, this is where we were planted and I am meant to grow.

4 x 800s descending and then 4 x 400s descending was palatable in that order. The trick, I think, is to organize my life in some sort of palatable pattern that makes sense and is tolerable. How is it I can always break up the workout into something manageable but life can be simply overwhelming sometimes?

Snake Count

I am up to six in the last 4 weeks. I think the serpents are invading the swampland here. They love to torture me and slither around and in our backyard pool. Why? Don't they know I hate them? Whatever do they want from me? They have broken my spirit and now I have no choice but to purchase Snake-Away, or as my friend in Georgia calls it, "Shoo, Shoo Snake". There is no creature more putrid than one that slithers on the ground and looks at me with those disgusting, beady little eyes.

We ran at 4:30, as usual. The air was so heavy, it was like breathing cotton. We were a big group today, each of us blanketed in sweat since there was nowhere for it to evaporate to in "the fabric of our lives". It occurred to me that I have never been here to experience the month of June before.

Our running group was neatly separated into three tidy sectors today. I ran with the boys in the front, desperate for air, certain they might really kill me today. That is when I saw it- coiled up and sleeping in the middle of the dark, warm road- some kind of red, white, and black snake. I did what any unsuspecting runner would do- jump and scream. Dr. Jim on my shoulder said, "Wait for it, wait for it..." A second scream from his wife a few paces behind. Helen nearly stepped on the colorful vicious hose. Why do they have to be out even in our sacred hour of predawn? Don't snakes need the sun to sustain their pathetic lives? Or have they reached their solar limit like I did, so many weeks ago? They, too, have resorted to coming out only in the dark to suffer the heat and humidity, the lack of air movement, but at least avoiding the blinding sun.

Someone most cleverly pointed out the difference between spring and summer here to me. In the spring, it is hot, but at least there is an occasional (much appreciated)breeze. In summer, it is hot, but the air just hangs in a still choke hold. Summer has arrived. I am restless.

I'm Melting

Today was one of my most favorite marathons back home and I cannot remember a year I haven't run it. Seeing pictures at the start in Balboa Park totally depressed me, but I am trying to be cheery, thinking about some upcoming races on the books. Marc and I are considering the Outerbanks marathon or possibly a 50K in Peach Tree City. Mostly, I am totally burned out on the same course we run here, day in and day out, and very much looking forward to some Pacific time this summer. My legs miss the mountains and my lungs are desperate for some dry air. With the torturous heat here, July cannot come soon enough.

Life is crazy busy, so I am not really sure why I am complaining. It's not like I even have time to hang around and endure the heat, as chaotic as the schedule has been. Each day brings a new opportunity to give back, and that is exactly what we are trying to do with program for soldiers overseas. Little by little, things are coming together and I look forward to working on that project each day.

The kids have been in meets almost every weekend, though now trying to get ready to get home, we have backed off of most competitive events. Workouts and stroke classes keep us moving, and they just assume be in the pool when they are not in the ocean.

This life isn't bad, just not the one I ever envisioned for my family. I'm dreaming of the Pacific Northwest and some time in Seattle or Portland. Can someone hook me up with a job there? This girl is not made for the tropics.

Spring Swing

I have completely neglected any writing here because I have been furiously trying to write some articles for a new website that launches July 1. After writing a small piece (that I wasn't even that fond of)for mindsettriathlon.com, I have been fortunate enough to do some freelance writing for another site- more on that later.

With Spring in full swing, the kids have been swimming up a storm. With private stroke lessons and workouts between two pools, they are always wet. This weekend was no different with yet another swim meet, this time down in Jupiter. Owen was disqualified today in the 50 butterfly. Her stroke was interesting, to say the least. What started out as something that resembled fly, finished with something that looked like a fly/breast hybrid and the officials didn't go for that. Don't get me wrong- I hate fly and my timing sucks (not that I even attempt it much-ever-at workout). I think she's tired from all of yesterday's events. She told me she quietly prayed the storm clouds that had been threatening all day would finally provide something viable to save her from the final backstroke event. The rain never materialized, much to her dismay. Her brother was quite happy to be off the hook today, his events on Saturday.

Boxing has been amazing and I love Gus more than ever. I am taking a hiatus, however, trying to get back into some kind of love relationship with triathlon. My swimming has really suffered- I haven't been to the pool much until two weeks ago. In fact, the coach sent out a "general" email to everyone in the program, requesting less talking on the wall and more swimming. Barry forwarded it back to Marc, the coach, and me, with a few minor and clever adjustments that began each sentence with my name and mentioned something about sipping coffee. Clearly, Gene was targeting me and suggesting I need to be a little more serious if I am going to take a lane at his workout. Being singled-out by the coach in a passive-aggressive email was definitely a rude wake-up call and one that tells me I had better change my attitude about the workout before I am kicked out.

We leave soon for CA, and that trip cannot come soon enough. On the Left Coast, the kiddos will be immersed in more swimming, Junior Life Guards, and a few other camps to keep busy while I take a creative writing course through UCSD. I'm really excited-about everything. I keep having the same dream- the one in which I am running the hills through Poway. The smell of chaparral is sweet and horses, strong. The morning air is cool and dry, passing over my lungs with ease. The mountains tower in front of me and the horse trails roll like dusty ribbons into the distance. I feel like I can run forever. I am peaceful and content because, at last, I'm home and everything feels familiar.

God Bless America

Something really cool is in the works! We are organizing something so amazingly cool and nonprofit and amazing for our soldiers. More to come soon!

Blah, Blah, Blah

I'm procrastinating- I don't want to go to bed. Sleep is such a waste of time and so boring.

The days are passing ever so slowly now that we are back in the routine. Single parenting is not fun; with Marc still on the road with Eddie, all I can think about is making it through the bedtime routine without backup. Teaching kids, carting kids, reading to kids, dropping kids, picking up kids, flossing and brushing kids- I'm beat. I'm more than a little cranky, too, since I never make the coffee as well as Marc, so I have all but given up trying the last two mornings. There is a drive thru for that, I know, but somehow I haven't been able to mobilize before noon after trying to straighten out everything in the morning and who wants coffee anymore at lunchtime? I feel blah.

I long for a speedy workout with the 5:30 crew. Nagging pain in my leg reminds me I'm not better and have no business running speed, but I'm hoping Dr. Jim doesn't show up and lecture me next week. When I bumped into him at the pool, I pretended I had done the whole workout with a pull buoy, per his suggestion of no kicking. I'm thinking he may have bought it, but Gene may have given me up with his smug and distrusting grin. This week as a single mom, I think I'm fragile without Gus to blow off some steam. 40 minutes on the elliptical trainer is not cutting it for this junkie. I need a fix. I thought very seriously about bringing the kids into the boxing gym to hang out while I workout, but I thought that might be a little obsessive and far too putrid an environment for them.

To add insult to injury, Marc keeps sending really epic pictures of life on a mountain bike through Moab. Does life get anymore amazing than the Arches? Someday I am going to get on a bike and just ride into forever. I wonder if I should first sit on the trainer Marc set up for me to become reacquainted with my bike? Nah.

"Holding Pattern"

I hate flying. I detest everything about it. I hate being smashed into a germ tube with several strangers all forced to breathe the same recycled air. I hate having to pee into the same, small receptacle with all of them. I hate the smell that circulates through the cabin, and I hate being told to sit for several hours on end. I hate getting off the plane, wanting to eat my purse because I am so hungry. I hate the bumpy wind along the rickety wings, and I hate the anxiety of wondering if the kids are going to hold out, cramped up and caged for hours (they do better with this than I do). I hate the take off and the landing, but I hate, I HATE, the "holding pattern".

Nothing could have been worse news than those two words after a turbulent and hideous flight into Salt Lake until the captain said, "Snow squall". Then, as if we didn't hear him the first time, he said, "unexpected snow squall", which was even worse than before. He tried to lessen the blow by throwing in the adjective "small", as if this were to take away from the trauma of having to hang out and fly in circles for an extra 20 minutes due to winds so severe. How was my claustrophobic self to absorb this information?! My breathing felt shallow and all I could think was two more bad words: wind shear.

Then in a flash, the decision was made to land the plane- almost abruptly- to take us out of the holding pattern and just go for it. No warning. The captain just made the call (with obvious approval from the ground) and the flight attendants were to remain seated because it was far too turbulent for anyone to be about the cabin. It reminded me of the panicked decision the doctor made to take my son by c-section. There was little discussion or decision with regard to Marc and me- it was simply an urgent, definitive decision that we were going along with. Just as the nurses flew into action that early morning years ago, the flight attendants knew their roles. It was like batten down the hatches and brace for impact. There was no polite, "Attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing". It was something more along the lines of, "Sit down, hold on, and shut up." When I heard the stress in one of the attendant's voices, I knew it was serious. What good is a holding pattern if we were to crash and burn anyway? Why prolong the agony?

After finally setting the plane down and fishtailing all over the runway in ice and snow, it came to a halt at last. Cheers and applause rang through the isles and I guarantee I wasn't the only one who threw up a few prayers (I think it was more like bargaining with God, but I'm not certain anymore) in those tense minutes. My kids were rattled, but quickly forgot the fear when they stepped out into the falling flakes of beauty. Nothing could have been more contrasted than the searing heat from my head and burning anxiety in my chest from the landing than the serene beauty and quiet of the snow we stepped out into. Nothing was more peaceful than the delicate white world all around us. Nothing could have made me happier at that moment than seeing Eddie's black Escalde when he pulled around the terminal to pick us up. He had driven cross country from Florida the week before with all the gear, and now I know why.

The week was a blur of one activity after another. Skiing, snowshoeing, sledding, mountain biking, swimming, running- it was the exercise addict's dream vacation. Every time one of us needed another fix (and I dare say Eddie and Lotte are worse than Marc and I), there was another line to snort by means of bike or sled or skis or shoes. Utah is an amazing place- we were like kids in a candy store, not sure where to go or what toys to play with first. I hardly remember Utah as a teenager in the summertime, and seeing it in a veil of white was a whole new lovely experience.

Eddie and Lotte were the perfect host and hostess. Their home away from home, again, a stark contrast to all things Florida. The mountains cascaded over us like something out of a dream. The snow flurries danced around us that first night, my kids dancing outside in it until eleven o'clock. The evergreens a delight for eyes soured now to too many palms. The whole experience was a revelation. How did we end up on the East Coast again? Just being around familiar restaurants and architecture, landscaping and businesses, I felt so much more at ease. I felt like I was home, even though home was another 11.5 hours south in the car (we debated the escape route more than once). It's not even a matter of the West Coast being "better" or "superior" to the East, it's merely a matter of comfort and familiarity.

And so I have to ask myself the obvious question: how much longer will we be in this holding pattern? Are we waiting out something less than ideal, something stressful and anxiety-producing, to reach something really fantastic? Am I really doing anything here, touching any lives, reaching anyone in some small way, or am I to crash and burn? What purpose am I serving in a town from which I still feel so disconnected? How can God use me when I feel so useless? I know it is all in the attitude, but my heart is still broken for home. When my old best running guy and "scheduler" called me today to check in and the same question is posed, "So, when are you moving home?" I still feel baffled and lost for words. How many times can I silently scream inside, "NOW! I WANT TO COME HOME NOW!"

Instead, my steady answer remains the same, "Marc is doing really great things. His company really loves him. He loves his job. He has achieved so much success. We are grateful for a really great job in a really bad economy..." and this is always met with the same nods of agreement. This is all, of course, true, but why then do all the little things here still gnaw at my insides? When will the tugging on my heart ever subside? How will I ever come to terms with liking old people (I detest them as much as flying)? I hope I don't go to hell for that. I'm working on that one, faced with it daily.

And so all I can tell John, or any of my other buddies from home, is what I believe to be true: God has a plan. He has the blueprint and I am trying to read it. It doesn't make a ton of sense to me most of the time, but I think I sometimes read into things too much. I'm simply trying not to flail and fishtail too much in the interim.

Utah Bound

We're out of here! We leave Monday for skiing in Utah with Eddie and Lotte and I can't wait! Not sure if I am more excited about playing in snow or just the idea of exiting this small town and small mentality? We are so ready for vacation, with the past few weeks so chaotic. Marc's half Ironman in the monsoon in Sarasota, then his company race a week later. Not only did he PR at his event, the half marathon and 5K we have worked on for the last 3 months came off without a hitch, which was awesome. He did such an amazing job as race director and we are so proud of his efforts to pull off that kind of event.

Of course, the same weekend of the company event, our daughter landed a leading role in her first ever theatre performance. This was all very thrilling, but the lines she had to memorize were insurmountable and her solo for the musical needed a ton of work. While I made it to both performances, Marc only made the second one (after breaking down the race course), and was nodding off throughout. We are still in awe that our kid got up on the stage and belted it out, and elated that she was one of three kids in the performance who was offered a nomination to go to Montana this summer for a two week camp on the lake. She has never even expressed any interest in theatre, so this is a huge honor, one she is still cherishing. We are still exhausted from all of the hype.

Then, on to Marc's birthday and now Easter. Will the fun (and madness) never end? Somehow, Easter has just snuck up on me this year. Today was really fun- egg hunt with 50 other kids at Dr. Jim's house. His wife is Mother Earth (or Mother Easter?) with all of the eggs that went out and all of the preparation that went into planning the party. My kids always love that venue and leave with lots of loot. The best part is the doc dressed in Bunny garb and the kids sitting on his lap for pictures. Cuter? This is the first year my son will actually go near him in that bunny suit. Even though he knows who is inside, he remains skeptical.

Tonight, our Easter Bunny comes (thinking this is the last year our older one will buy it) and I love all of the tradition that goes along with it. Some old, some new (like dying eggs today outside in swim suits by the pool), but making beautiful memories, to be sure.

I ran yesterday for the first time in two weeks, and again today. I'm hoping my leg will hold up and remain pain-free (amazing how the pain stops if I don't run?). George said no "hill" running (he meant the bridges) for a few weeks, so I wonder how running in Utah fits into that equation? He never said anything about mountains and snow is soft, right?

Circuit Jerks

This is our lot in life with Gina in the boxing gym. One crazy, intense, stroke-inducing exercise after another in her circuit training at 4 am. With Gus, it is always intense in the ring, and with mitts and bag time. With Gina, our fate is less ring time, more wing time- as in, my wings are so sore, I could die. Push-ups, pull- ups, overhead press with medicine ball, wall balls, and the like all lend to the idea that I am very aware of the muscle fibers in my back and arms today.

Did I mention it might be a stress fracture? I'll know more tomorrow when I see Georgie in the office. The blessing and curse of living in a small town is this: girl mentions in passing that she has intense and nagging pain in her lower shin that now radiates to her ankle and the back of her leg. This pain tends to intensify running down the little bridge incline some affectionately call a "hill" here (her girls in CA would KILL her if she ever breathed this out loud in polite company on the West Coast). Girl's friend, Patti, calls doctor Jim, who then calls girl and insists that she come in to face the music. Girl tries to resist, unaware doctors are in the acute business of forcing reality checks, but she is no match for bossy neurologist who likes to throw around his weight. Girl is defeated and succumbs to her inescapable fate: she is scheduled to see his orthopedic partner at 10:30 tomorrow morning.

Girl asks if doc will also consider prescribing anti-psychotics in addition to the bone scan, knowing it is not looking good for her family for the next several weeks on a no-running prescription.

Say it with me: sad.

Something Old, Something New

Some firsts feel surprisingly familiar. Sometimes we experience things for the first time, only to feel we have really already been in that moment. When I left for college, life was somehow business as usual. Even though I never lived more than 15 miles from home before, going away to school was not that life-altering, initially. When I became a wife, there was somehow a familiar comfort about falling into the arms and bed of the man I love. It wasn't quirky or scary, but a natural progression of where the road had led us. The first time I became a mom somehow didn't feel so foreign or bizarre. Maybe it was all those years babysitting, but holding that little warm bundle, wrapped like a burrito in a stiff, striped hospital blanket felt natural and the norm.

This weekend was the first time I left the little people and headed north for a girls' weekend getaway. Overdue? Perhaps. There was something very familiar about driving the coast north (though the ocean was on the wrong side?) in search of independence and brilliance. Independence because it WAS very strange to be in a car for five and a half hours solo without being subjected to the "Alvin and the Chipmunks" CD for the eleventh consecutive time. Brilliant because I was able to allow my mind to just wander and be lost in who I am apart from mommy and wifey. It felt very much like the days I used to drive from LA to Santa Cruz, alone and independent, free from any constraints or demands of others, left to conquer the world on my terms.

I met my best girl from Los Angeles. She is confined to a life in Peach Tree City now, and I, further south, of course, trapped in my own. Savannah seemed the obvious destination to meet up, somewhat in the middle for us both, and it exceeded my expectations. The old, even mildly treacherous, original cobblestone streets that run the riverfront are full of character. Numerous shops squeeze in side by side, under restaurants and pubs, and sell everything from candy and gifts, to clothing and coffee. Steep, Gothic staircases invite the unsuspecting visitor from the upper greens and modern hotels to the uneven, enchanting road below. Black, rickety bridges precariously connect one suspended walkway to another above the riverfront, as if they are mimicking a fire escape with their narrow and haphazard nature. The original brick buildings, while old, somehow saved face- perhaps with more than one makeover?

The Oglethorpe history, the historic monuments and statues, the benches bearing names of the departed are reminiscent of a great American history novel. The wind coming off the river bit through my three layers, tore at my face, and tormented my hair, but it was still magical. The massive oak trees, straining under their ancient limbs, cast long shadows on the green parks near our hotel in downtown. The enormous barges pulling into port with all of their cargo is something out of a compelling movie, while the old steamboats on the water, revealing their age with every guttural moan, are right off the pages of a Mark Twain novel. When it began to rain lightly, it only added to the mystique and wonder of the city.

Apparently, we chose the wrong (or right, depending on your perspective) weekend to visit because it was one wild party along the streets, alleys, and bridges with the pending Irish holiday. You see, one does not wait until March 17th, or even the weekend that follows it to celebrate the Leprechaun. All of Savannah rolls out the green carpet in style and serves green beer beginning the Saturday before. Good thing my girlfriend was wearing a green sweater; we pulled off the 16 and into downtown into a sea of green. She called me from her car (we timed it so we rolled into town at precisely the same moment), "The first thing I am doing is going to the hotel and changing out of this green sweater. Why is EVERYONE in green?!"

There were green wigs, green shirts, green hats, green pants, green dresses, green bling as far as the eye could see. There were people with pots of gold on their heads and people dressed up like the little men from folklore. Even the shiny black horses pulling carriages were brandished with green headdresses and flair. And all the world had in hand a plastic cup of green suds to ring it in the Irish way, of course. Later, we witnessed a lot of green vomit adorning the adorable cobblestone streets, but maybe that is the Irish way, too, I suppose. Ever a nonconformist, Ro changed into a gray sweater and then we were the only two people for miles in but-green.

Needless to say, we slept nary a wink that night with all of the commotion out on the street below our hotel and the bustle of cars and buses. Even the horse-drawn carriages clamoured along the roads into the wee hours, their freshly-shoed engines click-clacking in time the whole way. The whole city scape was a scene of contradiction. It was creepy but romantic, Gothic but modern. The modern steel bridge in the backdrop juxtaposed with the original Cotton Processing Plant in the foreground didn't make sense. The proud city hall building too close to the rundown graveyard in the middle of the square didn't work. For every something old, there was a something new, just as unique and spectacular, for the eyes to embrace. Those who say Savannah has "Southern Charm" have not even scratched the surface of how to describe her beauty and I know I cannot here, either.

Some things are better left experienced for herself the first time. While they initially seem new and unique, they evoke something very familiar, too. I think I have been to Savannah before in a dream. Maybe that is the allure entirely?

Waiting for the Receipt

Today was another fun-filled morning with Gus. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday never can come too soon. Even when the alarm goes off at 3:30 am, I somehow manage to spring up and out of bed, thinking about the torture camp that awaits us with great joy and anticipation.

This morning's motley crew was Barb, Lisa, Bill, and me. Barb is not up to the task of sparring just yet, so that left four rounds for each Lisa, Bill, and me. Twelve rounds in the ring for Gus seemed no easy task this morning, either. Even though he moved faster with us as we gain more experience (read: danced circles around us), teasing us with his ever-bobbing head and slippery shoulders, Gus seemed worn out. Don't get me wrong, he still killed us, KILLED us, until we were saved by the bell at the end of each three minute round. Three minutes could be three days when forced to block and slip punches and find holes to land a few of our own. All the while, mouthpiece impairing his speech, Gus mumbles words of encouragement or eggs us on with, "hit me harder" or, "um-hum, yep". We have already figured out how to translate mouthguardese.

With great enthusiasm, we charge him, hoping to hit his head, but more often getting his elbow or a gust of wind from the breeze generated by missed punches. He taught us to get in and punch him, and get out as fast. He calls it "waiting for the receipt" and apparently that is something we don't want to do in the world of boxing. The rule is to get in, nail the opponent as much as possible ("your left jab is your tape measure"), and get out quickly, as not to "wait for the receipt". Makes perfect sense. I have no desire to take any more licks than I have to, right?

When I consider his facility, I am really disgusted- how can I look forward to it? The smell inside is putrid- a cross between the nastiest men's locker room (don't ask how I know this) and rancid body odor left to ferment. Because there is no temperature control, it has been freezing in there as of late, with the welcome cooler temperatures; I can only imagine what this means with summer pending. His studio's carpet is peppered with old coffee stains, among other unidentified marks I dare not ask about, and the concrete walls are wallpapered with newpaper articles of all of his now-successful fighters he has raised up to the big league. Al Pacino and "Scarface" posters grace the walls, as well, reminding us of our bad ass status, I presume.

While under his watchful eye, we wear other boxers' gloves (until we get around to ordering our own), which repulses me when I further ponder what could live inside the leather from others' hands. We share equipment while working out together, along with the sweat that dots it("Ew- who dripped all over this?!") without regard to the germ factor.

Actually, this is a lie. I think about the germ factor the whole time I am in there. Like when I picked up one of the towels we used to do some abs on and I threw it in the "dirty" pile (as if I could really discriminate from the other pile in a heap on the floor?!); there was a snot rag Gus has used to mop up his face with post-spar, smeared with green mucus and red blood. Does it get any more vile than that? I could have vomited at the sight, but that may have been my stomach's response to the intense circuit we had just finished? We pay for this kind of fun at 4:00 am?

Yes. And I am not waiting for the receipt. It is money well spent- the cheapest personal training (and therapy) one will ever find, a KILLER workout, and a great way to stay motivated when the chips are down.

Fly Girl

I'm so not. I have never been good at doing anything on the fly. I am not good with change, not flexible with schedule, never one to roll with the punches, not willing to compromise details, and never been able to fly by the seat of my pants. I'm not all that great at improvising and never one to fake anything. Is it any wonder my son is the same way?

My daughter (who tends to be on the other end of the spectrum) asked for something new and exciting for breakfast today. Saturday is always pancake morning in our household, with the exception of swim meet mornings or 5K races, but today she wanted something different. It was a leisurely morning. Marc was gone up north to ride a bazillion miles with some guys. The kids and I had nowhere to be for hours. Why wouldn't it be pancake morning? I hardly can blame her for desiring something different, however. Sometimes I feel if I have one more groundhog day, I may have to take drastic measures- I digress. I decided to surprise the kiddos with strawberry crepes.

I took a traditional recipe and made it very nontraditional by altering and omitting some ingredients for healthier fare. The crepes turned out beautifully and they were actually really delicious (I had a bite, never big on anything pastry-like). My boy, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with this idea. This was an offensive departure from the norm. No crepe would pass his lips on sheer principle alone. The NERVE of someone suggesting something other than the typical menu.

"I would like my pancakes now, please." He informed me, smelling the crepe before him.

"Just try them, buddy...it's like a pancake with whipped cream and strawberries," his sister pleaded, referring to the filling of whipped organic Tofutti with berries.

Not a chance. Not happening. I looked at him from below the rim of my coffee cup, waiting for the response.

"I would like my pancakes now, please, Mommy," ignoring big sister's encouragement.

He was very polite, but matter-of-fact and ever resilient in the pursuit of what he wanted. It immediately brought me back to when he was two years old and we (I) took away the beloved pacifier at the pediatrician's urging. For a child who never wants for much of anything, rarely complains, and is agreeable in SO many ways, he is a child who knows EXACTLY what he wants and there is rarely flexibility in those minor cases. It near killed me to take away that pacifier, particularly when, through tears, he remained ever polite in his plea, squeaky little voice shaking, "I would like my Nonnie now please, Mommy." His little rosebud lips quivering, my heart breaking.

I didn't cave with the pacifier back then, but I did with the pancakes today. I think because I get him- I get it- so well. Most of the time, he and I are pretty low maintenance. We like what we like and we try to be mellow and fly under the radar. We typically don't want to draw any kind of attention to ourselves(though this week someone told me my "character is larger than life")and we aim to please. We want to be agreeable, we really do, but some things are worth fighting for.

Some things cannot be compromised. For him, I guess it's pancakes with maple syrup on top. For me, it's the Pacific with mountains on top. Is that really so difficult to understand and accommodate? What is going to pacify me? Nothing here, I fear, on principle alone.

Spar Me Up

In the ring, sparring with Gus. I love it. He lets us hit him and he hits us. I told him to stop punching me so hard since I am a girl and he had all the gear. Lisa and I are addicted. We cannot get enough. Waiting for the next fix. Can hardly think about anything besides stringing up the gloves again and again and again. How many more hours? I wish all the world could experience the high. I feel alive when I am in the ring and facing off with him.

Gluttony

I still have fleeting moments when I feel like I am having an out of body experience, floating above, watching the frantic happenings of my life. Day to day, I feel chaotic. Starting the day at 3:30 am with workouts, homeschooling two kids, racing around from one sport to another, trying to maintain a large house- it's nothing short of exhausting. I often wish I could slip into my six-year-old's world- steal a glimpse into his happy imaginative world and escape the reality of my own for a while.

Boxing with Gus has breathed new life into my workout routine. So has doing Crossfit. Exercise has always been my Happy Pill, and when I am less than excited to hit the pavement, water, or weights, I know it is time for a new drug. Enter Gus and his killer workouts. An hour of boxing with him one-on-one feels like a lifetime of torture- I love it. Slowly, however, I am winning over my tri buddies, and they are joining me in the ring and along side the bags. Interesting to me is how quickly each of us becomes "addicted" to the new rush in our veins. Nothing else has been sacrificed (boxing gym, to speed workout, to Crossfit and on to the pool) to make room for the new drug- we simply add it to our repertoire.

Is this an illness? Is it ever really enough? We want what we have, but then we want more. It's the American way. We're gluttonous, greedy savages, grasping for more than we already have, or maybe that is even good for us? Today's speed workout was one mile at 15K pace, followed by 8 400's, alternating between 5K and 10K pace continuously- no recovery, lactic threshold- and then another mile faster than the first. My legs are lead, but it's still not enough- I'm hungry for something else.

I like to think that somehow, having kids has found some sense of balance for me. If I never had kids, I would still be "using" exercise for up to six hours a day, stealing a run here, shifting an appointment for a swim there. It was easy to be selfish and self-absorbed when I was single. My life was about me and my workouts. My kids saved my life, in a way, or at the very least, maybe my knees.

I could never imagine a world without movement. I couldn't live in a still and sedentary world. I can't sit down long enough to put these thoughts in print. My attention span is that of a four-year-old and I move in sweeping motions through the house (you would think it would be cleaner?). Marc always tells me how proud he is to have a wife who is athletic and tries new sports. I tell him I am not doing anything heroic- it is only means of survival of the fittest. I am not fit to survive if I don't hammer it out everyday in some fashion.

Return to Heat

Here we are again in January and the temps are climbing above eighty. How does that happen? How do people live like this? I ran with the girls at 4:30 and then the boys at 5:30 am, though I didn't tack on as much as I usually do. Somehow I didn't have the heart- I think the heat took it out of me, or maybe it was the massage last night from Sharon? I was wiped.

I cancelled my current gym membership so I can break out of that routine and do something completely different (and better). I cannot wait to start the new program and kick some serious tukis with the shake-up in regimen. My running friend, Carlo, has brought me over to his program and I am completely addicted to it, thinking about the next visit before I even leave the current. Heaving and writhing in pain on the floor (though pretending I am stretching), I have not suffered physically in this way for a long, long time. I love it.

Visitors galore from CA scheduled on the books for the pending months. I simply cannot wait to savor the time with each one of them. Time is marching on, kids are getting big, months are wasting away. Passions are knocking on my door and I am trying to mobilize to make them something more concrete.

Ancient Greece inspires me.....

I Have A Dream...

...that I will live these words and measure up.


"The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

Preach it, Dr. King.

Departure From the Heat (Amen)

This week has been pure comedy. Floridians truly freak out when the mercury dips below seventy; when it drops below sixty, there are frost warnings, and with this week never warming beyond fifty, there is absolute mayhem in this town. I have friends who are running in ski masks with our mornings in the low thirties. Admittedly, my blood has thinned and sixty feels cool to me, too, but I quite welcome the departure from the scorching temperatures and love dressing in layers.

We ran speed this morning- Barry, Gary, Jim, Bill, Lisa and myself. It actually was pleasant once the blood was flowing and we were in the full swing of sets of 800 cut downs. There are two types of Florida runners: the ones who get up and dress for the Arctic, complaining the whole time about how cold they are, and the ones who don't get up. I find I am never as happy as when I feel human and can be outside enjoying frigid, instead of humid, air. This morning was no different and I near skipped out to the workout. At long last, we have a steady meeting place, a standing workout, a locked-in time for a real speed workout. Barry, aka "Mayor", even called ahead and pulled some strings to have the facilities unlocked for our early morning use.

Funnier to me than the weather and people's response is how very sore I am from yesterday's workout at Lori's gym. We did a high-intensity, high-rep, high resistance (did I mention high intensity?), weight class yesterday. I am still laughing out loud, thinking about the scene in that place. Are men really so ridiculous to think we are completely unaware of the fact that they are ogling? Do they not know how obvious they are when they take inventory of a woman's body?

My favorite was the character who tried to join us in the organized booty camp class. For those of us signed up and paid, we had use of the trainer, specified weights, and the planned set. Enter random fatty, beer gut over his shorts, mid fifties (I'm guessing), balding on top. I would not be so harsh to judge his appearance had he not been so obnoxious, pushing his way in and making loud, grunting noises to direct attention his way. Did he think he looked good in the middle of our workout? Hmmm. I'm mean, but I have little patience for people that desperate for attention.