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.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
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?
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?
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