Why I Hate Running So Much.

Sometimes when I'm at Target, or the mall, or driving next to a sidewalk, I see a shirt that says, “I love Running” with a big red heart, and I fight an overwhelming desire to scream... “LIAR!” I'm sure many of you, especially those who own some type of “love-running” paraphernalia or those of you lanky folks with lungs of steal and disproportionately long legs, are mentally defending yourselves at this very moment, but let's be honest; except for a small minority of genetically mutated people and maybe cheetahs, the act of running should simply not be categorized as fun.
I would appreciate it if runners would wear a more honest T-shirt, such as I love Endorphins, or I love to be outside so I put up with the torture of running, or I want to look good in jeans, have more energy and overcome fatigue and depression, so I endure everything awful that goes along with the act of running. That one might need small print on the front and back of the shirt, but at least it would be more sincere, in my humble opinion.
I admire the dedication and commitment to a “sport” that is being “enjoyed” by millions of people of all ages. I actually spent a few minutes reading comments, stories, and advice on runnersworld.com the other day. It was very entertaining. My favorite section contained a discussion on how to run in freezing and icy conditions. The runners were telling each other about special metal spiked pins to put in their running shoes to keep from slipping on the ice, along with ways to overcome the burning sensation that accompanies running in sub-zero temperatures. I resisted the urge to comment on the discussion, but so many thoughts were running through my head. Do these people truly "love" running enough to drive spikes into their Saucony's and/or "work through" the burning and freezing pain in their lungs? Or, more appropriately, is it those pesky addictive Endorphins and the guilt and motivation of going 3 days without a run?
These thoughts are not coming from someone who dislikes all physical activity. I played sports competitively from the time I was in grade school through my 4th year of college. I put in as many hours playing basketball to maintain my college scholarship as most people who had part-time jobs. I loved scrimmaging and some of the competitive drills and anything that had to do with shooting, but during the first few weeks of conditioning every season I had to create a happy place. My teammates and I fought for positions by racing around the outdoor track and running from baseline to baseline on the court until we were physically sick. Everyone hated conditioning—running until we couldn't breathe, spraining our ankles and tearing our ACL's among other things.
I did not play basketball because I loved running and sprinting and jumping rope for two or more hours, only to scramble across campus to shovel large amounts of food in my starving body before the cafeteria closed. I played because I knew that in October we would have our first scrimmages and games and we would all be in good enough shape that we would only need to maintain everything that we had worked so hard to accomplish. And more than that I played because it was fun. It was fun to play a competitive team sport with close friends who played hard and made each other better players, and better people; I still consider many of those teammates some of my closest friends today.
After graduation, when I moved South and was officially done with competitive sports forever, I thought I would take up running as a way to stay in shape and be healthy. It was a lot easier and quicker than the other athletic alternatives, and everyone I knew seemed to be training for a Triathlon or at the very least a Half-Marathon. I had always hated running, but this was going to be a new beginning—a new alliance between us.
I bought some new running shoes and found a few running friends. It was August in South Carolina and the first night I thought the humidity was going to drown me and my new shoes in a thick, spongy cloud of H2O. I scampered to keep up and make conversation while all I could hear was the pounding of my lead feet on the blacktop. I kept running on a fairly consistent basis outside for a few years although I never adjusted to the humidity, and I don't think I ever will.
Eight years and a few arthritic knees and ankles later, I accepted the fact that a buoyant, forgiving treadmill is probably the best way to go for me, which is the first sign that I am not a true runner at all. I bought the treadmill over a year ago and have been running on a fairly regular basis ever since. However, the treadmill takes away one of the only enjoyable things about running from me: fresh air. So why do I do it?
I believe that I am running for the same reason as everyone else out there, unless I have it completely wrong. I need some type of physical activity, and 12-15 minutes on the treadmill is about all I can afford right now. I don't want to look completely gross. I appreciate the way my blood flows after running, and yes those Endorphins are great. But from the moment I lace my shoes and turn the key until the moment I can finally hit the bright red STOP button, all I can hear is the pounding of my shoes and the screaming of my heart in my eardrums. There is nothing pleasant about quickly slamming my feet down in front of each other while the belt is rolling underneath me, and all I can do is look at the timer and count down the seconds until it will all be over. And that is why I hate running so much.

You Say You Want a Resolution...?

Webster defines resolution as a formal expression of opinion, will, or intent: the act of answering or solving. A New Year's Resolution, according to Wikipedia, is the “reforming of a habit, often a lifestyle change that is generally interpreted as advantageous. The name comes from the fact that these commitments normally go into effect on New Year's Day and remain until fulfilled or abandoned.”

To the best of my knowledge, I have never made a New Year's Resolution, and according to most sources, the odds are against me. More than likely, anything I resolve to do will go unfulfilled or abandoned in the upcoming months, but for some reason this year, I'm putting it in writing. Maybe it is because I turned thirty and the grim reaper is suddenly saying “howdy” in the form of crinkles around my eyes and mouth. I prefer “crinkles” to “wrinkles” because “wrinkle” sounds so permanent, like something that can only be removed with a boiling hot iron and steam.
Maybe it is because the kids are currently very preoccupied with playing together and I am finding a wonderful few moments of precious time on my hands, even though it is time I could be scrubbing my baseboards or removing greasy fingerprints from shiny places. Maybe it is because I am slightly bored with TV and current events, and I sometimes question why I spent so much time in school, only to be under appreciated by toddlers who don't care much about iambic pentameter or the perfect contrasting balance of chiaroscuro or sfumato.
I recently finished editing and illustrating a project for my grandmother, which provided a lovely creative break from my normal daily routine. We were able to print the stories from her 1940's childhood; stories that only someone who went through a great depression in a coal-mining town without a father can tell. Even though I've heard the stories a hundred times, I can't help being impressed all over again by the optimistic strength of their spirit, and a faith in the God of a future where food is already on tables and shoes are already on feet.
I also walk away slightly discouraged with my own poor memory. How can my grandma remember her first day of kindergarten at age 78? If it weren't for pictures, I doubt I would remember the color of my first bedroom. (It was Pepto-Bismol pink with a Holly Hobby border in case you were wondering). I envy the ability to store mental pictures and words down to the smallest detail. I am convinced that one of the most important characteristics of a great non-fiction writer is the ability to remember—not just the things we do, but the way the air smelled and the song that was playing in the background. The tiny details.
Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who survived childhood has enough material to write for the rest of his or her life. I believe this is true; especially if Paris Hilton was able to fill 192 pages with words and semi-complete sentences. Certainly I should be able to write a few pages in a blog at least every other week, even without the help of an assistant or 20 editors. So, along with other resolutions in this new year, including cutting back on coffee and ice cream, etc., I am vowing to read and write more.
When I was 21, I googled Annie Dillard, my favorite writer and arguably the best creative non-fiction author of our time, and sent an email to what turned out to be a legitimate address. She not only took the time to send me a page-long personal response, but her general advice on life, specifically writing, impacted the way I think about creativity tremendously. Annie, I can call her that because we are friends now, stressed the importance of not only writing daily, but reading any and all books, no matter what the genre. She talked about the intertwining of the many worlds of art, saying that most writers are artists—whether or not they ever put paint on a canvas, and vice versa. I lost the soft copy of her email or I would paste it here, but in the meantime I will suggest reading at least one Annie Dillard book this year. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, the 1975 Pulitzer Prize winner, or if you really want to be blown away by her power of recollection, try An American Childhood. (http://www.amazon.com/American-Childhood-Annie-Dillard/dp/0060915188)
According to Annie, “A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days. It is a scaffolding on which a worker can stand and labor with both hands at sections of time.” I love the illustration and I know that it's true, but I also have trouble with this creative paradox; in order to become a writer I must schedule time in the day to consistently do it, whether or not I am feeling particularly inspired or imaginative. Most if not all great writers have talked about the importance of writing, writing in a way that treats it like work, until it becomes natural, and in spite of the fact that it will never be effortless.
If it is true that the “best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes,” then I should have written at least 1000 essays by now. And as another great writer (Anne Lamott) says, “Start with your childhood. Plug your nose and jump in, and write down all your memories as truthfully as you can.” So here we go, one week into the New Year and I'm already behind. I'm hoping that this tangible goal will somehow keep me accountable in the other abstract areas of my life, and who knows, perhaps 2009 might even be the year of calorie-free-good-for-me ice cream, doctor prescribed coffee, and miracle “crinkle-reducing” face cream. Here's to plugging my nose and jumping into something.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
~Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1850

A bit of brewed history.

My Dunkin’ Donuts coffee has been tasting particularly good these days, and while I sit on a couch between sippy cups, Cheerios and Pop-tarts waiting for my eyelids to pry apart with every sip, I have been thinking about my personal coffee history, as well as the history of coffee itself.
Among other things, I discovered that I have something in common with Pope Vincent III, and I think he deserves a shout-out. Evidently when Christians dubbed coffee the “devil’s drink,” Vincent III took one swig and decided to have it baptized instead of banished saying, “coffee is so delicious it would be a pity to let the infidels have exclusive use of it.”
Whew.
Coffee was most likely discovered by a sheep herder in Caffa, Ethiopia. He tried a few red “cherries” to see if he would become as hyperactive as his sheep after eating them, and he did. The story goes on to say that monks told him not to eat this “devil’s fruit” until they realized the beans could also help them stay awake for prayers. It is an interesting history worth reading.
My parents were not coffee drinkers, sheep herders, or monks, so I didn’t have my first sip of the so-called “devil’s” java goodness until I was 18. It was a Frappaccino and I probably would not categorize that as coffee today. I drank a little coffee in college, but it wasn’t until grad school that my dependancy went from decaf to double shot espresso.
I lived with my aunt and uncle for a few months before moving into grad housing; they made coffee every morning and they were the first die hard coffee drinkers I had ever met. I quickly learned that they took coffee very seriously and I had to drink it the “right way” or not at all. It was a black Starbucks French Roast and my sensitive little taste-buds were screaming for sugar, milk, cream..anything. But when I saw the looks of horror as I asked for something to calm down my cup, I realized I would either adapt to the brew or fall asleep driving to school.
I have been a black coffee drinker ever since.
For me, there is nothing better than drinking coffee that someone else has made for me. When the honeymoon was over and I realized that this was not going to happen on a daily basis, we invested in the next best thing. A Cuisinart with programmable timer. Now when I wake up to the smell of Dunkin’ Donuts in the morning, I imagine that tiny little bean-shaped elves--as opposed to technology I don’t understand--were busy at work in my kitchen preparing a perfect brew just for me. If only they would unload the dishwasher.
I wouldn’t be a true Coffee enthusiast if I didn’t briefly attempt to drag Coffee’s mortal enemy–herbal tea–through the leafy mud. With all the bad press lately about coffee, it is surprising that I haven’t noticed a decline in Starbucks or the millions of other little Java Huts on every corner. So, tea has half the caffeine and more than just anti-oxidants as a positive selling point. There are lots of great things about tea.
(http://www.alkalizeforhealth.net/Lbattleofbrews.htm)
But come on, tea? This is America Have we forgotten what happened in Boston, Stephen Sinatra, M.D.? I don’t want a Chai-ppuccino thank you very much...
I know there are many tea drinkers who prefer the taste, and I suppose you are entitled to that. But I have become somewhat of a coffee snob. I have noticed that many coffee drinkers are very particular about their brew, their mug, etc. And I am always impressed by my 75 year old Grandma. I will never forget when we went to dinner at 8pm and she ordered caffeinated coffee, and if it is anything less than scalding hot she has them refill it.
In case anyone reading this has forgotten that even I like two lumps of sarcasm with my black coffee, please don’t be too offended, especially if you simply prefer the taste of leaves to the taste of beans. And if you have something in common with Pope Vincent III as well, you might want to do some additional fun reading:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_coffee

Fall in the air.

So, I haven't updated the ole blog in a while. I have been busy trying to get other things done during the minutes and occasionally hours in the afternoon when Madelyn and Griffin are taking naps. Among other things I finished an acryilic painting/Christmas present for my Grandma; I have tried to make it a point to do this every year for the past 3 years. She loves getting "original artwork" and it is cathartic for me.
We have really enjoyed the weather the past few weeks. It is really dry this year, but in some ways it is making Fall last longer because there is no rain to wash away the leaves. Griffin and I have been raking and jumping in the same pile of red Maple leaves in our front yard every day for the past week. Madelyn loves to just sit in the wagon watching and has even joined in the leaf fun a few times. Griffin has also discovered an exciting new option when it comes to trees: climbing them. Although we are actually doing the lifting and he is just sitting there checking out a new view of the yard it is fun to watch him doing something like climbing a tree for the first time.
I am looking forward to the food and family time that will be here in the next few weeks and I know it will all be over before we know it. We are really hoping for snow and possibly sledding this year in Ohio for Christmas.

Ode to a Blue Hooded Sweatshirt.

There once was a hoodie of blue
That loved me back when it was new.
The sleeves kept me warm
And the hood kept me dry
And hoodies just like it were few.

But now after years of it’s wear
The sleeves, yes, have started to tear.
With stains on the cuffs
And 2 holes in the front
And a hood that is just barely there.

So last night Steve told me
The sweatshirt was through.
No more broken zipper
No more hoodie blue.

So sadly I toss it
Right now in the trash
I miss it already
But can’t get it back.

So laugh if you want to
I’ll try not to cry
And here’s to my hoodie, “Goodbye.”

Confessions of a Germaphobe

If the first step to overcoming a problem is admitting it, then here I go. At some point over the past 2 years, I have become the person who uses hand sanitizer after passing the offering plate at church. My heart races when I am forced to touch a bathroom doorknob. I can’t remember the last time I flushed a public toilet with anything other than my foot. I am realizing I need to reach some kind of balance. I need to make amends with millions of micro-bacteria and learn to exist in harmony with them.
I have noticed there are not degrees of germaphobia.. You either care about germs, or you don’t. You either wipe down shopping cart handles before you touch them, you use your sleeve to open bathroom doors, you bathe your child in Purell after a visit to the park, you feel slightly grossed out after touching keys or cell phones, or you don’t. I am gradually working my way back from the extreme end of the “icky” spectrum.
Ever since I had Griffin, my fear of the germs that might be hiding out on nursery toys, other people’s drinks or the worst–strange people’s hands–has caused me to have miniature internal panick attacks almost daily. Last month I was at the Pediatrician’s office with Griffin, Madelyn in her 30+ pound carrier, and a diaper bag, and I felt like I was running the gauntlet trying to open 4 doors and use nasty doctor’s office pens in a sanitary way while also keeping the kids in check and trying to look like I was a sane member of society. It was shortly after that visit when I realized I needed to relax a little.
Steve thinks I am ridiculous when it comes to germs, and I am slowly beginning to agree. In his attempts to “cure” me he likes to take Griffin to McDonald’s playland–the ultimate cesspool for any germaphobe. Of course Griffin loves it, and so far he hasn’t picked up E coli, so I am beginning to realize it IS my problem. I don’t think Laura Ingalls Wilder used hand sanitizer after she did her morning chores.
I know that colds and even the flu are all part of “building a strong immune system,” or so they say. I know when my kids get older and I have even less control over them they will eat things off lunchroom floors and share drinks with friends and we will all go through the cold and flu season together every fall. The most baffling thing is that my kids still manage to pick up colds and in doing so they are some other germaphobe’s worst nightmare. Obviously I can’t be there to wipe them off every time they touch something nasty and I don’t want them rolling around in a little germ-proof bubble. Deep down I know these germs serve a purpose. Like I said, this is a confession and I am trying to form some kind of alliance with them. Until then, please don't feel the need to confiscate the hand sanitizer I carry around my waist in a holster like a weapon...

Sky Top Orchard

In an effort to begin a few annual family traditions, we loaded up the car and headed to the foothills to pick a few apples from Sky Top Orchard in North Carolina. Although Griffin is in the middle of potty training, there were no apples left on any of the trees due to a late frost and it was so foggy you could barely see 20 feet in front of your face, we still had a really great time. Griffin loved the pumpkins and spent about 20 minutes lifting, turning and finally choosing the perfect pumpkin. He also had fun on the swings and walking around the apple trees.