Crazy Runners

We runners are crazy.  I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, it should be "us runners".  But you're wrong.  It's we.  Because it's a subject, not an object.  So yeah, my college education was not for nothing!

But back to the topic at hand.  It's true.  We runners are crazy.

Today I finished my eleventh half-marathon.  I have run all eleven of them since I turned forty.  I am currently almost forty-seven.  Again, I know what you're thinking.  And the answer is: I have no idea. I truly have no idea.  It's just something that, inexplicably, seems like a fun thing to contemplate doing, even more fun as you're signing up and reading about the cool t-shirt and medal you'll get at the end, and then you just can't not do it once you've committed to it.  I mean, there's the mental commitment (haha, yes, I get the double meaning there), the physical commitment of training for the event, and there's the monetary commitment, which usually runs around $55-70 depending on where you're running (Disney, no surprise here, is on the upper end of the price spectrum of fees charged to runners; in their defense, however, the coolest medal I have is the Tinkerbell First Annual Half-Marathon Medal--it is a substantial piece of decoration!).

So there's all that commitment.  For something that doesn't really sound all that fun to most normal people.  Running 13.1 miles? That likely doesn't sound all that fun to most any person, regardless of their level of normality.

And the thing is, it's not fun.  At least not conventional fun.  And this is where the crazy comes in.  It's not not fun, either.

It's really hard to explain.

As you're standing at the starting line, there's a nervousness.  I can't explain why, at least for me.  I'm not competing against anyone.  There's not even anyone at these events who would care how quickly or how slowly I completed the course.  Just me.  Apparently I make myself nervous.

Then the gun goes off, the clock starts, you tap your watch to start the timer, and off you go.  And you go.  And you keep going.  Until you get to the end.  You cross the finish line.  You tap your watch to stop the timer.  You get your medal, your bottle of water, a bagel and a banana, and you're done.

That's it.  It's just one giant long-ass run.

But also, you get to see people trying to accomplish something.  You see people working really, really hard.  And you see people who have natural talent, who appear not to have to work at all.  Both are pretty inspiring.

You see people running with shirts telling who they are running for and who they are running in memory of, diseases they are trying to cure, lives they are trying to save.  Also kinda inspiring.

You see friends supporting each other, and you see perfect strangers yelling encouragement to one another.

Spectators will clap for you, cheer for you, whoop and holler for you even thought they have no idea who you are.  They will tell you how great you are looking, which is awesome to hear and completely not true in most cases (today, for instance, I put the wrong sunscreen on my face before the run, and consequently my face was a combination of a ridiculous amount of sweaty sunscreen pouring in ribbons down my cheeks, making me look like I was dying I am sure, combined with a lovely masque of gritty salt all over my forehead and neck--but thank you, kind gentleman at the 7.5 mile marker, for telling me I looked strong; I appreciate you much more than the dude at the 10 mile marker who kept yelling "you're almost there" when, in fact, we still had a quarter of the entire run to go--NOT COOL DUDE!)

Back to the good stuff, though.

Just today I saw runners thanking the volunteers for being there as they grabbed their Gatorade.  I saw one woman stop her run altogether to go check on a man who was sitting on the sidewalk stretching his calves.  She wanted to be sure he was okay and didn't need medical attention (he didn't).  I saw an older couple who, when they would take their walking breaks in between their running, would move over to the right so they could hold hands without getting in the way of those still running.

In between all of these observations I was downing packets of GU (which, incidentally tastes exactly like you would suspect something called GU would taste), regulating my breathing to make a cramp go away, and hoping that the kink in my neck would magically disappear after the run was over (successful on the cramp front; neck kink still here).

I was also checking my watch to see if I was on-pace to finish in under two hours thirty minutes, which I really, really wanted to do.  Which I actually did do.

So there's a lot going on in these long-ass runs.

It doesn't sound fun to run 13.1 miles.  I get that.  And mostly it's not fun.

Except for the parts that are really fun (like taking a weekend trip to Disneyland with your best friend to run a half-marathon through the park, or running 13.1 miles with your brother, who on any given day can run way faster than you but chose to change his pace so you could enjoy the run together).

And those parts are why you end up running eleven half-marathons (and counting) in seven years.

2013

2013... the year I will...

Nope, not doing that this year.

I'm not going to ring in the new year by declaring that this will be the year I lose ten pounds.  I've done that more than once over the past several years, and doggone it if those pounds don't just seem to love me.  No matter how hard I have tried to ditch them, even when a few of them seem gone they always find their way home.  It's like they have GPS.

I'm not going to ring in the new year by vowing to keep up with the laundry.  I could keep up with the laundry.  I know that.  I realize it's not unfathomable to think that it could be done with some proper planning.  But that's the thing.  The best laid plans.... it's just too easy to fail.  The laundry will get done at some point.  Trust me.

I'm not going to ring in the new year by proclaiming that this is the year I will exercise for half an hour every day, five days a week, for 52 weeks straight.  Even thought I actually would really love to do that.  And I likely will try to do that. But I'm not going to set myself up for letting myself down by making January 1st the arbitrary beginning point to something that, rather than going smoothly for five days a week for 52 straight weeks, rather might have ebbs and tides based on life's currents.  I want to feel successful when I exercise.  Not guilty when I miss a day.

I'm not going to ring in the new year by vowing that this is the year I'm going to eat healthy!  There's not a lot of things I know for sure, but I do know there's Jack in the Box milkshakes in my future.  I absolutely, positively know this to be true.  And I will enjoy them.  I know this as well.  I also know that I will have what has been deemed in our household "milkshake regret" every single time I drink one.  It's just the way it is.  Love the shake.  Hate the post-shake "uuuggghhh" feeling.  I will try to eat healthy in between the times I am not eating healthy.  That's a resolution I can live up to.

I'm not going to ring in the new year by swearing that this is the year I will stay organized.  I will GET organized, yes.  I LOVE organizing.  I will clean my drawers.  I will empty out the fridge.  I will go through my closets.  Everything will be in its place.  For about two weeks.  And then entropy will take over.  This is proven science, people.  Things go from order to chaos.  There's no stopping it.

Which brings me to "My New Year's Resolution For 2013": adjust accordingly.

2013 is going to be a year of change.  There's no denying it.  There's no stopping it.  There's not really even any controlling it (WHAT??!!).  What there IS, what there CAN be, is adjusting accordingly to it.

This I will try to do.

2013 will be the year of ... 2013.  And whatever it happens to bring along for the ride.

My Dad

Have you met my dad?

If you haven't, it's too bad (for you).  If you have, you understand why it's too bad for the people who haven't met him.

My dad is the nicest guy on the face of the earth.  I am not exaggerating.  Someone has to be the nicest person on the planet, and I speak without hesitation when I say that my dad is that someone.  If you know my dad, you are in complete agreement with me, right?  If you don't know him, let me fill you in.

His nickname is St. Donald.  We joke that he sometimes has a halo.  He will drive you to the airport at ungodly hours of the morning and not talk about you behind your back afterwards.  He will always, always try to pay for any meal you eat out together (I have resorted to excusing myself and pretending that I need to use the restroom in order to covertly give my credit card to the waitress before my dad can get his hands on the bill).  He will rearrange his schedule to do you a tiny favor.  I don't think the word "resentment" is in his vocabulary.  He truly enjoys doing things for people in a way in which I have never seen anyone else even come close.

My dad is the guy you're talking about when you say things like, "He'd give you the shirt off of his back."  He literally would give someone he doesn't know the shirt off of his back if he thought the person needed it.  At the risk of sounding repetitive, I am not exaggerating.  There are people who say they would do such things, and there are people who do such things.  He's a doer, not a sayer.

When I was in high school, my dad sold his car (and while it may have had grass growing from small patches on the roof, it was in working condition, I assure you) to a man for $1 because the man desperately needed a car and couldn't afford one.  I don't think my dad ever told anyone outside of our family about it.  He's not the kind of guy who needs to trumpet his goodness to others.  Because he doesn't do it for any reason other than it's the right thing to do.

My dad did his student teaching in Harlem.  At a junior high school.  By his own request.  In the 1960's.  Successfully.  He tells a great story about teaching a science lesson on sound to a rambunctious group of middle-schoolers.  The next day one of his students brought in an actual pay phone, ripped from its former home, to see if my dad could do the same lesson with real-life equipment.  The point of the story not being that the kid ripped out a pay phone, but rather that he was interested enough in the lesson to bring it in to class and ask my dad to demonstrate the lesson again.  A lot of teachers would automatically focus on the (possible) crime scenario of the situation.  My dad, at least the way I hear him tell the story over fifty years later, saw a kid who had his curiosity piqued.

He's a "don't dwell on adversity--try to do something to overcome it" kind of guy.  When things are not ideal, he's not a complainer.  Never has been as long as I can remember.  If something's not right, he tries to find a solution.  If there's no solution to be found, he'll simply make the best of it until the situation changes.  Case in point (and this story is now the stuff of legend and lore in our family):

We were traveling on the east coast during the summer.  All five of us: my parents, my older brother and myself (both old enough to be snarky), and my younger brother (young enough to be adorably innocent).  We were on our way, as I recall, to my grandmother's house on the Jersey shore.  We were driving there from somewhere... I can't remember where.  I do remember, however, that our journey involved getting our car onto the Cape May Ferry to get across what I'm guessing was maybe the Chesapeake Bay (I could be wrong about that geographical detail, but it doesn't really matter in terms of where this story is going).  So there we are, mid-July, hanging out in Cape May, New Jersey, waiting for the ferry boat.  It was hot.  Really hot.  New Jersey-in-the-summer hot.  And humid.  Really humid.  Us kids were not exactly the model of patience or fortitude.  We were uncomfortable and we were not trying to hide it.  We were absolutely dwelling on adversity and not trying to do anything to overcome it.  And we most certainly were not making the best of it in absence of any impending changes to the situation.

My dad, on the other hand, was trying his hardest to make the best of the situation, which in this case meant trying for mind over matter.  So he has us close our eyes.  And he tells us to imagine it's very cold, like in the Arctic.  There's wind blowing.  Polar bears are nearby.  We are chilly it's so cold.  I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.

I mean, he's trying so hard.  He's really giving it an honest-to-god go of it.  And while it was not working in the least on my older brother and myself (or my mom, but she's trying to play along), my little brother is picturing everything my dad is saying, creating this winter wonderland in his mind, and  my little brother pipes in with, "And an eagle,  CAW, CAW," and he probably was flapping his arms like wings (maybe not, but that's kind of how I remember it).

While the heat did not go away that afternoon, my dad managed to make it disappear, momentarily, for at least one like-minded believer who was willing to suspend a little over-heated reality for a few minutes of Arctic bliss, given the chance.

The End

Of that story.  But there are so many more great stories about my dad.  Honestly, every single story I can think of exemplifies my dad's patience (with perhaps one exception, but my older brother and I really drove my dad to the brink of sanity in that one exception, so I really can't say I blame him for losing it that one time) and/or his belief that given the chance, you always try to do the right thing, no matter how hard that might be.

And maybe one of the things that sets my dad apart is that he is more willing than most to not just recognize the chance, but happily go looking for it.

He's a guy who lives his core values quietly, humbly, and with conviction.

I'm so proud of all of the multitude of things my dad has accomplished in his life--is still accomplishing to this day--that positively impact so many people, from our family to the families of children he and my mom sponsored for decades.  I think the thing that would make my dad the most proud (and he's probably the least prideful person I know) is that the examples that he and my mom set throughout their lives are being continued by their children and passed down to their grandchildren.  My brothers and I and our spouses decided a few years ago that, being more than fortunate, rather than give each other Christmas gifts each year we would donate the money we would have used to buy gifts to a charity.  After passing a homeless young man on a corner, my daughter asked if we could please go back and give him something to help him and his family. My nephew couldn't think of anything he wanted for Christmas (he's a high school freshman), so he asked for a donation to be made to a charity.

That's a legacy worthy of mention, even if my dad would never mention it himself.

Enough

I opened my computer to look at the news on CNN.com.  Because I cannot bring myself to watch the news on TV right now.  I can't do it.  It's too heartbreaking.  It's too draining.  It makes me cry.  It brings overwhelming sadness.

And when I opened up the CNN website, I couldn't even click into anything other than the "entertainment" section.  I have no desire to know about Linsey Lohan's latest rehab, or the Kardashian's exploits, or which movies are getting awards.  But it's easier to read about those mindless, unimportant events than it is to read about the victims of the shooting in Connecticut.

Enough.

Enough already.

Can we please, as a nation, acknowledge that we have a problem with guns?  Yes, we do have a problem with the people who shoot the guns.  But the people who shoot the guns HAVE the guns.  And that's a big part of the problem.

We need to address how easy it is to get a gun.  We need to make it less easy.  We might need to consider that we need to make getting some types of guns illegal.

No one but a trained military soldier should have access to an automatic weapon.  No one.  Let me say that again.  No one.

You want to hunt?  Feel free.  With a rifle.  That you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.

You want to unwind with target practice?  Feel free.  With a gun that you have to re-cock each time you want to shoot.

Does that cramp your style?  Does that infringe upon your perceived second amendment rights?  You're alive to have your style cramped.  You're alive to be infringed upon.  Count yourself lucky.  There are twenty innocent kindergartners and six brave adults whose lives are lost too soon because we, as a nation, couldn't get it together to prevent this.

Enough already.

I Need Longer Arms

I need longer arms.

And they aren’t likely to get longer, so yeah, that’s gonna be a problem.  Because my dilemma is that words are getting smaller.  Not length smaller.  Not syllable-smaller.  Size smaller.  As in height.  Font size.  

The written word is shrinking.  I used to be able to read an ibuprofen bottle.  It was so simple.  Just hold the bottle up in front of my face and read it.  It was that way for everything--the newspaper, mail, my computer screen, my iPhone screen.  All of it clear as a bell, right there in front of my eyes.  I would look, and words would reveal themselves.

And then... one day the words just started getting smaller.  I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland.  It was all shrinking right before me, and there was nothing I could do to make it better.  Except start holding things farther and farther away from me.  My arms are only so long.  

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.  It’s the words.  It’s not me.  Or my eyes.  

Because if it was me and my eyes, then that would be a sign that I am getting older.  And while, yes, duh, I know I’m getting older, I don’t want to encounter any actual physical signs of my aging.  Like having to hold my iPhone so far away from me to read a text that I had to activate the “large text accessibility” function.  I may or may not have had to do that recently.  It may or may not have really helped a lot.  

Unfortunately, at some point my arms (which, by the way are in direct proportion to my height, which is 5'4", which is a bit on the short side) are not going to be able to outstretch far enough for me to read the correct dosage on the ibuprofen bottle.  Hey, ibuprofen manufacturers, you know that the majority of the people taking your product are doing so because they have a headache, right?  They already aren't feeling top notch.  Possibly they have one of those nasty behind-the-eyeballs aches.  Why not throw people a bone and make your packaging readable?  If you eliminate all the crap you can make the instructions a normal, readable size.  Perhaps you can eliminate the entire section that reads:                                                                            

Stop and consult a doctor if: 

• you experience any of the following signs of stomach bleeding:
  • feel faint
  • vomit blood
  • have bloody or black stools
  • have stomach pain that does not get better
• pain gets worse or lasts more than 10 days
• fever gets worse or lasts more than 3 days
• redness or swelling is present in the painful area
• any new symptoms appear

I mean, really, you have to actually put that on the package?  Isn't that all kind of common sense?  I mean, who would think to themselves, "Hey, I've been taking this medication for three days and it not only doesn't seem to bring my fever down, but my fever is getting worse.  Think I'll keep taking it and hope it starts to work at some point..."?  I say get rid of that section and use the extra room on the bottle to bring the dosage information to a size that does not require ape-like arm length, a magnifying glass, or your kid to read.  

Several people have suggested that, if in fact I cannot get my arms to stretch out to a suitable length, I try “cheaters” reading glasses.  Um, why attack me?  Why do I have to suffer when it’s the words that are the problem?  

And while we're on the subject, grey hair is a sign of increasing intelligence, right?

All Over the (electoral) Map

Today's post has no theme.  You'd think from the title that it's going to be about politics.  It might be .  For a little bit.  But my thoughts are literally scattered today.

I ordered Steven's cap and gown this morning.  That was a little dose of hard reality.  His cap and gown.  For graduation.  So he can graduate.  And go to college.  And leave home.  Yeah, today's going to be a long day.

And incidentally, to order a cap and gown, you have to put the graduate's height and weight down for the sizing.  Today I also found out that my 6'3" son weighs the same as his 5'4" mother.  Yeah, yeah, different builds.  Whatever.  That's an eleven inch height difference with a zero pound weight difference.   So yeah, that really helped make my day better.  I'll be spending the next hour or so at the gym.  Possibly trying to stretch myself on a rack.

It's also election day.  Nervous.  Very nervous.  Pennsylvania, do NOT go red on me now!  I want to turn the TV on, but I've decided not to until at least 4pm, when polls start closing on the east coast and the news channels can post actual results as opposed to hypothetical speculation (yes, I know speculation is hypothetical--did you not get the part about me having a hard day? Leave it alone, ok?).

I cannot fathom the possibility of a President Romney.  My whole body just shuddered.

Talked about the election excitement this morning with the kids as we ate breakfast.  After discussing our fervent hope that Obama prevails, I asked the kids what they'd like for election night dinner.  Sloppy Joes was the resounding answer from both of them.  Then we decided maybe they should be called Sloppy Mitts.  Or Sloppy Romneys.  Which in theory was fun, but actually sounds kind of gross to eat.  We decided just plain old sloppy joes would be fine.

A quiz for you, to see if you've been reading this blog entry with your full concentration:

Kim should go to the gym today to:
(a) run off nervous election-day tension
(b) try to make her mother/son weight/height ratio more acceptable
(c) get out of the house so she doesn't turn on the TV before 4pm
(d) run hard enough on a treadmill so her tears at the thought of her kids leaving home look like sweat

Yeah, today's going to be a long day.

Go Obama!
(Don't go, Steven!)

WOW!

Why are everyone's pants so tight?
Can you put your phone down for just a few minutes?
Girls' shorts are just too short these days.  It leaves nothing to the imagination.
Those boys are going to have hip problems wearing those pants so low and trying to keep them on.
That's not a homecoming dress.  That's a cocktail dress.  You're too young for cocktails.
Too many piercings.
Too many tattoos.
Why on god's green earth would anyone want a gauge in their ear? It just looks gross.
We rode our bikes everywhere, or we walked--you kids drive or are driven everywhere.
I know it's only nine o'clock.  I'm still going to bed.

I don't have much commentary to add to this.  It's just a list of things I've caught myself saying the the last couple of months.

Somewhere along the way I turned into a cranky old lady.

I'm going to work on it.  I can change.  I can be positive.  Here goes:

Wow, I could never pull off pants that tight.  You're lucky you have such a great figure.
Wow, that phone is so small it's as if you can use it and not even realize you're using it.
Wow, those shorts really make you look like you have long legs.
Wow, it's gravity defying how low his pants are,  yet he can keep them from falling all the way down.
Wow.  You look very mature in that dress.
Wow, how did you find someone who would pierce that?
Wow, your psychiatrist must love you.
Wow, do you love the way it looks, or were you just trying to piss off your parents? (sorry, I couldn't find anything positive to say about the whole gauge thing)
Wow, you kids are lazy.  (again, I tried but failed to find a positive spin on that one)
Wow, I've been up for sixteen straight hours!  I'm going to bed.

Not bad.  I can do this.  It's just going to require a lot of sentences beginning with Wow!