Back to School

Where’s Rodney Dangerfield when you need him?

Oh, right–he dead.

Regardless, I’m channeling my inner Rodney and am proud to announce that as of this September, I will once again be a college student. That’s right, chumps — I’m headed to grad school.

It’s a “professional” M.A. program, meaning it’s tailor-made for people who are already employed in a related field. Classes are Tuesday and Thursday nights, year-round (no weekends, ever. Righteous.). I graduate in two years with a real, live master’s degree.

No one genuinely believes me when I say it–and, quite honestly, I’m not sure why I keep repeating  it–but I’m not doing this to get a better job, promotion or raise. If I get no professional benefits from this, I’ll be okay with that. I’m truly doing this because the subject matter fascinates me; I can think of few things more fulfilling and fun than sitting around discussing the Psychology of Advertising (an actual class in my program) with a like-minded group of my peers. If I should get a promotion or raise because of it, great. If, when all is said and done, my professional opinion is more respected, awesome. If, in the meantime, I stock up on overpriced U of M paraphernalia and enjoy discounted football tickets and regularly eat in a student cafeteria and pose for a horrible student I.D .photo and blow a bunch of money at Office Max… well, gosh–that’s just delicious icing on an already delicious cake.

I’m fucking stoked about this.

And terrified.

And a little worried for Adam. Dude has to fend for himself two nights a week for two years — that’s 208  Red Baron frozen pizzas and, like, 600 Surly beers. I have every confidence he’ll be just fine… but I don’t believe I’m being egotistical to worry that this will kind of suck for him. He married me for a reason, after all, and me being gone 10 extra hours each week probably wasn’t in his master plan.

But we’ll make it work. ‘Cause we’re awesome like that. And as my boss’s boss said today when I shared the news, “You’re always happier when you’re busy.” If that’s true (which I believe it is), I’m about to become a very, very happy girl.

Wish me luck.

A tale of two pity parties

I’ve swam at the Y for all of two days now, and each of those experiences has been wildly different.

Day One found me exploring “Open Lap Swim.” Though I have never had a minute of swimming lessons (unless you count my brother chucking me into the deep end during a Florida vacation and yelling, “Swim or sink!”), I can fake a breast stroke pretty well, love the scissors-kick and can tread water like no one’s business. I figured I’d do just fine with laps. Man, was I wrong.

First off, swimming laps is boring. So, so boring. Nothing to look at or listen to besides the sounds of your own chuffing. I realize that’s a major selling point for many swimmers — all that time to shut out the world and “get in the zone” — but I’m not built that way. Swimming bores me.

And then there’s the matter of the folks I was sharing the single lap lane with: two really good,  really serious swimmers. We’re talking 20-somethings with personalized swim caps, here. I damn near ran into one head-on; she was annoyed. And rightfully so! The lifeguard had to open another lane for us because I kept getting in the others’ way. It was embarrassing. After 12 laps, I pretend to suddenly remember something and hustled out of there. I was too humiliated to even dip into the hot tub–the one thing I was actually looking forward to.

Day Two was the opposite… sort of. I decided to attend a water aerobics class. Walking into the pool area and realizing the all the students a) knew each other well and b) were over the age of 65, I immediately regretted my decision. But there was no backing out of it — I was either there for class or for children’s swim lessons, the only two activities happening at the time — so I jumped in.

I deflected some pretty hard stares the first 15 minutes of class. The seniors were wary of this new girl with her relatively low cut swimsuit. To build goodwill and endear myself to them, I started purposely screwing up the moves and “losing my balance.” It worked. Toward the end, everyone warmed up to me, except the autistic kid and his mom but they their own thing going on. I also had to contend with the snarky glances from the sidelined 30-something parents of the toddlers taking swim lessons. I couldn’t do much about them, but comforted myself with the fact that they were wasting their night watching their snot-nosed kids while my time was my own.

Though a bit degrading (there was liberal use of flotation belts and pool noodles, you guys) the class itself was a pretty decent workout. And at least two people urged me to come to the Tuesday class with the promise that it was “really hard” and “so much fun.”

In the end, the seniors embraced me while the young hipsters saw me as nothing more than a literal speedbump. Story of my life.

Both nights at the Y were different, though both required me to swallow a Hungry Man-sized serving of pride. The fact is that I’m out of my element in the water (no pun intended). I’m not a swimmer. I don’t like it, I’m not good at it and I can’t stop thinking of what I’d rather be doing. The entirety of the water aerobics class, I was lustily staring up at the second-floor window where runners would periodically breeze by, sweaty and happy as clams on the indoor track. Those greedy assholes.

In reality, I’m the greedy one.  My femur might be fractured but I’m not on crutches and I will, eventually, recover. Besides the leg thing, I’m in excellent health. I have the disposable income to drop on a Y membership. I have the time to devote to things like water aerobics. But I’m still mourning the loss of running; I’m still in my pity party phase. And frankly, it’s a little hard to get over when you’re water jogging with a group of blue hairs, watching your summer run past on the tailwinds of a young runner prancing above you–so close, but untouchable.

Trying to keep my head above water

With summer quickly approaching, I found myself digging through my drawers last night in search of my swimsuit. But not for the right reason.

I’m not anticipating lots of beach time this summer, nor was I preparing a suntan plan. No, I needed to find my swimsuit because I’m planning on spending a good chunk of time this summer indoors – at the local Y. Swimming laps. Because I can’t do much else.

Remember how this winter lasted forever (just three weeks ago, there was snow on the ground, even though yesterday it was 90 degrees)? And remember how I ran a 10-mile race in April? Yeah, well, it turns out that training exclusively on a treadmill and then making your second outdoor run of the season your longest and hardest of the entire year… not such a great idea. Because one week ago, I was officially diagnosed with a stress fracture in my femur.

The funny thing about stress fractures is that they’re just as bad as full-on bone breaks; in fact, some might say they’re worse. With a break, your body freaks out and uses all its available energy to repair the damage. But your body doesn’t take fractures too seriously. After all, you’re still walking and, most of the time, it doesn’t hurt. So, your body devotes, say, 10% of its resources to the healing. Like a Teamster, it gets around to it when it gets around to it. No rush. The only thing you can do is wait and keep weight off your bone. So, for the next three full months – i.e. the entire fricking summer – I’m not allowed to run, skip, hop, bike, use the elliptical, do yoga, play tennis or do anything that will put undue pressure on my leg.

When I left the doctor’s office, I sat in my car and cried. In fact, it’s hard for me to talk about without tearing up. I worked so hard over the winter and my reward is a summer of sloth? Not fair. Not fair at all.

Plus, remember how excited I was to feel like a Real Runner? How comforting it was to have a solid parameter in which to define myself, even broadly? How happy I was to have found something I enjoyed and was decent at, something that was good for me and kept me out of trouble? That’s all gone now. Though I suppose, in some great irony, a stress fracture that takes me “out of the game” makes me more of a Real Runner than anything else ever could.—you’re not a runner until you experience an injury. So, I got that going for me.

Terrified of replacing all my hard-won muscle mass with 15 extra pounds of fat, I asked my doctor in what activities I can partake. He begrudgingly gave me dog walking (here we go, Philly!) and happily offered an activity that builds muscle and endurance without any bone pressure whatsoever: swimming. Too bad it’s also a sport that I’ve never had any lessons in and can’t really do all that well, a sport that requires lots of public half-nudity and, subsequently, a fastidious shaving regimen, a sport beloved by old ladies and toddlers.  Cool. Cool way to spend my summer.

And so, yesterday, I took one more step in my transition into a full-fledge geriatric and joined the local Y. From now until at least August 15, you can find me there in the lap pool: I’ll be the older-than-she-looks lady in the far lane, doggy-paddling for her life.

Workin ‘for the Weekend

I have been counting down the days — and now hours — until this weekend ever since Monday morning. It’s going to be epic.

Tonight is Nathan’s Birthday Attempt No.2, in which I try for the second year in a row to take him to a Minnesota Wild game. Last year, he got snowed in and, not wanting good tickets to go to waste, I took my friend Amy, instead. It was hella fun and all, but I felt badly for Nathan; the tickets were his present, after all. Anyway, we’re trying it again this year and, not to jinx it, but things are really shaping up. The weather is great, he’s leaving early to avoid rush hour traffic, and then this — the fact that tonight’s game will make or break the Wild’s playoff status.

I can work a room with the best of ‘em.

Saturday night is my Rotary club’s annual fundraising gala, Comedy for Caring. The words “Rotary fundraiser” don’t normal equate to “A Great Time,” but this one’s different. For the third year in a row, we’ve hired The Second City comedy troupe to come in for a night of improv. Plus, free appetizers, a cash bar, a silent auction and all the glad-handing a girl can handle! It’ll be great!

But the fun doesn’t end there — Sunday, Adam is taking me away for a mini casino adventure. Needing a day off from work but not having enough PTO or cash to make it to Vegas, he decided to book an overnight stay in a jacuzzi suite of a Minnesota casino. Buffet meals, Pai Gow and indoor smoking? Yes, please. I can’t wait. (And yes, I will thoroughly rinse the jacuzzi before setting foot in it.)

And then, this: Adam also just informed me that he bought two tickets to a Huey Lewis and the News concert on my birthday, also at a local casino. Spending my 31st birthday with my husband, sipping watered-down cocktails and half-ironically rocking to hits like Power of Love  and Hip to Be Square? Yep. That is exactly where I want to be.

I’m not positive this weekend could get any better, guys. (I’m totally knocking on wood as I type that.)

Free at last: they took your life, they could not take your pride.

Y’know what makes me angry? That the U.S. government can accuse a 16-year-old of setting a deadly hotel fire on basically no evidence whatsoever*, convict him on 28 counts of murder for the unfortunate souls who died in said fire,wrongfully keep him in prison for 41 years–and when they finally admit that the case is faulty and they cannot actually prove the man’s guilt, they force him to plead “No Contest” before releasing him. They couldn’t even admit that they’d made a mistake and allow him the dignity of his good name — they made him stand in front of a judge and say “No Contest.” What a kick in the balls. Louis Taylor has nothing — nothing — left of his life; couldn’t they at least allow him his honor?

I have to tell you, if I were Louis Taylor, no matter how tempting the thought of freedom after 2/3 of my life behind bars for a crime I did not commit, I’m not sure I would’ve given that court the satisfaction of “No Contest.” Because fuck them.

“I wasn’t going to give them another hour, another minute. I’ve been in prison almost 42 years for something I didn’t do,” Taylor said the day after he was released.

Alright, yeah, I get that. But damn. Now that he’s all but confessed, what does he have? Complete alienation from modern society, unemployment without any marketable skills, no wife or children to support him, no friends and no place to live.  Oh, and the legally binding admission that he may or may not have set that fire. I really don’t know if I could’ve stood before that judge, mere feet away from sweet freedom, and given the government the easy out of “No Contest.”

Pride is a terrible thing, to be sure. But at least no one can take it from me.

 

*Please note that said 16-year-old was credited (by two separate witnesses) with helping pull people from the fire.

*Also note: who worked tirelessly to get Louis Taylor freed after all these years? Among others, the media. Yep, the big, bad, liberal, horrible, lying, scumbag media. Weird.

“If you’re trying to defeat the human spirit, marathoners are the wrong group to target.”

I logged into MapMyRun.com today to record my latest workout and clicked on a blue-and-yellow ribbon symbol in the corner of the homepage. It brought me to this excellent blog post about the Boston Marathon, which I feel is definitely worth sharing. If you’re a runner, you will absolutely “get it.” But even if you’re not, I hope you take something from it.

(Make sure you read to the very end — the image at the bottom killed me.)

A Group of One’s Own

For those of you who have never run for 1 hour and 43 solid minutes, let me tell you that once you cross the finish line and you’re finally allowed to stop running, not much is going through your head besides sweet, sweet relief and an immense amount of pride. Certainly, there are people who are capable of running for hours and then going about their normal business as if nothing ever happened — I’ve read reports of multiple doctors who finished running the Boston Marathon around the time of the explosion and then ran back into the disaster area to start treating victims — but I am not one of them. In fact, back at work on Monday, my head and muscles were still in a fog; I felt like I was half-asleep.

So forgive me for the delayed response, but I finally got there, nonetheless.

Does eating a disgusting “power gel” pack before a race qualify me as a runner? Guh, I hope not. That shit is nasty.

I’m not positive when the “ah-ha!” moment occurred: maybe it was while watching footage of the Boston Marathon bombing on Monday with stinging eyes and one of my first thoughts was, “Why do this to runners? What did we ever do to anyone?” Maybe it was when I mentioned to a co-worker that I went for a four-miler on Thursday and he said with a hint of disgust, “Really? You went running? Most people finish a race and then stop for a while.”  Maybe it was mid-week, when a friend  mentioned inviting me up to watch the Fargo Marathon and I thought, “Yeah, I should visit–she could watch and I could run the half-marathon.” Maybe it was this morning, when a guy I haven’t seen in a couple months asked me what I’ve been doing to lose weight and though I haven’t lost a pound in years,  I instinctively responded, “I’ve been running.”

Maybe it was a combination of all those things. Regardless, for the first time since I started this journey five years ago, I finally feel like a runner.

Up until this week, even though I’ve logged more than 1,500 miles in the past three years alone, I never really felt like part of the “running crowd.” I’m not fast enough or I can’t run far enough or I don’t have expensive enough shoes or I just run for fun, not for competition--these were all things I thought kept me out the not-so-exclusive group.  There might be some truth to them: there are definitely people who can run a certain distance in a certain time but really aren’t runners. And I’m still not exactly sure what qualifies one as “runner” — is it regularity of your runs? Is it the feeling you get while running? Is it how many others you’ve encouraged to join you? Is it the number of races you’ve completed? Is it the constant drive to improve your time or distance? I don’t know, but I do know that I have it, whatever “it” is. Which, for a girl who was never part of any team and struggles daily to define her place in the universe, is a wonderful feeling.