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.

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If you give a mouse a cookie…

I get really irked when people assume I can do pretty much anything… but then I realize how stupid that sounds and try to temper my annoyance.

Case in point: I’ve been personally and specifically invited to a small (read: three-person) brainstorming session this evening about  marketing efforts for my Rotary district’s annual conference. Which is pretty hilarious because I don’t know a damn thing about marketing.

I do know a thing or two about internal communications, but that’s not what this group wants from me. They want brilliant ideas about a new campaign, they want slogans and logos, they want social media tips, they want strategic insights that will help them double their normal attendance. I flat-out told these ladies that I’m not skilled in these areas — believe it or not, marketing is different from advertising and both are incredibly different from communications — but they didn’t seem to care. They insisted I attend the meeting despite my protestations (they even re-scheduled it when I had a time conflict!).

This kind of thing happens to me all the time: if I show one ounce of interest in something, people assume I’m an expert. Some of my friends think I’m a professional backpacker (truth is, I enjoy it very much but would never trust myself in the backcountry more than two nights. You will not find me hiking the Grand Canyon, or anything, and I can’t tie a decent knot to save my life).  My mother-in-law thinks I’m a chef and asks me for tips and recipes all the time.  My mom honest-to-God thinks I’m a marathon runner (she actually tells her friends I’m running marathons, even though I’ve corrected her numerous times).

Does this happen to everyone, or just me?

Me, if I ran a marathon.

While it’s flattering that people think I’m skilled in all these areas, it’s also pretty annoying. Take the two minutes to learn my job title, Rotary people. Understand the difference between a 5k and a marathon, Mom. Admit my that my meatballs are too salty and my lasagna is too dry, mother-in-law.

Don’t pigeonhole  me and don’t have such grandiose expectations because at the end of the day, I’m really just faking it ’til I make it, like everyone else, and I don’t need any added pressure. Don’t envision me as the person you want me to be, because I’m never going to live up to that.

Until then, I’m going into tonight’s marketing meeting with such brilliant ideas as, “Use Facebook to update followers on conference speakers” and “Send out direct mailers to Rotarians’ houses.” Mind-blowing, isn’t it? Would you expect anything less from a marketing pro?

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Christmas Shoes

I love going to the gym at 5:45 a.m. because it gives me a chance to watch awful morning news shows. Most of the broadcasts are just wanton grab-assing, with the occasional fluffy gossip piece thrown in and a daily “Can you believe it?!” outrage piece. Good stuff to watch while on the elliptical.

Yesterday was no exception. A story on the local news caught my eye about a New York poilceman and a recent act of random kindness. In summary (’cause I know you’re not going to bother clicking that link), an NYC cop recently bought a pair of $100 boots for a shoeless bum he met on the street. A tourist snapped a picture of the good deed, posted it on Facebook and the whole world flipped its collective shit over someone doing something nice.

Alas! The entire world is once again flipping its collective shit because of what happened after the Facebook post:

Not even three weeks after Officer DePrimo bought him the boots on Nov. 14 in Times Square, Hillman was seen walking the streets shoeless again Sunday night.

“Those shoes are hidden, they are worth a lot of money,” was Hillman’s explanation to the New York Times. “I could lose my life.”

At another point in the interview, he said, “This went around the world, and I want a piece of the pie.”

The local news segment I saw  ended with the two anchors expressing their outrage. “What happened to those boots?!” the woman asked huffily. “He probably sold them,” the man responded. “Mmmmm,” the woman said, shaking her head in sadness.

I was outraged, too, but for other reasons.

First off,  none of us have any right at all to judge the actions of two complete strangers. This did not affect us, nor do we have the right to dictate how it should or shouldn’t have gone down.

That being said, though the cop certainly meant well, he shouldn’t have given a homeless man $100 boots. Not because homeless people don’t “deserve” nice things or because a homeless man isn’t “worth” $100–but because he has no way to take care of something that elaborate. Wearing them would make him a target for others who want to steal them–it would bring more trouble than it would benefit. Expensive footwear simply wasn’t an appropriate gift for this particular person, so it ended up going to waste.

I mean, know your audience. Don’t give a 2-year-old a Faberge egg. Don’t give families living on welfare a million-dollar house; if they can’t afford food, they certainly cannot afford the taxes or upkeep costs for a McMansion. Don’t give me a Ferrari–I have no idea how to properly maintain, store or drive it and it will certainly be quickly damaged or stolen.

But beyond all that, this story is a suspiciously well-timed reminder of the meaning of Christmas: it’s not about your gifts, it’s about your intentions. The NYC cop doesn’t have the right to dictate how his gift “should” be used. None of us do. That’s the point of a gift: you give it and let it go. Don’t get mad because your sister-in-law doesn’t properly ooh and ahhh over the coffee mug you made for her. Don’t pout because your mom doesn’t start fiddling with her new Kindle immediately after opening it. Don’t get depressed if your husband doesn’t leap for joy when he opens the video game you put so much thought into. Gifts are symbols of love, not obligations. Don’t get mad if someone doesn’t use or appreciate it in the manner you expect.

Admittedly, this is easier said than done. As a control freak, I continuously struggle with the expectations I place upon others. I wanted Adam to flash me his rare million-dollar grin last week when I told him I took a day off from work just to spend with him. I wanted my sister-in-law to  cry when she opened my custom-made birthday gift last month. I wanted my mother-in-law to hug me tightly when I volunteered to wash dishes after Thanksgiving dinner. They didn’t. But that doesn’t mean they didn’t appreciate the gestures. Besides, it’s not always about what I want.

This Christmas, I am attempting to make my gift-wrapped packages a little bit lighter by purposely omitting all the guilt and hopes and expectations I normally stuff in there. I want Adam to like his gifts, of course, but I’m not busting my ass to find The Best Gift Ever. I hope my mom enjoys what I bought for her, but if she doesn’t, that’s okay; I know she’ll appreciate the simple fact that I gave her anything at all.

‘Tis better to give than to receive, but only if you give with the right intentions.

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Confession

There’s a weird little fact that most people don’t know about me, something that once they learn, they tend to think of me in a different light. Something that is so odd that many people ask to see it for themselves.

That, my friends, is this: I have no idea how to brush my teeth.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration; I have some idea how to brush my teeth. But I’m really terrible at it. When I brush, I either do it in the shower or constantly leaned over the sink. Otherwise, the giant mess I always, always create would be all over the place, and I don’t need that.

I see others brushing their teeth while walking around or checking their email — this morning, I watched my friend Amy brush her teeth while sitting on the bed, watching TV! — and I am intensely, irrationally jealous. I am chained to my sink or shower. There’s just no other way, for me. Even in the backwoods, I use at least 12 ounces of precious water for the job.

Are you kidding me!?

And here’s why: despite trying to teach myself otherwise, I brush my teeth with my mouth wide open, using tons of water and creating an immense amount of foam that drips with abandon. Adam has compared the look, not unfairly, to that of a rabid dog. I cannot brush my teeth without wetting my toothbrush at least three times during the process and I cannot swallow or suck the foam; the idea makes me gag. I can’t even bring myself to spit it–I just let it fall as it may. I’ve never, ever seen anyone make such a spectacle of themselves while brushing their teeth as me.

Perhaps you understand now why the shower or sink is necessary?

So, how did I get this way? I like to say it’s not really my fault. My parents were not rich people, so we did not regularly visit the dentist (who could have taught me proper techniques). Nor were they what you ‘d call “hands-on,” so rather than teach me how to brush themselves, they left the job to my older brother, who was only 9  at the time. This is the part where most people defend their sibling’s effort, saying, “leave him alone, he tried his best!” I won’t do that. Eric was kind of a jerk to me when we were little, so he probably didn’t actually try that hard. I have not watched him brush his teeth in many years, but I suspect that he has perfect form; part of me thinks he taught me some sloppy, Gerry-rigged method simply to torture me.

I’ve honestly tried to break this habit, but undoing a mindless process that has been part of your life every single day for 25 years is nearly impossible.So, there you have it. I do not know how to brush my teeth and am terribly inept at one of mankind’s most basic grooming routines.

Admit it — now you really want to watch me do it, don’t you? And you lost a tiny bit of respect for me, didn’t you?

Kudos, brother. Your evil plan of 25 years ago has worked.

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By popular demand…

… here are some puppy photos of Ruby that could make even a Nazi’s heart melt.

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