The house is not going to close today. I am not surprised. Now the banks are fighting with each other. Over $6500.
I am going away this weekend. There will be sleep, a pool, and a hot stone massage, and a kayaking trip involved. I have not relaxed like this in over 6 months. It is time.
Next week, I am going to the beach with the girls. Two of my favorite twin sisters (the only ones I know, actually) invited me to the Outer Banks. Between us, we will have 5 children. It should be entertaining if nothing else.
A boss I had back in 2000 was fond of saying, “No good deed goes unpunished”. I used to think he was cynical, negative, or just wrong. Turns out he was right, about 80% of the time. I’ll still keep doing what I do, because the 20% of good deeds being appreciated make the rest worth it. Sort of like accepting heartbreak as a price tag for love, or the fine line between pleasure and intense pain.
I own my role in the mistakes I’ve made. I’m hopeful that one day, owning my role will turn into changing the way I approach things or people.
A friend of mine has a mother who is fond of saying, in the most guilt-inducing way possible, “I give and I give and I give . . . ” and it’s probably followed by a long sigh. I found myself feeling the same way on a number of levels. If that’s truly the way I feel, then perhaps it’s time to stop giving so much, being so focused on the outside, and take care of the things I can actually care for. Chances are, the people I am giving to don’t want what I am forcing down their throats. An old relationship of mine taught me to look at the actions, not the words. Actions, in my opinion, are the best indicator of what is really going on. I get so passionate and caught up in what I think will help that I forget others may not want that kind of help, or be bowled over/silenced by my enthusiasm to “make it all better”. It’s both a flaw and a strength for me.
A while back, Robey asked me if I was listening. If I was hearing what was being said, even without words. As usual, she was right. I wasn’t listening.
Simplicity is underrated. A small house, friends who will stay with you and buy you ice cream, sending flowers to someone just because. Slumber parties on school nights with two warm and snoring girls. Farting labradors and long runs with just the sound of your feet and a nose full of pollen. I’m happiest when I’m simple. I need to remember that.
One of my favorite clients is a life coach out in Minnesota. She has that adorable accent I used to have - I start saying “How key-ooooot!” whenever I talk to her. She sent me this quote after a marketing meeting today and it is awesome.
I’m printing that bad boy (or girl) out and putting it on my mirror. And the bathroom scale.
In happier news, after a truly crappy day on a multitude of levels, I FOUND A HOUSE. I am really excited. When you walk through the front door, you don’t need a Hot Tub Time Machine. You’re in the 60’s, baby. From the knotty pine cabinets in the tiny kitchen to the powder blue and white tiled “master” bathroom, this house screams “Carol Brady, Take Me Away!” But I love it. Hardwoods, sprawling brick rancher, screened porch (complete with neon green Astro-Turf for extra awesomeness!), a huge fenced yard with irises and day lilies blooming, a huge garage, a shed, and a DEN! The den even has the requisite dark wood paneling on the walls (I’m promptly painting it gloss white). This means Nikki can continue her nannying/work bitch/domestic slave loveliness, I have an office in which to work that is not in the master bedroom, and my inventory can be stored in the pull down huge-ass attic. I can deal with an ugly kitchen. If I get motivated, I’ve even been given the go-ahead to paint the kitchen cupboards white.
From 3600+ square feet full of granite, stainless steel, quartz and vessel sinks to an unrenovated house from the 60’s. Change has never felt so good. I am embracing the cheese pieces of the house and digging on the other things that I love, like sitting outside in the fall protected from mosquitoes and digging in the dirt with a bulb planter. Letting my kids ride bikes in a street where very few cars drive. Watching Thora run like a freak through the yard. Parking my new car in a garage and vacuuming it out. Lying in my bed at night with tiny lights on, reading a book. For the first time in years, it will be my house - my responsibility - my space. It’s horribly frightening but incredibly liberating.
After training for the 10K since January, it was a bit surreal to watch the first heat of amazing gazelle-like runners blast through the starting line and know that in 50 minutes, my heat would start and I’d be following them (at more than half speed I might add). My running group turned out in full force. The excitement was tangible. I was especially excited that we were able to find a parking spot only about a mile away from the race’s start. Unfortunately, two friends who tried to show up later to cheer me on at the finish line were unable to find any parking whatsoever, and drove around for 45 minutes before giving up. 35,000 people + downtown parking: interesting combination.
In December of 2009, I distinctly remember talking to Kate Hall about the mess my life was. We were having coffee and discussing anything other than motherhood, and she mentioned she was training for the 10K with a team called Run Like A Mother. She said, “You should sign up!” and I said, “Sure, why not?”
Why not indeed. First, I’m not a runner. I’ve never liked it. My legs are short, my stride is ridiculous, my arches hurt, I get shin splints, I have a weak left ankle. I’m about to turn 39. Did I mention I never ran much? The most I’d ever done was training badly for a 5K, and most anyone in decent cardiovascular shape can wing that. Even so, it nearly killed me. Ask Julie.
Summoning blind faith in the words of our trainer, who promised if we followed her plan we would all make it, I started training. I was skeptical. Surprisingly, I never hated the runs because we started with a run/walk combo, and the longer runs were on Saturdays, with a large group of mothers in varying degrees of shape and health. Up until we started running 5 miles, I was able to chat through the runs, exchange stories about kids and dogs and husbands, divorces, second husbands, cars, foot problems and what kind of running shoes fit best for short fat women. The time flew.
I trained. When it rained, I ran on the Hamster Wheel From Hell (the indoor track at the Y). I ran in snow, I tried not to kill myself on slush, and I ran when it was so cold my nose cracked and bled. Oddly enough, I enjoyed it. I never missed a training run until last Saturday, when I hurt my ankle running in my neighborhood. Laura sternly told me, “Run the 6 mile training run this week, or run the Monument Avenue 10K. But you’re not going to run both of them, so pick what’s important to you.” I chose the race, of course.
The training began to take on a life of its own, a meaning of its own. Here was something that was very difficult for me. I was scared to start, mortified that I would fail, committed to finishing. My only goals: run the entire time, and finish. I was having trouble matching my internal picture of myself to someone who could run any distance at all, even if it was only 6.2 miles. I began to associate today’s race, and crossing the finish line, with the life I’ve been living for the last 9 months. If I could run this race - without stopping, without faltering - and cross the finish line, I could do anything. Each time I hit a new milestone - 3 miles in training, 3.5, 4, one stunning afternoon where I went 5 miles in 50 minutes - I felt stronger, better, more focused. The stress of the week, my frustrations with life in general - they all melted away and nothing else mattered but the music in my ears and my feet on the pavement.
The 10K here is fairly well-known. People from all over come to run it. Seeing a throng of 20,000 people in front of me on Monument Avenue was mind-blowing. Every couple of blocks, a different band played. Thousands line the street to cheer and clap. Homemade signs with note of encouragement litter the telephone poles or are mounted on sticks. For a moment, everyone cheers for everyone else. When I finally was released from the starting gate, I couldn’t believe I was actually doing it. By mile 2, I was between my two running buddies. I tried to keep Jenn’s Run Like A Mother skirt in my view as both eye candy and inspiration (she has a cute butt). Running alone was weird in a crowd that huge, but I liked it. I watched a guy dressed like Darth Vader (with a huge papier-mache Death Star hanging over his head!) run. I saw the Wizard of Oz team, including one poor sucker who was wearing a huge tornado over his body made out of what looked like something heavy. Girls ran in tutus (some men, too). One girl ran dressed as a mermaid complete with a tiny little shell bikini top. Did I mention it was 34 degrees when we started running? Ketchup and Mustard were in front of me for a while. Two guys dressed entirely in lime green stretch suits (including over their faces) were unfortunately in front of me as well - that was far more detail of someone’s body than I ever wanted to see. . . .
Heading back at Mile 3, I faltered and played mental games with myself. I checked in with myself. Feet okay? Check. Ankle swollen? Nope. Dehydration level? Negligible. Fullness of bladder? All systems go. Then I checked out all the “for sale” signs on Monument and indulged fantasies of myself raising Lily and Arden on one of the most famous streets in Richmond, tucked behind leaded glass windows or terracotta roof tiles and Spanish arches. It got me to mile 6.
With only .2 miles to go, I summoned the last bit of energy I had and sprinted. I spent some time trying to find my friend’s faces as I didn’t know they’d been unable to find parking. Then I just ran. I crossed the finish line. I did it in 1:08:28. I was hoping to break an hour, but I took it slow because of my ankle. Crossing the line, I wept. My sister would have been mortified. It was mostly happy tears; tears of gratitude for my body that enabled me to get through it, gratitude for the training team, pure unadulterated joy that I had accomplished something that was, well, freakin’ hard for me. For a few moments, I was invincible, superhuman, able to leap divorces and foreclosures in a single bound.
Reality set back in quickly enough, but those few minutes were truly amazing. Hugging my training teammates, we all whooped and hollered and acted like fools. Then we walked back to the car and went our separate ways.
I’ll probably do a 5K in a couple of weeks. Pam, one of my running buddies, wants to work on her speed for 5ks and that sounds like a great idea to me. I don’t want to stop running, but I’m not going to go race crazy, either. Those moments of superhero status are like crack cocaine for the self-esteem impaired. Mama wants some more.
Saturday I completed my first 5K in, like, 100 years. I loved it, except the part where we were made to freeze outside for 45 minutes. There were a lot of half-hearted jumping jacks and full-fledged bitching. We finally figured out the Food Court was open and attempted to warm up there. I peed about 23 times because I was so nervous.
I wouldn’t say the race was easy, but it was definitely not difficult. Laura ended up running it with the Run Like A Mother posse; I have two regular running buddies in the group. We all finished in under 35 minutes, a personal best for me. I wasn’t sore and I wasn’t tired. I was pretty damn proud of myself. Toward the end, I heard the music from Chariots of Fire and sprinted the last 300 yards. I was almost screaming, “I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!” Then I nearly puked walking to my car.
After a reapplication of deodorant, I headed up to Maryland to see Julie. The drive through NoVa was its usual cluster - 4 1/2 hours later, I had made it the 160 miles to Sykesville. Her friend Christine hosted a baby shower for her soon-to-be adopted Ethiopian daughter. It was great to see her, even though she kept calling it a “Smash and Grab” visit. She got a lot of good stuff and had, I’m sure, a ton of fun trying to cram it all into a duffel bag for the flight back to Colorado. Whenever I see her, it’s like no time has passed (cliche much?) and Christine was an amazing host. My one bone to pick: Christine kept telling me to drink a wine cooler, and I did. Um, it wasn’t a wine cooler. It was a Smirnoff Ice something or other. After running and not eating much, I was a staggering disaster after about 20 minutes. No more Smirnoff Ice for me, ever - but it was pretty tasty!
The trip back was much better and took less than 3 hours. Wahoo!
I'm a 30-something mother of girls born 23 months apart. Originally hailing from the frosty throes of Northern Michigan, I now live in the humidity pit of the universe - Virginia.
Read More...
