(note:  so very tired, grammatical errors ahead.  cut me some slack.)

In the last three weeks, I’ve started a new job, finished my first big project, raced in Washington DC, had a birthday celebration (small scale) for Arden, had a birthday celebration (large scale) for Arden including mass chaos at a Build-A-Bear followed by even bigger chaos at a slumber party, followed by lack of sleep, a 10 mile run, and a huge, successful and very loud surprise party for Running Boy followed by breakfast, cleanup, dehydration and an overwhelming need for narcolepsy. 

So to back it up:  work.  Work is work, yes, but it’s also way more strategic than I’d hoped and is actually challenging me more than I was lead to believe.  This either means I’ve dumbed myself way down over the past decade or it’s just good and honest challenging work.  I like my team and have only irritated someone one (by putting lotion on a dry ankle; apparently she’s very sensitive to smells and had no issues letting me know about it).  I’ve been cramming my running and workouts into the days somehow.  I’ve also been adjusting to the unfabulous thing that is workplace food.  Communal eating is rampant on my floor and someone is always bringing in some junk or other.  This defies logic, as I work with some of the thinnest people I’ve known.  It’s wreaking havoc on my own self-esteem issues but I am trying to get over. 

Army 10-miler: I had a fabulous weekend in DC with Running Boy and our friends Andrea and Joe.  I could go on and on about it, but the Renaissance in Pentagon City is amazing, the weather was beautiful, Ethiopian food doesn’t agree with Running Boy’s internal machinery, and seeing our friends before a moving running experience was really amazing.  The race itself wasn’t what I’d call well thought out.  This is strange, considering it’s a government that can run huge projects with millions of people and . . . oh, wait.  Right.  Government.

The plus side:  running with veterans, some missing legs and arms or both, some with prosthetics and some in wheelchairs, really brings home the cost of a war.  It was an odd race in that many times throughout the 10 miles, I felt myself close to tears and not just because I really wanted to stop running.  Watching mothers and sisters, wives, girlfriends, friends . . . all of them running with pictures of their dead on their backs.  It was a hard thing to take in, especially against the backdrop of a gorgeous day, the sun crashing against the Potomac and the monuments and cherry trees at my back. 

The down side:  Joe had to stop at mile 2 for help with his knee and I ran the last 8 alone.  The first 10k was good.  The last 4 miles was just ugly and miserable.  I was hot, slow, and even all the cute army boys manning the water stops weren’t enough eye candy to keep me going.  I walked the better portion of the last 2 miles, just to find myself dehydrated and overheated while I wandered around a parking lot at the Pentagon, attempting to find a particular Hooah tent in the middle of what seemed like thousands of other tents.  Did they provide a map of what tent contained what unit?  Nope.  Nor did I realize that after 45 minutes and yes, let’s admit it, a few tears of utter frustration and the dire need to sit down, that I’d meet up with everyone just to walk another mile back to the metro station.  Even better - a runner, waiting for the metro, decided that chugging water would make him feel better.  “Chugging” and “post race hydration” do not go hand and hand.  While we all charged through the opening train doors, Chugger expelled the water he’d just inhaled in a 50 mph arc.  The last 1/4 of the arc hit my right side and legs.  Oddly he continued onto the train, still gagging, at which point the doors closed in time for him to release another jet onto a new group of people. 

It was a long ride back to Richmond, and I admit my crankiness at Running Boy’s custody schedule continues to irritate me.  Don’t know why I can’t just accept it for what it is and hope for a change in it soon, but I’m not going to lie:  losing the majority of every other Sunday makes traveling nearly impossible.  And I’m tired of feeling like his situation still dictates what I can and cannot do. 

HOWEVER.  The weekend was great and I got a tiny bit of down time before . . .

Arden turned 7. Family dinner on Tuesday, following by a whirlwind week of school stuff, work and coordination.  Her actual birthday party included 8 kids at Build a Bear workshop.  Yes, I’m still disturbed by a steel pipe shoved up the rectum of an unsuspecting bear or rabbit, but the girls really love it and Arden even stuffed the butt of an owl for me.  After, we had pizza and cake at the house.  I will admit that I overextended the invitation.  3 girls plus Arden is probably plenty; I did way more than that, and I paid the price for it.  This also includes the idea of the girls going home to their parents saying, “Arden’s mom is MEAN!”  I had to do a lot of “mom-voice” and threatening.  One girl actually left at 11.30 because the dryer beeped and she said the noise sounded like a robot. I got no sleep that night, but had to be up at 6 to get ready for a 10 mile training run.

pics:

So why not skip it?  Because the longer runs are important and after running 8 miles alone after 2 with company, I had no desire to try to get 10 miles in isolation.  I had a babysitter come at 6.30 to help get the girls up, dressed and fed before the parents came to pick them up. I paid well; that was quite a task for her.  The 10 miles itself was really nice.  A side note:  that particular route is the one I did on Christmas morning after leaving the girls with Mike.  It was my first Christmas without them since their birth, and it was a pretty wretched day.  The route is one of my favorites because it’s mostly flat and full of good people watching, but the roads still hold a trace of the utter despair I left behind on December 25. 

After, my mother showed up to entertain Lily and Arden.  Through many very complex gyrations and a lot of help from friends, especially the aforementioned mother, Andrea and Renee, not to mention the boys who kept him busy Saturday, I was able to pull off a huge coup and actually surprise Running Boy with a huge birthday party. 

Side note #2.  I had originally thought I’d combine his birthday with a divorce party, because SURELY he’d be divorced by October, right?  Well, I wasn’t right, but I continued on with my planning.  I can’t even explain how complex it was trying to shuttle four kids around without setting off warning bells, but with some careful planning and some crafty lying, I had him convinced we were going “away” for a night.  When it finally clicked, he was pretty impressed.  His friends amaze me; 20+ years of knowing him and they drive all kinds of hours to make it down for this party.  It was a mixed bag of people; some of our running friends, some of my friends who have learned to love him, many of his friends I was meeting for the first time (and who got over how weird it was that I’d hijacked his phone and began sending random text messages to people I’d never talked to about coming to a party I was hosting).  Everyone seemed to click, the beer flowed liberally, and in my second major coup of the day, I managed to talk Dean Fields into doing a house party.

(actually it isn’t that hard.  pick a date he’s available and write him a check, and he pretty much shows up…)

One of my first real dates with Running Boy was to see Dean play at Cap Ale here in Richmond.  It was a ton of fun and I’ve been a big connoisseur of his music since then.  He’s readily accessible through all the social media norms, so I reached out to him when I found out he did these house shows.  Some begging and pleading to move dates around and voila - he showed up at the house, mingled for an hour, played in the backyard in front of a roaring (duraflame) fire until his hands got so cold they went numb, and ended up sticking around for the rest of the wackiness.  It seemed as though most really enjoyed the experience, but for me it was incredibly meaningful.  As I’ve traveled the better portion of the last year with RB, Dean’s music has played on my iPhone and during many an ice bath, hot bath, or afternoon of doing nothing.  His music was the soundtrack to the end of my marriage and the start of my new life, and to have him play songs that are important to me was something I’ll never forget. 

pics:  (warning, not every pic is family friendly)

Arden had yet another birthday party to attend today, so I dragged my hungover, still dehydrated rear to the mall.  We ran after the kids and rode a train and tried not to be cranky as all of us were very tired.  It’s going to feel very good hitting the pillow in the next 5 minutes.  I also was going to post a video I took of Dean in the backyard, but it’s really crappy quality and you can see what his house shows are like by clicking the link above. 

I feel like I am coming off an adrenaline bender, and so looking forward to doing nothing next weekend.  For now, however, I am so grateful to those who made the weekend possible and for the ability to give something back to Running Boy.  He very much needed a bright spot among the few dark ones that remain. 

I write frequently about my friend Dan and his lovely girlfriend Nicole, who is now also just “Nicole”, instead of “Dan’s girlfriend Nicole”. 

Something kind of amazing and cool happened to Dan recently (for twitter folk, he is a.k.a. @wxdan). 

To say Dan is a “private” guy would be like calling the iceberg that sunk Titanic a lil’ bit of frozen agua.  It is a matter of my sheer annoying tenacity and willingness to question everything and everyone that has afforded me the relationship I have with Dan, and even I know I’ve barely scratched the surface.  As much as Dan has trouble talking about himself, though, Dan makes sure he is available for his friends, and his social media family. 

He also has an amazing ability to balance things on his nose.

It’s fairly obvious from Dan’s handle that he’s a bit of a weather nerd.  Actually he’s a Weather Nerd with a capital W and a capital N.  Sitting in the townhome he and Nicole share, I can see a huge “Severe Convective Storms” book (great for light reading before bed!).  The man is a scientific genius and used to give me panic attacks just showing me his homework (I have no idea what it even means). 

actual @wxdan homework!!!

When Dan went to finish college at Virginia Tech, Richmond mourned the loss of Weather Dan.  His social media family made lots of sad-faced emoticons in their posts, and we all wondered who in the hell was going to give us personalized forecasts within 30 seconds of tweet requesting it.  Thankfully, RVA News hired him to keep writing weather forecasts for us people in flat Richmond while Dan went to live (literally) at the top of a hill outside of Blacksburg. 

Instead of his ties weakening with his abandoned, sulking River City, it seemed to strengthen.  And he kept on tweetin’, stayin’ up late, and learnin’ more and more about weather.  He even got some sweet storm chasing gig through Tech and did crazy things like driving TOWARD tornadoes. 

Irene was no different than the many other natural things that happen, you know, like earthquakes, storms, and let’s not forget #snowpocalypse (actually, please, let’s forget that hashtag forever). For me, Dan is my personal race day forecaster who has never failed to prepare me for what mother nature is bringing down on my aching feet and burning lungs.  Dan stayed focused on Irene all week, making sure all of us knew the severity of the storm, and urged us to prepare.  He probably didn’t eat, and let’s not think about how many hours he went without showers while he answered the tweets and questions and stared into his weather modeling stuff that sits in a sort of tower in the townhouse.  I’ve heard rumors that Nicole forced him to eat and step away for breaks; that women is a modern-day Mother Teresa with a lot more style and a sewing machine. 

I posted the following Saturday night, as I wondered if Irene was ever going to get the hell away:

As you can see, my friend Mark asks the burning question:  why not just watch the weather?  Well, the weather was frustrating the hell out of me.  I wanted to know exactly WHEN it was going to be at the peak for MY particular area (he knew the specific address of where I currently sat, waiting for a loblolly pine to crush me to bits), and HOW LONG was it going to take.  Dan answered my question quickly . . . .and kindly.  In other words, he didn’t tell me to turn on the television; he knew what I was asking. 

Imagine the social media community of Richmond crawling on its knees, each of us losing power (and cell service!!!! it can’t be!!!), losing Facebook, Tweetdeck, and the tetherings of our sanity.  During all of this, a group of people in Richmond put together a private Facebook group.  During the Hurricane.  Amazingly enough, over one hundred people joined the group and began donating money to thank Dan for all the support, help and extras he’s given throughout the years. 

First, I’m going to post Shane’s explanation for the group that Dan read when he was finally given the news today:

An Open Letter to WxDan:

So Dan. We have a bit of surprise for you. While you were going over storm models and keeping everyone up to date with the best weather resource anyone could find, your friends and followers here in RVA were chipping in left and right to show you their appreciation.

You’ll see stories on this page about how you have helped people. They are sincere and unsolicited. Personally, you’ve been a weather safety blanket of sorts for us. Kristin and I can’t recall how many times we’ve told each other how lucky we were to have you as a resource on our twitter feed and we’re glad to call you a friend.

There is something else you should know. Jeb and Kate started the process by opening the group. I took it and ran that Saturday night as I figured I was the last one standing with both wi-fi and power. It was a total community effort. People enthusiastically gave. Within hours my paypal account had a few hundred bucks in it despite 70 percent of the town without power. Once everyone got to work on Monday it really went nuts. It’s obvious people feel you deserve this and more. Since there are still some folks likely out of commission, I’m going to keep accepting donations until Friday, but I think I’ve heard from most everyone.

So, if you would kindly message me your mailing address all 47 contributors would be pleased to overnight you a check for $1,000. Well $999.50, but I’m rounding up. Perhaps you can get that third or fourth monitor. Take Nicole out for a nice dinner. Pay Rent. Also, we’ve determined that Amazon does carry weather balloons. Just sayin’…

A couple of stories from members in the group, names shortened for privacy: 

Kristin said:  Dan, it was one in the morning, and you were researching tornado warnings for my family cut off from information, huddled in their basement in Pennsylvania last weekend. This is just karma paying your back for your goodness - we were simply the very eager conduits.

Nick said: Dan made a huge difference for Susan and I. Gave me piece of mind while traveling and helped me keep tabs for professional work. Susan was able to follow while home and said it was the best coverage online. Donation happily and proudly sent.

For me, it was an amazing thing to see all the different people Dan has touched with his kindness and patience and his true passion for all things meteorological.  He’s a one of a kind person, and I’m lucky to call him “friend”. 

And for Nicole’s sake, I really hope he passes on the weather balloon idea.  Nicole is really at a loss for where they would store it. 

I’m struggling today, but not because of my own problems. 

I have a close friend who has their own issues with mental health, coping, stress, and living a life without pushing the self-destruct button just to see what happens. 

When I got out of the hospital nearly two years ago, my friend was there for me.  They told me all about their own issues, their own experiences with hospitalization and fighting depression.  Sometimes it feels like a huge uphill battle, and frankly, it’s a very tiring battle.  At that time, it was very helpful talking to someone who’d been inside the same walls I’d been, even though I knew it was incredibly difficult for my friend to share it with me. 

I’ve seen some warning signs in my friend’s behavior over the past few months.  On the outside, everything looks pretty. However, I’m too well-versed in how things look as opposed to how things are - and I can generally see through that facade without much difficulty.  I saw my friend recently and there are chinks in the armor.  Most people wouldn’t notice, but I did - and I was scared. 

Inevitably, people will ask my friend “WHY” be depressed, why now, when things are so good?  I got asked that question incessantly.  The fact is:  there is no WHY and no TIME that depression doesn’t find its way in.  That’s the difference between clinical and situational depression.  My friend’s life is great right now - really, better than I’ve ever seen it - but still the struggle continues and the depression is actually worse right now.  My theory is that because life can present itself as “great”, when your feelings don’t match your surroundings it’s almost worse.  I see my friend contemplating self-destruction.  I see my friend starting to expand the isolation; pushing people away has always been a skill. 

I remember the brilliant peak before I began my rapid descent into the rocks below.  I wasn’t sleeping much; when I was, it was at odd times of the day or a couple of hours here and there.  I wasn’t eating properly, or at all.  I was abusing exercise and people.  I couldn’t formulate a coherent thought to save my life, yet you couldn’t shut me up.  I know others around me, like my friend, could see it coming.  I have a new appreciation and sympathy for them now.  I don’t know what to do.  I’ve talked to my friend.  I’ve been direct, and gentle, and I’ve pleaded a bit too.  Their significant other has done the same thing.  My need to rescue others has been activated in a big way, even though I know I can’t save anyone and I certainly can’t save my friend. 

All I can do is hang on, and let my friend know I’m there with them.  I will give my opinion when I feel it’s necessary or that I am being heard.  I will let my friend know that their perception isn’t clear anymore.  When you are in the grips of depression, sometimes you forget to ask for help.  Down there at the bottom, it doesn’t really feel worth asking for it anyway.  I need to keep reminding my friend that we are here, and we all have our hands extended. Right now, my friend doesn’t care for themselves half as much as the people who love my friend do, and we need to keep reminding my friend we are here and we are present.

Depression and mental illness are still so stigmatized.  One is “weak” if they suffer from it.  Pull yourself up by the bootstraps.  Suck it up.  Man up.  Deal with it.  Just be happy.  I need my friend to remember that what is going on is chemical.  Just like any other condition, it requires treatment.  In my opinion, treatment is two-fold:  treating the chemical imbalance with medication, and treating the internal workings with therapy and support to learn how to best manage the condition.

It took me hitting rock bottom to finally get me to admit that I needed medication, and therapy, and healthy friends, and normal sleep patterns, and stability, and confidence, to truly live with what I have.  I would work a part-time job sweeping the streets if that was the only way I could afford my medication.  It is no longer a choice; it is something that has changed my life for the better and I try not to forget that.  It is something I have to live with the rest of my life, just like my friend John lives with diabetes - and it requires the same kind of vigilance. 

I’m hopeful that the people who love my friend can move my friend in the direction they need to go.  For me, it was a combination of gentle force and knowing that unless I did something drastic, I wasn’t going to make it for any length of time.  My friend might actually be more stubborn than me, which makes things interesting.  I guess I’m just holding out hope that I can be there for my friend like they were for me, and I can help before the pieces fall apart. 

My friend deserves so much more happiness and peace than what they are currently receiving. 

Whoa, there’s been a lot happening up in this joint. 

• Work:
I’ve been looking half-heartedly for work because part-time is hard to come by, and I’ve had nothing but brick walls on the full time front.  I meant to blog about my abysmal and soul-sucking interview at an ad agency.  It lasted approximately 10 minutes and left me wanting to gut myself on the hipster stairway just to make the owner clean it up.  (Next time you will only hire someone with agency experience, don’t waste my time as it’s clear from my resume I have never worked for a traditional ad agency.  However, I have run my own for the past 9 years and could do this job with 2 hands tied behind my back, but never mind).  I had decided to stop looking completely as theoretically, nap mat season is right around the corner.  I keep waiting to round the corner.  Last year my season started in June; this year it seems to be off to a slow start.  I’m not going to lie. It’s freaking me out.  However, I’ve been really focusing on my site and adding new products left and right, writing new copy, trying to make Google direct the universe to me.  It’s paid off somewhat.  My friend Meg is an operations manager at a large pool company, and she is my sometimes-running buddy.  She had to can her admin earlier and called me to see if I wanted to help her out for the summer.  Hell, yes!  It’s just slightly better than minimum wage but I can work a few hours every day, help her out, and go home to finish out the day working on nap mats and other projects.  It’s some steady income I desperately need and might actually help me put some money back in the bank.  I haven’t done pure admin stuff in a long while but I’m looking forward to it.  Working in an office with people is exciting, as is helping keep things together in a fast-paced environment. I love being busy and organizing projects and procedures.  I’m not sure how I’m going to fit my exercise schedule into my life, but I’ll have to deal with it.  I got panicky just thinking about how I was going to be able to ride or swim when the better part of the day is taken up with work like normal people, but I’ll have to find a way and be flexible.  Because I have the kids so much during the week, I can’t leave early in the morning to run or train.  I think it would be frowned upon, leaving a 6 and 8 year old home alone while I do a 30 mile bike ride.  So . . . hopefully my training buddies like Charlette, John and Meg will be flexible with me.  It’s ironic that I’d have to pay my babysitter more than I’ll be making to watch them while I work out, but I’m going to try to ignore that.  Thankfully their summer camp is a lot less than a private babysitter Poor Thora; she’s going to miss me. 
• Christiansburg:
Trevor, Running Boy and I all drove out to see Dan and Nicole this past weekend.  I was reminded how much I love the mountains when we first arrived, and quickly schooled in how much I hate the mountains when trying to run distances on them.  By some grace I was able to survive a 5 mile run on the hilliest roads I’ve ever done and make it back to the house.  I learned a couple of things about running in Southwestern Virginia.  First, drivers there aren’t really used to runners.  They don’t really understand that when you see a person running down the road toward you, you should move away from the shoulder so they don’t kill themselves jumping into ditches to avoid being creamed by a gas truck.  Second, lots of dogs are unleashed.  That’s great, I’m all for free on the range doggie lives.  However, I wasn’t so fond of being bitten by a small dog named Blackjack who was slobbering and growling like Cujo.  After he chased me down the road, he grabbed ahold of my forearm.  I shook him loose, all the while listening to his owner shout at him and tell me “He’s friendly!  He ain’t gonna bite cha!”  This, after he bit me.  I have a pretty bruise to show for it but no broken skin. I also realized that no matter how much I love dogs, I have it in me to kick one hard if one ever comes after me again.  I also learned that running in the mountains is so beautiful, it almost makes up for the searing pain in my lungs and a pair of legs that wanted to quit 3/4 of a mile into it.  We spent Saturday tubing on the New River.  Nicole filled up a cooler with beer and beer and beer.  And some water and soda.  We stuck it in a beer tube and hung onto each other.  Dan spent a large portion of his float staring intensely at the clouds and running complex calculations in his head to determine whether we were, or were not, going to be struck dead by lightning.  Trevor got hit on by a cutie in a bikini, but I don’t think he was overly interested in sealing the deal.  Parts of the river were deep enough for swimming, so we all took turned flipping out of the tubes and getting wet.  I even practiced some open water swimming, but that lasted less than 5 minutes as I was still wiped out from the early morning run.  Running Boy and I were obnoxious and rented a double tube (think two donuts fused together).  We spent most of the afternoon alternately laughing hysterically or zoning out under a beautiful sky and clear river.  Both extremes were awesome.  Nicole and Dan made us a feast Saturday night and an amazing brunch on Sunday.  Every time I’m with them, I realize how much I miss them and I curse Dan for getting his damn degree finished up so far away from Richmond.  I got some alone time with Nicole and Dan both; each conversation reminded me how much I miss talking to them and how amazing they both are.  I’ve never met two people more cut out for each other.  Dan gave Running Boy “four thumbs up” (hmmmm), and Nicole said, “I’d be friends with him even if you weren’t,” so I guess that’s a good sign.  Really, Running Boy is hard not to like.  I like him, too. 
• Dating:
Speaking of Running Boy, things have been a little stressful lately but mostly due to outside forces (or as Philip would say, a ripple in the Force).  His divorce is looming closer but I’ve never experienced, this up close and personal, two people who cannot agree on just about anything.  In many ways, I think his ex disagrees just to mess with him, but maybe she truly does feel that strongly about every little detail.  Each time I think things are calming down, something else kicks the hornet’s nest and the emotional roller coaster decides to take another swing around the park.  My ex has a girlfriend too.  According to my girls, she is beautiful (but so am I, says Lily quickly), friendly, kind, nice, and indulgent.  When I picked them up today, both were wearing adorable bikinis that she had bought for them.  Dammit, she has good taste as well.  Lily then told me how the girlfriend had helped them make breakfast in bed for him on Father’s Day.  It’s all so domestic and cozy.  I’m genuinely happy (or I try to be) that they have such a nice person in their lives, and I’ve even gone so far as to send my ex notes telling him to thank her for me for the nice things she does.  But it also irritates me because she is so much easier for my kids to deal with than my situation.  She doesn’t have kids, so all of her attention can be focused on mine, and they love it.  Running Boy has kids, and when the 6 of us are together, it’s usually chaotic and noisy and no one person gets any kind of special attention.  While that can be a lot of fun (think Brady Bunch but with better hair), my kids don’t have the same relationship with Running Boy that they do with Amazingly Awesome Girlfriend.  In the car today, driving with Lily, I was murmurring “That’s great, ” and “I’m so glad you had fun,” and “What a pretty bathing suit she picked out for you”.  I thought I was doing a good job until Lily asked me what was wrong.  I quickly kicked myself in the butt and said, “Nothing!  I just hope one day you’ll feel as close to (Running Boy) as you do to (Amazingly Awesome Girlfriend).”  She hesitated and said, “I love (Running Boy) too, Mommy.  It’s just easier for me to be happy if Daddy marries (Amazingly Awesome Girlfriend) because she doesn’t have any kids.”  In her mind it makes perfect sense.  In my mind, I just think, why can’t this be easier?  The Boy and I vacillate between acting as if this is all so very casual and making plans for when we are 89 years old together.  Sometimes we forget to be casual and have conversations about merging families.  Other times we make callous comments about the next relationship or great love of our lives.  Sometimes I personally get so overwhelmed with all of the details and parenting styles and financial issues that I just want to join a convent and give up real relationships.  We both struggle with the balance between serious and still fun.  He’s still married, which is technically kind of a drag.  I’m legal now and I am over all of the drama and emotional debt that comes from divorcing, especially when kids are involved.  I’m selfish and I don’t want to deal with it; on the other hand, I’m incredibly loyal and I want to help him as much as I can.  After years of marriage, I’m less tolerant of anything that annoys me.  I have found that I don’t want to deal with a lot of things.  If I sense selfishness, annoyed is not even close to the right adjective for how I feel.  If I feel used, or put upon, I’m easily made irate.  I never used to be this quick to be annoyed, but I think it’s a temporary thing and I will slowly stop having knee-jerk reactions to things that have been issues in the past.  Thankfully, Running Boy has a completely different temperament than the ex and I am mostly dealing with baggage from the recent past - the idiots I dated after the end of my marriage and beginning of my relationship with Running Boy.  Sometimes I feel sorry for him because I’m still unraveling the ball of damage and bad decisions I made after leaving my marriage.  Other times I want to shake him, make him deal with his own crap.  Usually I just sit on my hands and wait until he can be clear of this cloud, because no matter what, until you are divorced you are still in a relationship with someone else.  We are both equally tired of this third person in our relationship.  I wait, sometimes more patiently than others, for her to exit stage left and for me to embrace the idea of putting up with this person’s interactions with what will soon be her ex-husband. 
• Training:
I’m still training for Pink Power Sprint Triathlon in August.  I do it right before leaving for my big exciting summer vacation - a week plus in Traverse City without kids or significant other.  I’m visiting a few friends and borrowing Philip’s car in exchange for buying him beer.  I can’t wait to be back there on the beaches and on road trips and camping.  I’m sad my vacation plans with the Boyfriend had a major fail (complex calendar scheduling malfunction - not unusual for us, unfortunately).  However, I haven’t had a vacation like this in I can’t even tell you how long.  It will be good for me to get away and rest for a bit, even if I am processing orders like a fiend during one of the busiest weeks of my business.  Half Marathon training team starts up August 6 and I will probably do that as well.  I’m struggling mightily with my weight and fitness level; committing to a training team has been helpful in the past.  I’m running a race series in July in my old neighborhood, of all places.  I hate the run and the course, and I hate the heat of July, so it’s almost like my own personal hell doing the runs.  I do it because I hated it so much last year, I figure I have to hate it less this year.  It makes no sense, but I’m going with it.  Maybe I’ll even blog more often this summer. 

I’ve been struggling with the post for a while.  I know I have a hard post to write when I actually have to outline, dammit.  Outlines are the bane of my existence.  Doing one way back when for NaNoWriMo nearly killed me.  How I managed a degree in Creative Writing without ever embracing the outline I do not know, but this might be why my writing lives a tangential existence and goes where it wants.  I merely follow it, trying to keep up with the flow. 

This post IS about a person, and I’ll get into that (according to my outline, in the next paragraph).  It’s also, however, a post about my own insecurities and sadness regarding my station in life and where my own creative genius ended up.  It’s also about how nothing is ever good enough for me, and plenty of people, who truly have one gift or another. 

Having spent many years running in an “artistic” crowd, I’ve met plenty of talented people.  Musicians, writers, artists, poets, photographers.  This is to say that I’ve met plenty of talented creatives, but in my short 40 years, I’ve only met one or two truly brilliant people.  When I first met Paul, he was older, drove a convertible missing most of the floorboards, and had a coveted job at an “alternative”* clothing store.  He was also the stand-out art student of that year, and probably the previous 10 and the following 20.  What made him different was that he was gifted and brilliant and all those things, but he wasn’t interested in acting tortured.  He was funny as hell and even today I can remember how his laughter would sneak out of him when he least expected it and we would all start laughing just because he was.  He was the quintessential cool kid, and since he no longer is, I can say that he was overweight but no one seemed to notice.  I have no idea how we met, but it was probably because I was working on the school newspaper and he was probably doing something hilarious and artsy for it.  I could also be wrong, but he asked me out on a date.  The date was to go listen to some jazz band or other.  JAZZ.  I was 15.  (Being 15 meant I wasn’t allowed to go, but I managed to convince my parents to let me do something else with him, and that escapes memory as well.)

I don’t remember how long we dated but it was never serious.  We stayed friends.  I am fairly certain there was some douchebaggery surrounding us deciding not to date any longer (read:  Paul decided, I accepted ungraciously).  But it was high school.  This is how things went.  Then I got a boyfriend - my first real one - and Paul went off to Rhode Island School of Design.  I ended up in Kalamazoo, Michigan for my freshman year of college.  Paul was exploring Boston and Providence and meeting other brilliant (and mostly crazy) people.  I was going crazy all on my own in KaZoo.  Somehow I scraped up enough money to buy a train ticket to Boston.  I spent a few days roaming around Providence, not fitting in (see, even at my most “alternative”, I wasn’t alternative enough to fit in with real artists), meeting his friends and roommates, drinking excessive amounts of caffeine and feeling like I was about to come unglued.  I totally and completely didn’t get the sculpture major thing. I could appreciate the beauty of what he, and his friends, were creating, but I went to Rhode Island expected to see bronzed labradors or sculpted marble. I wasn’t aware of any other kind of sculpture.  When I realized my mistake, I was horribly embarrassed but too insecure to be able to laugh about it. 

I fell in love with Paul that weekend.  He fell out of love with me when he realized that my written voice - on all those pieces of paper, long before email, was really the best part about me.  Or that at least was what my memory tells me.  I first learned to hate my written self from Paul, because he always loved me more on paper than he did in the flesh.  It happened a number of times. Keith had an easier time loving my words and a much harder time loving the demanding, ever-present physical form of my body.  Doug loved me for my grammar and my intellect, and spent weeks editing the good stuff out of my Hopwood entry.  By the time he finished editing me, I no longer had a story that resembled the original.  I also no longer resembled myself, but that’s another blog post entirely, and one I probably won’t waste blog space writing. 

There was drama that following summer, or maybe it was the previous.  We “dated” again, albeit briefly, and I was dumped (again) unceremoniously when he failed to show at an agreed-upon time and stopped taking my phone calls.  He apologized later.  I’m fairly certain whoever she was that took up the rest of my summer with Paul was much taller, much prettier, and definitely understood that sculpture majors don’t really sculpt. 

After Paul, I swore off artists.  And I really meant it. I even avoided dating the writers in my creative writing circuit.  I found them either incredibly dull and self-serving, or flat-out crazy like the artists but with cheaper drugs and less finesse. 

In 1999, Paul found me again somehow.  He got my phone number and he called me.  He was in California and doing something cool, as he always was, living with someone (tall, beautiful, and nearly as brilliant as he was, I’m sure), happily working on random things.  I was engaged, or about to be engaged.  Frankly, I was still over the artists.  Paul was fascinating and he could tell a great story, but I wanted friends who cared enough about me to ask questions.  I felt just as I had years prior - a sounding board for other people, a blank white wall in which to throw paint or words against, a flat piece of glass reflecting a beautiful vision of what they wanted to see.  Frankly, I was annoyed.  Frankly, I just didn’t want to hear about his fabulous life, his beautiful work, his amazing girlfriend, or the fantastic climate of California.  I was in humid Virginia, about to get married, working in a job I hated, and living in a 1 bedroom apartment.  I wasn’t writing at all.  And all he wanted to know about me was whether or not I’d continued.  I hated admitting that after college and thousands of pages of fiction, I was burned out and could barely read a book, let alone think about writing one.

He called a few times.  I never responded.  I was wrapped up in my new life, buying a house, getting fired, wedding preparations, moving, the important things:  like which veil to choose.  I got married.  I loved my life for a few years. Most of the time, especially after having kids, I didn’t even mourn the loss of my “craft” anymore.  I didn’t have time to think about it.  Any free time I had, I wanted sleep more than anything else. 

It was, and is, no surprise to me or anyone who knew Paul “way back when” that he accomplished more than he thought he would.  He always assumed he’d fail or self-destruct and he nearly got his way, but the rest of us watching him knew without a doubt that he’d do something amazing.  He ended up working in film, which also didn’t surprise me as we used to spend breaks and hunks of summer vacations filming everything and everyone with a clunky video camera that weighed at least 20 pounds.  It was the 80’s. When he found me this last time, I was almost blase about his life - I never expected less.  I don’t buy movies on DVD unless they are really special.  Ironically, I owned one of the movies he worked on.  When watching it for the first time, I was struck by the titles and how they were used throughout the movie.  It was darkly funny.  It was my favorite part of the movie, aside from the subplot of twinkie hunting.  Maybe all these years later I related so much to the feel of those titles because they were so very much Paul.  It didn’t surprise me either that he was responsible for them. 

He doesn’t mince words.  His life sounds different from mine - very different.  It’s all very exciting and full of weird stories, neurotic people, demanding directors, exciting locations (except when he had to go film something in Michigan).  But it also sounds incredibly lonely.  If I worked a schedule like that, what with all my bipolar and sleep issues, I’d be kur-razy.  It would be one of the most unhealthy professions I could find myself in.  I also find that when surrounded by other entirely too intense and passionate people, I get entirely too intense as well. 

It doesn’t mean I’m not sad, in a weird way.  As I said, I’m not surprised that he is where he is.  I never expected anything less.  What I am surprised about is my own life.  I don’t mean this in a negative way because my life is pretty awesome.  Here come the standard phrases justifying my awesome life, but I really do mean them:  awesome kids, a flatulent dog, a kind boyfriend, a decent ex-husband, my grasp on the english language, my businesses, my running, etc etc etc.  But looking back to a night of greasy food consumed in a diner near Providence, I did not envision my life looking like this.  I am disappointed that I spent so much of my 20’s floundering and wasting energy on relationships that didn’t deserve any part of me when I could have been writing.  This all begs the question to be answered:  if I was so talented, then why did I not do what I wanted to do? 

It’s possible we all think we’re way more talented than we actually are.  Paul always thought he was less talented.  The minute he finished something, his public admiration would begin but it was too late.  He was already ripping it apart, displeased with the end results, ready to throw it away and start again. I still know people who kept the shopping bags he used to doodle on when he worked at Irreverence because they were so different and so funny.  He is probably dying with shame over that sentence, but it’s true.  This is why I’ve spent years hating everything I’ve created, or thinking it could have been so much better.  In my case, it probably could have been.  In his case, he’s used his chronic disappointment in his ability to drive him forward, to get better and better, even if it’s cost him personally.  I didn’t have that kind of drive or passion within me, which is why I am satisfied with my 8 year old blog and my unedited novel, mouldering untouched on my c: drive. 

Talking to him recently has been good for me.  It’s made me reassess my feelings about my own dedication to the thing that I’m “best” at.  And maybe it’s time to stop assuming I suck at passion, and give it a shot again.  A real shot.  In the meantime, I’m holding all of the celebrity gossip hostage in the hopes he’ll give me a writing grant in exchange for my silence.  I’m also still trying to answer the question:  Can you be brilliant and still have a normal life?  I’d sure like to find out. 

*alternative and Traverse City: oxymoron.  At least in 1987.