Imagine a Runner

I have been distracted all day, waiting for news, and engrossed in attempting to track my father's progress along his marathon.

The NYCM servers were completely overwhelmed most of the day by people attempting to track their favorite runners. I did not ever get to see my father on the map of the route, which would have been very cool. (I did see the Chilean miner who was running the race, but who had to stop because of knee injuries.)

Fortunately, I paid a little money to have updates sent to my mobile phone.

Bless the Internet! Every time my father passed another 5K, they'd send me a little automatic text message saying what time he'd passed that point, the time elapsed, his pace time, and the estimated finish.

It seemed to take forever to get the first one. His start time was late, late morning, so I kept waiting (and worrying a little while waiting) to see the first 5K notice. Where was he?! Did something happen? Did he not start?

It was a slow 5K. Curses on that uphill bridge! But after that, I'd hear the little buzz every hour or so, and find another update.

The early pace times seemed really slow... but after about 10K, he picked up speed, and kept cruising along steadily in the last two-thirds of the race.

When I got the 40K alert, we got even more excited, knowing that he was scant miles to the finish. We waited, and rechecked the cell until - Bzzt! There it was!

A clean finish, slower than hoped but excellent all the same.

"How old is he?" My friends ask me.
"What was his pace?" "What time did he finish?"

I'm always hesitant to answer those questions directly, because the answers seem misleading. It's easy to look at those numbers and say, "That's slooow!" (And "I run a lot faster/slower than that," if one is a runner, or whatever one says when one is trying to judge if something is "good" or not.)

But the raw numbers do not share the whole story.


Imagine a man who once broke his hip and had it put back together with two pins and a bolt. Imagine that man pushing himself in the hallway after surgery (as one is supposed to), walking laps. His determination got him going sooner and kept him improving faster than other men might have - that's what his nurses said.

And he got back out on the street, and he continued running.

Imagine a man who went in for strange pains and was told that he had to have an emergency bypass, yes today, four of them. And all subsequent complications and further wrenches thrown in by the inevitable aging process.

He may be slower, yes, and he is still running.

Imagine a man who clears brush along public berms so there is more room for runners and cyclists, who is known by scores of people along his busy training route.

Maybe you do have a little hurricane coming through, but he is still running!*
* true story

Imagine a man who has always looked for the best way to maximize his potential, who has tried to undertake things with so much precise and lavish detail that sometimes the trees get in the way of the forest. (Okay, okay, the trees are really cool!)

He plans, and trains, strategizes and analyses, and because of that, he is still running.

Imagine a man who values relationships and sharing experiences over material gifts, who seems to value conversation over status symbols, who sees the value in even small things.

Running with a crowd of fellow-athletes, while running your own race in the privacy of your own head. He is still running.

Imagine a man who values the kind gesture, the symbolic gifts of appreciation and poetry, the symbolic acknowledgements that you ran the race.

You can imagine his collection of racing medals, T-shirts and stories. And you wonder why he is still running!

Imagine a man who never throws a scrap of anything away until all use has been wrung from it.

Man, oh, man. He is still running.

Imagine all that, and then you might get closer to the truth about my father and why he's still running marathons.


How did he do? Well, he finished!
Yay! I'm relieved, but no surprise there, really.

Perhaps better to ask: How is he doing?
And one answer might be: He's testing himself against the wretched weather and the long uphills and his own limitations. He's enjoying the faces and the stories. He's choosing to live the maximum experience over and over and over again.

And therefor, he is still running!


I love you lots, Dad!
--

26.2 x31

The predawn awakening, the anticipation, the piles of gear.
The last-minute potty run, the numbered bibs, the staggered start.
Over the mat, the mass of the pack, finding the familiar rhythms.
The first long hill, over the bridge, first second and third wind.
Streets of spectators, tables of G@torade, cups slurped then tossed.
The air in your face, the sweat, the shoes.
The focus, the training, the determination, the lonely decisions.
The sparse street after the front runners have passed, the slow but steady run-walk, the mile markers creeping into view.
Cheers and clapping, strangers urging you on, steady goes it.
The camaraderie, the conversations, the sight of the finish line.
The photos, the medals, the handshakes and nods.

My father is running the New York City Marathon today. Within the last ten years, he's had a quadruple bypass and a hip replacement. He's still running. Today is his 31st marathon.
--

Dressing For Gig Decision Tree

The caller always sets the tone for the dance. I need to be dressed to both command attention, and appear as if I am ready to step out on the floor myself. A little dressy, a little festive, a little colorful. Eye-catching, but not scandalous (mileage varies depending on the venue).


Which skirt? Short dark with teal swirls, long white with peachy roses, or colorful, 3-tiered? Three-tiered, short, colorful, and fluffy.
The peachy roses is cute, but shows my legs, and I'm not sure this crowd would survive seeing my hairy legs. The dark one is a little too somber - I need to project a sense of fun.

Black leggings, fitted or more pant-like? Fitted.
It's supposed to be cold enough that I won't need to shed them. The fitted give a better line with the skirt.

Thin performance socks, wear now or change onto later? Now.
Don't want to show my feet to the organizers. I can bring heavier socks for afterwards.

Wear sneakers or clogs to travel to the dance? Undecided.
The clogs slip off and on easily and facilitate changing before and during the dance. On the other hand, if for some reason my car breaks down and I have to walk, it'd be ideal to have a warmer, sturdier shoe.

Which top? Bright sea green or darker teal? Hmmm. Undecided.
The brighter color is more festive, but the darker color makes the colors in the skirt "pop" more. For now, I'll wear the lighter and bring the darker.

Wear a different shirt for when I'm cooking? No.
It'll be an additional hassle to change clothes again before I leave. If the shirt does look too mussed, I can wear the darker one.

Wear black fleece half zip top? Yes indeed.
Always suitable and practical for gigs or dancing.

Wear earrings? Duh.

Dangly blue and purple ones or the gold wires with green beads? Dangly.
See: embody sense of fun. Also: sparkly color.

Wear dress while traveling or leggings alone? Neither.
Skirt would probably get a little crushed while in the car for nearly two hours, and the leggings alone might strike them as scandalous. Besides, I'm cold.

Alternative solution? Wear jeans over the leggings while traveling.
Extra warmth!

Wear hair up or down? Down for now, up for later.
It's not too hot or humid, so wearing it down would let it dry in a fluffier state. I'll put it up later before I get started depending on the temperature.

Anything else? Don't forget your coatglovesdanceshoescardsprogramhottea!
That's why I have a dance bag and a packing list.

One Year Past Inertia

A few months ago, I was regaling some friends with a few of our perpetually undone house projects, such as the kitchen light that fell down several years ago. "And that was when I was talking to so-n-so on the phone, and you know, he's been dead for how many years?"

My friend Brian (who makes a living fixing up and renting houses) said, "Whoa, that is a long time. And you haven't gotten it fixed yet? No, no, no, Missy. If you haven't gotten to a project within one year, then you hire someone else to do it for you!"

Ah. I'll have to tell my dear husband that. He'll be so happy to hear it.

We like house projects. We plan, we plot, we train, we buy samples and supplies. Sometimes we are even reasonably good at doing them.

However, even when we are NOT much good at them, or are having a hard time bringing them to completion (see: new boxes of ceiling fans stacked under the dining room table since this Summer, see: unfinished tile job from eons ago), we have a hard time letting them go. We say to ourselves, well, I should be able to whip that right up. No problem. We can save money by doing it ourselves! Ha. Haha. Oh, hahahahahaHAHAHa! *ahem*

The truth is that house projects often fall under the heading of Idealism + Perfectionism = Inertia. Although to be fair, the ceiling fans will require some rewiring in a crazily-accessed attic. It's not like we are dealing with a new house here.

Anyway, we rarely allow ourselves to let someone else do these jobs, because we have a mythical belief in our ability to do it, and do it alone. We come from do-it-yourselfer ancestors! we say. They put up ceiling fans in the roof of their cave in less than an hour! And we'd rather leave it undone for years and years rather than admit that no, it would be better if someone else did it.

So we are changing that.

Rather than putting the new kitchen cabinets in all by ourselves, we were thrilled to have my mom gift us with a couple days of expert carpenter work. Rather than putting up the new ceiling fans - oh, sometime before the little girl goes to kindergarten, we are hiring a handyman contractor to knock out that task. And a few more. Many, many more, oh yes!

You can imagine the glee and trepidation this inspires.

I love working up the specs and the process. I love the completed project. I get skittish around the mess that it will entail. A little noise, I can deal with. The outgassing/fumes/dust/disrupted space puts me on edge.

So yes, it will be hellaciously dusty in here for the rest of the day/week/year (mmm, plaster!); at least the dreaded plaster work will be fixed! And anyhow, the new ceiling fans should help air out the kitchen after the grouting fumes take over. That's what I keep telling myself, anyway.

Now I am casting my mind over the whole property, wondering who else I might get to come tackle this mess that we'll never get to. Hmm, yard workers. Hmm, carpenters. Hmm, painters and finishers. Hmm, arborists! And let's fill in that hole, excuse me, holes that the electricians left while we are at it. Oh, and stain the window sills. Can I get a bathroom fan, too?

So. Equal parts glee and trepidation. And a banishing of perfectionism, as this old house demands.

Our new handyman is keen on "mudding" the whole living room to even out the plaster. And fixing that corner where a previous renovation never got detailed. And perhaps ripping out the bedroom ceiling. Wait, what??! He has a keen eye for finishing details, and I like that. It's an adjustment for him, too, though.

"What the hell is wrong with this?" Our handyman glares at the space above the kitchen sink. The countertops (mostly level) tilt a different way than the window sill (also mostly level, but the other way). The floors tilt, throwing off the neat line of cabinets. Cracks shyly snake down our plaster walls. The wiring patterns are whacked out (we've known this for years).

"Well, it's an old house," I explain. "Nothing is really square or level, so every time you "fix" something, you notice how nothing matches up."

"And no," I tell my husband," we are not ripping out the bedroom ceiling. NOT a priority." If we started trying to make everything perfect, we'd never finish. But if we get someone else to do it with a generous modicum of competency, it will at least get finished.

Yes, this house is crazy and neglected. Yes, we are slow-moving perfectionists. It's maddening. It's saddening. It's depressing. It's an exercise in letting go of perfection. It's now someone else's job!

Whoo-hoo!
--

The Monkey Goes For A Walk

So the little girl had a great Halloween out and about.

She doesn't have a concept of candy yet, although she's learned that chocolate is "Mommy's snack."

She might have a concept of dressing up; she does love wearing her bunny ears from the festival or the monkey suit I bought for her for the occasion.



She really does NOT understand what we are doing shambling through the dusk and dark, knocking on doors and dodging other pint-sized fairies and superheroes.

She does not understand the concept of presently yourself in a picture of cuteness and performing the ritual words to receive a piece of miniaturized candy in return, but she's getting there.

We've posed for the obligatory costume pictures, and the little girl is eager to move on and won't sit down. She pats the pumpkins, sniffs the mums. "Smell flower" she informs us.

As we start off through the neighborhood streets, we stop to admire a little boy's bee costume. "What does a bee say?" we ask her. She stares. "What does a bee say?" The little boy stares. "Oh, and you are a monkey," the boy's mother responds. "What does a monkey say?" my husband prompts. The little girl scrunches up her face in a grin and makes a little half-hearted grunting.

Candy and thank yous exchanged, we leave, the kiddos still awkwardly wondering if their super smart parents have suddenly lost their minds.

We follow clusters of children that detach themselves from their front doors to gather in little flocks of costumes, flying up the street.

We amble along in the near dusk, pointing out decorations and displays rather than approaching every lit door.


We pass friends we know from church just setting out with their passel of youngsters, and chat in passing. My friend wears cat whiskers and ears. "Our candy is on our front porch," she calls. "Go get yourself some KitKat bars!"

Further down the street, we hail our handyman contractor pulling his little boy in a wagon. We greet his wife and mother-in-law with smiles and handshakes, but all of our attention is on the kids anyway. His son sees the monkey costume and sings us a verse of monkeys jumping on the bed. We wave good bye - "I might be over next week after all," Paul calls, - and continue down the middle of the street following a small pack of young girls leggily dressed in either red or white dresses. I can't figure out who they are supposed to be. Dusk is falling fast into night.

A looming tower of pink and orange glowing inflated pumpkins sway in the slight breeze, and a moving spider the size of a Mini catches our eyes. It sparkles with dark glitter. Then the sounds of live old-time music beckons us across the boulevard and into the lawn party of a neighborhood church. We are surrounded on all sides by anticipatory teens, wee Elmos and princesses, and adults shepherding their charges among the garish lights. A tall Zorro with a cape ambles by. A mummy stands listening to the music, while his wife comes over with hot cider.

The cops lets another crowd across the street. It's a happening scene of every age and ethnicity swirling by. The little girl only has eyes for the band, who bathed in pink floodlights, singing in vigorous harmony, a spectacle among spectacles.

After a while, we retreated to quieter and darker streets, interspersed with lights casting strange shadows and flickering colors, beckoning us to new doorways.

On the "toddler-friendly" route, we find a friendly Italian greyhound, a little boy dressed to match his puppy, a family who recognizes us from the park, and a lavish display of spiders, real small-animal skulls, and taxidermied rodents against dramatic drapery. One woman fastens a glow stick around the little girl's wrist.

At another house, the little girl actually knocks on the door herself. The woman who answers crouches down to engage her in gentle conversation while Miss Monkey carefully looks over the bowl of candy. The little girl picks up one colorful package, inspects it, then puts it back. We laugh. I snag a sparkly zebra sticker. At another house, they press small Snickers bars on both of us parents. "To keep up your stamina," they say. We are surprised to find we need it. Some steps are steep, some sections of sidewalk are dark and confusing.



Wandering about, we see a long house with colorful lights and a yard full of halloween figures. "Oo, look!" we tell her. "Look at those pumpkins, those lights!" We stop again, and the little girl takes my husband's hand (yet again), and this time, confidently marches herself right up to the front porch where, it looks like, half the family and assorted friends and neighbors wait in a tableaux. Two teen girls, waiting for us, say "Awwww" in the sweet way that only teen girls can. "It's a monkey. What a cute monkey. She even has a banana. You want some candy, honey?" "Can you say Thank You?" we prompt, and the little girl mumbles something that makes the crowd oo again. On the way back to the sidewalk, she breaks away to investigate a smiling Dracula "I love to count my candy - a! a! a!" and we have to tackle her.

We think we've broken the shyness barrier. A porch full of strangers in strange light, and she didn't even blink, much less cower. Yes, let's walk up to another doorway, knock, and see what interesting "toys" they might have!



By this time, we've zigzagged into the far reaches of the neighborhood over cracked pavement and a street under construction, trying to find a friend's house. Headlights cut through the night, revealing other rug-rats of various ages. We finally stumble over a section of roots to cross back over the boulevard to a smoother piece of pavement. Crowds are gathering around a family's Harry Potter display. People are quiet but festive, ambling with purpose.

We are becoming foot-sore, asking ourselves why, for goodness sake, we insisted on trekking all the way over to David's house. We take a quiet, easy route home. "No hills," my husband insists.

We hear music floating down the street to meet us. When we finally draw abreast of the source of music and stare up to the high porch where a woman sways, playing mazurkas and gypsy fiddle tunes, my husband says "Okay. One more." We are drawn up and up the steep steps, the little girl determined to go to the music. A young daughter smiles and fans out the packages of Skittles as if they were a gypsy's cards. The little girl reaches for the generous bowl instead. I can see she's thinking "nice! red!" We murmur our thanks, and the woman breaks into a little Mussorgsky. The Night on Bald Mountain is floats out in fragments into the quiet as another family of children arrive.

The streets home are even darker, quieter. It's a school night, after all. Cars pass, and I'm very glad that I finally attached reflective markings to the stroller. The little girl asks for cracker, and raisins, and her water bottle. The handful of candy and glow sticks we've gathered lie tossed into the bottom of the stroller.

We visit one last house on our street, our neighbors. Their daughter is getting through the last post-excitement meltdown before bed, but she quiets and comes to the door to see us, already in her pajamas. "Yes, we had a good time going around, didn't we? But now, it's late," her mother says, turning surprised eyes on us. "We are heading home right now," I assure her. "Pumpkin!" The little girl declares. "Ahhnge pumpkin." It's not too late for most people, but late for parents on toddler time. We throw together some tomato-basil soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, and roll our little monkey straight into her pajmas. We give candy to one last set of pre-teen latinos in sparkly faery finery (half a handful each since there is so much left), and turn out the lights.

After my husband leaves, I hide the rest of the mini Milky Way darks so they won't be staring him in the face when he wakes up in the morning. The candy was not the point. The little monkey went for a Halloween walk, and it was good.
--

A Piece of Work in Progress

"Hey, speak up!"
socially awkward
"Needs to participate more in class."
"Too quiet."
painfully shy

That was me.

"Excuse me. Where did you get those great leggings?"
"I just had to say, I like what the color of those earrings so with your eyes."
"I couldn't help overhearing..."
gregarious
"That car was just tearing along without looking- are you okay?"
sympathetic
"Nice to see you!"
"Hi, are you all here for the newcomers' workshop?"
welcoming
"Well, when I was a kid..."
"I was hearing that it was taking up to an hour."
verbose
"I was just tell someone that..."
"Are you new to the area?"
"Oo, that's a great tie/skirt/pair of earrings."
perky
"Welcome to the dance! I'm so glad to see you all here tonight."
enthusiastic

This is me now.

Yes, whereas I used to barely be able to speak to a stranger without feeling like I was on fire, now I chirp right up on a regular basis. Sometimes I rattle on at length. Sometimes I strike up conversations with perfect strangers. At the cheese counter. In the checkout line. In the line to vote. Leaving a shop. I can accost someone at will.

Is this a talent or a failing? I get mixed reviews.

My husband admires how I can strike a conversation and find a connection with almost everyone (if they cooperate).

Many new dancers find me friendly and encouraging.

One parent's group at the park thought I had a lot of gall to break into their conversation.

And the woman standing next to me in line to vote might have found me friendly, talkative, political, intrusive, entertaining, wearisome. Maybe all in succession.

"Oh great. Now she won't shut up."

I know - I'm a piece of work.

But it's a work in progress.

Some days I find myself with an ungodly amount of confidence and cheer. Other days, I feel overwhelmed entering a shop and don't want to talk to anyone. Some days I revel in being on stage leading a whole crowd. Other days, I'm convinced that everyone hates me.

I'll take the confidence where I find it, thank you. Such an exhilarating feeling. How can I turn that down after so many years of being relatively mute?

"Wow! You look great in that color!"
--

And So It Begins

Another November, another round of NaBloPoMo.
This year, I think I'll tell stories.

Have I told you about my kitchen/friends/child/happy/sad/
irate/musings/inspirations/relationships/deep dark secrets/
favorite comics recently? No? This month, I will. I have thirty
days to fill. (I can do it, I can do it.)

Whether you are new to this blog, or a regular visitor, welcome!
I'm scrounging up some teacups and baking some
orange-cranberry bread. Tea's on! Please, have a muffin.
--