One Foot in Front of the Other

I ran a half marathon on Sunday.  It wasn't the first one I ran, and probably won't be my last.  But, at the time, I thought it might be.  My training hadn't gone all that well this time around -- especially not the last few weeks.  I managed to acquire a nasty cough that put my lungs through the shredder.  I only churned out a few short runs in those last weeks.  And they weren't great.  

Still, I showed up to the Start on Sunday morning with my game face on. Well, after a brief detour through Sauget.  No.  Really.  See...after picking up my friend T at West County Centre at 5:30, we then collected my sister and brother from my sister's house in Clayton, then proceeded down Highway 40.  My intention was to exit at 6th Street since we were going to use my parking pass and park at Stadium East -- I'd checked to make sure the exit wasn't listed as blocked off for the race, and it wasn't.  Traffic was AWFUL at Jefferson and 14th, but we sailed by.  And then discovered that the 6th Street ramp WAS blocked off.  For those who don't know, that ramp is more commonly known as "The Last Missouri Exit."  Because it is.  Once you pass it, you're heading to Illinois, whether you want to or not.  And what's just across the river in Illinois?  Sauget.  Armpit of the universe.  Home to the all night clubs and trashy strip joints.  Oh, the brain cells and dollar bills that have been lost there......

As we realized the involuntary detour we'd be taking, we did at least note the humor in actually heading TO the East Side at 6:00 a.m., rather than skulking away from it.  The nice thing about Sauget at that time of the morning, though, is they don't really care if you make a U-Turn on Route 3.  Which I did, and soon enough, we were back on the right side of the Mississippi, and parking in the garage.  After a brief potty break (or eight) at The Hilton, we made our way up to the Start.  And waited with the throngs of cattle trying to file through the chute.  

Finally, at 7:11, we were off.  Or on.  Plodding away.  My brother quickly worked his way up ahead of us.  T and my sister and I stayed together.  Actually, it was more like we triangulated -- the two of them ran ahead, chattering away, getting to know one another, while I tagged along behind.  The pace was fine, but I was in no mood to chat.  I just listened to the two of them, and occasionally interjected a comment to let them know they hadn't lost me. 

As we rounded the brewery, I couldn't help thinking that 10 more miles was more than I could handle.  As we turned west up Choteau and began climbing that hill, I muttered that I might have to walk, but my sister called back and told me I could do it.  And I did.  I ran it.  But it about killed me.  And all I could think of as we ran past City Hall at Mile 6 was how easy it would be to just stop there, since it was so close to the Finish line, and wait for the rest of the gang to finish.  

But I kept going.  On the phone the night before, B reminded me to just keep putting one foot in front of the other, and that's what I did.  We made it up one hill on Olive, and then I looked up and saw Mt. McKinley stretching out in front of us, and knew I just couldn't.  I couldn't run it.  My lungs rebelled, and I hollered to my sister and T to let them know I was going to walk.  I did run some of it -- maybe half.  But I was no match for that monster.  

Still, walking also involves putting one foot in front of the other.  Just at a slightly slower pace. The important thing was...I kept moving forward, although with 6 more miles to go at that point, I really wasn't optimistic as to how long I could keep that up.  I rounded the corner and discovered that T had decided wait up for me.  It occurred to me at that moment, how funny and strange life can be.  If someone had told me 23+ years ago, that a boy I met and befriended the first day of college would be dragging my sorry ass through a 13 mile run when we were in our 40's, I'd have sworn they were nuts.  Or high.  Or both.  But there he was.  And God bless him for his patience, for I'm quite certain he didn't aspire to walk-running and turning in a 2:30 + time for a half marathon.  But he was a good enough sport to let me walk the rest of the hills.  Even the one that was only a quarter mile out from the Finish line.  Once we topped that, though, we turned on the jets and sprinted that last downhill.  That part almost made me giddy. 

Always love that feeling -- of crossing that Finish line.  Of knowing that I actually DID it.  13.1 miles.  I DID keep putting one foot in front of the other, and they got me to where I needed to go.  It wasn't just my feet that got me there, though.  It was my sister and brother-in-law first convincing me several years ago that I could do something like this, and my sister, so often, running by my side (on the left!) to help me train.  It was my brother, running his first half-marathon at 52.  My parents, coming down to watch the race and cheer us all on.  It was B's words of encouragement, and T's enthusiasm and patience.  And the support of so many of my other friends.

Just as in the rest of life.  It's hard, sometimes, to remember to put one foot in front of the other.  To tuck your head down, and keep moving forward, when all you really want to do is stop, curl up in a ball, and rest.  Sometimes, it's only with the help of your friends and family that you're able to keep those feet moving.  Sometimes, you feel like you've been walking around in circles.  And other times, you realize that, in fact, you haven't.  You've just been fortunate enough to cross paths with certain people more than once.  

If It Makes You Happy

Earlier tonight, I proudly proclaimed to my FB friends that having the windows open and the ceiling fans whirring makes me happy.  It occurred to me as I hit "Share" that it's been quite a long time since I actually said that  -- that I was happy -- out loud.  (Well, to the extent that posting it on the internet counts as saying it "out loud.")  A really long time.  Too long.  

And it was such a simple thing, this happy maker.  Just some warm, fresh air.  Probably didn't hurt that I finally feel as though I've turned the corner on this cough, and I definitely had more energy tonight than I've had in several days.  But it got me to thinking about all the simple things that make me happy:

My daughter's giggle; the kitties purring; the silly grin my dog sometimes sports; a well-cooked meal; a cold glass of Riesling; the smell of steaks on the grill; relaxing in my hot tub; a clean kitchen; a clutter-free house; the smell of dryer exhaust; fresh clean sheets on my bed; completing a project; checking things off my To Do list; crossing the finish line; happy hour with friends; girls' nights out; an impromptu road trip; long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days. Okay - I stole that last bit from Bull Durham.  But it's true. 

The point is...well, I kind of forgot my point now.  But it's good to remember them more than once in awhile -- the simple, sweet things that make us happy.   

Observations from Springcleanapaloozathon

That there are items in your medicine cabinet which are two to three years past their expiration dates is a good indication you need to clean it out a bit more frequently.

Old, stubby eyeliner pencils and used up mascara tubes serve no purpose, other than creating the illusion that one’s makeup basket/collection is a veritable cornucopia of beauty – yet, the primary aim of makeup is to create the illusion that you really aren’t wearing (don’t need) much.
 
There’s something marginally depressing about realizing your “lingerie chest” would actually be more appropriately referred to as your “repository for random racing gear and winter wardrobe accessories,” and that most of the items in it which actually do qualify it as a lingerie chest are virtual strangers to you.
 
Tossing old socks and undies in the trash feels wasteful, but what are ya gonna do?

Picking up other power cords off the floor before you vacuum is not a pointless exercise; corollary: black electrical tape is a wonderful invention.

Your closet never seems big until you contemplate going through everything in it.  

No one should own more than five pair of sweatpants.  Really.  And they certainly shouldn’t still own any that they can vividly recall wearing in the summer of 1986, or that sport remnants of cat hair belonging to a cat who’s been chasing mice around Kitty Heaven since 1997.  Not that I know anyone who does…

What exactly do you do with the large, boxy, bright yellow sweater, sporting a panda which your mother knitted for you (and the matching white turtle neck with panda prints), which you proudly and regularly wore (along with black and white houndstooth slacks) while in college, but of which you are pretty certain there is no photographic proof?

Cowl-necked sweaters really aren’t all that flattering. They probably make for good bibs when you’re old, though.

It makes little sense to hold onto a cardigan sweater you haven’t worn in approximately twenty years because you wore it the night you said goodbye to someone you’ve since said “hello” (and “goodbye”) to several times.  

A large-brimmed straw hat is a cute and whimsical beach accessory.  But where in the hell do you store it for the 99.9% of your life which isn’t spent on the beach trying to appear cute and whimsical?  

The snakeskin-print bikini top with the shear white blouse and black leather pants get-up might arguably have looked edgy and hot out at the clubs 12 years ago (setting aside the question of how believable it looked on yours truly, even then), but sporting such a look over 40 would scream “DESPERATE COUGAR!!” so loudly, it’d likely rob me of the rest of my hearing. Into the donation pile it goes.  Some young sassy thang out there is in luck!

Not that I’m pitching everything edgy and hot – not by a long shot.  I do, however, think I should probably be ashamed of the fact that my closet sports no less than 60 tank/camisole/halter-type tops while I live in a place that isn’t even remotely tropical. 

I have a lot of very nice blouses I rarely have occasion to wear.  I wonder if any of them would look good under a black robe?

Are pit stains really necessary?! Seriously?

Given that “grunge” went out 12-15 years ago, I think it’s okay to let go of the red/green/black/white extra large plaid flannel shirt from the Gap, and its equally colorful blue/green/yellow/white twin.  Also, I have a long history of plaid abuse. 

No one needs more than eight pair of black, strappy high heels. Okay.  Maybe ten.

Either I or the people who love me (or have claimed to over the years) have REALLY bad taste in jewelry.  Or both.  But even bad gold jewelry has some value now, right?

Women’s collar pins – they’re never coming back.  

I have a Kate Spade purse (or a knock-off) that I bought at a purse party several years ago, and have never used.  I’m not really a trendy-purse girl.  I probably shouldn’t attend purse parties.

Cleaning out a purse you haven’t used in three years is a lot like opening a time capsule.

Trying on jeans you haven’t worn in several years is always an adventure.  High-waisted jeans flatter no one.  The black leather jeans – which are high-waisted and look seriously tacky — still fit.   I’m keeping them.

It’s going to take me longer than a weekend to complete Springcleanapaloozathon….

The Ides of March

"Beware the Ides of March."  It's one of the better-known lines from Julius Caesar, and I suppose that's where I first encountered it.  As it quite rightly served as fair warning to Caesar of his impending doom, I always took it to be a rather ominous sort of thing, and March the 15th to be an "unlucky" day, in the same vein as Friday the 13th.  Funny thing about that, though:  Friday the 13th has always been a "lucky" day in my family -- my parents were married, almost 54 years ago, on a Friday the 13th.  And they still seem to like each other.  

So, it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise that March the 15th would also become a "lucky" day for me.  No, the real surprise was that a little girl who wasn't due to make her arrival until April 26, 2002, decided to show up almost a month-and-a-half earlier.  I so wasn't ready.  Not that I'm sure you can ever truly be ready to go through childbirth -- at least not the first time around.  But I really wasn't ready -- I had a court appearance scheduled for that morning; we had a big case getting ready to go to trial; I hadn't had a chance to really update any of my files and make a list of things that would need to be covered by others while I was out on maternity leave.  And I'd had these grand plans of taking off a few days prior to the due date and spending them at home, getting her room ready, and finally getting around to putting my decades' worth of photographs into albums.  That seemed like such a nice, calming way to prepare myself for the whole labor/delivery/oh-my-gosh-I'm-a-mom-now thing.  

Well, there's another famous literary line about "the best laid plans of mice and men," and go oft awry they did.  I still remember realizing how odd it was that this child I'd thought would be a Taurus, had skipped right over Aries and would, instead, be a Pisces.  That didn't worry me quite so much, as some of my most favorite people in the world were (and still are) Pisces.  What did worry me was whether I'd be able to get everything handled that needed to be at work, whether she'd be healthy, and whether I'd be an okay mom.  

I needn't have worried quite so much about work -- we found a way to muddle through it all and the world didn't stop, though it did take a lot of frantic phone calls, sometimes with the hospital room phone in one ear and my cell in the other, to get it all squared away.   (I still recall the anesthesiologist arriving to rescue me with the epidural, cocking an eyebrow at my telephonic double fisting, and remarking, "Oh - you're one of those 'Type A' people, aren't you?"  I felt compelled to roundly deny the charge, but I'm not quite certain I convinced him.)   

And the "mom" part, well, I'm still a work in progress, but I think I can lay claim to "okay" without warranting an accusation of arrogance.  The "healthy" part?  That took a little time to get to.  23 days in the NICU isn't the ideal way to start one's life, but she toughed it out and doesn't appear to have any residual negative effects from it.  Aside from baby pictures with lots of tubes and wires and eye patches which tended to take a bit away from the "Awww -- isn't she a cutie?!" quotient.  I may be a bit biased, but I think she more than makes up for that most days.

But setting aside her somewhat rocky introduction to the world, I am extraordinarily happy to be the proud mother of an amazing, incredible, intelligent, wonderful, beautiful, thoughtful eight year old little girl.  She is the light of my life, and it is my privilege to be the person she calls, "Mommy," (or, more often, these days, "Mom".)  

So, when I hear people say, "Beware the Ides of March," I can't help but smile.  What a blessed day it has become in my life.  Happy Birthday, Riley Jayne.  I love you.

An Embarrassment of Britches

I guess I'll start this one out with what's becoming standard: A disclaimer. No, this isn't about a wardrobe malfunction. My life has been blessedly free of those of late. It was sparked by an article I read last week from the UK, discussing the fact that the average woman hoards an inordinate amount of clothing she can no longer fit into.

Guilty as charged. Although, at present, it's not so much clothing I can no longer fit into as much as it's clothing that, for one reason or another, I simply don't wear anymore. But whether it's a matter of fit or style, the embarrassing truth of the matter is that I may even be worse than the average Jo.

Before I could muster the courage to confess my own sartorial excess, however, I had to know if others on this side of the pond were kindred clothes horses. So...I conducted an informal survey on Facebook, starting with shoes, then adding on pants. (Okay, I'll admit it -- I was just going to go with the shoes, but "britches" worked better with the title that came to me, so I branched out.)

I have the loveliest FB friends. I won't name names, but though some of my generous responders are positively saintly in their restraint, I'm relieved to know that I'm far from alone in this. And since they were kind enough to bare their closets to me, it's time for me to come clean: Shoes? About 100 pair. Pants? About...*gulp* 60. (Not even counting several pair of track pants, pajama pants and the partners to all my suit jackets.) And of those? There are probably 10 of each I wear regularly.

So, now you know. My name is Susie, and I'm addicted to apparel and accessories. (And maybe alliteration.) They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. I don't know if what I've revealed truly qualifies as a "problem," but it certainly qualifies as a space hog. And while those Space Saver bags positively fascinate me, I don't believe they'd constitute adequate penance. So, in recognition of my excess, and in anticipation of the Spring I'm certain is just around the corner, I am hereby pledging to clean out my closets -- yes, I said "closets," plural -- ridding them of at least 50 pairs of shoes, and 30 pairs of pants within the next 30 days. Those in suitable condition will be donated to Good Will (or another worthy charity -- I'm open to suggestions).

I invite my fellow thread hoarders to join me. Come on - it's for a good cause! (And our closets/dressers/under-the-bed-boxes will heave a collective sigh of relief.)

How Pooh Are You?

No, that isn't an indelicate allusion to my blog title. It's about the stuffing you're made of.

It's human nature to label and categorize -- others, ourselves. At its core, it's probably a matter of risk assessment and survival. But regardless of what motivates it, we all do it. Sometimes with malice; often in fun. Who hasn't taken one of those silly Facebook quizzes to see, "Which 'Grey's Anatomy' or 'Sex and the City' Character Are You?" (I'm mostly Meredith, by the way. And terminally Carrie, of course.)

Long ago, I began categorizing people as Winnie the Pooh characters. This wasn't an original concept -- I don't recall if it was borne of my reading 'The Tao of Pooh' or some other work. But most folks I know did seem to fit one Milnean archetype or another. And I'm confident if I were to describe a friend as a "Tigger" or an "Eeyore," anyone familiar with the denizens of The Hundred Acre Wood would form an immediate and fairly accurate impression of the personality at issue.

It was with a certain amount of pride that I accepted the label of "Pooh," when a friend assigned it to me. Though I wasn't sure how I felt about being likened to a bear of very little brain, I did consider myself fairly amiable, dependable, and, more often than not, peaceful. You know what they say about pride, though....

I made the erroneous assumption that our personality types -- our characters -- were static: Once a Piglet, always a Piglet. I took my Poohness for granted. And somewhere along the line, I wandered away from it -- or it from me.

I didn't notice it quite so much while I was being Rabbit. When one is extremely busy and very important, there isn't much time for introspection. However, when I found myself sounding (and feeling) exceedingly Eeyorish, it occurred to me that perhaps I really had lost my way. I've always had a soft spot in my heart for poor old Eeyore, but I don't want to be him.

Quite frankly, to the extent we get to choose our character, I'd like to take a little bit of (the best of) all of them: the bravery of Piglet, the intellect of Owl, the exuberance of Tigger, etc. But mostly, I think I'd like to get back to that calm, steady, peaceful place of Pooh.

So, help me if you can I've got to get
back to the house at Pooh corner by one
You'd be surprised there's so much to be done,
count all the bees in the hive,
chase all the clouds from the sky .
Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh,
back to the days of Christopher Robin,
back to the ways of Pooh...

It's Not What You Think

I've been contemplating creating something of this sort for months. On several occasions, I've remarked to others that my dream gig would be writing a column that's part Erma Bombeck, part Tim Allen, part Carrie Bradshaw -- somehow incorporating tales of my misadventures in domestic engineering and my observations on parenthood and on male-female entanglements into a humorous melange others might enjoy perusing.

I wanted to give a nod to both the fictional Carrie and the wry and witty Erma in my title, so, initially, I went with "Sex Over the Septic Tank". However, I found myself worrying that no matter how familiar with my writing some might be, that title might just keep getting misconstrued. I don't know that I'd ever advocate actual sex over an actual septic tank. There's something rather unseemly about the notion. And I certainly didn't want to trip folks up with an unwelcome image or impression. So this morning, I ditched the potentially problematic preposition and opted for the tamer conjunction, settling on "Sex and the Septic Tank." (Tim got short shrift there, I realize, but I figure the reference to small scale sewage treatment systems sounds vaguely home improvementish as well.)

In short, this blog isn't really about sex and/or septic tanks. But an effort to find a way to laugh at and live with the life I now find myself leading. Thank you for indulging me.