The Struggle Bus Caught Fire

I've been reflecting on the last 36 hours or so.  

And my conclusion?  That fear is stupid.

A totally unwarranted waste of precious time.  Why are we so afraid?  Why the fear?

I cultivate a lot of the fear of failure.  Somewhere in my past, I was informed that I was not good enough and that I better improve...which plays into any perfectionist's insecurity.  If I fail, I won't have a perfect record so therefore, don't try.  Don't risk failure, it isn't worth it.  At least that's where I think it comes from.  

I think I've written about this before but I often reflect back on 8th grade volleyball.  My parents weren't able to send me to five volleyball camps each summer and I deduced that all the more popular girls would make the team in 8th grade.  Even though I was a full-time starter on the 7th grade team and 'won' several games with my serving.  I psyched myself out.  I decided, in my stupid almost-8th-grade head that I wasn't going to be good enough, I wasn't going to make the team, and that I wasn't even going out for volleyball.  Why risk the humiliation?

I "missed" try-out's because I "forgot" to get my physical from my doctor.  As I smugly watched girls stressing out about volleyball try-out's, I heard a jarring thing.  Over and over, girls commented that they were glad I couldn't go out for the team because my absence opened up a place for them. 

Whaaa?  I could have been good enough?  I could have made it?  I could have excelled another year as star server?  DAMN.  I'm my own worst enemy.  

That crushing regret stayed with me.  I went out for varsity softball as a freshman in a huge high school.  Of course I didn't make the team (like, 2 juniors did, no sophomores or freshman).  I was crushed, but only for about an hour.  One time, I asked out a boy whom I wasn't sure liked me.  One time, I went for a job for which I had no business really applying.  

Guess that?  I played softball throughout the years on various teams, rocking short stop and hitting balls to center field.  The job?  They hired me and I've been with them for 14 years.  And the guy?

He's sitting three feet from me on the couch.  Okay, HE asked ME out but it's been a 20 year party.  That I wouldn't trade for the world.  

So why the fear?  Why the fear of failure or rejection when, statistically, it is irrevelant in the end?  

I had the same fear when I applied for this doctorate.  That stupid self-talk starts up inside my head...what if they laugh at your application?  What if they write you back with a great big rejection?  And I was admitted in the early decision process, guaranteeing me a place for this fall.  I start classes in two weeks.  

This all brings me to the race.  The race that has been eliciting some fear for months now.  I don't know why a half-marathon was so daunting.  Maybe it was the 8th grader in me, worried that I wouldn't make the team and would get swept up by the 'struggle bus' at the end.   

Sure, I was nervous before we started but started the course.  Walking with Jack, I enjoyed the course!  It poured on us when we were on the Indianapolis Motor Speedway (known to us Indy folks simply as "The Track").  It was very cool to walk the Track, despite the sheets of rain.  It felt almost baptismal.  

Cleansing.

Live bands played along the race route, one placed at least every half mile.  Church groups egged us on, high school bands played "Jock Jams" songs, and live blues bands serenaded us with deep bass. Miles 1-3 flew by.  All of the sudden, at Mile 4, I realized what the recurring sign was saying.  There was a vertical sign at each mile that said "Pitarea."  In my head, I was like, "Wow, Greeks must be sponsoring this...Pitarea!"  The sign was next to a Mexican restaurant so I figured it might have been an ecumenical gathering of Mexicans and Greeks for sake of the race?  Then I saw the sign again...maybe it was supposed to read, "Pi Terra."  Like, 3.14 and "earth."  Then I wondered if the formal marathon length of 26.2 miles was some deviation of Pi, or 3.14.

Then, like a thunder clap, I realized it read, "Pit Area."  

OH.  PIT AREA.  Yeah, that makes more sense in Indianapolis, in the race month of May, as we are about to race on The Track.  What's funniest is that Jack and I had this epiphany together.  

Which helped us laugh our way through Miles 5 and 6.  Mile 5 or so went through Speedway, Indiana (it's like Main Street USA) and the signs people held up were hysterical.  Like, "Pet my dog for super powers," "Whine now, wine later," and "Wink if you just peed a little bit."  

Cute.

Then we were on the track, with those rainy, blinding miles passing quickly.  The track was WONDERRRRRFUL for walking.  It was like walking on a rubber mat.  The downpour stopped as we finished the Track and departed back to downtown Indy.  Miles 9-12 were pretty chill, as Jack and I sort of put our heads down, earbuds in, trying to keep pace.  They went quickly; it was where I started feeling hungry and spent my minutes plotting the post-race meal of filet mignon and shrimp.  I probably spent 6 whole minutes figuring out what spices I wanted on my steak.  

At Mile 12, we had a gorgeous view of the city and crossed a bridge going back into downtown.  U2's "City of Blinding Lights" just happened to pop up on my MP3 player.  Yes, my MP3 player.  Jack found our old MP3 player from 2008 and it's been a wonderful time capsule for my training!  Most of the songs have a good cadence for exercising and it's a hoot to realize how much I must have liked the Black Eyed Peas in 2008.  Regardless, Bono helped me glide into mile 13, the home stretch.  

Mile 13 was pretty surreal.  Checkered flags line the road and the crowd cheers you on!  People read your race bib and call you by name.  It's so much fun and electric at the finish line.  About a half-mile out, with the finish line in sight, Jack yells over, "Hell, let's run and finish this thing!!"  

After 13 miles, the soles on your shoes feel like they are .0001 inches thick.  I was seriously afraid of tripping and needing a medic on the finish line.  But we ran, we finished well under our expected time, and no, I didn't trip.  All I wanted to accomplish with this race was 1) finishing and 2) not barfing.  

Mission accomplished.  Both of them!

Yesterday afternoon and evening were a bit rough, as was this morning.  But the human body is remarkable in that it heals from all the hard work of a half-marathon.  All of the sit-stand-kneel action in church this morning was challenging but we are feeling better as the day goes on.  This was Jack's first race (go big or go home, right?) and he's hooked.  

So guess who is doing a half in fall and next year's Mini?  

- These two in Indy who are no longer afraid of being picked up by the Struggle Bus.  

On the race course OR in life.  

That .01 Mile on February 12

Well, that was weird.  I was just "butt dialed" by my boss at work.  

I listened to the "voicemail" for a moment then thought better of it.  Do I really want to know?  Then I coined a new phrase that I am going to loan to Pope Francis:

"Mercy is not listening to other peoples' butt dials."  

Watch for it on Twitter and Instagram.  I'm sure his Holiness will quote me.  

Ugh.  

I complained about work recently....things have kind of come to a head and subsided.  I won't go into detail but know that the ethics people are trying to practice forgiveness and cultivate peace.  How novel, right?  Anyway, I won't mention that again (okay, at least for a while).  Time to let it go.

But how about this?  Jack and I completed our formal training program tonight for the Mini.  It was our last 'long' weekday walk.  For giggles, I tabulated my mileage over these last few months as I have prepared for this half-marathon.  

Since December 27, I have walked 280.29 miles.  And that's the "official" exercise mileage, not what I log with Fitbit, doing laundry or going to work or whatever.  280 dedicated miles on the treadmill or the road.  It averages out to 2.19 miles a day.  Rock on!!!

What's funny is that I figured my mileage from December 27 to April 30 and it was 272.99.  Literally the ".99" mile.  Like, couldn't I have walked .01 more that one random Tuesday night in February?  Ha.

My goal from December 27, 2015 to December 27, 2016 was 365 miles.  I now hope to meet that by June 1.  Between the half-marathon and a week in Italy in mid-May, I think June 1 is a realistic goal.  Maybe June 8th.  I guess it depends if I bring home my annual European upper respiratory infection (noooooooooooo!)

So barring a random stomach flu or case of Anthrax, we're walking the Mini on Saturday.  We've practiced with Gatorade chews (omg....they really do help...sugar!  Lovely sugar!  Hello, dear sugar!) and our wick away shirts and new compression pants...yep.  We've got the gear and we are going to knock this thing off our bucket list.  

FINALLY.  YAAAAAAS.

I Hate You, Dearest Fitbit

The struggle is real.

Do any of you own a Fitbit?  

Does it own you?

It's crazy.

Yeah, so this is my normal "WPP" rant about technological issues.  Everyone who buys a Fitbit is probably looking for some accountability, a marking stick of their fitness milestones.  That is why I bought one...to help me stay on track of hitting 10,000 steps every day.  In the beginning, it was noble.

Then the badges arrived.

Why the badges?   This only resurrects memories of second grade Brownies and me not able to achieve my "camping" badge.  Apparently, camping in one's one bedroom doesn't count toward a badge.  

Dammit.

Why do I work so hard for imaginary, shiny badges that mean absolutely nothing?  Once I earned the "penguin march" badge, I was hooked.  And I just "walked Italy" so that is fabulous, right? I guess it would mean more if I earned Italy while actually in Italy.  I mean, wait.  No.

The struggle is real.

So in our mini-marathon training, we keep our Fitbits close to our being.  Our long walk yesterday was 12.34 miles, or about 25,000 steps.  Anyone living in Fitbit Land knows that 25,000 steps earns you the "Classics" badge.  Add some daily walking, a trip to the store, and some laundry?  32,000 steps, baby.

I cannot remember the last time I walked 32,000 steps in a day.  I used to measure my immature exploits by hours awake...was I awake 19 hours? 24 hours?  40 hours?  

Nope, now it's steps.  

I know this is not exactly healthy.  That is why I am plotting my break up with Msgr. Fitbit.  Jack and I walk the half-marathon in two weeks and I will wear the FB for these two weeks.  Then I go to Rome (exasperated hand wiping brow) for a week and know I will log about 100,000 steps.   The day I return from Rome?  I'm burying the Fitbit.  

RIP, Fitbit.  You're history.

As great as logging all this mileage is, I'd like to return to working out for me, to feel well.  Trust me, it's given housework new meaning; I can log about 1,500 steps cleaning the kitchen and living room.  But who cares?

I didn't care before this system of imaginary, shiny badges.  It's been a good ride, dear Fitbit, but it's time to leave you on my nightstand (or buried deep in my drawer!) and not worry about my steps.  Thanks for the memories!

Rain and Butter

Today ushered in two new firsts.  One, that Jack and I walked 10 miles in one fell swoop.  Well, 10.12 miles because we can't decide which activity tracker is correct.  Fitbit said 10.09 miles.  Runtracker said 9.94.  The iPhone said 10.04.  So we went the conservative route and chose the "slowest" one to make sure we weren't gyping ourselves out of mileage.

Masochism lives, I guess.  

We went with Runtracker.  The app emailed me at my work address.  Yay.  I think.

The other first was that I cooked dinner.  Just kidding.  Knew that would throw ya!

The other real first was that Jack and I sat and watched rain fall for almost 2 hours today.  From the garage.  We are garage dwellers, apparently.  

After the 10 miles, we made "dinner" (at 3 p.m.), of loaded baked potatoes, filet mignon, and wild mushrooms cooked to a lovely submission in butter and wine.  [Holy crap...channeling Julia Child with the amount of butter we are using lately....the mileage cancels it out, right?  Riiiiiiiiiight?   Bueller?].  About 20 minutes after we returned home from our epic training session, it started raining.  Like, Amazon rainforest raining.  With monkeys screeching.  So we did what most suburbian people would do and pushed our gravity loungers to the edge of the garage, poured glasses of Bailey's on ice, and watched it rain.  

It's not unlike watching paint dry.  In a relaxing, zen way.    

We had French jazz playing in the background and no one else was outside.   We had the rain to ourselves.  Except for the stray cat someone named "Carson." 

All this rain talk masks my feelings.  My work life is miserable.  I can't hide it any longer.  I realized the other day that if I am successful or have any measure of success (which I did this week; organizing, running, and speaking at an ethics conference for our system execs).....so if I have any measure of success, my "mentor" thinks it takes away from his greatness.  The more I succeed, the less his legacy carries on.  It's like there is a "recognition pool" at stake; if I take 1/23 of the recognition, it only leaves my mentor 22/23 of the glory.  

It's not an easy situation.  Excuse my French, but it sucks.  Il est suckage.

I'm not really sure what to do.  I took a few days off work to think about it, pray about it, and replenish my soul.  I've heard (and used) the phrase "mental health day" before.  I wasn't sure what to call tomorrow...."soul refresh day?"   "Soul health day?"   I settled on "Soul rebuilding day."  

SRD

When you need to rebuild your soul from whatever happens at work, in your professional life, call it an SRD.  Soul Rebuilding Day.  Because that's what happens....when the world takes chunks out of your soul, who you are in this world, you have to regain that ground.  You have to heal.

Healing is a priority.    

I've started playing the blues.  Jack received an unexpected bonus and bought me a bass.  And a crazy amp that our neighbors are already complaining about.  But it's so much fun...it's like painting with sounds.  

So I guess I'm in "soul rebuilding."  And maybe "soul rebounding."  The verbs don't really matter; the important part is that I'm not giving up and I'm not giving up on my calling.  

Even if I just walked 10 miles and my ankles are in pain.

Or if it's raining. 

My spirit is tough...I'll get through this, too.  

Sunshine, Racing, and BBQ...BRING IT.

Some weekends when my brother Brady leaves, it feels like Jack and I have a weekend at a B&B.  We do not have to worry about anyone and can do our own thing.  It feels very vacation-y even when we do not leave our own house.  Especially when Jack cooks an elaborate brunch that may or may not include prosecco.  And capers.

Oh, the capers.

But today?  It feels like we're in Florida.  Sitting on our Indianapolis patio, it's 72 and sunny, without a cloud in the sky on this February 20, 2016.  This is awesome weather for early May, let alone mid-February.  The breeze is blowing like at the Gulf shore and I *swear* I'm getting a slight sunburn.  I had a sunburn in mid-March last year but this would be a first for a February sunburn.  

Bring it.  

Equally ironic to this amazing weather in February, I ran the Polar Bear 8k this morning.  Well, we walked and ran it, my colleague and I.  We are both preparing for the mini marathon in May.  We watched the approaching forecast; first it was supposed to be in the 40's, then 50's, then 60's.  We finished the race when it was 60 and by the time I got home, showered, went to the store, and drug out my lawn chair, it was 72.  

Stay like, this, O'Indiana weather.

But the race went well.  I have no idea what I have been so afraid of the last few years.  Well, I guess it's been more like 13 years since my last race.  Again, have no idea why.  Jack reasons that I was so worried about school and my ever-changing jobs at work.  But I feel GOOD when I run or even walk.  I did 7.5 miles today and while my lower back hurts, I could do more.

Bring it.  

Maybe we'll do another 5 miles tomorrrow.  Gotta be ready to do 13.1 in May!

So as I sit here in the lovely sun, sort of baking in the sunshine, breeze blowing through my long-ish hair, with the Eagles on Pandora, we'll salut this summer afternoon in February.  This beachy afternoon in Indianapolis.

A few weeks ago, Brady and his fiancée were over and we made a serious summer BBQ on a 60 degree day in late January.  We're amping it up tonight...with the July 4 BBQ recreating (complete with deviled eggs and macaroni salad), cornhole with the neighbor's, and s'mores over a campfire in one of the neighbor's driveways.  I'm sure winter will return soon but while we're in this sunny stretch of heavenly summer....BRING IT.

Bring it!

Commitment

This isn't actually a Valentine's Day post.  Yes, it's awesome for couples to commit to each other and celebrate their love year after year...hopefully, that love is growing deeper and as each year passes, you're even more of a team than you were in prior years.  Jack and I celebrated our V-Day with mass, filets on the grill, and a quiet, reflective evening in front of the fireplace.  We've discovered a band in the last few years, called "Milk Carton Kids" and make chill, folksy, slow-cadence music that slows even the craziest person's pulse.  

It's been the Milk Carton Kids' Valentine's weekend.  With Paper Kites.  I'm committed to lower blood pressure. 

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Last week, I signed up for my first 8K with a colleague of mine from work and church.  I recently signed up for the Mini-marathon in Indy, a 13.1 mile race that takes you around the Indy 500 track.  We're planning on "walnning" the race, neither of us having enough time to prepare for running 13 miles.  But this race has been on my bucket list for years now.  What's the delay?  What's the hesitance I've had? I think the fear of public embarrassment has a lot to do with it...but I got to thinking, what's the worst possible outcome?  Apart from tripping and breaking my chin or something, it's probably a disqualification, not finishing the race, and having that recorded for perpetuity on the race's timing website.  

So that's the worst possible outcome?  That some random person googling me sees I didn't complete the Mini?  Boo hoo, at least I tried.  

Races are high-stakes for me...I'm not awesome at failure.  I want to make sure, that if I sign up for a race, I'm going to at least finish in the middle of the pack.  This time, I just want to finish.  If I have to crawl across the finish line, I'm doing it.  I'm earning that race t-shirt, dammit.  

Next weekend's 5-miler will be good practice for not tripping and breaking my chin.

Despite my shoulder injury, I have been faithful to my workout schedule.  This thing the kids are talking about, consistency, happens to work.  Who knew?  All it takes is a bit of commitment.

*******************************

Something else I've been percolating lately is a quote I recently read on surrender: "Everything will be okay as soon as you decide everything is okay."  Or something like that.  It spoke to me because we have so much power to decide that things really are okay.  That you're exactly where you're supposed to be and your life is progressing exactly how it should.  Not that we're predestined but God does ask that we let the heck go already.  If we won't or can't let go, are we really people of faith?  

I'm not throwing stones here; obviously, it's something with which I struggle.  That if I were doing more, loving better, making even better use of my time, that I would be somewhere else, be someone else.  

Commitment usually entails a dedication or re-dedication of self.  But one can commit to letting go, embracing the idea that we're not really in control of anything and that our lives will unfold as they will.  

Just gotta trust.

********************************

My reflection here reminds me that the biggest obstacle in my achievements is usually me.  I've held myself back from racing for the last few years because I'm not fast enough yet.  I've held myself back from the doctorate because I just didn't feel smart enough or deserving to reach a terminal degree.  I try to check off a bucket list item each year; last year, it was the Assisi pilgrimage in Italy.  This year, it's going to be that mini-marathon and starting of my PhD.  

Everything will be okay as soon as I decide everything's okay.  I can commit to that.

Goodbye, Cadbury Eggs

Lent.

Lent.  The fabulous, penitential season of repentance.  With a dash of self-loathing.  

Every time my cousin and I feel we need a "re-centering" or "time of denial," we start a lent.  Yes, it's arbitrary to us but it signals something larger...a time to deny self, a time to focus on our inward sinful tendencies, a clean slate to start over once again.  My cousin and I are on lent, version 36.4.25 from the last several years.  But each fresh start helps us attend to little decisions throughout the day that lead us to a certain place (or away from a certain place).  It's a great opportunity to click the "reset" button on the ol' stopwatch to 0.00.  But it's also a chance to focus on others for once.  Others' pain, others' poverty, others' misfortune.  

That's what Pope Francis says for (the official) Lent this year...instead of all our usual self-loathing about how flawed we are internally, let's focus on the exterior things we can do to improve one person's life.  Maybe many peoples' lives.  But one person's life for sure.  Yes, it's important to work on our selfishness, habits that might lead us away from God, or fasting to feel a sense of sacrifice (which, if we admit, is pretty darn rare in our first world lives).  Humans aren't wired to enjoy struggle.  It's against our evolutionary roots, to knowingly allow that hunger in the pit of our bellies, running an extra half mile on the treadmill at the end of your workout, picking lettuce when there's a tator tot bar around the corner.  We don't enjoy sacrifice and tend to fear its discomfort.  

To me, Lent is my annual opportunity to familiarize myself with discomfort.  

Traditionally, I'm not very good at maintaining my Lenten commitment.  I have never signed off Facebook at midnight on Fat Tuesday, with an Edward R Murrow-esque goodbye.  I can't even remember what I attempted to give up last year.  But one year, maybe 2008, I was faithful to my commitment to have no sugar.  Dietary resolutions seem elementary, like you're showing God how much you love Him by saying no to the Oreos, coffee creamer, and candy.  But when you've had a really bad day, sometimes culinary comfort is in order (see?  That's where I am with sacrifice...I've had a ridiculous, 12-hour day, and I feel I DESERVE my coffee creamer.  Dammit, I survived the day.  Now hand over that candy corn and no one will get hurt).  Anyway, my point that, on Easter, I ate a Cadbury Egg and about died from the sugar (as the roots of my tooth disintegrated).  But it was because I re-calibrated.  Eating healthy and taking care of this body that is the temple of the Holy Spirit?  I'm not so quick to judge people who successfully give up chocolate for Lent.  I get it now.  

This year, Jack and I have a few shared sacrifices in mind.  I have a couple of doozies in mind for my own journey.  Our pastor this past weekend successfully wove a homily together from both the fisherman gospel and the Super Bowl....in essence, "Go Deep."  Don't stay in the shallows but challenge yourself and trust God while you're at it.  Throw yourself out there and see what happens.  

So we're going deep.  

I think we're all being challenged to look beyond ourselves and see what we can do for the less fortunate.  That's making me look beyond my own sugar consumption this year.  

Biofreeze and CNN....BNN?

I always dreamed of how I would spend my school-free Saturday's.  I'd get up early, go to the gym, maybe do grocery shopping, take up an exquisite hobby, do a puzzle, maybe work my way through Julia Child's cookbook.  

Riiiiiiiight.

The actual picture?  I did complete 4.5 miles on the treadmill and got a shower but now I'm watching Jonas Blizzard coverage on CNN.  Okay, with Pino Grigio.  It's hysterical.  In one scene, the young, blonde reporter in Central Park was hit by a snowball onscreen.  She brushed it off like a pro.  Then Steven Tyler from Aerosmith walks up with his daughter Liv and they (in a seemingly high manner) promoted his new single along with family hugs and hot chocolate.

Riiiiiiiiiight.  [Insert peace sign here.]

I have to admit, this is good entertainment.  It's not that I like watching millions of people struggle in terrible weather.  But it is fascinating to watch "Walking Dead"like scenes as a person walks down Capitol Avenue in D.C.  Or Steven Tyler stealing a kid's air mattress and go sailing down a hill in Central Park.  Seriously, travel was banned in NYC and hundreds (or more) people are flocking to Central Park for a massive snowball fight and sledding.  They're playing in the snow!

I'll drink to that.

So I'm happy to blow a Saturday afternoon this way...in seven short months, I will be in my first PhD class.  Yes, my board chair asked me to start my doctorate.  So I found a nice hybrid program in Ethics that allows me to stay in Indianapolis the majority of the time.  The website is scary...they say they only admit 25% of all applicants and most are JD's and MD's.  It almost scared me away.  But I trudged through the application, going as far as to hire an editor for my writing sample.  My system CEO and board chairperson wrote me a recommendation and 36 hours later, I received an email from Loyola saying I'm in their early admit selections.  

That.....was terrifying.  What?  WHAT?

Obviously, I'm still fightiing my self-doubt.  I was truly prepared to receive a rejection letter that I wasn't of the academic caliber they seek.  That I wasn't going to be deemed smart enough.  

But here I am.  A doctoral student.  I never really wanted to do a doctorate.  I did a few years ago, to prove my mental prowess and earn some respect.  But now?  I didn't feel it necessary.  I celebrated some serious success and stomach acid reduction when I finished my second master's.  I'm done!  Forever!  Yay!  Then, in November, my board chairperson point-blank asked me to do the doctorate.  Okay, FINE.  It's not how I really want to spend my Saturday's again, but, hey, what's another 4-5 years?  Maybe by the time I'm 42, I will REALLY be done with school.  Fingers crossed?

Dr. Dorrie?  Yeah....please never call me that.  I never want education and my opportunities to go to my head.

The other reason I've been in the family news feed lately is that I tore my rotator cuff.  I was saving kittens from a burning car, don't ya know.  True story!  

At least that's what I told the system ethics committee when I couldn't attend this past week.  Ugh....I've been doing so well on my treadmill conquests and my abs are threatening to actually make a reappearance.  And I admit that I discovered the stupid leggings the girls are wearing these days with riding boots.  I will NOT do the riding boot craze but the compression leggings are pretty awesome.  I found boot cut leggings that compress everything from the knees up...so they're flattering.  Maybe that's the wine talking but my body is definitely responding to the regular exercise.  Over 100 miles since Dec. 27 and I don't know how many thousands of crunches.  Push up's, however, have been suspended.  

Last week, I was at #49 of 50 push-up's, in my regular routine.  I was jammin' to my tunes and when lifting myself back up, I heard a very audible "rrrrriiiiiiipppppp" in my left shoulder.  And instant pain.  Fabulous.  

I figured it was a torn muscle and nursed it for a few days.  Then on Tuesday, it got so bad I wanted to puke so I called the doctor.  Had an X-Ray to placate the insurance and am waiting for clearance for the MRI.  But when I googled my pain points in my shoulder, it's pretty obvious that I tore something in my rotator cuff.  I'm just not sure how bad the tears are and please, oh please, can we not do surgery?    I hope PT will be enough.  That and Biofreeze.  Biofreeze has been my friend - it's an IcyHot that works for a couple hours.  It's wonderful.  Buy stock in the stuff.

  

So here's to pain-free rotator cuff tears, about 25 more school-free Saturday's, and a blizzard that isn't happening in Indiana for once.  Stay safe, New Yorkers, and keep up the snowball fights!

Decisions, Decisions

A strange thing struck me this past holiday season.  

Since we live 150 miles away from most members of our family, we do not seem them all that often.  Probably five times a year, tops.  We try to text and email to stay in touch since we do not see them but the fact remains - we just don't see our family that much.  

As I studied my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other family this Christmas, I realized that they tend to change between holidays.  Hair styles change, weight comes and goes, and wrinkles might be more or less evident one year.  I'm not sure why it required a Christmas Eve celebration in my uncle's basement rec room, but I realized that everyone is a sum of their daily choices.  The hair/weight/wrinkle changes I notice from year to year happen in the day-to-day lives they lead.  Maybe they decide to go gray and stop coloring their hair.  Maybe they opt for salads instead of bacon to drop a few pounds.  Maybe they stop indoor tanning and no longer look like leather.  

Whatever the case, life happens in those little decisions.  

I see it in myself, too.  Particularly in pictures, I notice my own superficial changes in hair, weight, and wrinkles from year to year.  While I might look fabulous one year as compared to another, it took a lot of sacrifice and styling.  While I might look frumpy and bloated, it took a lot of long days and lack of attention to proper diet, exercise, or rest to get there.  

Regardless, I'm on my own journey and the destination is the journey itself.  The whole point of this life is to keep moving, keep growing, keep becoming who you are really meant to be.  

But those daily choices matter.  We make 1,000 little decisions each day and they all matter.  They all add up to something.  And it's not just the choices that lead to our physical appearance - the choices that craft and polish our inner-most heart and soul matter, too.  Each choice adds to or detracts from our character. 

I will pay attention to the small choices I make each day.  They all count and they all matter.

Hope

Have you ever found hope in the most random of places?

Like in a farm field in southern Indiana, in the first week of January?

Jack and I took a ride yesterday to a new brewery in southern-ish Indiana.  It's a darling little place with rockin' IPA's, hard cider, and nachos that are made out of tater tots.  Seriously, does drinking GET any better?  Not that it was about drinking but it was our first date in a while.  I have this hang up he's trying to alleviate...when we host company, I inevitably have to stay home with "the girls" because they don't want to visit breweries or someone's not feeling well, etc.  As a result, I've been to about two of Indianapolis' 294 breweries.  

So I blew up in a stupid and immature manner the other day, claiming that I "never get to do anything cool."  I know this is not true, hello, I get to go to Rome every year, have beautiful friends and family, and have the very unusual experience of liking/loving my job.  But, hey, in the moment, sometimes a girl needs the honor of gracing a new brewery with her beau.  

En route to said brewery, we started noticing a crazy color as we raced down I-65 South....GREEN.  What were those beautiful green fields that looked a little like broccoli?  In contrast to the stormy/gray/rainy sky of January 9, why did I suddenly feel like I was in Ireland?  Why did I feel inclined to take a deep breath of gratitude, that spring was only a farm field away?  I know winter wheat greens up pretty early, but the earliest we have ever seen it was March.  Late March.

I texted my friend Vera to verify the winter wheat diagnosis.  She conferred and confirmed.  Yes.  Indianapolis is just that spring-like, with our mild, El Niño temps, the winter wheat is already sprouting.  "Rejoice," she said, "for this is a tried-and-true sign that this won't be a bad winter."

Did I mention that, 24 hours later, I am sitting in our living room, hypnotized by the swirling snowflakes outside?  With a peek of sunshine every now and then, it's snowing without purpose; the flakes sort of drift around as if there's no gravity.  It looks artificial, actually, that I'm on a movie set and someone's piping fake snow onto my property.  It's very pretty - like the snow that you imagine when lovers glide around an ice-skating rink, Louis Armstrong singing in the background.  Don't tell anyone, but I like the snow.  It is our first snow in Indy this year and apart from a couple snowstorms throughout the winter, this is about all we get.  Jack and I declared this a snow day; despite his having to work for a couple hours earlier, it seems like a perfect excuse to not leave the house, light the fireplace, not get dressed beyond our Adidas pants and Notre Dame sweatshirts, and cook a roast in the oven.  I'm sure hot chocolate is on the menu later.   

Despite the snow today, the green farm fields gave me hope.  An odd source of hope, but still hope.

What else has given me hope lately?  The fact that the days are getting a teeeeeeny bit longer each day; it's no longer pitch black at 5:15 p.m.  The fact that I taught my first 5- hour long class last Thursday and survived.  Holy cow, that's a long time.  But it went well, despite taking every morsel of energy I had that day (and the next day).  The fact that the sense of peace with which I was gifted in Italy this past fall remains with me.  I had a "rock" of "yuck" in my chest before we went on pilgrimage.  I have not written about the pilgrimage but plan to eventually.  I bitched a lot during the trip itself, for I do not usually take well to group outings and someone else's schedule and agenda.  I am working on that but the Rock of stress/worry/anxiety/guilt/obligation dissolved in Italy and has not yet returned.  That gives me hope.  

My parents are finally starting to eat well and take care of themselves.  They no longer hesitate to say "I love you" when they want to - for years, those were words we didn't say too often.  I have no idea why, but I am glad they are making a resurgence.  It gives me hope.

My own slaving gym routine is giving me hope right now...that I am not beyond hope.  With the insane stress of my hospital ops jobs and grad school, I have not seriously worked out in years.  I walked on the treadmill most nights after work, racking up between 10-14 miles a week.  But I never ran, did any kind of ab work, or weight lifting.  That has changed and my "new day" began on December 27.  Since then, I walked 28 miles, running 9.9 of them.  I have done almost 3,000 crunches.  When I got out of bed yesterday morning, I felt leaner.  Like I had less of a gut.  Surprisingly, consistently doing 200+ crunches a day will have an effect on you (!).  This whole consistency thing is a bit shocking, for I cannot remember committing to any fitness goal like this before.  It gives me hope.  

As does my other area of newfound consistency - that of prayer/meditation.  I am terrible at regular prayer intervals but find it easier to carve out moments of mindfulness throughout the day.  Those moments lead to moments of prayer.  It's like of like my "crunch challenge."  I cannot do 365 crunches at one time, but if I do 50 in the morning, 200 as part of my workout, 50 after dinner, and my last batch before bed, they are all accomplished.  Same with prayer....while I cannot easily complete all of my wonderings/reflections/prayers in a 30 minute setting, I can find a few moments here and there throughout the day.  This gives me hope.  

So while it's still not-quite-mid-January, I have hope.  Hope that everything will be okay.  Hope that warm, sunny days will return soon.  My blood pressure is under control, the rock of yuck is far away, and I have a roast succulently cooking in the oven on this snowy Sunday.  It all gives me hope!