From My Tub on this Boxing Day

I'm writing this from my bathtub.  

It's stop #1 on my "Dorrie's self care" tour of 2017.  I love writing and this is a good way to write and provide myself a nice way to look back at my journey.  

So here's the thing.  I feel like I barely survived these last few months.  Turns out that working crazy hours with lots of travel, doing a half-time Ph.D., and training for marathons takes a toll on one's body.  And mind.  And soul.  And immune system.  

I'd never been in better shape and I was smaller than I've been in years. I felt like I was kicking ass - when people asked how I was doing or what my life was like, thy couldn't believe the hard worker, business traveler, student, and marathoner were all the same person.  

And I loved that feeling!  Heck yes, I'm superwoman and I have the income, grades, and race medals to show for it.  

Except that I have been sick now since Thanksgiving.  I spent my December wrapped in a blanket, coughing, and visiting my doctor.  Amidst finals, a hellish paper that robbed me of probably 75 hours, and a heavy travel schedule for work.  I feel like my entire being is very inflamed - to the point where I am breaking out in hives occasionally.  No trigger except probably the massive amounts of cortisol I'm producing. 

While I wracked up the achievements this year, my personal reservoir evaporated, little by little.  What was once a beautiful lake, ringed with plants and vibrant life became a muddy dirt hole that eventually drained dry.  My birthday was pretty dark this year and I realized it's because I was digging in the dry clay, trying to force health and happiness. 

Yeah, that didn't work.

Christmas was a lovely holiday once again this year, bursting with joy and laughter. The adult siblings and our spouses stayed with my folks for the weekend.  It was hysterical.  Lots of Christmas carols, jokes, and sitting around for hours with coffee and Bailey's.  The only problem is that we never want the nights to end and we stay up until 2 or 3 a.m.    I always struggle the day after big, joyous holidays but the sleep deprivation makes it even harder.  The concept of "holiday hangover" is very real for me. 

So that's why I'm in the tub, in a luxurious Lush bath.  My bed isn't far behind.  I want to stay up and not "close" the holiday weekend but I'm so tired.  

The New Year is upon us shortly and my new year goals are always the same: better eating, less alcohol, more exercise, pay down debt.   It's all about structure, discipline, and endurance.  

How fun.  Is there any wonder I'm dreading New Year's?  So I can put myself on a rigid diet, skip going out to dinner, and walk miles to nowhere on my treadmill?  

I need an attitude adjustment.  A realignment.  I'm hatching this plan tonight but instead of my annual January rigidity, I'm approaching New Year's resolutions in a positive light.  Healthy food because I'm working my body hard right now and it needs healthy fuel.  Exercise to stretch my body so I feel well.   I tend to forget that my body is a temple.  2017 is the Year of the Temple.  I'm debating a Whole30 but generally want to eat better so I feel well.  It will help to get the green bean casserole and sugar cookies out of my blood stream but I want to pay better attention to what I'm putting in my body.  

I'm getting one massage a month.  Maybe one every two weeks during heavy travel periods or stressful points in the semester.  I'm taking baths with my fancy bath products.  Why save them for some random "rainy day?"  I'm going to bed when I feel like it, refusing to judge myself as lazy or lame.  This body deserves sleep, too.   

In the last 2 years, four people bought Jack and me coloring books.  I am going to color when the mood strikes.  I am going to shamelessly read fictional books, even when I have school reading due (a big opportunity for me - I refuse to do anything "fun" until my obligations are met).  The thing is, sometimes obligations cannot be all met before I "treat" myself to an early bedtime.  

I am so grateful for my blessings and I'm tired of thinking of everything as an obligation.  Even something as holy as church - I always want to rush through it so I can get to that day's to-do list.  I deserve to have joy, not only st Christmas, but always and things like prayer or reflection should not be rushed.  Last night, on Christmas night, I sat in front of the fireplace, fire roaring, listening to Josh Groban's "O Holy Night."  No rushing, just space and time to reflect on God's Gift to humanity.  

In short, I'm going to treat myself like I treat my best friends.  I try to be nice to them, giving them what they need, listening to them, and forgiving mistakes quickly.  It sounds so elementary but I'm going to befriend myself and give ME a break.  The insane expectations I have of myself are exhausting me and I really think they contribute to (cause?) my flailing immunity. 

The Fire

Nothing worth achieving comes easily.  Or quickly.

Jack and I are in the fire now.  Work that has exploded for both of us - a blessing because it means our careers are going well and people need us to accomplish things.  My work travel keeps me on the road at least 2 weeks a month.  Jack is an incredibly good sport about my travels.

School is in full force for us both, two classes each this semester.  13 total credit hours so, I guess, between the two of us, we are in full-time school.  We are looking down the barrel of 80 hour weeks with school and work.  

And crazy us, we are training for two races this fall, a 10 mile trail walk and a half marathon in Nov.  This is good, though, because the time together focuses our minds and gives us a cool connection.  Exercise clears your head so that you can study and write effectively.  

We are both trying to find our routines, how to maximize the weekends and work efficiently during the work week.  

Nothing worth achieving comes easily.  We can do this.  We WILL do this. 

See you after December 12!  

My Dear Brother Got Married

Weddings are always such emotional, high stakes events.  

This one was no exception.  While it's not healthy, I joke that I cry once a year, at best.  Standing on the altar, supporting my brother and his bride, watching them exchange vows and promise each other "forever," something unhinged in me.  

I've been the bride.  I've been a bridesmaid 9 times if my count is correct.  It's not my first rodeo.  But something about this last Saturday struck me so differently.  At first I thought it was the sense of "church."  For the bride, church is her family, her life, her grounding.  She's steeped in it.  And her actions demonstrate that faith and commitment to God.  It was a pretty good mirror - it was easy to look at your own moral reflection while amidst that faith community.  Not always easy to see the reflection but those reality checks are helpful for future reflection.

Then I thought it was the out-of-the-way country church.  It was beautiful - surrounded by corn fields, swaying in the breeze.  Horse-drawn buggies passed by every few minutes and we all sort of marveled at that sense of pace.  Could we slow down even a day?  Weather granted us a welcome break from the humidity, the Robin egg blue sky punctuated by a few fluffy clouds, and the summer breeze shook the leaves and blew through the fields.  All of us immediately felt like part of the country.  Not in a derogatory way but in a "slow" way.  We all drank in the lack of urgency.  If you're 2 minutes late for a meeting, does it really matter?

Then I thought it was the chill bride.  The bride was the most relaxed, non-nervous bride I have ever seen.  Like, "This is God's will for me and I'm going for it" type of attitude.  The groom?  Since he's my brother, I had license to check on him throughout the morning and early afternoon.  He was pacing like a nervous dog at one point.  However, Jack took care of him and he radiated the whole day - looking at his bride with such admiration.  I don't think he realized how much emotion he showed when he even glanced at her - but it hit me in the heart how much he loves her.  And she him.  

Reflecting on my own wedding, I don't remember being that nervous.  Sure, you want things to go well, but those two this weekend truly let go.  They planned all of the details and then relaxed enough to let the details carry them through the evening.  I like how newlyweds can show us old married folks some inspiration!

So, yes, the wedding was beautiful.  The bride's choreographing down to the nanosecond panned out well.  We celebrated the bride and groom Friday night at rehearsal.  All day Saturday.  And Sunday, over a lunch of wedding leftovers and a sea of presents where two new families came together for the first time.  It was excellent.  We don't know each other that well but there is good intention...and we want to all support the bride and groom.  That's the most important part, right?  That family has your back.    

In kind of an odd (and unplanned twist), Jack and I and our two friends were having after-party nachos and pizza and I texted the groom - who was also staying at Notre Dame, just down the hall with us.  I offered him food and beer and suddenly, he and his bride joined us for a late night pub snack at ND.  It felt like a once in a lifetime experience to be able to be there with my brother and his bride - on their most important of important nights - because they wanted to be with us, too.  Probably, they were just THAT hungry, but it was touching that they came down to the hotel bar to be with family for another couple hours.  

Standing on the altar for my brother, I had to choke back sobs for a good 20 minutes.  I cannot say this well but I did help raise him.  I'm not sure what category is closer than "sister" but I am in some strange in-between of Sister and Mother that's not quite Aunt.  Whatever it is, it made me choke up every time I looked at my brother this weekend.  Weddings always get me but seeing my brother marry the love of his life made me so optimistic towards life.  As I watched the bride unwrap her wedding gifts, I pictured her making a Thanksgiving casserole in that one dish and an Easter ham in another.  After my parents depart this earth, we have a wonderful couple to help Jack and I carry on family traditions.  

The merging of families...it's not always easy but I feel like we hit the jackpot with this one.  

I have a bit of PTSD today...I wondered what I would feel like this week after the 3+ months of parties were complete.  It started with the Mini marathon in May, I went to Rome, then was gone most of June with work and school and the bridal shower, July brought vacation, other work-related travel, our 15 year wedding anniversary, and the bachelor/bachelorette party, and then here we are with the wedding.  As of today, the partying is over.  The normalcy is returning.  As much as I like the summer party season, it was intense this year.  Rightly so, but it is nice to transition back to ordinary time.  You have to fast in order to be able to feast.  We've been feasting since early May.  It's time to scale back and settle into our lives once again.  

I'm grateful for this life.  For such blatant displays of love and commitment.  For the opportunity to both fast and feast - celebrating lives and families coming together for a lifetime.  Cheers to the bride and groom and everyone who celebrates love.

Aloneness is okay (especially when Shark Week and Olympic Trials are on TV)

I’ve come a long way. 

I used to avoid dining in restaurants alone, afraid that other (mostly business travelers) would judge me as a lonely woman too ____________ to get a date.  I was wearing wedding rings and was probably texting my husband the whole time while I ordered a quick beer and waited for my carry-out grilled chicken sandwich (no mayo) to be ready so I could eat in my hotel room in relative peace.  I hated the stares, the weirdness, and well, the judging. 

Turns out it was just me judging myself.  Image that. 

I’ve been on the road WAY more than I care to have been…between Rome, Chicago, Minneapolis, Philly, Little Rock, Boca Raton, Atlanta, Orlando, and…wherever else I’ve been on business lately…am [finally] no longer worried about others judging me. 

Who the hell cares?  I’m going to be that woman who sits at the upscale bar, orders a glass of chardonnay, and eats something wonderful off the menu.  Guess what?  At upscale hotel bars, EVERYONE is a business traveler.  If you gaze around the bar, everyone’s face is illuminated by the subtle blue glow of their iPhone, reflecting their perusing of FB, Reddit “shower thoughts,” or texts from loved ones.  I’m not alone as I send a covert Snapchat to my husband, explaining my menu choice that may or may not have way too much garlic.  Even when I eat "high on the hog," my bill is rarely more than $35. 

As Aerosmith says, "I'm livin' on the edge." 

I remember going to Chicago when I was first “minted;” I had to attend a conference in Skokie.  I thought I was hot shit because I managed to leave the hotel on foot, walk two blocks, pass by a Crate and Barrel (where I, of course, bought some glassware), and find a McCormick and Schmidt’s.  Where I found a colleague.  Saved!  No eating alone!

One time I traveled to Minneapolis alone.  Jack and I had just discovered craft brews and I located a local Irish pub (huh?) that served 50+ craft brews.  I had new territory to navigate.  My conference did not start until the morning (it was 2 p.m.) but a respectable woman didn’t have more than one beer at a bar, right?  Later that night, I found a sushi restaurant that served an all-you-can-eat extravaganza that consisted of little sushi belts floating by you on a little faux river.  Here comes the salmon!  Grab it!  I was sitting near a couple with young kids and I was humbled by the kids knowing way more than I did about sushi.  One actually helped me find an unagi that I wouldn’t hate.  I had to rely on a little kid to get me through my aloneness.

Once, I flew to Philly alone.  I finally got up the nerve to seek out the nearest Philly Cheesesteak.  It was worth the search and I loved it.  It was the first time I went to a large city on business and didn't feel completely awkward/pathetic while walking around alone.  I used to feel like such a target, like everyone was wondering why I was without companionship.  Co-dependent much?  Maybe.  I have come to realize that solo travel is not for the faint of heart.  You gotta have faith...and confidence. 

One time I traveled to Rome alone.  Wait, that was four times.  I think the proverbial challenging of one’s comfort zone really helps.  I figured out how to shop, walk, and go out alone in Rome – not a feat for the doubting – and survived.  So after being in Rome alone, Chicago feels like no big deal. 

So that’s where I was tonight.  Doctor school let out early tonight, at 4:30 p.m., and the class decided to go out to a local eatery to celebrate our collective awesomeness.  Or something.

I wasn’t game.  I wasn't feeling it.  I have been with people for the last…um…138 days straight (or so it feels) and I simply could not fake it through another evening; fake-laughing at jokes or fake-appreciating peoples’ kid stories’, or fake-appreciating the tenured physicians’ stories from fellowship and how they hate their administrators.

I finally know myself well enough to know when I need a break.  Better that than sitting like a crab in the corner, cursing people when they order another drink and ALL YOU WANT TO DO is go to bed. 

No peeps. 

I could have blamed it on the lasagna that totally upset my stomach this afternoon (everyone at this medical school seems to be a vegetarian and only drinks “Fiji” water…whatever…I’ll drink that crappy Lake Michigan tap water).   I could have blamed it on budgets.  But I told my professor that I needed space.  I couldn’t even elaborate before he said, “I’m glad you know yourself so well and what your soul needs during this time.” 

Sold.

Thanks, Doc.

So after talking to Jack, showering and relaxing, I took my tired rear down to the nice, dark wood hotel bar, had a buttery chardonnay, a lovely caprese flatbread, kept to myself, and considered it a win. 

A quick word about the “doc” thing.  I keep calling this program “doctor school,” yes, because I’m becoming a doctor through my studies.  But I’m surrounded by medical students, moving from class to class like the rest of us did in high school.  Their “normal” is pretty amazing…going to school from 8-3 or so and then going to the hospital for work on the units until 10 or 11 p.m.  It feels as though there are two types of people roaming around campus, those in scrubs and those teaching them (who are sometimes in scrubs).  It’s my first major experience in a medical school and guess what?  The students all seem insecure, unsure of themselves, maybe not-so-confident at times. 

People accepted to one of the best medical schools in America are still insecure.  They’re probably all Type A, first-born, overachievers.  But if the cream of the crop is insecure, what about the rest of us? 

Can’t we just own our “spot” where we are right now?  It dawned on me today, sitting in the medical school, listening to tenured physicians and professors talk about demanding situations, that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. 

What if we all decided that we are exactly where we are supposed to be? 

That's my plan for today.  Wherever you go, go confidently!

#goodlife

I'm sitting in my living room, all of the windows wide open, listening to a chorus of lawn mowers.  It's Tuesday; why are so many people home?  Well, I'm home today because I'm still recovering from Italy and a dose of my own stupidity. 

I'm so fortunate to 'have' to go to Italy every May.  Between my recent trips to Italy, I have spent a full month there out of the last 12 months.  I am starting to feel at home in Rome, as I have learned the streets in the neighborhoods around the Vatican and Piazza Novona.  I had to go out by myself one day to buy a bottle of wine for mass and while it wasn't completely comfortable, it wasn't scary to venture out to a local grocery store.  I found some awesome olive oil and a bottle of Montefalco, our favorite Italian wine, to bring home for Jack.  It felt surprisingly normal to hit a store by myself in Rome. We usually advise folks not to venture out alone but hey, do as I say, not as I do.  LOL.

During this trip, I truly adjusted to local time, too.  When we were there for two weeks last fall, I definitely adjusted - but I usually do not really adjust in a week.  This year was different; I keep waking up at 1 a.m., starving for espresso and crusty bread!  I'm crazy tired as well and since I worked about 190 hours last week, I didn't think anyone would mind if I worked from home today.  This week is my last lull before full-on crazy sets in again.  June is horrific, travel-wise.  I think I'm on the road about 15 scheduled days already (out of 23 working days in June) and I'm sure it will increase as another meeting or two are added.  At least my June mileage check will be able to pay for my car payment - probably through the end of 2016!  My doctoral program starts next Monday.  I tuned into an orientation podcast earlier (seriously, a podcast) and I'm nervous about this degree.  It still feels overwhelming and everyone I've talked to about the program says it's quite onerous.  I have to submit my grades to my board chair so the pressure's really on to achieve A's.  Despite my nerves and lacking confidence in this new coursework, I set a crazy goal to try for valedictorian of my class.  I realize that's pretty arrogant, considering the company I will be in, but why not try?  I was near the top of my first master's but barely graduated Magna Cum Laude with the second degree.  Some of those classes were so damn hard, especially when I was working 70+ hours a week in ops.  While my travel is rough right now, I do have lulls every now and then.  I figure it's a commendable goal; gotta dream it before you can make it happen.  

The other thing I'm recovering from is what feels like a third degree sunburn.  Jack and I took yesterday off as PTO and after eating beautiful Caprese salads, sat outside for about an hour and a half.  It was so nice out; it didn't even occur to me to lather on the SPF.  Stupid, stupid, idiotic mistake.  I can barely walk - my legs and chest are so burned.  I'm radiating more heat than a metal workers' furnace...in July...on the surface of the sun.  

We had some similar weather in Rome - 72 and sunny with low humidity.  There is a great little wine bar right behind our hotel and between that place and the stunning courtyard of our hotel (that also has a wine bar), I logged a lot of time outdoors during downtime.  Not that my downtime was frequent but it was so nice to sit outside and listen to the leaves of the trees rustle in the breeze.  Rome is very noisy; loud police sirens scream by what seems like every few minutes.  The seagulls are huge and apparently evolved to make pterodactyl sounds.  Morning bird sounds ranged from a sweet chirping to what sounded like a pissed off monkey.  But somehow, the breeze masks some of those sounds.  

This group was hysterical with lots of jokes throughout the week.  On Monday, I took ten of them up to the cupola at St. Peter's - the view is stunning and you can see the seven hills of Rome.  It's 512 steps or something.  To reach the top, you have to use handrails that millions of people (literally) have touched.  I would love to swab those handrails to see what types of bugs live on those surfaces.  My point is that your hands feel and smell disgusting after that climb.  One of the pilgrims, atop the roof of St. Peter's Basilica, found a Rosemary plant.  He crushed some Rosemary between his palms and then turns to another one of the pilgrims, thrusting his hands in his face, says "Smell my hands!"  The rest of the group was like, "Heck no, are you crazy!?"  

We had a pilgrim on this trip from the Jewish faith tradition.  He won "quote of the trip" when he said, "I did not sweat during the climb to the cupola but I broke into a cold sweat when trying to pick out a rosary for my wife to have blessed by the pope!"  For not being Christian, this particular individual was an extremely good sport about our Church-centric trip.  

Our program coordinator loves veal and we had veal four times on the trip.  An under-the-breath quote was often "I wonder how the veal will be prepared tonight" versus "I wonder what's for dinner."  

This trip was different in that I was constantly connected but the Internet was like that of 1996.  Wifi worked when it wanted (It was acting very "Italian" in that way) but my cell coverage was wonderful.  In prior years, cell coverage was not good and it was impossible to text or email while traveling around the city.  This year, it was actually easier to stay on cell coverage and not even bother at the hotel with their Italian wifi.  I just hope I don't get a $3945 bill from Verizon.  

Even in Assisi, I had decent cell coverage.  Oh, Assisi.  After spending 8 days there last fall, the place feels like home to me.  I remember the major streets and know where the landmarks are.  I know who has the best gelato and where to find the best olive wood utensils.  I know where to get Italian leather.  I know where the free bathrooms are located.  

I need to go back to Assisi.  This trip made me realize that instead of going back for our vacation in 2018, we're going next year  We are going to rent a house in Umbria and relax, Italian style, for two weeks.  

#goodwine

#goodfriends

#goodlife  

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. 

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

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!

The Makings of a Dorrie

I miss writing.  So I shall continue.  

Dorrie's "Ab Crunch Extravaganza" continues.  I am regularly able to do 275 crunches.  I am not to 365 a day yet, but I keep telling myself that I am a work in progress.  I am already stronger than I was a week ago.  Work in progress.  The plant that keeps growing through dirt.

Because I am.  Some days I feel I have come so terribly far and other days, well, I'm glad I got out of bed and didn't cry in the board room.  Just yesterday, I had a terrible night's sleep and had to chair an ethics consult about transgenderism and the hospital's stance on transgender procedures, sensitivity training, and advocacy.  It's kind of hard to not laugh when the meeting is full of terminology pertaining to genitalia and we argue the moral perspective of a breast augmentation for the intention of cross-dressing, not a full gender transition.  Seriously.  Did I mention I was the only woman in the room?  Again?

I flashed back to 2009 when I was the administrative fellow, learning, soaking up everything, and trying to be effective while not making a fool of myself.  In this particular meeting, I thought it best to shut up.

But the conversation was SO heady, about institutional Church teaching and cutting edge moral debate for which there have been no formal teachings.  So we're left to...well, figure it out.  This stuff is hard.  These issues trouble Catholic healthcare nation-wide and no one has the answers yet.  

Sometimes I feel like whopping for joy and clicking my heels in glee when I realize I love my job.  I can't believe I'm in this position, making a difference for our ministry.  And sometimes, I glance in the mirror to check that my eyeliner is not running, notice my eye is twitching again, and wonder what the hell I got myself into.    

I will submit my PhD application this weekend and will hopefully get accepted.  Deep inside, I'm still that adolescent who fears going out for volleyball because (gasp!) what if I don't make the team?  Despite two master's degrees and numerous trips across the globe, I'm still that insecure girl at times. Will they like me?  Will they accept me?  Will this doctorate thing work out after all?  It feels like the proverbial fork in the road - if I am accepted to the program, this ethics gig is the right path.  I'm increasingly being referred to as "ethicist" (and more importantly, feeling more confident in my moral judgments and clinical ethics recommendations).  But my employer has made it pretty clear that they expect me to have a doctorate in Ethics.  So if I don't get into this program, then what?  Apply to another and live across the country from Jack?   Sigh...I don't even want to think about it.  

I miss hospital operations but I don't.  I miss the people and the wonderful interactions with patients and staff.  I do not miss the radiology image viewing system crashing at 2 a.m.  And me having to get showered and dressed to go in and calm the mess.  Then try to gut through countless meetings that day.  Tomorrow, I teach my first five-hour Ethics class to nursing administration.  I am back to telling myself that I GET to do this and if things get really bad, just pretend I'm on Saturday Night Live.  That works, right?  As long as I don't get caught lip-syncing?  

There's a big show being binge-watched right now, called the "makings of a murderer."  I am not going to watch that but it does make me think about the "making of an ethicist."  These long, windy, sometimes-scary roads have to be taking me somewhere, right?  I keep telling myself to have faith, to go where God leads me.  But it's never easy and despite my frequent requests, God hasn't emblazed any neon signs in my immediate path.  

Oh well....Just keep swimming.  

365 Laughs in 365 Minutes

I have 2,350 miles on the road planned for January.  I'm teaching four classes this month.  I applied to start my doctorate in the fall.  I started running again, taking up the "365 miles in 365 days" challenge.  And I masochistically added 365 crunches a day for 365 days.  Since I haven't done any ab work since the mid-90's, this crunch challenge is proving more difficult than the running challenge.  Can't.  Quite.  Cough.  It.  Hurts.  So.  Bad.  

We somehow survived the holidays and the "holiday hangover" is in full force this evening.  I have been off work since 12/24, celebrating Christmas, cleaning out every closet in my house and organizing, then hosting New Year's in Indy.  It was only supposed to be our dear friends and siblings but then my folks lamented the fact that they had no plans on New Year's Eve.  What's two more people when you already have six?  Eight.  It was a very full house.  I have no idea how the Tanner's did it...we would not have had room for Comet the dog or Kimmy Gibbler.  During preparation for New Year's Eve dinner (a succulent turkey!), our kitchen literally reminded me of the opening scenes from "Home Alone" where all those people were in the kitchen.  

It felt like I was watching an anthill.  On speed.

Everyone ate and drank too much but we played "Things."  Have you heard of this game?  Everyone gets a slip of paper and you will have to answer a question such as "Things you don't want to find on your sandwich."  It digresses quickly.  And you find out that your future sister-in-law has a filthy mind.  It was hysterical and for the third time in three weeks, I found myself with sore stomach muscles the following day from laughing so hard.  

[Perhaps this is helping my crunch challenge!]

I love my family and friends and feel so incredibly blessed.  I love our times together when we eat too many carbs and forget to cook the broccoli and green beans.  We can live on shrimp cocktail and when talking about it, a ten-minute diatribe starts about the origins of the word "cocktail."  Christmas was beautiful and New Year's was a bit exhausting - but still filled with a lot of awesome memories.  We toasted the Time Square ball drop together; I kept glancing around the room, not sure how so many wonderful people ended up in my life.  So entirely blessed.  But of course, it had to come to an end.

Regardless of all the time throughtfully Christmas shopping, wrapping, decorating, giving, cooking, traveling, churching, laughing, and toasting, it is always nice to return to normal.  As excited as I am to carefully decorate the Christmas tree and hang garlands on our stairway rails, I am so happy to tear everything down and pack it away come January 1.  

Our New Year's party petered out by 6 p.m. on New Year's Day and everyone left for their own corners of the state.  Jack and I, with my brother Brady and his fiancee, Eva, cleaned up the kitchen for hours. Everyone had frazzled nerves and everyone left for their own corners of the house.

Did I mention that Brady is living with us in Indy?  He got a job down here in October and has been cooking us dinner every fourth night since then.  Eva is wonderrful - their wedding is scheduled in August.  So we are privy to their pre-wedding fights about appetizers and who should stand in what order in the bridal party.  Jack and I remember fighting like that - but it's good to be on the other side of marriage!  Honestly, having Brady around all the time and Eva on weekends is starting to feel as though we live with two 26 year old's we didn't birth.  

We're in weird roles of being siblings and yet parents, too.  I try to minimize the number of times I tell Brady to take out the trash.  LOL.

So while our holiday hangovers are going strong on this Sunday evening, tomorrrow starts a new year at work.  New beginnings, new goals, and new initiatives.  New workout plans, new ideas to read more non-fiction, and finally run that half-marathon.  Here's to a new year!  Make it a good one!