13.1

A long time ago, I made a list of goals. I can’t remember everything that was on it (I am hoping it said something like “broker world peace and fight for justice,” but I cannot guarantee it), but I know that it had the following three things: 1) learn how to juggle, 2) learn how to play the guitar, and 3) run a 5K. What can I say? I aim low.

First, I tackled the guitar. I carried around a junior-sized acoustic guitar that my friend Lisa gave to my son, and wouldn’t let that thing go until I’d mastered the main chords. Michael Row Your Boat Ashore became my bitch. Next: juggling. For some reason, my mother had a set of juggling balls stamped with the word Toblerone, which I practiced on for weeks, and I do mean WEEKS until I could finally juggle those little fuckers. Last but not least, my old nemesis: running.

I’ve told much of my running story in this blog, but I am reminded of it all as I prepare for my 6th half-marathon on October 16th. And while a half-marathon is the ugly, stupid, unlovable cousin to the Actual Marathon, it is still much more than I ever dreamed I would be able to do. I would like you to join me for the next one.

Now, you may have just made a face, and grabbed at that nagging hip/leg/knee/ankle/toe/lower back/shin injury that you’ve been nursing for ten years, but I would like you to unclench the body part, and just hear me out. If I can run a half-marathon, you can, too. Here’s why:

In order to run a half marathon, all you need is a little time. Right now, if you can run for thirty seconds, you can run for a mile. If you can run a mile, before you know it, you can run a 5K. If you can run a 5K, you can run a five miler. If you can run a 5 miler, you can run a 10K. If you can run a 10K, you can run a ten-miler. If you can run a 10-miler, you can run a half-marathon. That is the simple truth. All it takes is one step, and you are on your way.

Nobody will judge how you run. Listen, every race has those girls who run by in strappy bra tops and short-shorts with the tread of a gazelle. They will get theirs one day. Most of us throw on what’s clean and take our goofy stride out with us. You just have to finish – not look pretty while you’re doing it.

You will not come in last. You never will. Somebody has to, but it is not you. Don’t worry about it.

You will not be the sweatiest person out there. That’s me.

You do not have to radically change your life to run a half marathon. You just need to get moving. Maybe today isn’t the day that you run, but you can use today to walk. Hop on the elliptical tomorrow. Ride your bike the next day. I know you think you’re not in shape, but you can’t get in shape by sitting your fat ass on the couch and bitching about it. Just get started.

And speaking of “in shape,” a half-marathon takes all sizes. I have seen some real tanks running these things. You don’t need to be an elite athlete to do it.

There are lots of resources to help you get started. Your friendly neighborhood running store will get you fitted with the right shoes for you, and will give you a plan to get started. You can look online for a training plan when you’re ready for your first race. There are blogs, magazines, websites and books for running. This is running, not chess. It really isn’t that hard.

You will feel so good if you do it. The day I ran a mile without stopping, I called my sister in New Jersey. From the track. The first time I ran a distance over ten miles, I stopped right where I was, on Goodale Boulevard, and jumped up and down, Rocky Balboa style. Nowadays, even though I’ve had more ten mile runs than I can shake a fist at (and believe me, I have shaken my share of fists) I still celebrate every run. When I run, I am alive. I am being, instead of existing. I am using my body the way it’s supposed to be used, not ruining it with inactivity. I am taking care of the machine, protecting it from heart disease, hypertension, diabetes and bone loss. I am making sure that, no matter where I go in the world, I will have a means to get around, to have something to do, and to commune with others through a universal language.

You can do it. Listen, if those fatasses (I mean that in a literal sense) on The Biggest Loser can do it, I don’t know what your excuse is. You may run slowly, you may run ugly, and it may not be easy at first, but you can do it. If you can run thirty seconds, you can run a mile. If you can run a mile, you can run a 5K. If you can run a 5K, you can run a 5 miler. If you can run a 5 miler, you can run a 10K. If you can run a 10K, you can run a 10 miler. If you can run 10 miles, you can run a half-marathon. And I want you to run it with me. Columbus half marathon: May 5, 2012. Put it on your calendar. I don’t want to hear why you can’t. You can do it.

$712.72

$712.72. That is a chunk of change that I could do something with. I mean, I couldn’t buy a house with it or anything, but I could pay for my books for next semester, get a desperately-needed new washer or dryer, get a new suit from Ann Taylor….lots of things. More importantly than that, it signifies the present worth of the greatest mysterious cash disappearance to ever happen in my family’s history.

Now, just so we’re clear here, “cash disappearances” happened in my household on a regular basis. Everything got stolen. I had seven siblings, and most of them lived by the adage, “what’s yours is mine, as long as I find it.” There was never a Halloween in my life where I just got to enjoy my candy. I literally had to devise ingenious hiding places, and then move my stash, in the dark of night, on a daily basis. If I didn’t, I would open my bag and find all of my chocolate and gum gone. All I’d be left with were unwrapped circus peanuts, Chuckles, and the popcorn ball from that creepy guy who lived down the street and never zipped his fly.

Money, too, was a moveable and highly-desired commodity. My parents lived by an saying popularized in the 1920’s: if you’re old enough to work at a sweatshop, you’re old enough to support yourself. So, at age 12, they let me know that my paltry allowance was being cut off, and I was now responsible for funding my own clothes, entertainment, and buying Christmas gifts for the ten million people who lived in my house. Unlike today, babysitting back then paid $1.50 an hour. When I would finally string together 7 or 8 bucks in a babysitting session, you know, enough to think that I was really making it in the world, I would look in my hiding place, and find money stash considerably lighter. My fault, I’m sure my siblings thought, for being such an easy mark.

To a certain extent, everyone in a big family expects this kind of behavior. It goes with the territory. It’s like being in a gang – you gotta get jumped in, and having your siblings steal all of your money, things, and sense of security, just go with the territory. But the most amazing feat of thievery that ever occurred was the Great Girl Scout Cookie Money Caper of 1983.

Picture this: I am 12 years old, and a Girl Scout in the most awesome, laid back Girl Scout troop that ever existed. I don’t think we even wore uniforms. Our annual cookie drive was just coming to a close, and I had almost all of my money collected. I kept the money I’d collected (all cash – that was how we rolled in those days) in an unmarked paper bag on an open shelf about 8 feet high, in our kitchen. I figured that the money was safe there because a) it wasn’t mine and there’s honor among thieves, right? b) the kitchen was a popular room so it was hard to be alone and c) the money was on a high shelf.

One day, I came in to put some money I’d just collected in the bag, and…the bag was gone. Gone. $147 and some change. Disappeared.

“Help! Help!” I yelled to my mother! She and I looked for where the
money might have gone. Nowhere to be found.

“Somebody took my Girl Scout money!” I cried! So we asked all of my siblings what they knew.

“Did you take my Girl Scout cookie money?” I asked my sister, the one who was widely considered to have no conscience and would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down.

“Nope,” she said.

“Good enough for me,” My mother said.

“Did you steal my money?” I asked a brother, who would steal everything, and then deny that he had it, even if it was in his hands.

“Nope,” he said.

“Seems truthful,” my mother said.

And so on and so on. Each sibling, ranging in ages from 14 to 24 questioned, and each one denying any knowledge of the Girl Scout cookie money.

“Well, I guess it must have just fallen in the trash,” My mother said.

“The trash?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Totally. Must have been. Your siblings denied it and I find them to be a trustworthy and honest bunch. Or maybe one of their friends stole it.”

“Their friends? It was an unmarked paper bag on a high shelf? How would anyone know about that?”

“Your problem now,” was the response.

So, over the next year or so, I had to pay back that $147.00 from my pitiful babysitting money, in addition to having to clothe myself, provide my own entertainment funding, and buy Christmas presents for all of my siblings, one of whom was a thief and a liar. If I would have grown up as one of the Brady Bunch, I am sure that my siblings would have banded together to help me raise the money. We would have had a bake sale, or a singing competition, or something. But no, my siblings were too busy chasing each other around with kitchen knives to help a girl out.

To this day, no one has confessed to the deed. We are all over forty, and you would think that someone’s conscience or guilt would make them confess, but, alas, no. And you know, there was a valuable life lesson to be learned there for me or whatever. I’m sure it made me stronger. I’m sure it made me more resilient and I am 98% positive that it contributed to my desire to go to law school and do some fucking good in the world. But it still bugs me, lo these 28 years later.

So, in the spirit of fairness, I offer a deal. At a rate of 5.8 compound interest (I think that compound interest is only fair, considering that they stole from a 12 year old girl,) the payback amount in 2011 is $712.72. If you were the culprit, you can write me a check, send me a money order, or just stick a bundle of bills inside my door. I am not picky. On the other hand, I would be perfectly happy if you would simply own up to what you did and apologize.

Perfect World

I have a little ritual. Okay, truth is, I have a lot of rituals, many of which involve counting, but that is not what I’m here to talk about. My little ritual is walking my dog at 5:15 in the morning, five days a week.

I know that 5:15 seems a little early. I agree, but I just don’t have the time to tell you about why it has to happen that way. There is a complicated algorithm that involves peppermint tea, Sudoku, and Angela An, and since January of this year, it has expanded to incorporate the biological needs of my little dog Skye. So, at 5:15, I head out the door, ready to walk a mile with the dog, to get her some exercise, and to get me some peace of mind.

There is something perfect about the world at rest. In the summer, I am alone with the sounds of crickets, frogs and the breeze ruffling through the tops of trees. I am under a canopy of soft stars and a bright moon. I smell green leaves and the wind, and watch as early birds make their go of getting the worm. In the spring, I get the first glimpse of dogwood and hyacinth. I literally can stop and smell the roses, and I don’t look like a weirdo with her nose in some stranger’s plants. I see the first blue light of the early morning, and feel the dew as it sets on the grass. In the winter, I get complete silence – the world insulated by inches of fresh snow, occasionally punctuated by the distant sound of some poor early-shifter who has to dig out his car. Skye springs through the snow, leaving tiny prints in the yards, sniffing snowmen, and slipping on icy patches. The snow sparkles as it falls from the black sky on to the white ground.

Every morning is the most beautiful I’ve seen. Everything is magical: the ever-changing sky, the soft raindrops that fall from the trees overhead; the utter stillness and opportunity for quiet thought. Every morning I say, “Thank God for this time. Thank God for this moment of peace. Thank God for this.”

It’s always over before I am ready, and it’s time to say and do a hundred meaningless things before my day is over – things I won’t remember and that won’t make a difference. But these precious twenty minutes before I start that – they will stay with me forever.

Hidden

Back in the old days of Facebook, before I got the chance to know any better (meaning that my friend Jenn gave me a Facebook tutorial,) I thought that the only way to stop seeing the posts of people who WOULDN’T STOP BRAGGING ABOUT THEIR BEJEWELED BLITZ SCORE was to hit the “unfriend” button. And between bejeweled blitz and Farmland, I’m not going to lie, a lot of good people lost their Facebook friendships.

Thankfully, however, the “hide” button came along, and I can just hide forever the dumb polls you send and the scores that you get in Zoo Food or whatever the hell you’re playing this week. Now, I would NEVER hide any of my friends on Facebook, because you are all special and wonderful. My friends, however, have no such reservations. Here are their reasons for hiding your asses.

1. You are under the age of 20. There is some law that, if you are under the age of 20, you must add extra letters to the end of everything you say. As a result, “love you!” becomes “Loveeeeeeeeeeeeee youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.” That sort of egregious letter abuse simply does not cut the mustard with the older crowd. Also, your incessant insistence on posting maudlin song lyrics by that little asshole Taylor Swift (aka Taylorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Swifttttttttttttttttt) gives some of us hives. Hidden
2. You insist on providing a recitation of your day. Yes, I get it! You’re awake! Oh, now you’re going to yoga! Got it! Wait, what? You’re making an unscheduled detour to the grocery store? Do go on! Holy shit! You are picking up your child from daycare! I am on the edge of my seat! Hidden.
3. You are far more devoted to broadcasting your misery than investing in your own happiness. There is nothing that will make me, uh, I mean my friends, hide you faster than when you continually post about how sick, stressed, overworked, underappreciated, and generally unhappy you are. Just a suggestion: get the hell off of Facebook. Hidden.
4. Every status update is about Jesus. Let Jesus get his own Facebook account. Hidden.
5. You keep posting links to, “Want to know what this daughter had on her Facebook that made this Dad flip out?” A) Why in the hell do you care what some stranger’s dad thinks, you pervert? And B) If you can’t figure out spam by now, you are a menace to society. Hidden.
6. You have a dramatically slanted political and/or social view. Listen. Many of us are political. And vocal, too. But there is a difference between expressing support for your position and making extremist and inaccurate political statements that you gleaned from your extreme media source. Nobody wants to listen to you talk about how maybe those kids in Norway deserved it for being Socialists. Hidden.
7. You cannot adhere to basic grammar and spelling conventions. Jesus Christ, people, it’s “You’re welcome,” not “Your welcome.” It’s “Me, too,” not “Me to.” You are publishing information that might HAUNT YOU FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Is it too much to ask that you learn a few easy grammar rules? Hidden.
8. The only time you ever post is when your kid has hit a home run. Nobody cares. Hidden.
9. Facebook is your diary. Here is a confession: although I have a number of Facebook friends, I have about four real friends, and one of them is my dog. We simply are not close enough for you to tell me that your pap smear came back abnormal or that you are considering making a change from Zoloft to Lexapro, but you’re worried about the sexual side effects. Hidden.
10. It is clear, from the number of times in a day that you post, that you are neglecting your children. When people read your posts and think, “Dear God, this person needs someone to talk to!” it just gets too depressing. Hidden.