JustRunJustLiveJustBe

In an effort to reach even more of you, I’d urge you to take a minute and visit this woman’s blog. In the contiuned fight against cancer, awareness is key.

This afternoon my mom and I went to see a movie together. We laughed, we cried, we ended up in an intense argument and we said ‘I love you’ and left.

We’re fairly close, she and I. We talk nearly every day. Sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. Still, I think there’s something neither of us will ever ‘get’ about the other. I’ll constantly be trying to convince her there’s another side to everything while she’ll rarely accept that there actually is.

My God, how I love her. The things I’ve seen her do in her life are not of the weak-hearted. She’ll teach you a lesson or two, I tell you. She continues to teach me. That along with making me feel better, reassuring me constantly and giving me advice (solicited or not) should be enough to get a daughter by. Somehow though, I have this problem. This problem of wishing it were different and all the while, knowing it will never be.

It’s bad, I know. I don’t want another mother, I want my mother, but just tweaked a little. I want her to see my life through my eyes and I know that’s not possible. I know the eyes she sees through… the no B.S., get to the point, why cry when you could just “get over it” eyes. Damn them. She’ll never see through my eyes. She’ll wonder though. She’ll wonder how a girl can get so emotionally involved in everything in her life. She’ll wonder how I can be so accepting of all the world and not of her. She’ll wonder how I can be generous with others when I “don’t really have it to give.” Yes, she’ll wonder. But she’ll never see it. I don’t know if she’s not willing or just can’t. I may never know.

And all I want to ask is: Why? or Why not? How did she raise me and yet, we’re polar opposite on feelings? She has them, I know she does and yet, with me, she doesn’t. Am I too much or is she too little? Of course, I’m inclined to believe it is I who is gifted with these feelings. It is I who gets to use my heart and soul as if they’re commodities, as if I have every emotion and bit of passion to spare and will do so, with very little convincing. And with that thought, I’m forced to see the difference between she and I. A difference that may not have always been there but has been forced by time and experience. Is it possible she doesn’t have the time and emotion to spare? Maybe she once did only to learn that time and emotion don’t feed children, work does. Maybe she once believed that there was a time to laugh and a time to cry, but those times passed and have yet to come around again. Maybe this is her version of happy and it’s me that’s missing the point. After all, she says she’s happy. Who am I to question her?

1. I can be in any mood and they’ll still drag me along each mile.

2. They appreciate the scenery with me.

3. Miles pass faster when you have someone to chat with.

4. We encourage each other. Seriously, these people can be so positive I frequently feel undeserving.

5. We openly discuss trots, often.

6. They’re loud, like I tend to be.

7. They’re outgoing, like I tend to be.

8. They stop to help hurt kids, run-away dogs and lost tourists no matter how hard we’re training.

9. They understand that everyone has bad days.

10. There’s always someone there with an extra hat, spare gloves, sun block, socks, advice, and encouraging words when you need it. We take care of each other.

Sometimes, I’m just lucky. There’s no reason for it. There’s no decent explanation. It’s just a fact. I did nothing and I got lucky (um, not that kind of lucky).

Last Friday, my phone rang on the way home from work and I was invited to “not have plans on Saturday.” That’s it. That’s all I got to know. Make no plans for Saturday and be up and ready by 8:00 a.m. Yeah, maybe a little early but hopelfully worth it?!?

So up and ready at 7:30 a.m., I was. Which, obsessive as I am, gave me time to vacuum, clean the bathroom and empty the dishwasher. Ninety minutes of cleaning packed into 25. I guess you could say I was a little pumped about my surprise day.

At 8:01 a.m., my doorbell rings and [since I’m standing right in front of it waiting for said ring] I run to answer it.

“Ready?”

“Yes, where are we going?”

“Breakfast.”

Breakfast? Hmmm… maybe it’s some new, exotic, wonderful breakfast mystery that I’ve never heard of? Maybe it’s a homemade breakfast? Maybe it’s just IHOP (please, Lord, no).

So a 20 minute car ride later, I’m getting antsy. “OK, where are we going? I have to know where we’re going.”

“Surprise. Just wait.”

Grrr. About 25 minutes after that, we arrive in a town just north of home at a small little cafe I’ve never seen. I’m excited but still a little confused as to why we had to drive 45 minutes to breakfast. Can it be that good?

Well, let me tell you, it was some gooooood eatin’. I hate to use words like that but when omelets taste so good you swear all the ingredients must have fallen from heaven together because there’s no way a human could concoct this, that there is gooooood eatin’. After breakfast I slowly came out of my coma and thanked this dear person for taking me to this place. Who knew heaven was a 45 minute trip from home?

“I have something else.”

“Really?” I am shocked. Don’t you know food is enough for me?

“Yes. Here, what do you think of these?”

Woah, this person is really trying to get to me. Right then, in my hot little hands, were tickets to a hockey game. Not just any little game, but a game that happens to match a couple pretty good rivals (more so in years past, but the popularity hasn’t changed). Tickets are hard to come by, to say the least.

“Ha!” I exclaim. And I hardly ever exclaim. “Is this serious?”

“Yep. Ready to go?”

Am I?? If being ready means that you’ve just had the greatest surprise of the year and possibly the best breakfast ever and you’re jumping out of your seat and into the car in one bound, then yes, I’m ready.

Off we went to the game. It was tons of fun, loud fans around us, beer just after noon and the home team lost. The perfection of the day could be dimmed by nothing.

On the ride home I just had to ask, “How did you get those tickets? Did you have to sell something? Bribe somebody? What?”

“Just had them laying around.”

Yeah, right. I guess I may never know. Though I’m guessing there could be a very bummed best friend out there somewhere that is now “owed big” by someone.

I felt bad for just a minute. Then again, maybe it was just my lucky day.

Standing in line with about six thousand others at the post office today, I realized something. All these people want the same thing. We want to take care of our own business and get out of there. We equally wanted the same thing, I think. While I realize this isn’t incredibly insightful, it started the wheels turning.

Last summer, after months of training and preparation, I ran a race up a mountain. The mountain was Pikes Peak and the race was the Pikes Peak Ascent. At the end of this race the clouds, hail and snow were rolling in over the mountain, effectively leaving about 800 people stranded at the top of a mountain for several hours. Walking around the small snack bar and gift shop at the top of the mountain, I came toe to toe with another runner. We did the back-and-forth dance and then just stopped and laughed at one another, exhausted. We didn’t say a word but looking into her eyes, I knew we just wanted the same thing: to go home.

Once, when I was 9, my dog ran away. This wasn’t the first time but still, we went looking for him. I rode my bike around the neighborhood for an hour before running into a kid named Jack who lived up the road. Jack was looking for his dog, too. We chatted about our dogs for a minute and then Jack, being only 7, began to cry. I tried to be strong and encouraging telling Jack he would find his dog and I would help him look while I was looking for my dog, too. I told him it would be OK. Then, as I pedaled off in the opposite direction, tears began streaming down my face. I was the same as Jack, I just wanted to find my dog.

In my sophmore year in college, I took a literature class in which the professor demanded we all read the book assigned and then stand in front of the class and report back on the book. Yes, 20 years old, expensive college tuition and book reports. The 5th grade all over again, but with a hangover. Katie sat next to me in class and was completely terrified of public speaking. I told her it was no big deal, all she had to do was talk about the book, nothing personal. Katie, being a much better and more thoughtful student than I, was worried about her grade, about the class not liking her report, about stumbling over her words and about everyone staring at her. It wasn’t until she stated all her fears that I realized I may have some too. Or even worse, should I have some and don’t? Katie and I became much closer that semester than I’d imagined. Both living with doubts and fears but she being the only one able to admit them.

Yesterday, I read the blog of a stranger. I’ve never met this man and likely, never will. Yet, the thoughts he expressed about his life were eerily similar to my own. He wrote of having everything that anyone should need and yet, doubted his ability to survive. He wrote of having no reason to feel bad and yet, he did. He wrote of coping and struggling and dealing with life and I identified. Turns out, he just wanted peace, some acceptance, and a little love. Yes, don’t we all. We are the same.

Several days ago I found myself wandering around Whole Foods. No list, no plan, no idea. I didn’t know why I stopped there or what I needed. Milk? Maybe. Eggs? Okay. Bread? Why not. Really though, I didn’t need any of that. I guess I could have just left but something told me if I drove all the way across town, walked around for 30 minutes and sampled everything I could get my hands on, I should really buy something.

Finally, I settled on frozen food. Vegetables to be exact. I reasoned that I could use these any time so they wouldn’t go to waste in three days.

I was standing in front of the freezer doors, trying to make up my mind. Always trying to make up my mind. I settled on broccoli, peas and carrots. I now had an armful of frozen veggies and was headed for the checkout. I swear, I have no idea how the following chain of events occured. I turned a corner, fell off the side of my own shoe (in case you missed that, yes! off the side of my own shoe!) came hip to metal with the shopping cart of a stranger and half-toppled over the edge of his cart. He caught my elbow which, subsequently, caused the frozen goods to go flying. My hair flipped over my cheek hiding my face and I was thankful- at least this stranger couldn’t see me, yet.

After recovering from the tumble as ungracefully as possible, reuniting my foot with my shoe (damn slip-on crap) and gathering my food, I looked up. I swear right now, if my ankle weren’t throbbing in pain I would have been absolutely convinced that the crash ended my life and I was in heaven. The face I saw when I looked up looked right back at me with the bluest eyes in the world. I’m talking poetic blue here kids.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he said, and I melted. Not only was I seeing everything in blue and embarassed beyond belief, but now my socks were near charmed off by the Australian accent. Holy crap, if this is heaven, no problem. I can deal with the throbbing ankle.

“No, no. It’s my fault. I wasn’t paying attention, I was just… I don’t know… I’m…”

“Don’t apologize, doll.” Doll?

OK, I won’t apologize, Mr. Aussie McDreamy.

Still completely enamored but utterly embarassed I apologize again anyway, begin to move away and tell him to have a wonderful evening. We catch one another’s gaze for a few seconds, say nothing and I turn toward the checkout counter.

I have small talk with the cashier, buy my veggies and carry them out to my car, leaving some of my pride inside the store. As I opened the back door of the car to throw my groceries in, my work bag comes tumbling out and since I’m too lazy to zip it at the end of the day, so do about three dozen documents and folders I’d brought home. So, exasperated, I started laughing at myself and gathering everything into a pile.

“Need a hand, love?” Holy crap. Don’t tell me. No. Don’t turn around. It’s not him. You’re imagining. But I wasn’t, I slowly turned around, still bent to the ground, and looked up at the very same face from the store.

“Oh, no thank you,” I said, “I’ve got it.”

“Looks like you’re having a bad day?”

“Um, yeah, it does look that way, doesn’t it?” Eventhough I really wanted to say, hell no, as long as you keep showing up, I’ll be a clutz as much as possible.

“But I’m sure you’ll go home to a nice hot meal and a drink,” he said.

Was I hearing right? Did he just round-about-way ask me what I was going home to? I’ll admit, I was so friggin’ charmed by the accent again that I couldn’t really reason with myself. But this has happened before. I’ve heard it has a purpose. Is it international? Do Australians pick people up the same way American’s do? Well, polite Americans anyway.

“Umm, no, actually I’m going home to my dog and work. But close enough,” I joke.

“Anyway I can convince you to have a hot meal and drink instead?” Dear God, this isn’t happening. “I mean, it looks like you need it and with the kind of day you’re having, doll, what have you got to lose?” Again with the “doll”.

Crap, he was right. What did I have to lose?

“Why not,” I say, feeling like I’m having an out-of-body experience.

And so we gathered paper, threw it in the car and walked across the parking lot to the nearest restaurant. I wasn’t sure if I was actually losing my mind or just had yet to regain consciousness from the grocery cart stumble earlier. Dreaming? Likely.