I think we all have at least one. That teacher from sometime in childhood we still think about as adults. We remember something they taught us, how they stayed with us and we wonder how they’re doing today.

I had a dream recently that reminded me about a teacher I had in elementary school. He was in his late thirties, bald before it was cool and one of the most confident people I’ve ever known. He loved the Beach Boys, played hockey and [at least in the classroom] lived by some great rules that I still try to live by today.

Things like “don’t bother other people” and, when playing handball on the playground, “if it’s so close to the line that you have to talk about it, you should have played it.” Things that seemed like good rules then strike me as profound logic now. Principles.

I often think back to one of his rules when I’m in a situation where people are acting like children- usually at work, or the airport. It’s times like these when I think everyone should have had to take my teacher’s class. Everyone should just not bother one another. Everyone should remember that if you have to talk about a silly mistake after the fact, you should have done something to prevent it. What a wonderful world it would be.

I don’t know where my teacher is now. It’s close to twenty years later since I was in his class. About ten since I’ve been back to volunteer in his classroom or at a school event. I’m sure he’s retired. Hopefully he’s enjoying it and somewhere, he knows that he taught a young girl, lacking confidence, a little about hockey, a little more about the Beach Boys and a lot about principles.

Thanks, Mr. B.

I put it off for weeks, months even. I hem-hawed each time I looked at the list of choices. Sure, everyone said to give it a try but sometimes I take longer to make up my mind than most. There was always something else and besides, did I have time for it anyway?

Well, finally there was a weekend with very little to do so I had time. I got in the car, drove to Blockbuster and rented the movie ‘Hitch’. Of the three people I called on my way home in hopes of having some movie companions, only one took me up on the offer.

Two hours, a couple glasses of wine and a plate of nachos later, Jill and I settled in to watch this so-called “best date movie of 2005.” It started out charming, even promising but I soon realized that as cute as Will Smith can be and no matter how many times Kevin James tried to dance, my interest was fading fast. There were several enjoyable moments, I even genuinely laughed, a lot. In the end though, it just lost steam. It should have been over thirty minutes before it actually was. It went from hopeful to unbelieveable (and not unbelieveable in a good way) pretty quickly. Darn, and I had wanted this to be a good choice. Then, I could say, “why did I wait so long?” But no such luck.

Honestly, I know it was just two hours but I feel a little cheated. The kind of cheated where you say “dang, that’s two hours I’ll never get back” and then rush to return the movie and avoid late fees because it’s definitely not worth even more time or money.

UPDATE: Months later, I feel the need to let anyone reading this know that this post was actually about a bad blind date. The movie just happened to be a convenient comparison.

I know the truth about love. My truth, anyway.

I was five and a half years old and heard my name outside my bedroom door. Before I could peel my eyes open out of a dead sleep, the light was on and I was watching my Dad pull clothes out of the dresser.

“What are you doing, daddy?”

“It’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

“The hospital. Mommy’s having the baby.”

I wiped my eyes, put on the clothes he’d layed out and hiked up from the basement of our ranch-style house to see my mom, breathing lamaze-style, trying to get shoes on and telling me to get my coat. I remember wondering why the baby couldn’t wait till morning and what a pain this was. I thought that all the way to the hospital and even as I waited in the hallway with family members.

Until the nurse and my dad came walking out of the room with this little wad of white. The nurse bends down and holds this ball of white blanket in front of me. I look at her and I’m instantly fascinated. Little did I know, that feeling would never leave me. Every moment from that second on, I was a big sister. The love, the responsibility, the duty, all effortless from here on out. She and I would be loyal friends, fierce adversaries and the best and worst secret-keepers to one another, for life.

There, at midnight in the Spring of 1985, I knew the truth about love. I knew what it meant and that it was meant for me.

Now, 21 years later, I get to be reminded of it again. My life-long confidant, friend, and partner in crime is bringing a little ball of white blanket of her own into the world.

How brave she is. How strong she is. How she continues to fascinate me.

“I have a theory about you,” he says.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, you’re afraid.”

“I am?”

“Yes. You’re afraid that if you gave us a chance, you’d like it.”

“US?” I ask.

“Yeah, otherwise, you wouldn’t be so nice to me and continue to hang around me.”

“Or,” I contend, “we’ve been friends for years and I like to keep my friends.”

And so it went on. Him trying to convince me and me trying to convince him.

Why is it so complicated? Why can’t he see what I’m telling him? Shouldn’t the number one thing you look for in someone you want is that they want to be with you, too? I never thought men were like this. I never thought they obsessed about someone to the point where they had actually convinced themselves it was only a matter of time. I thought this was a process reserved for the more feminine of the species. In fact, I’m guilty of it myself. Just not in this case.

“Sounds to me like you just need to get out there,” I tell him.

“Get out where?”

“Into the dating world.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

Ok, time to be blunt. “Look, you had a girlfriend on and off for two years. You came to hate that relationship and each other. You were single for a year, defying anyone that said you should date. Now, you’re finally ready to date and the first friend you stumble on becomes your target? You need to get out there.”

“But why would I get out there when what I want is right here?”

“Because it’s not right here,” I say. And I turned to leave, only stopping to pet the dog because if things continue like this, it’s unlikely I’ll ever be back.

My conclusion: My original theories on men and women need some work.

With a heading of ‘JustRun’ you’d think my first post would have been about running. But writing, like running, is something that just happpens on it’s own for me.

So, to live up to the heading, here are some of my thoughts on running:

1. I’ve been running sporadically for as long as I can remember, though I never felt like I needed to until about two years ago. That’s when it all started. On a cold February afternoon, on a treadmill, in my house.

2. I’ve had countless people tell me how to be better, faster, stronger and last longer. Some advice I’ve taken, some I haven’t.

3. I don’t “blank out” when I run (as ‘JustRun’ may suggest). I take it all in, I let it all go, I contemplate, I plan, I sort- always the multi-tasker.

4. I enter races. I don’t race. The only person I’m ever trying to beat is me.

5. I started running because I felt like a fatty.

6. I keep running because it’s the only thing that’s helped me realize it’s not about the fat. Or the money. Or the house. Or the car. Or the job. It is about living and running gives me the opportunity to remember that.

7. I’ve met countless friends through running. I now have race invites and “places to crash” in London, Atlanta, Iowa, L.A., Chicago, St. Croix and right here at home thanks to the people I’ve met through running.

8. I’ve never regreted a run, even the ones where I lost my keys, my faith or my breakfast.

9. I wish my dog could run with me.

10. When I think about running, I hope to always feel just as I do now.

Sometimes I wonder if those days still exist. Remember? Those days when you didn’t care about the future and didn’t have time for the past. You just live for the here and now. Your little group of friends and hangin’ out take top priority.

Today, as I drove home from my downtown job, windows down, radio up, I was reminded that yes, those days are still alive and well.

At an intersection I gazed over to the car next to me. There it sat, a Chevy Nova. Rust around the edges, running loud and puffing exhaust as three teenaged kids sat in the front seat.

“Wonder why they’re all in the front seat?” I thought.

I stretched up further to take a look. Ah, there, the end of a guitar case sticking up from one side. And I recognized an amp next to it. On the other side, more big cases. “Drums. Definitely drums,” I thought.

That was all it took. Memories came flooding back without any effort of my own. The music, the cars, the football games, the parties we weren’t supposed to have. Oh, and of course, the guitar player. Yup, I was in love and I’d gladly squeeze into the front seat of a car to be near it- whatever it was.

The car, the kids, the memories, all wrapped up in that one little glance at a guitar case. Most people would have missed that image. They wouldn’t have cared who those kids were or where they were going. But not me, I was reminded. Reminded that yes, those good ol’ days do exist. I felt reassured.

And maybe, just maybe, somewhere back in time, there would always be room for just one more in that front seat.