JustRunJustLiveJustBe

There’s no one way to describe it, the feeling of girlfriends. Trying to get into one post everything I love, adore, admire, and respect about the friends I have is like trying to sum up all the troubles of the world by writing them on a cocktail napkin. The words are so huge and plenty, and the space just so very insignificant and small.

I’ve had girlfriends all my life. There was Kimmy and Dani in kindergarten. Megan, Melissa and the girl I wanted to copy shoes with every day but cannot seem to remember her name in the third and fourth grade. There was Tracy and Cherise in the fifth grade. Gina and Tara in eighth grade. Shelby, Amanda, Eryn and so many more in high school that if I tried to name them all I’d surely forget someone. Which is probably okay because really, out of all those girls, I’ve stayed close with two.

There were not any major falling outs, no huge blow up fights, no stealing of boyfriends or worse, hairstyles. But for whatever reason, we just grew apart. Growing up in a military town was part of it, having a sister and therefore a constant girlfriend was part of it, part of it was just me, I suppose. Until college, I really didn’t find it desirable nor necessary to have lasting relationships with very many girls. I found them complicated, somewhat exhausting and pretty difficult to handle sometimes. And, of course, it goes without saying that I was probably just like several of them for my share of the time.

Like I said, though, then college came. It was the end of my sophomore year (the year I’d finally decided doing my tour of colleges across Colorado was not as productive as when it began, but that’s an entirely different story) and I was in one of many Communications classes that required group projects. We were involuntarily grouped with other members of the class and I just so happened to be grouped with three other fabulous girls and one slacker of a guy. Needless to say, the four of us did all the work. The project turned out beautifully and the friendships even better. Throughout the last seven years, we’ve managed to stay close through marriages, babies, new jobs, broken engagements, cross-country moves and more. It’s not always see-you-every-Saturday close, but more so the kind of close you stay as an adult.

More than anything, these friendships made it possible for me to learn what real, adult relationships with women could be. They gave me the foundation I didn’t even know I needed to venture out even more and build real friendships with other women that I’m proud of today.

Possibly where I’ve seen this most in my life is in my relationships with my fellow female runners. Without getting into what running has given me friendship-wise alone (trust me, that is not only an entirely new post on it’s own but possibly an entirely different site), I’ll say that nothing has kept me with running better than the friends I’ve made. Sure, the men are great. Supportive, fast, encouraging, funny, flirtatious, whatever. But the women, they are real. They are fun, inspiring, helpful, concerned and persistent. They are wives, mothers, diaper changers, school administrators, nurses, accountants and so much more. With these other women, I can meet them for a run virtually naked and be outfitted within minutes. No one I’ve ever met has been more prepared than a female runner.

I’d like to think I could do this for them, too. Most the time, it’s not my attire or equipment I’m lacking, though. It’s the emotional aspects of life. As many times as I’ve stated that I believe running is a purely independent act for me, something that comes from deep inside me, it’s not this solitude that inspires me. Rather, it’s the women I’ve found through this insane quest to run as much as life will let me that influence me. As a woman, I can guarantee that there’s no problem so huge, no dilemma so heavy that won’t at least feel lighter and more manageable after talking it out during a run. There’s a magic in that, a sisterhood. As rare as it is in life to know that, I feel infinitely blessed to say that I’ve found it several times over.

I’d be hard-pressed to find any sort of conclusion to an essay like this. How do you sum up people and friendships that haven’t only shaped you but have shaped your entire life? I very much share the sentiments of Bre (the brains behind this Women Who Have Shaped Me idea, not to mention the fabulous behind many things) in that I hope the best way to honor these blessings of girlfriends is to consciously appreciate them. From my oldest friends -the two I’ve held onto since grade school- to the ones I’ve yet to even meet, I hope to be the best friend I can. I know life cycles, people come and go ,but as I get older and realize the very few real chances we’re allotted in life to be a part of something meaningful, I will take advantage of each opportunity.

This latest edition of My Windshield on the World finds me in L.A., a trip I took nearly six weeks ago. It seems so long ago that there’s a part of me that questions whether or not it even happened. However, as I learned, L.A. can have that effect on you.

Especially in traffic.

It starts out sort of innocent- I think that’s it’s strategy.

You see some nice views and think “hmmm, not so bad.”

Then, out of nowhere, you’re in the middle of something I can only define as definitely not Colorado. If anyone from or familiar with L.A. reads this blog, it appears as if I’m going many different directions in these photos. To that I would have to say, uhhh, yeah.

That’s sort of how the entire weekend felt, like one big circle of traffic.

Luckily, I was also able to see that yes, people live in California. They make homes and lives and families. Even contrary to my hillbilly-type beliefs, most of them manage to stay out of the news and lead quite normal lives.

Nonetheless, I can’t help but believe that after a weekend of driving or riding the highways, you have the benefit of coming away with the true definition of healthy fear.

In the last couple days, several people have asked me how I can have house guests stay for weeks. “How can you handle that?” they wonder. “I’d go crazy, especially if it were family.” The thing is, my sister (and of course the little boy that can do no wrong) is probably the exception. Aside from my love of a full house, these people are right, house guests can be difficult. But not her. There’s just something about our relationship that’s based in reality. I’m eternally grateful for that.

Along with being real with each other, I think we both happen to find a way to make the best of a situation. For me, it’s based in love. And not just a I-love-my-sister-she’s-family-of-course-we’re-supposed-to-love-family sort of way but more the idea that when you base your actions and motivations in love, you can rarely go wrong. In fact, I’ve yet to hear a case of this.

The truth is, things are hardly ever how I imagined they’d be. I don’t know many people that haven’t felt that and if you’ve been around this blog for more than ten minutes, you know how I tend to struggle with this. It’s an acceptance issue, I’ll admit but it’s the process of the whole thing with which I seem to be in perpetual adaptation. Nonetheless, at the end of the day, I’m still willing to see the bright side. Even when you have to look for them quite intently, those bright sides are usually there, waiting for you.

When I was younger, for whatever reason (too many sappy country songs, too many movies, too many books maybe (but don’t try to convince me there can ever be too many of any of these)) I always had this fantasy that saw me far in the future. It was later at night, I was with my family; one I’d helped create, not the one to which I was born. We’d finished dinner, the summer breeze was blowing through the window of the kitchen and we’d turn up the radio and dance. This isn’t because we have rhythm, not because we did it on a regular basis. It was just taking advantage of a moment. A time for relaxing, acting silly, and living. There might be a fast song, or maybe slow, my imagination didn’t specify. All I knew was, it was a simple pleasure and one I’d longed for my entire life.

But that might not be reality. Reality is, I have no window in my kitchen. The sliding door in the dining room is closest, and late yesterday, it was too windy to open it. My house is full right now, but of another kind of family. A family that I had no part in, and yet one that reminds me every day how I’ve been blessed. This particular family is not whole right now, which is never in the ideal plans. Still, with the door closed, our bellies full of breakfast-for-dinner fare, our feet bare and the radio volume way up, we danced in the kitchen.

My sister and nephew are here now. He’s nearly eleven months old and in case there was doubt, has the personality to prove it. He may strongly resemble his father’s side of the family in looks however, the personality seems to be veering sharply toward our side.

For instance, he’s a talker. Other than “mamamamama” and “gigi” (when pointing at the doggie, of course) no one really knows what he’s saying. But in the true style of our family, that is hardly a reason to stop talking. In fact, it’s good reason to talk more. If at first you don’t communicate, try, try again. And continue trying until no one will answers the phone when you call or returns your emails at which point it’s clearly time to drop by unannounced. My nephew is well on his way to that step, as well.

He’s been pulling himself up on furniture to stand for months and man is he speedy on all fours. (Seriously, turn your back for a second and all the toilet paper is off the roll even though you are still in the next room.) Now, though, he’s standing. And trying to walk. If there’s anything more remarkable than watching someone, for the first time, put one foot in front of the other I don’t know what it is. Then, when he inevitably flops down on his rear, he gets up and tries again. Quite a reminder and a testament to the determination of humans, even if they have knee injuries. Who thought you could learn something from a baby?

I’m bound and determined that the kid will learn to walk while staying at my house for the next few weeks. To ensure this, I gave him the house rules: 1) We all walk here 2) There are very few reasons to scream in the middle of the night. So far, he’s followed neither rule. We’re working on it, though. After all, what more can I expect from someone who poured the dog’s water on his head within two minutes of being in my house?

This was a lot of fun. Thanks for participating.

I guess I should have a disclaimer stating that this is my opinion only and should not be mistaken for that of a professional or anyone who actually knows what they’re talking about.

Ginger Breadman asked:
Oh man, I did just google myself. I’m totally serious. First I googled my real name, then G. B. - that one is so much more fun. A question for you . . . hmmm . . . if you were the last human left on earth, and you could bring back two people, who would they be and why?

Googling oneself is sometimes fun but often, it’s TMI for me, you know? Someone with my same name does a whole lot of academic research in the UK though, so at least I can seem smart.
That’s a tough question. Provided I don’t take it too seriously, I’d have to say I’d bring back a hot rock star who I wouldn’t have to worry about being a “bad” rock star because there would be no groupies and also, probably my mom. Entertainment and mom’s lasagna, what more do I need?

Ginger Breadman also asked:
I’ve got another one. What is it that you do for a job? You said something the other day about cancer patients that made me wonder.
I work in software. Intriguing, I know. I do a lot of volunteer work with The American Cancer Society so that is where my references to cancer related issues usually come from.

skinnylittleblonde asked:
What is your very first memory?

My first memory is actually one where my mom had to go to work and leave me with a family member and I didn’t want to go, so I cried on the porch for about thirty minutes while they tried to coax me into the car. The promise of ice cream finally did it, go figure. I was three.

GirlGoyle asked:
Q&A huh? Well funny you should throw this out there cuz I was just thinking of you the other day. You are just so engrossed and passionate about running that it fascinates me. I’ve gotten to a point where my skinny jeans cringe at the sight of me and so I wonder…what would be your suggestion for someone who wanted to get into running but doesn’t know where to start. I can get as far as tieing my sneakers and getting to the gym for a 3 mile run say…two times a week. But the problem is I don’t’ know how to set running goals so help me. So…I have tied my sneakers…where do i go from here??

Well, the first thing I’d say about distance running (which I consider to be anything over a 5K) is that you should enjoy it, at least at some level. The feeling I get from running or from having ran is a huge motivator for me. As for goal setting, I think it’s important in the beginning (or all the time, if you’re me) to set smaller goals.
When I first started running, I’d run two minutes, walk a minute. You can already run three miles so what I’d do is set nothing more than weekly goals. This week, three miles. Next week, go for 3.5. The following week, go for 4. Then, the week after that, I’d drop back down to three. I say this for two reasons. First, I don’t think a newer runner should increase more than 10% (+/- a percentage or two) per week in mileage. You’ll find a lot of research on this but the main reason is to avoid injury. Second, when you drop back in mileage once a month, it gives you a break mentally, which you’ll need as you increase the distance. I think as long as you’re not training for a particular distance on a particular date, slow increases are the way to go.
Just as a side note, races are a good way to test yourself. Not because you’re competing but because you have to prepare for the distance. It helps to know how to pace yourself and to decide how comfortable you are with a certain distance. So much changes when you’re on the course with other people and a finish line. A good one to look at now is a local Turkey Trot (usually a 5K) which happens on Thanksgiving in almost every city in the U.S.
Okay, I obviously could go on and on.

Runner Girl FL asked:
Ok I got one….
When does training for the marathon stop hurting?!?!
Hehehe

Ha, I don’t quite know how to say this but my first instinct is to say never. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Unless you’re injured and trying to run on that injury, the pain of training, I think, is actually good. I mean, you’re running a marathon. You’re pushing yourself past all normal and logical limits. It’s not supposed to be a walk in the park. So take care of your body and make sure the pain you’re feeling is a “good” pain. Also, stretch. Stretch all the time. Become the Queen of Stretching. Be a better stretcher than anyone who has ever stretched before. Do you get what I’m saying? Stretching is important.

Sizzle asked:
what color is your hair?
It’s now brown. I highlighted and bleached and dyed for ten years. I loved blonde but I got over it.

justacoolcat asked:
What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?

Heh. Is the swallow carrying a coconut?

Okay, so, running. Might as well just jump right in.

Two days after the half I ran ten days ago, I had an amazing run. Granted, it was only four miles but it was fast, had hills and I felt awesome! The following day, I wanted to go out for 6 and barely eeked out two. “Okay,” I thought, “you’re just tired. Try again tomorrow.” So I did. I tried for 8, barely got 5.5 and felt like I’d been run over by a truck. My calves felt like someone had filled them with lead, and mile after mile, they never loosened up. I was a little discouraged.

I took the next two days off from running. Sunday came, a week after the half, and I set out for a long run. There’s a marathon in May I’d like to do, so I needed to get the miles back up. I thought I’d try for 16. Yeah, didn’t happen. I barely got 12 and once again, they felt awful. Just as in the previous two runs, I felt tired, slow and heavy. Whether it be mental weight or actual physical affects holding me back, I don’t know. What I do know is, something’s not there.

Sunday night, about 8 hours after my long run (which was followed by a short hike with my two young cousins and walking the dog) I was exhausted and ready to fall into bed. I thought about soaking my feet for a while (don’t ask me why, it seemed logical at the time, really) and when I went to sit down on the edge of the tub I got a stabbing pain on the inside of my left knee that made loud, sailoresque words come out of my mouth without any forethought. Read: It hurt like a #@$!*&. I don’t really know what a #@$!*& is, but let’s just call it the worst possible knee pain I could have ever had. Much worse than my right knee has been, ever. It would happen again Monday morning when I sat down at my desk at work.

Since then, it has not really stopped hurting. Drugs take the edge off (legal, of course- though I see some desperation on the horizon should this situation not improve. Ha. Kidding. Mostly.) and ice helps a little, but most the time, it just hurts. I called and cried to my doctor yesterday at lunch and he can see me on Friday. I wanted to come in right then, but he convinced me to give it a few days saying “it might just be inflamed from your run.” To which I responded, “what the hell does it matter if I can’t run anyway? Maybe you just want me to turn into a huge, couch-loving, fat ass, huh? Is that it?” Okay, so not really but better he take the brunt of my frustration at $138 dollar per hour than my friends who I’ve not had to start paying yet (though that day may also be here if this doesn’t get better).

So, no running yesterday. No running today. Likely, no running tomorrow. I always tell people, when they’re injured or experiencing challenges in months before or after Summer “hey, better now than in June!” That’s my positive way of saying that there are nicer months coming and it’s better to be healthy then, than now. For the record, if someone said that to me today, I would slap them. Excuse the frustration in this post, I am clearly not dealing with this well just yet.

Born in Hartford, Connecticut in 1926, the oldest of nine children, she stands tall at 5′9″. A good three inches taller than any woman in the family before or since. Perhaps, though, this is part of what made her who she is. She stands out a little, always does things a little differently. A little against the grain.

When I was nineteen, and head over heels in love with my college boyfriend of a whole six months, who my Grandmother is really hit me. “You have plenty of time, poopsie” (one of many unexplainable nicknames), she would say. And after thinking about it, I knew she was right. Just because all the girls I’d gone to high school with and soon after the set I was in college with wanted to rush out and get their MRS. degree, it didn’t mean I had to. After all, she didn’t. And she did quite well.

At eighteen, when the majority of her schoolmates were looking to settle down and start families, my Grandmother went to secretary school. She would eventually land her first job -other than working on a farm for her entire childhood- at the office of a prestigious Hartford attorney. She was a good secretary, and the lawyer paid well. “I had all my own things, all my own outfits,” she brags. “A pair of shoes, purse and gloves to match every outfit.” Ah, yes, we are related. Not because of the materialism (though I’ll admit, it’s there- she’s an Avon lady, for heaven sakes!) but because of the freedom. We’ve both had a taste for it and both took advantage of the opportunity.

I think this, more than anything else, might be what connects us. Our independence and sense of adventure is a common thread between us. For her, it’s a reason to cheer. For me, it’s encouragement to keep going. Through her, I know I can do many things with this life. I’m not solely dedicated to one path. She went to Cape Cod in the Summer, I’ll go to the islands. She made friends where ever she went, I’ll strike up a conversation with just about anyone. It’s that attitude, that bravery- she has it, I want it.

About thirty-five years ago, my Grandma started selling Avon. This was while she was raising six children. In that thirty-five years, through teething, hundreds of colds, puberty, graduations, marriages, divorces, births of grandchildren and more, she has never been out of the top five in sales in her division (or maybe it’s called a chapter- she would kill me for not knowing this). She has never tried for anything less than success, even when it’s been tough. She has made a life and a living off something most people might just do for extra cash. She knows the difference between just selling to a customer and creating a relationship.

Which brings me to why I admire her most of all. She’s an incomparable friend. She cares like no one I’ve ever seen. She’s the kind of thoughtful that they’d write in an instruction manual titled “How to Be a Best Friend, Confidant, Caregiver and Helper to Everyone You’ll Ever Meet.” But there’s no manual for her, it just comes naturally. And I remember this all the time. When I let a friend talk about their troubles, when I hold someone’s hand, when I write a note just because, I think of her. I think of all the ways she’s gone out of her way to let people know that someone cares, and I try. I might not be good at it, I doubt I’ll ever be as good as she is. But if there’s some way to ever show her what I’ve learned, it’s got to be that I try. Which, when I think about it, is also what she taught me to do.
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This post is part of Bre’s idea to write about women who have shaped us during this Women’s History Month.
(I slacked last week, sorry Bre!)