The day I brought Lola home, she weighed 5.2 pounds. As I’ve written here about her before, she was a “rescue” which is code for Everything That Can Possibly Be Wrong With a Dog You, You Lucky, Lucky Sucker, Will Find It In This Dog. Yes, that is a title. And it was hers. She was 5.2 pounds of mange-infested adorableness with a extra large side of gastro-intestinal issues.

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But when she licked my hand and raised her little non-existent eyebrows that wrinkled her bald, crumpled forehead, I knew she was mine. She was the little, squirmy piglet I’d always begged my mother to have, come fifteen years late.

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Lola has come a long way, though. Through those beginning weeks of mange dips (13 weeks (it normally takes 6-8)) and dog food experimentation, which still sometimes proves to be a challenge, she is now nearly the perfect dog. Yes, there have been days I’ve gotten out of bed, walked down the hall, in the dark half asleep, and stepped in vomit, but by and large, she makes no trouble.

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In fact, she has this tricky, almost evil way of looking at me when I’ve stepped in said vomit pile that makes me feel like it was something I did to make the mess. Like, woman, it was you who coaxed it out of me. And then all at once I feel incredibly guilty about everything I’ve done in the last month that hasn’t been something that caters directly to her needs and desires. I am the guilty one.

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And boy, does she do this ALL THE TIME. The worst part, it usually works. I don’t really have the “ideal” dog-owning life, you see. I am up early, gone through the day and working on other things at night (like having a life or, you know, watching people sing karaoke on television). I travel quite a bit and run a lot and this just doesn’t all fit perfectly with owning a dog who, if she could speak, would take every chance to remind me she was royalty in her previous life. So that walk in the evening, those visits to Grandma’s and the hallway fetch we play every morning just don’t ever seem to be enough, for me. For her, well, I think she’s fine. All she ever seems to really care about is that I fill the bowls and that she gets to plant her butt next to me on the couch, no matter who else may be there.

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I think of all this now, though, because it has been five years since I scooped up that 5.2 pounds of mess and never looked back. Five years of walks and wintertime foot warming and food experimentation and barking at things that NO ONE ELSE CAN SEE (her, not me- mostly). When I realized this today, and being the perpetual realist I am, I began thinking about her age, and how long dogs like her live. Average: ten years. I know, I’m depressing, but barring anything out of the natural order, I couldn’t help but realize we are likely halfway through this thing.

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I immediately understand now how a pet can mark your life. She lived with me in my first apartment, when I ate Ramen and her “specialty” food cost six dollars a pound. She’s driven with me across the state and the country. She’s seen my friends (some closer than others) come and go. She’s been there when I’ve been too sick to get out of bed to feed her and when I’ve been so happy I pick her up and spin her around like the doll of a seven-year-old. She’s the only one I make up songs for and the only one with whom I speak Spanish on a regular basis. She’s seen me with my heart broken, at the end of the day after my very first “real world” job, and sat with me through a snow storm power outage.

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And true, I know she is a dog. She is my buddy and my pal and awful cute but still, a dog. I do not love her like I love many people. But I do love her. How can I not? She is a part of who I am and reminds me of things about myself I’d otherwise forget. And like any good ally, she is too important to ever toss aside. She knows far too much.

Okay, relate to me. I know you can. Sometimes, I sit down all ready to write and my fingers start moving and yet, I have nothing but crap to talk about and crap is never good. At least not over and over again. You do this, right? I know you do, you must. It’s like the chi isn’t flowing right, or something. My chi knowledge is limited but I’m pretty sure that’s the problem.

It seems to be that time lately. The end of Summer, Fall on the horizon. Some things winding down, others just beginning. Could it be that I’m feeling all transition-y again? Oh no, certainly not me. I never get that way.

Lately I think we’re all there a little bit, though. Today, after my three mile run I met my sister and watched my nephew while she did her run. When she returned, we almost simultaneously said “why did we do that?” It’s just one of those times when you’re either overwhelmed, exhausted or a combination of both and the thought of putting more effort into something than you need to just makes no sense.

Which leads me to this: Email question time. Yay!

(Over the course of days/weeks/months, I had a few emails. I’m sorry, I know, I suck at returning them promptly. Again, sorry. No good excuse, no excuses at all. Anyway.)

Here are a few things I’ve been asked, in no particular order:

1. Do you really think the kind of shoes someone has for running are that important?

Yes, I do. Yes. Yes. Yes. And absolutely yes. Without going into great detail and/or “preachy speech” I must say yyyyyyeeeeeeessssss! Running in the right shoes (or even extensive walking, for that matter) will be the thing that makes the biggest difference in your running. It can mean the difference between yards and mileage, between injury and health, between comfort and misery. They are important for every part of your body, not just your feet. Your back, your knees, every joint will thank you for having the right shoe on your foot. Go to a running store, have your gait evaluated (by someone over the age of twelve) and try on every shoe until you feel like it’s right. Yes, this takes time but it is just as, if not more, important than any part of your training. Promise.

2. What do you do with your dog when you travel?

She stays home alone, but after this last trip we’re going to have to quit that. She totally had a huge party and the cops were called and my fancy import rugs were ruined. She’s lost her freedom.

Quite honestly, she stays with my mother, who loves her like a grandchild. She comes home all hyped up and thinking she has a chair at the dinner table. It takes weeks to retrain.

3. What are you going to school for?

To remind myself not to end sentences in prepositions.

Ha, kidding. Well, sort of. I am not going for my M.B.A. This whole school thing is still a little new for me though so give me some more time to decide how and when I want to talk about it and then I will. Promise.

4. Why don’t you move your site? It could be so much better.

Though I don’t think it sucks now, I understand this question. Soon come, my friend.

5. You are always going somewhere. When are you traveling again?

I hit the road again- and hopefully for the last time this year- in eleven days. No, it won’t be the last I travel for the year. Of course not. Just hopefully the last time I do it on wheels for a while.

6. Do you weight train?

Yes, two to three times a week. Not because I love to have bulging muscles or to get ripped, but because of how it makes me feel. I like the feeling of a stronger body when I run. It’s hard to describe, but I have felt like a running blob of floppiness before and this year, with serious dedication to weights, I have felt great. It sort of keeps all things in their place, if you know what I mean. Clothes fit better, even if you haven’t lost an ounce in weight. Make sense?

7. Are you going to move? Where would you go if you could go anywhere?

Probably not within the next year. I have some commitments and some things I’d like to see through here first. And, I have a sweet, adorable, 16 month-old nephew and awesome sister who are here for the next 6-9 months and I wouldn’t trade these times for the world.

If I were given a choice, and really put a lot of thought into moving (and the timing, work and finances, etc. were right) I’d ideally split my time, between here and other places that feel like home. Sort of like retirees do, but without A.A.R.P.

8. Do you really not know when someone is flirting?

No, I would have to say I really don’t. I’d say I really have a better idea of how to notice this after the comments from that post and I certainly feel less alone in my flirt-detecting oblivion than I did before. Why? Do you have a flirt detector I should know about?

Yesterday morning I got up at about 5:00 a.m. (yes, on a Saturday) to get my run in. I wanted to do twelve miles and avoid the heat. I’d also had a thrilling Friday evening of watching Music and Lyrics (we thought it was just “eh”) and going to bed early so I figured I was setting myself up for a great morning run. Aren’t I mature.

Well, almost because for some very non-mature reason, my idea of carb loading on Friday night was cereal and popcorn. I know. So for miles 1-3, I felt great. It was easy. Just about that time when I started feeling that great I-could-run-forever euphoric feeling that never comes around often enough, my poor choices from the night before came back to haunt me. We’ll just say it felt like someone was putting a citrus peeler under my ribs and stirring. And trust me, I could get much more graphic than that, but even the memory alone is far too painful.

And you’d think I would have stopped, but no because despite my upper abdominal muscles being in some sort of seizure, I was determined. Well that determination took me another five miles before I gave up and walked the remaining mile home. Nine miles felt like nineteen. I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall, asking myself why I’d ever gotten up to begin with.

But I’m not really telling the entire story, here. There was actually another reason I got up early yesterday. I wanted to get that run out of the way because I had somewhere to be.

Some friends of mine have a small ranch property in Eastern Colorado- you know, horses, cows, pastures- and I’d been invited out to ride. Yes, horses. I am not going to lie, I was Christmas morning excited about this all week.

I’ve been around horses on and off my entire life. I can’t remember my first ride and I’ve never owned my own horse, but I’ve always had friends with horses and I’ve always known enough to get by. So when I pulled up yesterday after having driven down miles and miles of dirt road and my friend said “are ya ready?” I was. At this point, I still had no idea we were actually going to be doing anything with a purpose. Sometime during the whole “saddling up” process, my friend says we’re going to move some cows. Wait, what?

I’ll save the whole story of how I had an internal freak out and managed to stay calm and just tell you, this is some of the most fun I’ve ever had. And the most tired I’ve ever been. Some friends from up the road (or “over yonder” as I started calling it- I know, I’m hilarious) joined us and we herded and moved the cattle from one pasture to an adjacent pasture in less than an hour. I probably just used five words incorrectly and sounded like some ridiculous city girl, but that’s fine.

It was hot, dirty, tiring, and so much fun. And when we were finished, and did some “fun” riding, we came back to the house, had a couple beers, watched an incredible rain storm blow across the prairie, followed by rainbows and a beautiful sunset.

I was told I am allowed to come back and help again. And I will, next time I’m over yonder.

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I think I’m ready for my spurs now.

I am notorious for being the girl that has no idea she’s being hit on. I meet someone, talk with them, laugh with them, laugh at stupid jokes (because they’re funny, duh), graciously accept compliments and all the while have no idea that someone might actually be flirting with me. Unless it’s those sixty year old men, they’re pretty obvious. And no, not in a good way.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I can do my share of flirting. I am very aware of this. I have tried and true flirting practices that even when minimally successful, get the job done. Or at least in my mind, they do. It’s sort of like a hobby, even when it’s bad, it’s good. Or a bad habit, but we’ll not go there.

But then there’s me, not as the flirter but the flirtee. I used to be almost afraid of flirting, or being flirted with, rather. I didn’t know what to say or where to look and, my gosh, when did my hands start getting in the way all the time so I’d just sort of play along and hope for the best. Then sixth grade graduation came (ha! Exaggerating. A little.) and something magically happened to me (hormones?) and I was no longer afraid of it. Rather, I became oblivious to it.

Now we all know I don’t go around the Internet talkin‘ up the dates and what not, that’s just not me. First, some things are just mine and second, well the “line at my door” my grandma always used to talk about just, ummm, how do you say… isn’t. Nonetheless, we carry on. Or at least I think I do. And I go to coffee shops and happy hours and running events and travel and hang out with my friends and always end up hearing phrases like “what’s wrong with you? That guy was totally flirting with you!” And I’m all “Wha? Huh?” And my friends are all “Uhh, yeah.” And then they smack me and then we all laugh at me. Because it’s funny, except when it’s later and I think about it. I question myself and think oh no, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

I usually come to the conclusion that nothing is really wrong, as I don’t really believe in “fixing” these kinds of things. Addictions? Yes. Bad habits? Yes. I’m all for self-improvement. But personality? Eh, I don’t know. I mean, yes, I could be more aware. But I usually feel I’m aware every day. A few days ago I noticed the woman at the toll booth got her hair cut and I don’t even use that toll booth. I notice things. Just not this.

So guess I could ask what you would do? How do you know someone’s hitting on you? How do you “hit back?”

I’m expecting some earth-shattering answers here, really. Because as of now I’m just going with the assumption that some people just haven’t been good flirters with me. Yeah, I’ll let you know how that approach works out.

I work with a lot of smart people. I also happen to know a lot of smart people. This is not bragging about all the smart around me but more so to convey that I, often self-proclaimed “decently smart” (yes, I know that isn’t helping me here) am not often The Smart One in the room. I can be one of the smart ones, and sure we all have our little pieces of intelligence we know better than anyone but overall, not so much.

This also goes for my geek qualities. You see, I will openly and often admit to my dorkdom. This is usually done by knowing something ridiculous like what song John Denver sang to close his show at Red Rocks in 1975 or by dancing in the car. Sometimes, I’ll get a little to excited about my dorkdom and call it “being a nerd.” This, however, is not good because a dork is not a nerd. A nerd is more like a geek, and I am not. I think geek implies some form of extra special intelligence and as we all now know, I merely have my moments rather than full-on genius.

It’s okay, I’m happy with this. Really, I am. (No, Mom, seriously I AM.) For one, it allows me to have a respectable social life and two, I do not live in a basement nor do I forget to shower. Well, mostly. And we also all know that is the line crossing from Nice Intelligent Geek to the holy-crap(s)he-is-forty-two-and-has-(s)he-ever-even-been-on-a-date Geek.

I share all of this for a couple of reasons. First, here’s a little secret: I have geekly aspirations. Honestly, I do. The little bits of geeky stuff I learn every day just make me want to learn more. So, I have done that a little. And while I won’t bore you with what I’ve learned at work let me just tell you that yesterday I officially learned how to repair something with code by “going through the back door.” And while you either a) don’t see the big deal or b) are thinking of all the crazy google hits that are going to end up here now, let me tell you, it was kind of fun. Because this makes me more computer geeky, which is a good thing.

I know I talk about career aspirations and how the work I do now is not the work I want to do forever but I’m all for learning. I’m all for moving up on my own version of the geekery ladder. And let me just say, it’s pretty cool. There are all kinds of geekery ladders I’d like to climb in my lifetime, but if the difference between moving forward and not is either using what you already have or sitting and waiting, I’m glad to be using it. Pretty geeky, eh?

So thanks for getting through that. It feels good to maybe not be a geek but at least talk about my geek wishes and hopefully, someday very soon, share the fruits of my geekage with you, right here. Or some place like it.

Sometimes I get really afraid that I won’t be able to run any more. I wake up and something hurts, or my knee is swollen or I freak out because things just don’t feel the way they used to and I’m convinced it is being taken away from me.

Truth be told, I think some of it has been taken. I shudder to think I’ve done permanent “damage” to my body. I can’t bend my knees a certain way or put certain pressures on them any more. But maybe that is normal? We just have to be more careful. Maybe that happens as we age, things just work differently, take longer to heal and sometimes, it hurts.

It never lasts too long, I guess. But it makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing. I mean, if I’m going to age anyway, and my body is going to change anyway, I might as well be doing something good for me. Something I enjoy. Something that keeps my heart strong and my mind quiet. What’s the alternative? Sit? Do nothing? Lose more health? Age anyway.

I have no answers, I have no idea. I feel like I’m doing what I can, seeing doctors when I need to, taking preventive measures, praying. That should be enough. Consciously keeping myself healthy should be enough. And still I’m scared of it being taken away.

That’s a little silly, I know. If I’m allowing myself to be afraid of running being taken away then who’s to say I shouldn’t be afraid of everything being taken away? Things far worse than my healthy joints could be gone tomorrow, and I don’t want to live there. That’s a place where we’re constantly saying what if and when and why, which leads nowhere.

I’d rather run as though it is the right choice, as though it has only benefits and as though it is there to be seized. Sort of like the day itself.

I close my eyes. I can hear the splash of the water, the laughter of the children. I take a deep breath, the scent of chlorine and barbecue fills the air. The sun beats down, it feels more like July than August. The Dog Days, these must be them.

Work was heavy last week. Every day worked seemed to be followed by an especially demanding evening. The curse of doing too much. The consequence of having it too good. I look around, it’s all here. Now. An afternoon in time. A beach ball lands at my feet and instinctively I kick it back into the water.

The sky above is a remarkable blue, and I remember that no matter where I lay my head there’s just no sky like the one here, at home. It’s deep and wide, it’s clouds are bright white. It this sky I stared up at, on my back, from the grass of my childhood front yard, making shapes out of nothing. My feet are hot on the pool deck and it brings me back to the moment.

I can’t quite put my finger on what it is here lately. I can’t quite understand why it’s suddenly so easy to take stock. To look out into the blue or into the faces of people I care about, and realize how lucky I am. Maybe it’s just summertime, maybe it’s the hard work, maybe it’s age. I can feel it, though. It’s tangible. Although I’m not ever likely to stop trying to do more and work harder, I’m glad I can see where I’m at. It’s a quiet reassurance to know that even if it were to all stop tomorrow, I’d still have known it today.