JustRunJustLiveJustBe

My friend, Tom, who is really, really good looking and has a nice voice and good taste in shoes (let’s just get all that out there right now), was over the other night to “learn” some photo editing tools from me.   I, of course, don’t know much about these tools other than some of them are simple buttons and, oh yeah, that one tool is CS2 that will magically remove the big red pimple on your face in a photo.  Oh, that I know.  But other than that, yeah, not so much.  But Tom is too cute to not lie to about my skills and so I said “sure, come on over.”

Tom and I, who’ve known each other for years and have not dated and will not, were sitting at my desk with our laptops unfolded and just clicking around with a few photos.  He would ask something smart like “how can I lighten this foreground?” and I would reply with something like “ummm, try clicking on that button with the arrow.”  So we’re going through photo after photo and Tom gets up to go to the bathroom or something and I lean over to his laptop to scan through and try to find another photo for us to “fix.”

I’m flipping through and there are mountains and dogs on mountains and Jeeps and other rugged, manly things and then I click onto a photo of a woman.  Standing on a bar.  I don’t need to elaborate more but rather just tell you that, of course, as life always works, Tom walks back in at that precise second and I turn around and look at him; and though there are no less than seven million words going through each of our minds at that moment, not one of us can say anything.

The room is silent, the clock on the wall is stunningly audible.  And just then, as if sent from above, my dog, who’s sitting at my feet, lets out the biggest, loudest fart I have ever heard.   Silence broken.  Positions at own laptops resumed.

Don’t let anyone ever tell you there aren’t endless reasons why owning a pet will enrich your life.

I wasn’t going to talk about this, I really wasn’t. I made some excuses like it was too early, or I’m too busy right now. Things will change; I’ll take final exams and a trip will have come and gone and everything will take a nice, deep breath. It will be easier. But, my lands! It is just not possible!

I am not at all in the Christmas spirit. Nope, not at all. I cannot see it or find it and most days this week, I can’t even be bothered to look for it. I don’t want to hang one light or bake one cookie and the shopping? Oh my heck, do not get me started on the shopping. Five minutes ago I got off the phone with my mother rather abruptly because I just came right out and said “this damn family needs to start drawing friggin’ names.” Yeah, I don’t think she appreciated that. Mostly because she’s already shopped in every ever-lovin’ store in the West. And bought something perfect for everyone, and all “on sale” and “under budget.” Well way to go, Ms. Christmas.

I, on the other hand, have ordered online, and barely that. I really don’t know what my problem is. Maybe it’s “hormones” like some very thoughtful person decided to suggest to me a couple days ago when I expressed my desire to marry a man that wants to be a good father. And expressed it “ON THE INTERNET”, nonetheless. I clearly missed tenth grade biology and therefore don’t understand that feelings are nothing more than a “phase.” Obviously I just need to have a drink and get over it. (Okay, well there might be a point there. Might!)

Really, though, think it might just be The Busy that’s getting to me. I mean, sheesh, I haven’t taken a final exam in like seventy years and what if they’ve changed it? Then there’s this half marathon I’d like to get me and my sister through this weekend, alive; and I’ll be kicked-in-the-head, I’m nervous about that, too. Today I told her my best advice at this point is to just make sure she remembers to poop beforehand. Super Coach! Obviously Christmas is not the only place around which I’m lacking spirit.

[Sidebar: While typing this I heard a really loud noise and the floor of my house started to rumble. Like an earthquake. Is there a big truck coming down the street? Is someone running a snowblower? (It did not snow today.) Maybe it’s thunder? (What?) Oh no, kids, not even close. It was the washing machine, spinning an off-balance load. DOMESTIC GODDESS!]

So I hope everyone who celebrates the upcoming holidays just keeps on keeping on because I’m over here not helping your cause… at all.

I think there’s a possibility that I’m not alone here. Is anyone else just not into all of it yet? I could use some encouragement. Or, you know, some company here in Grinchville.

When it comes to running, the question I’m asked surprisingly often is: “How can I like it?” Sure, people want to know where I buy my shoes, what races I’ve done, what I eat before running. But so many times, I find people on the newbie side of running who just want to run, and call themselves a runner. Not-so-coincidentally, this also leads to my least favorite answer.

I do not believe you can make yourself love it.

And to push my luck with rare hate mail even further, I’ll say I think you’re wasting your time if you’re trying to love it but can’t. You can’t help it, it’s not your fault. I say this mostly because running is hard work. It is sweaty and there are hills and in order to keep doing it, you have to put in the time. There is no way around this. It will use your time, often in a very unforgiving way, and if you’re not feeling it, if you dread every step and complain every second, it is not worth it. Sure, you will have tried but you’re not going to get anything out of it. It’s supposed to be stress relief and all you’re going to be is one pissed-off hot mess when you’re through. This is not healthy.

I only say this because I’m the number-one-in-your-face annoying runner that begs and pleads with people to give it a chance. “Just try a mile,” I say, “it won’t be that hard.” I lie a little in hopes that this person will somehow reach that feeling that so many runners do, when they don’t necessarily love every run, yet they know they have to have it. Whether it stops at that one mile or grows and grows is not the point. The point is someone has been turned on to this brand of crazy I preach and few things feel better than that. But I don’t want them to hate it, so when someone asks me the dreaded question of “How can I like running?” I tend to disappoint. There is no magic spell– I wish there was. Exercise and stress relief shouldn’t be like that relationship that feels wrong yet you stick around anyway, because you want to be like someone else. The payoff will never be good enough.

What it comes down to is there is just not enough time in life to spend it on something you don’t like, something that doesn’t feel good to you. If there isn’t good reason for you to pound out the miles, to wear out the belt on the treadmill, DON’T. Find a bike or a pool or some good hiking boots and try something else. I have a friend who is a World Champion kayaker. She is never more high on life than when she’s in the middle of a river, 1.3 seconds away from flipping over into some insane rapid. She will not run to save her life. There are other things out there, people.

We all should strive for that, we deserve that. No, you will not love every minute of anything, but you shouldn’t have to hate every minute, either. So let it go. Say your goodbyes and well wishes and move on. And in a few months, or years (or whatever, because I’ll wait as long as it takes), maybe give it another try. Lace up your shoes, give me a call, and I’ll sell it to you all over again.

_______

*Or any other good break-up line

Today, while simply driving down the street, listening to Alison Krauss and minding my own business, I caught a scene out of the corner of my eye. In the car next to me, sitting in the front seat was a big guy dancing around and laughing with the kids in the back seat. It was cold today, so the windows were up and I couldn’t hear a thing, but it looked like they were all singing something, along with the radio maybe, and laughing. I found myself staring, not being able to take my eyes off this family. Before I knew it, the tears had welled up and the light was green. As I accelerated, I tried to think of what was wrong with me. Why did watching this thirty seconds of someone else’s life reduce me to a woman driving down the road wiping her eyes on an otherwise very average day?

I have always loved seeing dads with their children. It moves me, differently than seeing a mother. It is just as natural, but in a different way. There is just something about that presence wherein I notice a unique relationship, a bond. Beyond what any psychoanalysis of the influence of fatherhood in my own life could provide, there’s just something about a man being a dad, and not just being one but acting like one, that is very special in my eyes.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve felt this even more. I’ve realized how important it would be to me, should I have children, to know that their dad is the best I could have picked for them. He is not perfect (not to mention has a crazy woman for a wife) but he is right for them. And for our family.

I ask myself why a lot. Why do I think of these things? Why have I put so much energy into something that is merely a fabrication in my own mind? Am I even a good enough person to be allowed these thoughts, this hoping? Have I done too many bad things in my life to ever dream of making up for enough to get to this life? I’m not sure. I think there’s something to be said for knowing these things, though. And for being willing to work for them. For whatever reason, something in me believes we are capable of reaching a time in our lives when we know what we’ll prioritize, even with things that have yet to be. Some things, though the details will be ironed out later, are certain.

This is difficult to end. It’s hard to conclude something I feel is really being left wide open. I’d rather it be that way, though- open. It’s not something I’m able to hide well. I can admit it, there is part of my life that isn’t here and part of me that doesn’t feel 100% because of that. This is not to be confused with living 100%, I hope I am always striving for that. It is about a feeling apart from all of my immediate wants and desires, almost deeper than I’m able to explain. Some days I feel like it might be the Great Beyond, and all the while I’m hoping it’s just over the next hill.

A few months ago, you might remember I drove across corn country and the corn belt (still no idea what either of those really might be) for a race in Iowa. Because I have fast become a trooper on the road (read: have no one to take me places, nor anyone to whine to about it) I decided to drive there. I’ll just save you the mapping and googling time now and say yeah, you’re right, this was a long dang way. I drove about eight and a half hours on my own from Colorado to Omaha, Nebraska and then, after meeting up with a friend and making her buy me lunch and ice cream, we then got in the car for another five hours. It was good times.

I started the drive before dawn, and when I was mere double-digit miles from the Colorado/Nebraska border, the sun began to rise. Notice how awake I must have been, what with forgetting to turn on the camera’s auto-focus.

I got to see how the corn wakes up, too.

Once the sun was up, I did notice the camera wasn’t focusing. And thank goodness I did because the next several miles were nothing but wildflowers. Black-eyed Susans, I believe? That is what we used to call them, anyway.

This was a very quiet, relaxing stretch of road. I ate some breakfast, stopped at two filling stations (bladder of steel!), and waved to the cowboys in the dually trucks. If you’re ever up in Northern Colorado, I’d choose the route that takes you on I-76 through Ft. Morgan. It was purdy.

Soon enough, I was in Nebraska. As far as I can remember, I’ve never spent much time in Nebraska. There could have been a road-trip sometime way back when, but I doubt it. We all know that part of the reason I do this whole hit-the-road thing now is because I was deprived as a child (see installment #1). But Nebraska did seem very nice, although I think they were trying to rival Colorado for The Most Road Construction Possible Across Entire State award.

But did you know they live the good life there?

Of course, it wouldn’t be long before another pit stop was due. In my defense, this time the car needed gas. So it wasn’t just all about me drinking eight gallons of Diet Pepsi before 8:00 a.m. I pulled into a Nebraska gas station and realized I was now two places I never thought I’d be: any place called “Fat Dogs” and, Nowhere.

I made sure to hurry on this stop, because the only thing worse than being in Nowhere is getting stuck there. I blew in and out like the wind that defined Nebraska for me on that day.

Trees bent over with wind. Highway scary. Stop taking pictures, idiot.

Oh yeah, at this point I was now on I-80, which is defined as the “busiest trucking highway in the country” among other things, I’m sure. I-80 is, after having seen it in the opposite direction, only somewhat more exciting to the East. For example, there’s a really big bridge.

This is also the portion of the trip where I started seeing all kids of red. Red cars, red flags, people wearing red in their cars, waving their red flags. It was just red, red and more red. I called my friend to let her know I was in Lincoln, but also to ask “Dude, what is the deal with the red?” Some of you know the answer to this without me saying it. For the rest of you, I was in Cornhusker country. And it was game day. Duh.

And let me just say, you Nebraskans get into it. You sure do.

I still had miles and miles to go, so the red I’d soon pass by and before I knew it, I was in Omaha. Within thirty minutes, we were well on our way to Iowa- yeehaw!

I took this photo right before I got us lost in the Amana Colonies. Guten Abend!

Technically, though, we weren’t really “lost.” We were more just detoured. And if you ask my friend, she might say different but it’s important to remember you shouldn’t listen to her because she lies about road trips.

We eventually did get back on the right stretch of road, though, and were well on our way to Dubuque, Iowa.

That’s right, I said Dubuque, where we’d find the Mighty Mississippi.

And a lot of other mid-America cuteness.

So that was it, about thirteen hours right there. Thanks for coming along. The road trip was good, the company even better.

The trip home, though, was also pretty sweet.

Remember, you can find all “Windshield” posts here.

I started the day reading an email from a friend wishing me a Thanksgiving “of countless blessings.” An hour later my sister and I hit the road for six miles of below-freezing running. Though it took a good hour to regain feeling from frozen head to frozen toe, I couldn’t help but feel I’d have no trouble fulfilling my friend’s wishes; the blessings most definitely are countless.

Part of that is the opportunity to stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking and baking. I generally do not consider myself kitchen-y. I am a decent cook and the easier the recipe, the more I like it. I like simplicity and I blame that partly on feeling like I’ve got very little time and partly on being lazy. But nothing, to me, feels more like the holidays are coming than when I’m in stocking feet and the apron I wear maybe twice a year, waiting for onions to reach that just-right level of transparency.

But let’s back up a little. As you might remember, there was a good chance that I could have celebrated an all-potato Thanksgiving this year. As great as that sounds, as easy as it would be for me to eat mashed and scalloped and au-gratin (oh my!) next to my turkey, there are just too many things out there I’ve been waiting to try. And with the time to do it, I could not let the chance pass.

About a month ago, Miss Anne made Roasted Cauliflower from this recipe. And while it looked great and sounded great, I do a) not consider myself a cauliflower fan and b) am intimidated by nearly all things Gourmet. No, I don’t have a good reason for this, I just am. But as usual, Anne was right because once I read this recipe I was like I can do this. With my eyes closed. So I put it in the file for Thanksgiving, because there is no one better than family on which to experiment. Then I got to thinking, this is my family. These people, they eat; and they like variety and well, I have never been very good at following recipes anyway.

So, in addition to the cauliflower, which I’d forgotten was so perfect in it’s own right, I decided to add carrots. As I was chopping the carrots, I glanced over and saw the bottle of tarragon vinegar poking out of the cupboard. This is where I get dangerous. Because what to do with the vinegar? There had to be something. And a red onion then proceeded to save the day. I sautéed the sliced red onion in tarragon vinegar and after my eyes stopped watering for all the “aroma” in the air I added them to the chopped carrots and cauliflower, already coated in olive oil, and baked it all in one big dish of what-the-heck-it’ll-be-fine.

Surprisingly, or not, it did turn out fine. The onions and vinegar, of course, nearly dominated the flavor but not so much that you forget the crispness of the fresh vegetables. And if that’s not enough to convince you, I’ll also mention that an eleven-year-old kid told me “these are the best vegetables I’ve ever had.” If you have ever known an eleven-year-old or if you remember being one yourself, you realize just how miraculous that is. Him liking vegetables is sort like a cat liking a bath.

After the seemingly successful vegetable roasting, I rose a little higher on my kitchen horse and moved on to the Pumpkin Bread Pudding. I don’t know about y’all, but this recipe has been haunting me left, right and center for the last couple months. Everyone and their brother (and Anne) has been talking about it. If the Internet had a barber shop, this recipe would be the latest. And for good reason(s). First and foremost, it is easy. We know how I like that. Beyond slicing (chopping?) the bread into one-inch cubes, there is just nothing tedious or difficult about this.

Truth be told, I likely fell in love with this recipe the first time I saw it. People were all “this is fabulous” and “sooooo easy.” As these claims kept showing up on my screen, I also noticed everyone was substituting here and modifying there like it was no big deal. If anything says simple to me it’s a recipe that you can change without serious consequence. And I did, with the help of Cruzan dark (just two-ish tablespoons). I know how surprising that is.

Now, I’m not altogether sure how this was supposed to look in the end. Some areas became a little crispy but overall it was just brown and pretty. That’s good, right? Apparently I’ve been very under-exposed to bread pudding my whole life. As popular as it may be, that is just not the case here in the West. East? Yes. South? Yes. But out here, I think we’ve just been missing it. Either that or people are keeping it terribly quiet which, in the case of this particular recipe, makes no sense at all. As of Thanksgiving Day 2007, I am a fan. It was neither soggy nor overwhelmingly sweet, which I adore in a dessert. I like to eat something that has some dimension of flavors and doesn’t just give the impression of being your sugar bowl, dressed up and baked a little. This fit the bill perfectly and when Grandma suggested some vanilla ice cream on the side, I couldn’t help but feel my search for a perfect holiday dessert was over.

So Thanksgiving, from my side and the side with all the potatoes, turned out great. It was warm and well-received and felt just as it should. While I will always wish I had more time to cook, at least the day gave me another dose of confidence that the thought isn’t too ridiculous. I would have liked to have done more, but there was also all that parade and football watching to do. It might also be good if I had some better kitchen help.

Yesterday, when I was out running before 5:00 a.m., I cringed at the thought that by that same time today, there would be snow on the ground, and the temperatures would have dropped by thirty degrees. But this morning, as I sit and type this and gaze out the window at the layer of snow coating my world, I catch myself smiling. The human mind is a funny thing; sometimes you can find something to be thankful for in something that you don’t necessarily like.

The hopeful part of me, the grateful part of me, wants to think that everyone is capable of these moments. I want to believe that if we take enough time to look around us, to remember what we have, that we can be thankful for something. My cynicism and my worry are hard-working catalysts to this hope. Nonetheless, my mind will constantly drift to those who aren’t in a place where they can look out their window and see the first snow. Somehow, even without that luxury, people find good.

Yesterday, while in line at the post office, I held my nephew in my arms and found myself mentally crossing my fingers that he’d remain content looking around at a new place and not get antsy and impatient in a way that only eighteen-month-old children can. As cute as he is, sometimes it is easier if he does not draw attention. We were about four from the first in line, probably a five-minute wait, when he looks up at me, raises his eyebrows and takes a deep breath. I knew he was about to yell, but like a freight train careening right toward you, there was nothing I could do but watch. “I” he screamed, pointing to his eye. “LOOOOVEEEEE” he continued, smacking his chest hard. “YOU!” And there in the post office, with his index finger pointed straight out almost in my eye, I remembered to see the positive possibilities.

And I hope we all can find a way to remember this. Even when we’re just looking to get from Point A to Point B, there’s good reason to enjoy it anyway. Even in times when we’re static, unable to completely accept what may be ahead, it’s a good idea to try to embrace it anyway. Maybe you’re not there yet, not ready to take it all in. But there’s no reason you can’t be on your way.