I've never been a fan of New Year's Eve. I am a morning person, and 9pm is fairly late for me. Midnight is terribly late. Over the Christmas holiday I was wondering where on earth I could run off to where I could have a quiet, peaceful New Year's Eve without fireworks and guns waking me up at midnight. I had the perfect plan: drive up to Gold Bluffs Beach and camp overnight, wake up to the ocean and a cup of coffee. Gold Bluffs Beach is closed until further notice due to a land slide.
Having just gotten back from Arizona, and leaving for Belize in a week, I decided maybe I should just suck it up and deal with it like I always do. Watching "How the Grinch Stole Christmas", it made me think about how I see New Year's. I am pretty un-fond of New Year's. Like I pretty much dislike it. If there was a "dislike" button on New Year's, I'd hit it a few times. I don't understand why a holiday would require having to stay up until midnight- watching seconds tick by on a clock. Morning comes and you're tired and hung over. And that's how you start your new year.
Why not start your new year the best way possible? Wake up feeling refreshed and ready to take on another year. Exercise, eat right, feel good! I don't know what it is about me that doesn't like to feel like crap, but I just don't. I don't enjoy headaches or nausea or feeling super tired. It's just not my thing.
So New Year's Day I wake up early and go run or do some other sort of workout, have coffee and a good breakfast, and just enjoy the day.
It is hard though with all the noise that happens at midnight.
I love the response I've always gotten when asked to stay up late for whatever reason. "You can just sleep in tomorrow!"
This morning I woke up at 4 am. I went back to bed and closed my eyes. Nothing happened. Namely, I did not fall back to sleep. At about 4:30 I got up and turned on the coffee pot that was set for 5:45. Around 4:45, I got my first cup of coffee and brought it back to bed with me and sipped it in the dark.
I do not control what time I wake up, and usually I can't fall back to sleep.
So New Year's Eve rolls around and I am the Grinch. The Grinch of New Year's.
Watching the movie reminded me that I really should not steal New Year's from anyone. There's this sorta-mean thing I tend to do on New Year's Eve that I think I've decided not to do this year. I turn off my phone (which I AM doing) and then first thing when I wake up in the morning, I text everyone back who texted me at midnight. Say 4 or 5am. And I secretly hope it disturbs their sleep.
Right? Grinch.
In other news, as I was heading out to yoga today, my car decided to go completely powerless. The neighbor jumped it, but as soon as I disconnected the jumper cables, it died. Tried again, let it go longer, disconnected them and it died again. I rode my bike to the auto parts store to get a battery charger and a voltmeter. The battery is fully charged. The mechanic says it's probably the alternator. Which I replaced two years ago. And no longer have the receipt for.
So I'll have to have it towed to the mechanic and leave it there while I head out to Belize. Fortunately for me, the mechanic has decided that he needs the parking while I'm gone, so when they're done, they'll leave my vehicle at my apartment. How cool is that?! These guys are keepers.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
Bagging Groceries
Bagging groceries should not require an advanced science degree. I think it's a fairly simple concept to grasp: heavy stuff on bottom, breakables or light things on top. Simple. However, I am actually considering changing shopping locations due to the severely incompetent bagging going on at my local Sprouts store.
A little background may be appropriate here in order to give you a clear picture of what's been happening. I shop at Sprouts because their store is filled with fresh meats and produce. There are not a lot of packaged choices which is fine with me being as I don't eat a lot of packaged foods. I love Trader Joe's and shop there on occasion since it's close to my apartment and they sell a lot of convenience foods (read "packaged" and "microwavable"). I also love their coffee selection. And their eggs are cheaper. They also are incredible pros at bagging groceries.
At Sprouts, they do not like to place in bags: eggs, melons, and potatoes. I like for all of my groceries to go in bags. That's why we have bags. I do not have proper pockets to stuff all my groceries in to get them from my vehicle to my upstairs apartment. That's why some genius invented bags.
Last summer, I brought in 5 bags to Sprouts. I bought my groceries and watched while the young kid bagging used 4/5 of the bags, put one unused bag into another bag, placed the carton of eggs on the seat of the cart, looked at me and said "Sorry, I don't know where else to put them."
How about in the empty bag you just stuffed into another one? Really??!!!
On multiple occasions at Sprouts (well this particular store anyway), I have had items just set into the cart when they could've easily been placed in the bags that had only a few items.
If you ever have the opportunity to shop at Trader Joe's, you know that they are amazing baggers. I have never seen grocery bag Tetris go so quickly, smoothly, and efficiently in my entire life. They usually get everything into bags with one or two empty bags left over. They are amazing. I have told them this. Their response? "It's because we actually care if your groceries make it home in one piece or not."
Today as I pulled my bags out of my vehicle at Sprouts, I actually groaned from anticipating the bagging that was about to happen. Mainly because I needed eggs. And buying eggs at this particular Sprouts store is a good way to guarantee that things will go badly. Shortly, I will address my plans to prevent this from ever happening again, but let me tell the story first.
To set the stage: it's finals week, I ran a marathon a couple days ago, have since stayed up late finishing presentations every night, and my left ovary has been stabbing itself since early this morning. I'm tired. I'm irritable. I'm a total jerk.
I brought 4 bags.
I placed the eggs on the belt first, to give the checker plenty of lead-way to figure out what she was going to do with them. Like a heads-up. Hey, eggs! Start thinking. I also know that baggers (Trader Joe's anyway) have a process with eggs and bananas. They get bagged last.
She ignored the eggs and began pulling food from further back. So the belt didn't move. Mind you, there was plenty of counter space to her left to put the eggs. If she had placed stuff on the counter, I could've bagged everything. But she was bagging as she went. Meanwhile, I could not get the little separator stick onto the belt because she wouldn't move the eggs so that the belt would move. Instead, she started talking to me about other flavors of the immunity drink I had bought. I decided to just breathe and be patient.
Finally she moved some stuff so the belt would move. My bags were all out of my reach and I was helpless to watch as she very slowly bagged my groceries. She handed me a half full (see that optimism there?) bag to place in my cart. As I placed it in the cart I thought "At this rate, I will definitely run out of bags".
She handed me the 5 pound bag of potatoes to place in my cart. Ok, that's fair. You're probably not going to put a ton of other stuff with a 5 pound bag of potatoes.
"Do you want the melon in a bag?"
"Yes please". This was a small "personal size" watermelon.
"Okaaay....." she said as she lined up the open bag and literally bowled the melon into the bag.
Ok. Whatever. Breathe.
The store heater kicked on and begin blowing right on me. My left ovary continued stabbing in pain (yes, I had taken something for it, no it was not helping).
"How about this one?" Cantaloupe.
"Yes please."
"Weee....pshew....". Sound effects while bowling the second melon into the bag. "Sorry, I've got to entertain" she said.
I forced a chuckled. She handed me the bag. With two small melons in it. I was very close to losing my shit. The heat was stifling, I was tired and miserable, and this lady was on my very last nerve. Very last nerve.
I'm trying to practice kindness, patience, and compassion these days. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. What can you do?
She managed to get the eggs in a bag which was a little surprising. She put them on top of stuff, which is good. As she let the belt bring food toward her, he pulled my bananas off some other item and tossed them further down the belt, where they landed on the other side of my separator stick. (OMG!!!) It was at this point I noticed the large line had completely shifted over to the other checkstand and there was absolutely no one putting their groceries on the empty belt behind my stuff. No one wanted to be in her line. As a matter of fact, they had all decided that they would rather wait an extra ten minutes in a longer line, than use the line I was in. My checker looked up at the situation as well, seemed to assess it for a second, then continued with my stuff.
She tossed the spinach to the side. I took the opportunity to place it in the half empty (not so optimistic now) bag in my cart.
"I was going to place that on top of the stuff here", she said.
"Oh that's ok, I got it here. It won't squish anything".
Finally, as the forced heat was beginning to make me nauseated and I felt I could no longer contain my agitation, she handed me my receipt and I was free to go.
As I stepped out into the cool air, I took a few deep breaths and decided I was never shopping there again.
I may try another Sprouts that's only a little further away.
Since I really can't say I'm never shopping there again, here's my plan. Next time I have to go there, I will keep my bags to myself so that I can bag my own groceries. When the checker says they can get it, I will insist and say no, no, I like bagging my groceries. Maybe even say how fun it is. I don't know.
Why is this so difficult? After doing a quick analysis of what was in my cart, I had already made a plan for the best way to bag the groceries. Five seconds max. What's heavy? What can be squished? People, please, I urge you: stick the damn melons in a bag. We only have so many hands. I am not going to carry two melons, a bag of potatoes, and a carton of eggs separately into my apartment. Heavy things on the bottom, squish-ables and breakables on top. There is no more science involved than that.
A little background may be appropriate here in order to give you a clear picture of what's been happening. I shop at Sprouts because their store is filled with fresh meats and produce. There are not a lot of packaged choices which is fine with me being as I don't eat a lot of packaged foods. I love Trader Joe's and shop there on occasion since it's close to my apartment and they sell a lot of convenience foods (read "packaged" and "microwavable"). I also love their coffee selection. And their eggs are cheaper. They also are incredible pros at bagging groceries.
At Sprouts, they do not like to place in bags: eggs, melons, and potatoes. I like for all of my groceries to go in bags. That's why we have bags. I do not have proper pockets to stuff all my groceries in to get them from my vehicle to my upstairs apartment. That's why some genius invented bags.
Last summer, I brought in 5 bags to Sprouts. I bought my groceries and watched while the young kid bagging used 4/5 of the bags, put one unused bag into another bag, placed the carton of eggs on the seat of the cart, looked at me and said "Sorry, I don't know where else to put them."
How about in the empty bag you just stuffed into another one? Really??!!!
On multiple occasions at Sprouts (well this particular store anyway), I have had items just set into the cart when they could've easily been placed in the bags that had only a few items.
If you ever have the opportunity to shop at Trader Joe's, you know that they are amazing baggers. I have never seen grocery bag Tetris go so quickly, smoothly, and efficiently in my entire life. They usually get everything into bags with one or two empty bags left over. They are amazing. I have told them this. Their response? "It's because we actually care if your groceries make it home in one piece or not."
Today as I pulled my bags out of my vehicle at Sprouts, I actually groaned from anticipating the bagging that was about to happen. Mainly because I needed eggs. And buying eggs at this particular Sprouts store is a good way to guarantee that things will go badly. Shortly, I will address my plans to prevent this from ever happening again, but let me tell the story first.
To set the stage: it's finals week, I ran a marathon a couple days ago, have since stayed up late finishing presentations every night, and my left ovary has been stabbing itself since early this morning. I'm tired. I'm irritable. I'm a total jerk.
I brought 4 bags.
I placed the eggs on the belt first, to give the checker plenty of lead-way to figure out what she was going to do with them. Like a heads-up. Hey, eggs! Start thinking. I also know that baggers (Trader Joe's anyway) have a process with eggs and bananas. They get bagged last.
She ignored the eggs and began pulling food from further back. So the belt didn't move. Mind you, there was plenty of counter space to her left to put the eggs. If she had placed stuff on the counter, I could've bagged everything. But she was bagging as she went. Meanwhile, I could not get the little separator stick onto the belt because she wouldn't move the eggs so that the belt would move. Instead, she started talking to me about other flavors of the immunity drink I had bought. I decided to just breathe and be patient.
Finally she moved some stuff so the belt would move. My bags were all out of my reach and I was helpless to watch as she very slowly bagged my groceries. She handed me a half full (see that optimism there?) bag to place in my cart. As I placed it in the cart I thought "At this rate, I will definitely run out of bags".
She handed me the 5 pound bag of potatoes to place in my cart. Ok, that's fair. You're probably not going to put a ton of other stuff with a 5 pound bag of potatoes.
"Do you want the melon in a bag?"
"Yes please". This was a small "personal size" watermelon.
"Okaaay....." she said as she lined up the open bag and literally bowled the melon into the bag.
Ok. Whatever. Breathe.
The store heater kicked on and begin blowing right on me. My left ovary continued stabbing in pain (yes, I had taken something for it, no it was not helping).
"How about this one?" Cantaloupe.
"Yes please."
"Weee....pshew....". Sound effects while bowling the second melon into the bag. "Sorry, I've got to entertain" she said.
I forced a chuckled. She handed me the bag. With two small melons in it. I was very close to losing my shit. The heat was stifling, I was tired and miserable, and this lady was on my very last nerve. Very last nerve.
I'm trying to practice kindness, patience, and compassion these days. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. What can you do?
She managed to get the eggs in a bag which was a little surprising. She put them on top of stuff, which is good. As she let the belt bring food toward her, he pulled my bananas off some other item and tossed them further down the belt, where they landed on the other side of my separator stick. (OMG!!!) It was at this point I noticed the large line had completely shifted over to the other checkstand and there was absolutely no one putting their groceries on the empty belt behind my stuff. No one wanted to be in her line. As a matter of fact, they had all decided that they would rather wait an extra ten minutes in a longer line, than use the line I was in. My checker looked up at the situation as well, seemed to assess it for a second, then continued with my stuff.
She tossed the spinach to the side. I took the opportunity to place it in the half empty (not so optimistic now) bag in my cart.
"I was going to place that on top of the stuff here", she said.
"Oh that's ok, I got it here. It won't squish anything".
Finally, as the forced heat was beginning to make me nauseated and I felt I could no longer contain my agitation, she handed me my receipt and I was free to go.
As I stepped out into the cool air, I took a few deep breaths and decided I was never shopping there again.
I may try another Sprouts that's only a little further away.
Since I really can't say I'm never shopping there again, here's my plan. Next time I have to go there, I will keep my bags to myself so that I can bag my own groceries. When the checker says they can get it, I will insist and say no, no, I like bagging my groceries. Maybe even say how fun it is. I don't know.
Why is this so difficult? After doing a quick analysis of what was in my cart, I had already made a plan for the best way to bag the groceries. Five seconds max. What's heavy? What can be squished? People, please, I urge you: stick the damn melons in a bag. We only have so many hands. I am not going to carry two melons, a bag of potatoes, and a carton of eggs separately into my apartment. Heavy things on the bottom, squish-ables and breakables on top. There is no more science involved than that.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Socks
I have a sock problem. You would know it by taking a look at my sock drawer. I have a problem getting rid of them too. My favorite running socks have now all got holes in them, but when I tried to replace them, the replacements sucked. The last few weeks my big toe has been getting blisters from rubbing against the toe next to it (this is new, and weird) so I've moved back over to toe socks. So now I need to invest in toe socks.
But today my mission was arm warmers and steak. I'm running a marathon in Sacramento on Sunday and it'll be around 41 at the starting line...probably around 50 by the time I finish. I will be running in shorts and most likely a tank top. This is why I can't live anywhere cold. I'm slower in pants (for real) and I can't stand material in my armpits when I work out. Of course for a lot of cold weather training runs (and on rare occasions, a race) I do wear long sleeves. I get cold easily, I have Raynaud's, I really do need to keep myself warm. But everything warm is uncomfortable to work out in. A mile or two into a run, I wish I wasn't wearing sleeves. And it's too cold to take my shirt off (sometimes my belly is red from the cold when I get home, even though I had a shirt on).
Anyway, so I decided I need to get arm warmers for this race... and I've been craving steak for days.
Let me just say, I've worn arm warmers for cycling and I hate them and love them. I love them because they work: they're warm, easy to take off, and easy to stow in a pocket. You can take them off with your teeth while riding (I still can't ride with no hands). I hate them because of my left arm that is usually very sensitive to having something wrapped around it. You'll have to look back to 2009 in this blog for the whole story, but for a short recap- my collar bone and first rib crushed the vein in my arm and caused a blood clot from my elbow to my collarbone. The rib was removed and a portion of the vein was grafted from my leg to my shoulder. The problem is, veins harden after having a big huge clot in them for months (most likely years) at a time. I don't think it was practical for the surgeons to replace 12-14 inches of vein.
It's completely functional now but minor swelling does occur on occasion and then just passes. But sleeves...sleeves will most likely never be comfortable for me again. Or bras. But I live in a world where I occasionally have to wear both or at least one. I like loose sleeves. Those are ok. Lightly fitted ones feel restrictive and make me very agitated. It's crazy.
But I can't run in 40 degree weather in shorts and a tank top. My body is not built for that (Google Raynaud's). So arm-warmers.
They make commercial arm warmers, which is what I was looking for. Target didn't have them. Road Runner Sports said they'll likely get them in the next few days. Sports Basement pointed me to cycling sleeves (which I own). I will most likely ditch these things partway through the race, so I don't want to pay $40 for them. I want a cheap pair. A few bucks that are fine to toss to the side of the road and never see again. The guy at Sports Basement suggested I just make a pair with socks.
So I went to Marshall's for socks (after buying steaks at Trader Joe's). Really I was only supposed to buy one or two pair. But apparently I love socks. So many cute, soft, pretty, awesome socks. Seven pair. I do not intend on making all of them into arm-warmers, but maybe a few. Since I'll most likely be tossing the first pair, I'm going with the no-sew option. If I end up liking them, I might do a couple with some actual effort.
These might not look like much, but let me tell you why I love each and every one of these pair (there were literally hundreds of pairs that wanted to go home with me today).
First of all, who doesn't just absolutely love polar bears?
The blue pair is like a sweater (think I'll use this pair for the race this weekend).
The middle knee high has an amazing texture that will probably look super cute on either my arms or my legs.
And the two on the right are just incredibly soft.
It breaks my heart to cut holes in any of them, but it also excites me to think some of them will be given new life as amazing arm warmers. I kinda miss the days when I would wear knee high socks with boxer shorts. I'm wondering if, at this age (35), I can run around in shorts and knee-highs. I'm not much of a skirt person so that whole cute skirt and knee-highs wouldn't really do it for me.
So here is race day arm warmers! All I did was cut the tip of the toe off.
Not too bad for a 30 second job. And they are not highly uncomfortable. There is the little heel that is unimpressive.
But, they are warm. Merino wool. Made in Italy.
I will also have gloves that I will toss, probably 3-4 miles into the run. They are also cheapies- from Target. And they have some holes in them. I bought some replacements for future runs. The little 3 for $9 pairs. I will probably also wear the liner pair I have underneath them, that also has a hole in one of the fingers.
When I ran Boston, I bought a whole pre-race outfit at a thrift shop. Before the start, you ditch your clothes into special areas to be donated to charity. Maybe some lucky person will find my holey gloves and sexy arm warmers and be a little warmer this winter.
Yes, people really do run like this.
But today my mission was arm warmers and steak. I'm running a marathon in Sacramento on Sunday and it'll be around 41 at the starting line...probably around 50 by the time I finish. I will be running in shorts and most likely a tank top. This is why I can't live anywhere cold. I'm slower in pants (for real) and I can't stand material in my armpits when I work out. Of course for a lot of cold weather training runs (and on rare occasions, a race) I do wear long sleeves. I get cold easily, I have Raynaud's, I really do need to keep myself warm. But everything warm is uncomfortable to work out in. A mile or two into a run, I wish I wasn't wearing sleeves. And it's too cold to take my shirt off (sometimes my belly is red from the cold when I get home, even though I had a shirt on).
Anyway, so I decided I need to get arm warmers for this race... and I've been craving steak for days.
Let me just say, I've worn arm warmers for cycling and I hate them and love them. I love them because they work: they're warm, easy to take off, and easy to stow in a pocket. You can take them off with your teeth while riding (I still can't ride with no hands). I hate them because of my left arm that is usually very sensitive to having something wrapped around it. You'll have to look back to 2009 in this blog for the whole story, but for a short recap- my collar bone and first rib crushed the vein in my arm and caused a blood clot from my elbow to my collarbone. The rib was removed and a portion of the vein was grafted from my leg to my shoulder. The problem is, veins harden after having a big huge clot in them for months (most likely years) at a time. I don't think it was practical for the surgeons to replace 12-14 inches of vein.
It's completely functional now but minor swelling does occur on occasion and then just passes. But sleeves...sleeves will most likely never be comfortable for me again. Or bras. But I live in a world where I occasionally have to wear both or at least one. I like loose sleeves. Those are ok. Lightly fitted ones feel restrictive and make me very agitated. It's crazy.
But I can't run in 40 degree weather in shorts and a tank top. My body is not built for that (Google Raynaud's). So arm-warmers.
They make commercial arm warmers, which is what I was looking for. Target didn't have them. Road Runner Sports said they'll likely get them in the next few days. Sports Basement pointed me to cycling sleeves (which I own). I will most likely ditch these things partway through the race, so I don't want to pay $40 for them. I want a cheap pair. A few bucks that are fine to toss to the side of the road and never see again. The guy at Sports Basement suggested I just make a pair with socks.
So I went to Marshall's for socks (after buying steaks at Trader Joe's). Really I was only supposed to buy one or two pair. But apparently I love socks. So many cute, soft, pretty, awesome socks. Seven pair. I do not intend on making all of them into arm-warmers, but maybe a few. Since I'll most likely be tossing the first pair, I'm going with the no-sew option. If I end up liking them, I might do a couple with some actual effort.
These might not look like much, but let me tell you why I love each and every one of these pair (there were literally hundreds of pairs that wanted to go home with me today).
First of all, who doesn't just absolutely love polar bears?
The blue pair is like a sweater (think I'll use this pair for the race this weekend).
The middle knee high has an amazing texture that will probably look super cute on either my arms or my legs.
And the two on the right are just incredibly soft.
It breaks my heart to cut holes in any of them, but it also excites me to think some of them will be given new life as amazing arm warmers. I kinda miss the days when I would wear knee high socks with boxer shorts. I'm wondering if, at this age (35), I can run around in shorts and knee-highs. I'm not much of a skirt person so that whole cute skirt and knee-highs wouldn't really do it for me.
So here is race day arm warmers! All I did was cut the tip of the toe off.
Not too bad for a 30 second job. And they are not highly uncomfortable. There is the little heel that is unimpressive.
I will also have gloves that I will toss, probably 3-4 miles into the run. They are also cheapies- from Target. And they have some holes in them. I bought some replacements for future runs. The little 3 for $9 pairs. I will probably also wear the liner pair I have underneath them, that also has a hole in one of the fingers.
When I ran Boston, I bought a whole pre-race outfit at a thrift shop. Before the start, you ditch your clothes into special areas to be donated to charity. Maybe some lucky person will find my holey gloves and sexy arm warmers and be a little warmer this winter.
Yes, people really do run like this.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Swim
We're all adults now. Grown-ups doing grown-up things: getting married, paying bills, having babies, trying to make grown-up decisions instead of embracing the bad.
The sunlight catches the drops of water on my goggles and makes them shimmer different shades of gold. The water feels the same splashing in my face as I watch the lane line and try to swim straight. I'm slower now. I have a little fat that sticks out of my suit. My shoulders don't tolerate half as much.
I was reading an article on older athletes- in their 40's, 50's, 60's... and even 80's. It occurred to me that I was once a 20 year old- faster, slimmer, with a body that could take much more abuse. It also occurred to me that I will one day be 40. Then 60. Eventually (maybe) 80. Which actually means that I might have quite a few years left in me (should I be blessed to live into old age). I could be an amazing athlete at 60 years old. Maybe I will.
I will never be that 20 year old again. While I miss that young athleticism that's far more available to youth, I do not miss being that young. I would like to keep this mind and heart, but take my 20 year old body.
But you run marathons! , you might say. And yes. At 35, I am indeed young. But just old enough to realize what's behind me. And what's ahead of me- if I do it right. People wonder why I work out like I do. Pushing myself when I'm busy enough as it is.
Because one day I will be 80 years old. And I will never get to return to today. I will never be 35 again. Time moves in one direction, always forward. Today will be lost forever. This morning is already gone. Forever.
So I went to the gym this morning, then I went for a swim. I even did a little butterfly. And right now I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I'm stronger. I'm smarter. I'm a little wiser. And I'm far more patient. Being in the water takes me back to when I was younger. Half my age now. I still like to duck just under the water- exactly to the spot where the light reflecting off the bottom of the pool casts a mirror image of everything under the water. I look up and see the black line going down the middle of the lane. I still like to exhale with my mouth just slightly above the surface, and it makes a wet wooshing sound that reminds me of a walrus, or a dolphin surfacing and clearing out its blow hole. The lifeguard looks at me funny. Doesn't everyone do this? I thought we all did.
And I still poke my head up onto the deck to stare at my towel, and how far away it is, when it's time to get out. With fingers clinging to the edge of the pool, I contemplate how cold it is outside, and how cold I will get just waiting here, staring at my towel. I finally get out and get wrapped up, shivering from the cold, and stand in the sun as I dry off. I zip up my old parka (that still fits, because hey- it was always oversized) and feel the moist heat get trapped in against my torso. It is such a soothing feeling. The pungent smell of chlorine gets trapped there, and I smell it when I move.
I get taken back- for a few seconds, every once in awhile. It's gone, I know. But I'm here now, and I have things to do, and I'm not going to let these days just slip by. Because they too, will be gone one day, irrevocably. The water still soothes my body and blocks out the rest of the world when I dive under and silently swim to the other side, watching my shadow all the way.
The sunlight catches the drops of water on my goggles and makes them shimmer different shades of gold. The water feels the same splashing in my face as I watch the lane line and try to swim straight. I'm slower now. I have a little fat that sticks out of my suit. My shoulders don't tolerate half as much.
I was reading an article on older athletes- in their 40's, 50's, 60's... and even 80's. It occurred to me that I was once a 20 year old- faster, slimmer, with a body that could take much more abuse. It also occurred to me that I will one day be 40. Then 60. Eventually (maybe) 80. Which actually means that I might have quite a few years left in me (should I be blessed to live into old age). I could be an amazing athlete at 60 years old. Maybe I will.
I will never be that 20 year old again. While I miss that young athleticism that's far more available to youth, I do not miss being that young. I would like to keep this mind and heart, but take my 20 year old body.
But you run marathons! , you might say. And yes. At 35, I am indeed young. But just old enough to realize what's behind me. And what's ahead of me- if I do it right. People wonder why I work out like I do. Pushing myself when I'm busy enough as it is.
Because one day I will be 80 years old. And I will never get to return to today. I will never be 35 again. Time moves in one direction, always forward. Today will be lost forever. This morning is already gone. Forever.
So I went to the gym this morning, then I went for a swim. I even did a little butterfly. And right now I'm not as fast as I used to be, but I'm stronger. I'm smarter. I'm a little wiser. And I'm far more patient. Being in the water takes me back to when I was younger. Half my age now. I still like to duck just under the water- exactly to the spot where the light reflecting off the bottom of the pool casts a mirror image of everything under the water. I look up and see the black line going down the middle of the lane. I still like to exhale with my mouth just slightly above the surface, and it makes a wet wooshing sound that reminds me of a walrus, or a dolphin surfacing and clearing out its blow hole. The lifeguard looks at me funny. Doesn't everyone do this? I thought we all did.
And I still poke my head up onto the deck to stare at my towel, and how far away it is, when it's time to get out. With fingers clinging to the edge of the pool, I contemplate how cold it is outside, and how cold I will get just waiting here, staring at my towel. I finally get out and get wrapped up, shivering from the cold, and stand in the sun as I dry off. I zip up my old parka (that still fits, because hey- it was always oversized) and feel the moist heat get trapped in against my torso. It is such a soothing feeling. The pungent smell of chlorine gets trapped there, and I smell it when I move.
I get taken back- for a few seconds, every once in awhile. It's gone, I know. But I'm here now, and I have things to do, and I'm not going to let these days just slip by. Because they too, will be gone one day, irrevocably. The water still soothes my body and blocks out the rest of the world when I dive under and silently swim to the other side, watching my shadow all the way.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Who reads this crap?
I started this blog on March 24, 2008. This is my 356th post. You can see stats about people reading your blog, although I'm not sure how accurate it really is. At some point last year, my blog views sky-rocketed. At least in my opinion. I don't know what a good number is for this sort of thing. It's a public blog, but I never thought anyone but my close friends and family would ever read it. To date, I have had 14,027 views.
I also get to see where the traffic sources are coming from. My biggest fans are apparently in France. To my knowledge, I do not know anyone in France. Next on the audience list is the United States, which makes sense, followed by Russia, then Italy, and then one lone person in Portugal.
What is truly horrifying is which posts receive the most attention. Omg, can you believe people all over the world are reading about how I was convinced (because I had too much time on my hands) that the hospital had sent me home with someone else's rib when I requested to keep the one that was removed from my body? I actually called the hospital and asked if it was possible the lab had mixed the two up. After consulting some anatomy books and Candace's wise mother, it was decided that it was indeed my rib. That post has received 256 page views. Hopefully all by the same 3 people. Just many times.
My most viewed pages have been about food. I can relate to that.
And then there was the post about me trying to run while bogged down with allergies, allergy medications, and too much coffee. Why on earth is that my most viewed post? Strangely, that was when Russia really jumped up on the audience list. I had to re-read the post to be sure I wasn't posting anything that could lead to any sort of international tensions.
I started this blog as a way to share travel stories and such with my family instead of sending out a mass email or letter or whatever I did the first big trip out of the country. While the traffic has certainly picked up in the last year or two, the blog views average out to about 1,800 per year. That's really interesting considering most of my blogs are random musings...such as this one.
I mean really, who reads this stuff?
I also get to see where the traffic sources are coming from. My biggest fans are apparently in France. To my knowledge, I do not know anyone in France. Next on the audience list is the United States, which makes sense, followed by Russia, then Italy, and then one lone person in Portugal.
What is truly horrifying is which posts receive the most attention. Omg, can you believe people all over the world are reading about how I was convinced (because I had too much time on my hands) that the hospital had sent me home with someone else's rib when I requested to keep the one that was removed from my body? I actually called the hospital and asked if it was possible the lab had mixed the two up. After consulting some anatomy books and Candace's wise mother, it was decided that it was indeed my rib. That post has received 256 page views. Hopefully all by the same 3 people. Just many times.
My most viewed pages have been about food. I can relate to that.
And then there was the post about me trying to run while bogged down with allergies, allergy medications, and too much coffee. Why on earth is that my most viewed post? Strangely, that was when Russia really jumped up on the audience list. I had to re-read the post to be sure I wasn't posting anything that could lead to any sort of international tensions.
I started this blog as a way to share travel stories and such with my family instead of sending out a mass email or letter or whatever I did the first big trip out of the country. While the traffic has certainly picked up in the last year or two, the blog views average out to about 1,800 per year. That's really interesting considering most of my blogs are random musings...such as this one.
I mean really, who reads this stuff?
Frowny Face
So, come here often?
I'm here because writing in my blog is far easier than writing the proposal for funding that I should've written this past weekend but instead was writing the literature review for my thesis. Which led me to discover PhD Comics. Their second movie is coming out. First I want to see the first (lots of creative writing going on here). I think I might do a screening of it with the grad students in my department to blow off some steam. When we get time that is. Like never. Maybe I'll just watch it alone when I'm suppose to be writing the second draft of my literature review.
This past weekend I did in fact discover that I am slower than my older Garmin led me to believe. It's been a serious blow to my ego and in an effort to undo the psychological damage, I have decided to start training harder. I have less than a month before taper. More on taper later, that is not the subject of today's discussion.
While I warmed up this morning on the stationary bike at the gym, I watched a guy beat the crap out of a punching bag just 5 feet from me. My gym is in a state of remodel, complete with new equipment. Weeks ago, the owner witnessed me vying for a turn at the pull-up bar and was excited to declare that soon we would have this super cool new jungle gym type thing that had all sorts of do-dads on it. "Yeah but will it have just a plain pull-up bar?" I asked. "Oh yeah, it'll have one of those."
When the new piece of equipment arrived, I walked laps around it with everyone else, scoping it out. I spotted the pull-up bar. I had to do a double take. It was ten feet off the ground. Mind you, I'm not much more than 5 feet tall and my arms are definitely not another 5 feet each (supposedly your wing span is your height- doesn't help when you need one arm to be 5 feet long).
I stood under it and looked up. I pulled up a stool and stood on it. Still couldn't reach. I took a chance. I jumped. I did a few pull-ups, then hung there for a second, contemplating my fate. My feet must've been at least 4 feet off the ground. I have reached an age where a drop from a height of more than 6 inches is a scary thought. I considered taking a leap of faith and jumping back onto the stool. If I missed, I would be chewing on the ground real quick, and I don't know who'd I'd have faith in to begin with. My own grace and coordination? Ha!
I pointed my toes as far as they would go. I could feel the stool underneath me. My heart started racing. Do not mess this up. I let go of the bar. And found myself safely on the stool. And I walked away never to go back.
I digress. Severely.
In any case, there I was on the bicycle, warming up for leg day. I pondered how I was not as fit as I used to be while on the crew. I am not as fast, my body fat is not as low, I am not as muscular, I am not as strong. I'm probably not as intimidating. But then I realized, in those days, I was paid to be fit (essentially). My work was highly physical. I would go lift weights before work, hike or run before the crew made it in for the day, and then hike or run with the crew, then spend the day cutting brush or chasing fires up mountains.
Now I am a grad student. I sit at a computer and pretend to write proposals and literature reviews. I eat chocolate and cheese. I took on this massive project called "Master's Degree", so of course something had to give. That something was my hours of working out every day. My max pull-ups used to be 7 (the real kind, not the cross-fit kind), now it's more like 4 or 5 depending on the day. I won't talk about my squat since going to a full depth squat significantly decreased the weight I could lift anyway.
So while pedaling away on the bike, I realized, you can't do everything. As much as I think I can sometimes.
I went off and had a kick ass weight lifting routine, then headed home to run. I don't know if you've ever tried to go do a hard run after a hard leg day at the gym, but it is not nearly as inviting as eating half a chocolate cake. Fortunately I had no chocolate cake and my day was already threatening to do me in. I mean it is Monday after all.
I ran anyway. One mile warm-up, 6x 1 mile repeats...at well....whatever, fast. And then a mile cool down. I was going to go a little easy on myself the first couple of miles since I really have no clue where my splits stand these days (faulty Garmin and all), but they all ended up at 7:20 per mile or faster anyway, so it went well. Tough enough to remind me that I did indeed compromise my tendons with that hamstring tear a year and a half ago. You know how your hamstring originates up in your butt area (ok, maybe you didn't know that, but now you do)? That tendon is apparently permanently unhappy with me. Imagine that. Permanent butt pain. Fun.
I managed to get home, eat, shower, run errands, and make it to class on time. I finished my literature review half an hour before it was due. Made it through class without having a break down (and surprisingly, the teacher didn't have a break down either), and then came home to attempt to write a proposal for the Joint Fire Science Program to fund my research. And.....here I am blogging because I've re-written the first sentence 7 times now and just saved it with a half sentence on the page. I'll try again tomorrow when I'm fresh. After the gym.
I'm here because writing in my blog is far easier than writing the proposal for funding that I should've written this past weekend but instead was writing the literature review for my thesis. Which led me to discover PhD Comics. Their second movie is coming out. First I want to see the first (lots of creative writing going on here). I think I might do a screening of it with the grad students in my department to blow off some steam. When we get time that is. Like never. Maybe I'll just watch it alone when I'm suppose to be writing the second draft of my literature review.
This past weekend I did in fact discover that I am slower than my older Garmin led me to believe. It's been a serious blow to my ego and in an effort to undo the psychological damage, I have decided to start training harder. I have less than a month before taper. More on taper later, that is not the subject of today's discussion.
While I warmed up this morning on the stationary bike at the gym, I watched a guy beat the crap out of a punching bag just 5 feet from me. My gym is in a state of remodel, complete with new equipment. Weeks ago, the owner witnessed me vying for a turn at the pull-up bar and was excited to declare that soon we would have this super cool new jungle gym type thing that had all sorts of do-dads on it. "Yeah but will it have just a plain pull-up bar?" I asked. "Oh yeah, it'll have one of those."
When the new piece of equipment arrived, I walked laps around it with everyone else, scoping it out. I spotted the pull-up bar. I had to do a double take. It was ten feet off the ground. Mind you, I'm not much more than 5 feet tall and my arms are definitely not another 5 feet each (supposedly your wing span is your height- doesn't help when you need one arm to be 5 feet long).
I stood under it and looked up. I pulled up a stool and stood on it. Still couldn't reach. I took a chance. I jumped. I did a few pull-ups, then hung there for a second, contemplating my fate. My feet must've been at least 4 feet off the ground. I have reached an age where a drop from a height of more than 6 inches is a scary thought. I considered taking a leap of faith and jumping back onto the stool. If I missed, I would be chewing on the ground real quick, and I don't know who'd I'd have faith in to begin with. My own grace and coordination? Ha!
I pointed my toes as far as they would go. I could feel the stool underneath me. My heart started racing. Do not mess this up. I let go of the bar. And found myself safely on the stool. And I walked away never to go back.
I digress. Severely.
In any case, there I was on the bicycle, warming up for leg day. I pondered how I was not as fit as I used to be while on the crew. I am not as fast, my body fat is not as low, I am not as muscular, I am not as strong. I'm probably not as intimidating. But then I realized, in those days, I was paid to be fit (essentially). My work was highly physical. I would go lift weights before work, hike or run before the crew made it in for the day, and then hike or run with the crew, then spend the day cutting brush or chasing fires up mountains.
Now I am a grad student. I sit at a computer and pretend to write proposals and literature reviews. I eat chocolate and cheese. I took on this massive project called "Master's Degree", so of course something had to give. That something was my hours of working out every day. My max pull-ups used to be 7 (the real kind, not the cross-fit kind), now it's more like 4 or 5 depending on the day. I won't talk about my squat since going to a full depth squat significantly decreased the weight I could lift anyway.
So while pedaling away on the bike, I realized, you can't do everything. As much as I think I can sometimes.
I went off and had a kick ass weight lifting routine, then headed home to run. I don't know if you've ever tried to go do a hard run after a hard leg day at the gym, but it is not nearly as inviting as eating half a chocolate cake. Fortunately I had no chocolate cake and my day was already threatening to do me in. I mean it is Monday after all.
I ran anyway. One mile warm-up, 6x 1 mile repeats...at well....whatever, fast. And then a mile cool down. I was going to go a little easy on myself the first couple of miles since I really have no clue where my splits stand these days (faulty Garmin and all), but they all ended up at 7:20 per mile or faster anyway, so it went well. Tough enough to remind me that I did indeed compromise my tendons with that hamstring tear a year and a half ago. You know how your hamstring originates up in your butt area (ok, maybe you didn't know that, but now you do)? That tendon is apparently permanently unhappy with me. Imagine that. Permanent butt pain. Fun.
I managed to get home, eat, shower, run errands, and make it to class on time. I finished my literature review half an hour before it was due. Made it through class without having a break down (and surprisingly, the teacher didn't have a break down either), and then came home to attempt to write a proposal for the Joint Fire Science Program to fund my research. And.....here I am blogging because I've re-written the first sentence 7 times now and just saved it with a half sentence on the page. I'll try again tomorrow when I'm fresh. After the gym.
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Days Like This
I'm wallowing in self pity which may be directly caused by hormones since my left ovary attempted to secede from the union before my run. I'm also having a fat day which for some reason usually makes me want to drown my fat in ice cream. Also a possible symptom of hormones (or being an overworked grad student).
I had a 3 hour midterm last night that I probably didn't fail but probably didn't get an A in either. So today I decided it was a good day to get my life back together...which I have since decided isn't going to happen.
Lately, my old Garmin has been slightly untruthful with me about how fast I've been running. And by slightly I mean a few weeks ago it told me I ran my cool-down mile in a 5:21. Most of the time, the lies have not been that blatant, but I think that was when I finally decided I needed a new Garmin.
Well I got one. And I think it's being fairly honest with me. Which makes me sad. Not only am I not running 5:21's for my cool down miles, I'm also not running 7:21's for my cool-down mile. More like 8:21....which I suppose is actually ok for a cool down mile. After spending a couple hours trying to program my Garmin this morning and get it synced with my computer and/or phone, I finally managed to upload a tough workout to it: 1 mile warm-up, 2 miles at a 7:17 pace, 2 min rest, 2 miles at pace, 2 min rest, 2 more miles at pace, then a 1 mile cool down. A total of 8 miles, with six of them being fast.
I knew this was going to go poorly, but I still held out hope.
The problem with telling a gps unit to keep you within a specified pace (I told it 7:15 to 7:20), is that a gps is only accurate to a certain degree. It cannot really tell you instantaneous pace, only average, which changes every second. Every other second this stupid thing was beeping and vibrating, telling me I'm not on pace, now I'm on pace, too fast, too slow, at pace. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to ignore it and just keep going. Too fast, too slow, too fast, too slow. I was exhausted. I stopped the watch and took a break for a few seconds, tried again. My asthma started to act up, so I decided I'd finish out the first two mile interval and then switch to just a regular gps run and do the repeats on my own.
When I stopped to take a break, I reset my watch. It proudly told me that I had run my fastest mile (since buying this Garmin) at a 7:01. What the hell?? Why did this stupid thing let me run a 7:01 and what the hell was the second mile? Since my two miles came out to 14:40, I can only guess it was a 7:39. Stupid technology. I was wiped out. I decided to start over, do another mile aiming for 7:17, then turn around and head back.
I pushed as hard as I could without inducing an asthma attack. 7:28. I took a break, then headed back at a slower pace. I was done pushing for the day. The next mile was 8:08, I was 5 miles into my run, 3 miles from home, and I decided I just didn't want to do this anymore.
This has happened only a handful of times in my running career. There are days when my run just really isn't going to happen, and my brain and/or body just call it quits. I respect those times because for one, it doesn't happen very often (maybe once or twice a year) and two, there is most likely a physical reason behind it and one run is not worth risking injury.
However, I have never been 3 miles from home when it has happened. After walking about a mile and a half, I got tired of walking. People were passing me (I mean whatever, but just so you get a visual). I wanted to be home. I was low on water, I was getting hungry, I was totally over it, and if I was out there too long I was going to have to pee and I had already passed the last bathroom. I started up a slow jog again. I made it to about half a mile from home and gladly walked again.
During my walk, I thought about how much slower I was than my old Garmin implied. I thought about hormones, and wheat, and how I was wearing a different pair of running shoes than usual. I also thought about Monday's run, which was actually at a decent pace without pushing myself much.
So maybe it's just a bad day (I hope) and not that I now have a Garmin that is brutally honest with me and telling me I am far too slow to meet my goal pace at my upcoming half marathon and marathon. I feel like I have been completely deceived and I have been living in this fantasy world where I was getting really fast, and now it turns out I'm slow. Today I had this weird thought that maybe I couldn't even run as far as I thought I could because I didn't make it the whole way. But then I realized I have run the same route a hundred times before (and many times much further) and that the path did not magically get miles shorter. Garmin can't change that.
I'll run again on Saturday, a 13 mile run at a 7:49 pace, but maybe I'll ease off of that for the first few miles to see where I'm at.
Years (and years) ago, at a swim meet, my dad told me "You can't get faster every time" after a disappointing swim. Not everyday will be a personal record. Sometimes it can be a little difficult being your own coach, trainer, and sports psychologist.
I had a 3 hour midterm last night that I probably didn't fail but probably didn't get an A in either. So today I decided it was a good day to get my life back together...which I have since decided isn't going to happen.
Lately, my old Garmin has been slightly untruthful with me about how fast I've been running. And by slightly I mean a few weeks ago it told me I ran my cool-down mile in a 5:21. Most of the time, the lies have not been that blatant, but I think that was when I finally decided I needed a new Garmin.
Well I got one. And I think it's being fairly honest with me. Which makes me sad. Not only am I not running 5:21's for my cool down miles, I'm also not running 7:21's for my cool-down mile. More like 8:21....which I suppose is actually ok for a cool down mile. After spending a couple hours trying to program my Garmin this morning and get it synced with my computer and/or phone, I finally managed to upload a tough workout to it: 1 mile warm-up, 2 miles at a 7:17 pace, 2 min rest, 2 miles at pace, 2 min rest, 2 more miles at pace, then a 1 mile cool down. A total of 8 miles, with six of them being fast.
I knew this was going to go poorly, but I still held out hope.
The problem with telling a gps unit to keep you within a specified pace (I told it 7:15 to 7:20), is that a gps is only accurate to a certain degree. It cannot really tell you instantaneous pace, only average, which changes every second. Every other second this stupid thing was beeping and vibrating, telling me I'm not on pace, now I'm on pace, too fast, too slow, at pace. Meanwhile, I'm trying my best to ignore it and just keep going. Too fast, too slow, too fast, too slow. I was exhausted. I stopped the watch and took a break for a few seconds, tried again. My asthma started to act up, so I decided I'd finish out the first two mile interval and then switch to just a regular gps run and do the repeats on my own.
When I stopped to take a break, I reset my watch. It proudly told me that I had run my fastest mile (since buying this Garmin) at a 7:01. What the hell?? Why did this stupid thing let me run a 7:01 and what the hell was the second mile? Since my two miles came out to 14:40, I can only guess it was a 7:39. Stupid technology. I was wiped out. I decided to start over, do another mile aiming for 7:17, then turn around and head back.
I pushed as hard as I could without inducing an asthma attack. 7:28. I took a break, then headed back at a slower pace. I was done pushing for the day. The next mile was 8:08, I was 5 miles into my run, 3 miles from home, and I decided I just didn't want to do this anymore.
This has happened only a handful of times in my running career. There are days when my run just really isn't going to happen, and my brain and/or body just call it quits. I respect those times because for one, it doesn't happen very often (maybe once or twice a year) and two, there is most likely a physical reason behind it and one run is not worth risking injury.
However, I have never been 3 miles from home when it has happened. After walking about a mile and a half, I got tired of walking. People were passing me (I mean whatever, but just so you get a visual). I wanted to be home. I was low on water, I was getting hungry, I was totally over it, and if I was out there too long I was going to have to pee and I had already passed the last bathroom. I started up a slow jog again. I made it to about half a mile from home and gladly walked again.
During my walk, I thought about how much slower I was than my old Garmin implied. I thought about hormones, and wheat, and how I was wearing a different pair of running shoes than usual. I also thought about Monday's run, which was actually at a decent pace without pushing myself much.
So maybe it's just a bad day (I hope) and not that I now have a Garmin that is brutally honest with me and telling me I am far too slow to meet my goal pace at my upcoming half marathon and marathon. I feel like I have been completely deceived and I have been living in this fantasy world where I was getting really fast, and now it turns out I'm slow. Today I had this weird thought that maybe I couldn't even run as far as I thought I could because I didn't make it the whole way. But then I realized I have run the same route a hundred times before (and many times much further) and that the path did not magically get miles shorter. Garmin can't change that.
I'll run again on Saturday, a 13 mile run at a 7:49 pace, but maybe I'll ease off of that for the first few miles to see where I'm at.
Years (and years) ago, at a swim meet, my dad told me "You can't get faster every time" after a disappointing swim. Not everyday will be a personal record. Sometimes it can be a little difficult being your own coach, trainer, and sports psychologist.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Memories
Tomorrow would've been my dad's 60th birthday. I don't wish him happy birthday every year or do anything special, it's just not me. And some years that pass are harder than others, some aren't as bad. This year it is ten years since he's been gone and it seems to be a little harder than it has been. But maybe that's because I don't remember how I react one year to the next.
So I was going through some of his old slides. Many of them have a funny line down the side from when the slide scanner decided to poop out. But it's the meaning behind the photos that are important.
This is one of my favorite photos of him. Walking on the rocks at Sunset Cliffs with Chris in the carrier on his back.
This brings to mind a couple of things. One- apparently at one point my dad was leaning over the cliffs with my brother on his back like that and my brother slipped out and fell over the cliffs. He was completely silent and did not cry at all. They were terrified. He was amazingly ok. Second- when I was a little girl, my dad came home from scuba diving or skin diving and his knee was all bloodied and messed up. The first story he gave me was that it was from us kids bouncing on his knee all the time. The second story he gave me was that he was attacked by a shark. When I was 14 I was telling my dad how I was afraid of sharks and he was trying to convince me that that was ridiculous and your chances of getting attacked by a shark are incredibly slim. "But you were attacked by a shark!" I replied. He looked startled, "When?" he asked. I recounted the story. He laughed. He had slipped on the rocks and it had cut up his knee. I believed it for over ten years.
When he went scuba or skin diving, he would also go spear fishing.
I believe that is called a guitar fish. I also believe that we ate it. He brought home lobsters, fish, and abalone as well.
My brother and I with some of his catch.
Carving pumpkins, I am tasting mine.
Camping, eating pancakes with Dad.
My birthday perhaps.
My dad raced downhill skiing in college at U of M.
And had some of the wildest hair.
I remember him doing the inlay on this table. He cut every little piece of wood and would sand them down to fit, different types of wood for different colors.
I remember the smell of the wood and the sound of the little detail sander. The late nights he spent on it. He made our bunk beds, our toy box, and I vaguely remember something about a cradle or crib for Chris.
He enjoyed photography.
Our last Christmas together, the boys flew back to Michigan to spend it with Mom. Dad and I drove up to Bear Mountain to ski. I was just getting over a stress fracture in my tibia (lower leg) and wore out easily. I made him take me down the bunny slopes, because I can't ski. Along the way I convinced him to go over a couple little jumps. I think he was surprised by how much the impact hurt at his age. I regret that I left my camera in the car and didn't get a single picture of us. But I took photos as he drove. Before we left, I set him loose on the slopes and sat at the base of the black diamond hill and waited for him. Letting him relive some of his glory days.
I got married very young, far too young. But one of the most precious things I got from that, is that I got to dance with my dad.
It was to Lee Ann Womack's "I Hope You Dance".
We scattered some of his ashes out in the Pacific Ocean, in sight of the OB pier. As the ship captain sifted the ashes into the water, I dropped rose petals on top, from his rose garden. The shimmer of the sun off the ash let off a greenish glow like phosphorescence. I bet he would've thought that was pretty cool.
So I was going through some of his old slides. Many of them have a funny line down the side from when the slide scanner decided to poop out. But it's the meaning behind the photos that are important.
This is one of my favorite photos of him. Walking on the rocks at Sunset Cliffs with Chris in the carrier on his back.
When he went scuba or skin diving, he would also go spear fishing.
I believe that is called a guitar fish. I also believe that we ate it. He brought home lobsters, fish, and abalone as well.
Carving pumpkins, I am tasting mine.
Camping, eating pancakes with Dad.
My birthday perhaps.
My dad raced downhill skiing in college at U of M.
And had some of the wildest hair.
I remember him doing the inlay on this table. He cut every little piece of wood and would sand them down to fit, different types of wood for different colors.
He enjoyed photography.
Our last Christmas together, the boys flew back to Michigan to spend it with Mom. Dad and I drove up to Bear Mountain to ski. I was just getting over a stress fracture in my tibia (lower leg) and wore out easily. I made him take me down the bunny slopes, because I can't ski. Along the way I convinced him to go over a couple little jumps. I think he was surprised by how much the impact hurt at his age. I regret that I left my camera in the car and didn't get a single picture of us. But I took photos as he drove. Before we left, I set him loose on the slopes and sat at the base of the black diamond hill and waited for him. Letting him relive some of his glory days.
I got married very young, far too young. But one of the most precious things I got from that, is that I got to dance with my dad.
We scattered some of his ashes out in the Pacific Ocean, in sight of the OB pier. As the ship captain sifted the ashes into the water, I dropped rose petals on top, from his rose garden. The shimmer of the sun off the ash let off a greenish glow like phosphorescence. I bet he would've thought that was pretty cool.
Mine
The turbulence from the weather over San Diego made me nervous as I watched the blanket of clouds come closer below us. I longed to dip into them, to get under the turbulent layer and onto the ground. I had been watching the clouds for a good portion of the flight, being a meteorology student and all.
As the thick cloud enveloped us, I felt a sense of belonging- to that substance, that mist surrounding the plane. Getting under the stratus layer was like ducking under the surface of the ocean, a completely different world from the one we descended from. But as the high rises of downtown poked into view, I felt it again. My cloud. My city. Mine.
It occurred to me that the word "mine" has two meanings. That which belongs to me, and that which I belong to. I do not own this city, this land, certainly not this misty layer of cloud. But it owns me. It possesses me in the way that so much of me is made up by this city, these clouds, my friends and family.
I've heard it said that it is not noble to be owned by someone or something. To be held captive by possessions or places, or things.
Cut an astronaut loose from his tether to his ship, and you will see a man owned by nothing at all. And if that is a pretty sight, then yes, perhaps you should avoid being possessed by anything at all, and by all costs.
As I tied my shoes to go take the trash out this morning, Charlotte walked by and kissed my shoulder. I smiled. Mine. Because she owns a piece of my heart that will always be hers.
Being back in San Diego, I felt that belonging that I always feel when I'm back there, but more so than normal. I was blessed with the ability to see quite a few friends in such a short time, and it was soothing to be pulled back by that tether and safe at my origin. All that which owns me. Mine.
As the thick cloud enveloped us, I felt a sense of belonging- to that substance, that mist surrounding the plane. Getting under the stratus layer was like ducking under the surface of the ocean, a completely different world from the one we descended from. But as the high rises of downtown poked into view, I felt it again. My cloud. My city. Mine.
It occurred to me that the word "mine" has two meanings. That which belongs to me, and that which I belong to. I do not own this city, this land, certainly not this misty layer of cloud. But it owns me. It possesses me in the way that so much of me is made up by this city, these clouds, my friends and family.
I've heard it said that it is not noble to be owned by someone or something. To be held captive by possessions or places, or things.
Cut an astronaut loose from his tether to his ship, and you will see a man owned by nothing at all. And if that is a pretty sight, then yes, perhaps you should avoid being possessed by anything at all, and by all costs.
As I tied my shoes to go take the trash out this morning, Charlotte walked by and kissed my shoulder. I smiled. Mine. Because she owns a piece of my heart that will always be hers.
Being back in San Diego, I felt that belonging that I always feel when I'm back there, but more so than normal. I was blessed with the ability to see quite a few friends in such a short time, and it was soothing to be pulled back by that tether and safe at my origin. All that which owns me. Mine.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
The burden of being human
It started with the 17 mile run....or maybe it ended with the 17 mile run. I think any time you schedule something like a 17 mile run mid-week is just asking for trouble.
I'm traveling this weekend and don't really see time in the weekend schedule to run 17 miles, so I did it today. With plans to come home and study. Here's what's on the agenda from now until Mon/Tues. Study for two midterms, write 4 research paper annotations (like 3 page book reports, but for research papers that are way over my head), study for a quiz, read for and actually do my homework for Unix/Linux, somehow come up with a proposal (including supporting evidence) for the Joint Fire Science program to give me $25,000. Also, I'm traveling.
So post 17 mile run, I talked to Jen on the phone for over an hour, ate, showered, ate, then sat down to read the required chapter in my Linux book. I got up and got a cup of coffee. Halfway through it, I thought- maybe I should just take a nap instead. I napped for about 20 minutes, drank more coffee and opened up the Linux book again.
Nope.
I switched to studying for my Advanced Dynamics midterm. I got stuck and no one from my study group was up on Facebook with answers. I grabbed a beer (pumpkin ale) and continued working. I started on a second beer and started craving crispy fried chicken from KFC. I looked at my glass. Almost 2 beers down. No driving. Bike? No way. It was getting dark and I have clip-in pedals....and live in the city. The only time I've ever ridden my bike under the influence was in Yreka, where there were no vehicles and I hadn't switched to clip-ins (or "clip-less" as they are ironically called) yet.
I checked the menu for the local bbq joint two blocks away. Slow smoked chicken. Not crispy fried. I settled for leftover sauerkraut with potatoes and kielbasa.
Then I thought- hot fudge sundae! With brownies!
I considered my options. The corner up the block from my house is fairly sketchy. There's a 7-Eleven and a McDonalds. Also a Pho place across the street. Again, getting dark, sketchy area....
I had salsa. No chips. BBQ sauce, no chicken (or fries). An ice cream maker, nothing to put in it.
Pizza sounded awesome.
There would be no more studying tonight.
I tried to read Runner's World. Nope.
Heart of a Buddha. Nope.
I thought about the little video of the sliding polar bear I put up on Facebook. Yes, that is what I wanted. Even more than KFC and a hot fudge sundae. I just wanted to be a polar bear sliding around the ice on my belly.
http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/polar-bear-sliding-on-chin-chest-across-snow-field-stock-video-footage/559-132
So I tossed some frozen cherries into plain yogurt, added cocoa powder and honey, and called it good.
No fried chicken, no french fries, no chips and salsa, no hot fudge brownie sundae, no pizza, no chocolate cheesecake....no sliding around on my belly covered in fur.
And no more studying tonight.
This human thing is really rough.
I'm traveling this weekend and don't really see time in the weekend schedule to run 17 miles, so I did it today. With plans to come home and study. Here's what's on the agenda from now until Mon/Tues. Study for two midterms, write 4 research paper annotations (like 3 page book reports, but for research papers that are way over my head), study for a quiz, read for and actually do my homework for Unix/Linux, somehow come up with a proposal (including supporting evidence) for the Joint Fire Science program to give me $25,000. Also, I'm traveling.
So post 17 mile run, I talked to Jen on the phone for over an hour, ate, showered, ate, then sat down to read the required chapter in my Linux book. I got up and got a cup of coffee. Halfway through it, I thought- maybe I should just take a nap instead. I napped for about 20 minutes, drank more coffee and opened up the Linux book again.
Nope.
I switched to studying for my Advanced Dynamics midterm. I got stuck and no one from my study group was up on Facebook with answers. I grabbed a beer (pumpkin ale) and continued working. I started on a second beer and started craving crispy fried chicken from KFC. I looked at my glass. Almost 2 beers down. No driving. Bike? No way. It was getting dark and I have clip-in pedals....and live in the city. The only time I've ever ridden my bike under the influence was in Yreka, where there were no vehicles and I hadn't switched to clip-ins (or "clip-less" as they are ironically called) yet.
I checked the menu for the local bbq joint two blocks away. Slow smoked chicken. Not crispy fried. I settled for leftover sauerkraut with potatoes and kielbasa.
Then I thought- hot fudge sundae! With brownies!
I considered my options. The corner up the block from my house is fairly sketchy. There's a 7-Eleven and a McDonalds. Also a Pho place across the street. Again, getting dark, sketchy area....
I had salsa. No chips. BBQ sauce, no chicken (or fries). An ice cream maker, nothing to put in it.
Pizza sounded awesome.
There would be no more studying tonight.
I tried to read Runner's World. Nope.
Heart of a Buddha. Nope.
I thought about the little video of the sliding polar bear I put up on Facebook. Yes, that is what I wanted. Even more than KFC and a hot fudge sundae. I just wanted to be a polar bear sliding around the ice on my belly.
http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/video/polar-bear-sliding-on-chin-chest-across-snow-field-stock-video-footage/559-132
So I tossed some frozen cherries into plain yogurt, added cocoa powder and honey, and called it good.
No fried chicken, no french fries, no chips and salsa, no hot fudge brownie sundae, no pizza, no chocolate cheesecake....no sliding around on my belly covered in fur.
And no more studying tonight.
This human thing is really rough.
Sunday, October 11, 2015
November
I house sat for Robin, and played with the sleep function on the alarm clock: rain, white noise, street sounds, wind chimes, a bubbling brook. I thought about how the wind chimes sounded nice, but they could haunt a person. I don't know what I meant at the time.
I thought about funerals in November, how cold it would be.
I met Debbie and Drew up on Mt. Palomar and we talked about how years ago they tried to re-introduce grizzly bears into the wild up there. I drove back to Robin's listening to Britney Spears. A shadow ran in front of my headlights and then off to the side. I stopped on the pitch black road, thinking of the bears. I looked in my rear view mirror, trying to spot something in brake lights. I thought about going back, to see what it was. But something inside of me said "Go. That was not a bear." I felt terrified.
Saturday was the last day of work for the seasonals. We all said our good-byes, but most of us would see each other the next day for the half marathon.
On Sunday as we got ready to run, one of the guys commented how we didn't really have a support group to come watch us run. It stopped me for a second. My dad would come watch us run. Why didn't he? Did I not tell him I had a race? I must not have. How could I have not mentioned it?
But Monday morning, everything came together. Monday morning I found out how wind chimes could haunt a person. It was hot though. And windy. I sat out in the driveway and watched the wind chimes blow in the wind while the police did their investigation and the medical examiner came and took you away.
It was not cold for the November funeral.
The shadow had crossed my headlights...perhaps about the same time you took your last breath.
And you lay there, while I said good-bye to my crew.
You lay there, while I ran a half marathon.
You lay there, as I pulled into the drive and wondered why your vehicle was still there.
Your birthday is in 8 days. You would be 60. I often wonder what you would be like. I look to your brother and sisters and picture you. It's been almost ten years and I can't decide whether I am thankful for the cushion of time or bitter about how it has increased the distance between you and I.
More and more I find myself like you, and trying to be like you. So compassionate, patient, and understanding.
When Candace's dad died, I watched her sitting with Susan in the back yard, surrounded by her dad's orchids. I thought about how horrible it must be to lose your dad. Before I went back to see her, I called you. I told you what had happened, and that you had better take care of yourself because I could not lose you. You said you would. I stopped by your house afterwards. You were in the front yard barefoot, trimming the roses. You came over and gave me a big hug and said "Bad day, huh?"
Who knew?
I don't blame you. You put up a good fight. You had integrity.
And I was always proud to have you as my dad. I know there were times you thought I might not be, and I regret that I had been at a loss for words when the topic came up. There's so much I'd like to say to you now. But mostly, I would love to have one of your giant bear hugs again.
I dream about you often, and for that I am grateful. I am grateful for every single moment that I am able to feel your presence.
I thought about funerals in November, how cold it would be.
I met Debbie and Drew up on Mt. Palomar and we talked about how years ago they tried to re-introduce grizzly bears into the wild up there. I drove back to Robin's listening to Britney Spears. A shadow ran in front of my headlights and then off to the side. I stopped on the pitch black road, thinking of the bears. I looked in my rear view mirror, trying to spot something in brake lights. I thought about going back, to see what it was. But something inside of me said "Go. That was not a bear." I felt terrified.
Saturday was the last day of work for the seasonals. We all said our good-byes, but most of us would see each other the next day for the half marathon.
On Sunday as we got ready to run, one of the guys commented how we didn't really have a support group to come watch us run. It stopped me for a second. My dad would come watch us run. Why didn't he? Did I not tell him I had a race? I must not have. How could I have not mentioned it?
But Monday morning, everything came together. Monday morning I found out how wind chimes could haunt a person. It was hot though. And windy. I sat out in the driveway and watched the wind chimes blow in the wind while the police did their investigation and the medical examiner came and took you away.
It was not cold for the November funeral.
The shadow had crossed my headlights...perhaps about the same time you took your last breath.
And you lay there, while I said good-bye to my crew.
You lay there, while I ran a half marathon.
You lay there, as I pulled into the drive and wondered why your vehicle was still there.
Your birthday is in 8 days. You would be 60. I often wonder what you would be like. I look to your brother and sisters and picture you. It's been almost ten years and I can't decide whether I am thankful for the cushion of time or bitter about how it has increased the distance between you and I.
More and more I find myself like you, and trying to be like you. So compassionate, patient, and understanding.
When Candace's dad died, I watched her sitting with Susan in the back yard, surrounded by her dad's orchids. I thought about how horrible it must be to lose your dad. Before I went back to see her, I called you. I told you what had happened, and that you had better take care of yourself because I could not lose you. You said you would. I stopped by your house afterwards. You were in the front yard barefoot, trimming the roses. You came over and gave me a big hug and said "Bad day, huh?"
Who knew?
I don't blame you. You put up a good fight. You had integrity.
And I was always proud to have you as my dad. I know there were times you thought I might not be, and I regret that I had been at a loss for words when the topic came up. There's so much I'd like to say to you now. But mostly, I would love to have one of your giant bear hugs again.
I dream about you often, and for that I am grateful. I am grateful for every single moment that I am able to feel your presence.
Saturday, October 10, 2015
El Nino
There's a lot of talk going on about El Nino right now (the Southern Oscillation) and how it's looking to shape up a lot like the winter of 1997-98. It makes me miss my dad.
That year in San Diego, it rained so hard everything was flooded. I don't mean like Mississippi floods. I mean city streets that can't handle the drainage demands sort of flooding. I put on my dad's black mud boots that came up to my knees and jumped around in the puddles. I was 17. I don't think I'd ever seen so much rain.
There's a picture on my wall of my dad standing in a big puddle at his flooded work site, with his jeans tucked into those boots, wearing a white hard hat. I don't know the story behind that photo. The boots come to his knees too.
Though his feet were wider than mine, they were the same length. I stole his fuzzy slippers that Grandma and Grandpa got him for Christmas, so he had to buy another pair. We were the same height, though we argued over quarter inch differences that probably neither of us had.
Come to think of it, I was probably a pain in the ass kid. I always got to the mailbox before he got home from work to steal the Discover magazine before he got to it. I would hand it over when I was done, as I ruined the surprise about the exciting scientific discoveries inside.
Like how time exists on a continuum. Maybe that's true. Maybe that night splashing around in the puddles still exists. When I had finally established firm footing on life. In boots too wide for my feet, feeling the glee of younger days. With my dad just inside the house.
That year in San Diego, it rained so hard everything was flooded. I don't mean like Mississippi floods. I mean city streets that can't handle the drainage demands sort of flooding. I put on my dad's black mud boots that came up to my knees and jumped around in the puddles. I was 17. I don't think I'd ever seen so much rain.
There's a picture on my wall of my dad standing in a big puddle at his flooded work site, with his jeans tucked into those boots, wearing a white hard hat. I don't know the story behind that photo. The boots come to his knees too.
Though his feet were wider than mine, they were the same length. I stole his fuzzy slippers that Grandma and Grandpa got him for Christmas, so he had to buy another pair. We were the same height, though we argued over quarter inch differences that probably neither of us had.
Come to think of it, I was probably a pain in the ass kid. I always got to the mailbox before he got home from work to steal the Discover magazine before he got to it. I would hand it over when I was done, as I ruined the surprise about the exciting scientific discoveries inside.
Like how time exists on a continuum. Maybe that's true. Maybe that night splashing around in the puddles still exists. When I had finally established firm footing on life. In boots too wide for my feet, feeling the glee of younger days. With my dad just inside the house.
Thursday, October 8, 2015
A Day in the Life of a Grad Student
I have a 4 day weekend every week. I go to school 3 days a week, and have the rest of the week "off". Before the semester started, Jason said "Oh good, so you won't be so stressed this semester". Bahahaha!
There is no "off". I don't know what that means. I don't know what happened between last night and this morning, but I think my body is trying to force me into an "off". I just need to figure out how to get hot dogs and mac & cheese delivered.
In my Advanced Atmospheric Dynamics class, we all joke about the many different ways we could plot our stress levels throughout the week. This last week, mine hit an all time high. I was severely anxious, agitated, tired, and just wrung out. Usually after making it through Tuesday night, there's a sense of relief. But this week I had a midterm in Unix/Linux, and a SuperQuiz in Dynamics, plus a paper presentation in Dynamics (and the homework I turned in was 15 pages long), a double up on Remote Sensing yesterday (because the instructor will be missing classes), and then came home to take my midterm, did the lab for Remote Sensing, and got halfway through a problem in Dynamics. By the time I went to bed, I felt an odd calming sensation. I would get up early in the morning, go for a run, and then meet some people from Dynamics at school to work on derivations of complicated wave equations.
I had a cup of coffee at 5:30 am. Jason texted me to say good morning at 6 am. Then I fell asleep. I woke up again at 7:45 am and had coffee number 2. I had a bowl of oatmeal. I thought about running. I had coffee number 3. I curled back in bed and closed my eyes. I thought about Dynamics. I thought about the 17 papers sitting on my thumb drive that I need to read. I thought about how one of those was one my advisor suggested I read 4 weeks ago, and another was one he suggested I read 2 weeks ago.
I played around on Pinterest, looking up funny memes on being a graduate student. I saw a picture of those little breakfast sausages wrapped in little crescent rolls ("pigs in a blanket") and thought how I should own some of those little sausages. But I would have to get out of my pj's and go to the store.
I thought maybe if I put my contacts in, I'd be inspired to accomplish something today (remember, there are no days off- although I did decide that running was not going to happen today, as I have no clean running shorts and it's too hot to run in yoga pants).
I put my contacts in and opened up my thumb drive. I decided to start with the paper my advisor assigned (when an advisor "suggests" something, it's actually a requirement). I started reading.
"This study has employed both observational data and numerical simulation results to diagnose the synoptic-scale and mesoscale environments conducive to forest fires during the October 2003 extreme fire event in southern California. A three-stage process is proposed to illustrate the coupling of the synoptic-scale
forcing that is evident from the observations, specifically the high pressure ridge and the upper-level jet streak, which leads to meso-a-scale subsidence in its exit region, and the mesoscale forcing that is simulated by the numerical model, specifically the wave breaking and turbulence as well as the wave-induced critical level, which leads to severe downslope (Santa Ana) winds." (Huang et al 2009)
Oh. My. God.
Well.
So now I'm blogging. Because that is just a little too much for my brain right now. And none of the 16 other papers are any easier to read, so moving on to something else is not exactly an option. The only thing that might get me moving is that right now, the manager is running her leaf blower, which she will do for hours, and I really can't handle the noise. Although I could just completely close up my apartment and it would quiet it significantly. Hmm. I think I will do just that.
There. That's a little better. At some point I will probably shower or take a bath as I didn't have time to do that yesterday. Even after going to the gym. Because there was that extra "make-up" Remote Sensing class in there.
I almost feel bad because I was the one who suggested the meeting of the derivations club. I feel like if it weren't so incredibly important that we get those equations figured out, it might actually be sort of enjoyable to sit in front of a white board with 4 other graduate students and scribble out equations that are mostly in Greek and make odd connections between them. Sometimes I imagine myself as one of those crazy physicists or mathematicians as they're making great discoveries staring at huge boards covered in complicated equations.
But then again, I'm not making any discoveries and neither am I fully grasping the meaning behind the equations we're working through. This was one of those days:
It took 7 hours to derive that equation. Seven. For real. Without a break. One equation. Not only have I discovered that I can sit at a computer and stare at computer code for 8 hours at a time, I can also sit in front of a white board and derive wave equations for 7 hours at a time (as long as I have food).
It's a quarter past 10 am and I am still in my pajamas. I will eat something (I'm not sure what) and maybe (or maybe not) take a shower, and see where I get from there.
There is no "off". I don't know what that means. I don't know what happened between last night and this morning, but I think my body is trying to force me into an "off". I just need to figure out how to get hot dogs and mac & cheese delivered.
In my Advanced Atmospheric Dynamics class, we all joke about the many different ways we could plot our stress levels throughout the week. This last week, mine hit an all time high. I was severely anxious, agitated, tired, and just wrung out. Usually after making it through Tuesday night, there's a sense of relief. But this week I had a midterm in Unix/Linux, and a SuperQuiz in Dynamics, plus a paper presentation in Dynamics (and the homework I turned in was 15 pages long), a double up on Remote Sensing yesterday (because the instructor will be missing classes), and then came home to take my midterm, did the lab for Remote Sensing, and got halfway through a problem in Dynamics. By the time I went to bed, I felt an odd calming sensation. I would get up early in the morning, go for a run, and then meet some people from Dynamics at school to work on derivations of complicated wave equations.
I had a cup of coffee at 5:30 am. Jason texted me to say good morning at 6 am. Then I fell asleep. I woke up again at 7:45 am and had coffee number 2. I had a bowl of oatmeal. I thought about running. I had coffee number 3. I curled back in bed and closed my eyes. I thought about Dynamics. I thought about the 17 papers sitting on my thumb drive that I need to read. I thought about how one of those was one my advisor suggested I read 4 weeks ago, and another was one he suggested I read 2 weeks ago.
I played around on Pinterest, looking up funny memes on being a graduate student. I saw a picture of those little breakfast sausages wrapped in little crescent rolls ("pigs in a blanket") and thought how I should own some of those little sausages. But I would have to get out of my pj's and go to the store.
I thought maybe if I put my contacts in, I'd be inspired to accomplish something today (remember, there are no days off- although I did decide that running was not going to happen today, as I have no clean running shorts and it's too hot to run in yoga pants).
I put my contacts in and opened up my thumb drive. I decided to start with the paper my advisor assigned (when an advisor "suggests" something, it's actually a requirement). I started reading.
"This study has employed both observational data and numerical simulation results to diagnose the synoptic-scale and mesoscale environments conducive to forest fires during the October 2003 extreme fire event in southern California. A three-stage process is proposed to illustrate the coupling of the synoptic-scale
forcing that is evident from the observations, specifically the high pressure ridge and the upper-level jet streak, which leads to meso-a-scale subsidence in its exit region, and the mesoscale forcing that is simulated by the numerical model, specifically the wave breaking and turbulence as well as the wave-induced critical level, which leads to severe downslope (Santa Ana) winds." (Huang et al 2009)
Oh. My. God.
Well.
So now I'm blogging. Because that is just a little too much for my brain right now. And none of the 16 other papers are any easier to read, so moving on to something else is not exactly an option. The only thing that might get me moving is that right now, the manager is running her leaf blower, which she will do for hours, and I really can't handle the noise. Although I could just completely close up my apartment and it would quiet it significantly. Hmm. I think I will do just that.
There. That's a little better. At some point I will probably shower or take a bath as I didn't have time to do that yesterday. Even after going to the gym. Because there was that extra "make-up" Remote Sensing class in there.
I almost feel bad because I was the one who suggested the meeting of the derivations club. I feel like if it weren't so incredibly important that we get those equations figured out, it might actually be sort of enjoyable to sit in front of a white board with 4 other graduate students and scribble out equations that are mostly in Greek and make odd connections between them. Sometimes I imagine myself as one of those crazy physicists or mathematicians as they're making great discoveries staring at huge boards covered in complicated equations.
But then again, I'm not making any discoveries and neither am I fully grasping the meaning behind the equations we're working through. This was one of those days:
It's a quarter past 10 am and I am still in my pajamas. I will eat something (I'm not sure what) and maybe (or maybe not) take a shower, and see where I get from there.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
A qualitative study on the effects of yoga practice on entry level graduate student angst.
I sat cross legged on my mat (one eighth lotus because I apparently can't even manage a half lotus) with my eyes closed as per instructions. It was the first time I'd been back at yoga since school started up again. I have been so incredibly swamped this semester that I can hardly find the time or energy to wash my hair or shave my legs. Food is more from the frozen variety now.
My yoga instructor began to bring our awareness to our breathing and told us to leave whatever we carry with us throughout the day, outside. If only for an hour, we were to just let go of all those heavy things. And I was glad that our eyes were closed because the mere mentioning of letting go made me start to cry.
I don't get to let go these days. Not much anyway. Running helps me keep perspective, lifting weights keeps me aggressive, not much reminds me to let go. As a matter of fact, lately I feel like I have been just hanging on to save my life.
Yesterday a small group of us spent 7 hours in the forecasting lab on campus (yes, on a Saturday) trying to derive the equation for a sound wave from the governing equations for atmospheric motion. Yes, 7 hours without break. Occasionally one of us would sneak out for a bathroom break or to go to the vending machine, but the derivation continued on, ceaselessly.
When I got home I sat down for another two hours re-writing my mess of equations and trying to remember how on earth we had just done step 3. Nine hours. One derivation. If you've never been introduced to the wonderful world of derivations, let me describe it for you. You know how you've been told that people who are bad go to hell? Well that's where you do derivations for eternity.
You start with a set of equations (that you only vaguely understand) and you have to end with another set of equations that you've never seen before in your life (and 7/8 of it is in Greek). It's like a maze. You have a starting point, and somehow or another, an ending point. And somewhere along the way you have to combine equations for no obvious reason other than the book sort of mentions it, and then you do weird derivatives and then someone says "Hey, how many of you guys have taken Differential Equations?" And only one person raises their hand, so the guy sighs and says "Ok. This is going to get ugly" and you wonder how much uglier it can get than the last four hours.
And then you realize that is just one question out of the three that were assigned and it's due on Tuesday but your priority is actually the class that is teaching you how to write a thesis because there are 4 annotations due on Monday for research papers you haven't read yet, as well as 4 more annotations that you screwed up two weeks ago because you didn't know what the hell an annotation was.
Then you realize your Advanced Atmospheric Dynamics instructor has also posted another article to read before Tuesday and you have a feeling that on Monday night you will get a notification that you are required to be at a seminar Tuesday afternoon right before your Advanced Dynamics class which will alter your ability to read that damn research paper because in all honesty there are just not that many hours in the day.
And you can't sleep anyway because now you don't know how to synthesize across all your research paper annotations (that you did wrong anyway) and it's due tomorrow and the study group on Facebook has apparently shut down for the night.
So maybe you should read the chapter in the Unix/Linux book for this week, because, oh yeah, that needs to be done by Thursday.
But then you're laying on your mat, exhausted from an hour of yoga, and your instructor is playing guitar and singing in the most beautiful voice you have ever heard and you're trying not to cry because there's no crying in yoga, and eventually people are going to open their eyes and wonder what the hell is wrong with you.
Maybe it's like when people have been crushed and trapped under something heavy for so long that when they're pulled out by emergency workers, the sudden increase in circulation causes all the toxins that are building up in the body to be released into the bloodstream and it kills the person. Lifting off the heavy weight can literally kill someone. There's a thought.
One of these days, when I have the time, I will make a graph (by writing a computer program) of my stress cycle throughout the week and do a Fast Fourier Transform to see if it is indeed a weekly cycle, and I can post the Fast Fourier Transform as well. Then maybe I can do a 12 page derivation of how I got from the beginning of the semester to the end of the semester without gaining 30 lbs or turning into a hairy monster that never showers.
Suggestions for further research might include the effects of sleep deprivation on a 14 mile run, or perhaps the replacement of healthy food with only chocolate and cheese while keeping calorie counts constant. The author would like to acknowledge the efforts of the Meteorology Department for ensuring the continued crushing effects of thousands of pounds of steel and concrete without which the author would surely succumb to the inevitable release of toxins into the bloodstream.
My yoga instructor began to bring our awareness to our breathing and told us to leave whatever we carry with us throughout the day, outside. If only for an hour, we were to just let go of all those heavy things. And I was glad that our eyes were closed because the mere mentioning of letting go made me start to cry.
I don't get to let go these days. Not much anyway. Running helps me keep perspective, lifting weights keeps me aggressive, not much reminds me to let go. As a matter of fact, lately I feel like I have been just hanging on to save my life.
Yesterday a small group of us spent 7 hours in the forecasting lab on campus (yes, on a Saturday) trying to derive the equation for a sound wave from the governing equations for atmospheric motion. Yes, 7 hours without break. Occasionally one of us would sneak out for a bathroom break or to go to the vending machine, but the derivation continued on, ceaselessly.
When I got home I sat down for another two hours re-writing my mess of equations and trying to remember how on earth we had just done step 3. Nine hours. One derivation. If you've never been introduced to the wonderful world of derivations, let me describe it for you. You know how you've been told that people who are bad go to hell? Well that's where you do derivations for eternity.
You start with a set of equations (that you only vaguely understand) and you have to end with another set of equations that you've never seen before in your life (and 7/8 of it is in Greek). It's like a maze. You have a starting point, and somehow or another, an ending point. And somewhere along the way you have to combine equations for no obvious reason other than the book sort of mentions it, and then you do weird derivatives and then someone says "Hey, how many of you guys have taken Differential Equations?" And only one person raises their hand, so the guy sighs and says "Ok. This is going to get ugly" and you wonder how much uglier it can get than the last four hours.
And then you realize that is just one question out of the three that were assigned and it's due on Tuesday but your priority is actually the class that is teaching you how to write a thesis because there are 4 annotations due on Monday for research papers you haven't read yet, as well as 4 more annotations that you screwed up two weeks ago because you didn't know what the hell an annotation was.
Then you realize your Advanced Atmospheric Dynamics instructor has also posted another article to read before Tuesday and you have a feeling that on Monday night you will get a notification that you are required to be at a seminar Tuesday afternoon right before your Advanced Dynamics class which will alter your ability to read that damn research paper because in all honesty there are just not that many hours in the day.
And you can't sleep anyway because now you don't know how to synthesize across all your research paper annotations (that you did wrong anyway) and it's due tomorrow and the study group on Facebook has apparently shut down for the night.
So maybe you should read the chapter in the Unix/Linux book for this week, because, oh yeah, that needs to be done by Thursday.
But then you're laying on your mat, exhausted from an hour of yoga, and your instructor is playing guitar and singing in the most beautiful voice you have ever heard and you're trying not to cry because there's no crying in yoga, and eventually people are going to open their eyes and wonder what the hell is wrong with you.
Maybe it's like when people have been crushed and trapped under something heavy for so long that when they're pulled out by emergency workers, the sudden increase in circulation causes all the toxins that are building up in the body to be released into the bloodstream and it kills the person. Lifting off the heavy weight can literally kill someone. There's a thought.
One of these days, when I have the time, I will make a graph (by writing a computer program) of my stress cycle throughout the week and do a Fast Fourier Transform to see if it is indeed a weekly cycle, and I can post the Fast Fourier Transform as well. Then maybe I can do a 12 page derivation of how I got from the beginning of the semester to the end of the semester without gaining 30 lbs or turning into a hairy monster that never showers.
Suggestions for further research might include the effects of sleep deprivation on a 14 mile run, or perhaps the replacement of healthy food with only chocolate and cheese while keeping calorie counts constant. The author would like to acknowledge the efforts of the Meteorology Department for ensuring the continued crushing effects of thousands of pounds of steel and concrete without which the author would surely succumb to the inevitable release of toxins into the bloodstream.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Checking in....
You can probably guess why I'm checking in. Yes, it's because I have a ton of other things to do and can't really seem to get out of bed, so I can fool myself into thinking I'm being productive by posting a blog that is neither going to get my laundry done, get a workout in, or help me pass my classes.
I didn't sleep well last night and lay awake from about 1 am to 3 am for possibly no reason at all. Around 2 am I decided I would go to the 7:30 am yoga class but then woke up at 7:49 and that was that.
I've officially entered the grad program, having finally finished all my prerequisite physics and calculus classes- and hey, who cares about the prerequisite meteorology classes? We're just going to throw you into Advanced Meteorological Dynamics. Which is less about meteorology and more about differential equations. What? At least I have my computer programming skills going for me.
If nothing else, I have learned that grad school is no joke.
I also just want to eat Trader Joe's mini quiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Everyday.
Oh! I just got back from Chicago, but apparently I'm too lazy to post a good blog post about it. But it was awesome. If they didn't have January, February, and March, I could totally live there.
I have plantar fasciitis in my left foot that is sending me mixed signals about what I should do about it (half marathon in November and full marathon in December). And now, suddenly, after several weeks of having a strange pain in my thumb joint, I now have a strange pain in my big toe joint. No apparent cause for either of them. Which has me more worried than if there was a cause. Everything I've googled has informed me that I am at the correct age to develop lifelong, horrific arthritis problems. My current strategy for those two things is to just wait and see if they go away.
I was just browsing around on Facebook, and one of the hotels I stayed at in the Dominican Republic is celebrating its birthday today (I don't know?) and it made me stop for a second and think that maybe I should just go there. http://www.fiordilotohotels.com/
It's got an Indian flare as the owner grew up in India. But everyone speaks Spanish, so it's interesting. But it's very homey and familiar. The owner teaches yoga classes which you can attend while you're staying there. Sometimes they order food in and ask if you want anything. One of my favorite places I stayed there. I could really use that right now.
I didn't sleep well last night and lay awake from about 1 am to 3 am for possibly no reason at all. Around 2 am I decided I would go to the 7:30 am yoga class but then woke up at 7:49 and that was that.
I've officially entered the grad program, having finally finished all my prerequisite physics and calculus classes- and hey, who cares about the prerequisite meteorology classes? We're just going to throw you into Advanced Meteorological Dynamics. Which is less about meteorology and more about differential equations. What? At least I have my computer programming skills going for me.
If nothing else, I have learned that grad school is no joke.
I also just want to eat Trader Joe's mini quiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Everyday.
Oh! I just got back from Chicago, but apparently I'm too lazy to post a good blog post about it. But it was awesome. If they didn't have January, February, and March, I could totally live there.
I have plantar fasciitis in my left foot that is sending me mixed signals about what I should do about it (half marathon in November and full marathon in December). And now, suddenly, after several weeks of having a strange pain in my thumb joint, I now have a strange pain in my big toe joint. No apparent cause for either of them. Which has me more worried than if there was a cause. Everything I've googled has informed me that I am at the correct age to develop lifelong, horrific arthritis problems. My current strategy for those two things is to just wait and see if they go away.
I was just browsing around on Facebook, and one of the hotels I stayed at in the Dominican Republic is celebrating its birthday today (I don't know?) and it made me stop for a second and think that maybe I should just go there. http://www.fiordilotohotels.com/
It's got an Indian flare as the owner grew up in India. But everyone speaks Spanish, so it's interesting. But it's very homey and familiar. The owner teaches yoga classes which you can attend while you're staying there. Sometimes they order food in and ask if you want anything. One of my favorite places I stayed there. I could really use that right now.
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Fall
There's a chill in the morning air, even as the sun rises above the horizon
and traffic on the streets sounds different- like waves from the ocean.
I am flooded with emotions that defy any attempt at words
and the progression into fall reminds me
of the end of fire season,
reminds me
of losing my dad,
reminds me
of Christmas,
reminds me
of colder weather.
The cold edge of autumn tells me to hush, be still-
and I am subdued as memories are a kaleidoscope of colored glass
held up to the sun,
broken, disconnected, mirrored and rearranged
by the passage of time and the addition of new ones.
Leaves settled on the ground tell me
Breathe.
Hunker down.
Be silent.
My heart crouches in the shadows of memory
as I quiet my soul against the coming winter.
And I breathe.
Invariably
I breathe.
and traffic on the streets sounds different- like waves from the ocean.
I am flooded with emotions that defy any attempt at words
and the progression into fall reminds me
of the end of fire season,
reminds me
of losing my dad,
reminds me
of Christmas,
reminds me
of colder weather.
The cold edge of autumn tells me to hush, be still-
and I am subdued as memories are a kaleidoscope of colored glass
held up to the sun,
broken, disconnected, mirrored and rearranged
by the passage of time and the addition of new ones.
Leaves settled on the ground tell me
Breathe.
Hunker down.
Be silent.
My heart crouches in the shadows of memory
as I quiet my soul against the coming winter.
And I breathe.
Invariably
I breathe.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Dreams
I am fortunate to dream often and vividly, enough so that I sometimes confuse my dreams with reality. Some of my dreams have stuck with me for years, memories of things that never really happened, but my memories just the same.
Twice I have died in my dreams, so the myth that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life- is just that. A myth. I did not see the other end of death, just watched it come and that was it.
Last night I dreamed I was snorkeling with my dad in Mexico. We were trying to dive for enough clams to have for dinner. The beach was crowded and good sized clams had already been taken up by many other swimmers. Not far from the shore, the bottom dropped off like a shelf into fairly deep water. I pointed it out to my dad, as there were many more clams down there. He somehow asked about how we get down there since it was so deep. I decided to demonstrate that we could do it, so I dove all the way down and touched the bottom, then turned to return to the surface. I could see his silhouette against the sparkling blue. I was almost out of air, my lungs burned and ached. As I rose to the surface, he started down to give it a try. I was running out of air, my lungs were going to explode.
I woke up.
I've had so many of these dreams in the last ten years, and I am very grateful for them. They feel real, and not out of the ordinary at all. I wake up with a very vivid memory of how it feels to have him by my side, even if we aren't doing anything special. In the ten years since he's been gone, we've worked on my car together, gone fishing, snorkeling, or just hung out around the house. And it feels a little empty when I wake up, but the dream always feels so real that it might as well have been an actual memory. And I'm grateful for the peaceful feeling I get when he's near in my dream, like little respites in the painful reality of his absence.
In those few waking moments before I let reality come back to me, I let the feelings play a little longer. In my mind we snorkeled a little longer, and it was just so great, the way it always had been.
I have snorkeled with my dad in Mexico, when I was a child. He pointed out a huge grouper and it scared the crap out of me because I had never seen a fish so large in my entire life. It was probably about my size at the time. He pointed out a huge clam shell, then motioned for me to wait as he dove down to get it. For years he had it up on his shelf in his house. Each side of the shell was the size of my adult hand.
I have fished with my dad, I have worked on my car with my dad (always with "extra parts").
None of these dreams are so out there that they couldn't have, or never did happen. But they are different enough to be new, and always, I am my adult self in the dreams. They imprint new memories on me, and it feels kinda nice.
He is always the same age.
Twice I have died in my dreams, so the myth that if you die in your dreams, you die in real life- is just that. A myth. I did not see the other end of death, just watched it come and that was it.
Last night I dreamed I was snorkeling with my dad in Mexico. We were trying to dive for enough clams to have for dinner. The beach was crowded and good sized clams had already been taken up by many other swimmers. Not far from the shore, the bottom dropped off like a shelf into fairly deep water. I pointed it out to my dad, as there were many more clams down there. He somehow asked about how we get down there since it was so deep. I decided to demonstrate that we could do it, so I dove all the way down and touched the bottom, then turned to return to the surface. I could see his silhouette against the sparkling blue. I was almost out of air, my lungs burned and ached. As I rose to the surface, he started down to give it a try. I was running out of air, my lungs were going to explode.
I woke up.
I've had so many of these dreams in the last ten years, and I am very grateful for them. They feel real, and not out of the ordinary at all. I wake up with a very vivid memory of how it feels to have him by my side, even if we aren't doing anything special. In the ten years since he's been gone, we've worked on my car together, gone fishing, snorkeling, or just hung out around the house. And it feels a little empty when I wake up, but the dream always feels so real that it might as well have been an actual memory. And I'm grateful for the peaceful feeling I get when he's near in my dream, like little respites in the painful reality of his absence.
In those few waking moments before I let reality come back to me, I let the feelings play a little longer. In my mind we snorkeled a little longer, and it was just so great, the way it always had been.
I have snorkeled with my dad in Mexico, when I was a child. He pointed out a huge grouper and it scared the crap out of me because I had never seen a fish so large in my entire life. It was probably about my size at the time. He pointed out a huge clam shell, then motioned for me to wait as he dove down to get it. For years he had it up on his shelf in his house. Each side of the shell was the size of my adult hand.
I have fished with my dad, I have worked on my car with my dad (always with "extra parts").
None of these dreams are so out there that they couldn't have, or never did happen. But they are different enough to be new, and always, I am my adult self in the dreams. They imprint new memories on me, and it feels kinda nice.
He is always the same age.
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Firefighters and Loved Ones
I never intended to date a firefighter. It was my thinking that dating a firefighter, police officer, or soldier, greatly increased the chance of getting that phone call that your loved one was not coming home.
Having been a firefighter for 9 years, I had adjusted to being the one people worried about. It was rare times that I actually worried about myself. Being one of the crew EMT's, I mostly worried about my crew members. When I was experienced enough and qualified, I worried about the small squad of firefighters that I led. But I knew when we were all safe back in the buggy, playing cards or reading books. My family didn't.
Hearing about the many firefighter deaths and serious injuries we've had this year, I wait to hear if it's one of my friends. And I worry about Jason, but try not to. Because I've also been in his shoes and know it's so hard to ease your loved one's worries about you. It's an added stress he doesn't need.
During my second or third year in fire, I experienced my first real fear about my own life. For some reason we were down in a drainage with a lot of dead trees that kept coming down, trying to put out smoldering logs and trees. I didn't know enough to spot the ones most likely to come down. But left and right they came down, accompanied by shouts of warning by everyone near it. No, we shouldn't have been down there. I don't know why we didn't refuse the order. Several days in a row we had been pulled out of there because it was too dangerous, then put back in.
I remember hiking as fast as I could out of the drainage, and it seemed like trees were falling all around me. A more experienced crew member slowed to wait for me. He said to stay away from the trees that looked like they were going to come down. They all looked like they were going to come down.
But there we were, back in the drainage another day. Management wanted the smokes put out. Several of my crew members were above me going to get more hose. There was a loud rumble and crash. Shouts. A panicked voice said over the radio, "Hey that tree just fell on somebody!"
As one of the few EMT's out there, I knew it was my job to get up to help whoever it was. I thought it was one of my guys. They were up there. I felt so much panic that one of my guys had just been killed by a falling tree, I couldn't get up there fast enough. I have never felt so small.
When I got up there, my guys were helping the injured firefighter. It had been my crew member's panicked voice over the radio. A log had rolled loose on the hillside and rolled over the firefighter, causing a concussion and some broken ribs. But he would be fine.
One of the first-year guys on the crew looked over at me and said "This is one of those times you don't tell your family about, isn't it?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My first year, my very first off-forest assignment, was in the Mojave desert, just north of Idyllwild, one of my dad's favorite places. It was an exciting time for me. I had been driven up to meet with my engine crew that had left without me on my days off. I sat at camp waiting for them to return and watched the fire blow up around camp. I called my dad all excited and told him it was "rippin".
"What does that mean?" He asked.
"It's burning all over the place!"
I spent the day helping out in Plans and even got to do a recon helicopter flight over the fire to make a better map of the perimeter. My first helicopter ride!
That same season, we were back for another fire, this one coming out of Idyllwild. We parked our engines in the tram parking lot where I had been with my dad many times, and we waited and watched to be sure it didn't cross the lot and head off towards Palm Springs.
I called my dad to let him know where I was and told him we were keeping the fire from going in to Palm Springs. I thought he would be excited, because here I was in the tram parking lot, saving the area he loved so much. How cool was that?
A couple minutes after getting off the phone with him, my phone rang again. This time it was Christa.
"What did you say to your dad?"
"Why? What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well he's sitting here crying..."
I heard my dad in the background, "I am not!!"
Yes, there would be plenty of days I would not tell my family about.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I watched the interviews with the wives of Granite Mountain Hotshots, listening to their stories of tragic loss. I read the incident report, which included short autopsies of the men who died.
But I was on that end. I had been in practice shelters so many times, and real shelters for practice. We would do practice deployments on the hottest days, after running up our training hill. We'd pull our shelters out of our gear, toss our packs and run, shouting to each other to hurry, go faster, deploy there, get in a circle or a line. We'd shake out our shelters, get a foot in, pull it over our heads as we hit the ground, yelling at everyone to get in.
When we were all in, we'd suck in the hot, dry air, making sure there were no cracks in the seal we had with the ground, trying to get sips of water out of the canteen we brought in the shelter with us, trying to catch our breaths, as crew members shouted numbers, names, trying to get a head count and figure out where everyone was.
Sometimes we'd have to move like worms because the "fire" was now coming from the other direction, but you have to do it without letting your shelter lose contact with the ground. Supervisors would grab our shelters and give it a shake, making sure we had it tight to the ground.
Inevitably, it would get quiet. We all just wanted to breathe. It was so hot in those things. Maybe it was 90 degrees outside. Our supervisors would leave us in there for awhile, to give us an idea of the discomfort we would feel in a real fire...when it was at least several hundred degrees out. I felt bad for those who were claustrophobic. Me, I was just glad to not have to be running up that damn hill anymore. My lungs were burning.
Granite Mountain hit close to home for us. We had been on many "staff rides" for fatality fires. While reading Granite Mountain's incident report, Mitch said to me, "On all those staff rides, I always wondered if I would've been one of the ones that died. But on this one, I know I would've."
They all died. All but one, the lookout. Mitch was a very strong hiker, on the lead saw team. He could out-hike any of us. He would've survived most of the fatality fires we'd been to. He would not have survived this one. He was not experienced enough to have been made a lookout, and he was a strong sawyer, he was needed on the ground. I probably would not have survived. Though I had been a lookout on plenty of fires, when the fires were this bad, we generally put our squad leader as a lookout.
The report talked about how their packs melted, their helmets melted. It mentioned proof of certain temperatures around where they lay. "Human tenability." The phrase will stick with me forever. They could tell the temperatures the deployment site had reached by the condition of the men who lay there.
I watched the interviews with the wives and felt great sorrow. My perspective from under a practice fire shelter did not afford me shelter from the reality of what these families were facing. I felt I could not endure what they now had to endure. The moments of trying to find out if their loved ones were ok. The moment they found out they were not, and all the moments after.
I wondered if I would survive my last season on the crew.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There were times we did things that didn't make sense. There were times we did things just to ease the public's minds. There were times we did things out of convenience of not wanting to be there weeks later, fighting the same fire. There were times we did things because another hotshot crew was doing it, and we needed to be just as tough.
There were times I wondered, were we just lucky? I still wonder. I still don't have the answer, and maybe I never will.
But I don't have to worry about me now. I will never deploy a fire shelter on a real fire. I will never burn to death. I will never have to know how it all compares to being in a practice shelter.
Now I worry about Jason. I worry about the amazing friends I made during my time in fire. I wait to hear their names on the news. And I know there is nothing I can do about it.
But now the voices of those women who lost their husbands take a different tone in my mind. Recently the Wildland Firefighter Foundation posted a photo of Prescott Fire Department escorting one of Granite Mountain's sons to his first day of school. He looks happy and excited to be so honored. His mom's head is down and her face looks strained. The gesture is so touching, but the reason it is happening is too much for her to bear. But she's trying to be strong for her son.
Time does not heal all wounds.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Please consider donating to the Wildland Firefighter Foundation. They provide assistance to injured firefighters and their families, as well as to families of deceased firefighters. They pay for and organize travel to bring loved ones to their injured or killed firefighters, help with medical costs and provide ongoing support for those who have lost loved ones.
Having been a firefighter for 9 years, I had adjusted to being the one people worried about. It was rare times that I actually worried about myself. Being one of the crew EMT's, I mostly worried about my crew members. When I was experienced enough and qualified, I worried about the small squad of firefighters that I led. But I knew when we were all safe back in the buggy, playing cards or reading books. My family didn't.
Hearing about the many firefighter deaths and serious injuries we've had this year, I wait to hear if it's one of my friends. And I worry about Jason, but try not to. Because I've also been in his shoes and know it's so hard to ease your loved one's worries about you. It's an added stress he doesn't need.
During my second or third year in fire, I experienced my first real fear about my own life. For some reason we were down in a drainage with a lot of dead trees that kept coming down, trying to put out smoldering logs and trees. I didn't know enough to spot the ones most likely to come down. But left and right they came down, accompanied by shouts of warning by everyone near it. No, we shouldn't have been down there. I don't know why we didn't refuse the order. Several days in a row we had been pulled out of there because it was too dangerous, then put back in.
I remember hiking as fast as I could out of the drainage, and it seemed like trees were falling all around me. A more experienced crew member slowed to wait for me. He said to stay away from the trees that looked like they were going to come down. They all looked like they were going to come down.
But there we were, back in the drainage another day. Management wanted the smokes put out. Several of my crew members were above me going to get more hose. There was a loud rumble and crash. Shouts. A panicked voice said over the radio, "Hey that tree just fell on somebody!"
As one of the few EMT's out there, I knew it was my job to get up to help whoever it was. I thought it was one of my guys. They were up there. I felt so much panic that one of my guys had just been killed by a falling tree, I couldn't get up there fast enough. I have never felt so small.
When I got up there, my guys were helping the injured firefighter. It had been my crew member's panicked voice over the radio. A log had rolled loose on the hillside and rolled over the firefighter, causing a concussion and some broken ribs. But he would be fine.
One of the first-year guys on the crew looked over at me and said "This is one of those times you don't tell your family about, isn't it?"
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My first year, my very first off-forest assignment, was in the Mojave desert, just north of Idyllwild, one of my dad's favorite places. It was an exciting time for me. I had been driven up to meet with my engine crew that had left without me on my days off. I sat at camp waiting for them to return and watched the fire blow up around camp. I called my dad all excited and told him it was "rippin".
"What does that mean?" He asked.
"It's burning all over the place!"
I spent the day helping out in Plans and even got to do a recon helicopter flight over the fire to make a better map of the perimeter. My first helicopter ride!
That same season, we were back for another fire, this one coming out of Idyllwild. We parked our engines in the tram parking lot where I had been with my dad many times, and we waited and watched to be sure it didn't cross the lot and head off towards Palm Springs.
I called my dad to let him know where I was and told him we were keeping the fire from going in to Palm Springs. I thought he would be excited, because here I was in the tram parking lot, saving the area he loved so much. How cool was that?
A couple minutes after getting off the phone with him, my phone rang again. This time it was Christa.
"What did you say to your dad?"
"Why? What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well he's sitting here crying..."
I heard my dad in the background, "I am not!!"
Yes, there would be plenty of days I would not tell my family about.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I watched the interviews with the wives of Granite Mountain Hotshots, listening to their stories of tragic loss. I read the incident report, which included short autopsies of the men who died.
But I was on that end. I had been in practice shelters so many times, and real shelters for practice. We would do practice deployments on the hottest days, after running up our training hill. We'd pull our shelters out of our gear, toss our packs and run, shouting to each other to hurry, go faster, deploy there, get in a circle or a line. We'd shake out our shelters, get a foot in, pull it over our heads as we hit the ground, yelling at everyone to get in.
When we were all in, we'd suck in the hot, dry air, making sure there were no cracks in the seal we had with the ground, trying to get sips of water out of the canteen we brought in the shelter with us, trying to catch our breaths, as crew members shouted numbers, names, trying to get a head count and figure out where everyone was.
Sometimes we'd have to move like worms because the "fire" was now coming from the other direction, but you have to do it without letting your shelter lose contact with the ground. Supervisors would grab our shelters and give it a shake, making sure we had it tight to the ground.
Inevitably, it would get quiet. We all just wanted to breathe. It was so hot in those things. Maybe it was 90 degrees outside. Our supervisors would leave us in there for awhile, to give us an idea of the discomfort we would feel in a real fire...when it was at least several hundred degrees out. I felt bad for those who were claustrophobic. Me, I was just glad to not have to be running up that damn hill anymore. My lungs were burning.
Granite Mountain hit close to home for us. We had been on many "staff rides" for fatality fires. While reading Granite Mountain's incident report, Mitch said to me, "On all those staff rides, I always wondered if I would've been one of the ones that died. But on this one, I know I would've."
They all died. All but one, the lookout. Mitch was a very strong hiker, on the lead saw team. He could out-hike any of us. He would've survived most of the fatality fires we'd been to. He would not have survived this one. He was not experienced enough to have been made a lookout, and he was a strong sawyer, he was needed on the ground. I probably would not have survived. Though I had been a lookout on plenty of fires, when the fires were this bad, we generally put our squad leader as a lookout.
The report talked about how their packs melted, their helmets melted. It mentioned proof of certain temperatures around where they lay. "Human tenability." The phrase will stick with me forever. They could tell the temperatures the deployment site had reached by the condition of the men who lay there.
I watched the interviews with the wives and felt great sorrow. My perspective from under a practice fire shelter did not afford me shelter from the reality of what these families were facing. I felt I could not endure what they now had to endure. The moments of trying to find out if their loved ones were ok. The moment they found out they were not, and all the moments after.
I wondered if I would survive my last season on the crew.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
There were times we did things that didn't make sense. There were times we did things just to ease the public's minds. There were times we did things out of convenience of not wanting to be there weeks later, fighting the same fire. There were times we did things because another hotshot crew was doing it, and we needed to be just as tough.
There were times I wondered, were we just lucky? I still wonder. I still don't have the answer, and maybe I never will.
But I don't have to worry about me now. I will never deploy a fire shelter on a real fire. I will never burn to death. I will never have to know how it all compares to being in a practice shelter.
Now I worry about Jason. I worry about the amazing friends I made during my time in fire. I wait to hear their names on the news. And I know there is nothing I can do about it.
But now the voices of those women who lost their husbands take a different tone in my mind. Recently the Wildland Firefighter Foundation posted a photo of Prescott Fire Department escorting one of Granite Mountain's sons to his first day of school. He looks happy and excited to be so honored. His mom's head is down and her face looks strained. The gesture is so touching, but the reason it is happening is too much for her to bear. But she's trying to be strong for her son.
Time does not heal all wounds.
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Thursday, August 20, 2015
The trouble is...
The problem with afternoon workouts is this: it's 4 hours until bedtime and I'm torn between an hour of Hot Vinyasa or opening up a bottle of wine.
An hour ago, the Vinyasa was winning. I would feel amazing as I always do after yoga, and proud for having gone. Now that I would have to leave soon to get there on time, I realize that a glass of wine or two might be just as therapeutic. And in order for the wine not to sabotage my sleep, I have to drink it several hours before bedtime. Otherwise I will wake up just 2-3 hours after going to bed and not be able to get back to sleep.
I did work out today. I did leg weights and then 18 minutes on the treadmill in my barefoot shoes. You can't just go out and run in those things. You have to train your feet to handle the lack of support.
It's day I-don't-know-what of having absolutely no schedule or routine and it's pretty rough. Christmas Abbott inspired me to get out of bed this morning and go to the gym. Here she is:
I mean really, if that doesn't inspire you to work out, I don't know what will.
Ugh, I should do yoga.
Nonononono.
I do yoga because it makes me feel good, and increases my flexibility. I've got terrible flexibility. Especially in my hips and calves.
Maybe I'll start my routine when my class schedule starts up next week.
I just texted Shelly and asked if having a couple glasses of wine was the same as doing yoga. She said it is. I think I'm in the clear.
Wine it is!
An hour ago, the Vinyasa was winning. I would feel amazing as I always do after yoga, and proud for having gone. Now that I would have to leave soon to get there on time, I realize that a glass of wine or two might be just as therapeutic. And in order for the wine not to sabotage my sleep, I have to drink it several hours before bedtime. Otherwise I will wake up just 2-3 hours after going to bed and not be able to get back to sleep.
I did work out today. I did leg weights and then 18 minutes on the treadmill in my barefoot shoes. You can't just go out and run in those things. You have to train your feet to handle the lack of support.
It's day I-don't-know-what of having absolutely no schedule or routine and it's pretty rough. Christmas Abbott inspired me to get out of bed this morning and go to the gym. Here she is:
I mean really, if that doesn't inspire you to work out, I don't know what will.
Ugh, I should do yoga.
Nonononono.
I do yoga because it makes me feel good, and increases my flexibility. I've got terrible flexibility. Especially in my hips and calves.
Maybe I'll start my routine when my class schedule starts up next week.
I just texted Shelly and asked if having a couple glasses of wine was the same as doing yoga. She said it is. I think I'm in the clear.
Wine it is!
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Commitment-phobe
My name is Carrie and I am a commitment-phobe. After having been hurt and let down so many times, how could I expect myself to fall in love and commit myself so easily ever again?
It's probably not what you think. I'm talking about running shoes. If you are an avid runner who goes through more than one pair per year, you know what I'm talking about.
Running shoe manufacturers update their shoes so often, I can't figure out if I even like a shoe before they've discontinued it and "upgraded" to the newest version. So the best plan of attack is to quickly figure out if you like the shoe or not, and if so, buy ten pairs.
I went in to Road Runner Sports today to return a pair of shoes that was not even close to being "the one". It didn't make it past a 5 minute trial in my living room. The last time I went in, I was torn between two pairs. I must have run several miles in each on their treadmill to compare the two. The sales lady suggested I get them both. After all, if you buy two, you get ten dollars off the second pair. I wasn't going to fall for that.
I really like (maybe love?) my current pair of shoes, but I'm feeling an inkling of plantar fasciitis, which was creeping up in my left foot long before these shoes, and now is hinting at maybe showing up in my right foot. I've put a little over 100 miles on these shoes so far. I have the option of adding the stupidly expensive insoles that Road Runner also sold me last time (I could've bought that second pair of shoes) to try that out. My feet do not like orthotics. But somewhere there must be a compromise.
Anyway, I went back today to see about exchanging the reject shoes for that second pair I liked last time. Well....they've already phased out, but I can still buy them online.
We sat and discussed the ridiculous situation that is the running shoe industry. She said a couple just came in a few days ago and each bought (each!!!) ten pairs of the Saucony Kinvara's because they knew an "upgrade" was coming and they like the current pair. That adds up to a couple thousand dollars folks. Although if they do a lot of mileage, ten pairs might last them two years. That's not that long.
Fortunately I am not a high mileage runner, so my shoes last a little longer if we're talking about calendar year. But the bad thing about that is that when I decide I love a shoe, it's already gone. And when I say they "upgrade" a shoe, I mean they drastically change something that didn't need to be changed. Just once I would like a shoe company to continue selling the same version for years on end. Why do they have to keep messing with things?
My dilemma is this (and it is ALWAYS this): do I love my current shoe enough to buy several pair? That is committing my feet to hundreds of miles in the same structure of shoe. What if they are actually contributing to my mild plantar fasciitis? What if they are keeping it at bay? (I mean, it was there before and it hasn't really gotten any worse...it just hasn't gone away either.) What if they are perfect for me and I'm squeamish about committing and then they are gone and it's too late?
If you're not a runner, you might wonder how important all of this really is. Well, I will tell you. The wrong shoes can completely sideline you or take you out of running forever. Granted, I am definitely not going down that road right now or I would've known it long before I reached 100 miles on these shoes (I think?). The wrong shoes can steal your dreams of qualifying for the New York Marathon. They can leave you irritable and angry as you desperately try to come up with some sort of swimming exercise that will take away your daily angst like running does. They will make you gain weight as you attempt to eat your way through your injured athlete syndrome with cupcakes and mochi ice cream.
I've been all these places. I know.
Long story short, the wrong running shoes can do catastrophic damage to a runner. Yes, this is serious. And Google had nothing to say on the matter. I am a ship lost at sea.
So I just dropped $175 (after $20 off) on buying both a second pair of my current shoes and a pair of the shoes I tried on last time that I was so torn between.
Sigh. We shall see.
It's probably not what you think. I'm talking about running shoes. If you are an avid runner who goes through more than one pair per year, you know what I'm talking about.
Running shoe manufacturers update their shoes so often, I can't figure out if I even like a shoe before they've discontinued it and "upgraded" to the newest version. So the best plan of attack is to quickly figure out if you like the shoe or not, and if so, buy ten pairs.
I went in to Road Runner Sports today to return a pair of shoes that was not even close to being "the one". It didn't make it past a 5 minute trial in my living room. The last time I went in, I was torn between two pairs. I must have run several miles in each on their treadmill to compare the two. The sales lady suggested I get them both. After all, if you buy two, you get ten dollars off the second pair. I wasn't going to fall for that.
I really like (maybe love?) my current pair of shoes, but I'm feeling an inkling of plantar fasciitis, which was creeping up in my left foot long before these shoes, and now is hinting at maybe showing up in my right foot. I've put a little over 100 miles on these shoes so far. I have the option of adding the stupidly expensive insoles that Road Runner also sold me last time (I could've bought that second pair of shoes) to try that out. My feet do not like orthotics. But somewhere there must be a compromise.
Anyway, I went back today to see about exchanging the reject shoes for that second pair I liked last time. Well....they've already phased out, but I can still buy them online.
We sat and discussed the ridiculous situation that is the running shoe industry. She said a couple just came in a few days ago and each bought (each!!!) ten pairs of the Saucony Kinvara's because they knew an "upgrade" was coming and they like the current pair. That adds up to a couple thousand dollars folks. Although if they do a lot of mileage, ten pairs might last them two years. That's not that long.
Fortunately I am not a high mileage runner, so my shoes last a little longer if we're talking about calendar year. But the bad thing about that is that when I decide I love a shoe, it's already gone. And when I say they "upgrade" a shoe, I mean they drastically change something that didn't need to be changed. Just once I would like a shoe company to continue selling the same version for years on end. Why do they have to keep messing with things?
My dilemma is this (and it is ALWAYS this): do I love my current shoe enough to buy several pair? That is committing my feet to hundreds of miles in the same structure of shoe. What if they are actually contributing to my mild plantar fasciitis? What if they are keeping it at bay? (I mean, it was there before and it hasn't really gotten any worse...it just hasn't gone away either.) What if they are perfect for me and I'm squeamish about committing and then they are gone and it's too late?
If you're not a runner, you might wonder how important all of this really is. Well, I will tell you. The wrong shoes can completely sideline you or take you out of running forever. Granted, I am definitely not going down that road right now or I would've known it long before I reached 100 miles on these shoes (I think?). The wrong shoes can steal your dreams of qualifying for the New York Marathon. They can leave you irritable and angry as you desperately try to come up with some sort of swimming exercise that will take away your daily angst like running does. They will make you gain weight as you attempt to eat your way through your injured athlete syndrome with cupcakes and mochi ice cream.
I've been all these places. I know.
Long story short, the wrong running shoes can do catastrophic damage to a runner. Yes, this is serious. And Google had nothing to say on the matter. I am a ship lost at sea.
So I just dropped $175 (after $20 off) on buying both a second pair of my current shoes and a pair of the shoes I tried on last time that I was so torn between.
Sigh. We shall see.
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