I've been on the verge of throwing up a white flag since my alarm went off this morning. I contemplated going back to sleep, but instead got up and poured coffee for Mike and I. I placed his on his bedside table, and took mine back to bed as well, and sipped it in the dark. I watched red numbers change on the alarm clock on the dresser.
I made it to the gym, but since I'm tapering for my marathon this Sunday, I just did an easy half hour of weights. It rained on my way home and while I showered. I had no desire to go teach my class. Early in the semester I have high hopes for my class, thinking if I just do something differently, they will care. They will come to class (on time), listen to my lecture, do their homework, and study for quizzes and exams. I realize you can't control other people's actions, but I also realize you can inspire them to take action.
I don't know what it takes to inspire an 18 year old to be responsible. I don't know how responsible I was as an 18 year old. I have a hint though... I recently read one of my diary entries from around that time, where I complained that my dad was being unreasonable for getting angry at me that he had been telling me for a week to do the dishes. A week. We rotated through chores at my house, and one week my chore was the dishes. Apparently that week, the dishes just continued piling up until my dad finally did them and left me a detailed bill. How unfair! He didn't realize how busy and stressed I was. How dare he!
Today is not only Monday, but it's also the first day back to the real world since Thanksgiving break. And I gave my class a quiz. I know, I'm a jerk. But they had fair warning, they knew it was coming. As we all stood out in the hallway waiting for the previous class to exit, I spotted a student that doesn't normally come to class. I figured he was there because we had a quiz. That's when most students decide to show up. When I was handing back homework, I noticed he wasn't there. That was odd. With the way our nation is going, I figure a university is a prime location for an active shooter. Last semester I would habitually bring up the contact info for the University Police, have it set so that all I had to do was open the phone and push a button, and set it on my table in front of me. Should something happen, I had the number ready. I haven't done that in awhile as I've been fairly comfortable with my students this semester. When that student showed up in the hallway, but never entered the classroom, I set up my phone again- ready to dial University Police in a second. While the students were taking their quiz, I searched through the homework they all turned in for his name, and found it. That explained it. He had dropped off his homework, didn't know there was a quiz because he rarely comes to class, and went home.
With two minutes left of the quiz, another student walked in. I handed him his quiz and told him he had two minutes. Three minutes later, I told everyone to hand their quizzes up. While students passed their quizzes to the front of the class, the late student came up to me with his quiz and tried to explain why he was late and why I should let him do the quiz after class. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other students watching the exchange. He said he just got back (from being on vacation). I told him there were a few other students who were traveling back today and I told them they'd be unable to make up the quiz- it wouldn't be fair to allow him to. He said "Well yesterday I just had a bunch of things to do...and if I had known there was going to be a quiz, I probably could've made it on time."
It's amazing the miracles that could've happened if you had just known.
I told him there was no reason to be late to my class, and that the other students had known about the quiz, so why didn't he? Had he not been to the last several classes? He thought for a moment, then said he had been there (I doubt it).
"But this is a lot of points..." he argued.
"It is a lot of points. But I can't let you make it up and not let the other students make it up."
He tried a few more times while the rest of the class watched. Then he handed me his quiz, with one answer scribbled in, and sat down. I started to pull up the power point lecture, and he grabbed his stuff and walked out. I continued with what I was saying for a second, and then stopped. The class had watched the entire exchange. The student had been there all of five minutes. Two of them he had spent arguing with me. Sometimes I think it's more appropriate to pretend nothing happened. This wasn't one of those times. Maybe it was. Maybe I was just tired. I didn't want to be there either, but there I was.
I faced the class. Wide eyes looking back at me told me they all wondered how I was going to handle this. It wasn't that big of a deal as I get that sort of thing often, just usually after class or in an email. But it was Monday for all these students, the Monday after vacation.
"I know it's Monday. What's worse is that we're all coming back from being on vacation. And some students were not able to make it back in time for the quiz. I know you guys don't want to be here right now, and I know you didn't want to take a quiz this morning. But you guys made it here, and it's a good thing that you did. Because sometimes in life we have to do things we don't want to do. I'm sorry it's Monday, and I'm sorry you had a quiz. But you did it. And you all know you can't make up a quiz without a doctor's note, and I need to keep it fair for everyone."
There were some nods in the group. I moved on to our projected schedule for the remaining couple of weeks of class. We went over the Finals schedule and I made sure everyone (who was there) understood that the Finals schedule is made by the university and not me.... and therefore cannot be changed by me.
As I went into the lecture, the student who had been late and argued with me, came back into class, stuffing things into his backpack. He seems like a nice enough student and didn't seem threatening at all to me, even as he argued. He was not tense or angry, just embarrassed and desperate. I went on with the lecture and the remainder of the class period went peacefully.
When I got home, I ate lunch and sat down to grade the quizzes. Three quizzes in, I just couldn't keep going. I'm all out of drive. I want to curl under the blankets in the darkness of my room, and shut the world out.
But I want time to stop too, so that I don't fall (further) behind. I'm supposed to be writing a paper... but not until I figure out what to do with my new data. I'm supposed to be grading quizzes and homework, but it's zapping my will to go on.
I've decided to take a different approach to my class next semester... as I always do. New Year's resolutions of a sort. New Semester's resolutions. They are definitely getting quizzed on the syllabus. They will also get a more in depth introduction of myself. I usually don't give them very much background, but I think most of them believe I'm only a couple years older than them and don't really have any life experiences. Maybe I can be a little more inspirational next semester. It's too late for this class.... there is no hope.
Monday, November 27, 2017
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Midterm
Today my bones hurt.
I stand in front of my class watching them take a midterm exam. I
handed out crisp, clean, white exams. One by one, they drop them off
at my desk in the front of the room, covered in ink (the brave) or
pencil scratch, stacked on top of their cheat sheets. One girl turns
in more than one cheat sheet, and now I’m faced with an issue I
didn’t anticipate. Do I subtract points from her exam? My ankle
bone hurts. Which is interesting because to my knowledge, I have
never injured the bone in my ankle. Maybe it’s the cyst that’s
apparently growing out of my joint.
I sip cold coffee as
the room slowly empties. Three students remain. The construction
outside provides a constant loud hum that I’ve managed to tune out.
The stack of exams on my desk grows larger and I wonder who does more
work for these things- myself or my students?
Sunday, October 15, 2017
Rubble
After returning home from the Northern California wildfires, I dropped all my gear on the floor, ate a sandwich from the sack lunch provided by the fire, and peeled off my clothes. My feet had been in my old fire boots for 26 hours. I crawled in to bed to tack on a third hour to the two broken hours of sleep I had gotten out on the fire the night before. When I woke up, I was cranky and felt helpless. I took a hot bath. Mike texted and asked what I needed. "Dinner" I replied. I managed to put all my gear away before he made it over.
After eating, I crawled into the soft down comforter of my own bed. As I closed my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the rubble and char of Fountain Grove, the leveled community I had spent the night in, conducting LiDAR scans from our mobile research truck. I let the images play in my head. Dispatch informed Night Ops of another fire, and that the caller had said "People are running". Night Ops responded with an order to get on RedCom and order up anyone and everyone who might have resources available. They were going to lose another town.
I sank into a deep sleep.
This morning, as my mind raced with all my uncompleted tasks, the horrors of the last 24 hours, and my own insignificance, Mike tells me to save all those thoughts for my run. I wondered how far I'd have to run to escape the images of all the wreckage, and evacuees holding hands, comforting each other. I wonder how long I will need to press my feet to the pavement to out run the thought of an ocean of fire rolling over people as they desperately tried to escape. And people wonder why so many are still missing. But people, like animals, look exactly like everything else when all that's left is char.
I told Mike I felt worthless. I wasn't out saving people, or saving their homes. I had stood and stared at the rubble, over coffee heated in a JetBoil on the bed of the pickup truck, hoping that morning was not the day they'd let survivors back in to see if their homes still stood. When I was fighting fires in San Diego, we had driven past homes completely destroyed. Families sifted through the burned remains, looking for any token of their lives before the fire. Those days, fighting fire wasn't fun. Fighting fire was fun when it didn't kill anyone or destroy anyone's home. It hurts to watch others come to realize their grief. I've inherited my father's empathy.
"You paid your dues" Mike responded. I don't know. When is it really enough? Some people spend their whole lives fighting fire. Me, just a small fraction. But you can't keep pushing yourself to do something you no longer love. It takes the life out of it.
I put on my shoes and went out into the brisk morning. I started to jog and the impact jostled my bones. I was exhausted. I thought about the neighborhood we were advised not to go in, because they were still searching. For people. Or what was left of them. I had a 16 mile run scheduled for yesterday and made a plan to make that up on this run. 16 miles should make all this go away.
I needed to write the midterm for my class, analyze the computer simulation of the winds driving the fires, go shopping. My breath started to even out and my legs strode forward on their own. I'm not sure what it is about cars that melts into a bright silver liquid when they burn. Maybe the rims? It looks like mercury, shining in the sun. Complete ruins, surrounding an untouched playground. Buildings crumbled to the ground next to a broken pot for a plant. Two cars parked, presumably, in what used to be the garage, next to what looks like was once a lawn mower.
I ran down onto the entrance to the paved creek trail and turned left under the bridge. I came upon a homeless man sitting on a bench, going through his backpack. I wondered "What's the difference?" Thousands of people are now homeless, but this man has probably been homeless for a good portion of his life. My GPS beeped. 1 mile. 7 more to go before I turn around and head home.
I stopped at the park to pee, then continued on. My stomach hurt. I wondered if it was smart to push so hard after having so little sleep in the past couple of days. I just wanted to do whatever it took to make myself feel better. Another beep. 2 miles. I wasn't helping anyone. I wasn't doing anything to make the world a better place, or to save people. I gave up responding to other people's emergencies and embraced the peaceful life, where choices aren't a matter of life and death.
I choked up and held back tears, tried to even my breath again. 16 miles were not going to make this feel better. And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not supposed to feel ok. Maybe I'm just supposed to feel. I stopped running. I walked for a few more minutes before turning off my GPS.
Buddha taught that we suffer because of our expectations, our view that the world should be a certain way. We fail to see that things just are. People die, houses burn, we're all just ants building our own troubles. I made myself keep walking, trying to look at the fall leaves around me. I crossed over the bridge and looked at the ducks standing on the ledge before the waterfall. I took a few deep breaths and decided to just enjoy the day.
I pushed aside my thoughts about not being ready for the December marathon, not being where I should with my thesis, not saving the world, not being enough. "Be here now". I decided to find a turtle. I walked closer to the creek, glancing around as I did. I smiled and said good morning to others out on the trail. An old couple sat together on a bench. I found my turtle. He sat on a log, still as a statue. His neck stretched toward the sky, soaking up the sun. I stared for a couple minutes and he still didn't move. I walked home.
I had a snack and took a nap. When I awoke, I made the mistake of Googling the "Diablo Winds". My thesis. I wanted to see if my advisor had given me credit for the statistics on the winds that he had desperately asked for, as he was preparing for a radio interview. Because of the wildfires going on just north of here, the most catastrophic in California's history, the entire world was talking about Diablo winds, what they are and the science behind them. There goes my thesis. There goes any self worth I had mustered during my walk home.
Getting back up was tough. I suppose it always is. Hundreds of papers exist on Santa Ana winds, so my one among a few on the Diablos will be fine. I don't know where I read it, but it stuck with me: "You're always okay until you're not". With the memories and emotions of the last couple days draped over my shoulder, I went out to get groceries, grabbing a couple chocolate bars just in case.
After eating, I crawled into the soft down comforter of my own bed. As I closed my eyes, I found myself surrounded by the rubble and char of Fountain Grove, the leveled community I had spent the night in, conducting LiDAR scans from our mobile research truck. I let the images play in my head. Dispatch informed Night Ops of another fire, and that the caller had said "People are running". Night Ops responded with an order to get on RedCom and order up anyone and everyone who might have resources available. They were going to lose another town.
I sank into a deep sleep.
This morning, as my mind raced with all my uncompleted tasks, the horrors of the last 24 hours, and my own insignificance, Mike tells me to save all those thoughts for my run. I wondered how far I'd have to run to escape the images of all the wreckage, and evacuees holding hands, comforting each other. I wonder how long I will need to press my feet to the pavement to out run the thought of an ocean of fire rolling over people as they desperately tried to escape. And people wonder why so many are still missing. But people, like animals, look exactly like everything else when all that's left is char.
I told Mike I felt worthless. I wasn't out saving people, or saving their homes. I had stood and stared at the rubble, over coffee heated in a JetBoil on the bed of the pickup truck, hoping that morning was not the day they'd let survivors back in to see if their homes still stood. When I was fighting fires in San Diego, we had driven past homes completely destroyed. Families sifted through the burned remains, looking for any token of their lives before the fire. Those days, fighting fire wasn't fun. Fighting fire was fun when it didn't kill anyone or destroy anyone's home. It hurts to watch others come to realize their grief. I've inherited my father's empathy.
"You paid your dues" Mike responded. I don't know. When is it really enough? Some people spend their whole lives fighting fire. Me, just a small fraction. But you can't keep pushing yourself to do something you no longer love. It takes the life out of it.
I put on my shoes and went out into the brisk morning. I started to jog and the impact jostled my bones. I was exhausted. I thought about the neighborhood we were advised not to go in, because they were still searching. For people. Or what was left of them. I had a 16 mile run scheduled for yesterday and made a plan to make that up on this run. 16 miles should make all this go away.
I needed to write the midterm for my class, analyze the computer simulation of the winds driving the fires, go shopping. My breath started to even out and my legs strode forward on their own. I'm not sure what it is about cars that melts into a bright silver liquid when they burn. Maybe the rims? It looks like mercury, shining in the sun. Complete ruins, surrounding an untouched playground. Buildings crumbled to the ground next to a broken pot for a plant. Two cars parked, presumably, in what used to be the garage, next to what looks like was once a lawn mower.
I ran down onto the entrance to the paved creek trail and turned left under the bridge. I came upon a homeless man sitting on a bench, going through his backpack. I wondered "What's the difference?" Thousands of people are now homeless, but this man has probably been homeless for a good portion of his life. My GPS beeped. 1 mile. 7 more to go before I turn around and head home.
I stopped at the park to pee, then continued on. My stomach hurt. I wondered if it was smart to push so hard after having so little sleep in the past couple of days. I just wanted to do whatever it took to make myself feel better. Another beep. 2 miles. I wasn't helping anyone. I wasn't doing anything to make the world a better place, or to save people. I gave up responding to other people's emergencies and embraced the peaceful life, where choices aren't a matter of life and death.
I choked up and held back tears, tried to even my breath again. 16 miles were not going to make this feel better. And maybe that's the point. Maybe it's not supposed to feel ok. Maybe I'm just supposed to feel. I stopped running. I walked for a few more minutes before turning off my GPS.
Buddha taught that we suffer because of our expectations, our view that the world should be a certain way. We fail to see that things just are. People die, houses burn, we're all just ants building our own troubles. I made myself keep walking, trying to look at the fall leaves around me. I crossed over the bridge and looked at the ducks standing on the ledge before the waterfall. I took a few deep breaths and decided to just enjoy the day.
I pushed aside my thoughts about not being ready for the December marathon, not being where I should with my thesis, not saving the world, not being enough. "Be here now". I decided to find a turtle. I walked closer to the creek, glancing around as I did. I smiled and said good morning to others out on the trail. An old couple sat together on a bench. I found my turtle. He sat on a log, still as a statue. His neck stretched toward the sky, soaking up the sun. I stared for a couple minutes and he still didn't move. I walked home.
I had a snack and took a nap. When I awoke, I made the mistake of Googling the "Diablo Winds". My thesis. I wanted to see if my advisor had given me credit for the statistics on the winds that he had desperately asked for, as he was preparing for a radio interview. Because of the wildfires going on just north of here, the most catastrophic in California's history, the entire world was talking about Diablo winds, what they are and the science behind them. There goes my thesis. There goes any self worth I had mustered during my walk home.
Getting back up was tough. I suppose it always is. Hundreds of papers exist on Santa Ana winds, so my one among a few on the Diablos will be fine. I don't know where I read it, but it stuck with me: "You're always okay until you're not". With the memories and emotions of the last couple days draped over my shoulder, I went out to get groceries, grabbing a couple chocolate bars just in case.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Creature Week
The other day as I drove to the gym in the darkness, I started thinking about a weekend swim in the cove. I haven't done an ocean swim since September, so my mental comfort level has dropped a bit. As I walked into the women's locker room, a local news station was playing silently on one of the televisions. The headline along the bottom read "Up next: shark advisory". It went to a commercial.
I locked my things in a locker and tried to locate a tv with that station on as I prepared to warm up on the stationary bike. I saw the story pop up, but it was too far away to see the closed captioning. I had to wait until I got to work to look it up.
Sure enough, the shark advisory was for San Diego. A juvenile great white shark, about 8 feet long, was spotted by a couple of surfers.... last seen headed north. The advisory doesn't affect the cove, which is further north than the shark sighting, but I decided to cancel my open water swim anyway.
It's been Creature Week on The Weather Channel that plays on one of the many tv's in our meteorology office at work. We've been watching sharks, spiders, and snakes.
San Diego has also been having a bee issue lately, with traveling swarms (apparently not Africanized). My roommate told me about a swarm that came around before I got here and she nearly smacked into it. It reminded me to locate my epi-pen and be sure I always know where it is.
So last night, spurred on by all the creature talk of the week, and my upcoming triathlon (in the harbor), I had the craziest dream. I was doing a triathlon, but in a weird order. I ran first, then biked, and then had to attend to someone with an injury. About a half hour or so later, I was done and considered finishing the race. But I was worried because of my ankle injury that I've been rehabbing and wasn't sure I should even do the run. Then I realized I had already made it through the run just fine and only had the swim left. I decided to do it. My transition time would be horrible (like a half hour), but my swim split could still be good.
I quickly pulled on my wetsuit, tearing the ankle cuff in the process. I entered the water near the officials who directed me into a shallow, rocky area. I carefully waded through the rocks. As I came upon larger rocks that forced me to rise up out of the water, I was swarmed by bees. I crawled over the rocks and in front of me lay a deep, dry canyon. On the other side of the canyon, rocks piled up in the form of a wave. As I looked on, a huge wave crashed over the lip of the rocks and flooded the canyon. I was terrified. That kind of power was more than I was trained for. The wave subsided. As waited for the next one, a giant killer whale flung itself over the rock wall and landed in the canyon in front of me, awaiting the next wave. I would have to swim through the powerful wave.... with a killer whale.
I woke up.
I have a feeling I'm going to have to get my nerves in check before the triathlon. Even in the harbor, I'm going to worry about the creatures of the deep. But being in the water with a hundred other people at least statistically decreases my chance of getting eaten.
I locked my things in a locker and tried to locate a tv with that station on as I prepared to warm up on the stationary bike. I saw the story pop up, but it was too far away to see the closed captioning. I had to wait until I got to work to look it up.
Sure enough, the shark advisory was for San Diego. A juvenile great white shark, about 8 feet long, was spotted by a couple of surfers.... last seen headed north. The advisory doesn't affect the cove, which is further north than the shark sighting, but I decided to cancel my open water swim anyway.
It's been Creature Week on The Weather Channel that plays on one of the many tv's in our meteorology office at work. We've been watching sharks, spiders, and snakes.
San Diego has also been having a bee issue lately, with traveling swarms (apparently not Africanized). My roommate told me about a swarm that came around before I got here and she nearly smacked into it. It reminded me to locate my epi-pen and be sure I always know where it is.
So last night, spurred on by all the creature talk of the week, and my upcoming triathlon (in the harbor), I had the craziest dream. I was doing a triathlon, but in a weird order. I ran first, then biked, and then had to attend to someone with an injury. About a half hour or so later, I was done and considered finishing the race. But I was worried because of my ankle injury that I've been rehabbing and wasn't sure I should even do the run. Then I realized I had already made it through the run just fine and only had the swim left. I decided to do it. My transition time would be horrible (like a half hour), but my swim split could still be good.
I quickly pulled on my wetsuit, tearing the ankle cuff in the process. I entered the water near the officials who directed me into a shallow, rocky area. I carefully waded through the rocks. As I came upon larger rocks that forced me to rise up out of the water, I was swarmed by bees. I crawled over the rocks and in front of me lay a deep, dry canyon. On the other side of the canyon, rocks piled up in the form of a wave. As I looked on, a huge wave crashed over the lip of the rocks and flooded the canyon. I was terrified. That kind of power was more than I was trained for. The wave subsided. As waited for the next one, a giant killer whale flung itself over the rock wall and landed in the canyon in front of me, awaiting the next wave. I would have to swim through the powerful wave.... with a killer whale.
I woke up.
I have a feeling I'm going to have to get my nerves in check before the triathlon. Even in the harbor, I'm going to worry about the creatures of the deep. But being in the water with a hundred other people at least statistically decreases my chance of getting eaten.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Homo sapiens
We are anxious creatures.
Full of expectations of ourselves
and of others.
No one tells you
that for every day you weave flowers into your hair
there will be one you draw the bath
extra hot
to scorch the day from your skin.
The knots in your stomach
and in your shoulders
will compete for dominance
even as your feet glide freely over cool morning concrete
and your lungs expand into the sacred space
of your chest.
Your courageous wings will flap angrily against the weight
of your own insecurities
and you will be stretched thin
between the earth
and the sky.
And you will breathe.
And you will crumble.
And you will breathe.
And you will rise.
No one tells you
the most heinous battles are not fought between countries
or religions,
but rather inside of yourself.
Every part of you will be a rogue soldier
fighting for his own cause
and you will burn down whole villages
built from your bones.
And your skin
will cover it all.
You will carry that skin
with every ounce of bravery you can muster
and for every day that it is a crushing stone,
there will be one in which it is a cape
with super powers.
And you will breathe.
No one tells you
that breathing is enough.
Full of expectations of ourselves
and of others.
No one tells you
that for every day you weave flowers into your hair
there will be one you draw the bath
extra hot
to scorch the day from your skin.
The knots in your stomach
and in your shoulders
will compete for dominance
even as your feet glide freely over cool morning concrete
and your lungs expand into the sacred space
of your chest.
Your courageous wings will flap angrily against the weight
of your own insecurities
and you will be stretched thin
between the earth
and the sky.
And you will breathe.
And you will crumble.
And you will breathe.
And you will rise.
No one tells you
the most heinous battles are not fought between countries
or religions,
but rather inside of yourself.
Every part of you will be a rogue soldier
fighting for his own cause
and you will burn down whole villages
built from your bones.
And your skin
will cover it all.
You will carry that skin
with every ounce of bravery you can muster
and for every day that it is a crushing stone,
there will be one in which it is a cape
with super powers.
And you will breathe.
No one tells you
that breathing is enough.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
Floor
I knew today was a floor day shortly after 6 am. That early notice was made possible by a 4:30 am wake-up.
I put my foot in a hole while running in December. It seemed ok, nothing seemed injured. I kept running. I had been running since then, with intermittent swelling and pain that I attributed to achilles tendinitis. After a hilly half marathon in March, my ankle swelled substantially. The swelling was all in the front, the pain was all in the back. I made a doctor's appointment. Several appointments, an x-ray, an MRI, two doctors, and one physical therapist later, I have posterior ankle impingement due to os trigonum syndrome, and capsulitis thanks to the hole in the snow. I am in the middle of ten weeks of physical therapy, making a shoe switch, having orthotics modified by a sports medicine podiatrist, and following a "return to run" program. I am trying my best to stay positive. In my opinion, an athlete's strength can be measured by his or her ability to endure in the face of adversity. All athletes get injured.
I can cycle, as long as I don't stand on the pedals much. I can swim, as long as I don't kick. I can do weight training as long as it doesn't bother my ankle. I can now run 30 minutes at time, at a moderate pace, on flat ground. All doctor-approved.
Last week my physical therapist scolded me for wearing flip flops (it was 91 degrees outside) because it encourages my big toe to curl, and she's trying to get it to go in the opposite direction. I talked about going barefoot, but then I'd burn my feet, and then what?
"Well then you'd be forced to take a break!" she exclaimed.
I kept quiet and focused on my exercises. But it made me wonder if she didn't approve of the return to run program that my podiatrist had outlined for me. I didn't ask. Later that day she told me how impressed she was with my foot strength. "Good job!" Ok, I guess I'm doing alright.
Sometimes kicking happens while swimming. Actually, my podiatrist said not to kick, my therapist said to try to start kicking so that we can improve my functional range of motion. I'm trying to pick a happy medium. I try to do a little light kicking. After my swim, I run. I'm always stiff and heavy after swimming, as if my body has forgotten what to do with gravity. After my post-swim runs, my ankle is generally a little sore. I don't remember if I'm allowed soreness. When I run on Saturdays, there is no soreness, and I decide I must be doing ok. I am constantly in doubt of my progression.
Last week's meeting with the podiatrist, she told me I was coming along real well. I guess so.
Tuesday's post-swim run left me stiff and sore. And I wonder again, if I'm doing too much. Add onto that my sore wrist from helping Mike move and I can't help but be frustrated with my body as a whole. My wrist hurts more than my ankle, which is either a good sign for my ankle or a bad sign for my wrist. I can't tell.
At the gym this morning, a friend asked about my running. I gave him the spiel.
"Why don't you just take 6 months off?"
"I'm doing what my doctor has cleared me to do."
"Yeah, but are you listening to your body?"
In all honesty, my body told me I wasn't injured after putting my foot in a hole, so I trust an MRI and a couple of doctors more than I trust what my body is telling me. If my body tells me something hurts and my doctor says that's normal, then why would I stop doing what I love? Should I just sit on the couch for a few months and see how that goes?
I told the podiatrist that the back of my ankle hurts sometimes when I kick.
"That may take awhile to go away" she said. Alright, then this is ok.
I stood on the table while my therapist manipulated my ankle bone to sit further back. The pain was horrific.
"What hurts?" she asked, in an impatient tone.
"My ankle bone! Where your thumb is."
"Oh, that's okay then." she said and continued pushing.
Later, she assessed her tape job's ability to hold my ankle bone back and commented on my "drama" I unleashed while she was messing with it.
"Well you were dislodging my bone!" I argued.
"I was mobilizing your joint." She corrected me.
"A joint is made up of bones" I said as I looked at her in the mirror while balancing on my left foot.
She was quiet.
"Alright, I'll give you that."
My therapist is brutal, but she got me healed for Boston. So I take her abuse.
I digress. The point is, some pain is normal. I just don't always know what is. My friend put even more doubt in my head, and a whole lot of anger. I'm tired of people telling me to stop. Three doctors later, not one has suggested I stop running (ok, I didn't run for an entire month during the time they were trying to figure out what was wrong). I have good doctors.
I left the gym in a foul mood and thought about riding up Hick's Road. I have come to the conclusion that Hick's Road is not my demon, but I certainly meet all of them on the way up. I mulled it over in my head. There would definitely be standing on the pedals, Hick's is too steep not to. I knew my anger would be replaced by fear the closer I got to the base of the mountain.
I ate a banana and a piece of bread with peanut butter, adjusted my rear brakes, and headed out the door. Even on flat ground I was running out of gears. Is my tire flat? What's happening?
Maybe you should just go home and lay on the floor.
I thought about the last time Mike found me on the floor.
"Uh oh" I heard him say as he entered the room. He knows what it means if I'm laying on the floor. The floor is the last resort. The floor is where I go when I have exhausted all of my coping mechanisms. I lay on the floor where there is no further down to go, and I take a break. I let tears run down my cheeks. I let the anger and the frustrations and the fears come and go in my mind. I am not allowed to get up until my time down there is up. I usually give myself a time limit. "Time out" if you will.
I pushed away on my pedals and fought back tears. I would lose myself in the breeze and the ride, then my mind would come back to everything that was bothering me and I'd get all upset again. You're going to stay out here until you change your attitude. I dropped my head. Hick's Road it is.
I came up on a 12 year old riding a fixed gear on his way to school. The light turned green. He took off with apparent ease, even with his backpack on. You're getting your ass kicked by a 12 year old on a fixie. I caught him though...and passed him.
8 miles later, I turned right on Hick's Road. Trees on either side of the narrow two lane road covered the path with shade. A small incline to get up and over a bridge nearly bowled me over. Pull over, you're not ready for this. Maybe your tire is flat.
I pulled onto a side road and pushed down on the saddle. The back tire gave a little. I wasn't sure. I looked at my Garmin. 8.60 miles. Just go home, you're not up for this today. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yes, my legs were tired from the gym, but I had squatted more today than I have in months. My legs are strong. I pedaled home.
As I pulled into the driveway, I tested the back tire again. It's not soft, your legs are.
That's probably true, I thought as I hoisted the bike up onto my shoulder and climbed the stairs. I set it down on the floor inside and leaned it against the wall. I took off my gear and glanced over my bike. Hmmm.
I inspected the back brake pads. They were sitting snug against the rim.
Well that is not helpful. I rode 16 miles with my rear brakes applied. I sighed and started in on all of my other responsibilities. I took a hot bath and ate a hamburger. I called the insurance company and had a 30 minute discussion on why one bill wasn't paid, one was, and are orthotics covered? Meanwhile, Shelly texted me: Read your email. I got dressed while the insurance lady went on about coverage. I got off the phone with her, jumped in the car and drove to school. I parked and checked my email. Admin stuff for the fire lab.
There's an oral quiz on Friday in Japanese. I still haven't written tomorrow's lecture. Can I get all this paperwork done in time for the lab members to get fireline qualified? I'll talk to the physical therapist on Friday to get her take on any soreness I have in my ankle. What is she going to say? Next week is finals week. I need to pay bills. I need to get work done for my other job. There's another email from a student. Forget my thesis. What am I making for dinner tonight? Hold your shit together!
Floor. Floor later, I thought as I made my way to class.
You aren't even going to make it to the floor.
I texted my advisor while walking. I texted Shelly. Class started. Class ended. Texted my advisor back, texted Shelly back, drove home and sent out a couple emails.
Floor. 20 minutes of staring at the ceiling. The floor is for when breathing is not enough. I picture the conversation with my therapist and I cry. I will probably cry when I talk to her. I picture Mike's kind reaction when I tell him it was another floor day, and I cry again. I imagine swimming in the ocean, during a triathlon. Salt and sun, and a little adrenaline. I wonder about the half Ironman in September. I think about the marathon I missed last weekend, that I had a chance of placing in the top three. I think about tomorrow's lecture, how I can't wait for this semester to be over. I glance up at the door where my motivational collage is taped. I made it when I tore my hamstring 2 months before the Boston Marathon. "You are a force to be reckoned with." I put my head back down and stared at the ceiling again. I should make one of those for my upcoming triathlon.
Before or after you write your lecture?
Yeesh.
I put my foot in a hole while running in December. It seemed ok, nothing seemed injured. I kept running. I had been running since then, with intermittent swelling and pain that I attributed to achilles tendinitis. After a hilly half marathon in March, my ankle swelled substantially. The swelling was all in the front, the pain was all in the back. I made a doctor's appointment. Several appointments, an x-ray, an MRI, two doctors, and one physical therapist later, I have posterior ankle impingement due to os trigonum syndrome, and capsulitis thanks to the hole in the snow. I am in the middle of ten weeks of physical therapy, making a shoe switch, having orthotics modified by a sports medicine podiatrist, and following a "return to run" program. I am trying my best to stay positive. In my opinion, an athlete's strength can be measured by his or her ability to endure in the face of adversity. All athletes get injured.
I can cycle, as long as I don't stand on the pedals much. I can swim, as long as I don't kick. I can do weight training as long as it doesn't bother my ankle. I can now run 30 minutes at time, at a moderate pace, on flat ground. All doctor-approved.
Last week my physical therapist scolded me for wearing flip flops (it was 91 degrees outside) because it encourages my big toe to curl, and she's trying to get it to go in the opposite direction. I talked about going barefoot, but then I'd burn my feet, and then what?
"Well then you'd be forced to take a break!" she exclaimed.
I kept quiet and focused on my exercises. But it made me wonder if she didn't approve of the return to run program that my podiatrist had outlined for me. I didn't ask. Later that day she told me how impressed she was with my foot strength. "Good job!" Ok, I guess I'm doing alright.
Sometimes kicking happens while swimming. Actually, my podiatrist said not to kick, my therapist said to try to start kicking so that we can improve my functional range of motion. I'm trying to pick a happy medium. I try to do a little light kicking. After my swim, I run. I'm always stiff and heavy after swimming, as if my body has forgotten what to do with gravity. After my post-swim runs, my ankle is generally a little sore. I don't remember if I'm allowed soreness. When I run on Saturdays, there is no soreness, and I decide I must be doing ok. I am constantly in doubt of my progression.
Last week's meeting with the podiatrist, she told me I was coming along real well. I guess so.
Tuesday's post-swim run left me stiff and sore. And I wonder again, if I'm doing too much. Add onto that my sore wrist from helping Mike move and I can't help but be frustrated with my body as a whole. My wrist hurts more than my ankle, which is either a good sign for my ankle or a bad sign for my wrist. I can't tell.
At the gym this morning, a friend asked about my running. I gave him the spiel.
"Why don't you just take 6 months off?"
"I'm doing what my doctor has cleared me to do."
"Yeah, but are you listening to your body?"
In all honesty, my body told me I wasn't injured after putting my foot in a hole, so I trust an MRI and a couple of doctors more than I trust what my body is telling me. If my body tells me something hurts and my doctor says that's normal, then why would I stop doing what I love? Should I just sit on the couch for a few months and see how that goes?
I told the podiatrist that the back of my ankle hurts sometimes when I kick.
"That may take awhile to go away" she said. Alright, then this is ok.
I stood on the table while my therapist manipulated my ankle bone to sit further back. The pain was horrific.
"What hurts?" she asked, in an impatient tone.
"My ankle bone! Where your thumb is."
"Oh, that's okay then." she said and continued pushing.
Later, she assessed her tape job's ability to hold my ankle bone back and commented on my "drama" I unleashed while she was messing with it.
"Well you were dislodging my bone!" I argued.
"I was mobilizing your joint." She corrected me.
"A joint is made up of bones" I said as I looked at her in the mirror while balancing on my left foot.
She was quiet.
"Alright, I'll give you that."
My therapist is brutal, but she got me healed for Boston. So I take her abuse.
I digress. The point is, some pain is normal. I just don't always know what is. My friend put even more doubt in my head, and a whole lot of anger. I'm tired of people telling me to stop. Three doctors later, not one has suggested I stop running (ok, I didn't run for an entire month during the time they were trying to figure out what was wrong). I have good doctors.
I left the gym in a foul mood and thought about riding up Hick's Road. I have come to the conclusion that Hick's Road is not my demon, but I certainly meet all of them on the way up. I mulled it over in my head. There would definitely be standing on the pedals, Hick's is too steep not to. I knew my anger would be replaced by fear the closer I got to the base of the mountain.
I ate a banana and a piece of bread with peanut butter, adjusted my rear brakes, and headed out the door. Even on flat ground I was running out of gears. Is my tire flat? What's happening?
Maybe you should just go home and lay on the floor.
I thought about the last time Mike found me on the floor.
"Uh oh" I heard him say as he entered the room. He knows what it means if I'm laying on the floor. The floor is the last resort. The floor is where I go when I have exhausted all of my coping mechanisms. I lay on the floor where there is no further down to go, and I take a break. I let tears run down my cheeks. I let the anger and the frustrations and the fears come and go in my mind. I am not allowed to get up until my time down there is up. I usually give myself a time limit. "Time out" if you will.
I pushed away on my pedals and fought back tears. I would lose myself in the breeze and the ride, then my mind would come back to everything that was bothering me and I'd get all upset again. You're going to stay out here until you change your attitude. I dropped my head. Hick's Road it is.
I came up on a 12 year old riding a fixed gear on his way to school. The light turned green. He took off with apparent ease, even with his backpack on. You're getting your ass kicked by a 12 year old on a fixie. I caught him though...and passed him.
8 miles later, I turned right on Hick's Road. Trees on either side of the narrow two lane road covered the path with shade. A small incline to get up and over a bridge nearly bowled me over. Pull over, you're not ready for this. Maybe your tire is flat.
I pulled onto a side road and pushed down on the saddle. The back tire gave a little. I wasn't sure. I looked at my Garmin. 8.60 miles. Just go home, you're not up for this today. I couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yes, my legs were tired from the gym, but I had squatted more today than I have in months. My legs are strong. I pedaled home.
As I pulled into the driveway, I tested the back tire again. It's not soft, your legs are.
That's probably true, I thought as I hoisted the bike up onto my shoulder and climbed the stairs. I set it down on the floor inside and leaned it against the wall. I took off my gear and glanced over my bike. Hmmm.
I inspected the back brake pads. They were sitting snug against the rim.
Well that is not helpful. I rode 16 miles with my rear brakes applied. I sighed and started in on all of my other responsibilities. I took a hot bath and ate a hamburger. I called the insurance company and had a 30 minute discussion on why one bill wasn't paid, one was, and are orthotics covered? Meanwhile, Shelly texted me: Read your email. I got dressed while the insurance lady went on about coverage. I got off the phone with her, jumped in the car and drove to school. I parked and checked my email. Admin stuff for the fire lab.
There's an oral quiz on Friday in Japanese. I still haven't written tomorrow's lecture. Can I get all this paperwork done in time for the lab members to get fireline qualified? I'll talk to the physical therapist on Friday to get her take on any soreness I have in my ankle. What is she going to say? Next week is finals week. I need to pay bills. I need to get work done for my other job. There's another email from a student. Forget my thesis. What am I making for dinner tonight? Hold your shit together!
Floor. Floor later, I thought as I made my way to class.
You aren't even going to make it to the floor.
I texted my advisor while walking. I texted Shelly. Class started. Class ended. Texted my advisor back, texted Shelly back, drove home and sent out a couple emails.
Floor. 20 minutes of staring at the ceiling. The floor is for when breathing is not enough. I picture the conversation with my therapist and I cry. I will probably cry when I talk to her. I picture Mike's kind reaction when I tell him it was another floor day, and I cry again. I imagine swimming in the ocean, during a triathlon. Salt and sun, and a little adrenaline. I wonder about the half Ironman in September. I think about the marathon I missed last weekend, that I had a chance of placing in the top three. I think about tomorrow's lecture, how I can't wait for this semester to be over. I glance up at the door where my motivational collage is taped. I made it when I tore my hamstring 2 months before the Boston Marathon. "You are a force to be reckoned with." I put my head back down and stared at the ceiling again. I should make one of those for my upcoming triathlon.
Before or after you write your lecture?
Yeesh.
Tuesday, May 9, 2017
Non-professional athletes
I've put on 6 pounds since March. I've been putting in extra time in the gym doing strength training since I've been sidelined by an ankle injury (since March) and have been attributing a lot of that gain to muscle mass. I haven't been fooling myself that much though. Having an "apple" shaped body or metabolism, or whatever you'd call it, most of my fat gain shows up around my waist. I know what my waist looks and feels like when I'm in shape. This isn't it. This morning I finally pulled out the measuring tape. I've put two inches on my waist since March.... which I do not attribute to muscle mass gain.
"Can you think of anything that changed right around that time???" Jen texted, followed by an emoji that was laughing whilst tears were streaming from his eyes.
"What are you referring to? I stopped running due to an injury. I started dating. I went on a three week sugar binge...."
Yesterday I did a Google search on weight gain in injured athletes. A couple of interesting things popped up. The first was by a coach, nutritionist, and triathlete herself. I've heard it before, how what we consume while exercising (as long as you stay within your 200-300 calories per hour of exercise) doesn't really contribute to any weight gain. Well her take on that is if you're craving sweets or salty foods, basically your "bad foods" (because who craves carrots...besides my boyfriend), you can eat them during your ride (or run if you so wish) as long as you return to saintly eating off the bike. The article is called "Be a saint on the couch and a sinner on the bike". My only question is: how do you keep a chocolate bar from melting on a bike ride? Research for another day.
Elite runner Laura Fleshman gained 15 pounds during one of her injury breaks. Well geez. If an elite athlete gains 15 pounds from an injury and I only gain 6 (so far), then that's pretty good.
It doesn't help that I've been entirely overwhelmed by the rest of life that demands I not be an athlete. You know, the whole part about being a grad student and producing a thesis. The part about teaching a bunch of new college freshman about weather and climate.... and how to be responsible adults, which I didn't realize was what I signed up for. The part about working another part time job. The part about taking a Japanese language class. And yes, the part about fostering a new relationship.
Cooking is harder when both people have different tastes and nutritional needs. There has been quite a bit more eating out lately than what my metabolism is used to. And who is going to order two eggs and a couple slices of toast for breakfast when confronted with 6 different choices for eggs benedict and crepe specials?
Last Saturday I helped Mike move into his new apartment. The two of us did it in less than a day. The next morning I sat on the couch while he unpacked things in the kitchen. My back to him, I was recovering from a large plate of eggs benedict (California style), hashbrowns, and about 12 cups of coffee.
"Are you going to the gym tomorrow?" I heard him ask.
"I guess...." I replied.
"What do you mean you guess?"
"Well I'd kinda like a day off..." My voice trailed off near the end of that sentence.
Silence. I didn't even have to turn around to know he had stopped unpacking and was standing there staring at me. What did you do today, Carrie? What is today if not a day off?
"Yessss, I'm going to the gym tomorrow." I groaned. I like that he doesn't take my shit.
I don't take his either. Last night he poked at the new item on his plate. "What is this?"
"You're new favorite vegetable. Eat it."
"But what is it?"
"Jicama."
"What does it look like?"
I laughed. "What do you mean what does it look like? You're looking right at it!"
"Yeah but what does it look like when it's on the tree or whatever.... it doesn't grow like this." He looked around for a whole vegetable. During dinner I saw him try to hide the three small sticks of jicama behind the salt and pepper shakers on the table.
"Hey! No no no!" I admonished him while putting them back on his plate. I watched him stick the first piece in his mouth. No reaction. In went the second piece.
"Well?"
"It doesn't have much taste."
"That's because you didn't put salt and lime on it." Later he had seconds of all his vegetables, including the jicama.
My sports medicine podiatrist has cleared me to run for a half hour at a time, three times a week. I can increase each run by ten minutes each week if my ankle does ok. She's confident I can compete in the San Diego International Triathlon in June. In my mind it's in the bag... I start eyeballing the Santa Cruz Half Ironman in September. I do some rough calculations in my head. A half marathon seems doable by that point. I push the reality of the 1.2 mile swim and 56 mile bike that precedes the 13.1 mile run, out of my mind. Not the important part. Can I cover the run by then? Yes.... I think I can....
"Can you think of anything that changed right around that time???" Jen texted, followed by an emoji that was laughing whilst tears were streaming from his eyes.
"What are you referring to? I stopped running due to an injury. I started dating. I went on a three week sugar binge...."
Yesterday I did a Google search on weight gain in injured athletes. A couple of interesting things popped up. The first was by a coach, nutritionist, and triathlete herself. I've heard it before, how what we consume while exercising (as long as you stay within your 200-300 calories per hour of exercise) doesn't really contribute to any weight gain. Well her take on that is if you're craving sweets or salty foods, basically your "bad foods" (because who craves carrots...besides my boyfriend), you can eat them during your ride (or run if you so wish) as long as you return to saintly eating off the bike. The article is called "Be a saint on the couch and a sinner on the bike". My only question is: how do you keep a chocolate bar from melting on a bike ride? Research for another day.
Elite runner Laura Fleshman gained 15 pounds during one of her injury breaks. Well geez. If an elite athlete gains 15 pounds from an injury and I only gain 6 (so far), then that's pretty good.
It doesn't help that I've been entirely overwhelmed by the rest of life that demands I not be an athlete. You know, the whole part about being a grad student and producing a thesis. The part about teaching a bunch of new college freshman about weather and climate.... and how to be responsible adults, which I didn't realize was what I signed up for. The part about working another part time job. The part about taking a Japanese language class. And yes, the part about fostering a new relationship.
Cooking is harder when both people have different tastes and nutritional needs. There has been quite a bit more eating out lately than what my metabolism is used to. And who is going to order two eggs and a couple slices of toast for breakfast when confronted with 6 different choices for eggs benedict and crepe specials?
Last Saturday I helped Mike move into his new apartment. The two of us did it in less than a day. The next morning I sat on the couch while he unpacked things in the kitchen. My back to him, I was recovering from a large plate of eggs benedict (California style), hashbrowns, and about 12 cups of coffee.
"Are you going to the gym tomorrow?" I heard him ask.
"I guess...." I replied.
"What do you mean you guess?"
"Well I'd kinda like a day off..." My voice trailed off near the end of that sentence.
Silence. I didn't even have to turn around to know he had stopped unpacking and was standing there staring at me. What did you do today, Carrie? What is today if not a day off?
"Yessss, I'm going to the gym tomorrow." I groaned. I like that he doesn't take my shit.
I don't take his either. Last night he poked at the new item on his plate. "What is this?"
"You're new favorite vegetable. Eat it."
"But what is it?"
"Jicama."
"What does it look like?"
I laughed. "What do you mean what does it look like? You're looking right at it!"
"Yeah but what does it look like when it's on the tree or whatever.... it doesn't grow like this." He looked around for a whole vegetable. During dinner I saw him try to hide the three small sticks of jicama behind the salt and pepper shakers on the table.
"Hey! No no no!" I admonished him while putting them back on his plate. I watched him stick the first piece in his mouth. No reaction. In went the second piece.
"Well?"
"It doesn't have much taste."
"That's because you didn't put salt and lime on it." Later he had seconds of all his vegetables, including the jicama.
My sports medicine podiatrist has cleared me to run for a half hour at a time, three times a week. I can increase each run by ten minutes each week if my ankle does ok. She's confident I can compete in the San Diego International Triathlon in June. In my mind it's in the bag... I start eyeballing the Santa Cruz Half Ironman in September. I do some rough calculations in my head. A half marathon seems doable by that point. I push the reality of the 1.2 mile swim and 56 mile bike that precedes the 13.1 mile run, out of my mind. Not the important part. Can I cover the run by then? Yes.... I think I can....
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
Dejection
Thesaurus.com says the synonyms for discouragement are as follows: hopelessness, pessimism, dejection, depression, despair, disappointment, discomfiture (huh?), dismay, downheartedness, melancholy, sadness, and a few more that were less closely matching apparently. Yes, dejected. That fits here.
I sit in the 8th floor lab with my feet up on my desk, staring at my old physics, meteorology, computer programming, and GIS books. Sharky McSharkface shakes his hula skirt with a wide grin on his face, reminding me of happier times. Times when I wasn't choking down a sad salad wishing it was Phish Food ice cream.
I should've known by my uterine cramps at 5 am that today would be rough.
I teach a class of 55 students. Three of them have been MIA since week two, so they no longer count. Two more of them come and go randomly. So 50 something is what I'm left with. They all show up when there's a quiz scheduled.... and then 25 of them get up and leave after the quiz. Twenty five students can't just sneak out. It's like a mass exodus. I watch the remaining students watch the others file out and try to pretend I don't see them. I start my lecture.... and watch the eyelids start to droop.
It is days like this that I have no idea why I do this, other than to get my tuition paid, and a fraction of my rent paid for.
Ok, it's a noon class. Everyone is either starving or just ate a burrito from La Vic's. We're also in our first heat wave of the year... this is what a fellow meteorology grad student says to me.
Yeah, maybe.
Hawaii is stamped on McSharkface's solar powered podium. His torso shimmies opposite of his hula skirt clad hips (well... what would be shark hips anyway). He wears a pink lei and blue sunglasses. He seems so happy. I blink away tears while another grad student types away at his thesis programming code.
Even my salad is sad. I added dill and everything to make it interesting. It's not.
I have never had an affogato.
My Japanese homework goes untouched.... although it would probably take my mind off my apparently lame teaching methods.
The head of the department says not to take it personally. That was easy to do in a class of 25 students when only three got up and left. When 25 get up and leave.... well that does something to a person. I'm pretty sure even Buddha would feel a little tug in his chest at that one.
My fellow grad student says to me "You're doing it for the 25 that stay".
I'm sure they don't want to be there either, they just aren't assholes like the rest of them. I down a chocolate peanut butter smoothie to ease the pain and open up my Japanese book.
I sit in the 8th floor lab with my feet up on my desk, staring at my old physics, meteorology, computer programming, and GIS books. Sharky McSharkface shakes his hula skirt with a wide grin on his face, reminding me of happier times. Times when I wasn't choking down a sad salad wishing it was Phish Food ice cream.
I should've known by my uterine cramps at 5 am that today would be rough.
I teach a class of 55 students. Three of them have been MIA since week two, so they no longer count. Two more of them come and go randomly. So 50 something is what I'm left with. They all show up when there's a quiz scheduled.... and then 25 of them get up and leave after the quiz. Twenty five students can't just sneak out. It's like a mass exodus. I watch the remaining students watch the others file out and try to pretend I don't see them. I start my lecture.... and watch the eyelids start to droop.
It is days like this that I have no idea why I do this, other than to get my tuition paid, and a fraction of my rent paid for.
Ok, it's a noon class. Everyone is either starving or just ate a burrito from La Vic's. We're also in our first heat wave of the year... this is what a fellow meteorology grad student says to me.
Yeah, maybe.
Hawaii is stamped on McSharkface's solar powered podium. His torso shimmies opposite of his hula skirt clad hips (well... what would be shark hips anyway). He wears a pink lei and blue sunglasses. He seems so happy. I blink away tears while another grad student types away at his thesis programming code.
Even my salad is sad. I added dill and everything to make it interesting. It's not.
I have never had an affogato.
My Japanese homework goes untouched.... although it would probably take my mind off my apparently lame teaching methods.
The head of the department says not to take it personally. That was easy to do in a class of 25 students when only three got up and left. When 25 get up and leave.... well that does something to a person. I'm pretty sure even Buddha would feel a little tug in his chest at that one.
My fellow grad student says to me "You're doing it for the 25 that stay".
I'm sure they don't want to be there either, they just aren't assholes like the rest of them. I down a chocolate peanut butter smoothie to ease the pain and open up my Japanese book.
Saturday, April 29, 2017
Wanderlust
Lately I've had a yearning for Africa. Do we all yearn for Africa?
I stare at the map on my wall, on which there are no red dots stuck to the African continent. Truth be told, there's a few continents without red dots. There used to be green, blue, and yellow dots on the map as well, but everyone always asked what the different colors represent, so I wanted to stick with red. My dot stickers are old now and don't stick very well. I just superglued red dots on top of all the yellows, greens, and blues. My fingers are covered in superglue. Boston? How did I miss Boston? Boston got its red dot- I ran the Boston marathon in 2014.
Staring at Africa, my eyes graze over the different colored countries. Where could I go in Africa? Morocco? Yes, maybe some day. But that's not what I'm yearning for. Egypt. Yes. That's what my heart wants right now.
"Right now?" Mike asks when I tell him.
"Well no. Right now I'm going to go for a run. Then eat breakfast." I wonder about the current state of Egypt and decide that at least for the next few months, I don't have time for Africa. I'll spend a week in Hawaii a month from now, I'm spending another summer in San Diego, one more trip with Emily before school is back in session. Then I've got to work on graduating.
Last night I dreamed I was in India, making curried lentils.
Thursday, April 27, 2017
City Life
Jen made a comment a couple months ago that I'm living a glamorous life. I think spending most of your life in a small town can skew your image of city life. I think it was the mention of taking the train to the airport. Trains seem adventurous... although I may have been talking about the light rail, which is a bit less adventurous.
I know what she's saying though, and it's probably why I like living in a city more than in the country (and I've done both). I teach today, so I'm sitting in my 8th floor office (with 8th floor roof access) downtown, dressed up in a teal blouse, open front black sweater, and black slacks. Slip on black shoes. Dangly earrings. Beside my laptop sits my cell phone and coffee.
I did not take the light rail here today. The light rail takes 2-3 times longer than just driving, so I'm contributing to city's air pollution.
My sinuses are so inflamed that my teeth hurt. My doctor just upped my dosage of Nasacort to twice daily (it's a 24 hour dosage), and order that I get back on Zyrtec. I was going to drive to the pharmacy to drop off my prescription for a steroid inhaler, but I would lose my fantastic parking space. I have to pee and I'm two floors up from the restroom... with no elevator.
I'm wedged tightly between glamour and misery.
I know what she's saying though, and it's probably why I like living in a city more than in the country (and I've done both). I teach today, so I'm sitting in my 8th floor office (with 8th floor roof access) downtown, dressed up in a teal blouse, open front black sweater, and black slacks. Slip on black shoes. Dangly earrings. Beside my laptop sits my cell phone and coffee.
I did not take the light rail here today. The light rail takes 2-3 times longer than just driving, so I'm contributing to city's air pollution.
My sinuses are so inflamed that my teeth hurt. My doctor just upped my dosage of Nasacort to twice daily (it's a 24 hour dosage), and order that I get back on Zyrtec. I was going to drive to the pharmacy to drop off my prescription for a steroid inhaler, but I would lose my fantastic parking space. I have to pee and I'm two floors up from the restroom... with no elevator.
I'm wedged tightly between glamour and misery.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Wish You Were Here
Why is it that "absence makes the heart grow fonder"? Is it the lack of our partner's snoring or the way he leaves the sponge full of water in the kitchen sink, that allows us to focus only on our favorite parts? The way his eyes smile, the way he smells, the sweetness of his words and touch?
I woke to the sound of waves crashing on the beach and peered out my window beyond the lit sand path and into the darkness. I laid back in bed and listened to the waves, just audible over the whir of the air conditioning unit, and felt a sense of having dreamed this moment and place before.
I prepared a cup of coffee as light started to filter onto the water and the cicadas began to overpower all other sounds. I sprayed myself down with citronella and walked barefoot onto the wooden porch with my coffee cup and saucer, and sat listening to the cicadas and the waves in the warm, damp air. I took my second cup down to the water's edge, just steps from my bungalow, and took photos as the sun struggled to peek out from behind storm clouds. Stray dogs and people sauntered by while several swimmers played in the water in front of anchored fishing boats.
It's something to have someone back home that makes you excited to leave paradise and return to his waiting arms.
I dropped off my empty cup in my bungalow and walked along the beach looking for a better vantage point for my photos. I stepped off the sandy beach and onto the rocky shoreline that looped around the island. A crab scurried across a rock and reminded me of the book "Beachcombing at Miramar". A young man with a fishing pole joined me on the rocks.
It started to rain, so I slowly made my way back to my private bungalow where my brightly colored swimsuit stood out on the wood decking, drying from yesterday's snorkel. The cool air felt soothing as I stepped into my room and sat on my bed, looking out the sliding doors to the ocean. My phone displayed 22 new messages and I responded to the only one that mattered.
"It would be awesome if you were here."
"As long as I was with you."
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
2 am and beyond...
2 am is no friend of mine, but we've been seeing a lot of each other lately. My neighbor's ceiling fan has finally stopped sending pulsed humming noises into my bedroom, which I've been laying awake listening to for days. It has also stopped raining, which I laid awake listening to for two days. I don't remember if the rain coincided with the ceiling fan.
I'm pretty sure my neighbor has tuberculosis. His cough is terrible and it's been going on at least since he moved in a couple months ago. My mind drifts to any and all circulation vents in my apartment. I decide I'm closed off from his apartment, and let it go. Him and his wife also have a child. A small baby. One with high pitched shrieks that they endlessly coo to in an effort to silence it.
My neighbor snores. I'm jealous that's he's asleep.
A friend said "Text me if you're awake at 2 am, I probably will be too." But I don't. I don't because as I lay in bed awake at 2 am, I think about whether or not I could make it to the gym, and still get cleaned up in time for my doctor's appointment that would precede the class I'm teaching, which I don't have the homework graded for.... or actually the quizzes either, and all of that needs to be done before noon, and holy shit I need to get stuff done for my internship as my performance has been drastically sliding. I have to study for my oral quiz tomorrow in Japanese class, and I start doing calculations... and I start panicking, and I start crying. And I could text him and ask if he's awake and I could tell him that my stress level is so high that I'm crying and I don't know if I'm going to make it, and I picture his response "Don't worry, it's going to be ok."
And that is exactly what I cannot bear to hear right now. Telling someone who feels like things are definitely not ok, that things are going to be ok, is like telling a burning person that their feet are not on fire.
Well I don't know if it's exactly like that.
People with "real" anxiety tell me not to stress about it. It's not worth it. "Just let it go". And I wonder where in my life I went wrong that people assume that I should always be ok. That I can just decide to turn off my stress and anxiety.
My advisor is returning tomorrow night and I've done exactly zero with my thesis since he left. I'm editing a paper for a visiting foreign professor and I'm a page and a half into eight pages, and hoping two of those pages are references.
I think about going for a swim, but it's cold here and the pools are outdoor. The indoor pool a block from my apartment doesn't open until 8 am. I think about the indoor pool at 24 Hour Fitness in San Diego and how I could roll out of bed right now, step onto the warm pool deck in my bare feet, air thick with chlorine and high humidity, let my body be wrapped in the tepid water, and listen to the sloshing in my ears. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, flip at the wall, brief silence, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.....
Ok, so then can you make it to the gym? But I don't want to go to the gym and it doesn't open until 5 am. You can clean the bathroom, that'll give you a dose of chlorine and check one more thing off your massive list.
I refuse to clean my bathroom at 3 am. I get up and take two Tylenol.
I could continue grading. I could work on my code for my internship. Maybe I could even do something wild and crazy like work on my thesis.
I roll over and put my arms over my face. What I really want is to sleep. I am exhausted. I am annoyed by the people who suggest that I just turn off my stress, my panic, my anxiety.
What are you going to do with that spinach you bought? You were going to scramble it with eggs, but you boiled the eggs, and you didn't get any other vegetables for salad. It's just going to sit in the refrigerator and go bad. Really. I'm stressing about spinach now. Please just go to sleep.
It's now approaching 4 am. At 4:45, my coffee pot will click on and start gurgling and dripping. Coffee aroma will drift into my room and I will consider getting up. I will instead doze off. My alarm will go off at 5:30 am and I will be jolted into blurry confusion.
I consider telling my doctor I can't sleep. The last time I saw my doctor she suggested I cut back on, and possibly completely stop, caffeine. For a not very good reason that I won't get in to. I can only imagine her stance on the topic if I told her I'm not sleeping between 2 and 5 am. How do you tell an insomniac not to drink coffee in the morning? I generally do not drink caffeine after 3 pm and I'm at about 3 cups a day, so I don't think coffee is the problem.
I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness and brainstorm about what makes me feel sleepy. All of this. Feeling sleepy is not the problem. I'm sleepy, I'm tired, I'm exhausted. My rapid heart rate, racing thoughts, and overall feeling of distress, is the problem. Just let it go. It's going to be ok. My agitation is the problem. My brain is the problem.
And now I'm staring at a computer screen (with computer glasses on, thank you) at 4 am on a Tuesday, and this week is just going to have its way with me.
I'm pretty sure my neighbor has tuberculosis. His cough is terrible and it's been going on at least since he moved in a couple months ago. My mind drifts to any and all circulation vents in my apartment. I decide I'm closed off from his apartment, and let it go. Him and his wife also have a child. A small baby. One with high pitched shrieks that they endlessly coo to in an effort to silence it.
My neighbor snores. I'm jealous that's he's asleep.
A friend said "Text me if you're awake at 2 am, I probably will be too." But I don't. I don't because as I lay in bed awake at 2 am, I think about whether or not I could make it to the gym, and still get cleaned up in time for my doctor's appointment that would precede the class I'm teaching, which I don't have the homework graded for.... or actually the quizzes either, and all of that needs to be done before noon, and holy shit I need to get stuff done for my internship as my performance has been drastically sliding. I have to study for my oral quiz tomorrow in Japanese class, and I start doing calculations... and I start panicking, and I start crying. And I could text him and ask if he's awake and I could tell him that my stress level is so high that I'm crying and I don't know if I'm going to make it, and I picture his response "Don't worry, it's going to be ok."
And that is exactly what I cannot bear to hear right now. Telling someone who feels like things are definitely not ok, that things are going to be ok, is like telling a burning person that their feet are not on fire.
Well I don't know if it's exactly like that.
People with "real" anxiety tell me not to stress about it. It's not worth it. "Just let it go". And I wonder where in my life I went wrong that people assume that I should always be ok. That I can just decide to turn off my stress and anxiety.
My advisor is returning tomorrow night and I've done exactly zero with my thesis since he left. I'm editing a paper for a visiting foreign professor and I'm a page and a half into eight pages, and hoping two of those pages are references.
I think about going for a swim, but it's cold here and the pools are outdoor. The indoor pool a block from my apartment doesn't open until 8 am. I think about the indoor pool at 24 Hour Fitness in San Diego and how I could roll out of bed right now, step onto the warm pool deck in my bare feet, air thick with chlorine and high humidity, let my body be wrapped in the tepid water, and listen to the sloshing in my ears. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, flip at the wall, brief silence, stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.....
Ok, so then can you make it to the gym? But I don't want to go to the gym and it doesn't open until 5 am. You can clean the bathroom, that'll give you a dose of chlorine and check one more thing off your massive list.
I refuse to clean my bathroom at 3 am. I get up and take two Tylenol.
I could continue grading. I could work on my code for my internship. Maybe I could even do something wild and crazy like work on my thesis.
I roll over and put my arms over my face. What I really want is to sleep. I am exhausted. I am annoyed by the people who suggest that I just turn off my stress, my panic, my anxiety.
What are you going to do with that spinach you bought? You were going to scramble it with eggs, but you boiled the eggs, and you didn't get any other vegetables for salad. It's just going to sit in the refrigerator and go bad. Really. I'm stressing about spinach now. Please just go to sleep.
It's now approaching 4 am. At 4:45, my coffee pot will click on and start gurgling and dripping. Coffee aroma will drift into my room and I will consider getting up. I will instead doze off. My alarm will go off at 5:30 am and I will be jolted into blurry confusion.
I consider telling my doctor I can't sleep. The last time I saw my doctor she suggested I cut back on, and possibly completely stop, caffeine. For a not very good reason that I won't get in to. I can only imagine her stance on the topic if I told her I'm not sleeping between 2 and 5 am. How do you tell an insomniac not to drink coffee in the morning? I generally do not drink caffeine after 3 pm and I'm at about 3 cups a day, so I don't think coffee is the problem.
I stare up at the ceiling in the darkness and brainstorm about what makes me feel sleepy. All of this. Feeling sleepy is not the problem. I'm sleepy, I'm tired, I'm exhausted. My rapid heart rate, racing thoughts, and overall feeling of distress, is the problem. Just let it go. It's going to be ok. My agitation is the problem. My brain is the problem.
And now I'm staring at a computer screen (with computer glasses on, thank you) at 4 am on a Tuesday, and this week is just going to have its way with me.
Friday, February 17, 2017
Trail of tears
Last year, a fellow grad student suggested I print out a one year calendar (all on one page) and cross off each day I worked on my thesis. She got the idea from a website on accomplishing goals. So over the summer, I did just that. I did fairly well over the summer. When school started back up again, I was too overwhelmed with classes and work to get anything done on my thesis.
I printed out a new 2017 calendar. January was sporadic. There are no X's in February.
After a merciless week, I have finally sat down at my desk on campus to work on my thesis (after hearing for the last couple weeks from my advisor that I'm lagging behind).
I think I'm going to go ahead and mark on my calendar the days that I have sat down in front of my data, cried, and put it away. I think shedding tears over your thesis should count as productive days.
I started out on Elle King Radio on Pandora. After having far too much bitter coffee from Peet's downstairs, the upbeat, sassy nature of the station was too much to handle. I switched to Ray LaMontagne Radio. Shawn Mendes was whining for mercy. Thumbs down. The rain pattered against the window and all 173 issues with my thesis came crashing down on me.
"As I'm Leaving" (David Grey) came on. If anyone has seen Ladder 49, that's where they're having the funeral for John Travolta's character and it's raining, his wife is grieving, it's just really sad. But the song is actually beautiful.
I grieved for John Travolta for a couple minutes until my advisor showed up and took the rest of my scotch for his meeting with the dean.
Zero progress on my thesis. But plenty of tears shed.
My notes are spread out across my desk. I have no idea what to focus on.
Sacramento is not showing northeast wind events. I can hardly remember why it is I'm supposed to care. I don't even know how to Google what it is I'm supposed to do to fix my plots that a visiting professor said were "meaningless". You have to rotate the axis into the winds...
Maybe I shall make a flow chart of how to progress with my thesis. A road map if you will.
Or Google a new scotch to try.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
If Something Should Ever Happen...
I just got back from Japan... and came home to chaos. Chaos that I knew was coming. Maybe I'll post more on Japan later. I got so busy trying to see so much in such little time, that I didn't have time to write about it.
I went to Japan because I felt the US plummeting. I needed to see the temples that gave birth to the Buddhist temples here. My temple.
I went to Hiroshima, to pay my respects and to learn. I have literally hundreds of pictures from Japan, but for this post, I'm going to only share a couple, because it's what's on my mind.
This photo:
With this explanation:
On September 11th, of 2001, I drove my dad to work in his jeep because my vehicle was in the shop. We listened to KGB on the radio, and heard the reports of the attacks. I asked my dad if it was for real. "Shh... let me hear this".
Campus let us out early that morning. America was under attack. It was a scary time. People left notes in New York trying to find each other... for days, weeks.
My dad and I discussed what we would do if something ever happened and we were separated. Phones wouldn't work and we'd have no way of getting in touch, no way of letting each other know we were alive.
We made a pact to meet at Bud Kearns, where I swam. Or to leave a note on the building.
As I stared at the photo of the Japanese writing in Hiroshima, I immediately thought of my dad and our promise to each other. To find each other.
I watch our country crumble now and think about what my dad would say.
When I was young... less than 10 years old I would guess, we sat in line at the Mexican border and I saw a couple guys scaling the border fence. Having only heard my mother's take on the issue, I said "Dad, do you see that?"
"They're just trying to make a better life for themselves, Carrie".
I am so thankful for the influence my dad had on me. How he chased out some of the ugliness my mother taught me. How he softened my heart a little. My dad, the science lover, the feminist (a topic for another post, maybe tomorrow), the humanist.
And as I travel the world and get ready to set out on another adventure, I know I am forever trying to find my dad. And I know I will never find him. Maybe that's not true. When I let go. When I stop trying and stop thinking and stop fighting, I realize he's right with me. In my heart, my thoughts, my mannerisms. He is the mold that made me.
I went to Japan because I felt the US plummeting. I needed to see the temples that gave birth to the Buddhist temples here. My temple.
I went to Hiroshima, to pay my respects and to learn. I have literally hundreds of pictures from Japan, but for this post, I'm going to only share a couple, because it's what's on my mind.
This photo:
With this explanation:
On September 11th, of 2001, I drove my dad to work in his jeep because my vehicle was in the shop. We listened to KGB on the radio, and heard the reports of the attacks. I asked my dad if it was for real. "Shh... let me hear this".
Campus let us out early that morning. America was under attack. It was a scary time. People left notes in New York trying to find each other... for days, weeks.
My dad and I discussed what we would do if something ever happened and we were separated. Phones wouldn't work and we'd have no way of getting in touch, no way of letting each other know we were alive.
We made a pact to meet at Bud Kearns, where I swam. Or to leave a note on the building.
As I stared at the photo of the Japanese writing in Hiroshima, I immediately thought of my dad and our promise to each other. To find each other.
I watch our country crumble now and think about what my dad would say.
When I was young... less than 10 years old I would guess, we sat in line at the Mexican border and I saw a couple guys scaling the border fence. Having only heard my mother's take on the issue, I said "Dad, do you see that?"
"They're just trying to make a better life for themselves, Carrie".
I am so thankful for the influence my dad had on me. How he chased out some of the ugliness my mother taught me. How he softened my heart a little. My dad, the science lover, the feminist (a topic for another post, maybe tomorrow), the humanist.
And as I travel the world and get ready to set out on another adventure, I know I am forever trying to find my dad. And I know I will never find him. Maybe that's not true. When I let go. When I stop trying and stop thinking and stop fighting, I realize he's right with me. In my heart, my thoughts, my mannerisms. He is the mold that made me.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Wild Creatures
Lucky for me, they cut one of my ribs out... just below the collar bone. And every once in awhile, my heart can squeeze out in the newly created space, like jail bars pried apart.
Sometimes at night, when I can't sleep, I lay on my left side and place my right hand under my left armpit. I can feel my heart quiver in its cage, and the first time I felt that, I thought there was something wrong with me. It's not a heartbeat I'm feeling, it's the actual contraction of the ventricles, then the atria, and somehow I can feel the whole thing. I guess it's normal. I place my hand under my ribs and feel it flutter as if it's living a life of its own. And maybe it is. Like a stranger living in my own body.
Maybe I should introduce myself. We could become friends.
That wild thing with wild ideas.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Far Away Places and Forgotten Times
It's Thursday night- not like the days of the week matter in between semesters- and I'm listening to Ray LaMontagne Radio on Pandora, drinking wine. It might as well be Friday, or Monday, or Wednesday. I try to stick to a routine as I do best while following a routine, but it's hard to get up at 5am when you know you don't really have to be somewhere at a certain time.
The rain has been keeping me up. And every time I'm lying awake listening to the rain, I think about Matchbox20's song, 3am- "She only sleeps when it's raining".. and I can only think.... she doesn't sleep when it's raining....
So I listen to the rain and toss and turn. It's a good thing California doesn't get much rain (don't quote me), otherwise I wouldn't sleep.
I got zero of my thesis done today. But sometimes that happens. And it sounds like my advisor has several back up plans in case I don't graduate this semester. I'm trying not to freak out when things don't go exactly to plan.
A song comes on and I'm reminded of eating fancy dinners at the Blackbird Cafe in Black Mountain, NC with Crystal. We were on a winter hotshot crew, earning summer wages during the winter, which was new to us Californians. So we lived it up. We ate at expensive restaurants and stayed in fancy hotels (at a government discount rate) when we needed a break from the crew. We got facials.
Another song comes on and I'm reminded of Ireland with Corey. And I would definitely go back. Soft days...nearly every day.
I was turned on to Ray LaMontagne while helping Gwen paint a mural of trees and owls on the guestroom wall. The songs make me calm and sad at the same time. I think maybe they made me feel in love when I indeed was actually in love. But being single, they mostly make me feel alone, though not in an incredibly bad way. More in the way of standing in a room, hanging photos or painting a wall- making life your own when it's only your own.
Mostly my memories of far away places are alone, and I'm okay with that. I frequently get a longing for a place I've been- that comfort that comes with being in a totally strange place, where you can't possibly be expected to keep your shit together. And being lost and confused is expected and acceptable.
I'm leaving for Japan on Monday, and I don't speak Japanese, which makes me a little nervous. But my longing for strange places is so natural that being lost is being at home. I must have a gypsy soul.
The rain has been keeping me up. And every time I'm lying awake listening to the rain, I think about Matchbox20's song, 3am- "She only sleeps when it's raining".. and I can only think.... she doesn't sleep when it's raining....
So I listen to the rain and toss and turn. It's a good thing California doesn't get much rain (don't quote me), otherwise I wouldn't sleep.
I got zero of my thesis done today. But sometimes that happens. And it sounds like my advisor has several back up plans in case I don't graduate this semester. I'm trying not to freak out when things don't go exactly to plan.
A song comes on and I'm reminded of eating fancy dinners at the Blackbird Cafe in Black Mountain, NC with Crystal. We were on a winter hotshot crew, earning summer wages during the winter, which was new to us Californians. So we lived it up. We ate at expensive restaurants and stayed in fancy hotels (at a government discount rate) when we needed a break from the crew. We got facials.
Another song comes on and I'm reminded of Ireland with Corey. And I would definitely go back. Soft days...nearly every day.
I was turned on to Ray LaMontagne while helping Gwen paint a mural of trees and owls on the guestroom wall. The songs make me calm and sad at the same time. I think maybe they made me feel in love when I indeed was actually in love. But being single, they mostly make me feel alone, though not in an incredibly bad way. More in the way of standing in a room, hanging photos or painting a wall- making life your own when it's only your own.
Mostly my memories of far away places are alone, and I'm okay with that. I frequently get a longing for a place I've been- that comfort that comes with being in a totally strange place, where you can't possibly be expected to keep your shit together. And being lost and confused is expected and acceptable.
I'm leaving for Japan on Monday, and I don't speak Japanese, which makes me a little nervous. But my longing for strange places is so natural that being lost is being at home. I must have a gypsy soul.
Wednesday, January 4, 2017
Hard Women
Today was my first speedwork run of the new training season, which made it more miserable than usual. Not to mention I'm aiming for a slightly faster speed than I've ever done the repeats. In my head I was going to do 3x1mi repeats, but when I checked the calender, it said 4x1mi repeats. Bah!
On my last repeat, as misery was overtaking me, I thought about the poem by Brenna Twohy.
"& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
'hard women.' "
I thought about when a man is chasing you, you don't get to slow down just because you're tired.
I thought about how, years ago when I was on an engine crew, there was a guy who took a liking to me. He told the other guys on my crew, who proceeded to try to hook me up with him. They told me he wished I was more feminine though. That struck me as odd. If you already want to change me, don't think I'm going to give you a chance.
But as a small female, I have been targeted as prey by men on several occasions. I've been lucky in that taking an aggressive stance and shouting has led them to back off. So far.
I used to run the mountain roads alone at work in the morning. They say that if a mountain lion comes at you, you're supposed to get real big, wave your arms, and shout. Making myself as large and intimidating as possible has saved me from many dog attacks. Turning to square off with two large cows one time saved me from god knows what.
But there I was, 27 years old, and a man was saying I should be more feminine.
More delicate.
"As if survival
could ever be delicate."
When I was 16, I was followed home from school on more than one occasion. I have been chased by men on my runs... on a busy road or bike path... in the middle of the day. I've had to shove men away in clubs and bars. A man in Belize charged across the street at me until I squared up with him and shouted "Hey! No!", after which he followed me down the street shouting obscenities at me.
How am I supposed to make myself smaller, and more delicate, when that would certainly make me even more of a target than I already am? This world has made clear to me that I am not big enough, not strong enough, not intimidating enough.
"& they call us
'hard women.' "
A friend of mine was attacked a couple years ago on a run Christmas morning. Her injuries weren't too bad, but psychologically it damaged her for quite some time. She now does Krav Maga (self defense developed for the Israeli Defense Forces). She's smaller than me. She's had to make herself hard too. She just got her orange belt, and I've never been so proud. After being attacked, it took months before she could even run again because she was terrified. And people judge her for doing this aggressive training. I don't get it.
I took a self-defense class years ago when I was an undergrad. They tell you that being aggressive can sometimes convince a would-be attacker that you're not worth the effort. A girl in Belize was surprised that I follow that line of thinking, because I might come across as a bitch.
I would rather be a bitch than dead.
I would rather be muscular and intimidating than a delicate flower whose throat a man could crush with just one squeeze.
And so I press on.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I Guess I'll Tell It Like This
by Brenna Twohy
did you know
sand dollars grow heavier skeletons
in rough water?
& did you know
young sand dollars
can't make themselves heavy enough
so they eat pebbles
to weigh their bodies down?
& did you know
the things
that
I
have
swallowed
just to keep this body
safe from the current?
& did you know
when I say the current
I mean
this body;
& did you know
there is a man
I can only talk about in metaphor,
the way his tattoos
make an avalanche
of my mouth
(even now)
& did you know
there are whole years
I have dropped
to the bottom of an uneasy ocean;
& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
"hard women."
As if survival
could ever be delicate.
As if we haven't been chewing rocks
for generations.
As if we haven't been rebuilding
our own bones.
-------------------------------------------------------------
On my last repeat, as misery was overtaking me, I thought about the poem by Brenna Twohy.
"& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
'hard women.' "
I thought about when a man is chasing you, you don't get to slow down just because you're tired.
I thought about how, years ago when I was on an engine crew, there was a guy who took a liking to me. He told the other guys on my crew, who proceeded to try to hook me up with him. They told me he wished I was more feminine though. That struck me as odd. If you already want to change me, don't think I'm going to give you a chance.
But as a small female, I have been targeted as prey by men on several occasions. I've been lucky in that taking an aggressive stance and shouting has led them to back off. So far.
I used to run the mountain roads alone at work in the morning. They say that if a mountain lion comes at you, you're supposed to get real big, wave your arms, and shout. Making myself as large and intimidating as possible has saved me from many dog attacks. Turning to square off with two large cows one time saved me from god knows what.
But there I was, 27 years old, and a man was saying I should be more feminine.
More delicate.
"As if survival
could ever be delicate."
When I was 16, I was followed home from school on more than one occasion. I have been chased by men on my runs... on a busy road or bike path... in the middle of the day. I've had to shove men away in clubs and bars. A man in Belize charged across the street at me until I squared up with him and shouted "Hey! No!", after which he followed me down the street shouting obscenities at me.
How am I supposed to make myself smaller, and more delicate, when that would certainly make me even more of a target than I already am? This world has made clear to me that I am not big enough, not strong enough, not intimidating enough.
"& they call us
'hard women.' "
A friend of mine was attacked a couple years ago on a run Christmas morning. Her injuries weren't too bad, but psychologically it damaged her for quite some time. She now does Krav Maga (self defense developed for the Israeli Defense Forces). She's smaller than me. She's had to make herself hard too. She just got her orange belt, and I've never been so proud. After being attacked, it took months before she could even run again because she was terrified. And people judge her for doing this aggressive training. I don't get it.
I took a self-defense class years ago when I was an undergrad. They tell you that being aggressive can sometimes convince a would-be attacker that you're not worth the effort. A girl in Belize was surprised that I follow that line of thinking, because I might come across as a bitch.
I would rather be a bitch than dead.
I would rather be muscular and intimidating than a delicate flower whose throat a man could crush with just one squeeze.
And so I press on.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I Guess I'll Tell It Like This
by Brenna Twohy
did you know
sand dollars grow heavier skeletons
in rough water?
& did you know
young sand dollars
can't make themselves heavy enough
so they eat pebbles
to weigh their bodies down?
& did you know
the things
that
I
have
swallowed
just to keep this body
safe from the current?
& did you know
when I say the current
I mean
this body;
& did you know
there is a man
I can only talk about in metaphor,
the way his tattoos
make an avalanche
of my mouth
(even now)
& did you know
there are whole years
I have dropped
to the bottom of an uneasy ocean;
& did you know
this is how we evolve?
Hunted girls
grow shells
& they call us
"hard women."
As if survival
could ever be delicate.
As if we haven't been chewing rocks
for generations.
As if we haven't been rebuilding
our own bones.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Sunday, January 1, 2017
New Year
It's the start of another new year and I'm pondering how productive I need to be today. It's already 2:30 pm, so today is mostly gone but there's still a little time to accomplish stuff. Next to me sits a list of things I need to get done within the next couple of days. I also added "Thesis" to the list for good measure. My projected graduation is this May, but due to being highly overwhelmed last semester, my thesis was put on hold which hopefully doesn't push back my graduation date.
I don't do New Year's resolutions. As a matter of fact, I don't even do New Year's. I go to bed around 8:30 or 9 pm, wake up to the sound of fireworks and gunshots around 11:58 pm, and when they finally die down around 12:30 am, I fall back to sleep. This year is no exception.
Tomorrow starts my official marathon training for a May marathon, with a March half marathon thrown in for inspiration as well as gauging my training. But training is nothing new for me, I've been doing it for years. I did decide to do a massive purge of my belongings that are no longer useful, which has been a two-day process. Now a huge pile sits in my tiny living room waiting to go to Goodwill tomorrow.
I filled out my paperwork for teaching this semester and will turn it in tomorrow or Tuesday, depending on when campus is open. I have laundry to do, but I have to take it to the laundromat since I have a comforter to wash. I don't know if anything is even open today.
So that leaves me with work for my remote job in San Diego, and my thesis. And cleaning the house. It's hard to clean the house with a large pile of stuff that needs to be removed...so that leaves me with San Diego work and my thesis. Neither of which I feel like tackling right now.
So I read a few chapters in my new book.
And now I feel guilty. I had plenty of sleep last night, so I have no excuse not to be productive. I can't even take a nap; I'm well rested. I'm going to have to establish a strong routine in order to make it through this month and the coming semester. It's hard for me to accomplish anything when I don't need to be anywhere at a certain time.
For now I think I'll snack.
I don't do New Year's resolutions. As a matter of fact, I don't even do New Year's. I go to bed around 8:30 or 9 pm, wake up to the sound of fireworks and gunshots around 11:58 pm, and when they finally die down around 12:30 am, I fall back to sleep. This year is no exception.
Tomorrow starts my official marathon training for a May marathon, with a March half marathon thrown in for inspiration as well as gauging my training. But training is nothing new for me, I've been doing it for years. I did decide to do a massive purge of my belongings that are no longer useful, which has been a two-day process. Now a huge pile sits in my tiny living room waiting to go to Goodwill tomorrow.
I filled out my paperwork for teaching this semester and will turn it in tomorrow or Tuesday, depending on when campus is open. I have laundry to do, but I have to take it to the laundromat since I have a comforter to wash. I don't know if anything is even open today.
So that leaves me with work for my remote job in San Diego, and my thesis. And cleaning the house. It's hard to clean the house with a large pile of stuff that needs to be removed...so that leaves me with San Diego work and my thesis. Neither of which I feel like tackling right now.
So I read a few chapters in my new book.
And now I feel guilty. I had plenty of sleep last night, so I have no excuse not to be productive. I can't even take a nap; I'm well rested. I'm going to have to establish a strong routine in order to make it through this month and the coming semester. It's hard for me to accomplish anything when I don't need to be anywhere at a certain time.
For now I think I'll snack.
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