I'm a runner

Yep. I'm declaring myself a runner. I ran two miles last night. In a row. Without stopping. Or puking (though the thought did cross my mind toward the end there).

I'm pretty excited about it. Running does not come easily to me. I'm not exactly built for it (there are distressingly few world class runners with boobies as big as mine*), I'm not exactly good at it and I've never, ever been fast. I ran my two miles at about a 13.5 minute pace. I think the fact running is so unnatural for me makes me enjoy any success I have in it even more. I know I'll never win a race or be especially good at it, but I can work really hard and I can train and I can be better than I have any business being. That is enough for me.


* I'm totally not bragging about the size of my boobies, by the way. They are more a pain than a source of pride. If I ever have insurance that would cover it, I'd seriously consider a reduction.

Addendum

A full 20,000 gold stars to the lovely Kelly for being as weired out by Billy as I was.

On that note, have a safe trip to France Kelly! I'll miss you!

Stars for Billy Blanks

10,000 gold stars for inventing Tae-Bo
5,000 gold stars for putting out Tae-Bo videos
5,000 gold stars for making me sweaty and getting my heart rate up
7,000 gold stars for making my booty sore the next day

Total: 27,000 gold stars

Oh, but wait...

Minus 4,000 gold stars for opening said workout video in a creepy prayer to Jesus (no, Billy, I don't think your workout is so challenging that I think I need divine intervention to complete it)

Minus 5,000 gold stars for wearing a lilac shirt tucked into eggplant colored tights. I do not need that much information about the relative size and shape of both your testicles and your ankles.

Minus 5,000 more gold stars for saying (and this is an honest to goodness quote) "Your legs are like your car tires-- You only get two and they have to last your whole life". Really, Billy? May I just, ever so politely, inquire what the hell kind of car do you drive, exactly?

Minus a big 9,000 gold stars for telling me to "speak the Word" to my legs when they get tired. Listen, I think Christianity in and of itself is weird enough. I don't need to add an extra layer of weird by quoting the Bible at my quivering thigh muscles. Besides, the only verse I really have memorized is "Jesus wept" and I don't think my legs would find that encouraging.

Minus 75 gold stars for having crazy eyes.

So, let's see, that gives good old Billy 3,925 gold stars. Sad. The teacher of my hip hop dance class gets more stars than that just for being cool.

I'm not writing the Great American Novel

When people ask me about my husband, as they sometimes do, I always say he’s wonderful, he’s smart and that he is a writer (all things that are true about Mr. Monkey). About 50% of the time people respond by asking some variation of “So, is he writing the Great American Novel?”. This is, I imagine, a question that annoys anyone who writes, wants to write or thinks about describing themselves as a writer. It’s dismissive and mocking and implies that if you haven’t published a specific thing (The Great American Novel, for example) that they have heard of, then you aren’t actually a writer.

I have no hesitation about describing Michael as a writer. Beyond the fact that he writes beautifully, writing is at the center of who he is. I think he sees the world in words and ideas. I suspect that he has voices in his head sometimes. I think that there are characters that exist in his mind that are as real to him as I am. I love that about him.

I haven’t ever published anything and I certainly don’t aspire to writing the dreaded Great American Novel but sometimes I daydream about maybe writing something good and true and interesting. I daydream about being brave enough to show someone other than Michael. I daydream about describing myself as a writer without feeling like I am somehow bragging or exaggerating myself. I sometimes feel the same way about describing myself as a runner or an athlete. I feel like I’m waiting for some certificate or something that comes in the mail from the official accrediting agency of writers/runners/athletes/whatever that says I have met the standard and I am that thing that I aspire to be.

I find myself wondering today where the line is between doing something and being something or if there even is a line. How much to do you have to run/write/sing/act/etc before you add the “er” at the end and can describe yourself as a runner/writer/singer/etc? Is it enough to just do something a lot? Do you have to be good at it too? Do you have to do the thing that you want to be in a public way for it to count? If I sing like Ella Fitzgerald but I never leave my house, am I a singer?

What do you think?

15,000 gold stars for me

Why?

Because I was up at 5 freaking 30 this morning to go to the gym where I had a very good (for me) run/walk.

I also award 20,000 gold stars to Michael who had the grim task of waking me up this morning at 5:25am to go to the gym. I'm a nice girl and all, but morning isn't so much my most delightful time of the day.

Peace

I, how to put this gently?, completely and totally suck at meditation. I've taken yoga classes, I've read articles on prayerful meditation and I still get completely monkey brained everytime I'm asked to sit in stillness, with a brain that is silent.

I am almost always thinking. Not always deep things, of course. I have, after all, woken up for the last three days with the fantastically horrible song "I'm in Love Wit a Stripper" in my head. That certainly doesn't indicate a lot of deep level nocturnal thinking. I think about food, I think about work, I think about whether or not Katie Holmes is locked in some Scientology dungeon somewhere getting reprogrammed. Serious stuff. Clearly worthy of minutes of my undivided attention.

I often believe myself to be a much better doer than be-er (I can't not think if a better way to spell that). I'm not a "be in the moment" kind of person. I like to dwell in the future and try to rearrange the past. I am a champion worrier.

Except...

I can swim. I can swim well. I can swim easily and when I swim I am the most peaceful person I know.

When I swim, which is not often enough, I stop thinking. The rabble of voices and songs and wonderings is quieted and I hear: my breath, water flowing past my ear, the faraway, indistinct sound of voices on the pool deck. I am quiet.

For a long time there wasn't anyone on the planet who loved swimming more than me. I woke up at 4:45am to swim before school (which shocks my husband who has seen me struggle mightily to get out of bed before 9am on a Saturday). I swam 3-7 miles a day, nearly everyday and I loved it. I like meets and winning ribbons and trying to improve my times but I loved to train. I love the muffled silence of being underwater, I love the repetition, I love the simplicity of movement (arms, legs, breath, repeat).

My love of training actually led to the end of my swimming career in college. I had injured my shoulders and trained when I should have rested and ended up burning out half way through a swim season. I quit the sport, exhausted in mind and body, and didn't swim again for years. I just couldn't because I missed it so much.

I sometimes think about starting to swim again and it scares me. I worry that I'll hate my former love because I won't be good at it anymore. I think I might also worry about letting that stillness back into my life. It so much easier to think about a million little nothings than to be silent and see what happens.

I swam tonight and it was good.

Claim to Lame

I must confess, before I write any further, that I totally stole this idea from my good friend and workout buddy Kelly. Kelly came up with the concept of a claim to lame, which is basically where you can freely and proudly acknowledge something about yourself that you really ought to feel some embarrassment about. Kelly's claim to lame is that she has seen every movie that stars Freddie Prinze Jr. in the theatre and she paid full price for them. She even saw some of them more than once. That is, quite clearly, a claim to lame.

It should surprise absolutely no one that I have several justifiable claims to lame. I shall now, for your amusement, list them here.

1. I have a deep and long lasting aversion to cotton balls. I can not stand to touch cotton balls. I have to use tweezers to get the cotton out of a pill bottle. If forced to touch a cotton ball I get an instant case of the bad goosebumps and my skin feels like it wants to crawl off my body. I seriously, seriously can not touch them. When I was still working at the lotion shop I once had to put cotton balls on a plate near some lip gloss samples. I had to swaddle my hands in paper towels to avoid skin to cotton ball contact. We do not allow cotton balls at the monkey household.

2. I fervently long to go to Dollywood.

3. While I officially acknowledge U2 as my favorite band, I still secretly love the New Kids on the Block and still have all of my NKOTB tapes and their greatest hits CD. I may have listened to it last month. I may also have sung along. I may, in fact, be Hanging Tough. Jordan Knight was my first love. Don't judge me.

4. I've never seen the following classic/well regarded movies and I have no intention of ever seeing them, even though I know I probably should: Schindler's List, Saving Private Ryan, Casablanca, The Matrix, Citizen Kane, Dances with Wolves, Lawrence of Arabia and almost every Star Wars movie (I've seen one all the way through, but I'm not totally sure which one it was. I've seen bits and pieces of the rest). My darling husband, a true lover of movies, could probably list even more great movies that I'm missing from this list. After he listed them he would most likely shake his head with a deep sense of sadness in his heart as he contemplates spending a life time with a person whose favorite movie of all time is Steel Magnolias.

5. I cried at the end of Armageddon...both times I saw it.

6. I think the best smell in the world is my skin after I've been swimming. I love the smell of chlorine. The second best smell in the world is Michael's armpits. The third best smell in the world is the inside of new shoes. There is a reason I can't find a perfume that I like.

7. I really want to get called for jury duty someday. I think it sounds great. Lots of waiting around = plenty of time to read. Plus, I love Law and Order and I harbor a secret hope that if called to jury duty the case would be presented by Jack "Junkyard dog" McCoy. I get that he's a fictional character and all, but I still sort of believe he'll be there.


8. In addition to cotton balls, I am most afraid of strange dogs and live chickens.


I could, sadly, list more but I'll save some fun for another day. Anyone else care to share?