Bathroom talk and other musings from today's run slash sauna

Life’s too short. Running makes it seem longer. Ha. Ha. Ha.

I barely notice hills anymore. Sometimes.

The world would be a better place if more world leaders ran, preferably on quiet wooded trails with nothing but their own thoughts and maybe some Springsteen who I swear must be a marathoner because he totally gets me. Plus, I think I ran next to him for part of Boston.   

Thinking about Boston 2014 is a great way to randomly burst into tears.  

It’s possible to cry and run uphill at the same time.

There are no hills at the beach. Wish I was at the beach.

The Maine Turnpike would make an awesome running trail, except for the traffic.

All highways/ main roads should have adjacent bike/ running routes. With shade. How cool would it be to say you ran up to Maine? Wicked cool. You know I'm right.  

Wouldn't this be an awesome 90-mile run?   Lots of smiling sweaty runners out there today.

 

When other runners smile back at me, I feel awesome. Double awesome when it’s a young hot dude. Triple awesome when it’s an old runner guy/gal.

One of these days I’m going to strap my phone and a couple of water bottles onto my waist pack and run until I can’t run any more. Then I’ll call home for a ride. That would be a great blog post unless I only make it a couple of miles, then not so much.

I have lately become a running bling person and I’m surprisingly okay with that. Yup. Running charms, running skirts, and even the occasional matched outfit, emphasis on occasional, and matched according to my own definition, i.e. the soles of my socks are the same color as the logo on my hat which clashes with my shirt but once matched my bleached out shorts.  Sometimes I even brush my hair before I run. I know. Such a diva, right? 

How could I not buy this Beecause Sneaker Charm? My shoelaces needed this and my wallet needed lightening because races aren't expensive enough. Said me never. So I bought two more. 

I haven’t bought anything at my local Dunkin Donuts in ages, though I can vouch, based on my weekly visits, that the bathroom is quite clean.     

I will always love the Papa Gino’s the next town over because when I was training for Boston I’d stop in there to use the bathroom and they’d offer me water and say I looked great, those sweet lying bastards.  

Speaking of bathrooms, there is absolutely nothing wrong with making sure your long run includes forested areas.

This is where my drinking water comes from. I run here too. As in run. Nothing more. No hidden messages. Just. Run. Really. Drinking water. Okay?

 

I dream of running cross country, as in literally running from state to state, so I’d appreciate it if you highway folks would get those trails ready for me pronto. Please throw in some pines, maples, bushes (nothing with thorns) too.  

The longer I wait to write about Boston 2014, the more I forget. Like, I think I stopped to use the bathroom, but maybe I didn't? Oy. Better get started soon. Here we go: Don’t postpone joy. There. I began. More to come. 

Date night on Vernon Hill

First there was dinner, always Spaghettios with marble-sized meatballs which Ma divided evenly: three and a half each. Ma would sip tea, nibble shortbread, because she’d eaten her big meal at midday, long before our parents dropped us off. Next came the dishwashing.  We’d help clear the metal table, but in early years Ma washed, while my sister and I played 

sidewalk games, like hopscotch, on the yellow and red-checked floor. 

 Our favorite meal. Until Stouffer's French Bread pizza came along.  

When Ma started shrinking, stopped sweeping, saying eh rather than what was that, I took over the dishes.  Ma read the newspaper or stared into space. T read Bobbsey Twins books, or traced fingers over the Dutch girl border above the tired pine wainscoting.

  

Then my sister and I would slip into our nighties and settle on the prickly couch in the good room, swathed in itchy afghans, handmade gifts from some long-gone relative. Ma, still in her housedress, stockings puddled at bruised ankles, sat in the rocking chair. 

We watched Lawrence Welk then sitcoms. We stayed still, except to stretch out legs, use the bathroom. Other than saying move over or stop tickling, we were silent. Ma too, though we’d hear murmurings, wet coughs, the clacking of rosary beads, creaking floorboards. 

 

Geritol, bubbles, and Lawrence Welk. Those were wild and crazy Saturday nights.

 

Ma switched off all the lights when she and T went to bed. The heat too, I think. Then it was just me, the flickering blue light of the Magnavox, the Carol Burnett Show laugh track. I’d move to Ma’s rocker, curl up tight, my yarn cocoon a shield against the shadows,  aware that strangers watched from metal frames: Grandpa Tim on his wedding day, center-parted hair oiled and combed flat; my aunts and mother as high school grads, porcelain skinned, red-lipped, cheeks dabbed with pink, wearing white mortar boards, pearls.

  

On one of our last nights, it was the usual: just me and canned laughter. Then there she was, a hovering specter, eyes wide, unbuttoned top revealing ivory flesh and things grandkids shouldn’t see. Her iron hair, always braided, floated loose, like shredded satin.

“Your nightgown is open, Ma.” 

“Eh?”

“Your shirt.”

“Eh?”

Embarrassed, I pointed.

She looked down then back at me. She smiled. She had no teeth.  

She kissed my head, patted my hair, shuffled to her room, top still undone. 

After Carol, I watched the news,  then stayed up until the national anthem played and the screen went snowy, and only then took my cramped legs off to bed. Even still, I couldn’t sleep. 

I'm so glad we had that time together. 

When Oreos attack

Should you have an Oreo? You know the answer already: No. Cheat day is Thursday. Today is Tuesday. Yet you stand there, refrigerator door ajar, compressed air cooling the stifling kitchen, heat-stupefied cats, your feverish skin, though all you notice are the delicate chocolate ridges beckoning to you from the torn cellophane package on the top shelf behind today’s snack, pomegranate yogurt, fat-free. 

You’d done so well the last few days, limiting your caloric intake to only that provided by berries, bananas and whatever your body leeched from the cabbage diet soup you’d been guzzling ever since the button on your fat pants popped. It didn’t even occur to you until today to take an Oreo, though they’d been hiding at the back of the fridge since you’d concocted that ice cream cookie pie on Friday.  

It was earlier today, just before your lunch of strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, that you’d walked into the classroom next door to borrow a plastic spork, and noticed the organizational chart taped to the wall: OREO written vertically, one letter for each stacked oval representing the four parts of a basic persuasive essay. You’d stopped and smiled. More double stuff than Oreo, you’d told yourself, noting the twin shapes between the sandwich ends. That’s when your mouth started watering. 

You scan the packaging now, search out the nutrition label. Knowledge is power and fat gram awareness might help you conquer this dark desire. O-R-E-O. O you remember stood for opinion. In your opinion, you’d done a great job avoiding Oreos these past five days. R for reason. The reason for avoiding sweets is because sweets are bad for your waistline. Right?  E, explanation. You’re sick of overdosing on fruits and veggies. You crave the sensation of sandy crumbs on your fingers, smooth center on your tongue. You yearn to rescue soggy chunks, insides still firm, from the bottom of your glass of milk.  O for obviously obsessed.  Shutting the fridge? Not an option. Your brain won’t comply. Your muscles won’t move. Your belly growls, which startles the kitty who claws your calf. The two of you exchange stares. She returns to licking the milk carton. You return to licking your lips. 

You force yourself to focus. Remember earlier that day. You went sleeveless and wore a loose skirt. Still, sweat covered your back by 8:30. You’d shut off the classroom’s fluorescent lights, pulled down the shades, shoved up all the windows that weren’t stuck closed, even propped open the doors to the hallway, ignoring the fact that the kids next door were having a furniture throwing -- or was it a swearing – contest, and one student outside your room was singing, off-key to boot. 

Six hours of broiling later, you exited that kiln into breezier 91 degree temps. You’d thought of second winds then, and how good you’d feel once you got home, changed, and headed onto that shaded five-mile running path, cool waters twinkling beyond the pine trees, canopy of elms, maples, aspen, protecting you from the relentless beating sun.

 

You try to convince yourself that the only reason you’re still holding open the refrigerator door is because the frigid air is preventing your insides from boiling up and suddenly realize that maybe running today isn’t such a good idea because you’re already half cooked. Plus that delightful blue package, temptingly torn, is flapping, winking, breathing with your breath, flirting with your taste buds, obliterating all rational thought. Too, the nutrition label is nowhere in sight. 

You push aside the organic peanut butter, the Greek yogurt, two quarts of blueberries, the Dutch oven containing another two days of that bilious vegetable swamp. You take one cookie. All you want is a nibble. But the Oreos are smaller than they were last week. It’s gone in two baby bites. You grab the bag, notice the chocolate syrup squeeze bottle hidden behind the grapes, and take that too. Clench the syrup to your heart, push the cat aside with one foot, the fridge door with one knee and just before the door slams shut, snatch the can of whipped cream for garnishing your evening fruit salad treat.   

You find a mixing bowl and a tablespoon. Tell yourself you needed a rest day anyhow and promise to run seven miles tomorrow and stick to water and salad for days, because right now you’re finishing all the sweets, so you’ll never ever be tempted again, or at least until Saturday, when you hit the grocery store once more.  

 My favorite food group

And then the scar rips off

I was talking with my friend V recently about some experiences we have in common. Both she and I know about restraining orders, control freaks, liars, losing ourselves, finding our way back, healing. For me, we’re talking ancient history, padded shoulders and puffy hair days. Her story is more recent, within this century. 

Hours before our talk, something had come up that triggered reminders of the duplicity and danger V had survived. As she spoke about this to me, V’s voice veered from even to anxious to shrill. She started gesticulating wildly. Her eyes got teary. I, on the other hand, was calm, reserved even. I nodded as she spoke about what we both know to be true, that there are some scary dangerous nutcases out there, that the court system is flawed, that keeping yourself and your kids safe takes guts and that some of your worst enemies are the friends in whom you confide, who come back at you with, “How could you allow this to happen?” and never look at you the same again, though if you’re healthy you’ve realized by then that it wasn’t really friendship and so you haven’t lost much. 

I watched my friend as the anger took over.  Her eyes were wide. Her hands, hatchets almost, slashed the air. We talked, well I talked while she sort of yelled, about how those false friends usually find out the hard way that the world is full of sociopath spouses and other damaged supposed loved ones who will lie, cheat, break hearts and sometimes other body parts in order to get what their narcissistic brains and bodies crave.  

At one point I said that I understood her emotions. I said that for about ten years I was much like her. That full out response, the fury, followed by guilt, destructive self-talk, nightmares for days, would get set off at the oddest times: the tone of a radio voice, a headline in the news, conversation snippets over heard in the supermarket. There are still certain movies I can’t watch, I said. Certain kinds of reading matter I have to avoid.  I assured her that things will just keep getting better. Each day is easier than the next. 

As I drove home, I couldn’t help but reflect on how much I’d changed since the early ‘90s.  How much I’d accomplished. How stronger, wiser, more compassionate I’d become. How detached I was able to be. How happy I’d become. 

I had a medical procedure scheduled for this morning. The doctor went over some last minute details then asked me about my running. She’s a half-marathoner so she semi gets me. I told her I’d just become a Marathon Maniac, and talked about the two marathons I ran in two weeks that got me qualified. She was impressed, and complimented me on my strength, then told me I was a nut. 

I laughed back at her and told her she was only half crazy because she only ran half marathons.  We bantered back and forth like this for a bit. I was feeling a little more relaxed about the procedure, which was going to be uncomfortable but nothing, the doc assured me, I wouldn’t be able to handle. 

As she began, I tried to focus my attention on the medical student who stood at my right side. The doc had said the student would hold my hand if I wanted. 

“I just ran two marathons in two weeks. I can handle this,” I said. I smiled at the student.

The doc began and I felt myself tense at her touch.

“Relax,” she said. She continued working.

I tried some deep breaths, but just froze up more.

“You need to relax,” she said.

I yelled I can’t, and jumped up screaming for her to stop, stop right now.  She did. I could tell she was startled by my reaction. I was too.

I wiped my nose and eyes with my arm. The student handed me a box of tissues. The doc told me to calm down. I blew my nose and told her to stop saying that because it was just making me angrier. She nodded and talked about what to do next. She said we’d reschedule the procedure in the hospital, with me under anesthesia.

I said I felt like an idiot, like a weakling, because I couldn’t handle what should have been an uncomfortable but fairly simple procedure. She reminded me I was a Marathon Maniac and could handle anything.  

“Not this,” I said.

It wasn’t until I was in the car that it hit me.  It was the way she touched combined with a slight switch in tone when she told me to relax, a word I’d heard so many times earlier in my life, as I was being lied to, dismissed, redirected, controlled.  One minute I was fine. The next, all that scar tissue had ripped right off, and I was back in a time when my life was hell. 

I’d told the truth when I told my friend that things do get better. I wrote this to remind myself and others that sometimes we still fall apart too. And that’s okay. It’s all part of the process. 

Fall seven. Rise eight. Time for a run. Life is good. It truly is. I hope it’s good for you too.