I was thinking of this little story, so I thought I should share it on one of the most perfect Friday mornings the Twin Cities has seen all spring.
Two weeks ago on a Sunday evening my family gathered around my parents’ dinner table.
And that evening– right there at the table– I lost my breath, nearly choked, and I cried. Because I was laughing so hard.
You can’t fake love like that.
My favorite neighborhood running route takes me by 6 churches in under 3 miles, including the beautiful Cathedral of Saint Paul.
My current favorite running remix includes a song with the following lyrics:
Blessed [8x]
I’m blessed
Blessed [8x]
Oh yeah
Blessed [8x]
Every time
Blessed [8x]
Oh hey
(I’m blessed) Oh hey
(I’m blessed) I’m blessed
(I’m blessed) So blessed [2x]
On Saturday morning, I nearly cried* as the airhorn marked the start of a 10K I was running– my longest distance since the marathon and my first 10K.
So, I guess I could no longer ignore the nagging feeling that I needed to write about what a blessing running has been for me. The signs couldn’t have been much more obvious. And in fairness, I have been thinking about it on my runs lately– how so lucky I am to do this.
I am blessed to have my health and the physical ability to run. I do not (yet) have the ability to run very fast, but I can work on it.
I am blessed to live in a neighborhood that is safe for runners. It is easy to cross the street safely, there are sidewalks everywhere, drivers are aware of pedestrians (and cyclists). I am blessed to live a neighborhood that is beautiful for runners. Summit Hill is well known for its lovely homes, gorgeous gardens, and the churches I mentioned earlier ring bells of welcome for all Sunday morning runners. Dog-walkers, kids on bikes, and runners co-mingle peacefully and happily in my neighborhood.
I am blessed that my life is free of major stresses and that allows me the time and freedom to run.
I am blessed to have a family that cheers my triumphs and pushes me through the hard days. I am blessed to have friends that run with me and celebrate all of my facebook updates and tweets about running. I am blessed to have Aaron, who stood in the rain to see me amongst thousands of runners on Saturday.
I am blessed to have access to good medical care so that small and large injuries can be prevented and/or treated and do not mean an end to an active lifestyle.
I am blessed to be a member of a great running community in the Twin Cities. On Saturday, some people finished the 10K in less than 40 minutes. Some of us finished around an hour. Some took over 2 hours. But when it started to sleet over the Lake Street Bridge or we reached the tough hill near Univ. of Saint Thomas, it felt like a team effort. There was lots of “You’ve got this!” and “It is literally downhill after this.” When a runner went down, no fewer than 15 other runners stopped for her while 2 busted it out to get to a police officer 4 blocks ahead. I am proud to be a member of this community.
For me, when I get about 2 miles into a run and I really hit my stride, that is the time I feel most connected the world– in a physical and spiritual sense. It is where I do most of my deep thinking (2nd only to the shower!) and where the simplicity of the act of running highlights all that I am given. As an extrovert to my bones, it is one of the few solitary activities I really completely love. I wish for everyone to find an activity or a place that gives them that same feeling.
I am so blessed to run.
*Aaron read this and chortled because he thinks I “nearly cry” about everything. He is nearly correct.
Why I am bad at reviewing restaurants:
Why I am good at reviewing restaurants:
Instead of writing a long, fancy-worded review like the newspapers often do, I will distill it down to a list of wonderful things about Pat’s Tap (www.patstap.com):
We weren’t even planning on stopping in at Pat’s. Honestly, I think I had sort of heard of it but didn’t really know it existed or where it was. I just saw it out of the corner of my eye as we drove by and I am so glad we stopped in! Lucky find!
Before the sirens from the nearby police station or hospital. Before the freeway hums a dull purr of hurried traffic and the piercing horns give their warning on local streets. Before the kids at the corner come out to play. Before the neighbor’s dog wakes.
And on Sundays, before the church bells guide their followers to worship.
If you wake early enough, and stir softly enough inside your warmly-lit home, the urban birds will sing the most beautiful welcome song to the sun.
There are few childhood milestones more important than the pivotal day in which you switch from a kid’s bicycle to a 10-speed bicycle. Growing up in a neighborhood full of kids, I often coveted the bigger, faster bikes of my older peers. In the weekly summer bike parades around the cul-de-sac, I was always getting passed and ended up the near-caboose of the train, only to be followed by kids with training wheels or tricycles. And the big kids could pedal backwards without coming to a complete and sudden stop and catapulting themselves over the handlebars!
One early summer, my need for a 10-speed bike reached a fever pitch and with a July birthday on the horizon, it was the only thing on my mind. Before my parents bought a bike, they thought I should try one out first. Enter benefit #251 of having an older sister: I could just take hers for a test ride around the cul-de-sac and decide if I liked it.
I thought this was silly. Of course I was going to like it. As I tied the laces of my white and pink tennies and put on my bike helmet, I had visions of my sun-bleached waves blowing in the wind as I passed the little kids on their trikes. I dreamed of the sun rising up over the garage attached to my parents home, the garage door slowly lifting, and there I would stand, at the top of the driveway with my 10-speed bike and it would glisten in the sun. I would stare out over the neighborhood with sheer determination on my face.
My dad helped me scramble up onto my sister’s grey and pink bike, chubby little legs stretching just slightly to reach the pedals. As my pre-teen sister stared on in the way older sisters do when little sisters take their things, my dad said, “Just go.”
And I did. Down our short but steeply sloping driveway, across the widest part of our street, and right into the curb before going end over handlebars into the neighbor’s yard. I heard my sister yell, “My bike!” and my dad shout, “You okay?” and then chuckle. I could not understand their complete disregard for my safety. I could have been gutted by a giant spoke! I could have become tangled in the teeth of the gears! I could have been crushed under the weight of such a collosal bike!
I was not actually hurt in anyway. Not even a scraped knee.
But I was shaken up and suddenly, I liked my kid bike a lot more. After all, it was white with teal and purple speckled paint, which was all the rage in the mid-90s. It did have the white tires that I so badly wanted when we had picked it out. It was comfortable. It was safe. It was easy to steer and stop. It was my bike. My desire to ride a 10-speed bike ever again was absolutely zilch. That one, brief run in with an incredibly stable curb had– at the time– completely freaked me out about the idea of getting back on.
I am at that place right now with my post-injury running. I am happy ‘riding the kid bike’– running 1-2 miles per time, but the thought of getting back on a 10 speed– maybe even just 5 miles (?) has me completely and utterly freaked out. Even though I am signed up to run a 10K in April.
When I looked up articles about post-injury returns, they are all about preventing more injury, how to build up your miles, etc. Sort of like saying to 9-year-old me, “Hey kid, just turn the bike to the left this time and you won’t hit the curb.” Except, you had no intention of hitting the curb the first time, so you don’t really trust that you won’t crash into it again.
I feel like I am in the best shape I have been since the marathon and I am at a great place to really start adding the miles. And it is easy for me to schedule a longer run when I sit at my desk and look at a calendar. But when I lace up my shoes, I am overcome with fear. What if it breaks again? What if it causes problems in my hips or knees? There is a serious turmoil brooding between missing going out for those long runs like crazy and yet wanting to protect myself from anything painful happening, ever.
I wish the day I overcame my fear of 10 speed bikes was as vivid in my memory as the day I tumbled over that curb. But even if I don’t remember it, I do know it happened. After all, I do not complete my triathlons on a teal and purple Huffy.
My legs have been training, I am working on strengthening my core, and I have been keeping up with other endurance cardio in the meantime. Now I just need my brain to get in shape.
[Drags out her public health soapbox]
Last week I had the misfortune of breaking a tooth on a delicious hamburger. While there was no pain, no blood, no gaping hole in my smile, there were nearly immediately tears. I felt very anxious, maybe even panicked for a few minutes.
I don’t have dental insurance.
While I kept telling my dinner companion “I’m fine, I’m fine,” in my head, the wheels were turning at a furious pace as I added up the potential costs of having this tooth treated. There would be an exam fee, an x-ray fee, maybe a fee for cleaning, and while I didn’t know what the procedure would be to fix it, I knew it would be expensive. An extraction? A crown? An implant?! The sum I kept coming up with was thousands of dollars.
I am in this period of my life I like to call the Great (and Extended) Transition. I got my masters degree when it was ‘a great time to be a student’ but an awful time to be a recent graduate. Further, I am passionate about working in a field that is heavily dependent on government funding. When the government suffers, the public health workforce does too. Currently, I am working at exactly the thing I am most passionate about and I actually love going in to work, but for only 20-32 hours per week. Not eligible for benefits. (Don’t worry, the irony that I work every day to protect the public’s health and access to treatment and yet I do not qualify for health benefits is not lost on me.) I make a livable wage and have no problem paying rent for a modest apartment, healthy groceries, and gas to fuel the car. I can afford my gym membership and my phone bill. I budget well and save for the fun things in life like vacations and marathons and the new IKEA chairs I so desperately needed wanted a week ago, but it’s hard to budget for a surprise dental procedure. I have money in savings, but there is a constant and pervasive fear in the Great (and Extended) Transition, that I could lose my job again and be reliant on that cash.
Luckily my career in public health has taught me at least one very important thing about access to care: somewhere, someone treats everyone regardless of the patient’s ability to pay. Those people are found in community clinics. While I do have health insurance, I have often gone to community health clinics for preventative care such as vaccinations. I do it because I am able to pay my co-pay in full and my health insurance provider reimburses the clinic in full. I am hopeful that these full payments allow the clinic to offer a reduced fee to someone who needs it.
Yesterday, I arrived at a community dental clinic for the first time as that someone who needs it. Maybe that’s not a completely fair representation– I could probably pay full price for the work, but with serious consequences to my savings account that I am relying on in case of another employment emergency. I arrived shaking like a leaf– nervous about the cost, nervous about the procedure, and nervous about that needle-like tool the hygeniest always jabs into your gums.
They were more than gracious. They cared about more than my busted tooth or my financial situation. They cared about me. I met with the financial coordinator first and we talked about sliding fee and what, if anything, I would qualify for and I was shocked that I did qualify for a modest discount. My doctor was notified that I was a self-pay patient and when he ordered a test but wasn’t sure it would change the diagnosis or treatment plan, he didn’t charge me for it. As we discussed treatment options, I sat down with the financial coordinator and the doctor to discuss all possible outcomes and the detailed cost of each. It was the most aware I have been of my medical or dental treatment in my life. I left with a still-busted tooth and an appointment to fix it. I left with a complete understanding of cost and was already calmly deciding how I would budget my own finances to cover the cost. I left knowing that this clinic had heard me, took time to understand my concerns and answer my questions, and reassured me that this would be affordable and I was going to be okay. I cannot say enough about my experience.
I have always advocated for community clinics– we know they do good work and provide access to care for people who don’t have access through other avenues. I won’t spell out all of the benefits of them here, but if you want more information check out this article from The Center for American Progress. But maybe more important than just my blanket advocacy for community clinics, I want to remind everyone what the face of someone who needs a little extra help from time-to-time looks like:
We need to let go of the stereotypes we have of the people using a community clinic. I am a healthy 20-something, American-born, well-educated, and a working professional. And I needed a little help. But I am not down and out; I am up and coming. I’m probably not who you think of when you say harsh remarks like “I shouldn’t have to work and pay for my health care so other people can get theirs for free.” You probably don’t think twice before you tell me in a discussion over cocktails that health should be a commodity, bought and sold under the rules of the market, like an iPad or socks. The more money you have, the more health you can have? That’s absurd.
Be mindful. Be respectful. Be understanding. The health care system isn’t perfect for anyone, and health care reform isn’t going to make it perfect either. But it will help community clinics continue to provide care and even expand. Because everyone deserves access. And if you took a moment to really realize how some of us up and comers are fighting hard to make it but we just need a tiny boost, you might not be so critical.
“The greatest wealth is health.”
Virgil
I have been struggling for days to find a good topic for a blog post. I hesitate to write another blog about the gym or running for fear of losing the interest of my non-runner readers.
I went through a little “woe is me, I don’t do interesting things” phase. But that seems sort of silly and whiny.
On this beautiful Sunday morning (my windows are open in March!), while I made a pot of coffee and had lemon poppyseed muffins baking in the oven, I realized that I am not lacking for good and exciting things in my life, I am simply in a ‘no news is good news’ phase.
Meaning, life is really good right now. And it’s just the simple things that make it so.
I am (still) loving my new job and the things they are giving me the opportunity to do. My work in the community will pick up this spring, and that is my most favorite part of all.
My running is coming along, even if I feel it is a bit slow, but that has given me the opportunity to learn new things like spin and yoga and focus more on the importance of cross training. I ran a 5K yesterday and had a lovely time– I love the race crowds, I love the community, I love the change in environment from where I usually run.
I have had the time recently to catch up with friends, but also long weekend days to catch up with myself (for example, it’s nearly noon and I am still in pj’s, still nursing that pot of coffee).
I have had the time to prepare healthy meals. Most days. And stay organized. Most days.
I don’t know if it is the change in weather, a change in attitude, or the chance to sleep in, but I am definitely feeling like life is lovin’ me right now.
This is a good side story: In the middle of writing this post, I needed to refresh my cup of coffee. When I walked back to where I was typing, which may or may not be in bed, I spilled my coffee on some clothes on the floor. My first action? Refill the coffee cup and then put my clothes in the tub to soak so the stain doesn’t set. Priorities, people. I have them.
I was digging around my bottomless inbox today to see if I had an old triathlon training program hanging around.
I didn’t, but I found this sweet gem of an email I sent to myself nearly 3 years ago:
Make it through today, go for a run, clean your room, register for triathlon, buy your bridesmaid shoes, enjoy your family, paint, get coffee with a good friend– these are all the good things in your day.
But print this shit first and rock the grad school thing.
I love it! And honestly, I do this often– send myself a little to-do list email and it generally includes some motivational and/or “kick some butt, girl” message.
But, uh, I didn’t find a triathlon training plan. Anyone got one that can be adapted for 89 days out from the race?
In college, I did occasionally do early morning workouts. In college, I defined ‘early morning’ as anytime before breakfast at the dining center ended: 10AM.
In grad school, I was part of an informal swim team that swam early two times a week. ‘Early’ then was defined as anything that happened before 8AM.
It turns out, the real world starts turning every day at 8AM, whether you are ready or not. So if one wanted to get a jump start on the day, it has to happen before 8.
Well, before 7:30, on account of the commute and traffic.
Well, before 7 because one has to be presentable and cannot simply roll into the office with bed head and sleep in the eyes.
So really, before 6:45 since a girl’s gotta eat breakfast.
A few weeks ago, I tried going to the gym before going to work and it went a little something like this:
5:20: Alarm #1 goes off. It is some awful beeping that even annoys the cat. Snooze.
5:23: Alarm #2 goes off– from the bathroom. Sounds like a rooster and gets progressively louder.
[There is a lot of shuffling about, trying to make sure I remember a 'regular bra' for work, and reaching under the refrigerator for my headphones.]
5:45: Out the door.
5:52: Realize my lunch (and breakfast) are not in the seat next to me. Or in the backseat. They are, in fact, still on the kitchen table.
5:52: Make a sad face about that.
6:02: Get to the gym. Get on a dreadmill and attempt to battle through a 27 minute run. Symptoms include: foggyheadedness (it’s a word), general displeasure, snarkiness, fatigue, sadness (about the lunch still), irkfulness (also a word), an overall feeling that this is the worst place on the planet to be.
6:21: Quit. Increase foul mood because in addition to the above-listed symptoms, now I am a quitter too.
6:22: Do some half-hearted sit ups and be angry the whole time.
6:26: Sit on the yoga mat in a dark cloud of malaise.
6:28: Go back to the women’s locker room, which is much akin to a henhouse. There is nothing worse for a bad mood than strangers that are loud and disorganized (i.e. I like me, but I can’t stand a room full of mes). I actually don’t want to listen to you scream at a woman 10 feet away about how “Benny did just the cutest thing at school.” It doesn’t sound cute at all. And yes, super-naked woman wondering around aimlessly, I do mind if you get real close to me and then reach across me to get some lotion. If you are super-naked, my personal bubble is super-bigger than that.
By the time I make it through all of that, I head to work in a miserable mood. I am tired, hungry, feeling a bit violated by super-naked woman, and I had a bad workout. Lame.
I had pretty much decided I was not a morning workout kinda gal. Even though I so wanted to be. I wanted to be that peppy, wide awake coworker who bounced into the office promptly at 8 and was all “I had the best 6 miles run this morning! And then I had this amazing homemade oatmeal with flaxseed and organic bananas! And while I was listening to NPR on the way in, I also stopped along the side of the road and save a family of panda bears!”
I am not her. I am all “I was running late, but found this sorta brown, pretty mushy banana in the car from a few days ago and the only exercise I got this morning was stepping in and out of the shower. I have no idea whether or not my socks match but I just dare you to say anything about it before I have finished this mega-gulp of hot coffee.”
But guys, real life happens. And a lot of real life happens after work, and takes up most/all of the evening. And I always told myself I would find a way to blend workouts into my real life– to fold it in amongst hanging out with friends, maintaining a strong relationship with my love, trying new things, etc.
Sometimes the only time to get to the gym is in the morning.
So today, I retried. And I was successful! I think there were many things that came together to create a perfect storm of success: Aaron met me there, so I had to be accountable. My lunch was safely and secured in the car. I left my headphones on for as long as possible in the locker room and just pretended that lady wasn’t ultra-naked and discussing her ladyparts in uncomfortably graphic detail.
Maybe most importantly, I pre-planned a workout that included running but also had structure, balance, and a fast pace. Because you know what’s fun about running on a dreadmill for 40 minutes? The three minutes you day dream about running outside. That’s it.
I am happy I tried again, because right now, at the midday, I am totally reaping the benefits of the morning workout: I am alert and in a good mood, I am finding it easy to focus, I am not panicked about when I can squeeze in a workout today or later this week.
So, what it took me a long time to say is this: If you fail at something once, don’t give up. But don’t repeat the same thing, or you will fail a second time. Change is good, balance is best, and a crummy workout is still better than no work out at all.
Tonight, I bring you a story of educational and entertainment value. It is a story of backfired plans.
This evening, as I was prepping myself for another week, I decided the week would start right if I made up the bed with new sheets. Everyone loves new sheets, right?
And pet owners out there can agree with me when I say no one loves it more when you make the bed than a cat or dog. And my fur-covered demon cat is no different. Except that my cat is simultaneously a lover of new sheets and a literal ankle-biter. With every fresh layer I would put on the bed, he would decide it was good enough and lay down and any attempt to move him was met with this rude meowing and exactly 20 razorclaws– no more, no less– moving in unison at warp speed. After 2 layers of mattress pads/covers (yes, I’m spoiled), I had pretty much had it with him. I shooed him out of the bedroom long enough to get three corners of the fitted sheet on when he made a running leap into the bed, right under that sheet and rooted himself with all 20 claws dug into the mattress.
So you know what I did? I put the fourth corner of the sheet over the mattress and made sure the sheet was down tight. And then I made the rest of the bed right over the top of that ungrateful piece of … cat and walked away. Leaving him essentially, but not completely trapped in the fitted sheet, under another sheet and 2 more blankets.
Sarah MacLachlan is already in some studio somewhere collecting all the cats with the world’s saddest eyes to make a video denouncing owners who make the cat into the bed. For the low low price of $49.95 per month, you can end their suffering. I just know it.
I figured I would leave him in there for 5 minutes. Long enough to tick him off teach him a lesson, but not long enough to cause him any harm. Sounded like an awesome plan when I said it in my head and still had some validity when I said it out loud as I walked away.
Upon returning several minutes later to where I had left a nicely made bed (save for the cat-shaped grenade), I found a slightly disturbed pile of bedding, as I expected if he escaped out the side of the sheet, and a serene, peaceful kitty laying atop the bed. Like the perfect angel that he is.
I was so proud of my little plan! I had never read that on the internet, so I was thinking of all the ways I could market this idea to other people who owned disturbed spirited cats. Just trap them under a sheet! Easy!
I went about the rest of my nightly routine feeling pretty good– brushed teeth, set up the coffee, put on pj’s and slide into bed. Except, I didn’t so much slide as much as my toes got all tangled up in something.
What the hell? I thought as I pulled back the blankets to figure out what my foot was getting caught on.
And that’s when I saw the evidence of the backfire of my plan. A big, backfirey explosion of epic proportions.
My cat did not simply escape out the edge of the fitted sheet. In fact, it appears as if he never even considered it. From the exact spot he was sitting in when I pulled that fourth corner taut, my cat ate his way through a bed sheet.
You did read that right, but in case you aren’t sure, let me say it one more time: My cat got trapped under a fitted sheet and ate his way to freedom.
Hold on, Sarah MacLachlan. Get your panties unbunched about the fabric getting tied up in his sweet kitty guts or the toxins of the dyes and blah blah blah… he didn’t really ingest any of the fabric– it’s all still there. He just chewed and clawed his way through it. In under 5 minutes.
Now he is just sleeping soundly on top of (NOT IN!) a remade bed with different sheets, as if nothing happened.
Let me tell you one thing I know for certain: I am sleeping with one eye open tonight. Holy shit.
