May 31, 2009

I’ve read in several places and heard at several trainings that the part of your brain called the limbic system, the part that controls your emotions, never matures. That’s why when your mom asks you why you didn’t say goodbye to your sister you are compelled to explain that you did say goodbye and it was an appropriate goodbye and you do love your sister no matter what she says to anyone, instead of just answering, “I did.”

So, I’m blaming my immature limbic system for getting me involved in this whole training for a half-marathon thing I’m involved in.

I am glad it’s just a half, though I have done a half-marathon before, when I was eighteen and running at least eight miles a day, and remember clearly thinking, “That was stupid.”

But my friend, who happens to be at least 15 years younger than me, invited me, telling me it would be fun. So, with an unwise limbic system, I agreed.

And I dusted off those running shoes. I had made a commitment and began to “train.”
            Three miles on Monday. Slow, but I ran the whole way. Three miles on Tuesday. This time slower and I stopped to tie my shoes, to smell a flower, to make sure that the car three blocks away passed before I crossed the intersection – safety first. Three and a half miles on Wednesday and feeling really good.

I figured I’d take Thursday off. I know my muscles need time to recuperate from intense workouts to rebuild and get stronger. Besides, my day was booked from sun up to well after sun down and I didn’t have the time to run.

Lucky for me, the universe had different plans.

Thursday morning, on my way to work, I decided to drop off a book at a friend’s house. I was in a hurry, so I kept the car running, set the emergency brake and left my car door open for a quick return.

Then as I was walking to the front door, I heard a starter’s gun go off or the emergency brake release, whatever. I looked around quickly and realized, I’m in a race with my car which is rolling down the street.

Did I mention it was causal day at the office? I mean, flip flops on my feet casual. Did I mention I was almost to my friend’s front door and the car got a head start? Did any of this faze me? Of course it did, but I dropped the book I was carrying and sprinted for the car anyway.

As I was running to catch my car, gaining quickly I might add, I began to contemplate if I would make it to the car before it hit anything. I calculated the slope of the road, the obstacles ahead, the velocity of the car and still, I had no idea whether the car was going to hit the neighbor’s fence, keep rolling until it hit the oak tree at the bottom of the street, or actually run into something else. Then I began to calculate how much damage each of these obstacles would cause to my car, who was still winning the sprint, until… I caught up.

I jumped into the car and yanked on the emergency brake just as it drove into the neighbor’s fence.

I’d like to say that my fast feet prevented some damage. And though I can’t be sure that it did, this is my story, so I’m telling you – my fast feet prevented some damage. If it hadn’t been for my superior running form, in flip flops no less, and my excellent lung capacity, I’m sure the car would have burst into flames on impact, except I caught it just in time. Admittedly, the car was pretty slow moving and the fence was a soft landing. Still, I do want to point out, it had a head start and I caught it!

After I backed the car out from leaning against the fence, assured the neighbor I would pay for any damage and surveyed the nice wave-like, flame-like design now scratched into my front bumper, I thought, well, I guess I got my run in for the day.

Then that part of my brain that contains the wise, still, small voice said, I suppose I can count that as training for the half marathon and take off tomorrow.   

This week I will listen carefully for that wise, still, small voice instead of allow that silly limbic system make choces for me.

May 24, 2009

We were planning on having a few people over this weekend, and I warily extended an invitation to a friend, G, whom I haven’t seen in awhile. I say warily, because the last two invitations I’d extended to this friend were refused and I happen to have a three strikes and you’re out rule.

The rule is born out of the idea that if I invite you three times and you don’t come over any of those times, I take the hint and figure you really don’t want to hang out with me and quit inviting you. Nothing feels worse than someone who doesn’t get the hint and keeps inviting you, at least that’s what I figure.

But some of my friends have a different take on it, like C.

C and I ran into each other at Octoberfest and I was so happy to see her, and perplexed by how happy she acted upon seeing me since she hadn’t come to any of my get-togethers for three times and had been removed from the invite list. I figured she didn’t really like my parties, but perhaps enjoyed seeing me at a neutral location. I began to contemplate what it was about my parties that made her uncomfortable. Did I serve bad food? Was it my other friends she didn’t like? Did she feel trapped when she was at my parties but here at Octoberfest knew she could make any easy escape when I began to grate on her nerves?

Suddenly, while I was contemplating this, C blurted out, “Why wasn’t I invited to your last party?”

“I figured you didn’t want to come since you hadn’t attended several of my other parties.”

“I was busy the other times.”

“Then you should have just come.”

“I didn’t find out about it until after.”

C looked so sad, and I felt so sad.

“Okay, you are reinstated to the list.”

So when we had a major get-together recently, that G didn’t attend, and C came, all my other friends were gushing over her.

“Where have you been?”

“I got taken off the invite list and had to confront Diane.”

Everyone was like, “You know Diane has a 3 strike rule, what were
you thinking?”  

“I can’t have a life beyond Diane apparently,” C answered, I think she was going for ironic but it came out sarcastic.

Everyone turned to me and I shrugged my shoulders.

 I think the whole conversation was said in complete love for my arbitrary
 social rules, not a hint at all that I should maybe change the rules.

So I was nervous this week when I extended the invite to G, because I really like G and don’t want to think that maybe I’m bugging with all my invites. Luckily she said yes, but has yet to actually show up.

How does an acceptance of an invitation but a no-show play into my social rules?

I’m not sure. I need to check my rule book.

This week I will accept that my social rules may be arbitrary, but they help me make sense of this thing called a social life.

May 17, 2009

Dolly Parton once described her songs as her children. She loved them, but once they were out in the world, all she could do is wish them the best. I try to take that attitude each time I put a piece of writing into the world – “Good Luck!” and then release them to move onto the next project.

Mostly, for a writer of my fame, or to be more accurate – lack thereof, this is usually done in private. I write a few poems, send them off to a poetry magazine and move on. When I receive a letter explaining the fit wasn’t quite right, I console myself and try to find a better fit for my babies. Sometimes that fit is in the safety of my private papers, where I can love and protect them and not have to worry about anyone criticizing or disliking them.

But recently I published a book, a book that is supposed to be funny. When people ask me about it, that is exactly how I describe it – “It’s supposed to be funny” – as I shrug my shoulders and give them a goofy grin, hoping to make people laugh before they’ve even seen the book – a pre-emptive strike of sorts.

Suddenly my baby is not the quiet kid in the back row who does all his work, but is the lead in the school play. My heart is excited by the possibilities of success, but scared to death of failure.  Still during the play, you can focus on the acting and tune out everyone around you.

Likewise with your book, usually you hand it to someone and she leaves to read it in private. Relatively safe, because if they don’t like it, they can think about how to tell me my baby is ugly. “It was sweet.” “It was light hearted.” “I’m proud of your effort.”

Yes, I see right through these comments, but appreciate them still, because at least the person was kind enough to think of a nice way to break the news. “I’m sure your child will grow into that big head.”

But today, I took a book to my salon and while I was having my nails done, a woman waiting picked up the book and began reading it. I pretended to be watching the television and concentrating on what a great job my manicurist was doing on my nails, and never even looked her way.

Until she laughed. Then I did what every part of me had wanted to do the entire time she was reading it, I looked over.

“This is funny.”

“What part?”

“The piggy bank.”

Pride welled up in me. Not only was my baby the lead in the play, but people – not all people mind you – thought he was good.

Actually, a few minutes later, she laughed again. And then again. Hooray!

So today, someone laughed at my baby, but it was good.

This week I will continue to send my creative endeavors into the world, hoping the best for each of them.