tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-212269612024-03-23T12:27:24.538-06:00Just RunRunning. And then some.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.comBlogger403125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-63257547363255591602007-10-01T05:00:00.000-06:002007-10-28T20:01:55.253-06:00I blog here now:<a href="http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/">http://justrunjustlivejustbe.com/</a>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-79257201502207477452007-09-28T07:26:00.000-06:002007-09-28T08:03:19.353-06:00A big week of little thingsThere's something not altogether right about how fast a week goes anymore. It was a good week, though I'm not sure it makes for much of a story. Aside from being noticed on <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/09/holla.html">my</a> <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/09/wherein-my-heart-rate-is-immeasurable.html">runs</a>, there isn't a huge amount of news, per <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">se</span>. <br /><br />I'm sure you don't want to hear about two of <a href="http://www.target.com/Xhilaration-Sophia-Canvas-Skimmers-Brown/dp/B000PUMJTK/ref=br_1_6/601-9961213-4284919?ie=UTF8&frombrowse=1">the</a> many <a href="http://www.target.com/Xhilaration-Sable-Ballet-Flats-Tapestry/dp/B000PW502G/ref=br_1_9/601-9961213-4284919?ie=UTF8&frombrowse=1">reasons</a> I should not be allowed to go into Target. Or maybe you do? (Seriously, what <em>is</em> it with that place?) But yes, I will buy shoes at Target or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wal-mart</span> or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Bloomingdales</span> if they called to me as much as those did. <br /><br />Probably the biggest breakthrough of the week is something in school started "clicking" as they say. I went from <em>holy crap I will never understand any of this</em> to <em>holy crap I get it and thank you, Heaven and Earth, there is some hope! </em>And that's probably what I missed most about school, those moments when you can actually see yourself learning- you feel as if you're actually a witness to something. In this case, it felt like witnessing a miracle. Of course, if you'd have asked my college-aged self what I'd miss most about school a decade(<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ish</span>) later, she would have said beer. Silly girl, she had no idea how twenty-almost-eight would feel.<br /><br />Yeah, I'm turning twenty-eight soon. I have to say, it feels good. I can't say that I feel much different, and since I still find time to act like I'm twenty, I guess there's good reason for that. Can't very well say you're old when you're running around your childhood <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">front yard</span> in your <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">bare feet</span> with a one-year-old on your shoulders. Okay, fine, that's not the only way I act like I'm twenty. There is still a beer here and there, too. <br /><br />Having always been sort of obsessed with balance, however, I can say I see more of my ability to appreciate it now. Or maybe it's just the fact that I've learned to accept some things more than I used to. Either way, that part does feel better. Which is good, because everything else seems to hurt just a <em>little</em> more than I ever remember it hurting before. <br /><br />Okay, I'm all over the place so I'm going to stop. Enjoy your weekend.<br /><br />Oh yeah, I'm going to cut my hair.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-78932286231579561402007-09-27T08:35:00.000-06:002007-09-27T08:47:01.403-06:00Holla!In general, when we don't hear from someone, we may be tempted to think nothing is going on. No news is good news. The blog world teaches us differently, however. When someone is not offering up new posts, new bits and pieces of their life's musings, the opposite is often true. It's not that so little is going on (though this can certainly be the case) that there is a loss for interesting subject matter but more likely that there's so very much filling every day and every moment that it's nearly too much altogether.<br /><br />Many of you are moving house, changing jobs, raising children, working, taking care of life, building things, going on new adventures and more, so I know you can identify. A couple days ago, for instance, I made a list of everything I need to do before October and not only was the list fifty-eight items long, I realized October? Well, that's next week. You understand, I know you do. And it would be one thing if everything on that list were as simple as <em>comb hair</em> but we know that just isn't so. There are much more demanding things to be done, like <em>paint bathroom</em> and <em>talk to advisor at school</em> . It's not often we have nothing to share, oh no; it's just finding a place to begin to share it is a task in itself.<br /><br />Some things, though, just stand out. Some things happen and you just cannot help but share. I was running yesterday, about two miles from my house, and got my first "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">holla</span>" of the year. "<em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Holla</span></em>," you ask? Well, yes. A "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">holla</span>" is a name my running friends and I came up with years ago for when you're running down the street and someone, usually a man, yells something at you as he (or he and several others) drives by. It didn't have nearly the connotations then as it does now, but still it's an interesting phenomena, right? It's sort of strange that this is the first time it's happened this year but most of my running has been on trails, so I guess it's the law of averages.<br /><br />And no, it's not one of those I Still Got It moments because, let me tell you, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">holla</span> is, by nature, not that attractive. I mean sure, when you're thirteen and you and your friends are walking down one side of the road and the group of boys/girls on the other side of the road start yelling something incoherent but clearly hilarious across that road, you are amused. This is surely some thirteen-year-old form of flirting and flattery. It may even be true as we get older, sixteen maybe? You're all driving for the first time, in your first car, and you want to get the attention of someone. You may yell out the window, I can understand this. I <em>did</em> this. But not any more. <br /><br />Yesterday was a special one. I was running, from my house to meet my sister for a few miles and heard some loud music. Never a complaint from me, about that, of course. Well, apparently me looking toward said loud music was advance-like. Apparently, when you look toward a car with loud music, it means <em>objectify me now</em> because when this car turned the corner and drove by me, and it's passenger yelled "hey, baby" boy, did I feel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">hawt</span>! I mean, that's awesome, right? A guy in his mid-forties, in the passenger side of an '89 minivan that, instead of rolling down the window, one must OPEN THE DOOR to yell something out to me as they drive by is down right sexy. <br /><br />I'm glad it happened, though. What with the pace of life right now, what else would I have to talk about?JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-42167823711550630342007-09-25T16:10:00.000-06:002007-09-25T16:28:55.025-06:00Wherein my heart rate is immeasurableThe best thing about the last forty-eight hours is that a homeless man made me do some speed work.<br /><br />Here I just might as well say hi, I'm overwhelmed with work and school and running, though I need it, is getting on my nerves. For one thing, I'm still not running as "fast" as I'd like to be. I'm currently cruising along at around a 10:00 pace and while that's acceptable, I find myself thinking I can go faster. I just don't.<br /><br />I also think I could run a little longer than I am, but for some reason I get out there and four miles feels like enough. My long run on the weekend is maybe six or seven. I have no reason to push it. Heck, I can barely fit it in. And (imagine I am talking to running here, not you) for that matter, I'm kind of annoyed that I have to run at all- I kind of want to say forget it and go take a nap. I mean, I want to run but then it's just <em>there</em> and it's this <em>thing. </em>Believe me when I say if it weren't for that pesky (read: necessary) weight control "issue" I'd probably just drop this crap altogether. At which point I'd probably have to go into therapy. Man! This is just not going to work, no matter how I argue.<br /><br />But I guess the point is I'm running anyway. Yesterday I had to fit it in at lunch, which was welcome because I was having the sort of day in the office where people not only know you're too busy but warn other people to stay away for the sake of the greater good or something. Or maybe they're just being nice to the crazy girl.<br /><br />I decided to take a different route so I wouldn't get bored (the mind games we play) and headed South from the office instead of North. I had my Garmin with me so I thought I'd just make up the route as I went along. About 1.5 miles into my 4, I crossed under a bridge. I was about 3/4 of the way through when I hear this raspy, yet loud, voice yell "go go go!" And then I peed my pants. Okay, I did not but it was dang near. Instead, I picked up the pace a LOT, looked over my shoulder and saw a scruffy, bearded, homeless man standing at the edge of the bridge waving the standard bottle-in-a-paper-bag arm and squinting in the sun. Also, no one else was around. It is not an exaggeration to say that I ran like hell, all the way back to my office. <br /><br />That last mile was a solid 8:15. I hate speed work.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-59274106221827036682007-09-21T05:23:00.000-06:002007-09-21T05:30:56.826-06:00Somewhere between pressure cooker and all-out bonfire*I suppose there is risk in everything. There is risk in liking, most definitely risk in loving and hopefully some kind of assuring risk in committing. There is risk in expression as much as there is risk in keeping your thoughts to yourself. And though I don't have a site meter and doubt there are more than a couple dozen people around here on any given day I sort of feel like I've had this blog long enough to understand the risk in having an opinion. An opinion on the Internet, that is.<br /><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br />I've had plenty of opinions prior to my blog experience, of course, but I'd venture to say this is it's own kind of special risk. Perhaps that's just my way of feeling good about what I write and how I share it, or because I love other blogs too much, but whenever there's a little bit of disagreement I wonder if I'm not getting scared. I mean, I want to share my opinions and I don't mind if no one agrees but I start to wonder if that's okay. I start to think about the chance of offending others.<br /><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br />I struggle between writing from my gut and writing in a way that will allow me to relate to my known readers. I mean, without naming names, how does one go about sharing life's details without offending anyone between the ages of twenty-three and fifty-something? How do you write if you're constantly thinking about what the college student, or the father of four or the wacky cyclist or the pastor or the One You Call Your Internet Mom are going to think? How do you even begin to be authentic? And I don't mean what those people are going to think of me personally, I just mean in general. While I'd say I pretty much do whatever I want, I do like to think I do things with intention. I believe we can be careful without being too self-conscious.<br /><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br />I'd also like to think I make an effort to think about what I say and how I say it. So when I write about the peace I feel floating in crystal clear water, it is really how I feel. And it is not just because I had a beer on the beach that day; though I can honestly say I feel like being able to experience moments where you feel at peace in your life and where you are, where you've chosen to be, <em>are</em> a<em> </em>blessing, even if they include a beer. There is nothing wrong with that.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMWvi4k1dI/AAAAAAAAAcU/gdb6CbJTS_A/s1600-h/DSC_0084.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112455008069408210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMWvi4k1dI/AAAAAAAAAcU/gdb6CbJTS_A/s320/DSC_0084.JPG" border="0" /></a> I struggle a little about sharing some of my adventures and the experiences I'm able to have, fearing they'll come across as gloating. And though I've said many a time that a life well lived ought to be shared, the natural doubt that comes from so much good contributes it's share of guilt. I want to be sure that somehow, through sharing, I absorb the experience and the gratitude I feel in an otherwise impossible way. It is not just the experience itself that feeds me, but the perspective I get by possibly relating to another that makes it better. Richer.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMV4S4k1cI/AAAAAAAAAcM/2d5uzvaapYM/s1600-h/DSC_0023.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112454058881635778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMV4S4k1cI/AAAAAAAAAcM/2d5uzvaapYM/s320/DSC_0023.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div>The truth is, there are hard times in life. There's bad stuff in my life and your life and the life of the guy next door. There are things I don't like about myself, that's for sure. I try to work to make these things better, sometimes. For instance, I know I can become a better writer and photographer and maybe even a better runner. I know I can be a better friend to some and I know I can become better at knowing when to let things go. </div><div></div><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br /><div>I am learning. I keep telling myself I can learn to like créme brûlée, but that's probably not going to happen so I'm learning to be okay with liking mole (pronounced <em>mo-lay</em>, F.Y.I.) and finally building up enough of my oh-so-white-girl tolerance to handle food with some kick to it.<br /></div><div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMVdC4k1bI/AAAAAAAAAcE/kGUvvLq_s2s/s1600-h/DSC_0021.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112453590730200498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMVdC4k1bI/AAAAAAAAAcE/kGUvvLq_s2s/s320/DSC_0021.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div>But you know what I think? I think we all know that. We know all about the hard stuff. We live it and deal with it every day. We all struggle with our choices and the demands in our lives and try not to lose our minds on those days when we have seventeen different things to do and, oh yes, <em>they are all important</em>. </div><div><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br /></div><div>So when it comes down to it, when I sit down to write a post and wonder to myself what is sitting in my mind's queue waiting to come out, I guess I don't think about the risk I might be taking as much as I'd thought. I try to aim to create something a little lighter, perhaps more interesting than the oatmeal I had for breakfast but less interesting than, say, politics. (Heh.)</div><div><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br /></div><div>I guess my point is, when I might be so lucky to have people read what I write and then have something to say about it, I'd rather it happen in a way that feels good. I'd rather enjoy the little bits and pieces of life we can be so quick to glaze over. I'd rather be serious yet still joke about ridiculous, silly things. It's a tricky balance and it's not always possible but I've tried it both ways and I think it's better this way. If it's true that there's a place for every one of us, and all our words, then let mine be the place where I can slow down, do my best to absorb everything that's good and most of all, share it with care but without worrying about the risk. </div><div><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">.</span><br /></div><div>Coming to that conclusion here, in black and white, as they say, is a lot more refreshing than I imagined it could be.<br /></div><div><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMU_i4k1aI/AAAAAAAAAb8/gCH75ON5BjY/s1600-h/DSC_0119.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112453083924059554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvMU_i4k1aI/AAAAAAAAAb8/gCH75ON5BjY/s320/DSC_0119.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />___________________________<br /><br />* Alternately titled: No this is not just a sneaky way of posting more photos<br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-89853214250514444232007-09-20T05:12:00.000-06:002007-09-20T05:26:39.711-06:00You can have cake either wayYesterday I was sitting in class when a girl two rows over announced "in two more weeks, I will be twenty-one." I'll spare you the monologue about how hearing this made me feel old and so nostalgic I could almost smell the scent of a dorm room again and just say I was intrigued. I continued to listen as she described all the ways she planned to celebrate this milestone birthday including, of course, the almost obligatory "club hopping" night she and her friends were going to head out for on the weekend of her birthday. (Sidebar: Is it not okay to call this "bar hopping" anymore? Or even a pub crawl?) She proudly announced that, on the day following her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">umm</span>, hopping excursion, she and her boyfriend were going to spend the day together.<br /><br />"I told him there are three rules," she went on. "One, he has to make it all a surprise, two, it has to include cake and three, he cannot burp or fart or watch sports all day!"<br /><br />While I wholeheartedly will agree with rule number two (because when is cake a bad idea?), I still cannot wrap my mind around this rule thing altogether. First, making rules? Um, high-maintenance much? Second, "he cannot burp or fart or watch sports all day?" Okay, is she trying to kill this guy?<br /><br />I watched as two of her friends nodded along in agreement. "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Awww</span>, how sweet" was among the many phrases uttered. It was like they were saying yes, this is a good idea. Force the guy to do something, give him all kinds of conditions and expect nothing but perfection. This is true love. THIS IS REALITY.<br /><br />I tried to think back to when I was twenty-one. There's no doubt there were things I did that I can look back on now and think my gosh, that was hugely stupid. Like the time the idea of a twelve-hour Checkers tournament fueled only by tortilla chips, Velveeta cheese and Arbor Mist seemed perfectly normal. Twenty-one is no doubt a great age to learn that the choices you make today, the beliefs you're tooling along with so happily can all come to a screeching halt tomorrow when you wake up and realize cheap cheese* ["product"] and even cheaper wine are getting you a whole lot more than you'd predicted. In other words, you learn to think ahead. And you learn to detect what's right and wrong for you, and what's real. Perhaps you even realize it's a choice.<br /><br />I think that's what, at twenty-one, most of us don't realize about love and adult relationships in general. Rules are not always going to apply. There is going to be imperfection and unpredictability, and heaven knows <em>there is going to be burping and farting</em>. I'm thankful I realize this. I don't know what age it happened and while there is some charm in the fantasy, I'd rather choose the reality.<br /><br />Later yesterday, while I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Interneting</span> instead of homeworking, I read a short blurb from an interview in <em>Essence</em> magazine with Duane Martin and Tisha Campbell. In this portion of the interview, they were asked by the interviewer to defend recent divorce rumors.<br /><br />Interviewer: So for the record, are you getting a divorce?<br /><br />Tisha: Hell no!<br /><br />Duane: Listen, let me tell you something. I will chew her ass up and swallow it before I let someone else have her.<br /><br /><br />For some reason I like that approach more.<br /><br />____________________________________<br /><br />*Okay, so I sort of still like cheap cheese.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-66722891231404241812007-09-19T06:40:00.001-06:002007-09-19T19:52:07.190-06:00Because I spend most days talking like a pirate anyway<div align="center"><strong>Update:</strong> Someone sent me this earlier, too. I work with tech people who want to be pirates, which is totally understandable.</div><div align="center"> </div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvHRtGMzfoI/AAAAAAAAAb0/2H_CfH0ZUjY/s1600-h/keyboard.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5112097624730861186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RvHRtGMzfoI/AAAAAAAAAb0/2H_CfH0ZUjY/s320/keyboard.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It's true, my friend. Today is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/International_Talk_Like_a_Pirate_Day">International Talk Like A Pirate Day</a>. Which means, of course, all ye proper grammar ought be forgotten, matey.<br /><br />And while we're at it, let's go ahead and not take anything else too seriously, either. Last night, when I got home, I went about my regular routine of dropping everything in my arms in the doorway and going to let the dog out. I noticed I was in a particularly cheerful mood, which is something that tends to stand out after twelve hours at work. Generally, 12 hours at work makes me seem more like a zombie than a peppy local morning talk show host. Obviously, when I'm talking to the dog in Spanish and singing her "Dinner Song" to her (what? Doesn't everyone do this?) it is going to be a good night.<br /><br />I sat down to check my email and the first one I opened was from a friend that reminded me to not forget that "all day tomorrow [today] you are from ARRRRGGGGHHHHKANSAS!"<br /><br />Awesome.<br /><br />But if I'm going to be from Arkansas and talk like a pirate, it probably wouldn't be a bad idea to drink like one, too.<br /><br />Now mind the helm, me hearty!</div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-64236967048055554112007-09-17T18:27:00.000-06:002007-09-17T18:29:16.490-06:00Sometimes More Than OthersOn my recent <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/09/pieces-of-perfect.html">trip</a> to Mexico, we signed up for one of those guided tours. Not the kind where they stamp your hand and shuffle you through like cattle but certainly the kind that you take when you're in a foreign country and you want to go through the jungle without getting eaten by jungle creatures, lost, or worse, be out so late you miss the Red Sox game.<br /><br />Through some streak of luck, reservation confusion and the magic that is "Mexican Time" (which is just like Island Time for any who may be more familiar with that concept; believe me when I say EXACT SAME THING), we ended up on a smaller, later starting tour with only four other people. And our guide, who was this hilarious self-proclaimed Mexican-American who immediately made you feel that even if you hadn't ever been to camp as a kid and had the "cool counselor" that the next six hours were going to totally make up for anything you might have missed. "I have a Mexican girlfriend now," he said, "I had a Dominican girlfriend before. And all that means is now instead of everyone getting their ass kicked, it's now just me." This is how the day started.<br /><br />As we went on our hiking/biking/snorkeling/zip lining adventure, each activity became more fun than the last. Also, being in a very small group, we had a ton of time for a lot of "extras" that wouldn't otherwise occur. At one point our group was having a really hard time deciding if we wanted to eat, float in a cenote or drink beer first. "Float, eat, drink," I told our guide. "Dang, are you single," he asked, though it was more of a statement than a question. All I could say was "let's not go there<em>."</em> Sure, a little retro but I was serious. <em>We did not need to go there.</em><br /><br />Which sort of brings me to my point, the point of all this. There was a moment, when I stood at the top of a tower that was something like a billion feet in the air, looked at the three hundred sixty degrees of jungle canopy around us, took a deep breath and lifted my feet off the platform and felt, without any doubt, that there was no other place I would have rather been on Earth. Think about that for a minute; that feeling of knowing you are one hundred percent right where you think you ought to be. I didn't need anything else. I needed no one else around me. I wasn't anything but right there.<br /><br />I felt a similar feeling when I walked in the door tonight. It's been drizzly and rainy all day. I'm still getting over this cold and the feeling that my head weighs sixteen pounds. I let the dog out, kicked off my shoes, and put on my slippers and a sweatshirt. I put the teapot on the stove and while I waited for the water to boil, I sat down at my table and looked out onto the patio and thought, <em>this is good. </em>It is good, like that zip line in Mexico. But with one difference, I really would have liked to have someone sitting at the table with me. At least once in a while.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-58956881916217475432007-09-16T18:46:00.000-06:002007-09-16T18:42:12.062-06:00It's all good because the only cold that's here right now is mineOver the weekend, the <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/09/i-left-my-brain-on-plane.html">virus</a> I've been "entertaining" finally kicked in. Honestly, it's really nothing more than a cold and it's not some foreign disease but rather something more common contracted from a sixteen-month-old child.<br /><br />Aside from a slightly heavier-than-normal head and aforementioned child screaming into my ear just for fun, the weekend has been the September ideal you might always dream about. The house is clean, the laundry is finished, football has been watched, the dog was walked and pizza was eaten.<br /><br />And the point of all this? Well, I think I am accepting that Fall is here. We will not utter the words "Summer is over" because that is entirely unnecessary. Rather, we will just say we like football and changing leaves and the Indian Summer-ish days that are upon us.<br /><br />Mostly, I am loving it. Even when I'm seeing things through a cold-medicine haze, when you consider that <a href="http://cbs.sportsline.com/">the team won</a>, there's word that my sister's husband is coming home from Iraq by Christmas, and there are beautiful things all around, it's not hazy at all. In fact, it's actually quite clear how good everything seems to be.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Ru2WmDxZuwI/AAAAAAAAAbs/RjmD13RR5DA/s1600-h/100_1665.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5110906732727089922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Ru2WmDxZuwI/AAAAAAAAAbs/RjmD13RR5DA/s320/100_1665.JPG" border="0" /></a>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-21544485068101164422007-09-13T19:35:00.000-06:002007-09-13T19:35:06.982-06:00Shhhh, the birds aren't even awake yetI went out for another 4:00 a.m. run this morning. As strange as it feels to type that, I have to say I really don't mind the early morning running. I'm the sort of person that will get up early and as long as I don't have to talk to anyone for a good hour or two, I'm fine. Some may even say cheerful, but they shouldn't. Because that would violate the no talking rule. And yes, you should <em>know </em>that rule.<br /><br />I was thinking about this today, when I was running and breathing in the cooler Fall-like air. (No, I am still not prepared to be in full-on Fall. Yes, I know that's ridiculous. I don't care.) I listened to my feet hitting the pavement and thought about how I really do love that early morning time. It feels so private, like it belongs only to me. I have a few friends that run early, but with people. I do like running buddies but something about that time on my own just makes it better. No traffic, no beating sun, no exhaustion from the day yet. Just me and my half-asleep brain which, if you haven't noticed, is when it's at it's best. The brain is just better before it's awake and in full Analysis of Life and All It Contains mode. Like what you'd imagine a "normal" brain to be.<br /><br />So back to my propensity for quiet in the morning- I love it. I guess I just need the time to stare down the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">barrel</span> of a full day. When I was a teenager, still living at home, I used to wake up early to read the paper. Often, my mother would wake up and begin talking to me. This is normal for her in the morning. So there she'd be, having an entire conversation with me about the dentist and hockey practice and the dog and there I'd be, staring at her hard enough to generate enough will to cease her voice with my mind. It would usually take a good ten minutes for her to look at me and say "okay, we'll talk about this later." I'd nod and go back to my Cheerios.<br /><br />I'm lucky that this was just my mother, who has been willing to let <em>me</em> be me my entire life. What am I supposed to do when someone doesn't get this? I think it's reasonable, but then again, it's <em>my</em> rule. And I don't have many rules. Be kind, be willing to learn, work hard and, for gosh sake, DO NOT EXPECT SERIOUS CONVERSATION FIRST THING IN THE MORNING.<br /><br />I need to find a nicer way of saying that.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-13740648191870278842007-09-12T12:47:00.000-06:002007-09-12T12:54:17.454-06:00I left my brain on the plane"You look like you're feeling sick."<br /><br />"That's because I am."<br /><br />"Yikes, I hope you didn't catch any exotic foreign disease."<br /><br />"Ugh, don't even say that. I probably have the Ebonic Plague."<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"You know, the Plague?"<br /><br />"No. You either have Bubonic Plague or Ebola virus. You do not have Ebonic Plague."<br /><br />"Oh wow, I'm an idiot. See, it's already affecting my brain."JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-51208172067262828682007-09-10T19:30:00.000-06:002007-09-10T19:45:23.902-06:00Pieces of perfectWe stayed at this little darling hotel on the quiet end of town. We walked through the rainy streets with bags and no umbrellas to get there and if the warm colors and adobe spiral staircase weren't welcoming enough, the staff was. They knew our names from the moment we walked in the door and offered us everything from directions to umbrellas to comfort us. The manager, whom I nicknamed Pavarotti because he was singing when we walked in, helped me reacquaint myself with Spanish. It turns out I can find more than the beer and the bathrooms when I'm in Mexico*.<br /><br />It was an interesting place to see the fusion of different cultures. It always amazes me how if you take the time to talk with people and make the effort, you'll get an amazing response. You go from feeling slightly lost and very out of practice to knowing that yes, even with the barriers of language and culture differences, you can make friends anywhere.<br /><br />Like the young lady at a small bakery we stopped in for dessert one day. Though it was simply apple pie, there was something oddly magical about her teaching us to call it <em>tartleta de manzana </em>as we ate it and read magazines while Springsteen tunes floated out from the back room. It was a fantastic contrast that settled me. One step up, two steps back, indeed.<br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108745305452133346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXoybtrO-I/AAAAAAAAAbc/KFF_sE8fbPU/s320/DSC_0043.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br />The sky also happened to stay in a constant state of bright blue, of which the thought only causes me great discomfort today. It is fifty-four degrees (F) in Colorado right now and I didn't see blue sky all day. Call it nature but I think it's Colorado's karmic way of getting back at me for pining after others.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXc6btrO9I/AAAAAAAAAbU/3Svv6nI7AGI/s1600-h/DSC_0083.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108732248751553490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXc6btrO9I/AAAAAAAAAbU/3Svv6nI7AGI/s320/DSC_0083.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Mexico, and likely any place if you'll let it sink in, is filled with detail. And just a couple steps away from the mainstream, you'll see this more and more. Little things people do and say that show an effort to be unique. An effort not only to stand out but to do it in a way no one else does. We should each be so lucky to have these efforts noticed. We should be so lucky to always try to make the effort at all.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXcSbtrO8I/AAAAAAAAAbM/8AD4iVCnfLc/s1600-h/DSC_0026.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108731561556786114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXcSbtrO8I/AAAAAAAAAbM/8AD4iVCnfLc/s320/DSC_0026.JPG" border="0" /></a> I must admit, was not enough time. But when is it ever? I took an entire week off running (not to mention every other endeavor) and I have to say, for the first time in a while, I really miss it. I miss the open road and the air being stolen from my lungs. I miss the sweat and the way it clears my mind. Oddly, though I so badly believed I needed to be taken away, I missed my feet being on the ground. And if we know anything at all, we know it won't be long before I'm floating again anyway.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXYu7trO7I/AAAAAAAAAbE/Wws2WbT_rnM/s1600-h/DSC_0032.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108727653136546738" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RuXYu7trO7I/AAAAAAAAAbE/Wws2WbT_rnM/s320/DSC_0032.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">* See Me: 101, #70.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">_________________________________________</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="left">Last week's guessing game answer: <strong>C</strong>. I made it up. And if the above didn't make it obvious enough I will just explain by saying I think it would be nearly impossible for me to be friends with someone that so decidedly hated warm weather. There's just a certain basic level of understanding that must occur between friends.</div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-25571570777993291732007-09-05T15:26:00.000-06:002007-09-05T15:28:47.571-06:00Which one of these things doesn't belong here?Having been out of my house for four days and preparing to be gone for five more, the fridge and cupboards are pretty unappealing. When my sister came by around dinner time last night, though I'd warned her I had nothing resembling a meal, she was shocked. I had a hard time convincing her we could create any sort of dinner from eggs, canned soup and rum.<br /><br />If there was nothing left last night there was really going to be nothing today. I decided to stop by Starbucks, breakfast place of champions. While I waited for my order at 5:30 a.m., I started thinking about everything I'd need to catch up on today in order to leave tonight.<br /><br />As is true with most of us hyperactive types, I started making a list. Part of this list was people I needed to catch up <em>with</em>. I know the thought of scheduling catch up phone calls or conversations with friends seems silly, but sometimes if I miss one call, it leads to weeks or even months of having no idea of a) where the time went and b) what they've been doing all that time.<br /><br />Sadly, my efforts were really ineffective today. I am 0 for 3 on finding my friends. This is a little bit of a mystery to me, but I believe I am at least intuitive enough to guess where they might be.<br /><br />Of the following four statements, three are actually very likely to be true. Which do you think is too impossible?<br /><br /><em><strong>A) One friend has quit her job, filed for divorce and is now playing thirty-seven-year-old groupie and hanging with a very large concert tour because she and the main man have finally realized their true love for one another.</strong></em><br /><br /><strong><em>B) One friend has started yet a THIRD master's program in which he has decided last-minute to travel abroad and has absent-mindedly forgotten to tell about thirty of his closest friends, just like last time.</em></strong><br /><br /><em><strong>C) One friend has grown tired of any sort of hot weather and has decided to build a home near the Arctic. They are meeting with the builder this week and, therefore, are out of cell phone range.</strong></em><br /><br /><em><strong>D) One friend is holed-up in bed with a leg in a cast and since she is normally such a spaz she is very frustrated and angry about the whole mess and can't bring herself to answer the phone.<br /></strong></em><br />Come on, give it a go. I'll reveal the untrue statement when I get back.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-16237463605909060072007-09-04T19:33:00.000-06:002007-09-04T19:45:09.053-06:00Don't listen to me, I'm high on cornToday I returned from a whirlwind road trip from Colorado to Iowa, via Omaha, Nebraska. All I can say after roughly 2,800 miles on the road, 13.1 of those miles spent running and yet another reminder of how blessed I am to have wonderful friends is I'm exhausted and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.<br /><br />It was the change in scenery, the miles put on the car, surviving a half-marathon I was entirely unsure about and being around running friends (with whom, you know, no subject is off limits) that put me right where I needed to be. I wasn't sure about this trip, for many reasons. One, of course, being the running but also being so unsure of the steps I've been taking in other parts of my life. It turns out packing a lot into the last bit of Summer is just the thing to remind yourself that those steps, both running and otherwise, are inevitable.<br /><br />And there's nothing like being with people who accept you, your choices, and your bad jokes just the way they are to reassure you that by taking advantage of every minute, you are doing just the right thing. Because when I think about that inevitable "end" we all will reach one day, it will not matter that I ran slower than I should, or that I passed up a chance for promotion because it didn't feel right or that I put off getting the carpets cleaned. Yes, all of those things might bother me, but it really doesn't matter.<br /><br />So after an all-too-fast weekend and keeping myself up late tonight to do homework that I just didn't seem to get to before now, I can at least be assured of a few things: we really do only race one person, weekends and life go far too fast, and you shouldn't wear a skirt in a cornfield.<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Rt4B2LtrO6I/AAAAAAAAAa8/wYTgt10zJ0Y/s1600-h/DSC_0115.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106521057853651874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Rt4B2LtrO6I/AAAAAAAAAa8/wYTgt10zJ0Y/s320/DSC_0115.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />___________________________</p><p>P.S. I am so sorry to my Minnesota and Iowa blogging friends. There was just no time for an extended visit. I totally think this should be in my life plans soon, though. Believe me, I need no excuse to meet strangers from the Internet. Heh.<br /></p>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-59767432960910265802007-08-30T17:07:00.000-06:002007-08-30T17:12:09.235-06:00My Windshield on the World, Wyoming & Utah Edition (Part 8, probably)Here we are, two days from the weekend that, in the United States, marks the end of summer. Sure, go ahead and wait until September 21st if you'd like, we'll all sit by while you pretend it's not the end. And we'll secretly laugh at you because everyone knows you're just living in a fantasy. Truth be told, I'll live in that fantasy with you a little bit anyway. We've still got those Indian Summer days ahead of us out West here, and if you think I'm packing up the flip flops before the first snow, well you don't really know me at all.<br /><br />It has been quite the trip, this summer. Months filled with babies getting <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/05/happy-birthday-ij.html">older</a>, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/05/chick-magnet.html">pirates</a>, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/06/carribbean-conversation.html">unforgettable moments</a> of turquoise water and <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/in-summer-song-sings-itself-william.html">perfect days,</a> friends and fireworks, live music, oh so much music, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/endless-in-my-mind.html">refusing to let Summer go by too fast</a>, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/there-have-been-times-in-my-life-when-i.html">early mornings</a>, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/not-having-done-it-in-fifteen-years.html">calling it quits</a>, <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/07/i-told-her-we-all-have-those-moments.html">sisterly bonding,</a> and realizing that life, no matter my inability to predict, has <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/i-have-no-idea-whats-next-i-just-know-i.html">some really great things </a>in store. And if all that isn't a reason to take one more week and live it up for all it's worth, it ought to be.<br /><br />Tomorrow I'll be hitting the road one more time for the year. I'm headed through <a href="http://www.nebraska.gov/index.phtml?section=nol">corn country</a>, then up the <a href="http://www.iowa.gov/state/main/index.html">corn belt</a> (I have totally made up these names and really have no idea what is or is not identified as corn country or the corn belt). All this for, you guessed it, friends. I'm meeting one, and going to do the race in the hometown of another. Hey, we do what we gotta do.<br /><br />Upon returning, I'll spend a total of twenty-four hours at home before heading out again, but this time, there will be no race. Remember <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/i-regard-your-opinions-very-highly-you.html">this little scenario</a> from a few weeks back? Well, a decision was eventually reached. After careful examination of personal schedules, work schedules, flight schedules (and availability) and, well, a little bit of pure fantasy, we decided we'd head to the beach. I know how shocked you are right now, that I would make that decision. I promise, I did not coerce my friend. I can't help it if I'm really super excellent at travel research.<br /><br />I will admit, it was not our first choice. We considered New York City (more hustle than we wanted, and I mean that in a good way), New Orleans (flights just did not work- this was a huge disappointment), and the West Coast (but then realized there were some flight restrictions and it made no sense to start in the middle of the country, head East and then turn around and head West). So, when it came down to it, South of the border became the obvious choice.<br /><br />I'm about to cover more miles than I can count, set foot in approximately seven cities, three airports, several corn fields (how could I not) and several <em>more</em> cantinas. I plan to update in between to the two so as not to confuse corn and tequila but in the meantime, I'll leave you with some windshield commentary from my last trip.<br /><br />Happy Labor Day weekend, my fellow Americans. And happy end of Summer/whatever season you may be leaving behind right now to all.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Utah, via Northern Colorado and Wyoming:</strong></div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">After getting through the madness that is North Denver these days, you're reminded Northern Colorado still has some wide open spaces. And thank God for that.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNvcrtrO5I/AAAAAAAAAa0/_JVV4wLpfKg/s1600-h/DSC_0002.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103545341302225810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNvcrtrO5I/AAAAAAAAAa0/_JVV4wLpfKg/s320/DSC_0002.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />But as soon as you cross into Wyoming, you're also reminded that fireworks aren't legal in Colorado.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Lucky for us, Pyro City is just a drive away.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNvG7trO4I/AAAAAAAAAas/syTQ84NAYws/s1600-h/DSC_0006.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103544967640071042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNvG7trO4I/AAAAAAAAAas/syTQ84NAYws/s320/DSC_0006.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Once you're all stocked up on the sparklers, you can head out into the wild blue yonder that is Southern Wyoming. Wind farms, a repaving project and, oh yes, a little red Corvette (look closely, waaaay up ahead) kept me company for hundreds of miles.</div><div align="center"><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNuN7trO3I/AAAAAAAAAak/TR5Q0eAyQ6Y/s1600-h/DSC_0014.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103543988387527538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNuN7trO3I/AAAAAAAAAak/TR5Q0eAyQ6Y/s320/DSC_0014.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Sooner than you think, however, you'll be near Utah and entering the beautiful Wasatch Mountains. Or at least the sign says so.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNt1rtrO2I/AAAAAAAAAac/6ChfPKrU2R0/s1600-h/DSC_0016.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103543571775699810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNt1rtrO2I/AAAAAAAAAac/6ChfPKrU2R0/s320/DSC_0016.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Then, if you're really lucky, you'll participate in a 178 mile relay with eleven of your closest and sweatiest friends. And it will be beautiful!</div><div></div><div>And if you're really, really lucky, the van your team uses is a rental so when you back it into a tree in the middle of the night because you're driving barefoot and parallel parking, it will not matter.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNtLLtrO1I/AAAAAAAAAaU/it4hwtlU1kM/s1600-h/DSC_0126.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103542841631259474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNtLLtrO1I/AAAAAAAAAaU/it4hwtlU1kM/s320/DSC_0126.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />All too soon, though, you'll be headed home.</div><div></div><div>As you drive those hundreds of miles back, you'll stare out into the wild blue yonder that is southern Wyoming and know that every mile, both driven and run, was totally worth it. Because they always are.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNsrrtrO0I/AAAAAAAAAaM/UrG2_dLbrKQ/s1600-h/DSC_0238.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103542300465380162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtNsrrtrO0I/AAAAAAAAAaM/UrG2_dLbrKQ/s320/DSC_0238.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div></div></div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-16663173545564909392007-08-29T18:24:00.000-06:002007-09-25T11:26:58.880-06:00Welcome matAlright, fine. It has come to this. It has come to another end to another day where I can't seem to find enough time. I am overwhelmed. It's these times I feel like I'm not being a good enough... anything (insert the following terms: friend, employee, daughter, sister, runner, dog owner, etc.).<br /><br />I walked around all day feeling as though I was in a bubble. Several times I had to stop myself to check and see if I was dizzy. Was the room spinning? Was <em>I</em> spinning? My mind feels clogged. Nothing seems to settle it. I hate that feeling.<br /><br />I think it's fear. It's got to be. It's fear making a short visit and I've got to figure out how to entertain it without letting it take over my life. I recently turned down a promotion, you see. Sure, promotions are good and include many good things like more responsibility, better titles and, of course, more money. But after a week of thinking it over, I just couldn't get my head around the idea that I <em>wanted</em> it. Because I didn't.<br /><br />And when people asked why, all I could say is "it just isn't right." People do not understand this. They get that 'does not compute' look on their faces and stare at me as though I've lost my mind. It's the only answer I have, though. My heart is just not in it. At some point, you come to realizations about what you want for your life. And despite having to pay for school and my ever-persistent beach habit, money is not everything. My heart, however, is. It took me the full week in limbo to become comfortable with saying that.<br /><br />This decision is helped by school. I'm not going to school to move up in my current line of work. Yes, I could use this education to do so but that's not my goal. Many people don't know this. They haven't asked, but I don't advertise, either. It's difficult to express to them that although I may be doing very good work and being a good employee (who gets offered promotions, hello!) that I want more. I am not going to be that person that tells someone that while they may be very happy with their job, well it's just not good enough for me. So I keep my mouth shut.<br /><br />All the while, as I maintain my silence and hope and pray that I am making the right decisions, I feel very alone. Yes, I have friends and family that know about my goals and support me but no one is in my head, or my heart. No one really knows this feeling, this need. I know that it is impossible for anyone to completely understand, but it feels very lonely. Lonely is the welcome mat for fear, and fear is coming in. In fact, it's having its own personal wrestling match with sanity. My sanity.<br /><br />No, of course I am not going to lose my mind over this. Of course I know it's the right thing to do and even if things work out much different than I plan (damn good odds there, right?) I still need to follow this road. I would much rather try than go along with something where I'm okay but not fulfilled. I can sleep at night knowing I at least tried. I can do that. It's just some days, well, it's really hard to feel like you're living on nothing but a dream.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-22869104676465586442007-08-29T09:49:00.000-06:002007-08-29T09:58:21.789-06:00Bred for the winner's circle"You should have heard it, it was hilarious!"<br /><br /><br /><br />"So they were shouting the horse's name?"<br /><br /><br /><br />"Yes, over and over again!"<br /><br /><br /><br />"And the horse was called 'Hoof Hearted?' "<br /><br /><br /><br />"Yes!"<br /><br /><br /><br />"Wow."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Yeah, it was ridiculous. Hoof Hearted! Hoof Hearted! Hoof Hearted! Over and over. In their big hats and Mint Juleps in hand!"<br /><br /><br /><br />"I can't believe you were there for that."<br /><br /><br /><br />"I couldn't believe that name."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Yeah, that's what happens when rednecks get money."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Funny, I was just thinking that's what would happen if anyone in our family got money."<br /><br /><br /><br />"Same thing."<br /><br />________________<br /><br />Disclaimer- I believe many good things happen when rednecks get money. I think it's a nice coincidence that most of them turn out to be entertaining.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-2602948994596852032007-08-28T05:28:00.000-06:002007-08-28T05:27:08.444-06:00Last SundayThere were two half-brown bananas sitting on my counter and I didn't feel like working. I'd just spent the day running, running errands and running after a kid, what I needed to do is clean up after it all. But I was too distracted for that. Something in my head didn't register that 3:00 on a Sunday afternoon was <em>really close</em> to the end of the weekend. In my mind, I had time to spare. And everyone knows the best thing to do when you have no time for anything is to bake.<br /><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br />So the two half-brown bananas and the one and only recipe I remember from childhood, and have remembered through out my life, became bread.<br /><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br /><br />It's not impressive, really. It's probably the same recipe you, your family, the neighbor and her family all have used their entire lives, too. Or some slight variation thereof.<br /><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br /><br />You start with the bananas, of course.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIh3rtrOzI/AAAAAAAAAaE/LRvqgchdgeU/s1600-h/DSC_0002.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103178568275016498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIh3rtrOzI/AAAAAAAAAaE/LRvqgchdgeU/s320/DSC_0002.JPG" border="0" /></a> There are also eggs, just the beginning of the arguably cardiac-damaging ingredients. But if you're me, you have a coworker that raises chickens. Chickens who live free and sing elegant melodies while they lay eggs. Or something like that. And you use these lightly speckled, sing-songy eggs for your bread.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIhgrtrOyI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/2C2cz4MTzTM/s1600-h/DSC_0003.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103178173138025250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIhgrtrOyI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/2C2cz4MTzTM/s320/DSC_0003.JPG" border="0" /></a> What I love about this recipe, other than the fact that it's in my head, is that even though it's baking, it truly is mostly <em>just</em> baking. Combining all the ingredients takes about 10 minutes, the batter stands for about 20 minutes and then, into the pan and into the oven, to be forgotten about for a good 50- 60 minutes. (Note: I am so glad they invented oven timers in this time in history. I would have made an awful 1800's baker.) </div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br /></div><div>I love something I can dump into a loaf pan and fifty minutes later, call it bread. But on Sunday, I couldn't find my loaf pan. Really. Who loses a loaf pan? Well, me, for about five minutes. And in that five minutes, it occurred to me: bundt! I don't know if I love using it or typing it or saying it more. But bundt, of course!<br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIhMbtrOxI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/mSotHXW6O6o/s1600-h/DSC_0008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103177825245674258" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIhMbtrOxI/AAAAAAAAAZ0/mSotHXW6O6o/s320/DSC_0008.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />So after the mixing and the pouring and the scraping and listening to the complaining because there was "barely any batter left in the bowl," into the oven it went. (And seriously, I have never gotten into the batter-licking thing, so please explain this to me. Maybe it is just the carbohydrate lover in me, but why lick raw batter when you could, theoretically, have more bread in the end?)<br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIenrtrOwI/AAAAAAAAAZs/Wb0zuKq5IqU/s1600-h/DSC_0009.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103174994862226178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIenrtrOwI/AAAAAAAAAZs/Wb0zuKq5IqU/s320/DSC_0009.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div align="left">Ironically, it turned out there was extra batter. As a side effect of my ability to get this together in ten minutes, apparently, batter flies.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIeSLtrOvI/AAAAAAAAAZk/d4906pVMiD4/s1600-h/DSC_0013.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103174625495038706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIeSLtrOvI/AAAAAAAAAZk/d4906pVMiD4/s320/DSC_0013.JPG" border="0" /></a> You should have seen her trying to lick it off, once she realized it was there. If getting entertainment out of those that depend on you for life and happiness isn't your idea of the best fun, well you'd better be the one in charge of keeping me from having children.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br /></div><div>Forty minutes* at 325 would pass, though. The bathroom and the dog would be cleaned. The oven timer would sound. And the bundt would be turned over, revealing banana bread, sans nuts. Some are allergic, you know.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtId77trOuI/AAAAAAAAAZc/LLzzyjZKU08/s1600-h/DSC_0020.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103174243242949346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtId77trOuI/AAAAAAAAAZc/LLzzyjZKU08/s320/DSC_0020.JPG" border="0" /></a> My intention was to bring this to work, because it is always my intention. I need bread made with eggs, sugar and shortening lying around the house like I need the proverbial hole in the head. So I sliced it and packed it up for the office.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span><br /></div><div>Most of it. Because why else did I run ten miles that morning.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIdYrtrOtI/AAAAAAAAAZU/HUMPPmLTmMI/s1600-h/DSC_0021.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5103173637652560594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtIdYrtrOtI/AAAAAAAAAZU/HUMPPmLTmMI/s320/DSC_0021.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>___________________</div><br /><div>*Time adjusted for the change in pans.</div></div></div></div></div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-92134063907417386222007-08-27T05:59:00.000-06:002007-08-27T05:38:41.128-06:00Cure-allDon't ever let anyone tell you there aren't at least a few go-to cure-alls in this world for a long week.<br /><br />But I'll back up a little. I'm still getting used to balancing a new pass time in my life, you see. It's school, of course. And learning to make room for learning is an interesting transition. I anticipated this, or as much as I could anyway, but what I didn't know was how much I'd enjoy it. Through all the years I wanted to go back to school, I waited for it to feel right. I resisted the idea of going back for something I "should" do and waited until I figured out what I wanted to do. And now that I'm doing it, I'm into it and it's great.<br /><br />The tough part, when you're making room for the books and the reading and the homework is that nothing else goes away. The dog still needs to be walked, the floor still needs to be cleaned and that project at work, you know, the one that pays? Well, there's a deadline. Oh, and have I mentioned the half marathon I'm registered for next weekend? No? I haven't? Well there's that, too. Which means making time for running. And if you were running as slowly as am right now, you'd know just how much time that's taking.<br /><br />All of this sort of came together last week. I was all the sudden pulling the balancing act again and though you know me too well to know this was not a unique situation, I still managed to claim that it sneaked up on me. Sometimes I think that's why we're all here, for me to play mind games with myself and you to put me in check with a comment that says <em>hello, liar, YOU DO THIS ALL THE TIME.</em><br /><br />Speaking of comments, thanks for all of yours on the <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/not-because-i-dont-like-butterflies-and.html">'butterflies and fireworks'</a> post. Though I did receive one choice email from Patty, a nineteen-year-old college student from Atlanta, I really appreciated all the insights. You people are really remarkable. (But FYI: Do not ever, ever tell a nineteen-year-old Southern girl there is no such thing as an effortless relationship. She will disagree. And she has seven (seven!) paragraphs to tell you why.) The more I think about it, the more the idea of soul mates and timing really go hand in hand, don't you think? Several of you commented that you believed people came into our lives, all people, at certain times for certain reasons. I couldn't agree more. I have friends I've met, it seems, at just the right time in my life and for all the right reasons. These people, I have no doubt, are some kind of "soul" person, if you will.<br /><br />So do you see all this thinking going on? This is the sort of thing adding to the full plate. And yeah, OF COURSE I know we all have this. I'm just saying, it got a little rough last week. By Friday, I was ready for a cold one all the while knowing I had zero energy to stay awake long enough to drink it. I thought this was going to be my cure-all.<br /><br />But lo, it was not meant to be. Instead, I got a last minute invite from a friend with a spare ticket to a concert. So I cancelled everything I'd planned for the evening (read: decided cleaning the toilet could wait another day) and met up with my friend. For a few minutes I was thinking, g<em>ee, does this make me a loser? The fact that I have nothing happening on a Friday night and can just say 'yes' to plans at the drop of a hat? I'm now Extra Ticket Girl. Nice.</em> But then the music started and I knew that was definitely not a loser, I was lucky.<br /><br />And there you have a cure-all. Live music, any live music (well, almost), just makes all my worries and stress go away for a little while. I take a deep breath, look around and for a while, everything is a little lighter.<br /><br />We may also have done the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lH2t6T7rhCU">Footloose</a> dance in the aisle. So I guess that makes <em>two </em>cure-alls.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-73644109986388661882007-08-25T13:48:00.000-06:002007-08-25T13:59:19.344-06:00I'm normally not a huge fan of pink<div align="center"><em>However...</em></div><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCJmbtrOsI/AAAAAAAAAZM/9YLb7cRfdDo/s1600-h/DSC_0175.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102729671178140354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCJmbtrOsI/AAAAAAAAAZM/9YLb7cRfdDo/s320/DSC_0175.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCJCrtrOrI/AAAAAAAAAZE/STe0WJpAReU/s1600-h/DSC_0194.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102729056997817010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCJCrtrOrI/AAAAAAAAAZE/STe0WJpAReU/s320/DSC_0194.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="center"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCIiLtrOqI/AAAAAAAAAY8/gQVdCcLViDo/s1600-h/DSC_0316.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5102728498652068514" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RtCIiLtrOqI/AAAAAAAAAY8/gQVdCcLViDo/s320/DSC_0316.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-29371336040970060312007-08-23T18:20:00.000-06:002007-08-23T18:23:22.492-06:00Not because I don't like butterflies and fireworksSo I was over at <a href="http://areyoutheregod.blog.com/">Dawn's</a> reading her most recent post about "soul mates." Or, more accurately, belief in them (or not). I started typing and after I'd spit out a good four paragraphs, I decided it was worth it's own post. Also, Dawn doesn't need my dissertation on her blog. Well, at least not ANOTHER one. (I have no good reason for all those others, Dawn. Oops?) <br /><br />Dawn said she's "never been a big 'soul mate' person" but wondered what others think. I, of course, had an opinion.<br /><br /><em>This may come as a surprise but I'm not a huge soul mate person, either. Additionally, I think choosing to initiate a committed relationship is more due to effort on the man's part than the woman's*. Okay, that might not have come out right but go with it for a minute. I think, because we are very different in the ways of commitment, that it really is about timing, especially for men. </em><br /><br /><em>You know that guy, the one who'd date everyone? He was nice but he'd never commit. He'd have the perfect girl and somehow, some where down the line, he'd find a reason to break up with her. Then, after all that, he'd begin dating a girl and be married within six months? I think it's largely because HE was ready. My friends and I used to call this the "next girl wins" phenomenon. It wasn't necessarily because she was his "soul mate," it was because a) he was ready and b) they were compatible. That's it.</em><br /><br /><em>Now, even typing this, I am a little weary. It all seems very mechanical and not at all romantic. But I think that's why it's so much more attributed to men (in general). It's about logic, not butterflies and fireworks. I know the dudes like the butterflies and fireworks, but I think they see that as more of a given, or a "bonus" if you will. They'd rather know they're ready and that they're with someone who they can stand.</em><br /><br /><em>So part of me thinks this is encouraging, because what it all comes down to, for me anyway, is that I want to be with someone who wants to be with me. Someone who's ready and is aware they're at that point in their life. Call me crazy, but I like the idea that two people can <strong>decide</strong> to be together and then <strong>decide</strong> to put in the work it takes to make (and maintain) a good relationship</em>.<br /><br />Now, as Dawn asked, what do <em>you</em> think? Agree? Disagree?<br />___________<br />*This is assuming, of course, you're addressing a male-female relationship, which we both were.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-89561576792089354212007-08-22T20:47:00.000-06:002007-08-22T20:44:37.709-06:00This wouldn't be so sappy if she weren't laying on my feet right now<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Rszp47trOpI/AAAAAAAAAY0/a7c4Vo0lw5Y/s1600-h/Garden+of+the+Gods+064.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5101709642215144082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/Rszp47trOpI/AAAAAAAAAY0/a7c4Vo0lw5Y/s200/Garden+of+the+Gods+064.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The day I brought Lola home, she weighed 5.2 pounds. As I've written here about her before, she was a "rescue" which is code for Everything That Can Possibly Be Wrong With a Dog You, You Lucky, Lucky Sucker, Will Find It In This Dog. Yes, that is a title. And it was hers. She was 5.2 pounds of mange-infested adorableness with a extra large side of gastro-intestinal issues.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>But when she licked my hand and raised her little non-existent eyebrows that wrinkled her bald, crumpled forehead, I knew she was mine. She was the little, squirmy piglet I'd always begged my mother to have, come fifteen years late.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>Lola has come a long way, though. Through those beginning weeks of mange dips (13 weeks (it normally takes 6-8)) and dog food experimentation, which still sometimes proves to be a challenge, she is now nearly the perfect dog. Yes, there have been days I've gotten out of bed, walked down the hall, in the dark half asleep, and stepped in vomit, but by and large, she makes no trouble.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>In fact, she has this tricky, almost evil way of looking at me when I've stepped in said vomit pile that makes me feel like it was something I did to make the mess. Like, <em>woman, it was you who coaxed it out of me. </em>And then all at once I feel incredibly guilty about everything I've done in the last month that hasn't been something that caters directly to her needs and desires. I am the guilty one.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>And boy, does she do this ALL THE TIME. The worst part, it usually works. I don't really have the "ideal" dog-owning life, you see. I am up early, gone through the day and working on other things at night (like having a life or, you know, watching people sing karaoke on television). I travel quite a bit and run a lot and this just doesn't all fit perfectly with owning a dog who, if she could speak, would take every chance to remind me she was royalty in her previous life. So that walk in the evening, those visits to Grandma's and the hallway fetch we play every morning just don't ever seem to be enough, for me. For her, well, I think she's fine. All she ever seems to really care about is that I fill the bowls and that she gets to plant her butt next to me on the couch, no matter who else may be there. </div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>I think of all this now, though, because it has been five years since I scooped up that 5.2 pounds of mess and never looked back. Five years of walks and wintertime foot warming and food experimentation and barking at things that NO ONE ELSE CAN SEE (her, not me- mostly). When I realized this today, and being the perpetual realist I am, I began thinking about her age, and how long dogs like her live. Average: ten years. I know, I'm depressing, but barring anything out of the natural order, I couldn't help but realize we are likely halfway through this thing. </div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>I immediately understand now how a pet can mark your life. She lived with me in my first apartment, when I ate Ramen and her "specialty" food cost six dollars a pound. She's driven with me across the state and the country. She's seen my friends (some closer than others) come and go. She's been there when I've been too sick to get out of bed to feed her and when I've been so happy I pick her up and spin her around like the doll of a seven-year-old. She's the only one I make up songs for and the only one with whom I speak Spanish on a regular basis. She's seen me with my heart broken, at the end of the day after my very first "real world" job, and sat with me through a snow storm power outage. </div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>And true, I know she is a dog. She is my buddy and my pal and awful cute but still, a dog. I do not love her like I love many people. But I do love her. How can I not? She is a part of who I am and reminds me of things about myself I'd otherwise forget. And like any good ally, she is too important to ever toss aside. She knows far too much.</div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-57785501177830686732007-08-21T05:30:00.000-06:002007-08-21T05:29:43.094-06:00Boring, but someone askedOkay, relate to me. I know you can. Sometimes, I sit down all ready to write and my fingers start moving and yet, I have nothing but crap to talk about and crap is never good. At least not over and over again. You do this, right? I know you do, you must. It's like the chi isn't flowing right, or something. My chi knowledge is limited but I'm pretty sure that's the problem.<br /><br />It seems to be that time lately. The end of Summer, Fall on the horizon. Some things winding down, others just beginning. Could it be that I'm feeling all transition-y again? Oh no, certainly not me. <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/04/in-like-lion.html">I never get that way.</a><br /><br />Lately I think we're all there a little bit, though. Today, after my three mile run I met my sister and watched my nephew while she did her run. When she returned, we almost simultaneously said "why did we do that?" It's just one of those times when you're either overwhelmed, exhausted or a combination of both and the thought of putting more effort into something than you need to just makes no sense.<br /><br />Which leads me to this: Email question time. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Yay</span>!<br /><br /><em>(Over the course of days/weeks/months, I had a few emails. I'm sorry, I know, I suck at returning them promptly. Again, sorry. No good excuse, no excuses at all. Anyway.)</em><br /><br /><em></em><br /><br />Here are a few things I've been asked, in no particular order:<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>1. Do you really think the kind of shoes someone has for running are that important?</strong><br /><br />Yes, I do. Yes. Yes. Yes. And absolutely yes. Without going into great detail and/or "preachy speech" I must say <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">yyyyyyeeeeeeessssss</span>! Running in the right shoes (or even extensive walking, for that matter) will be the thing that makes the biggest difference in your running. It can mean the difference between yards and mileage, between injury and health, between comfort and misery. They are important for every part of your body, not just your feet. Your back, your knees, every joint will thank you for having the right shoe on your foot. Go to a running store, have your gait evaluated (by someone over the age of twelve) and try on every shoe until you feel like it's right. Yes, this takes time but it is just as, if not more, important than any part of your training. Promise.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>2. What do you do with your dog when you travel?</strong><br /><br />She stays home alone, but after this last trip we're going to have to quit that. She totally had a huge party and the cops were called and my fancy import rugs were ruined. She's lost her freedom.<br /><br />Quite honestly, she stays with my mother, who loves her like a grandchild. She comes home all hyped up and thinking she has a chair at the dinner table. It takes weeks to retrain.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>3. What are you going to school for?</strong><br /><br />To remind myself not to end sentences in prepositions.<br /><br /><br /><br />Ha, kidding. Well, sort of. I am not going for my M.B.A. This whole school thing is still a little new for me though so give me some more time to decide how and when I want to talk about it and then I will. Promise.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>4. Why don't you move your site? It could be so much better.</strong><br /><br />Though I don't think it sucks now, I understand this question. Soon come, my friend.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>5. You are always going somewhere. When are you traveling again?</strong><br /><br />I hit the road again- and hopefully for the last time this year- in eleven days. No, it won't be the last I travel for the year. Of course not. Just hopefully the last time I do it on wheels for a while.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>6. Do you weight train?</strong><br /><br />Yes, two to three times a week. Not because I love to have bulging muscles or to get ripped, but because of how it makes me feel. I like the feeling of a stronger body when I run. It's hard to describe, but I have felt like a running blob of floppiness before and this year, with serious dedication to weights, I have felt great. It sort of keeps all things in their place, if you know what I mean. Clothes fit better, even if you haven't lost an ounce in weight. Make sense?<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>7. Are you going to move? Where would you go if you could go anywhere?</strong><br /><br />Probably not within the next year. I have some commitments and some things I'd like to see through here first. And, I have a sweet, adorable, 16 month-old nephew and awesome sister who are here for the next 6-9 months and I wouldn't trade these times for the world.<br /><br /><br /><br />If I were given a choice, and really put a lot of thought into moving (and the timing, work and finances, etc. were right) I'd ideally split my time, between here and <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/06/it-is.html">other places that feel like home.</a> Sort of like retirees do, but without A.A.R.P.<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>8. Do you really not know when someone is flirting?</strong><br /><br />No, I would have to say I really don't. I'd say I really have a better idea of how to notice this after the comments from <a href="http://justrungirl.blogspot.com/2007/08/this-would-all-be-much-easier-if-he.html">that post</a> and I certainly feel less alone in my flirt-detecting oblivion than I did before. Why? Do you have a flirt detector I should know about?JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-29459949483045142752007-08-19T17:21:00.000-06:002007-08-19T17:23:06.937-06:00The part about the run isn't really the pointYesterday morning I got up at about 5:00 a.m. (yes, on a Saturday) to get my run in. I wanted to do twelve miles and avoid the heat. I'd also had a thrilling Friday evening of watching <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0758766/">Music and Lyrics</a> (we thought it was just "eh") and going to bed early so I figured I was setting myself up for a great morning run. Aren't I mature.<br /><br />Well, almost because for some very non-mature reason, my idea of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">carb</span> loading on Friday night was cereal and popcorn. I know. So for miles 1-3, I felt great. It was easy. Just about that time when I started feeling that great I-could-run-forever euphoric feeling that never comes around often enough, my poor choices from the night before came back to haunt me. We'll just say it felt like someone was putting a citrus peeler under my ribs and stirring. And trust me, I could get much more graphic than that, but even the memory alone is far too painful.<br /><br />And you'd think I would have stopped, but <em>no</em> because despite my upper abdominal muscles being in some sort of seizure, I was determined. Well that determination took me another five miles before I gave up and walked the remaining mile home. Nine miles felt like nineteen. I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall, asking myself why I'd ever gotten up to begin with.<br /><br />But I'm not really telling the entire story, here. There was actually another reason I got up early yesterday. I wanted to get that run out of the way because I had somewhere to be.<br /><br />Some friends of mine have a small ranch property in Eastern Colorado- you know, horses, cows, pastures- and I'd been invited out to ride. Yes, horses. I am not going to lie, I was Christmas morning excited about this all week.<br /><br />I've been around horses on and off my entire life. I can't remember my first ride and I've never owned my own horse, but I've always had friends with horses and I've always known enough to get by. So when I pulled up yesterday after having driven down miles and miles of dirt road and my friend said "are ya ready?" I was. At this point, I still had no idea we were actually going to be doing anything with a purpose. Sometime during the whole "saddling up" process, my friend says we're going to move some cows. Wait, what?<br /><br />I'll save the whole story of how I had an internal freak out and managed to stay calm and just tell you, this is some of the most fun I've ever had. And the most tired I've ever been. Some friends from up the road (or "over yonder" as I started calling it- I know, I'm hilarious) joined us and we herded and moved the cattle from one pasture to an adjacent pasture in less than an hour. I probably just used five words incorrectly and sounded like some ridiculous city girl, but that's fine.<br /><br />It was hot, dirty, tiring, and so much fun. And when we were finished, and did some "fun" riding, we came back to the house, had a couple beers, watched an incredible rain storm blow across the prairie, followed by rainbows and a beautiful sunset.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RsjJjrtrOoI/AAAAAAAAAXs/XdfIOfOTv8Q/s1600-h/DSC_0051.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100548192863992450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RsjJjrtrOoI/AAAAAAAAAXs/XdfIOfOTv8Q/s320/DSC_0051.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RsjIR7trOnI/AAAAAAAAAXk/LeqsApfOjGM/s1600-h/DSC_0055.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5100546788409686642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_pcTFqRVvf2A/RsjIR7trOnI/AAAAAAAAAXk/LeqsApfOjGM/s320/DSC_0055.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />I was told I am allowed to come back and help again. And I will, next time I'm over yonder.</div><div><span style="color:#cccccc;">.</span></div><div>I think I'm ready for my spurs now.<br /><div></div></div>JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21226961.post-48340538595788912922007-08-16T05:02:00.000-06:002007-08-16T05:34:46.050-06:00This would all be much easier if he would just say "here is a picture of my boat"I am notorious for being the girl that has no idea she's being hit on. I meet someone, talk with them, laugh with them, laugh at stupid jokes (because they're funny, duh), graciously accept compliments and all the while have no idea that someone might actually be flirting with me. Unless it's those sixty year old men, they're pretty obvious. And no, not in a good way.<br /><br />Now, don't get me wrong, I can do my share of flirting. I am very aware of this. I have tried and true flirting practices that even when minimally successful, get the job done. Or at least in my mind, they do. It's sort of like a hobby, even when it's bad, it's good. Or a bad habit, but we'll not go there.<br /><br />But then there's me, not as the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">flirter</span> but the <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">flirtee</span>.</em> I used to be almost afraid of flirting, or being flirted with, rather. I didn't know what to say or where to look and, my gosh, <em>when did my hands start getting in the way all the time </em>so I'd just sort of play along and hope for the best. Then sixth grade graduation came (ha! Exaggerating. A little.) and something magically happened to me (hormones?) and I was no longer afraid of it. Rather, I became oblivious to it.<br /><br />Now we all know I don't go around the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Internet</span></span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">talkin</span></span>' up the dates and what not, that's just not me. First, some things are just mine and second, well the "line at my door" my grandma always used to talk about just, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ummm</span></span>, how do you say... <em>isn't</em>. Nonetheless, we carry on. Or at least I think I do. And I go to coffee shops and happy hours and running events and travel and hang out with my friends and always end up hearing phrases like "what's wrong with you? That guy was totally flirting with you!" And I'm all "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Wha</span></span>? Huh?" And my friends are all "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Uhh</span></span>, yeah." And then they smack me and then we all laugh at me. Because it's funny, except when it's later and I think about it. I question myself and think oh no, WHAT <em>IS</em> WRONG WITH ME?<br /><br />I usually come to the conclusion that nothing is really wrong, as I don't really believe in "fixing" these kinds of things. Addictions? Yes. Bad habits? Yes. I'm all for self-improvement. But personality? Eh, I don't know. I mean, yes, I could be more aware. But I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">usually</span> feel I'm aware every day. A few days ago I noticed the woman at the toll booth got her hair cut and I don't even use that toll booth. I <em>notice</em> things. Just not this.<br /><br />So guess I could ask what you would do? How do you know <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">someone's</span></span> hitting on you? How do you "hit back?"<br /><br />I'm expecting some earth-shattering answers here, really. Because as of now I'm just going with the assumption that some people just haven't been good <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">flirters</span> with me. Yeah, I'll let you know how that approach works out.JustRunhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03621925857881380555noreply@blogger.com22