I went to the Food Bank on Thursday morning and picking up food donations with K. she told me, "Kristin, I can't believe you haven't run since the marathon. That's gotta be stressing you out." And I have to say, I was quite surprised. I still feel somewhat heroic for what I did, despite my roller coaster of self-pity, and it caught me off-guard to hear someone say that I should get off my butt and hit the roads again when I feel so deserving of a break. But maybe she's right, that its emotionally stressing me out, so I got off my butt.
For about four miles, but it still felt wonderful-- not my legs, of course-- but really wonderful, you know? I got to University bridge and- it was boiling hot- there were boats really simply everywhere below and the air sat heavy around me like a coat covering my bare arms, but I just sunk into it, and it felt like a bath full of epsom salts. I looked out at the loungers on the back of motor boats or the adventurous kayak-ers in their life jackets, drinking from sport-top water bottles, and I just felt like the luckiest. Maybe not the one having the most fun, or the best off in that weather, but the luckiest-- just to be a witness to life, to Seattle, even to myself. It felt good to be able to count on Running again, for it just to sit below my heart, locked in my machine-knees while my head marched through a litany of thoughts, piecing ideas together, processing motion, change and the desire to stay still and throw down roots.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Small steps...
I am in a state of numbness about running. Unfortunately, my legs are not. It still hurts to bend and stand and lift heavy crates of lettuce, which I have to do a lot at the store. My running partner, C. is not sore, which is fine, but it doesn't change the fact that I am. Why, though?
I want to walk my old running routes-- like the two weeks between cross country and track in college, when I missed it so much I couldn't stay away-- and think about my life and try to understand why seasons change and things die, but I can't. Short walks tire me out. I miss running; I miss races, but I don't want either of them right now. I have this terrific feeling that running is all at once everything and nothing to me. That it still defines me, is almost closer than my name, but still I hate it. Why didn't anyone tell me that a marathon is the slow, torturous version of a truck hitting your whole body?
On Sunday Pat and I sat out side the library on the grass with two bowls of ice cream and a notebook and made a list of pros and cons to help him decide if he should go to grad school (he got accepted the night before the race). Though both lists were a fair size before we called it a day, in the end all we could really see on the 'con' side is the money thing and the family thing. I miss my family, and I don't want to be in debt, but weighing on the other side were massive things like community, vocational direction, and the fact that we will stay in Seattle, which I also love. And its only three years, after all. Not a decade, not a lifetime. After a few moments silence while we both stared off into space, Pat looked at me with a grin shyly forming and asked, "Well, Kristin, what do you think?" I thought for a minute.
"I think I'm going to run another marathon," I said. Which he said he already knew.
So yesterday we caught the 30 to the campus and walked around a little bit after he turned in his intent-to-enroll paperwork. So that's it. Pat's a student again! Which has inspired me to get my own proverbial shit together and start perusing Craigslist for a teaching job. Just a couple months now left of freedom before Pat moves and embarks on a task which could very well send a new wave of stress into our relationship, but I really couldn't be more excited.
I want to walk my old running routes-- like the two weeks between cross country and track in college, when I missed it so much I couldn't stay away-- and think about my life and try to understand why seasons change and things die, but I can't. Short walks tire me out. I miss running; I miss races, but I don't want either of them right now. I have this terrific feeling that running is all at once everything and nothing to me. That it still defines me, is almost closer than my name, but still I hate it. Why didn't anyone tell me that a marathon is the slow, torturous version of a truck hitting your whole body?
On Sunday Pat and I sat out side the library on the grass with two bowls of ice cream and a notebook and made a list of pros and cons to help him decide if he should go to grad school (he got accepted the night before the race). Though both lists were a fair size before we called it a day, in the end all we could really see on the 'con' side is the money thing and the family thing. I miss my family, and I don't want to be in debt, but weighing on the other side were massive things like community, vocational direction, and the fact that we will stay in Seattle, which I also love. And its only three years, after all. Not a decade, not a lifetime. After a few moments silence while we both stared off into space, Pat looked at me with a grin shyly forming and asked, "Well, Kristin, what do you think?" I thought for a minute.
"I think I'm going to run another marathon," I said. Which he said he already knew.
So yesterday we caught the 30 to the campus and walked around a little bit after he turned in his intent-to-enroll paperwork. So that's it. Pat's a student again! Which has inspired me to get my own proverbial shit together and start perusing Craigslist for a teaching job. Just a couple months now left of freedom before Pat moves and embarks on a task which could very well send a new wave of stress into our relationship, but I really couldn't be more excited.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Where moment meets eternity
So why can't I describe the way I feel about it?
It's been all I've been thinking about for six months. Or even longer: since I was twelve and Mom dragged us downtown early one sunday morning, and I watched the Kenyans speed by with something in their eyes that I didn't understand, or that lady with the tiny veil, running right next to the man with a matching t-shirt, proclaiming, "Just married." All those smiling faces parading past, all running towards something I couldn't see or didn't know, just knew that I wanted to work for it, too.
And I have! I have for so long. Every humiliating, dog-tired day of cross country in college, every terrifying track meet. Every inch of success has given me another taste, every failure has only increased the burning for the ultimate thing: the marathon!
I remember just a month or so ago, the first time I ran fifteen miles and felt, for the first time, a true sense of despair about it, like it was something that I maybe just couldn't do. I have an insatiable optimism when not in the precise moment of trial. And though I have a great capacity for fear and panic in the moment, beyond it I am determined and sure. So it shook me that day when I came home and said to my mom, "You know, I just don't know..." But the following long run was longer, and I felt fantastic at the end of it. 18 was thrilling because I'd never been there before and I felt that the marathon was truly finally within my grasp, that the massive number 26 was something I could and would do.
But yesterday, in the hot sun, on the hill, 18 was not thrilling, it was miserable. For that matter, 8 was miserable if only just because I knew there was still so much to go. My mind was just ...off... from the beginning. I was so full of fear you could have wrung it out of me. Even my running partner kept looking at me in disbelief. "Kristin, this isn't like you..." At the time, I didn't feel too bad about it, because I felt that the pessimism would be outweighed by the result, that when I finished the pessimism would seem justified. After all, no one says a marathon is easy. The better you are, the more you want to try, I imagine.
But by mile 13, C. was slipping away. She had been pushing past me since the first mile, though I'd brushed it off as race-day enthusiasm, something we'd traded between us on these longer runs. As we rounded the 14th, however, I came to know that she just had more in her than I did. More: skill, training, mental capacity? I don't know; just more. By 19, I couldn't see her anymore, and when we passed each other on a turn around, we cheered, and I noticed she still looked fantastic. Where was my confidence? Where was the hard work I'd put in? Earlier that day I'd talked to another runner before the race and we'd agreed how scary it feels to taper your mileage right when you feel that you need it the most. "You'll be surprised how much your body remembers, though," she promised me. But whether or not my body remembered, I have no idea. My head completely forgot. I, at no time during the race yesterday, had the notion that I could really accomplish it, and purely because of that, I feel today that I did not.
Right before mile 19, something strange happened that's never happened before, and my throat closed, like I was breathing through a straw. The more afraid I felt, the tighter it closed, and I knew something was wrong. Finally, a man in front of me turned and told me to stop because he was worried about my breathing. And that's when I started to cry. Which, of course, only made my breathing more laborious. A few seconds later, it went away as quickly and strangely as it came and I didn't think a lot of it, but looking back at it, its obvious that I was absolutely seized with fear. My throat closed again a mile later, but I closed my eyes and concentrated on relaxing and it opened again without much trouble.
At the water station between mile 21 and 22 I sat on the median and sobbed, because I knew I just didn't have anything left. You might think to yourself that 22 is so close to 26 and that I was pathetic and that four miles is no big whoop if you've just run 22. And you'd be right about the pathetic part, but four miles IS long- its forty minutes-- actually, longer at that point, sadly, and my legs felt like they were make of machine gears and nerves.
And then out of no where, I heard someone say, "Hey, hey, you're okay, come with me. We'll walk to the end together."
When you first meet new people, you always want to present the best side of yourself. That is just the way the world works. But not in a marathon- everyone you meet is like family, like the man who made me stop when my throat closed and only went on his way again when I'd promised to take care. When I met M. on the course yesterday, I had my worst, my ugliest, weakest foot forward. And she didn't leave me till we'd crossed the finish line.
We ran every few minutes, and stopped every few minutes, too. This was her sixth marathon, but this time around she was injured, she told me, and I looked down to see a brace on her leg all the way from her knee to her ankle. We talked about running, and about goals and we met some others along the way. One man I'd passed at the beginning, pushing himself in a specially designed racing wheel chair came by and now cheered us on at the 25th mile. The course began to look different, slower, the people less consumed with the fire of what was ahead, but full of something else now I didn't recognize. My legs throbbed and shook and my stomach threatened to upset, but I knew M. and I would stop if we needed to, and we did, a lot: sometimes for me, sometimes for her, and I didn't mind.
Finally, I saw a long, steep decline, at the bottom of which was a large cardboard number 26. So we ran to the end, slowly, gaspingly and smiled into the camera that broadcast my finish to my family 2000 miles away, huddled around Shea's computer, who made bets whether or not I would throw up right then and there.
M. and I stopped to have our pictures taken together and then after exchanging names and facebook accounts, parted ways. Ten minutes later I threw up every cup of water and cytomax into a plastic-lined carboard box marked 'Recycling,' while Pat and a friend from the store turned modestly away and waited.
I don't really know why I feel so heart-broken now, but I want so badly just to go for a nice, easy six mile run by myself and think about nothing. I just want to see some beautiful scenery and be quiet for a while, but my legs are so broken and sore I can hardly sit in one position for more than ten minutes.
I know it seems selfish to cry over a marathon time, when there are so many people in the world experiencing real loss, or who wish they were healthy enough to stand or walk for long distances or even run, but its more than my disappointment over the results that aches. It is the loss of myself at the crucial moment. I should have been there, I should have scraped up some resilience from the deep of me. But I didn't. I just felt empty and panicked.
I want so much to try again and succeed, but you can't just recreate the 23rd mile of a race. The entire meaning of a the 23rd mile is the 22 that come behind it. The secret of the success of a 23rd mile just isn't that easy. It's really long, and really hard and takes a lot of faith. and 22 other miles.
So, tomorrow its back to the grocery store. 5am. But I guess that's the wonderful thing about disappointment and marathons. Life just goes on and on anyway. So in the words of my new favorite line of running gear: We all run on.
We can only hope.
It's been all I've been thinking about for six months. Or even longer: since I was twelve and Mom dragged us downtown early one sunday morning, and I watched the Kenyans speed by with something in their eyes that I didn't understand, or that lady with the tiny veil, running right next to the man with a matching t-shirt, proclaiming, "Just married." All those smiling faces parading past, all running towards something I couldn't see or didn't know, just knew that I wanted to work for it, too.
And I have! I have for so long. Every humiliating, dog-tired day of cross country in college, every terrifying track meet. Every inch of success has given me another taste, every failure has only increased the burning for the ultimate thing: the marathon!
I remember just a month or so ago, the first time I ran fifteen miles and felt, for the first time, a true sense of despair about it, like it was something that I maybe just couldn't do. I have an insatiable optimism when not in the precise moment of trial. And though I have a great capacity for fear and panic in the moment, beyond it I am determined and sure. So it shook me that day when I came home and said to my mom, "You know, I just don't know..." But the following long run was longer, and I felt fantastic at the end of it. 18 was thrilling because I'd never been there before and I felt that the marathon was truly finally within my grasp, that the massive number 26 was something I could and would do.
But yesterday, in the hot sun, on the hill, 18 was not thrilling, it was miserable. For that matter, 8 was miserable if only just because I knew there was still so much to go. My mind was just ...off... from the beginning. I was so full of fear you could have wrung it out of me. Even my running partner kept looking at me in disbelief. "Kristin, this isn't like you..." At the time, I didn't feel too bad about it, because I felt that the pessimism would be outweighed by the result, that when I finished the pessimism would seem justified. After all, no one says a marathon is easy. The better you are, the more you want to try, I imagine.
But by mile 13, C. was slipping away. She had been pushing past me since the first mile, though I'd brushed it off as race-day enthusiasm, something we'd traded between us on these longer runs. As we rounded the 14th, however, I came to know that she just had more in her than I did. More: skill, training, mental capacity? I don't know; just more. By 19, I couldn't see her anymore, and when we passed each other on a turn around, we cheered, and I noticed she still looked fantastic. Where was my confidence? Where was the hard work I'd put in? Earlier that day I'd talked to another runner before the race and we'd agreed how scary it feels to taper your mileage right when you feel that you need it the most. "You'll be surprised how much your body remembers, though," she promised me. But whether or not my body remembered, I have no idea. My head completely forgot. I, at no time during the race yesterday, had the notion that I could really accomplish it, and purely because of that, I feel today that I did not.
Right before mile 19, something strange happened that's never happened before, and my throat closed, like I was breathing through a straw. The more afraid I felt, the tighter it closed, and I knew something was wrong. Finally, a man in front of me turned and told me to stop because he was worried about my breathing. And that's when I started to cry. Which, of course, only made my breathing more laborious. A few seconds later, it went away as quickly and strangely as it came and I didn't think a lot of it, but looking back at it, its obvious that I was absolutely seized with fear. My throat closed again a mile later, but I closed my eyes and concentrated on relaxing and it opened again without much trouble.
At the water station between mile 21 and 22 I sat on the median and sobbed, because I knew I just didn't have anything left. You might think to yourself that 22 is so close to 26 and that I was pathetic and that four miles is no big whoop if you've just run 22. And you'd be right about the pathetic part, but four miles IS long- its forty minutes-- actually, longer at that point, sadly, and my legs felt like they were make of machine gears and nerves.
And then out of no where, I heard someone say, "Hey, hey, you're okay, come with me. We'll walk to the end together."
When you first meet new people, you always want to present the best side of yourself. That is just the way the world works. But not in a marathon- everyone you meet is like family, like the man who made me stop when my throat closed and only went on his way again when I'd promised to take care. When I met M. on the course yesterday, I had my worst, my ugliest, weakest foot forward. And she didn't leave me till we'd crossed the finish line.
We ran every few minutes, and stopped every few minutes, too. This was her sixth marathon, but this time around she was injured, she told me, and I looked down to see a brace on her leg all the way from her knee to her ankle. We talked about running, and about goals and we met some others along the way. One man I'd passed at the beginning, pushing himself in a specially designed racing wheel chair came by and now cheered us on at the 25th mile. The course began to look different, slower, the people less consumed with the fire of what was ahead, but full of something else now I didn't recognize. My legs throbbed and shook and my stomach threatened to upset, but I knew M. and I would stop if we needed to, and we did, a lot: sometimes for me, sometimes for her, and I didn't mind.
Finally, I saw a long, steep decline, at the bottom of which was a large cardboard number 26. So we ran to the end, slowly, gaspingly and smiled into the camera that broadcast my finish to my family 2000 miles away, huddled around Shea's computer, who made bets whether or not I would throw up right then and there.
M. and I stopped to have our pictures taken together and then after exchanging names and facebook accounts, parted ways. Ten minutes later I threw up every cup of water and cytomax into a plastic-lined carboard box marked 'Recycling,' while Pat and a friend from the store turned modestly away and waited.
I don't really know why I feel so heart-broken now, but I want so badly just to go for a nice, easy six mile run by myself and think about nothing. I just want to see some beautiful scenery and be quiet for a while, but my legs are so broken and sore I can hardly sit in one position for more than ten minutes.
I know it seems selfish to cry over a marathon time, when there are so many people in the world experiencing real loss, or who wish they were healthy enough to stand or walk for long distances or even run, but its more than my disappointment over the results that aches. It is the loss of myself at the crucial moment. I should have been there, I should have scraped up some resilience from the deep of me. But I didn't. I just felt empty and panicked.
I want so much to try again and succeed, but you can't just recreate the 23rd mile of a race. The entire meaning of a the 23rd mile is the 22 that come behind it. The secret of the success of a 23rd mile just isn't that easy. It's really long, and really hard and takes a lot of faith. and 22 other miles.
So, tomorrow its back to the grocery store. 5am. But I guess that's the wonderful thing about disappointment and marathons. Life just goes on and on anyway. So in the words of my new favorite line of running gear: We all run on.
We can only hope.
Marathon
So, there are the events of yesterday:
3:40am I wake up after a night of terrible attempted sleep
3:45 shower
4:00 breakfast of oatmeal and chocolate almond milk, one rice cake
4:30 we decorate our arms with permanent markers
5:00 a stop at my apartment for pictures
5:05 we anxiously load up the car and zoom downtown, to the Westin where a vehicle supposedly waits to shuttle us to Tukwila, the start line
5:20 panic- the line is six blocks long
5:25 ATM
5:30 hail a cab
5:40 arrive in Tukwila after hopping the highway railing and walking the exit around the mile long standstill of shuttles and drop-off traffic
5:50 check our gear, pee
6:10 shiver in a half hour line to pee again, eat a bagel and peanut butter sandwich
6:45 head to start line
6:55 wait in corral
7:26 cross start line, walking, screaming and waving at the camera
9:43 Half Marathon
12:31pm Finish
12:50 vomit water and cytomax into a recycling bin
12:55 pick up gear
1:20 catch city bus home
3:40am I wake up after a night of terrible attempted sleep
3:45 shower
4:00 breakfast of oatmeal and chocolate almond milk, one rice cake
4:30 we decorate our arms with permanent markers
5:00 a stop at my apartment for pictures
5:05 we anxiously load up the car and zoom downtown, to the Westin where a vehicle supposedly waits to shuttle us to Tukwila, the start line
5:20 panic- the line is six blocks long
5:25 ATM
5:30 hail a cab
5:40 arrive in Tukwila after hopping the highway railing and walking the exit around the mile long standstill of shuttles and drop-off traffic
5:50 check our gear, pee
6:10 shiver in a half hour line to pee again, eat a bagel and peanut butter sandwich
6:45 head to start line
6:55 wait in corral
7:26 cross start line, walking, screaming and waving at the camera
9:43 Half Marathon
12:31pm Finish
12:50 vomit water and cytomax into a recycling bin
12:55 pick up gear
1:20 catch city bus home
Friday, June 26, 2009
A little plug for my new friends
The marathon is tomorrow. I am feeling... okay about this.
Yesterday C., my running partner, and I stopped in at the Rock 'n' Roll Expo for FOUR HOURS picking up free CLIF shot blocks and kiwi halves. I got my t-shirt, my number, chip and some unexpected purchases, one of which, I would like to share.
At running events, like marathons, multitudinous running companies (and a handful of chiropractic, naturopathic, and other various oddities) show up to peddle their wares. Typical are the shirts: "26.2 miles. Been there; Run that" and "I know I run like a girl. Now try to catch up," and while these shirts are definitely festive and playful, I discovered a new line of running apparel called Running Divas (www.runningdivas.com) with a refreshing distinction. They sell not only t-shirts but sweaters, long sleeves, undies and even thongs, all randomly (and thoughtfully) smattered with poetry written from their experiences of an active, competetive lifestyle. While you may see typical "runner's gear" and be tempted to spend, Running Divas sell products and messages that you must witness like art before you even think about your checkbook. It's beautiful, intriguing and in the end, collaborative with your own experience of the sport. There is something other runners can recognize, something we already know we're a part of.
As for the messages themselves, they're wonderfully understated, a unique move in athletic apparel. Many of the shirts simply say, "It's who we are. It's what we do." Several have the words in a long skinny vertical tower "mile after mile after mile after mile..." and on the back "I'll be miles away." It seems to capture the mundane and difficult work of a long run, while still somehow allowing space for the peace and joy that solitude and hard work bring. Some just sprout random running realities like "morning runs... alarm clocks" or "runalicious" that make us laugh or roll our eyes in recognition, even in memory of our own seasons or competitions. Other products are just plain fun, like the thongs that read "marathong" across the front, unapologetically.
Running Divas seem to remind us what we feel on our best days: that running is, while difficult, a ton of fun, and that we are more beautiful, stronger and happier people for participating. Please check them out! And good luck to everyone racing this weekend!
Oh!, and my shirt? Looks like this:
Happy
When she's running
she's flying
Yesterday C., my running partner, and I stopped in at the Rock 'n' Roll Expo for FOUR HOURS picking up free CLIF shot blocks and kiwi halves. I got my t-shirt, my number, chip and some unexpected purchases, one of which, I would like to share.
At running events, like marathons, multitudinous running companies (and a handful of chiropractic, naturopathic, and other various oddities) show up to peddle their wares. Typical are the shirts: "26.2 miles. Been there; Run that" and "I know I run like a girl. Now try to catch up," and while these shirts are definitely festive and playful, I discovered a new line of running apparel called Running Divas (www.runningdivas.com) with a refreshing distinction. They sell not only t-shirts but sweaters, long sleeves, undies and even thongs, all randomly (and thoughtfully) smattered with poetry written from their experiences of an active, competetive lifestyle. While you may see typical "runner's gear" and be tempted to spend, Running Divas sell products and messages that you must witness like art before you even think about your checkbook. It's beautiful, intriguing and in the end, collaborative with your own experience of the sport. There is something other runners can recognize, something we already know we're a part of.
As for the messages themselves, they're wonderfully understated, a unique move in athletic apparel. Many of the shirts simply say, "It's who we are. It's what we do." Several have the words in a long skinny vertical tower "mile after mile after mile after mile..." and on the back "I'll be miles away." It seems to capture the mundane and difficult work of a long run, while still somehow allowing space for the peace and joy that solitude and hard work bring. Some just sprout random running realities like "morning runs... alarm clocks" or "runalicious" that make us laugh or roll our eyes in recognition, even in memory of our own seasons or competitions. Other products are just plain fun, like the thongs that read "marathong" across the front, unapologetically.
Running Divas seem to remind us what we feel on our best days: that running is, while difficult, a ton of fun, and that we are more beautiful, stronger and happier people for participating. Please check them out! And good luck to everyone racing this weekend!
Oh!, and my shirt? Looks like this:
Happy
When she's running
she's flying
Monday, June 15, 2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Long Road Home
I ran 19 miles yesterday, and I I just don't know if I'll ever recover. First of all, I did about four stupid things. The first stupid thing was this: I didn't bring any food with me. Two: I ran (what I thought was) ten miles out and ten miles back on flat pavement with virtually no change in scenery. Three: I mistook the distance to Christy's bookstore (my designated turn around point) as ten miles when it was actually eleven. Four: I started running too late and stranded myself in the dark on a woodsy notorious-for-shady-happenings trail three miles away from home (since I had to walk back because I miscalculated the distance).
I am dearly hoping that if I don't do these four stupid things in the marathon, the result will be so great that I can run seven additional miles. This is the plan anyway. That and TAKE THE GU. I know its creepy, but TAKE IT. Food for runners, while arguably not food, is free and mentally helpful since one knows that it should work since it has for so many others for so long. Don't know what GU is? Google the GU.
K. came over for dinner Thursday night and I was euphorically happy. I picked up my clean laundry, washed the dirty stuff and made my bed. I reshuffled my bookshelf, and lastly, I stuffed my stack 'o papers under the couch which unfortunately contains another student loan (my fingers instinctively type 'stupid' instead of 'student') bill, the THIRD which I didn't even know about until it was 90 days overdue. How did they get my address to send me the threat, since they lost it for the warning? But, shoved under my couch, it looked a lot better. Christy bought flowers for the table and the sun showed up right about 5:15 and we opened all the windows. It was a beautiful evening, though the sun has been beautiful for days now.
K. brought a fantastic dessert and Pat helped me pick out the wine and I haven't touched alcohol in about four weeks because of the marathon, so I was ecstatic to share it with her. We boiled water and sauteed squash and asparagus and threw in some vodka sauce. At 7:15 Pat came home from work and dinner was served. It was fantastic-- mostly the wine. Two glasses later, we all had a lot of opinions. And I thought a lot about the world.
There are many things broken, and I hate it. Its true that resources are misused and social structures are corrupt and rotten. But I look at myself. I care a lot about people, but I'm a jerk all the time. I am broken, I feel corrupt and rotten. This doesn't make me depressed and repentant- I'm only human, but it does make me reevaluate. I care about the environment, and I'm constantly making comments at the grocery store about how we handle our resources, and yeah, it frustrates me. But then I look at myself again: how many things have I thrown out this week that I could have recycled just because I was lazy? Have I really done the research about my own city's recycling policies? Every time I get angry about the world, I look into my trash bin.
Along the road last night I saw signs for forest restoration and I thought about eschatology, one of my least favorite subjects. But I realized that in my hope for the future of the planet is a little bit of that reconciliation-talk from college. Part of the reason I both care and want so much to act is that I believe in something.
And that was a little bit of a surprise. Me. Believe. So there you go, you lovely Mormons.
I am dearly hoping that if I don't do these four stupid things in the marathon, the result will be so great that I can run seven additional miles. This is the plan anyway. That and TAKE THE GU. I know its creepy, but TAKE IT. Food for runners, while arguably not food, is free and mentally helpful since one knows that it should work since it has for so many others for so long. Don't know what GU is? Google the GU.
K. came over for dinner Thursday night and I was euphorically happy. I picked up my clean laundry, washed the dirty stuff and made my bed. I reshuffled my bookshelf, and lastly, I stuffed my stack 'o papers under the couch which unfortunately contains another student loan (my fingers instinctively type 'stupid' instead of 'student') bill, the THIRD which I didn't even know about until it was 90 days overdue. How did they get my address to send me the threat, since they lost it for the warning? But, shoved under my couch, it looked a lot better. Christy bought flowers for the table and the sun showed up right about 5:15 and we opened all the windows. It was a beautiful evening, though the sun has been beautiful for days now.
K. brought a fantastic dessert and Pat helped me pick out the wine and I haven't touched alcohol in about four weeks because of the marathon, so I was ecstatic to share it with her. We boiled water and sauteed squash and asparagus and threw in some vodka sauce. At 7:15 Pat came home from work and dinner was served. It was fantastic-- mostly the wine. Two glasses later, we all had a lot of opinions. And I thought a lot about the world.
There are many things broken, and I hate it. Its true that resources are misused and social structures are corrupt and rotten. But I look at myself. I care a lot about people, but I'm a jerk all the time. I am broken, I feel corrupt and rotten. This doesn't make me depressed and repentant- I'm only human, but it does make me reevaluate. I care about the environment, and I'm constantly making comments at the grocery store about how we handle our resources, and yeah, it frustrates me. But then I look at myself again: how many things have I thrown out this week that I could have recycled just because I was lazy? Have I really done the research about my own city's recycling policies? Every time I get angry about the world, I look into my trash bin.
Along the road last night I saw signs for forest restoration and I thought about eschatology, one of my least favorite subjects. But I realized that in my hope for the future of the planet is a little bit of that reconciliation-talk from college. Part of the reason I both care and want so much to act is that I believe in something.
And that was a little bit of a surprise. Me. Believe. So there you go, you lovely Mormons.
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