5 reasons I haven't updated in several days

So, I was home for a week for Christmas, and I didn't update because I simply had other things to do, including:

1. drink martinis
2. play Wii fit
3. harass my relatives
4. get harassed by my relatives
5. eat pie

5 lines I have delivered onstage

It's been quite a few years since I was in a show, but in middle and high school, I was quite the drama queen. I was always the first to have my lines memorized, and I still remember some of them....

1. (sung) "How they swing their partners 'round, 'til their feet are off the ground, and they clap their hands like this, and they stomp their feet like that. How they swing their partners 'round, 'til their feet are off the ground, in my home in Switzerland, Switzerland." (from William Tell and the Swiss Archers, the 6th grade play, in which I played a villager)

2. "Oh, John, God send his mercy on you!" (The Crucible, the high school play my sophomore year, in which I played Rebecca Nurse) (Everyone liked "I have not had my breakfast" better, but my favorite line to deliver was the one above.

3. "Heat snapped metal like the brittle winter ice!" (from a dramatic version of Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains", one of two brief shows we did at a summer camp I attended. I was the electric cleaning mouse. I remember this line in particular because I got me a really great compliment from the director, who said that everyone should project their voices like I did when I delivered that line.)

4. (sung) "Good King Applesauce looked out...." (from Oh Christmas Three, the children's play we put on when I was a senior in high school. I played a singing turkey named Tanya. No, really.)

5. "Someday you'll see that a great injustice was done me. You'll see I was always quite sane. But here I am, and here they'll try to keep me, with my few foolish years taken from me! (pause) You know, if you walk around the edges of the carpet sometimes, it saves wearing out the middle!" (from The Curious Savage, the high school play my senior year, in which I played Mrs. Savage. Absolutely my favorite show.)

5 gifts included in yesterday's Yankee Swap

At yesterday's office holiday potluck, we had a Yankee Swap, otherwise known as a White Elephant. The gift I brought was two plastic margarita glasses. As it got closer, I became a little afraid that my gift was too jokey, and everyone else's would be nice. Boy, was I wrong. Here are five of the gifts that were swapped.

1. A pair of Christmas socks and a small can of Lysol disinfectant spray.
2. Two candles, one a rather psychedelic turtle, the other a disturbingly realistic duck.
3. Two books written in Urdu, one about how to make sherbet and one about sexual disorders.
4. A salad spinner that had clearly been sitting in someone's cupboard, unused, for at least a couple of years.
5. A set of cheese-cutting utensils.

Know what I got? The Urdu books. Happy holidays to me!

5 of my earliest memories

I don't have particularly strong memories of my childhood. Most of what I do recall is in isolated bits. Here are a few select fragments from when I was very young.

1. One week at church, my mother suddenly grabbed my hand. This was something she usually did when she thought I was squirming around too much or otherwise misbehaving. As I did not feel that I was doing anything of the sort, I told her to let go because I promised to be good. She didn't let go. I told her more loudly and started thrashing around trying to get her to let go. She still didn't. This all seemed very unjust to me at the time. But now as I think back on it, I think she was just holding my hand during the recitation of the Lord's Prayer. Sorry, Mom.

2. When I was in preschool, during some sort of free play time, there were too girls playing with a plastic board that had a picture of a dollhouse on it. There were decals similar to window clings that you could move around to show the people in the house. Wanting to play along, I reached out and tried to move one of the people. One of the girls glared at me and yelled, "Leave it alone!" I found this to be so mean that I still remember it.

3. When I was in Kindergarten, I remember taking the CAT (California Achievement Test). The Kindergarten version of the test consisted of the teacher reading questions out loud, while we circled the answers. The choices for each question were pictures. I remember one question in particular where the teacher asked, "Which one is a piece of clothing?" I was befuddled at first, because none of the choices were anything obvious like a shirt or sock. But suddenly it dawned on me that a hat was a piece of clothing. I was so excited by this deduction that I forgot that we weren't supposed to be sharing answers out loud. I waved my hand in the air, trying to get my teacher to call on me. Luckily, I did not actually say the answer out loud.

4. One Christmas morning, my sister woke me up and excitedly told me to get up and go downstairs. I asked why, and she said because it was Christmas! I remember still being sort of confused as to why I should have to get out of bed. I walked down the stairs and was completely surprised to see a pile of shiny presents under the tree. We had opened a few presents on Christmas Eve, and I had gone to bed that night thinking that was it. It was like I forgot there were more presents on Christmas morning. This was not the first Christmas I remembered; I really have no good explanation for forgetting what happens on Christmas except that I don't think I ever really believed in Santa. (Sad, I guess, but I just never really bought it. I never found it upsetting or anything.)

5. When I started second grade, I was at a new school. I was timid and afraid, and when recess came along I was wandering around the playground by myself. A girl, Nicole Elliott, came up to me and asked if I wanted to play on the big slide. I nodded and started to follow. She turned and saw me walking, and said, "Come on, run!" Thinking back, what made this truly remarkable was that she also had the other new girl with her. At age 7, she had made a special effort to make the new kids feel included. She was a gem, that Nicole. And likely still is to this day.

5 things I carry in my commuter bag

I carry a rather large bag with my every day on the bus to work. People seem to wonder why I need such a big bag. Well, here are five of the reasons.

1. A travel coffee mug. This is a total must now that I have free coffee in my lobby. I refuse to use a styrofoam every day.

2. A book, or sometimes two. The commute goes MUCH faster with this. Particularly since I no longer get on the train where they hand out RedEyes.

3. My lunch. I am too cheap and too lazy to go out and buy one most of the time, so I always carry a lunch.

4. My Not For Tourists book of maps of Chicago. I know I have lived here 4 and a half years, but it doesn't matter. I still have plenty of occasions where I need to refer to maps, and I still carry the book with me wherever I go.

5. An umbrella. Though the wind often makes it useless, I am always glad I have this.

And that doesn't count the standard wallet, keys, and phone. Plus shoes, in the winter when I wear show boots. So lay off my big bag. I keep if off the seat next to me, and that is all the magic announcer voice of the CTA asks me to do.

5 great compliments I have received

I've been lucky enough to be surrounded by very supportive people my whole life, so it's not that I have not been lacking in compliments over the past 26 years. But there are a few that were truly memorable and humbling.

1. About 6 months ago (or was it more like a year?), my coworker Carla, frustrated with the state of some page proofs she was reviewing, said she wished that I had been the one to edit them at the previous stage. I told her that it may not have helped. After all, I am not perfect. And she said, "No Katie, I know you are not perfect, but I do think you are the best that there is." I still tear up a little when I think about that. It meant a lot coming from someone as good as she is.

2. When I was a senior in high school, I decided to join the competing winter drumline. It was a tough challenge, because I was starting from scratch on percussion, and joining a group that usually place in the top three in the national competition. We ended up having a great season. After we played our final show, even though it would be a few hours before we found out the official results, we knew we had done well. We were all congratulating each other as we put away the equipment. I turned to the section leader, known to the group as Trick, gave him a hug, and said congratulations. He pulled away, grasped my upper arms, and said, "You too. You are a percussionist." It was so unlike him to say anything so personal that it really took me aback. I was so flattered that he noticed how hard I worked to get up to the level of the rest of the group that I have never forgotten it.

3. When I was in college, I had a close friend who was a piano performance major. I used to love to watch him play because he just became totally different person while he played. He became passionate. We talked often about how jealous I was of that. It was not that I wished I could play the piano. It was more that I felt like I had no passion in anything. Early in our senior year, he asked me to give a testimony at a retreat that he codirected. I was supposed to be talking about my time in Sweden, a difficult subject for me. The day I was scheduled to talk, I told him I was going without notes because it was the only way I was going to be honest with myself. He said, "I think you do have passion. Your passion is being honest, with yourself and everybody else. That's what you put your heart into." He doesn't know this, but that really changed the way I see myself, in a good way. I think about that comment to this day.

4. As I mentioned above, my time in Sweden was a difficult period for me. During my first month, I received many many thoughtful and encouraging emails from family and friends. One such email came from my Uncle Jack. In it, he told me a story about when he went into the army, and how difficult it was for him to be away from home. He talked about how the experience drove him to walk away from a lot of the things he once believed in, but he came out on the other side believing in a few of those things even more. After the story, he told me he had every faith I would come through this, too. He said, "I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan." It meant a lot to me.

5. In the winter of my senior year of high school, I spent a Saturday at Western Michigan University at a scholarship competition. The competition consisted of two on-demand essays and a group problem solving exercise. By this time in my school career, I had become used to being at the top of the pack. However, I walked out of that competition feeling like the dumbest person that ever lived. The essay topics were difficult and complex, and I felt like I had not contributed anything to the group problem solving. On the way home, I told my mother that I had very little hope of winning the scholarship. She said, "I don't know, Katie. I think you're darn good." Even with my doubts, she was sure, and she turned out to be right. I got the scholarship. Even without knowing the competition, my mother believed that I would win. That's a compliment if I ever received one.

To Carla, Trick, Aaron, Jack, and Mom -- thanks. Your words meant so much to me, and they've helped me continue to strive to be a person that deserves them.

5 nicknames I have had in my lifetime

1. Master B, sometimes written Masta B. One of my high school drumline instructors called me that because I had a bass solo (played on synthesizer), and it really stuck.

2. G. I couldn't really tell you how this started, because neither of us remember, but my friend Shannon calls me this. It's what I call her, too. Somehow this never causes confusion, except when we both address and sign emails as G, in which case we usually sign "the other G". The more I write about this, the less it makes sense.

3. K83, pronounced "Katie three". My circle of former coworkers (and the people that I met through them) call me this. I can't remember the exact evolution, but it began by me saying I hate it when people write words with letters, like "gr8". Then one of my oh-so-caring friends started spelling my name K8e, which then became K83.

4. KATIE RICH! I suppose this is not technically a nickname, but I have two particular friends from college that always start conversations and voicemails by saying me first and last name loudly, in a high-pitched squealy voice. It sounds annoying, but I actually have grown to find it kind of endearing.

5. Katie Rich-nuts. A name given to me by one of my fellow TAs in college. One day, he started addressing everyone by adding "nuts" to the end of their names, and for some reason, he never stopped saying it where I was concerned. Must have a nice ring to it.

5 things I love about Christmas in Chicago

1. Christkindlmarket, the outdoor German craft market in Daley Plaza. I usually pronounce it "Kris Kringle Market" even thought I know that's wrong. I has lots of pretty gifts, and awesome cider and mulled wine!

2. The holiday train. The CTA completely decks out one of the el trains every year. They switch out the upholstery, wrap the poles to look like candy canes, replace the ads with Christmas jokes, and have workers dressed like elves handing out candy canes. The outside is covered in lights, and you can hear the piped Christmas music from several hundred feet away. It makes me giddy every time I see it.

3. Completely transformed stores. I know all stores everywhere decorate for Christmas, but Macy's on State Street will out do any store anywhere in terms of decorations. The place has a tree or wreath every three feet, and there is shiny stuff everywhere. It could not feel any more Christmasy in that place. I realize this is designed to make you shop more, but I don't care. I love going in there at Christmas!

4. The wreathed Art Institute lions. Something about seeing the regal lion statues bedecked with wreaths around their necks just makes me laugh. I heard recently that there is a "lion-wreathing ceremony" every year in December. You can bet that I'll be catching that next year!

5. The lights on the Magnificent Mile. While I'm not a huge fan of the whole Mickey Mouse parade that serves as the lighting ceremony, I do love the final result.

5 books I absolutely loved

I like a lot of books, but there are a few that stand out above the rest. These are the ones I will pick up any time, and just read any random passage. The ones I have read enough to tatter the pages. The ones that really spoke to me, really entertained me, or totally removed me from the real world.

1. The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
2. Eyes of the Dragon by Stephen King
3. World Without End by Ken Follett
4. Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris
5. The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory

5 things I put on microwave popcorn

1. Garlic salt. Nothing too shocking there.

2. Parmesan cheese. It has the essence of standard cheese popcorn, without the orange fingers.

3. Cinnamon. It tastes surprisingly like cinnamon toast.

4. Lemon pepper. This one is courtesy of my friend Jen. Don't knock it 'til you've tried it. It rocks.

5. Dry ranch dressing mix. Ever had those ranch flavored oyster crackers? Same idea.

Happy munching! And yes, I encourage you to eat all 2.5 servings in a bag yourself.

5 annoying things my cat does

So, obviously it's been a long time since I wrote anything. So, I'm trying a new format to try to get myself posting regularly again. Every day (ok maybe not EVERY day, but I'll try), I'm going to post a list of 5 things. Not a top 5, just a list of 5. Topics will be all over the place in hopes of keeping it interesting.

In my head, this will be very amusing. We'll see if it actually turns out that way.

To start, let me tell you that I recently took my cat to the vet and was told she was overweight. So, I have been cutting down the amount of food I give her. She is not pleased with this. And she's no dummy -- she knows how to irritate me. It's been a battle of wills to get her to stop doing annoying things without giving in and giving her more food.

So, that's what is on my mind just now. Without further ado, here are...

5 annoying things my cat does

1. Chews on my shower curtain. There's something about the texture of the plastic that appeals to her, and I am continually finding more tiny teeth holes in my pretty bamboo shower curtain. I hate it.

2. Bats at the springs at the base of the walls that are designed to keep the doors from hitting the walls. Ever kicked one of those? It's one of the world's most irritating sounds. Particularly when a hungry cat hits the spring approximately every 15 seconds.

3. Climbs into my lap, then stands there. She is, generally speaking, an affectionate cat. She'd rather lay in my lap than anywhere else in the apartment. This part, I don't mind so much. But for some reason, when she jumps into my lap, she will stand there, staring at me then turning in circles, for a good 90 seconds before laying down. WHY?

4. Chews through cords. Luckily, she only does it with a certain type of cord that I recognize now, but I went through 3 phone chargers before I knew what was going on. And once, she chewed through my phone headset cord while I was driving, which did not please me. It only takes her about two bites, too. Destruction in a flash.

5. Hides under the bed when she knows something bad is coming. For instance, if she sees me take out her carrier, or put the mini litter box in the bathroom (like I do when I have to shut her in there for a while), she's gone instantly. And I always find her under the bed, dead center, where I can't reach her. I hate her for being smart, sometimes.

Day one complete. But tomorrow's another day.

Better than nothing...

Hello readers.

I was supposed to continue my blog from last week, but as I tried to write it, I thought better of speaking ill of any of my coworkers. The typos are innocuous, but the other stuff I was going to talk about kind of places blame, and I think it'd be both foolish and unkind of me to publish my rant about it.

So, I sat here trying to think of something else to write about, and I just couldn't form something coherent or interesting. I confess that I think I may be a bit burned out on blogging.

So, I'm taking a bit of a break this week. Hopefully I'll be back next week refreshed.

Tpyos are funny.

When I tell people that I am a math textbook editor, they often respond with something like, “Wow, that must be boring!” I try not to be annoyed at these moments, because I suppose that it’s an easy assumption to make. Although my job entails many multi-faceted tasks, the fact remains that I spend most of my time reading mathematics text books.

And the published versions of mathematics textbooks, the versions that the general public sees, are boring in a lot of ways. In a sense, I am paid to make them that way. It’s my job to make the text clear cut and easy to understand, without any flowery language superfluous examples. But what people don’t understand is that these are not the versions I spend most of my time reading. The “working versions” of the texts, seen by editors only, are often absolutely hilarious.

The sources of humor come in three basic forms. The first and most common, perhaps, is the abundant number of typos that appear in early (and sometimes even late!) versions of the manuscript. Many typos are just annoying for editors; I can’t understand how people with PhDs in mathematics never learned the difference between “there” and “their,” or worse, between “waste” and “waist.” But others can really tickle the funny bone. One of my officemates laughed for days when “Population Pyramid” became “Poupulation Pyramid.” (If you don’t see the 4th-grade humor yet, say the misspelled version out loud.) Another officemate found it particular amusing when a problem that was supposed to be about a transistor was written as being about a “transitor,” a word she interpreted as being a dinosaur-esque creature, complete with claws and a growl that she is fond of imitating. Personally, my favorite typo is when “function” is missing its first n. (Again, say it out loud.) Sometimes I think the authors and production workers that introduce these typos are trying to poison the minds of today’s youth.

Typos do not always come in the form of misspellings, though. Working as an editor has really made me appreciate the value of words, because I have seen how losing one word from a sentence can completely change its meaning. For instance, there is a question in one of our books that now reads, “Does the infinite series converge? If so, what is its limit?” Strictly mathematical, and what most people would call boring. But the version I saw had one word missing, and instead of that boring mathematics question, it was a philosophical question for the ages: “Does the infinite converge? If so, what is its limit?” My mental image of 11th graders trying to answer that question kept me laughing for the rest of the day.

There are two other ways the working text can become funny – authors trying too hard and editorial assistants not trying hard enough. However, I’m going to have to save those stories for next week, as I am off to a barbeque today. I hope you all had a great Memorial Day! Thanks, as always, for reading.

Soldier Field 10 for the Soldiers

Next Saturday, I will be running a ten-mile race. The race is called the Soldier Field 10 because it ends on the 50 yard line of Soldier Field in Chicago. It also takes place on Memorial Day weekend, to further honor the soldiers for which Soldier Field is named.

I was thinking about these things yesterday morning as I did a 10-mile training run. Sadly, I have never really thought of Memorial Day as a holiday. For me, it has always been about an extra day off and the beginning of summer. I have never given much thought to the fact that the day is intended to honor current members of the military as well as veterans.

I suppose this oversight makes some sense. While I was growing up, I didn’t have much contact with anyone in the military. I definitely do not come from a military family. But the longer I thought about it, the more ashamed I became of the fact that I ignore the meaning of this holiday. I began to list the ways I am connected to the military now, and the list was much longer than I expected.

So, I resolved to make this year different. What could I do this Memorial Day weekend to honor the soldiers I know? I thought about this as I ran along, and then the answer became obvious.

The race. This race will be my first of this length, and the training has not been an easy road. Putting each of those ten miles behind me will be a huge personal feat for me. Although I know that I can do it, I’m nervous, and I always wonder what will drive me to finish. Now I have a reason. I’ll run it for my soldiers. I’ll use each mile to remember and honor the soldiers in my life.

My first exposure to the realities of the military was on a trip to Washington DC with my family when I was in middle school. We went to the Vietnam Memorial, and my mom looked up her cousin’s name. We found the right panel, and there it was: Terry VanOchten. Obviously, I never met him, and my mom never talked about him, either, but something about seeing my mother’s maiden name on that wall made the war real for me. So, my first mile will be for my mother’s cousin. Mile 1 is for Terry.

The other thing I remember clearly about that trip to DC is seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The idea that people could die without being identified was incomprehensible to me. I have a strong and perhaps irrational fear of becoming inconsequential someday – of dying and having no one notice. So I felt for the men and women to whom that memorial is dedicated. I don’t want them to be forgotten. Mile 2 is for the Unknown Soldiers.

I also try to make it a point not to forget where I come from. I have a bad habit of cutting myself off from my past; when I went from my tiny middle school to a big high school, I hardly saw my childhood friends any more, and when I went to college, I lost touch with my high school friends. Technology has changed this habit in a small way. Even though I still don’t talk to many of my high school friends, I keep tabs on them through Facebook. Recently, I read on one friend’s profile that he is now in the Air Force. His name is Jake Johnson. He was somewhat of a quieter presence in our group of friends, but he always made me laugh. He loved pickles. He also brought me a cake to my graduation party. He never seemed to think much of himself, though. He was unsure what he would do after high school (but made sure I knew I would do fine). I haven’t spoken to him in years, but I’m glad I found him on Facebook, so that I could remember him for the friend he was. I hope his career in the military brings him the fulfillment he seemed to lack when I knew him. Mile 3 is for Jake.

Luckily, I seem to have managed to stay in touch with my college friends. One college friend, in some ways, is the polar opposite of Jake. Confidence is definitely not my friend Stephen’s issue. He’ll say whatever he wants, whenever he wants to say it. His demeanor is loud and sometimes boisterous, and his sense of humor is sarcastic and sometimes inappropriate. Yet after I got to know him, I realized that Stephen struggled in different ways. Even though he knows what he wants (to be a writer), for a long while he chose not to pursue it because several people in his life wanted him to be an engineer so he could make money. He did end up double majoring in math and English, but worked a job he hated for the first few years after college. Recently, he decided to join the Navy. I was skeptical of this decision for a long time, but in time I came to see it as the first choice he made for himself – a choice to leave his hometown and his dad’s influence and figure out what he really wants to do. I hope the Navy serves the purpose he hoped it would. Mile 4 is for Stephen.

There’s only one person in my generation of my family that spent any time in the military: my cousin Nick. He enlisted in the Army after high school, and spent some time in Germany during his four-year commitment. I think those four years were decent ones for him, but unfortunately, at the end of his time came September, 11 2001, and complications involving his release from service then followed. That year was difficult on him and his family. He’s been out of the Army for a while now, but still seems to be struggling to figure out exactly what he wants to do. Whenever I think of him, I am always hoping that he uses all the benefits that being a veteran brings to find something that makes him happy. Mile 5 is for Nick.

Nick’s dad, my Uncle Jack, was also in the service -- in his case, the Marines. He spent most of his working life as a police officer, and that’s how I still think of him – as a cop, not a soldier. We are not particularly close, and his time in the service is not something he talks about often. However, when I was studying abroad and struggling, he wrote me a very nice and surprising email. In it, he described the struggles and triumphs he experienced while serving in the Marines, and told me that although the time was hard, it taught him who he really was. That was something I really needed to hear at the time, and I have never forgotten it. At the end of the email, he said, “I may not be your favorite uncle, but I am a big fan.” Mile 6 is for Uncle Jack.

There were actually three generations of that branch of my family in the armed services; my paternal grandfather was also a veteran. This seems in conflict with what I said earlier, doesn’t it? How can I say that I don’t come from a military family? Well, my grandpa is another veteran that spent very little time talking about his service. I do clearly remember one Thanksgiving when he let my cousin Matthew wear his uniform jacket and hat and carry his sword (Matt, probably about 6 at the time, thought this was awesome), but that’s the only connection I remember between Grandpa and his time in the service. After Grandpa died, my mother did tell me a little something about what he did; he went ahead of the troops, setting up communications before fighting began. My mother believes that he did not talk about it much because he didn’t believe his work was worthy of honoring or discussing. Well, Grandpa, I disagree. Mile 7 is for Grandpa Rich.

As was typical for their generation, I suppose, my other grandfather was also spent some time in the service. Once again, I know very little about what he did, except that he was stationed on the island of Okinawa. Truthfully, I know very little about my maternal grandfather, service related or not. Both of my mother’s parents died before I was born. This is really the only aspect of my life in which I’ve felt perpetually cheated. I wish I could have known them, and I cherish every story I am told of their lives. So the fact that he was a veteran is really only one of the reasons that mile 8 is for Grandpa Vern.

As I thought about the soldiers in my life during my long run yesterday, the list did become longer than I expected, but I must admit that only one person came readily to mind and stood out in a sort of class of her own. That’s my dear friend Alyson. Alyson and I met in college, and she is now a navigator in the Air Force. Without any disrespect to anyone else I have mentioned, or any other service members for that matter, I believe that Alyson stands in a class by herself because she embodies everything a good soldier should be. From the beginning, she wanted to join the armed services, and spent her college years fighting against medical disqualifications and other ridiculous bureaucratic roadblocks. She kept fighting and fighting because her desire to serve our country was so deeply rooted inside her. That passion made me support her efforts wholeheartedly, always, even if I didn’t understand her decision to keep fighting. In the end, she graduated from Air Force officer school at the top of her class. I confess that I worry about her being sent into war – that same admirable passion, I fear, will lead her into the most dangerous situations – but I am so happy for her that I can hardly describe it. Mile 9 is for Alyson.

As I think about the potential of Alyson being sent to war, I can’t help but also think about all the other people that worry about someone. All the family and friends that are left behind when the soldiers are shipped away. I empathize with these people more than I do with the soldiers themselves, and after everything I’ve written above, I also count myself among them. I wish them the unique kind of bravery required to support and honor the soldiers in their lives. Everyone finds their own way to do this. I happen to be running a 10-mile race. I will be running this race to honor my soldiers, but also to honor the work I put in to get here. Mile 10 is for everyone left behind, and most of all, mile 10 is for me.

Running 10 miles is no small feat, especially considering that I suffered a rather bad injury less than two months ago. It’s been a long road to get here, but I am tremendously proud of what I have accomplished. But I’m also happy to share that victory with the people that next weekend and Soldier Field are intended to honor.

Have a great Memorial Day. I know it will be a great one for me this year.

This one's for you, Mom.

Early, early in the morning on Saturday, April 24, 2004, I sat in a hotel lobby in Malmö, Sweden, next to my mother. We were clutching fruit from the hotel breakfast and both avoiding looking at each other. It was a tense 15 minutes or so we sat there before deciding we couldn’t take it any more and walking out the door to the stop where the bus could come to take my mom to the airport. It is a morning I remember vividly; it was the last day of my mother’s solo trip to Scandinavia to visit me during my semester abroad.

I can’t say that it was a morning that either of us enjoyed. While we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we had a hell of a good time over the past ten days, neither of us was quite ready to see it end. I had hundreds of amazing and irreplaceable experiences while I was abroad, but it was also one of the times in my life when I was the most unhappy. I struggled a lot personally and socially, and having my mom there had been a blessed relief from that. My mother knew all this, even if she never really said it out loud, and while a part of her had to be relieved to go home, she was reluctant to leave me. I was near tears for most of that morning, and once Mom boarded the bus and it pulled away without me, I did cry. But before that happened, she said something to me that I will never forget.

When she saw the bus pulling up and hugged me goodbye, she said, “I want to thank you for giving me this adventure. I never would have done this if it wasn’t for you.” I don’t know what I said in response, because the comment didn’t seem all that significant at the time. But I thought about it a lot during my remaining time in Sweden, and at certain moments in my life since.

It’s not that I didn’t understand what my mom meant by it. I did. She met my dad when she was in high school and has been with him ever since. While there’s no regrets associated with that, I know she hasn’t had a lot of chances in her life to do things on her own. She’s told me before that one of the only things she wishes she had done earlier in her life is live by herself. As scary as doing things on your own can be, there’s also a king of thrill and satisfaction in it. My being in Sweden gave my mom the chance to travel internationally by herself, and she was grateful. I understand that.

What surprised me about the comment was the way it has changed my perspective over the years. While in some ways I am a carbon copy of my mother, this is one way in which we are very, very different. My mom has never really been on her own, whereas sometimes I feel like being on my own is all I’ve ever really known. I have been blessed with some amazing friends over the years, and with the exception of Sweden, I’ve never felt completely isolated. But I’ve also never been in a real, exclusive relationship that makes me feel like someone will always be there. There are always people around who I can ask for help, but ultimately, I am responsible for all my problems, all my big decisions, and the direction my life goes. That’s true of people in marriages and relationships too, I suppose, but someone else will be affected when they make decisions, and someone else can help them make them. There’s someone you can ask to come and get you when you are stuck at an airport in Indianapolis, and someone you can call at 6:30AM to ask to come and shower at their apartment because your hot water is out again. As much as I love and cherish my friends, those are not things I feel I can ask of them. At those moments, I am on my own in a way my mom has never been.

This is an issue I’ve struggled with since high school. As independent as I am, I also am self conscious about my lack of a dating history. I’ve never really understood why things seem to happen so naturally for everyone else, yet nothing has happened for me in 26 years. It’s an aspect of my life that I always have found regrettable.

But at the moments when I start to get down about it, I think about that day in Sweden and what my mom said. There are a lot of things I have to do on my own, yes. But there are people who will never have the chance to do those things on their own, either. Not everyone will have the chance to claim the victories over opposition that I have. That tearful day in Malmö, my mother taught me how to see struggles as opportunities. I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her for that.

That’s only one of many, many brief episodes with my mom that I recognized the significance of only after the fact. My mother is not one to talk about her own feelings – at least not to me. While we can talk on the phone for hours, she mostly lets me tell the stories. She also is not one to teach you anything directly; she’s more likely to wait and let you ask the question first. I don’t have strong memories of her teaching me to shave my legs or discussing her own experiences in college with me. I remember all my mother’s impacts on my life in a different way. This excerpt from my Sweden journal, written about that morning in Malmö, captures it pretty well:

When the bus turned the corner, I hugged her one last time, told her it really wasn’t so long til I came home, and watched her board the bus. I mouthed that I loved her through the window, watched the bus pull away, and took a deep breath to gain control of myself before slowly making my way to the train station. I sat on a bench for a little while in the train station writing in my journal, hoping it would make a little of the emptiness go away… The ride back to Växjö was uneventful, I just wrote a little more and stared out the window. It didn’t feel as peaceful as most train rides do, and I was still feeling very empty and alone, but all in all I really wasn’t doing as bad as I expected at that point. I got off the train in Växjö, renewed my bus pass, and walked back here. I came in and set my stuff down and looked around. There was the plant Mom had bought me, and there were the neat piles of paper she had cleaned up. There was my bed all nicely made, and there was the feather she had put on my computer. Everywhere I looked was a sign that she had been there, and that was when I burst into tears.

No, my mother is not one to talk. But when she does tell me things, like when she thanked me for her adventure, they really mean something, and they really stick. And the excerpt above shows that even when she doesn’t talk, somehow, she finds a way to leave her mark. I have no doubt that the way she parented has both allowed me to become independent in a way that serves me well, and shaped me into a person I’m proud to be.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.

Challenger Mission, Part III

The following takes place between 12AM and 10:30AM on the day of the Fleet Feet Ravenswood 5K Run. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)

The cab dropped me off at my apartment at almost exactly midnight. I sighed when I saw that the broken glass in the front door had not been repaired while I was away. I stopped to check my mail, and sighed again when I pulled out a large envelope from the state of Illinois, knowing it must have something to do with my 2008 tax return.

I climbed the stairs and greeted my poor lonely cat, only to find more mail waiting for me on my desk. On that pile, there was a second letter from the state of Illinois. I rubbed my bleary eyes and opened both envelopes, only to find that they contained conflicting information. One said I had to fill out another form, while the other said I needed to take no action. Wonderful. It looked like another morning on the phone was in my future. However, I knew I could not do anything about it until Monday, so I set them aside.

I unpacked what I had to and looked up exactly where I needed to go for the race in the morning. As I put on my pajamas and brushed my teeth, yet another thing I had been fearing happened: I coughed, and I felt it all the way into my chest. In the past, congestion had almost always followed when I got a sore throat, and congestion was seriously going to affect my ability to run. After all I had been through, I was determined to get to the race, so I silently pleaded, please, phlegm, hold off just a few more hours…

I was about to lay down when I realized I had to go to the bathroom. So, I did, and just because of everything that could go wrong had to, the toilet clogged. This is not uncommon in my crappy apartment, and usually easily fixed, but of course this time I could not manage to get it unclogged. I gave up after a few tries, assuring myself that I’d remember and try again in the morning. I set my alarm for 6AM, and finally fell into bed at about 12:30AM.

I slept fitfully, both because I was nervous about not waking up on time and because my attention-deprived cat would rather I be awake. I got up with the alarm at 6 and started to get ready. I knew I had to leave by 6:45, so I tried not to dawdle. Unfortunately, I did not remember the toilet had clogged until after I flushed it again. I narrowly avoided an overflow, and then decided I would just wait until I got home to deal with it. I ate breakfast, checked the radar (no rain!), put on my race number, and drank some water. Then, as per usual for a race day, my nerves got to me and I had to go to the bathroom again.

I knew I had to leave in about 5 minutes, but decided to try to fix the toilet first. It was a ridiculous scene. I was using an old Cool Whip container empty some (clean!) water out of the toilet bowl into the sink so I could flush and plunge it again. I was on my second round of this, pondering what else could possibly go wrong today, when I heard my cat start throwing up.

Generally speaking, this would not be a big deal. But it meant I had to clean it up, which would cost me more time. Time that on this morning, I just did not have. But wait… it gets better! I stepped out of the bathroom to see that Fraidy is not just throwing up, she is throwing up ONTO MY RUNNING SHOES! I rushed to grab the shoes but didn’t quite get them out of the way. She at least threw up onto the toe, and not into the shoes, but for cripes sake! Even any other pair of shoes would have been better than this!

Now completely resigned to being late, I managed to unclog the toilet, clean off and lace up my shoes, and get out the door at about 5 to 7. I ran to the bus stop, realizing at some point that I forgot my watch. The least of my worries, really, but still annoying. I got on the bus and made it to the race site by 7:30. I drank a cup of coffee, dropped off my stuff at the racing team tent, and then stepped into the starting corral. I decided to line up between the 9:30 and 10:00 pace markers, which is where I would need to be if I wanted to break 30 minutes.

As I stood in the corral, it finally occurred to me that I was tired. I tried to tell myself that my finish time did not matter, but the truth was that I REALLY wanted to break 30 minutes, and was trying to prepare myself to be disappointed. I ran into a few people I knew, which was a nice distraction. But eventually, the race started, and I was in that solitary place that only a runner understands.

I looked for a clock when I crossed the start line, but did not find one. So, I just ran at a pace that felt doable. When I reached the 1-mile mark, the clock read 11 minutes. Since I didn’t know how long it took me to cross the start line, this did not tell me much, but I figured I was going at about a 10-minute mile. I knew this would not allow me to break 30, but I also knew I did not have the energy to speed up. So, in Energizer Katie style, I just kept going.

I crossed mile 2 when the clock read 20:10 or so, which meant I was running at just over a 9-minute pace! I was excited, but I tried not to overanalyze and, once again, just kept going.

In the end, I crossed the finish line when the clock read almost exactly 30:00, so I knew I broke 30. Satisfied – actually, elated – I wandered through the post-race festival, ate my fill of free bagels, cookies, and cinnamon rolls, and headed home. When I got there, I took my usual post-race photo and stretched out, then unpacked my suitcase. At about 10:30, I checked for race results online and found out my official time: 28:20, almost 50 second faster than my time at this race last year.

Victory, in the end. The past 24 hours had run the gamut of challenges and emotions. I was sad, satisfied, grateful, scared, bored, and frustrated. But none of that conquered me in the end. Just like I do when I run, I just kept going, and eventually I got through it. I’m actually quite proud.

However, remind me never to ask to be challenged again.

Challenger Mission, Part II

The following takes place between 12 noon and 12 midnight on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)

By noon on Saturday, I was on my way to the airport. During the walk and on the metro, I downed the rest of the water in my water bottle, knowing they wouldn’t let me take the bottle through security otherwise. I was regretting drinking it so fast by the time I was waiting in the security line, because my sore throat was raging and nothing but water really helped.

When I got to my gate, a different flight was on the monitor, scheduled to leave just a half hour before mine. I asked if I was at the right gate, and the airport agent told me I was. The other flight had been moved to this gate at the last minute, and although it would probably push my flight back a few minutes, it was nothing to worry about.

My flight was indeed delayed about a half hour, which at first did not seem like a huge deal. The plane was on the small side – a commuter jet – so my bag would not fit in the overhead bins and it was valeted. I would have to pick it up planeside when I disembarked in Chicago.

The flight itself was uneventful – I read a lot of magazine articles and a few chapters in my book, and tried to soothe my throat with hard candy and tea. By the end, I was dozing off. I was jolted awake after about 90 minutes in the air by an announcement from the pilot, saying we were in a holding pattern over O’Hare, waiting out a thunderstorm. After 20 minutes or so of circling, the pilot got concerned about fuel, and headed for Indianapolis. The thought of more delays didn’t exactly thrill me, but the flight crew said that we’d likely only be on the ground in Indy for 15 minutes, so I went back to sleep. We had taken off from Washington at about 3:30, and landed in Indianapolis at about 5:30. I had hopes of landing in Chicago by 6:30 and getting home by 8.

Sadly, it was after 6 before we even got any fuel. The pilot apologized and said he was going to edge out to the end of the runway so we would be among the first in line to be given clearance to take off. He did, and we waited. And waited. And waited. At around 6:45, the pilot announced that O’Hare was now in a full ground stop – nothing was taking off or landing. And now, because so many planes headed to O’Hare had to land at Indy instead, there was not even a gate available. We couldn’t take off, and we couldn’t deplane. We were stuck in the plane until the thunderstorms let up.

In an attempt to make things more comfortable, the flight attendants started passing out free Pepsi and orange juice, and then free trail mix. The time ticked by. By 7PM, they were bringing around free beer, wine, and margaritas. Then more trail mix. At 7:20, I just could not take it any more and had to get up out of my seat and walk up and down the aisle. I had finished my magazines long ago and sat back down to finish my book. My already negative mood was not improved when one of my favorite characters died at the end. I sighed and popped my last piece of hard candy into my mouth, hoping it would coat my throat and keep me from utter misery until I got home.

At 8PM, having been on the plane for 5 hours and finished every distraction I had, I called my parents to see what they could tell me at the storm system. They looked at weather.com and told me they thought that a break was coming. At the same time, the pilot asked us to sit down and prepare for take-off, as they were letting a limited number of planes go. My hope renewed, I turned off my phone and stowed my tray table. Recalculating in my head, I figured I had a chance of getting home by 10PM.

Less than 10 minutes later, the pilot yanked those shreds of hope away and said we would not be taking off. Instead, he taxied us to a gate. I was despairing at this point. As much as I wanted to get off the plane, I would rather have taken off. I so desperately wanted to get home. My throat was on fire, I was exhausted, and oh yes…. did I mention that I was supposed to be running a 5K race at 8AM the next morning?

When we got to the gate, the flight attendants finally confirmed the inevitable. The flight was cancelled. We all had to get off the plane and rebook with the agents standing at the gates. I couldn’t help it; I let out a moaning, “noooooo…” It was now almost 9PM, and Indianapolis was not a very large airport. I doubted that I was going to get a flight to Chicago that night. And according to others on the plane, the airline was not required to provide a hotel if the flight was cancelled for weather reasons. I was looking at a long night in an airport, alone, and it looked like I was going to miss my race. I stood at the end of the tunnel, waiting for my valeted bag, exhausted and disappointed, but not yet in a panic.

The panic came when I walked into the airport. All the iron gates were coming down in front of the restaurants and stores and there wasn’t a soul in the airport except for the people on my flight. Because I had to wait for my bag, I was at the end of a long and very slow-moving line. I was looking at a long night in a dead airport, with nothing to read, eat, or see. My throat hurt all the way into my ears and I had no water, candy, or lozenges. And suddenly I became aware of how alone I really was.

I tearily called my mother and asked her to find out how long it would take me to drive to Chicago. The answer was at least three hours, and I knew immediately I did not have it in me to do a three-hour, unfamiliar drive in a rental car safely. I was going to be stuck overnight. I ended the conversation quickly after that, knowing I needed to try to calm myself down.

Ten or so minutes later, I had managed to stop my tears, but the line had barely moved. The waiting was unbearable – there’s nothing that gets my anxiety going like a lack of information or control, and I had none of either. Luckily, one guy standing near me in line gave me the 800-number for the airline, and when I called, they told me there was one more flight from Indianapolis to Chicago tonight, at 9:45. It was now 9PM. I felt myself physically relax a little. The agent rebooked me over the phone, but told me not to get out of line, because an agent at the airport would have to check me in and print me a boarding pass.

My relief lasted about 5 minutes, at which point I noticed again how slow the line was moving. At this rate, there was no way I would make it to the counter by 9:45, let alone with enough time to board a 9:45 flight. At that moment I also realized that I did not know the flight number of my new flight, or how far away the gate was. I called the 800-number again and related these worries to the agent. She told me the gate was B9 – right next to the one I was at. She also said that all bets were off tonight, and I didn’t need to worry about checking in a full half hour before take-off.

That placated me for about another 10 minutes, but when they began boarding my flight and the line had yet to move, I got worried again. In desperation, I did something I hate… I asked the people in front of me to let me go ahead of them, since I was already rebooked and only needed the agent to hit the print button for me. They didn’t let me go, but a woman near the front of the line next to me heard the situation and did let me go. As I expected, it took the agent approximately 30 seconds to print my boarding pass. I didn’t make eye contact with the people who had refused to let me pass as I walked to my gate and boarded. I was simultaneously ashamed for having asked at all and annoyed they were so stubborn.

Then another interminable wait began. I sat on my new plane, willing the flight attendants to close the bins and the pilot to taxi away from the gate. Although I was relieved to be on a flight, I was not going to relax until I was sure the flight would take off. I sat there, staring straight forward, for another 45 minutes. The only thing I clearly remember about that time is that at one point, it occurred to me that my throat didn’t hurt. While I was glad of that, I said a little prayer that my next symptom would not be congestion. After all, I was running a 5K in the morning. (Or was I?)

Finally, at 10:30PM EST, we taxied away from the gate, and after a 10-minute wait on the runway, we took off. I spent the entire 40-minute flight staring out the window at the clouds and the disconcertingly close lightening. There was a lot of turbulence, too. It wasn’t until later that it occurred to me to be scared; I was too intent on landing in Chicago and not anywhere else. When we finally touched down at O’Hare, it was 10:47PM Chicago time, and I was physically and emotionally spent. I called my mother to tell her I made it, then made my way to the blue line. I got off at Belmont and hailed a cab. Finally, as I sat alone in the backseat, I relaxed. I would be home by midnight – 7 hours later than I intended, but home nonetheless. For those 15 minutes, I had a little peace.

We’re transitioning to Sunday now, so I’m calling second intermission. Can you believe we’re not done yet?

(blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep..)

Challenger Mission, Part I

I’ve had some long days in my life, but I must say that the 24-hour period from 10:30AM on Saturday to 10:30AM this morning is one for the record books. It’s one of those stories that’s dying to be told… so without further ado….

The following takes place between 10:30AM and12:00AM on the final day of the 2009 NCTM National Meeting and Exposition. (blip.. bleep.. blip.. bleep)

At 10:30AM I walked out of my last session of the NCTM Conference in Washington, DC, and I felt my spirits sink. I had been looking forward to the trip for weeks, and the last three days had been blissful. I dawdled before walking out of the convention center, unwilling to admit it was over. When I actually walked out the door, I teared up a little.

Because the weather was beautiful and I was in no hurry, I decided to walk the 1.5 miles back to the hotel instead of taking the shuttle. I spent the walk thinking over the trip, and at first my sadness was replaced with a deep sense of gratitude to my bosses for sending me to the conference. I learned so much and grew so much professionally -- even now when I think about it, I am certain that taking the job I have now is one of the best decisions I ever made.

Still, by the end of the walk, my emotions had shifted yet again, and I was unsettled. My time in Washington DC had been a series of time warps for me, really. As I walked along the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, I was transported back to my senior year of college, when I had walked along that pool with my best friend – one of the last moments we spent together before a lot of fighting and a kind of letting go that would change our relationship forever. As I played Mancala with my coworker, I was transported back to my childhood, when I played the same game with my cousins using pennies and egg cartons – a common pastime at a summer cottage that was an oasis for me for years. When I looked upon the steps of the Capitol, I was transported back to my senior year of high school, when I sat on those same steps with the other members of my engineering team after winning the trip to DC. And when I wandered down to the Watergate hotel on my own, I was transported back to my time abroad, when traveling alone went from being something I feared to something I enjoyed. For some reason, my three days in DC reminded me a lot of the times in my life when I was happiest and most satisfied.

When I contrasted all those times with what I felt as I left the convention center, I recognized some differences. Although I was happy and grateful now, I was somehow not satisfied. I knew I deserved to go to the conference, but I also knew I hadn’t really worked for it the way I’ve worked for other rewards in my life – like the trip my engineering team won to DC, or conquering my fears of being alone like I did in Sweden. I have proven myself in my work. My colleagues and even my superiors respect me. I’m good at my job. That’s all great, but it occurred to me by the end of my walk that I haven’t felt challenged – really challenged – in a long time. I needed a new challenge.

You’ll be happy to know that the philosophical part of the day was over. The thought made me tired as I reclaimed my bags from the hotel. As I sighed I remembered how badly my throat hurt, and I stuffed a handful of hard candy from the hotel front desk in my carry-on bag. I tried to put the lack of challenge thought out of my mind. It’s ironic, really, that I had been thinking I wasn’t challenged enough, because the series of events that followed challenged every aspect of my self control and psyche.

It’s late, so I’m calling intermission. I’ll post the rest of the story tomorrow. Try to stand the suspense.

And... time to go.

I haven’t had the best luck with apartments. Granted, I adored the apartment I lived in my senior year in college, but since then things have gone downhill.

My apartments have always looked good on the surface. My first apartment in Chicago was on the first floor of a 2-flat house. It had a well-lit living room, a deck out back, and even in-unit laundry. AND my bedroom was the largest in the house. However, the washer was continually out of service, the backyard was plagued with rats late at night, and the house itself eventually became infested with mice. My landlord neglected the mice so long that they became bold enough to wander around in my bedroom in the middle of the day, as I sat there watching. Also, I had roommates who, at the time, spent a lot of nights at bars and brought home a lot of strangers.

I was relieved when I moved out of there and into my grad school apartment. It was the first apartment I had all to myself, and I was really excited about it! It was on the second floor of a three-unit building, and had its own entrance. The space was small but charming, with a staircase immediately when you walked in and cute loft area where I put my desk. Unfortunately, my pre-move-in tours neglected to reveal two key things. First, there was a vent between my kitchen and the kitchen in the apartment next door that allowed me to hear EVERY WORD my neighbors said, no matter where I was in the apartment. And I don’t mean murmuring – I heard everything with perfect clarity. Second, the living room was actually built outside of the building. It was once a porch but had been enclosed, which meant it was poorly insulated and unlivable in the winter. Once, I literally had to get in the shower to return the feeling to my feet.

After I finished my master’s, I moved into the studio where I live now, and sadly, this apartment is the worst of the bunch. The floor is uneven, so none of my furniture sits flat. The wiring is sketchy, so if I touch the lights on my ceiling fan they sometimes stop working. My mailbox is always left unlocked for no apparent reason. The speaker I’m supposed to use to talk to people buzzing to get in has never worked, and the maintenance guy flat-out told me he wouldn’t fix it. My toilet plugs about every tenth flush. And my refrigerator makes a very loud noise every time the cooling mechanism turns off. Although I am used to it now, it used to wake me up at night, and still makes visitors jump out of their skin.

It should come as no surprise that I’ve considered moving many times. Several things have stopped me in the past, though. First and foremost, I love my location. There is a Walgreens across the street, a grocery store 3 blocks away, and hundreds of other stores and restaurants within walking distance. I’m less than two blocks from the brown line, and less than ten blocks from the red line. There’s a bus that runs from two blocks away from my office to the corner right outside my apartment. I’ve got my whole life down to a science, living here, and I really like my neighborhood.

That’s the main reason I’ve resisted moving. There’s also the fact that the search for apartments is a giant pain, and the cost of hiring movers can be steep. Before this apartment, I had not lived in the same place for more than a year in seven years. Although this place has its faults, I’ve learned to make do, and I was tired of messing with the status quo. So for year, I put up with the uneven floors, unlocked mailbox, flickering lights, and noisy fridge without much complaint. Then I resigned a lease despite a rent increase, and thought I would be ok for another year. I’m six months into the new lease now, and I’ve started to think about moving again. I have plenty of reasons to do so, but I was dragging my feet on committing to it. After all, I don’t exactly have a great history with apartments, and how do I know the next one won’t be worse?

But after this week, I’m not sure it’s possible for the next one to be worse. Last Wednesday, I was home only briefly after work to change my clothes, and then I left for a speed workout. Afterward, at about 8:30 pm, I walked down the hall towards my apartment, looking forward to a relaxing few hours before bed. It was not to be.

When I opened the door, I heard water running in the kitchen. I had a fleeting thought that I may have left the tap on, but came around the corner to see water pouring out from under the sink. I shrieked and started messing with the valves, and luckily was able to at least stop the flow of water temporarily. There was over an inch of standing water in the cabinet under the sink, and maybe a quarter inch on the kitchen floor. The bag of recycling and the paper bags of cat food that were under the sink had almost disintegrated, and the cat herself? She was a little damp, and yowling as she looked at me disdainfully.

I called the maintenance guy, and he was there almost immediately, as he had already been fielding a call from the guy who lives below me, who had noticed water dripping into his apartment through the ceiling. (Though it’s not my fault, I feel a little bad about that.) The maintenance guy sopped up the standing water and did something to the valves that he thought would make them hold until morning, provided that I didn’t use the sink. He came back the next day to replace the valves.

It was not the mini-flood itself that got me thinking about moving again. Instead, it was a comment the maintenance guy muttered to himself as he fussed with the valves. As he knelt in the standing water, bracing himself for a potential drenching, he muttered, “This building is falling apart.”

He’s right, of course. The thing about all the problems with this building is that they are not isolated or unrelated. They are all marks of a decaying building that may be beyond saving at this point. Logic says to jump this ship before it sinks completely.

Even after all this, though, I considered staying. Even after all this, I resisted the thought of change and the pains of moving.

But finally, something happened that officially pushed me over the edge. At the beginning of the month, new neighbors (two younger guys) moved into the apartment next door. For the last three nights, they have come home from bars at three in the morning and proceeded to be irritatingly loud for at least an hour. I tolerated this reasonably well at first, as I had a lot of practice tuning out noise both with my first Chicago roommates and my grad school apartment’s thin walls.

Then I saw them. On Thursday evening, the new neighbors came in the back door and climbed the stairs toward their apartment as I was doing laundry in the stairwell area. I listened to them talking as they walked by, and their conversation centered around one of them doing his hair at 3 am and not being able to wake up the other, who had passed out drunk. (Wow. Lovely.)

I climbed the stairs to my apartment to find them standing outside theirs, fumbling to find their keys. As my opened my door and my cat meowed a greeting, I heard one of my new neighbors do a sarcastic, patronizing impression of her. I entered my apartment without looking at him and leaned against the closed door as I fumed. Drink til you pass out? Fine, it’s your life. Be a loud asshole on your way to doing so, waking up the whole building in the process? Fine. You’ll be kicked out if you keep it up and people complain. But make fun of my cat? You just crossed the line, buddy. You’re on my list.

It was at that moment, as I stood there leaning against the door, that I knew it was time to go. Not only is this building too old to live in, I’m too old to live in this building.

Yay, boo!

One of the small details I love learning about people is their catch phrase. You know what I’m talking about, right? It’s the word or phrase that a person uses all the time. There are two things I find particularly fascinating about this. First, people are often unaware of how much they use a phrase until someone else points it out. For instance, in recent months, I’ve taken to saying, “I know, right?” approximately every ten minutes. I didn’t realize it until my sister cursed me for causing her to start saying it, too. I balked, saying she couldn’t have picked it up from me. But now that I am paying attention, I realize that she is right. I say that all the time.

The second thing I find interesting about catch phrases is how well they can capture a person’s personality. For example, for a large part of my childhood, my mother continually used the phrase, “Far out!” Keep in mind that this was the 90s, not the 80s, so she was pretty much the only person on Earth who still said this. But I never found it embarrassing, because it just suited her somehow. One of the things I’ve always appreciated most about my mom is her unfailing enthusiasm. She can always be counted upon to be excited for me when I accomplish something, large or small, that is important to me. Her level of excitement can almost catch me off guard, actually, so saying “Far out!” always just seemed like an extension of surprise.

I’m always listening to pick up these catch phrases, and I must admit that because I am so attuned to them, I often start saying them myself. The most recent example of this is running rampant in my vocabulary, and it comes from one of my coworkers, Carla. I blame her for my recent affinity for booing.

That’s right, booing. When Carla does not approve of something, she boos it. It sounds terrible, doesn’t it? But it’s catchy because it’s so therapeutic! I encourage you to try it. As Carla would say, some things just need to be booed. Let me give you some examples.

Today is April 11, the day before Easter. April means spring. Spring means at least a little warmth. Yet last night and this morning, whenever I was outside and the wind blew, it felt below freezing. My hands went numb, and I needed to be wearing my down winter coat. Know what I say to that? Boo wind! C’mon. I know you agree. Go ahead and say it, out loud. Boo wind! Boo cold weather! Boooo!

Earlier today, in an effort to escape the crappy weather, I was standing on the el platform and waiting for a brown line. A green line came by. I waited another ten minutes or so, then another train appeared in the distance. As it approached, I realized it was another green line! Two greens in a row? Boo green line! Boo CTA!

I have a coupon for $1.00 off a box of Celestial Seasonings tea. It expires soon, so on Thursday I took it to Walgreens. I’m not super picky about the flavors of tea I drink. I’m partial to apple cinnamon and peppermint, but I’m willing to try a lot of different things. However, when I arrived at Walgreens, I discovered that they had ONE kind of Celestial Seasonings tea. And what was the one flavor? DECAF GREEN TEA. Seriously? Boo Walgreens!

I recently incurred a rather bad running injury to my hip. When I went to an injury screening, the therapist told me it could either be a stress fracture or a strain of my psoas muscle (one of the hip flexors). I was rooting for a muscle injury, because it would mean taking less time off running. At this point, I’ve become convinced it’s my psoas, because the pain is worst when I get up in the morning, not after I exercise. At first I was glad about this. Yay psoas! But despite barely running in the past two weeks, the strain doesn’t seem to be getting any better. It actually hurts just as much when I sit around all day as when I run, and it looks like my recovery is going to be long. So, yes, yay not stress fracture, but not yay psoas. Boo psoas!

After I finished grad school but before I found a full-time job, I did some freelance work. I used to work at the company I was freelancing for, so I was unable to use my social security number as a freelance ID. Instead, I used an employer identification number. While filling out the forms to get this number, I made one error: I wrote a 1 instead of a 0 on the line that asked how many employees I had (I thought I was employing myself, but I really wasn’t). Because of this, I ended up paying taxes on my freelance income twice, then having to request a refund that took forever. I also had months of correspondence with the IRS, trying to get that one error corrected so that I wouldn’t requests to file forms I didn’t really have to file. Finally, in December, over a year after I used the ID number, I thought I had the whole mess straightened out. However, yesterday I received a letter from the Illinois government saying the Feds told them I reported that freelance income to the national government but not Illinois. I am not certain, but I believe that is a lie, and this is still a result of me writing a 1 instead of a 0. Monday I am certain to be on the phone for a hour trying to figure it out. Boo bureaucracy! Boo government’s inability to correct a tiny error in the eighteen months since it occurred! BOOOOOO!

See? Carla’s right. Some things just need to be booed. It might seem unkind to say Carla’s catch phrase is descriptive of her personality, but it really is, and not in a negative way. Carla tells you what you thinks, and I admire that.

Feel free to leave a comment about something you think needs booing. I bet you’ll feel better!

Let the games begin...

Today’s commute started out like any other. I bundled up against the cold, left my apartment building, climbed the steps to the el platform, boarded the train, and proceeded to read my paper, completely ignoring everyone and everything going on around me. It really is amazing the way I tune everything out. My oldest friend could sit down next to me and I would not notice. (Actually, once I did ride for 20 minutes sitting next to someone I know and didn’t realize it.) I just never look up, and I definitely never look out the window.

But today, I did happen to glance up and out the window, and to my surprise, I found that I couldn’t look away. We were just crossing the north branch of the river. A slight wind agitated the surface of the blue-green water, giving it a textured look. A morning mist hung over the bridges and buildings. Cars and people and boats moved along their way, making the scene look alive. There was Chicago, in all her urban splendor. And her beauty took my breath away.

I have these moments now and again, moments that remind me how lucky I am to be living here and how much I love this city. Every time I am caught off guard this way, I feel a bit guilty for having become so jaded. I’m grateful for these moments that remind me what it was like to see Chicago for the first time instead of the thousandth.

This particular episode got me thinking even more, though, because as the train crossed the river, my eyes fell on a banner spanning one of the bridges. It showed the gigantic arm span of a swimmer and was emblazoned with one word: IMAGINE. The banner was put up to promote Chicago’s bid for the 2016 Olympic Games as the International Olympic Committee visits the city this week.

From the moment we started vying for it, I’ve been against the Olympic bid. In fact, I thought it was somewhat of a joke. After all, our public transportation system is barely maintaining itself when all it has to transport is its regular load of commuters and tourists. How would we ever move the tens of thousands of athletes and spectators that the Olympics would draw? Four out of our last eight governors have been corrupt. How could we be trusted to handle the affairs of the entire world, even for a few weeks? Both the city and the state are in a constant budget crisis and we already have the highest taxes in the nation. How could we possibly finance the construction projects that hosting the games would require? Not to mention the whole issue of having to displace hundreds of low-income Chicago residents to house the athletes.

The bid just didn’t make sense to me. It seemed that even if the logistics could be worked out, it would still mean that for two weeks or more, it would be next to impossible for me to get anywhere on public transportation, and for who knows how long, I would be paying even more taxes than I do now. And sure, the Olympics would be here, but the chances I would have the opportunity or the money to actually see anything seemed slim. No, I just couldn’t bring myself to support the Olympic bid.

But things changed this morning. I admit that when I glanced up and saw Chicago as if for the first time, I also fell for the 2016 advertising scheme. I looked at that banner, and I IMAGINED. I imagined not what a Chicago Olympic games would be like not for me, but for all the athletes that would come here to represent their countries. Most of them will have never been here before, and I imagined that they would see Chicago the way I saw it this morning. I imagined that the beauty and power of this city would catch them off guard. And I imagined that they would smile and take in the moment, creating a memory that they would carry home with them later.

Suddenly I saw the Olympics as a way to share my love of this city with the world. I realized that a visit to Chicago could give the world’s athletes the memorable and awesome experience that those with their kind of dedication and passion deserve. I really believe that. This city has its problems, but at its core is a beauty that the world should see.

My concerns about the bid still remain, and I confess that if we do not win the bid, a large part of me will be relieved.

But deep down, I am rooting for Chicago, and a different part of me will be disappointed if we don’t get the games. They may make my life harder for a few weeks (or much, much longer), but they could also inspire the city as a whole to become a better place and inspire me to stop taking Chicago for granted.

A Crossover Piece

Well folks, tomorrow is my first running race of the 2009 season. It will be March 29, and because I am also lucky enough to live in fickle Chicago, it will also be snowing, windy, and barely 30 degrees. (Sigh.)

Still, I am excited. My love for running has grown this year as I’ve taken the time to find things I love to do. I’m on a racing team with a local running store, and my goal for the season is to finish the half-marathon on August 2.

Because running is on my mind so much lately, last week I decided to start a new blog dedicated to my running. I wanted it to be separate from this one so I could feel free to post in it in short bursts, whenever I am inspired to do so. It’s been working for me so far. In case you’re interested in reading about my running pursuits, I’ve posted a link to my running blog on the right side of the screen. (As an aside, I must say I’m kind of proud of myself for figuring out how to do that. Is that sad?)

In the future, I am going to try to keep these two blogs separate, but in honor of the start of what I hope will be an exciting and gratifying racing season, I’m writing a “crossover episode” today. You’ll notice that the title of my running blog is, “The Energizer Katie.” Today I thought I’d tell the story of why I chose that title. Shamelessly, I’m hoping this might prod you into reading my running blog, or even better, into coming out and supporting me in a race someday. Enjoy!

When I first started running, my daily distance was only two miles. Actually, my first route was a one-mile loop that I completed twice, just in case I felt I couldn’t go on after one mile. Eventually I changed my route to a two-mile loop, and this seemed to make the two miles go by faster. This was all during my first year in Chicago, when I lived in Lakeview.

When I moved to Evanston, I mapped out another two-mile loop and ran it religiously, every single morning. I never tried to go farther or even had ambitions to do so. But then I started to talk to my mom more about running, and I remembered that she and my sister had run 5K races in the past. 5K is just over three miles. On a whim, one day I got to the end of my two-mile loop, and just kept going. I ran a smaller loop that felt like it might be an additional mile, then eagerly went home and mapped it out with the g-map pedometer. It was almost exactly 5K, and I had done it without much of a struggle at all! I called my mom immediately and excitedly told her I had just run 5K. (It was the first of a lot of phone calls my mom and I have had over the years about our running.)

You would think that so easily adding a mile to my distance would make me want to add more. But you would be wrong. I was quite satisfied with that distance. Because 5K is typically the shortest race distance (unless you accidentally enter a kids dash the way my mom and sister did once!), I felt being able run 5K officially made me a runner. And that was good enough for me.

I ran in my first 5K race the following spring, and was tickled pink to finish it in under 30 minutes. I dutifully kept up with my schedule of running 5K five times a week, and I ran a race about once a month. And my race times continued to inch downward. 29:39 in April. 29:08 in May. 28:56 in early June. 28:02 at the end of June. Then, on the 4th of July, I ran a 5K in Frankenmuth, MI with my mother, and scored an amazing time of 27:37. That’s under a 9-minute mile pace.

I had a feeling that I had reached some sort of limit, though, because I felt unwell for a few minutes at the end of the race. I had pushed it hard enough that I didn’t really enjoy it. I just wanted it to end. And I didn’t want running to be like that. And sure enough, during my next race, I made sure not to push myself beyond my limits, and for the first time I did not score a personal record time. I finished in 29:04. Still good, but my golden age was over.

So, I thought to myself. Now what? I didn’t think pushing my speed was a good idea any more, so I needed a new goal. The logical choice was to try to increase my distance. So, I went out one Saturday intending to attempt to run 8K. This was the next-longest common race distance, and I just wanted to see what it would feel like. I decided to complete 8K by running my regular 5K loop, then starting it over again and turning toward home sooner than usual on the second lap.

I ran the first lap. I started the second. And then when I got to the place I intended to turn, I realized that I was still feeling pretty good. I had a choice. I could turn home now and be satisfied with 8K, or I could keep on my regular route and see what happened. After all, I reasoned. I can stop any time I need to and walk. So I didn’t turn. I kept going.

When I reached the 8K point on the route, I asked myself what I wanted to do. Walk the rest of the lap, or keep running? Just keep running, I thought. Just keep running.

So I did. I kept running and running and running, and eventually I found myself at the end of the loop again. I had just run 10K. Naturally, I called my mom to brag. She asked me how I pushed myself to go farther. “I don’t know, really,” I said. “I just kept going.”

All this happened last summer. I finished out my racing season with one 8K race and one 10K race. All in all, it was a really good season for me. My last big event was to volunteer at the Chicago marathon, handing out Gatorade. It was a lot of fun, and seeing people of all ages, shapes, and sizes running the ultimate distance made me realize that I could do so someday, too, if I wanted to.

So, this year I set my sights on the half-marathon, and I’ve been working on increasing my distance. One Tuesday, we had amazing weather, and I took to the lakefront path and ran 7 miles, which is 0.8 miles longer than a 10K, the farthest I had ever run before. Four days later, on Saturday, I attempted to run 8 miles, just to see if I could. Attempted and succeeded. That was a week ago.

I haven’t tried to go farther this week, mostly because I have been focused on getting ready for the race tomorrow, which is only 5 miles. But believe me, I’ve been bragging about my 8-miler. One of my friends asked me how I got up to 8. Just like when my mom asked me how I got to 10K, I didn’t know what to tell her. “I just set out to run it, and I did. Any time I considered stopping, I just decided not to.”

“But whenever I run, I just want it to end,” she answered. “I can never seem to force myself to keep going. How do you do it?”

I didn’t know what to say. “I don’t know. If you just keep running, you eventually get to the distance you set out for, and it is over faster than you think. I don’t have any big secret. I just keep going.”

There you have it. That sentence is the crux of my whole running philosophy. How did I go from 2 miles to 5K? I just kept going. How did I get from 5K to 10K? I just kept going. How did I run 7 miles, and then 8? I just. Kept. Going.

It’s what I do. I keep going. And going. And going.

And that’s why I’m The Energizer Katie. Check me out sometime.

California dreams, Chicago realities

Last week, I was lucky enough to spend five days in sunny southern California, visiting one of my best friends from undergrad. It was a great trip. I had never been to the west coast, and I was able to see the Santa Monica Pier, the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and the beautiful mountains of Malibu. Even better, I was able to walk around without a coat, go running in a tank top along the beach, and even (gasp!) wear sunglasses! I had been looking forward to getting away for months, and the trip didn’t disappoint. Time to relax, time in the sun, and time spent with old friends were three things I had really needed.

But the trip also affected me in a way that I didn’t expect. During my last full day there, an additional friend from college drove up from San Diego and the three of us – me, the friend I was staying with (Vanessa), and the friend who drove in (Stephen) – went out to lunch, on a long walk, and out to dinner, accompanied by Stephen’s girlfriend.

I had not seen Stephen in almost two years, and I had not seen Vanessa in almost three. But that day, it was like it had only been a few days. Although we spent a lot of time telling each other about our jobs, families, pets, and roommates, we also spent a lot of time reminiscing. We brought up jokes and stories that were six or seven years old. We laughed, we teased, and we feigned offense, just like we did when we all lived in the same 6-unit apartment building nearly four years ago. It was easy, effortless, and comfortable, and I enjoyed myself immensely. I did feel a little bit guilty that Stephen’s girlfriend could not join in the reminiscing, but Vanessa and I tried make up for that by telling as many embarrassing stories about Stephen as we could remember. (Believe me, we know a lot of them!)

It really was blissful. In fact, it wasn’t until several hours into the visit that I had any sad or painful emotions at all. But then, both Stephen and Vanessa made comments that caught me completely off guard. Without prelude, Vanessa said something along the lines of, “Katie, I think you should just move here.” I flinched, not sure how to respond. I said, “If only it were that simple.” I hoped that would be the end of it, but then Stephen jumped in. “Come on, Katie. What does Chicago really do better than SoCal?” They looked at me expectantly, and the next thing that came out of my mouth surprised me. “It’s not that I don’t miss you. But honestly, I don’t know if I could be happy here permanently.” They asked why, and I stuttered through a rather incoherent response about crazy people wearing boots in 60-degree weather (or something equally lame). Then I changed the subject.

For the next couple of hours, up until the point that Stephen left, a range of emotions coursed through me. First and foremost, there was gratitude and love for my two old friends. As uncomfortable as that moment was, it showed me that they wanted me nearby. Even though years had passed between visits, there was no awkwardness between us, and they sensed how great it would be to be together again. It wasn’t until then that it even occurred to me that things could have been awkward. Sometimes, people change in ways you don’t expect, and friendships that once were rock solid suddenly have no foundation. But there was none of that. And it didn’t occur to me to be thankful for that until after they asked me to move.

But the happiness was bittersweet because deep down, I knew I’d never be moving to California. It wasn’t for the reasons I expected, though. There are the obvious reasons, of course. My life is established here. I have a job that I love and an ever-widening circle of friends. I have volunteer responsibilities that would be hard to walk away from, and my monthly budget definitely does not have a surplus that would handle a long-distance move. Not to mention the fact that now is the worst time in my lifetime to give up a job to look for another.

But it was not any of those things that provided the definitive answer. I did think about all of them, and I knew they’d all present difficulties. However, I also knew that there were ways around all of them. If I had good enough reasons, I could break all those barriers and move to Santa Monica or San Diego. And all the thoughts of comfort, love, and gratitude I was feeling toward Stephen and Vanessa were good enough reasons. I had the same sense they did – that somehow, life would just be better if they were closer to me.

Despite that, though, I struggled with another truth: the truth that had come out of my mouth before I even realized it. I would not be happy living here permanently. Don’t get me wrong. I loved Santa Monica. I hate winter, and there, I could almost escape it completely. I love the sun, and there I could have it year-round. And I love experiencing new things, so I was not afraid of adjusting to a new environment. But even in the few days I spent there, I knew it was not where I belonged.

Chicago is where I belong. I become more and more certain of that every day. The more I learn about myself in these formative years as a twentysomething, the more I am amazed at how well this city suits me.

I don’t like driving. I never really did. It’s stressed me out since the first day of driver’s training. Here, I don’t have to drive unless I’m leaving the city. I can walk to at least half the places I need to go regularly, and take public transportation to the rest. There, I would have to drive almost anywhere I went.

I do well living by myself. There are benefits to having roommates, but mostly, I find that living alone relieves some of the social pressure from my angst-ridden mind. It’s not that I hide out in here. In fact, sometimes I think that I am gone so often that it’s unfair to my cat. But when I lived with roommates, I always worried what they would think about what time I went to bed, how long I took in the shower, what I watched on TV, and what I ate for dinner. I shouldn’t care what they think, but the truth is that I do. It’s a part of my social anxiety that I’ve accepted and had to learn to control. And living alone really helps with that. Here, I can afford to do so, even if it means settling for 350 square feet in a poorly maintained building. There, I wouldn’t be able to afford it. After the discussions I had with Vanessa about housing costs, I’m certain there would be no chance.

I love exploring and discovering new things. This city is made for that. There are restaurants above apartments, apartments above retail stores, and tiny shops that can only be entered from an alley. The sea of skyscrapers here hides a thousand secrets waiting to be discovered, and I always know that I can fill an empty day with a walk of discovery. In Santa Monica, the buildings are lower and the city seems more zoned than Chicago. Residences here, commercial spaces there. Life there just wouldn’t seem like the never-ending game it seems like here.

These are only three of a lot of reasons I don’t think I would be happy in Santa Monica. While I know that they are colored by some biases, I know there is truth at the heart of them. A piece of me wants to move to the west coast, if for no other reason, to be around Vanessa more. And I think she knows that – if only by the tears that welled up in my eyes as I tried to explain this to her as we stood in the checkout line waiting to buy the chocolate cake and ice cream we planned to eat to say farewell to my time in Cali. As I’ve thought about this more over the last week, I also realize I’ve felt this way every time I go back to Michigan to visit my parents. A piece of me desperately wants to be closer to them, and I can’t describe how much I miss my mom and dad on a day-to-day basis. But I don’t belong in Bay City. And I think they know that, too.

So I guess my purpose in writing this was to tell Vanessa and Stephen, and my parents, that I do love them, and there are days when I do want to move closer to them. But please be content in knowing that I am certain that I am where I am supposed to be, and I am happy. I’d love for you to move here, too. But only if you’re sure it’s where you belong.

No matter where you are, I’ll still be here, still be me, and still be there when you need me.

Remixing to the Max

**A brief prelude: I will be in sunny California later this week (woo!), so I am posting early this week. I’m pressed for time and so this may be uncharacteristically brief, but I’m determined to stick to my one post a week resolution. Enjoy!**

I consider myself a woman of many talents. Cooking is not one of them.

The circumstances in which I found this out were rather extenuating. The first time in my life I had to regularly cook for myself was while I was studying abroad in Sweden, and therefore my first serious shopping trips were to stores where I could not read the labels on the food. This led to trouble from the beginning; on my first try, I accidentally bought some horsemeat.

Things did improve from there a bit – I learned to stick to what I know and mastered most of the Swedish food vocabulary. I remember distinctly the first time I tried to make a real meal. It consisted of chopped potatoes that I cooked in the microwave, covered in browned hamburger meat, and topped off with some cheese, chopped tomatoes, and salt and pepper. It was rather bland, but edible, and I dubbed the dish “Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook.” It made many appearances during my time abroad, but it never got any fancier. For over five months, I survived on this dish, pasta, ham sandwiches, and frozen meatballs.

My return to the states was a relief in the food department, and over the past few years, I have honed my cooking skills a bit. I started out following recipes to the letter. My first roommate in Chicago used to make fun of my extensive use of measuring cups. I left nothing to chance. I eventually loosened up a bit, writing notes in my cookbooks about how I thought the recipe could be tweaked or improved. I graduated from a four-ingredient cookbook to a full-fledged “What’s For Dinner?” book, and even dabbled in grilling and slow-cooking. (In fact, I ADORED my crock pot.)

Everything usually turned out ok, but nothing was gourmet by any means. There was nothing I did particularly well, nothing I would repeatedly make for company. Many people have at least one signature dish that they always fall back on; my mother has her chicken and stuffing casserole, and my former roommate has her chili or lasagna. But I had no signature and didn’t expect to ever have one. I’d be better off taking company out to dinner.

So, I just stuck to my recipes. For a very, very long time, I was completely dependent on them. I didn’t know any by memory, and never really tried putting things together unless some book told me to do so. But now that I live on my own, there are occasions when I find myself with a bunch of random ingredients in my cupboard that need using. I’ve been trying lately to just put them together in ways that sound good and see what happens.

For instance, a few weeks ago I had half a box of rice, a pound of hamburger, and some ranch seasoning mix. When I went to the grocery store, I bought a can of diced tomatoes and peppers. I browned the hamburger with the ranch mix, let it simmer with the tomatoes, and served it over the rice with some snow peas on the side. It didn’t have the most appetizing look, but it tasted fine, and even had a little more kick than most of the things I make. I was quite satisfied and maybe a little proud as I ate it.

As I reheated a portion of the dish a few days later, something occurred to me. I stared down at the plate and thought to myself, oh good Lord, you know what this is? I began to laugh. It’s Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook: The Remix. It is! Swap out the microwaved potatoes for some brown rice, and the salt and pepper for some ranch seasoning mix, and it’s the exact same dish, just classed up a bit.

Truthfully, I would never serve Katie Doesn’t Know How to Cook to company, not even in it’s remix form. But who knows. Maybe someday I will have a signature dish after all.

Self-Conscious (in a good way)

In January, I joined the racing team sponsored by one of Chicago’s chains of running stores. There are lots of great benefits associated with it: running gear, organized fun runs, discounts on race registrations, a couple of magazine subscriptions, and chances to test out new merchandise. But there was one perk in particular that sold me on joining the team: weekly speed workouts with a professional trainer.

I knew these workouts would be very beneficial for me. Despite the fact that I ran 8 races last summer, doubled my race length, and took a full minute off my mile time, one sad truth remains: I really know nothing about running. I know nothing about the benefits of cross training, speed bursts, or long versus short runs. My goal this season is to finish the rock and roll half-marathon on August 2 – an ambitious goal to say the least – and I’ve already pushed the limits of what I can do on my own. I knew I needed help, and these speed workouts seemed like a good start. So, I told myself that I’d wait out the coldest months, then start going to the weekly Wednesday night sessions starting in March.

As March grew closer, I became more and more nervous, and I was forced to confront the fact that despite my enthusiasm, deep down I was terrified. A big piece of me really wanted to go to the speed workouts, but all I could think about was the very real possibility that I would be the slowest runner present, or worse, that what I would be asked to do would be beyond my abilities altogether. So I knew that I willing myself to go would be no small thing.

When I left work yesterday, I began chanting to myself, I will go to speed training. I will go to speed training. I changed into my running clothes and soon as I got home, and left early, knowing that if I waited around I might use the possibility of being late as an excuse to not go. After a short period of waiting at the store, finally we took off on our warm up run to the training site (a parking lot about a mile away), and I felt a bit better. I was there, and on my way, and no matter how bad it was, it would be over in an hour.

Sad to say, that cheeriness didn’t last long. As I followed the other team members to the parking lot, I found that I could barely keep up with their warm-up pace. I instantly felt conspicuous and self-conscious. Oh God, I thought. I am out of my league. This is going to be embarrassing. They all must be wondering what I think I am doing here. I finished the warm up a couple hundred feet behind everyone else, wondering whether I should just leave now. But I didn’t. I stuck it out, and I am SO glad that I did.

Once at the training site, we met up with the coach, who explained the first task. Start at this lamppost. For a third of the distance to the next lamppost, crabwalk facing one direction. For the second third, crabwalk facing the other direction. For the last third, run backward. Then sprint the whole distance back (maybe 75 m?) at a pace faster than your 5K pace. Repeat four times.

And, we were off. I fully admit that even in this funny running style, I was the slowest one there, by far. But you know what? I was having so much fun doing that drill that I barely noticed. There were a few super serious people there who did the drills with intense scowls on their faces, but most other people were laughing at themselves, just like me. My nerves faded.

When everyone was finished, the coach explained the second, more lengthy, and much more ambitious part of the workout. Run, at a challenging pace, down to the second stop sign (200 m). Let your heart rate recover to about 120 beats per minute. Then run back and do another recovery. Run one more 200 m stretch, then jog onto the cement path and turn right. Run aggressively up the hill to the Grant statue, then jog back down at an easy pace. Run up and jog down two more times. Then jog back to the parking lot and run another 200 m back to the starting point.

That sounded ambitious enough for me, but you’ll never guess what he said after that…. “That’s one set. Do that three times.” Oy.

I had a feeling I would only be able to finish two sets in the time it took everyone else to finish three, but I gave it a shot anyway. My 200 m sprints were indeed the slowest, by a noticeable margin, but my recoveries were shorter, so I was able to finish the first set of 200 m sprints only a minute or two behind. The hill was another story, however. I’ve really never run on hills, and after running up two times, I was hurting, and I fell further behind. Just like that, I became very self-conscious again. I had yet to talk to anyone – people seemed to all know each other and not be interesting in socializing much – and as I started my way up the hill the third time, I wondered if anyone would notice if I only did two sets. But then, as the rest of the group passed me, on their way down as I still was working my way up, one woman about my age smiled at me and said, “Nice job.”

I don’t know why, but this reinvigorated me. I reached the top of the hill, jogged back down, and sprinted the last 200 m, telling myself that I would finish three sets even if everyone else left before I was finished. When I crossed the makeshift finish line, someone else asked me how I was doing. I said, “Oh, I’m great. I’m just slow, so don’t mind me.” She smiled and said, “I always like to say that we’re faster than the people that don’t come.” Touche.

I was most struck, though, that she used the word “we.” Perhaps they didn’t see me as beneath them. Maybe I was the only one who saw myself that way.

I’m proud to say that I did finish all three of my sets, chatting with the group of ladies that I was closest to keeping up with at each of the recoveries. I learned their names and got a few tips, and I was really touched when, as they passed me on the last hill, they told me they’d wait for me at the top so I wouldn’t have to run back to the store alone. They were completely friendly, encouraging, and nonjudgmental. They treated me as an equal, and I was and still am very grateful to them.

We jogged back to the store, and then I walked to the train smiling from ear to ear. It looks like this racing team is going to be everything I hoped it could be. I was a bit stiff all day today, and especially after running an 8K after work, I must admit that there are some choice muscle groups that are quite sore. But I finished. I did everything the coach asked me to do, and I met some really nice people to boot. And I’m so proud of myself that I can barely stand it.

I’ll be out of town next Wednesday (in California, woo!), but I’m looking forward to returning to speed training after that. Yes, I was the slowest one there. But I had such a good time that I hardly even care. And after my experience yesterday, I believe I will get faster, as long as I keep working. I owe all that to the group of runners that took the time to notice how hard I was working and encourage me. Thanks to them, I’m a new kind of self-conscious now – conscious of my potential instead of my inexperience.

It’s a good way to be.