If you believe in karma, then the Humenanskys have been a very bad couple. Paybacks have arrived for the time that they ducked the semi-acquaintance in the grocery store, lost a wedding RSVP card, left their shed to rot in the backyard, and - - worst offense of all - - let their kids eat happy meals. (You can blame that last one just on me, Darth Vader wants nothing to do with it.)
It was bad enough when I was the only one who was receiving punishment for deeds done wrong. After swearing that I would not write just to complain about my ailments, this one has gone on long enough and has affected my workout schedule so profoundly that I think it now falls under the category of things worthy to blog about when the blog’s title is “It Runs In the Family,” because nothing is running in this family right now, and from my end, it’s a stupid, end of summer cold. I have been coughing like husky, aged male for almost two weeks now, combined with the worst sore throat I have ever had. Seriously. If you looked at the back of my throat with a flashlight, you would see something out of a horror film. I forced Darth Vader to look at it from a distance, and I think he wants to banish me from the house until it goes away. When the doctor looked at it, she said . . . and before I tell you this, I have to tell you that I have this uncanny ability to bring out the “girlfriend” in all of my female doctors. My OB was always like, “Hey giiiirl,” every time I went for a checkup while I was pregnant . . . Anyway, when my GP looked at my throat, she said, “Oh man, that is some naaaaasty stuff you’ve got back there.” I love that I make people feel comfortable when they are talking to me, but sometimes, I just want the professional opinion. What exactly IS that naaaaaasty stuff, and why is it making me feel so bad?
To make a long and boring story about my health short, my after some awkward gagging with my eyes bugged out while the assistant poked swabs at the nasty stuff in my throat, my strep test was negative. As a result, I must have a virus, like one that won’t go away, because it’s four days later and I still have the same symptoms, even after being on a Z-pack. I do feel a bit more energetic, however, hence the blog writing the night before my first full day of students instead of sleeping, packing lunches, getting my clothes ready, or any of that other productive garbage!
Consequently, the workouts have come to a halt. After three weeks of working out six days a week with renewed vigor from my decision to do the little triathlon in September and assembling my team for the Akron Marathon (thank you, thank you, my team, if you are out there), everything has just stopped due to this illness robbing me of my strength. I’m approaching that point where I get nervous about starting again. What if I can’t run as far when I feel better? Will I have to build up my leg strength again to bike well? New beginnings are great, but I have never been a fan of starting over. There is a great difference between the two.
Now onto the other adult in this family from whom karma has come to collect: Darth Vader. DV came home the other night from his weekly “track workout,” where runners of unusual speed (ROUS) run multiple times as fast as they can around an oval - - or something like that. It’s way more organized and sophisticated, but I do not partake in these so called “track workouts,” so I really have no place to be discussing them at any length. He came home and slowly, very, very slowly crept up the stairs to where I was beginning to read our kids their bedtime stories. I met him in the doorway of Princess Lea’s room. It took a millisecond to see something was wrong. “What’s wrong with you? Are you sore, hurt, injured? You’re injured, aren’t you? Do you need to, like, go to the hospital? What happened? Does anyone else know about this?” I pelted him with questions. (Sometimes I am an awesome, wife, don’t you think?)
“Injured,” he said as he gingerly sat himself in the chair in Princess Lea’s room.
Simply stated, Vader is hurt . . .for the first time ever. It’s something that I’ve known could be lurking on the horizon, but never really let myself think about. You see, Darth Vader lives a simple life. Family, running, work. These are the things he does. These are his priorities, and I completely respect him for that, but what happens when number two on the priority list gets put on the injured reserve list for a bit? You are left with family and work, which could cause a person to go mad at times, I would guess.
I guess we’re about to find out.
So the man and woman of the Humenansky household are both down for the count, while Skywalker and Princess Lea take over the world. Only time will tell how long our friend karma will stick around. I should probably go pay my library fine (for keeping children’s books too long) just incase.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sole Sisters
I feel very fortunate to have remained close with my college girlfriends. Our relationships with each other are quite similar to that of a marriage - - especially mine, since I met most of them around the same time that I met my husband. We met at a young age, have seen each other through countless life milestones, have grown as individuals within our relationships, and have basically just enjoyed sharing life together. As with a marriage, sometimes we are over-the-moon happy while we’re together, and other times we want to throw each other out the window.
In fact, this is going to sound incredibly cheesy, but we were in a sorority together, and long, long ago - - like almost 18 years - - we did sort of "vow" to be there for each other in the good times and bad. We didn’t use those words exactly. Instead, we used silly terms like “carnation sisters” and talked about three chicks named Mary, Mary and Martha - - and no, there were no farm animals involved - - but the good and bad times? That’s what we meant. We’d be there for them both. Fortunately, for us, most of the times have been pretty good . . . more than good, actually. Sure, we have all dealt with what could be referred to as "routine emergencies," sad moments, and events that have changed our career paths or outlooks on life, but overall, we've been able to dust ourselves off and keep on keepin' on, as they say.
Last summer, however, life changed dramatically for one of my friends and her family. The unfathomable happened when she lost her oldest son in a tragic way. That is certainly her story to tell, but what I will tell you is that if you have ever thought that your heart has physically ached for a friend during an above mentioned, “routine emergency,” that is nothing compared to the sorrow you feel for a friend who has lost a child. There were no words to describe it then, and despite a year passing, I still find myself searching for the right words to describe the ache that hasn’t really gone away. Simply put, this has truly been a “bad time” for which none of us could prepare.
This summer, my friends organized a team of 35 people to participate in Lifebanc’s Gift of Life Walk and Run in honor of their son. When he passed away, my friends did a completely selfless act by donating their son’s heart valves and corneas to save or heal another person’s life - - and they made the decision to do this in the midst of life as they knew it coming to a complete halt. Amazing. Lifebanc is a non-profit organization that facilitates these kinds of decisions. The run/walk and proceeds from it supports their educational programs and organ donation in general. In their first year of organizing a team, my friends raised over $3,000 for Lifebanc in honor of their son. Again, AMAZING!!
The event was emotionally moving and light-hearted at the same time - - if that is even possible! It was healing to think about how organ donation is really “paying it forward” in the ultimate way. Organ and tissue recipients are humble and beyond grateful, while organ donors, and those who make decisions like my friends did, have made an ultimate sacrifice; they define “giving” in a way that most of us cannot even comprehend. A donor often passes on, but the legacy that they begin with their passing can lead to an on-going chain of life. It’s kind of mind-boggling, if you think about it.
Being at the event and being there with my friends from college felt right, if anything can feel right that comes out of something as unfortunate as losing one’s child. It didn’t matter if we were walking or running, or how fast we were going (which is good, because the course was REALLY, REALLY hilly). We were together, we were laughing, we were crying, we were supporting, we were sharing (um, and we were sweating - - and probably smelling - - by the end). We were doing the things that we said we’d do a long time ago when we probably were not even thinking about how a pledge of friendship would carry on into our adult lives, when being a friend would include befriending husbands, boyfriends, parents, siblings, children and other friends of our friends. By definition, I do not have a large immediate family, but events like these remind me that I have some of the most precious sisters a girl could ask for. I’ll take your good times and your bad, and I’ll even forgive you when you make me want to throw you out of a window . . . chances are, you’ve wanted to do the same to me ten times over.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Desperately Seeking Someone(s)
I’m turning my blog into Match.com today for the purpose of finding four dates all for the same day. Here are my qualifications for my future mates: There are only two, so pay attention or you might miss them: 1.) You need to be able to propel yourself forward. 2) You need to be available for our date on September 24 . . . of this year.
It doesn’t matter if you are male or female.
It also doesn’t matter if you have another special someone in your life. Look at me! I’m married after all, quite happily actually. (Now you do have to be okay with the fact that my husband is probably WAY better at what we are going to be doing on our date than you are, but please keep in mind that he works on it like six days out of seven, so don’t let that dissuade you from being my date. I am an equal opportunity “dater,” and frankly, despite all of the practice we get around here, I am not very good at it either, so please do not be intimidated.)
See? Look how I am so not picky!! This seems easy enough, right? Okay, so before you go knocking down my door . . . or thinking that I have lost my last marbles writing innuendo jokes, let me tell you the other details.
I need a team for the Akron Marathon Relay!! You see, I sort of messed things up from a team aspect earlier this year when I trained for and completed the 10K at the Cleveland Marathon back in May. I did not miss a run in my training program, going from a consistent, mundane three miles only three times a week, to running 3.5 to 6 miles at least three times a week. It was a true testament to the fact that picking a goal, making a plan, and sticking to that plan down to the last detail really does work and can leave a person feeling amazingly accomplished once that goal is met. Though I had run 6.2 miles before, I had never completed that distance in an actual event, and though I was still slow, I did the 10K that day in May with virtually no issues. I felt phenomenal when I was done! I could conquer the world at that point!! Rawwwrrrr!!
The day after the Cleveland Marathon, I made Darth Vader help me with a new plan. The possibilities were endless!! I would do a 10-miler in August! I would defeat the half-marathon-monkey on my back in September at the Akron Marathon!! I would become svelte in the process!
Not only did I plan this with Darth Vader, but I also committed the cardinal sin of goal setting. I told a BUNCH of people about it. It seems that I have an itty-bitty problem when it comes to keeping things to myself. (This should not be a surprise. I do have this blog after all.) The problem that resulted from my big mouth this time was that in telling some former relay teammates of mine that I was looking to achieve half-marathon greatness, I let them off the hook! They haven’t had time to train; they haven’t had time to mentally prepare.
Then May turned into June. Then it got hot, and if you’ve been reading, you know I don’t like to run when it’s hot. I don’t know, something about the sweat runnels from my forehead mixing with the “sweat proof” sunscreen on my face and dripping into my eyes causing extreme stinging and blindness is just kind of a turn off. And that’s only part of it.
So, yeah, the dreams of vastly increasing my distance from 6.2 miles to 13.1 evaporated with the heat as the temperatures this summer have climbed to and are hovering in the balmy, sticky, oppressive range. I alienated my teammates, and now I am searching for some by means of my blog. (Good thing this isn’t real dating or I would have a major complex about myself at this point.)
Here’s what I need: Four people to run a combined total of approximately 20.5 miles. I would like to do the 5.7 mile leg of the relay, but I am willing to do the 3.5 or 6.2. There are 2.8 and 8 mile portions as well.
If you haven’t participated in or witnessed the Akron Marathon, or “Run the Bird” as their slogan reports, it really is a fun event. THOUSANDS of people do it -- people of ALL shapes, sizes, and running abilities (some people even form teams and walk the whole thing). The course runs through many different Akron sights, so if you haven’t thought nicely about Akron recently, being on the course may remind you of some of the cool things about our thriving metropolis (or the closest bigger city that we’ve got). It takes place in September, so the weather is usually quite temperate, and it starts at seven in the morning, so even if it is going to get warm, that doesn’t happen until later. Finally, there is a fun little party at the Akron Aeros’ stadium when you finish with food AND there are free beer tickets on your race bib. That’s enough incentive right there, if you ask me! (Uh, and the Barley House is right next door to the finish, so moving the after party over there is also a fun option, too.)
So if you are feeling like you’d like to “go out” with me on Saturday, September 24, 2011, please let me know. Send me an email, comment here, send me a message on FB, or tell me in person the next time we see each other. Please do not worry about speed. This will be a very non-competitive team. We’re just doing it because it is fun, it feels great to get up and do something healthy with thousands of other people, and there’s beer at the end . . . just kidding, well, sort of. And do not worry. If you are a commitment-phobe, I won’t bug you after this one date. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship; I promise I won’t try to tie you down. Think about it!
Check out the website for further details: www.akronmarathon.org
It doesn’t matter if you are male or female.
It also doesn’t matter if you have another special someone in your life. Look at me! I’m married after all, quite happily actually. (Now you do have to be okay with the fact that my husband is probably WAY better at what we are going to be doing on our date than you are, but please keep in mind that he works on it like six days out of seven, so don’t let that dissuade you from being my date. I am an equal opportunity “dater,” and frankly, despite all of the practice we get around here, I am not very good at it either, so please do not be intimidated.)
See? Look how I am so not picky!! This seems easy enough, right? Okay, so before you go knocking down my door . . . or thinking that I have lost my last marbles writing innuendo jokes, let me tell you the other details.
I need a team for the Akron Marathon Relay!! You see, I sort of messed things up from a team aspect earlier this year when I trained for and completed the 10K at the Cleveland Marathon back in May. I did not miss a run in my training program, going from a consistent, mundane three miles only three times a week, to running 3.5 to 6 miles at least three times a week. It was a true testament to the fact that picking a goal, making a plan, and sticking to that plan down to the last detail really does work and can leave a person feeling amazingly accomplished once that goal is met. Though I had run 6.2 miles before, I had never completed that distance in an actual event, and though I was still slow, I did the 10K that day in May with virtually no issues. I felt phenomenal when I was done! I could conquer the world at that point!! Rawwwrrrr!!
The day after the Cleveland Marathon, I made Darth Vader help me with a new plan. The possibilities were endless!! I would do a 10-miler in August! I would defeat the half-marathon-monkey on my back in September at the Akron Marathon!! I would become svelte in the process!
Not only did I plan this with Darth Vader, but I also committed the cardinal sin of goal setting. I told a BUNCH of people about it. It seems that I have an itty-bitty problem when it comes to keeping things to myself. (This should not be a surprise. I do have this blog after all.) The problem that resulted from my big mouth this time was that in telling some former relay teammates of mine that I was looking to achieve half-marathon greatness, I let them off the hook! They haven’t had time to train; they haven’t had time to mentally prepare.
Then May turned into June. Then it got hot, and if you’ve been reading, you know I don’t like to run when it’s hot. I don’t know, something about the sweat runnels from my forehead mixing with the “sweat proof” sunscreen on my face and dripping into my eyes causing extreme stinging and blindness is just kind of a turn off. And that’s only part of it.
So, yeah, the dreams of vastly increasing my distance from 6.2 miles to 13.1 evaporated with the heat as the temperatures this summer have climbed to and are hovering in the balmy, sticky, oppressive range. I alienated my teammates, and now I am searching for some by means of my blog. (Good thing this isn’t real dating or I would have a major complex about myself at this point.)
Here’s what I need: Four people to run a combined total of approximately 20.5 miles. I would like to do the 5.7 mile leg of the relay, but I am willing to do the 3.5 or 6.2. There are 2.8 and 8 mile portions as well.
If you haven’t participated in or witnessed the Akron Marathon, or “Run the Bird” as their slogan reports, it really is a fun event. THOUSANDS of people do it -- people of ALL shapes, sizes, and running abilities (some people even form teams and walk the whole thing). The course runs through many different Akron sights, so if you haven’t thought nicely about Akron recently, being on the course may remind you of some of the cool things about our thriving metropolis (or the closest bigger city that we’ve got). It takes place in September, so the weather is usually quite temperate, and it starts at seven in the morning, so even if it is going to get warm, that doesn’t happen until later. Finally, there is a fun little party at the Akron Aeros’ stadium when you finish with food AND there are free beer tickets on your race bib. That’s enough incentive right there, if you ask me! (Uh, and the Barley House is right next door to the finish, so moving the after party over there is also a fun option, too.)
So if you are feeling like you’d like to “go out” with me on Saturday, September 24, 2011, please let me know. Send me an email, comment here, send me a message on FB, or tell me in person the next time we see each other. Please do not worry about speed. This will be a very non-competitive team. We’re just doing it because it is fun, it feels great to get up and do something healthy with thousands of other people, and there’s beer at the end . . . just kidding, well, sort of. And do not worry. If you are a commitment-phobe, I won’t bug you after this one date. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship; I promise I won’t try to tie you down. Think about it!
Check out the website for further details: www.akronmarathon.org
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Swimsuit Issue
This week marked my return to the pool for more reasons than just working on my tan or entertaining my kids. I’ve decided to train for a super-duper tiny triathlon, and consequently, this will require some swimming. Now before you get all impressed, you should know that I’ve done one before, about four years ago, between the births of Mr. Skywalker and Princess Lea. The one I did before was more challenging. The one I did before required more training. The one I did before seemed more sophisticated. The one I did before included men in the race.
So I’m starting over again, and despite the short distance of this race, triathlon training at any level requires a certain amount of commitment to the training. It is not easy to just go biking or swimming. Biking requires time, a lot of distance, and a bunch of equipment, namely the bike itself. Swimming requires, well, going to a body of water . . . and getting wet. Running requires much less stuff, time, and is not as wet (unless you are Darth Vader, who comes home and drips sweat all over the kitchen floor - - hazardous and gross to those of us barefoot-for-the-summer people), or at least it does the way I’ve gone about it. Walk out your door and run. Simple as that!
I arrived at the triathlon decision because running alone is not getting me where I want to be. Certainly, I have gained some cardiovascular endurance, but I haven’t dropped the extra pounds that I had hoped, I haven’t been able to vastly increase my distances due to excuse making (see last week’s entry), and frankly, I just don’t like it enough. I mean, I dislike it so much that I spent $35 plus shipping for a shirt that says, “Running Sucks.” Unfortunately, I did this before I thought about what I would say when my kids asked me what the letters spell on my shirt. I can’t even wear it! Okay, I wear it. I just tell my kids that it says, “Running is Awesome!!” but Princess Lea will figure out the real answer soon.
Once I made the commitment to myself that I really would do this triathlon thing again, I made a little training plan in my head and a list of supplies I would need. Luckily, all I could come up with was a swimsuit for training in the pool (and new tires for the bike, a bike computer, a better bike seat, better watch, etc., but let’s not think about that stuff right now.) You know, the Speedo kind. So I dragged Princess Lea to the Nike outlet hoping to find something simple, suitable, and Speedo-ish. “Ummm, yeah, we didn’t get any suits in this year,” the nice Nike salesperson quipped. Frustrated (me mostly), we distracted ourselves with back-to-school sales and the playground at the outlets, and then I pulled her along to Dick’s, promising a smoothie if we could just make it through one more store.
Of course Dick’s could deliver on the swimsuit, but their selection was kind of small, so, having kept my daughter in shopping mode for much longer than she is normally willing to endure, I grabbed the most unassuming, slimming, blackest suit I could find in my size and countered it with a psychedelic, tie-dyed swim cap that I was actually excited to squeeze onto my head, and we hit the checkout. I mean, my size is my size, right? Who needs to try the bathing suit on? This is a one-piece, swimmer’s suit. This is not the same as a beach/pool suit. I should not have to order my customary 5-10 suits, spend gazillions of dollars in the process and then send them all back only to settle on one from Target, right?
Wrong.
The day was planned perfectly, like any self-respecting, stay-at-home-just-for-the-summer mom would do it. We were going to be up at 7:30, the kids would be deposited nicely in the childcare at the gym by 8:30, and I would be in the pool by 8:45. At 8:10, I went upstairs to change into my new suit. Pulling it on, it felt a bit snug, but hey, I was a lifeguard before, and I spent a couple of my younger years on a summer swim team, a new suit is supposed to be a little snug, this is how it works. I looked in the mirror. “Acceptable,” I thought, and turned for a profile view . . . “Ugh! What is THAT??” I asked the mirror. I got closer. I wiped the dust from the mirror. I looked again. What I saw is the fact that the fine people at Speedo have reduced the rear-end portion of their suits by at least 50 percent. I should’ve known, I mean, I did not fail to notice as all of the fathers’ heads at swimming lessons all did a simultaneous 180 degree swivel as the cute, young swimming instructor passed them by with her clip board. I remember thinking, “Wow, that suit is a little low in the back, yes?” but this wasn’t really on my radar as I picked out my own.
Now I know what you are thinking, “Maybe, Kelly, it’s just your backside that has increased by 50 percent, not the other way around,” but I can say honestly that even though I am not the same size that I was at the tender age of 17, my size now is my size now. It should fit, right? It’s not like I’m trying to squeeze into something smaller or need some kind of reality check about my figure. A bathing suit in my size should not be a squeezing device for love handles!!
Basically, that’s what I saw - - squished love handles. Love handles amplified by a too small rear of a bathing suit. “THIS is NOT going to work, “I thought, or more honestly, said aloud to myself. Simultaneously, a crack of thunder interrupted my thoughts. Great. My suit does not fit and now the pool will be closed for 20 minutes - - as long as there is no more thunder. Another rumble. “It’s a SIGN!! YES! That’s it!! Mother Nature has decided for me that this suit will not cut it. I cannot be seen by anyone, even the 15-year-old, acne-faced lifeguard with these back bulges!!”
At this moment, the good angel appeared on my shoulder. “Oh, but I have been planning this swim for like four days. It’s my first swim! If I miss this, my entire training plan could be ruined! Stop being so vain! Nobody cares! “I ran downstairs to go check it out in the basement mirror. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad from another view.
On my way, I ran into my children, who were surprisingly eating a very civilized breakfast at their kid table in the living room, watching some Phineas and Ferb. I tried to take advantage of this and snuck quietly past . . .
“MAMA! WHAT IS THAT??”
Oh my little Skywalker, he doesn’t miss anything. “It’s my swimsuit.”
“Are you going running in THAT??” he asked. Princess Lea just stared.
“Oh, no, Buddy, I’m going to swim some laps in it . . .maybe,” and I’m sneaking, sneaking, sneaking behind the half wall between the living room and the hallway.
“Where’s your other one?”
“Don’t worry about it, big guy. Just eat your breakfast.”
Break! I took the silent pause as my moment to escape to the basement. I looked at the front. Good! What was I worried about? Turned to the side . . . ugh. There they were. Turned to the back . . . and as if on cue once again, a rumble of thunder.
Taking my hint from Mother Nature, I canceled my swim for the morning. I probably could’ve sucked it up, and in, and made the suit work, but after fretting about it for a half hour, and with the passing storm, a morning swim just wasn’t going to work with the schedule for the rest of the day.
There is, however, a positive ending to this story. After dropping the kids with my mom for the afternoon and having a fun lunch with some good friends, I rallied. I would not let this first day of swim training pass me by. After lunch, I stopped in Hudson’s All-Star Sports, which, to my delight, was exactly what I was looking for. They cater to the high school athlete, but they have a huge wall of swimsuits, a plethora of Lycra that would suit a wide range of aqua-minded folks. I grabbed a suit one size bigger, sized up the rear, and took it home.
Twenty minutes later, I was comfortably gliding my way through the cool water, listening to the rhythmic sound of my breathing, and feeling a little impressed about the way my body just does what it is supposed to do when I’m swimming - - even after taking a four year break. Even after what it took to get there, I can say that swimming definitely does not suck. Somebody should make a t-shirt that says that.
So I’m starting over again, and despite the short distance of this race, triathlon training at any level requires a certain amount of commitment to the training. It is not easy to just go biking or swimming. Biking requires time, a lot of distance, and a bunch of equipment, namely the bike itself. Swimming requires, well, going to a body of water . . . and getting wet. Running requires much less stuff, time, and is not as wet (unless you are Darth Vader, who comes home and drips sweat all over the kitchen floor - - hazardous and gross to those of us barefoot-for-the-summer people), or at least it does the way I’ve gone about it. Walk out your door and run. Simple as that!
I arrived at the triathlon decision because running alone is not getting me where I want to be. Certainly, I have gained some cardiovascular endurance, but I haven’t dropped the extra pounds that I had hoped, I haven’t been able to vastly increase my distances due to excuse making (see last week’s entry), and frankly, I just don’t like it enough. I mean, I dislike it so much that I spent $35 plus shipping for a shirt that says, “Running Sucks.” Unfortunately, I did this before I thought about what I would say when my kids asked me what the letters spell on my shirt. I can’t even wear it! Okay, I wear it. I just tell my kids that it says, “Running is Awesome!!” but Princess Lea will figure out the real answer soon.
Once I made the commitment to myself that I really would do this triathlon thing again, I made a little training plan in my head and a list of supplies I would need. Luckily, all I could come up with was a swimsuit for training in the pool (and new tires for the bike, a bike computer, a better bike seat, better watch, etc., but let’s not think about that stuff right now.) You know, the Speedo kind. So I dragged Princess Lea to the Nike outlet hoping to find something simple, suitable, and Speedo-ish. “Ummm, yeah, we didn’t get any suits in this year,” the nice Nike salesperson quipped. Frustrated (me mostly), we distracted ourselves with back-to-school sales and the playground at the outlets, and then I pulled her along to Dick’s, promising a smoothie if we could just make it through one more store.
Of course Dick’s could deliver on the swimsuit, but their selection was kind of small, so, having kept my daughter in shopping mode for much longer than she is normally willing to endure, I grabbed the most unassuming, slimming, blackest suit I could find in my size and countered it with a psychedelic, tie-dyed swim cap that I was actually excited to squeeze onto my head, and we hit the checkout. I mean, my size is my size, right? Who needs to try the bathing suit on? This is a one-piece, swimmer’s suit. This is not the same as a beach/pool suit. I should not have to order my customary 5-10 suits, spend gazillions of dollars in the process and then send them all back only to settle on one from Target, right?
Wrong.
The day was planned perfectly, like any self-respecting, stay-at-home-just-for-the-summer mom would do it. We were going to be up at 7:30, the kids would be deposited nicely in the childcare at the gym by 8:30, and I would be in the pool by 8:45. At 8:10, I went upstairs to change into my new suit. Pulling it on, it felt a bit snug, but hey, I was a lifeguard before, and I spent a couple of my younger years on a summer swim team, a new suit is supposed to be a little snug, this is how it works. I looked in the mirror. “Acceptable,” I thought, and turned for a profile view . . . “Ugh! What is THAT??” I asked the mirror. I got closer. I wiped the dust from the mirror. I looked again. What I saw is the fact that the fine people at Speedo have reduced the rear-end portion of their suits by at least 50 percent. I should’ve known, I mean, I did not fail to notice as all of the fathers’ heads at swimming lessons all did a simultaneous 180 degree swivel as the cute, young swimming instructor passed them by with her clip board. I remember thinking, “Wow, that suit is a little low in the back, yes?” but this wasn’t really on my radar as I picked out my own.
Now I know what you are thinking, “Maybe, Kelly, it’s just your backside that has increased by 50 percent, not the other way around,” but I can say honestly that even though I am not the same size that I was at the tender age of 17, my size now is my size now. It should fit, right? It’s not like I’m trying to squeeze into something smaller or need some kind of reality check about my figure. A bathing suit in my size should not be a squeezing device for love handles!!
Basically, that’s what I saw - - squished love handles. Love handles amplified by a too small rear of a bathing suit. “THIS is NOT going to work, “I thought, or more honestly, said aloud to myself. Simultaneously, a crack of thunder interrupted my thoughts. Great. My suit does not fit and now the pool will be closed for 20 minutes - - as long as there is no more thunder. Another rumble. “It’s a SIGN!! YES! That’s it!! Mother Nature has decided for me that this suit will not cut it. I cannot be seen by anyone, even the 15-year-old, acne-faced lifeguard with these back bulges!!”
At this moment, the good angel appeared on my shoulder. “Oh, but I have been planning this swim for like four days. It’s my first swim! If I miss this, my entire training plan could be ruined! Stop being so vain! Nobody cares! “I ran downstairs to go check it out in the basement mirror. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad from another view.
On my way, I ran into my children, who were surprisingly eating a very civilized breakfast at their kid table in the living room, watching some Phineas and Ferb. I tried to take advantage of this and snuck quietly past . . .
“MAMA! WHAT IS THAT??”
Oh my little Skywalker, he doesn’t miss anything. “It’s my swimsuit.”
“Are you going running in THAT??” he asked. Princess Lea just stared.
“Oh, no, Buddy, I’m going to swim some laps in it . . .maybe,” and I’m sneaking, sneaking, sneaking behind the half wall between the living room and the hallway.
“Where’s your other one?”
“Don’t worry about it, big guy. Just eat your breakfast.”
Break! I took the silent pause as my moment to escape to the basement. I looked at the front. Good! What was I worried about? Turned to the side . . . ugh. There they were. Turned to the back . . . and as if on cue once again, a rumble of thunder.
Taking my hint from Mother Nature, I canceled my swim for the morning. I probably could’ve sucked it up, and in, and made the suit work, but after fretting about it for a half hour, and with the passing storm, a morning swim just wasn’t going to work with the schedule for the rest of the day.
There is, however, a positive ending to this story. After dropping the kids with my mom for the afternoon and having a fun lunch with some good friends, I rallied. I would not let this first day of swim training pass me by. After lunch, I stopped in Hudson’s All-Star Sports, which, to my delight, was exactly what I was looking for. They cater to the high school athlete, but they have a huge wall of swimsuits, a plethora of Lycra that would suit a wide range of aqua-minded folks. I grabbed a suit one size bigger, sized up the rear, and took it home.
Twenty minutes later, I was comfortably gliding my way through the cool water, listening to the rhythmic sound of my breathing, and feeling a little impressed about the way my body just does what it is supposed to do when I’m swimming - - even after taking a four year break. Even after what it took to get there, I can say that swimming definitely does not suck. Somebody should make a t-shirt that says that.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Take a Number
As a teacher of high school students, I’ve heard my fair share of excuses. There is no worse day at school for excuses, however, than the day the senior research paper is due. It’s been a while since I’ve taught senior English class that requires a traditional research paper, but research paper d-day, and all of the excuses and explanations that accompany the line-up of empty handed students has left an indelible mark in my brain. On one of those days, after experiencing the “excuse round up” for a couple of years, I felt like telling the kids in line at my desk to take a number, like when the deli counter is too busy, and just sit down, I would get to each student’s slice of his or her unique story for why the paper wasn’t awaiting my eyes to read as soon as I could.
Then I stopped myself. Why was I engaging and indulging these kids in their excuse making? Why was it taking up half of a forty minute block of learning time? What a waste! What was I teaching them? The paper is still late no matter how awesomely contrived the story is (oh and some of them were really good), so what did it matter if I heard the excuse or not? It was always awkward anyway. Some kids would fidget through a story, some giggled the whole time, others would produce actual tears, and I would just nod my head and in my most monotone, disingenuous voice say, “I’m sorry that happened. Turn it in as soon as you get it done. You know it’s late no matter what, right?” Ugh! Agonizing!!
So at my breaking point, I stared down the serpentine line of kids winding its way from my desk back to the door of my classroom, and instead of having them take a number for me to listen to their stories, I had them take a number of a different sort. I got up from my desk, shooed the kids back to their seats, took up a piece of chalk and composed a list that looked something like this:
1. My printer broke.
2. I’m done. I just have to write the conclusion and do the Works Cited page.
3. My computer crashed.
4. My computer crashed AND my printer broke.
5. It’s in my car and “they” won’t let me out to get it.
6. Ummm, I just found out we had to put research in the paper.
7. My printer ran out of ink. Look! I brought you the blank pages.
8. I had baseball, soccer, softball, volleyball, football, basketball, track, AND wrestling practice last night.
9. I changed my topic yesterday.
10. My dog ate it. For real. Here are the scraps.
I turned and smiled at my students. I said, “Pick a number.” They looked at me and we all started laughing. Excuses are comical - - especially when grouped together in a big old list. There is no doubt that writing a research paper can be a challenge. It’s out of the comfort zone for a lot of people, and when we feel uneasy or forced to confront a situation with which we are uncomfortable, we make excuses to rationalize why we just can’t get it done and why an easier task is much more suitable.
The other day, I was talking with Darth Vader about why I wasn’t going running. “It’s just too hot,” I said. “I mean, when the sun is beating down, my body just doesn’t respond. I shut down! I need clouds.”
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure everybody feels that way, Kelly. Go on the treadmill.”
“Ugh. I don’t want to! I hate the treadmill, especially when it is so nice outside.”
Hmph.
Yesterday, I was talking to my cousin about the same thing. She totally agreed. “Oh yeah, I can’t run when it’s super hot either - - especially when the sun is out.”
Yes! See? I’m not crazy after all! “Yeah, like sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me.”
“Uh, I think everybody feels that way, Kelly. I just go on my treadmill.”
SNAP!
It turns out that I am a classic excuse maker, especially when it comes to running, which brings me to why I was thinking about the research paper excuse list. Running, despite the fact that it has been a part of my life since about fourth grade, is still out of my comfort zone. I want it to be less difficult than it is. I see people out there running on 90 degree days, and I think that they are having an easier time than I would. They’re not. Running is hard and uncomfortable - - literally and figuratively - - for everyone. As the adage goes, “If it were easy, then everyone would do it.” Duh. I make excuses all the time to rationalize in my mind the reasons that I should do something easier - - like recline and read a book. (I mean I AM an English teacher after all.)
So I’ve decided to compose my own excuse list and tell myself to pick a number when I don’t want to go running. After all, it doesn’t matter what the excuse actually is. I could say, “It’s too hot,” or I could just say, “Number 2.” Both groups of words mean: “I am afraid to push myself. I am uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.” My hope is that I will look at it and laugh at myself when I realize how ridiculous my excuses sound when lumped together - - like my students and their missing research paper reasons. I will probably share this list eventually so you can laugh at me, too. Chances are I will eventually come up with a way to rationalize why the whole list is completely valid. Change is hard!!
Then I stopped myself. Why was I engaging and indulging these kids in their excuse making? Why was it taking up half of a forty minute block of learning time? What a waste! What was I teaching them? The paper is still late no matter how awesomely contrived the story is (oh and some of them were really good), so what did it matter if I heard the excuse or not? It was always awkward anyway. Some kids would fidget through a story, some giggled the whole time, others would produce actual tears, and I would just nod my head and in my most monotone, disingenuous voice say, “I’m sorry that happened. Turn it in as soon as you get it done. You know it’s late no matter what, right?” Ugh! Agonizing!!
So at my breaking point, I stared down the serpentine line of kids winding its way from my desk back to the door of my classroom, and instead of having them take a number for me to listen to their stories, I had them take a number of a different sort. I got up from my desk, shooed the kids back to their seats, took up a piece of chalk and composed a list that looked something like this:
1. My printer broke.
2. I’m done. I just have to write the conclusion and do the Works Cited page.
3. My computer crashed.
4. My computer crashed AND my printer broke.
5. It’s in my car and “they” won’t let me out to get it.
6. Ummm, I just found out we had to put research in the paper.
7. My printer ran out of ink. Look! I brought you the blank pages.
8. I had baseball, soccer, softball, volleyball, football, basketball, track, AND wrestling practice last night.
9. I changed my topic yesterday.
10. My dog ate it. For real. Here are the scraps.
I turned and smiled at my students. I said, “Pick a number.” They looked at me and we all started laughing. Excuses are comical - - especially when grouped together in a big old list. There is no doubt that writing a research paper can be a challenge. It’s out of the comfort zone for a lot of people, and when we feel uneasy or forced to confront a situation with which we are uncomfortable, we make excuses to rationalize why we just can’t get it done and why an easier task is much more suitable.
The other day, I was talking with Darth Vader about why I wasn’t going running. “It’s just too hot,” I said. “I mean, when the sun is beating down, my body just doesn’t respond. I shut down! I need clouds.”
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure everybody feels that way, Kelly. Go on the treadmill.”
“Ugh. I don’t want to! I hate the treadmill, especially when it is so nice outside.”
Hmph.
Yesterday, I was talking to my cousin about the same thing. She totally agreed. “Oh yeah, I can’t run when it’s super hot either - - especially when the sun is out.”
Yes! See? I’m not crazy after all! “Yeah, like sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me.”
“Uh, I think everybody feels that way, Kelly. I just go on my treadmill.”
SNAP!
It turns out that I am a classic excuse maker, especially when it comes to running, which brings me to why I was thinking about the research paper excuse list. Running, despite the fact that it has been a part of my life since about fourth grade, is still out of my comfort zone. I want it to be less difficult than it is. I see people out there running on 90 degree days, and I think that they are having an easier time than I would. They’re not. Running is hard and uncomfortable - - literally and figuratively - - for everyone. As the adage goes, “If it were easy, then everyone would do it.” Duh. I make excuses all the time to rationalize in my mind the reasons that I should do something easier - - like recline and read a book. (I mean I AM an English teacher after all.)
So I’ve decided to compose my own excuse list and tell myself to pick a number when I don’t want to go running. After all, it doesn’t matter what the excuse actually is. I could say, “It’s too hot,” or I could just say, “Number 2.” Both groups of words mean: “I am afraid to push myself. I am uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.” My hope is that I will look at it and laugh at myself when I realize how ridiculous my excuses sound when lumped together - - like my students and their missing research paper reasons. I will probably share this list eventually so you can laugh at me, too. Chances are I will eventually come up with a way to rationalize why the whole list is completely valid. Change is hard!!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
You Had Me at Barf
Last Saturday, my kids had their first race experience, well, first race experience since they were very young. I tried the whole wife who brings the kids to watch their daddy race thing, but I found it just wasn’t my style. The two times I did it included a triathlon where I chased Princess Lea on a beach that geese were using as a litter box and a 5K that involved packing up a newborn baby Skywalker and toddler Princess L and all of their stuff: bottles, blankies, burp cloths, strollers, snacks, hats, sunscreen, toys, oh yeah, and diapers. (What mom forgets those? This one.) By the time I had all that collected, loaded both kids in the car, drove to the race, unpacked all the stuff, got the stroller out and walked over to the finish, we got there just in time to see Daddy cross. There were plenty of cute, young moms there doing the same thing with make-up on and hair coiffed, and I stood there with my eyes half opened and a messy ponytail, wondering if I thought to brush my teeth before we left.
After that, I decided it would be much easier to just run in the race myself.
So after about three years or so of running in little road races here and there (and getting no faster, mind you . . . meanwhile, Darth Vader has run himself back in time, his biggest competition often being local high school cross country teams), the perfect circumstances arose for the kids to come to a race. It was a 5K in downtown Akron with the proceeds from the race going to a worthy local scholarship fund. Luckily, Grandpa and Nana agreed to take charge of the kids. Now if there were any two people that you would want to watch over your kids while in downtown Akron, Grandpa and Nana are the people to do it. Between the two of them, I think they knew everyone there, including every law enforcement officer, the mayor, and a priest, and if your kids get lost in downtown Akron, I would think all three of these would come in handy.
The kids were sort of bewildered when we first arrived. Princess Lea I think understood, but Skywalker seemed pretty impressed with the large amount of people who had gathered in their running clothes that day. “He goin’ runnin’, Daddy? She goin runnin’, too?” he asked as we made our way to the registration tables. Meanwhile, the voice of one of my best friends echoed in my head: “Oh man! I HATED having to go to my dad’s races when I was a kid. We always had to get up at the crack of dawn and dress in layers, and stay for the stupid awards. Ugh. It was awful!” Okay, so yes, I made them get up early, and yes, they did have on an extra layer, but they were cold! At least we don’t normally stay for awards. I was one for three, that’s close enough I guess.
We registered, deposited the kids with the grandparents, and we were off. As I ran, I thought about the kids and how I want them to above all be healthy. It would be great if they eventually embraced running as a hobby or a supplement to whatever sport they decide to take up, but I don’t want them to hate it or resent it because it’s something their parents do or force them to attend. I should mention now that my thoughts are never fluid when I’m running. I suffer from runners’ ADD. I’ll be in a zone, thinking about kids, their future, being healthy or trying to work over some other problem in my head, all of a sudden it’s: “Man, it is HOT!!” or “How in the world is that 65-year-old woman passing me?” or “I hope this chic next to me likes Jay-Z as much as I do because she doesn’t have an iPod and my music is super loud," and then I spend the next few minutes trying to figure out the thing I was thinking about in the first place. It’s mind boggling. For real.
As I finished, I met up with my family. Skywalker was clapping, smiling and, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy-ing,” but Princess Lea was not. She was stone faced. I thought she might cry. She was scared, I could tell, but I couldn’t imagine about what. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked. There was no response, just more blank staring.
“Uhhh, I think she saw a couple of guys throwing up when they were done,” Darth Vader offered. People who run Vader’s speed do that, and maybe it’s just me, but I really don’t see the point of choosing to push yourself so hard that you barf. Just sayin’.
It ended up that the witnessing of “spitting up,” in Princess L’s terms, is what caught her attention. It may have scared her at first, but it definitely opened up the avenue of communication about running in general. She asked a bunch of questions of Darth Vader right then and there, and later on had even more to ask me. Hopefully someday she won’t be talking to a friend on the phone reminiscing about how her parents used to drag her to races where she had to watch people yak after pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Hopefully, she’ll take this little nugget of interest and in her own way and on her own terms, discover a path of making healthy decisions that works for her.
After that, I decided it would be much easier to just run in the race myself.
So after about three years or so of running in little road races here and there (and getting no faster, mind you . . . meanwhile, Darth Vader has run himself back in time, his biggest competition often being local high school cross country teams), the perfect circumstances arose for the kids to come to a race. It was a 5K in downtown Akron with the proceeds from the race going to a worthy local scholarship fund. Luckily, Grandpa and Nana agreed to take charge of the kids. Now if there were any two people that you would want to watch over your kids while in downtown Akron, Grandpa and Nana are the people to do it. Between the two of them, I think they knew everyone there, including every law enforcement officer, the mayor, and a priest, and if your kids get lost in downtown Akron, I would think all three of these would come in handy.
The kids were sort of bewildered when we first arrived. Princess Lea I think understood, but Skywalker seemed pretty impressed with the large amount of people who had gathered in their running clothes that day. “He goin’ runnin’, Daddy? She goin runnin’, too?” he asked as we made our way to the registration tables. Meanwhile, the voice of one of my best friends echoed in my head: “Oh man! I HATED having to go to my dad’s races when I was a kid. We always had to get up at the crack of dawn and dress in layers, and stay for the stupid awards. Ugh. It was awful!” Okay, so yes, I made them get up early, and yes, they did have on an extra layer, but they were cold! At least we don’t normally stay for awards. I was one for three, that’s close enough I guess.
We registered, deposited the kids with the grandparents, and we were off. As I ran, I thought about the kids and how I want them to above all be healthy. It would be great if they eventually embraced running as a hobby or a supplement to whatever sport they decide to take up, but I don’t want them to hate it or resent it because it’s something their parents do or force them to attend. I should mention now that my thoughts are never fluid when I’m running. I suffer from runners’ ADD. I’ll be in a zone, thinking about kids, their future, being healthy or trying to work over some other problem in my head, all of a sudden it’s: “Man, it is HOT!!” or “How in the world is that 65-year-old woman passing me?” or “I hope this chic next to me likes Jay-Z as much as I do because she doesn’t have an iPod and my music is super loud," and then I spend the next few minutes trying to figure out the thing I was thinking about in the first place. It’s mind boggling. For real.
As I finished, I met up with my family. Skywalker was clapping, smiling and, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy-ing,” but Princess Lea was not. She was stone faced. I thought she might cry. She was scared, I could tell, but I couldn’t imagine about what. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked. There was no response, just more blank staring.
“Uhhh, I think she saw a couple of guys throwing up when they were done,” Darth Vader offered. People who run Vader’s speed do that, and maybe it’s just me, but I really don’t see the point of choosing to push yourself so hard that you barf. Just sayin’.
It ended up that the witnessing of “spitting up,” in Princess L’s terms, is what caught her attention. It may have scared her at first, but it definitely opened up the avenue of communication about running in general. She asked a bunch of questions of Darth Vader right then and there, and later on had even more to ask me. Hopefully someday she won’t be talking to a friend on the phone reminiscing about how her parents used to drag her to races where she had to watch people yak after pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Hopefully, she’ll take this little nugget of interest and in her own way and on her own terms, discover a path of making healthy decisions that works for her.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Kick In the Pants
This morning I woke up to my son kicking my butt. You see, when Todd and I got married, having kids was about the last thing on our minds. One of our first major purchases together was our bed, and we went with a queen because we couldn't imagine the thought of sleeping so far apart from each other on a vast expanse of a king. Sigh, yes, we were like that.
Well that was certainly then, when Todd had no idea that he'd be spending the better part of his 30s dreaming about throwing 'bows in an endless game of basketball. (What I wouldn't do for some extra space just to get myself out of the game!) Once we finally began to take parenting on as a serious idea, we were those naive people who think: "Our kids will NEVER sleep in our bed. We will be tough, and besides, OUR kids will sleep through the night." Flash forward to Luke sleeping in our bed last night because he had a bad dream, or at least we think he did. Really, he just collected his blankie and his stuffed monkey and said to me in his sweet, almost three-year-old voice, "I sleep in your bed, Mama," and when it's 3 AM, this mama doesn't argue. Just get me back in the too small bed, playing man-to-man defense as soon as humanly possible.
At 8 AM, I woke up to Luke kicking me in the backside as I was clinging to what was left of a half-way decent dream in my little patch of queen-sized heaven. Todd had surprisingly snuck off to work without a sound, and the two of us were huddled in a little clump. Sports dreaming must run in the family, and in Luke's case, soccer is the sport of choice. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the light (waking up when the sun has already risen is a tasty treat in our house), it dawned on me (pun intended)that today would be the day that I begin a blog. Does it matter that at the time of this revelation my son was using my arse as a soccer ball? Yes, yes it does. I like to think that my family inspires me all the time, and most of the time in ways that are extremely unconventional.
So here is my blog. I'm not really sure what the focus is yet. I named it "It Runs In the Family" because I think I want to write a little bit about being a mom of young kids, my plight of being a struggling runner, and being the wife of an amazing guy who is "dreaming the impossible dream" of making it to the Boston Marathon - - my own Man of Lamancha. None of these things make us super special or important, but I like to write, and I like to make people laugh, so this is my way of doing my thing. I don't know how long it will last or if anyone will read it, and I'm okay with that. If anything, it will serve as documentation for my kids later on that life probably was as crazy as they remember it. So thank you, Lukey, for giving me the motivation I needed, but now you can stay in your own bed. I'm good for awhile.
Well that was certainly then, when Todd had no idea that he'd be spending the better part of his 30s dreaming about throwing 'bows in an endless game of basketball. (What I wouldn't do for some extra space just to get myself out of the game!) Once we finally began to take parenting on as a serious idea, we were those naive people who think: "Our kids will NEVER sleep in our bed. We will be tough, and besides, OUR kids will sleep through the night." Flash forward to Luke sleeping in our bed last night because he had a bad dream, or at least we think he did. Really, he just collected his blankie and his stuffed monkey and said to me in his sweet, almost three-year-old voice, "I sleep in your bed, Mama," and when it's 3 AM, this mama doesn't argue. Just get me back in the too small bed, playing man-to-man defense as soon as humanly possible.
At 8 AM, I woke up to Luke kicking me in the backside as I was clinging to what was left of a half-way decent dream in my little patch of queen-sized heaven. Todd had surprisingly snuck off to work without a sound, and the two of us were huddled in a little clump. Sports dreaming must run in the family, and in Luke's case, soccer is the sport of choice. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the light (waking up when the sun has already risen is a tasty treat in our house), it dawned on me (pun intended)that today would be the day that I begin a blog. Does it matter that at the time of this revelation my son was using my arse as a soccer ball? Yes, yes it does. I like to think that my family inspires me all the time, and most of the time in ways that are extremely unconventional.
So here is my blog. I'm not really sure what the focus is yet. I named it "It Runs In the Family" because I think I want to write a little bit about being a mom of young kids, my plight of being a struggling runner, and being the wife of an amazing guy who is "dreaming the impossible dream" of making it to the Boston Marathon - - my own Man of Lamancha. None of these things make us super special or important, but I like to write, and I like to make people laugh, so this is my way of doing my thing. I don't know how long it will last or if anyone will read it, and I'm okay with that. If anything, it will serve as documentation for my kids later on that life probably was as crazy as they remember it. So thank you, Lukey, for giving me the motivation I needed, but now you can stay in your own bed. I'm good for awhile.
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