Stronger

I took off yesterday, and after a retirement celebration potluck luncheon (not mine, of course), I was ready for a workout.  I was set to walk to the gym around 4:30, and I realized (will I EVER get it all together?) that, though I had remembered my iphone, I had neglected to include my earbuds in my gym bag.  An hour on that treadmill with no music and no NPR is just too hard; fortunately, my office neighbor Gail had a spare pair.  I even remembered my water this time.

I overdid it, of course.  Make a little headway, and you get cocky.  I keep wanting to bring my time down to under an hour, but when I jack the treadmill ramp up to level 10, it is VERY hard to maintain a 4.2 pace.  And once again.  My butt.  I had the incline on a 10 for one 10-minute segment, on 8 for another.  I'm feeling it.

Afterwards I browsed through the overpriced boutique. Usually I don't like gym T-shirts and their self-congratulatory slogans, but something drew me to the rack.  Maybe it was their charcoal-gray color, one of my favorites. But then I noticed their slogans.  Every one of them had a different version of "Stronger than...."   Stronger than my resolutions.  Stronger than the 9 to 5.  Stronger than yesterday. I am MORTIFIED to admit that tears welled up in my eyes.  Stronger than my fears. Stronger than I thought.

Red Hot

I really meant it when I said yesterday that I was going to get more regular about going to the gym, but today there simply wasn't time.  After nursery, church, lunch and then a matinee of the documentary"Bill W." (about the guy who started AA), I pretty much collapsed when I got home around 5:30 and skipped dinner in favor of a nap -- no way would I have the energy to walk five without one.  At 8:10 I started the loop around the neighborhood, followed by St. Ed's (my mental list of open buildings with drinking fountains continues to grow).  I didn't take Banks for any of it.  I was just too tired to deal with his recalcitrance, and interrupting the walk to take him back home sometimes throws off my stride.

Which tonight was workmanlike and rythmic.  Long, rolling strides which didn't change whether I was on flat streets or climbing hills.  When I'm really tired, and it's really hot, sometimes I need something to hold onto, a template, a structure, to at least get me started, and then it takes on its own momentum.  My strides seemed longer than usual, but slower, so when I got to St. Ed's, I timed myself around the track, and was  surprised to learn that I was making the oval in five minutes rather than six. I think I'm getting stronger and stronger, and my endurance is building, even though it doesn't always feel that way.

I've been home now for close to an hour, and my neck and throat are still bright red and hot.  The sun had pretty much gone down when I started, so I'm not sure what that's about.

I liked and learned a lot from "Bill W." but it was a little slow so I'm not sure I can give it a wholehearted endorsement.  I learned that Bill was a devout walker; one of his acquaintences said that he probably walked five miles a day (and he didn't blog about it?), and they showed him plodding about the grounds, with his hands behind his back....good lord, if he walked five miles it must have taken him three or four hours.

Oh, God, I have GOT to get a new pair of shoes.... 

Back to the Gym

I don't know what took me so long. It was great.
I'd never gone to the Gold's on Ben White; it's about the same distance from my house as the one near the office, so I decided to try a new venue.  The place is HUGE; honestly, it seemed four times the size of the downtown gym. One small quibble:  the men's and women's locker rooms are side-by-side, about three feet apart, and yes, they're clearly labeled, but the signs are high above the doors, and you can't see them when you're standing right in front of the doors, so naturally, I strolled into the men's locker room.  I was about ten or 15 feet in when I noticed the urinals off to my right.  NAME OF GOD!, I shrieked to myself and hurried out before I caught a glimpse of anything else, um, male.

Someone had told me that the treadmills have individual TVs on them, but unfortunately, those TVs are only affixed to the elliptical machines. One of the trainers pointed out, helpfully, the long row of big TVs facing the treadmills, and when I asked if headphones were provided, he said "Actually, you just read their lips."  Ha ha.  My phone was pretty low on juice, so I went in there unwired. 

Man, you get a workout in the gym that you just don't get in the real world.  I'm reminded of that every time, and maybe that's (subconsciously) why I tend to avoid it for long stretches.  But not anymore.  Really, I mean it.  I like taking it in 10- or 15-minute intervals:  walking at 4.2, then lowering it to 4.0 while I put the incline at 5 or 7, then run at 4.5 for 7-8 minutes.  Even in the air-conditioned gym, with the personal fan on "high," I sweat buckets, and after five miles, everything feels taut and sore -- but in a good way.

Lynn and Sam came over for barbecue and the Olympic opening cermony last night. I thought it was great.  My favorite part was the Daniel Craig/Queen Elizabeth skit, followed closely by the moment when the English athletes came out last, and the music and the drums accelerated, and the crowd went crazy.  (Lynn and I went into hysterics when one of the announcers described the Queen as "cheering wildly," and the camera cut to her stony, thousand-mile stare). I love the Olympics.  Every time I watch them, I get inspired to strive for excellence in some physical area.  I am very happy, and humbled, to say that I don't need the inspiration to keep doing five every day.  I've passed that.  My goal this Olympics is to just get better at doing five. Faster. Earlier.  Less whiny.

A Slippery Slope

I didn’t blog about last night’s walk for two reasons:  1) it was the most boring walk I’ve ever taken, and 2) I knew I’d be walking early this morning, so I thought I’d combine them.

But there was one interesting thing about last night, which actually made me a little nervous.  For the first time in these almost seven months, I sat down during the walk. I was fussing with my iphone, trying to find a good podcast for the second half of the walk, and sat down on someone’s stone wall while I did it.  It was probably no more than 60 seconds. That may not sound like a big deal, and it probably isn’t, but it made me realize that it indicates a slipping of sorts, a casual attitude that I’m recognizing as new. Maybe it’s familiarity, and maybe (probably) it’s this insane heat.   In any event, I’m glad it happened.  I’m going to pay more attention.  Let one thing slip just a little, and before you know it, you’re cutting corners somewhere else. 

This morning I met Brian at Mi Madres (the BEST breakfast tacos in Austin, I think), a 4.6 mile walk.  Oh, it feels so good to do it early in the morning, and reward yourself with a good breakfast and a ton of coffee.  Since I had almost a half mile to make up, though, I had Brian drop me off a half mile from my house, and that last half mile was quite an adventure.  As I said, I had probably 6-7 cups of coffee, as well as a big glass of water upon arriving there, and as I saw her car recede into the distance, it hit me almost immediately.  Yikes.  There were times when I was walking like those little kids you see who really have to go to the bathroom, though I like to think I did it discreetly, between parked cars and alongside tall bushes.  I made it home safely…..but barely.

Tomorrow IS Another Day

I lost count of how many people came by my office or emailed me after Monday's post to make sure I was all right.  I reread it, and it did sound rather desperate, but that's how I was feeling.  At times like that, it feels like it's going to feel that way forever, no matter how much experience tells you that it won't.  Tuesday morning I had breakfast with a friend, and the fact that he's a brilliant psychologist definitely helped.  Patience, perspective and a plan.  Life was better on Tuesday, and today it's almost normal.

Just got back from my walk, which today centered around St. Ed's.  I am more and more drawn to that place, now that I've discovered that, even late at night, some of the buildings are unlocked.  There doesn't seem to be any pattern or schedule that I can discern, I just go up to random buildings pull open doors and track down the nearest drinking fountain.  It's awesome.  Just one long, greedy drink and I have enough in me to finish strong. 

I feel the need to add one more thing about Nora Ephron.  Remember when I made a rather snide remark about her collection of glittery friends, and wondered if she had relationships with anyone who wasn't famous?  Three of her kids' former nannies got together and wrote an article about what it was like to work for her, and sure enough, she sounded fantastic.  She counseled them on their love lives, gave career advice, joked around with them....when she was shooting a movie in California, she remembered that one of the former nannies' parents lived there, so she called her, got her parents' number, invited them to the set and actually put them in a scene!  So, she was an amazing woman.  I take back everything I said. 

Nightstalker

What a day.  What a long, miserable day.

I spent most of today as frustrated, exasperated and angry with someone as I've been in a long time. The kind of anger and frustration that saps your energy and diffuses your focus, and leaves you a worn-out, unproductive blob of misery.  I was so exhausted after dinner that I laid down on my bed with Banks, planning to catch CNN for a while and go to bed early, making Monday, as usual, my day off.  I fell asleep and woke up, I thought, in the middle of the night. I checked my phone.  It was all of 10:45.  And I was WIDE awake, and still fuming, and so I did the only thing I could think of.  I took my walk.

Banks and I didn't leave the house til 11:15 PM.  He was limping tonight, so I brought him back after just 20 minutes.  I walked around and around the neighborhood until the darkness and the weird hour started feeling normal, and then branched out to the hills.  I brought my iphone and listened to a Fresh Air segment I'd listened to a couple of nights ago -- Aaron Sorkin, interviewed by Terry Gross.  It was funny and interesting, and the familiarity of it made it easy and comforting.  I kept a close eye on the clock, and started walking home at about 12:35.  I was alert and careful, but I wasn't scared, even after I dropped Banks off.  What I mostly was, was thirsty.  God, it was hot.  Even at that hour, it was incredibly humid, and my attractive sweat ring reached almost to my navel.

No epiphanies occurred, no deep insights were gained.  I'm just tired, too tired to put any more energy into this thing.  And that is enough.

The Task Closest to You

Who said that?  What were they talking about?  My mind is a jumble today.  I have a dim memory of reading Jacqueline Kennedy quoting some poet or philosopher who was referring to how, in the midst of overwhelming tragedy or trouble, all you can do is focus on the task at hand.  You cannot solve the problem, you cannot even make a dent in the problem. All you can do is attend to the things around you.

That's what I'm trying to do today, when nothing seems to matter except the victims and their loved ones in Colorado. After the horror wears off, and then the numbness, you're left with the stories. The guys who sacrified their lives by shielding their girlfriends' bodies with their own. The 24-year old woman with the red hair, who dreamed of being a sportscaster. The 13-year-old girl who tried to perform CPR on her dying six-year-old cousin.

I think it's the setting that's so poignant to me.  It seems so innocent: hundreds of people waiting up for the midnight showing because they had to be the first to see the new Batman movie!  I think of the young people making plans and amassing a group.  I wonder if the people closer to my age took a pre-emptive nap earlier in the day, or took a cup of coffee into the theater.  I would have. Were they laughing at themselves for getting so excited about a superhero movie?  I imagine them sitting through the previews, the excitement building, enjoying the sense of community and festivity that comes from being part of an "event."

A maniac bursts into a theater, and 12 innocent people are dead. And since there is not a thing I can do about it, I attend to the tasks at hand.  I went to church. I prayed for comfort and healing for the victims and their families. I had lunch with my sister. I gave Jackson a ride to work.  My plants looked a little droopy, so I watered them.  My cat, who is ailing, was a little clingier than usual, so I gave her special attention. And though I've never felt less like doing it, I pulled on my tennis shoes and put one foot in front of the other until the clock said 90 minutes.
. 

Plateau

I had a 1:00 meeting in south Austin today.  Since I’ve gotten up early the last couple of days, I thought I’d give myself a break this morning, especially since my casual dinner party lasted til almost midnight last night.  While googling the directions to my meeting, I noticed a park in the vicinity, googled that, and read some reviews about great hiking trails.  So I dressed casually, and after the meeting, drove the 1.1 miles down Slaughter Lane which was supposed to bring me to the park, and….nothing.  If it wasn’t so hot – already over 100 degrees – I might have driven around a bit, but I decided to seize the bull by the horns and take a nap. 

I finally got started at 7:15.  Both knees were hurting, and I put a brace on the left one.  The long and sloping hills in Travis Heights have, I think, taken more of a toll than I thought.  I started out at a plodding pace, and picked up speed as I went.  This is a pattern I’m becoming used to – overdo it, suffer some pain, and work the pain out through slower, flatter walks over the next couple of days. 

I weighed myself yesterday afternoon after several weeks.  I’m at the same stubborn 17-18 pound loss.  I was disappointed, but not surprised – I can tell I’m at a plateau – and immediately made a plan.  I’ll do a weigh-in on August 1, with the goal of losing 3-4 pounds per month for the rest of the year.  That would be a total of 35 or 40 pounds, which was pretty much exactly my goal. 

The Games We Play

I did NOT want to walk this morning.  The highs that I get from discovering a new route, or simply getting excited about the process again, can last a few days, or a few hours.  This morning was, once again, hot and humid, even at 5:00AM.  I laid in bed, and kept trying to figure out a way to put it off, which was going to be well-nigh impossible, because I had a full day of work, followed by having some friends over for dinner.  I played these head games:  I'll work through lunch, get home at 4:30, and walk til 6:00 (they're not coming over til 7:00).  But where would I fit in cleaning my house?  I could do it over the lunch hour (ugh!) but then I'd be sweaty and my hair would be a frizzy mess.  I could wait til after dinner and after everyone left and have a super late walk.  But then everyone would be focused on that, and feel like they had to leave and let me be on my way. 

I was hit by a random thought.  Never once, in my 6 1/2 months of walking five miles a day -- NEVER ONCE -- have I regretted having taken the walk.  But there have been plenty of times that I have regretted not doing it, and then scrambling to catch up. 

I pulled myself out of bed.  Took Banks on his walk, took him home, then started to replicate the walk I had yesterday.  One of the best parts of walking through Travis Heights is looking at the fabulous houses and dreaming of owning one some day.  For some reason, today was harder, and even though I had intentionally skipped a 5-minute section to bring the mileage closer to five, I actually got home 10 minutes past my hour and a half, rather than the 7 or 8 yesterday.  So, on the way to work, I decided to drive the route to gage the mileage accurately, but had to give up, because I realized halfway down Live Oak that it becomes one-way -- something you just don't notice on foot. 

So, by 7:30AM, my hair was washed, the coffee was ready and some laundry was thrown in the wash.  I did work through lunch, and I'll be home by 4:15. I'll clean my house (it's very small), have time to pick up dinner (I don't cook, remember?) and life will be relaxing and fun -- not rushed and stressful.  And I will keep reminding myself:  Walk five miles.  You will not regret it.

The Appalachian Trail

Yesterday was the first time I chose my day off  based on the fact that I simply could not stop reading a book.
On Monday, I started reading "Becoming Odyssa," by Jennifer Pharr Davis, which was recommended by my favorite blogger, Kristin Amstrong.  I just couldn't put it down.  Jennifer was 21 and a new college graduate when she decided to hike the Appalachian Trail -- all 2,175 miles of it.  I'd heard of the AT, of course (who could forget Governor Mark Sanford's faux alibi when he was actually off with his mistress in Argentina?) and made a mental note to myself that I would like to "hike the Appalachian trail some day," but after reading this book, I know I never will.  I have too much respect for it.

Here are some of the things I learned about the AT, and long-distance hikes in general:

Thru-hikers are those who start in Maine and finish in Georgia (or vice-versa). Day hikers or weekend hikers or sectional hikers?  Self-explanatory.

"Trail Magic" means food gifts left for hikers.  That can range from a couple of granola bars placed strategically on a rock, to an all-you-can-eat buffet hosted by a church at the foot of the mountain you're on.

Hikers use trail names -- Odyssa, Mooch, Nightwalker, Granola -- in place of their own.

The shelters located along the way are rugged and often raunchy lean-tos, a far cry from the elegant structures I remember from the France-to-Spain trail in "The Way."

When hikers encounter unpleasant fellow hikers along the way, they get up very early in the morning, hike fast and hard and hope they've left the guy in the dust for good.

Thru-hikers are contemptuous of their weekend-hiker counterparts, who pack the shelters, forcing the thru-hikers to pitch their tents outside, and eat and drink gluttenously while the exhausted and half-starved thru-hikers make do with power bars and Snickers.

"Slack-packing" is when a friend  meets you at a particular point along the way, carries your heavy gear in their car, and meets up with you hours or days later.

Hikers mail boxes of supplies to themselves at different post offices along the route.

While this may be common sense, all of it was news to me, and I finished this book with the delicious satisfaction of knowing I had learned something -- a lot actually -- about a particular subject.

Several years after completing this hike, Jennifer went back a second time, and set the world record for finishing the 2,175 trek -- in 46 days.  That's an average of 47 miles per day! Okay, her husband slack-packed for her the whole way, but still.

Talk about humbling. I thought five miles a day was a lot.  I have to remind myself that Jen was 21, jobless, dogless, childless and in fantastic physical shape.

So, why do I say I know I'll never hike the Appalachian Trail?  The moment has passed.  I'll never be that free of responsibilities and that long on time.  The hikers were completely at the mercy of the elements -- freezing rain, hail, blackflies, heat, humidity, snakes, heck, Jennifer even got struck by lightning! -- and she showered maybe every four days.  Can you imagine going four months or so with absolutely no regular skin-care regime?  At my age, that's ground that can never be regained.

But here's one thing Jennifer and I have in common -- we both know the healing power of walking.

I didn't sleep well last night, and though my insomnia is often a mystery to me, last night it wasn't.  I am in the process of transitioning from my long-term megabank to a credit union. Never skilled at checkbook balancing under the best of circumstances, I miscalculated the dates of when automatic deposits and withdrawals were going to hit at each place, and checks are bouncing all over Austin.  Aagghhh.

So after a very restless night, I got up a little after 4:00AM, and Banks and I left the house at 4:40.  We completed his 1.3 loop, I took him home, and took off solo.  I went towards Stacy Park intending to hit the hills, but it sounded very boring this morning, so when I got to Live Oak, I turned right. Llive Oak goes on forever, and I took it all the way to I-35.  Retraced my steps, and then got on Travis Heights Blvd., which went on even longer, I think, deadending into Riverside.  What I liked about both those streets was that there were hills and valleys both coming and going, and I got a great workout.  I was drenched by the time I got back on East Hill, and instinct told me I'd gone at least five miles.  Walked in the door, and it was 6:17.

And I'm better.  I walked off the stress and I gained perspective.  The lesson is that some things are out of my control at this point, and all I can do is hold steady.  I'm not plotting who to call and who to meet with, and how to reverse things that are irreversible.  If I weren't a Christian, I'd swear I was a Buddhist.

Marathon Woman

Okay, I know it's not a big deal to walk a marathon, not like it is to RUN a marathon, but I've known from the beginning that I'd eventually have to do one, so I've been keeping my eye out.  My criteria was pretty simple:   I wanted it to be 1) in a state I hadn't been in before, 2) in a place cooler than Texas, 3) NOT during the summer and 4) preferably someplace exotic, or at least hip.  

I'll be leaving for Omaha, Nebraska, on September 21.

The only story I can remember about Nebraska is from a woman I worked with in California, who drove through there with her six-year-old grandson.  After a couple of hours he said, not unpleasantly, "There sure is a lot of nothing in this state." I have visions of 26.2 miles of cornfields, but what do I know? Maybe that stereotype is as outdated as are the ones about Texas.

Why Omaha?  Because the places I really wanted to go, like Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, didn't have marathons at all, or didn't have them during a convenient time.  Nebraska's falls the week after my birthday, so Lynn and I decided to make a trip up there together and spend the weekend with our cousin Susan, who we grew up with in Ellwood City, Pennsylvania, and who then followed us to Austin before taking off for Nebraska with her now-husband.  The more we talked about it, the more excited we got, and now I can't wait. 

When I was in college, I decided to deal with a bad breakup in a constructive and healthy manner. Instead of whining and regrets, I would pick an author and read as many books as I could, with the thought that I could temporarily leave my circumstances and get lost in someone else's. I'd just finished a Women Writers course and loved Willa Cather, so I polished off Lucy Gayheart, Song of the Lark, O Pioneers! and My Antonia. It was a brilliant idea, and it worked. I loved learning about life on the plains for these Swedish and Norwegian immigrants, and, years later, when I started listening to "A Prairie Home Companion," felt that I was way ahead of the curve on the whole stoic/Midwestern/Lutheran/self-effacing thing. I knew Willa Cather came from Nebraska and that her childhood home has been turned into a museum, and I can't tell you how disappointed I was to learn it was about 300 miles from Omaha. Not possible for a quick weekend jaunt.

President Obama is in town, not to far from my house, and I knew the roads would be closed or clogged, so I left work early with some reports to write from here.  I jumped right into the walk at 4:20, finished at 5:50, and the sweat ring around my neck is about four inches longer than it usually is.  I don't care.  My reward is that I'm clean and showered and ready to work.  Tomorrow I'm looking forward to telling you about a fabulous new book I'm reading to get myself psyched for the marathon.

It's a Miracle

First, today's walk.  Since Banks had been off for two days in a row, I kind of forced him to go for a half hour, which he did without too much of a protest.  I dropped him off and took a route I haven't used in months -- the residential streets on the west side of Congress -- and just wove in and out of the blocks for an hour.  There's a little bit of a slope when you head north, but overall it's a pretty easy walk.

So, as I said, after my 11.2 miles on Saturday, I diligently stretched and took three Aleves.  I fully expected to have to take another three at bedtime, followed by more in the morning, but -- I mean it -- that stuff is incredible. My legs felt completely normal all day Saturday, and all day Sunday. In fact, I felt so good on Sunday that I really wanted to do another five, but what stopped me was my ironclad rule that every week is a discrete and standalone entity. If I had walked on Sunday, the extra five would have spilled over into the next week, and it's been my policy to have no spillover, either in the credit or the debit categories.

I was telling someone today that a 10-mile-or-so walk is kind of my version of a cleanse.  When someone's been eating very unhealthily, a cleanse helps them jump-start a new pattern. When I've been eatiny crappily, or just getting in a rut with my walks, doubling the mileage has the same effect on me.  Next time I do a long one, which will be in August, it's going to be 15 miles. And that's because I'm getting ready to do a marathon in September (walking, of course), the details of which will follow later this week when I have them ironed out.

elevenpointtwo

So last night was Catherine’s going away happy hour, and a big crowd turned out at Serrano’s to send her off. I was lucky enough to score a seat beside the guest of honor, and across from Aimee and her husband Des, with lots of talk about blogs and writing and photography and marketing, and I was only planning to stay a half hour but was having so much fun that I stayed closer to an hour, and I was PSYCHED to do my walk after the conversations, but only had an hour and 15 minutes before Lynn called to report she was home with the pizza and that Banks and I needed to get over there with the video, so my walk last night was closer to four miles than five, but that doesn’t matter, because I JUST WALKED 11.2 MILES!

It is so weird how these things come over me. A kernel of an idea starts formulating --I need to do something drastic (like walk 10 miles) -- and it builds momentum, and I have to go with it. (It’s very much like when Lynn and I were in high school. Every night after my parents were in bed, we’d watch Johnny Carson, and sometime during his monologue, one of us would look at the other and say, I don’t feel like going to school tomorrow, do you? And that was that. Once the idea was planted, we knew we would skip the next day. We were brats.) So last night, after a margarita and, later, four pieces of pizza and quite a bit of peanut brittle (a random menu if ever there was one), I decided it was time to kick it up a notch. I was meeting Barbara for breakfast at the Kerbey Lane Cafe, which is 5.6 miles from my house, and decided to walk to AND from there, thus setting a new record for this blog.

We were scheduled to meet at 9:00AM, and I left at exactly 7:00. People are always asking me, “Surely you bring water on your walks, don’t you?” and the answer is, No, I never do. I hate being encumbered with anything – sometimes even my iphone is too much –and besides, if I have water with me, I’m likely to drink the whole bottle in the first mile. But at about the 3.5 mile mark, when it was already pretty hot and I had two miles to go, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a tall bottle of Ozarka. I realized immediately it was a mistake. It was awkward to hold it, and drinking from it only seemed to give me an uncomfortable feeling of fullness, so after about a mile, I threw it away, half-finished.

Got to the restaurant, had a blast, drank a ton of coffee and talked for two hours. I back-tracked the same route home, but walked the shadier streets parallel to Guadalupe for the bulk of the trip. Things started getting a little uncomfortable about 8 miles in, but really, the only time I hurt was when I had to stop for a two-minute red light. I could really feel things stiffen up even during that short a period of time, and getting re-started, I'd hobble for the first couple of steps. When I started out at 7:00, the main thing I was worried about was that one of the toes on my right foot ached a little, but I checked it out, and the nail was not grinding into its neighboring toe, and there were no cuts on it. On the way back, I realized I felt no pain there at all, but that was probably because the war between my left knee and my right knee absorbed the majority of my attention.

I’m back. Stretched, took three Aleve, took a hot shower, and as long as I’m sitting down, I feel great. I’ll take tomorrow off. And I’ll start Monday, renewed and invigorated. And frightfully pleased with myself.

The Hax Files

I was going to post a recipe today, a cherry chicken dish I cut out of a magazine which looked delicious and foolproof, but it, like 97 percent of everything I cook, turned out to be a tasteless piece of crap – when will I accept the fact that I CANNOT COOK? -- and my kitchen looked like a bloodbath.  But since I’m still in lifestyle coaching mode (who do I think I am, Gwyneth Paltrow?), I thought I’d pass along one of my all-time favorite columnists, Carolyn Hax, who writes an advice column for the Washington Post.  Our Austin paper carries her two days out of the week, but I log onto the Post every single one of the six days (Monday-Saturday) that she’s featured.  She’s amazing.  She puts the old-timers like Dear Abby and Ann Landers to shame, with their snappy, one- or two-paragraph replies.  She takes just one or two questions, and tackles them thoroughly and thoughtfully.  I’m addicted to her.  I’ve posted just a sample below (which I’m sure violates a fair number of copyright laws), but give her a try.  Every column is like having a 10-minute therapy session, or a talk with your smartest friend.

Dear Carolyn:

I was thrown/hurt/confused recently when my boyfriend of two years told me he’s never really been in love and isn’t sure what it’s supposed to feel like. He then tried to exempt me, but initially he said it as a blanket response to my asking why he never says, “I love you.” He has said it but always when I’ve said it first. We’re 31 and 32.

I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t want to make him feel bad since he was clearly emotional when he told me, so I just comforted him. I guess I’m the first girlfriend he’s talked to about this.

We’re actually pretty good otherwise, and I’m not looking for a ring. But I’m also not very good at gauging when it’s time to admit this isn’t okay, and it hurts to think about breaking up since I do love him. Any advice?

Confused and Sad

Boom. No wonder you both ran for cover.

As a final response to his confession, though, I don’t recommend the running or the cover. That’s because the only good outcome for both of you is to get on the right course, be it together tightly, together loosely or heading your separate ways. And the best way to find that right course is to dig out what your boyfriend was trying to say before he lost his nerve.

Even if he’s not entirely sure, your willingness to raise this topic without flinching will remove for him the “I’m afraid to hurt her feelings” obstacle, the one that keeps so many couples from expressing their true feelings, the one that keeps relationships going well past their expiration dates.

You know you’re stuck at “pretty good,” or you wouldn’t have pressed him on the “I love you” thing. So, walk toward what scares you and see whether your boyfriend needs a confidante or an out.

Two caveats: 1. His confession could be more manipulation than honesty. I don’t think anyone has to strain to imagine a tortured-looking character saying in a soft voice, eyes on the horizon, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved before. [Shifts gaze to the ground.] I’m not sure what it feels like.”

2. Even if it’s bona fide, it’s not the most promising truth ever shared. The big unflinching discussion could turn out just to be a one-hour postponement of the inevitable breakup.

But it could also plant the seed for the intimacy you’re lacking. And, for what it’s worth, suspecting they left too soon tends to haunt people, where suspecting they stayed too long generally just annoys.
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This is the second night in a row that I planned to go to the gym and ended up walking the neighborhood.  Not that the hills, on a relatively hot night, aren't as hard in their own way as the gym is in its way, but sometimes the logistics of getting to the gym are more than I can face, so I take the road more travelled.  I left Banks at home, sort of as a punishment, in a petulant kind of way.  He was obstinate and lazy last night, gave up way earlier than he ever has before, and I just wasn't in the mood to coax and coddle.  Tomorrow night I have two commitments and I REALLY want to get the walk out of the way in the morning. Maybe he'll have learned his lesson by then.

Something Lost, Something Gained

A few years ago, I lost my keys.  The most significant key on that ring was my car key, the programmed kind that opened the door remotely.  Once that was gone, I was left with a single, non-programmed key.  And soon after that, the rubber top of it broke, making it impossible to attach it to a key ring.  I carried it singly, in my purse, in my ID badge, occasionally in my pocket, fully aware that I was living on borrowed time.

Jackson borrowed my car last night to go to his night class at ACC.  He called me around 8:30.  “Mom, I’m sorry….kinda bad news….I lost the key.”  He’d been coming out of a building, pulled something out of his pocket, and the key went flying.  He’d been looking for about 15 minutes and wanted to keep trying. I called him 20 minutes later, when it was raining, and told him to grab a bus and we’d deal with it tomorrow.

Even worse than the money was the energy and time this was going to require.  I had tried to get a duplicate key made last year, and learned that only Champion Toyota, where I’d bought the thing, could make a key that would start it, rather than just unlock it.  So, I’d have to first find the car, which was in metered parking, try to put some kind of notice on it to stave off a ticket, call Champion Toyota to explain the situation and make sure that they could actually do this, find a towing place, and have it towed to Champion. A programmed key would cost about $150, but even worse, I guess they’d have to make it without an original to copy from, so God knows how much that would jack it up.  My head hurt just thinking about it.

I hung up the phone.  Deep breath.  My go-to instincts – irritation, blame, exasperation – were surfacing, but so were some deeper truths.  I had lost not just the key, but the entire key ring myself, for God’s sake.  It was only a few weeks ago that, lost in thought, I’d run a red light and hit another car.  Jackson obviously felt terrible, as his subsequent texts showed.

I let it go.  Texted him back that it could have happened to anyone, and “we’ll figure something out like we always do.” I remembered the sweet, generous-hearted girls who I had run into who kept assuring me they were fine, don’t worry about it. It was my turn.  I could extend grace, or I could add to the stress in the world. 

The next morning, I planned to take the bus to ACC and look for it myself.  I woke Jackson up early, and he tried to give me specific instructions as to where he’d dropped the key, then gave up and decided to come with me.  We got to ACC and he lead the way to the scene of the crime: a landscaped patch about 8 x 12, covered with dense, tangled vines, inches thick.  And after 20 minutes, I found it.

I'm glad it happened. If it hadn't, here's what I would have missed:  Jackson and I sitting side by side on the bus, discussing his recent discovery of, and passion for, the Beatles, sharing his ipod to listen to the "Revolver" album.  Whooping and high-fiving each other when I triumpantly held up the missing key. Driving to McDonald's for a celebratory English McMuffin and coffee before heading back to work. Being reminded once again how much I love that boy. 

Well, it's almost 9:00, and Banks and I are just about ot head out.  It's been a long but satisfying day.

Nora Ephron

As everyone probably knows, the famed screenwriter/director/author/journalist died a couple of weeks ago.  She leaves behind legions of friends and admirers – worshippers, really – all of whom have waxed poetic about her too-early passing. Tom Hanks, Meryl Streep, Diane Sawyer, Mayor Bloomberg, Sally Quinn, Arianna Huffington, Carrie Fisher – I could go on and on – spoke of her elegance, humor, fabulous cooking, zest for life, legendary dinner parties.  She was apparently one of those people who elevated and brought out the best in everyone.

Except me.

What is it that has me obsessed with her?  I used to read her Esquire columns back in the 70s, loved “Heartburn,” enjoyed some of her movies while finding most of them a bit corny for my taste, and found her funny, but a little too glib.  A little too certain.

And yet, after she died, and all these tributes poured in, I found myself googling her incessantly.   How could anyone be that witty?  How could she have not just succeeded, but THRIVED, in four different careers?  I wanted to know the secrets of her cooking, and her knack for putting together just the right people for a dinner party. 

I would read for a while, and these thoughts would start nagging at me.  Did she really believe every witty, deadpan observation she threw out? Did she have ANY non-celebrity friends? And I didn’t like that snarky comment she made to Charlie Rose about people who lived in “horrible places” like New Jersey, while she couldn’t conceive of living anywhere but Manhattan.

I know it. I KNOW it.  I’m a bitch. A petty, jealous, fault-finding bitch. But I’ll own it.  I will not drink the Kool Aid. Nora, rest in peace.  I mean it.  I’m sure you were wonderful, and I don’t understand why you bring out this side of me.  Meanwhile, I’ve checked “Heartburn” out of the library, and just ordered Ina Garten’s “Back to Basics” because I read an interview in which you said it was one of the best cookbooks you’ve read in years.  Bear with me.  I’m working through this thing.

Yesterday was my day off.  I couldn’t wait to walk tonight because it was a comfortable 95 degrees, and I wasn’t going to waste a sub-100 degree July afternoon in the gym.  Please explain to me why it felt hotter than the typical 102 degree day.  It's been a while since I've taken the Stacy hills, but I did, after I dropped Banks off. I just felt wet the whole time.  I think I'll go back to the gym tomorrow.

Hurts so Good

I woke up this morning stiff and sore.  You would have thought it was January 8, not July 8 – that’s how reminiscent it was of those early days of my five mile walks. I came THIS CLOSE to downing a few Aleves, but talked myself into holding off until after my shower, and it was the right call.  The hot water loosened my aching muscles enough that I didn’t need meds, but I was still hobbling around and cursing the fact that I keep forgetting to wear my knee brace.

It was wonderful.

I was reminded that I am doing something special, something that requires a real effort, and takes a toll.  And I learned that my body has NOT adjusted to walking five miles a day, at least not in the sense that iI thought it had.  I have been walking around the last few weeks thinking that this has gotten easy, but the fact is, it IS easy when you do it in small increments throughout the day.  I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be hard. I want my knees and the backs of my calves to ache after a really strenuous workout, and I want the rough justice of really suffering when I neglect to stretch afterwards. 

It was a busy day, and I didn't get to my walk til 8:10 pm.  Banks lasted an hour, and then I walked to St. Ed's for the last half hour. I had the scariest experience!  I was listening to an NPR podcast (my headphones miraculously healed themselves) and I thought I heard firecrackers in the distance.  Then it sounded closer, and then it didn't sound like firecrackers, it sounded, God help me, like gunshots. Maybe 8-10 of them.  Just random pop-pop-pop sounds. It sounded like it was coming from the south end of campus, but when I took my headphones off, it sounded more like north campus.  I stood there, frozen, waiting to hear someone scream, or SOME sign of disturbance.  But the sounds ended and.......nothing.  I saw a couple of joggers running around (with ipods) and a car driving slowly through campus and no one seemed to have a care in the world.  So I headed home, but my heart was pounding.  If you read anything in the paper tomorrow, remember you heard it here first.

A True Five Mile Walk with a Piebald Pit

Last night I threw caution to the wind and had a Diet Coke with dinner. I know better. My system is so wimpy when it comes to caffeine. I know I'm going to pay the price when I drink a DC after, say, 2:00 pm, but I haven't had one in ages, and I was craving one, and so I drank it knowing full well what the consequences would be. Up at 2:00 am, couldn't get back to sleep, finally texted Janette at about 5:00, saying I'm going back to bed, there's no way I can make our planned walk at the trail at 7:00.  I tried to get back to sleep, but it didn't take. At 6:30, I gave up, put the leash on Banks, and off we went to St. Ed's (I'd let Jackson take my car to work so the trail was no longer an option).

I loved every minute of it.  It was early enough that the heat wasn't too bad, and there were mysterious puddles every so often that Banks could drink from.  It helped that we spent about a mile of the walk in the woods.  Lynn has always said that "Walking in the woods makes a dog feel like a dog," and you can see that in Banks.  He just comes alive when confronted with the different smells, sights and sounds. 

So re-dedicated am I to this five-miles-at-a-time thing that I think it rubbed off on Banks.  He did great, and it was only towards the end that he started the rolling in the grass routine.  I loved the "feel" of this walk, juxtaposed with the gym workouts.  At the gym, the miles are compressed into 65 minutes or so; the pace is frantic and competitive, and at the end my muscles are tight and burning. This morning, I walked at my 18 minute mile pace for the full hour and a half, taking medium strides and gentle hills. It was the perfect complement to yesterday's five.  And now I feel a nap coming on.

I saw a bumper sticker yesterday that made me smile:  "Make awkward sexual advances, not war."

What Are You Reading?

I’m still in the grip of the French thing.  Remember “Lessons from Madame Chic?” I’ve written about some of the things I learned from that book, some of the things I want to emulate – keeping a pared-down closet, choosing quality over quantity in regards to food and possessions, enriching your mind as opposed to sitting, zombie-like, in front of the TV.  One of the things the author said was that, when in a group, the French are likely to ask “What are you reading?” as opposed to “What do you do?”  The implication is that of course you’re reading a book.

From childhood through my early 30s, there was never a time when I wouldn’t have an answer to that.  Then came the kids, and reading – at least reading whole books – became a luxury. But the kids are grown, and what’s my excuse now? I was an English major, and it’s embarrassing when someone asks me if I’ve read any good books lately, and I have to search the cranial archives.  See, I work a lot, and I’ve got this blog, and this 1 ½ hour walking commitment, and I’m tired a lot. 

But I want to be like the French, and there is ALWAYS time to read a book, so I’ve made yet another pact with myself.  At least two books a month.  Think how much smarter I’ll be after reading 24 books a year.  I just finished “Nickel and Dimed” by Barbara Ehrenreich.  I remember reading the reviews when it came out, ten or so years ago, and I always thought it sounded interesting.  She’s a journalist, and went undercover working as a motel maid, a waitress, a Walmart clerk and a nursing home attendant to see how a blue-collar working person makes it on minimum wage.  The answer is, barely. It’s a real eye-opener, and – so much for not having time to read – I finished it in three days.  Try it. You’ll come away not only with a lot more compassion and respect for the working poor, but if you’re lucky enough to have an education and some decent work experience to draw on, you’ll have a renewed sense of gratitude for your own relative ease.

So, I’m feeling quite full of myself after today’s gym outing.  It was a long day and I guess I was a little more spaced out than usual at the end of it, and halfway to the gym, I realized I’d forgotten my towel and my water bottle. (At least I remembered my shoes). Worst of all, as I tried to fire up “Fresh Air” on my iphone, I got nothing.  No sound.  The graphics were doing what they were supposed to be doing, but no sound.  Where is Aimee when I really need her?  I fought off the rising irritation, reminded myself that I was in a comfortable, air-conditioned setting, and I COULD DO THIS.  And I did.  My goal was to do 4.2 (remember the .8 walk to and from the gym) in an hour, and today I overshot by just two minutes!  It’s fun having all the information right in front of you.  I play a little game with myself, turning the speed up to 4.5 and running for a few minutes to make up some time, then bringing it down to 4.1, but jacking up the incline to see the calories burn faster.  Today I burned 396 calories.  I could definitely get used to this.

My butt hurts.  I have done some serious incline work for two days in a row, and I’m just now starting to feel it.  Tomorrow I’m looking forward to a nice long trail walk with Banks.

Revelation

Something has not felt right for the past week or so.  Let’s start with physically.  I’ve noticed that my body doesn’t have quite the same feel to it.  It’s not something anyone else has noticed, I think, but I do.  Things just feel…..softer. Not as streamlined. 

So last night it hit me.  The piecemeal thing isn’t working.  Doing a mile here, two miles there, rounding it out with another couple at night – it’s just not giving me the same workout as a sustained, 1 ½ hours of pushing myself.  It’s even showing in my face.  I love the way I look and feel after a really good workout, when I’ve really sweated and my face is beet red for a while. Once the redness wears off, I have this glow.  The last few days, my complexion has seemed sort of gray.  Drab. 

But I think the thing I hate the most is the feeling that I’ve been fitting the walk in, rather than planning my frickin’ day around it.  It just doesn’t feel as special as it used to.

So today I made the change.  It was a gym day, and the only non-treadmill time I counted was the .4 miles there and the .4 miles back, because it was a continuous, unbroken process.  It was 4.2 miles on the treadmill and it was major work.  This time I got on the back row of treadmills, and these ones have super elevation.  They also have handles above the top of the treadmill, another way to balance myself when I’m really working it.

But the best thing I discovered was listening to podcasts of NPR’s Fresh Air.  I don’t know why I haven’t done this more often, but it’s the perfect antidote to the monotony of walking on a treadmill.  Each show is 45 minutes – today’s was an interview with Paul McCartney – and then I can either start on another one, or zone out for the next 20 minutes or so.  I’ve got like 14 on my iphone, and also a bunch of This American Life podcasts, so I’m set for a while.

I don’t know if tomorrow will be a gym day or an outdoor day, but I know I’ll be walking my five in one long, unbroken trek.  I’m back.

Dad

Today would have been my father’s 90^th birthday.  He died just a couple of weeks after his 70^th birthday, 20 years ago.  His July 3^rd birthday is inextricably entwined with the 4^th of July; in the small town where I spent my first nine years, the entire town turned out for the celebration,  which included a horse show, a big picnic and fireworks, and I remember him being “Happy Birthday-ed” all day long.

Jay Sharp Johns, Jr., was definitely one of “The Greatest Generation.”  He served in WWII and was stationed in New Guinea and Australia.  He only talked about pranks and the crazy things he and his buddies did in the war; never about the bad stuff.  Never.  The only sick days I can remember him taking in his life were when he had gall bladder surgery.  He was a farm kid, the youngest of six, raised by very strict, maybe even harsh parents. I think Pap had an 8^th grade education, and Grandma Johns graduated high school.  Still, all of those kids spoke perfect, almost formal English.  No one dropped their g’s or, God forbid, ever said “ain’t,” and somehow not one of them picked up the dreaded Pittsburgh accent. (Listen to former Steelers coach Bill Cowan if you want to know what that sounds like). After he married my mother, Dad went to night school on the GI Bill, and earned a business degree, from Geneva College.  All four of us learned our work ethic from him. 

Oh, he was handsome.  I love the picture below – he reminds me of a young Johnny Carson. He had one of those faces that was appealing not just for the physicality of it, but because of what shown from within – confidence, humor, smarts. Women loved him.  In our small town, the Calgon plant was one of the biggest employers in the area, and Dad rose to be boss of the whole place.  After that, they moved him into Pittsburgh for an executive position, and that’s when we left Ellwood City.  At his funeral, I lost count of how many people came up to us and said "Your dad was the best boss I ever had."

The wonderful thing about Dad’s sense of humor was that it could be incredibly silly and juvenile – as when poor Amy Vanderbilt, the etiquette expert, apparently plunged to her death from her New York apartment, and he went on a riff about the suicide note she probably left behind, instructing the street cleaners in the proper way to hold the shovel and dispose of her remains (forgive me) – but he could also deliver a line as drily and wittily as Noel Coward.  I remember years ago, listening to a loud, bombastic friend of mine ranting about how much she hated her job, and her boss, and that from here on out, she was going to say whatever was on her mind, consequences be damned.  I gave her a cool look and remarked “Up until now, you’ve been a model of restraint.” That wasn’t me, that was Dad speaking through me.

Like everyone else, Dad changed and mellowed over the years, and at the end of his life, expressed doubts about whether he’d been a good father.  You were, Dad.  Did I ever say thanks for the summer vacations, or “snack nights?” For the countless nights at Three Rivers Stadium, watching the Pirates? For the college education?  For the fleeting but beautiful moments I witnessed between you and your grandchildren? 

Happy birthday, Dad.  Thanks for everything.  I love you.

I love the feeling I get when I decide to go for it.  Today I feel like forgoing the relative comfort of the gym, and walk five miles in the heat.  I don't know why, but there it is.  I just went out and bought myself a big cold bottle of water. At 5:00, I'm heading out the door, but in another direction.  Maybe to the UT campus.  Hey, maybe the UT track is still open.  Maybe that's what it is!  Watching those incredible Olympic athletes makes me want to push myself. Looking forward to the 4th tomorrow, when I'm going to learn whether or not Banks can handle fireworks.....

Overdone

Another day, another day’s worth of lessons learned at the gym.  For example: the headphones that would make it possible to listen to the TV, as well as watch it?  They got rid of them.  Apparently the patrons kept breaking them.  It seems kind of silly, four or five screens with different programs running simultaneously, and even though none of us can hear a word, all eyes remain glued to the sets. I wonder if it would be possible to buy my own earphones?  I’ll ask them about this.

But the real lesson came on the treadmill. As I’ve said before, it’s very different from walking outdoors. The fact that I can control the speed, and see the numbers clicking higher and higher, makes me want to go as fast as possible.  I actually ran three different times; for three minutes, later for five, later for another three, and those numbers really start climbing.

So it was a great cardio workout, but I’m sore.  My left hip feels tight, the backs of my calves ache a little, and there’s a nagging pull at the base of my left knee.  I overdid it.  Live and learn.  Maybe it’d make more sense to ignore the odometer, watch the clock and go for 45 minutes.

After I came home I walked Banks 1.7, and it was a relief to walk at my regular pace.  Tomorrow, I’m going to try – TRY – to do the gym in the morning.

Halfway There

And I couldn't have picked a better day for my six-month anniversary.  I didn't pay much attention to the temperature, but I think it was under 100.  I rained a little last night, and tonight, when Banks and I took our walk, there was a major, semi-cool wind blowing.  In honor of this milestone, I wanted to push Banks a little, and he came through.  He lasted 50 minutes before I dropped him off and did the rest myself.

Halfway through, can you believe it?  I have never in my life lasted six months at anything -- gym, running, Jazzercise, anything.  I think back to the early days of the project.  I remember lying awake at night, trying to tamp down the panic I felt whenever I considered the possibility that I MIGHT NOT BE ABLE TO DO THIS; that, after alerting everyone I knew, I might implode in a big way, or even worse, just sort of peter out and hope everyone would forget I ever started the thing.  I never, ever worry about that anymore.  Five miles a day is built into me.  It feels almost more of a compulsion than a discipline.

Probably the smartest choice I made was to take off one day a week.  I definitely would have burned out without it, and two days off would have given me too much leeway.  I know myself.

My only (minor) disappointment is that I've lost 18 pounds, instead of the 20 I'd been hoping for.  On the other hand, let's review my posts from the last week.  Dinner last night was Amy's Ice Cream.  Two nights before that, it was Fogo de Chao. There is room for improvement in my diet.

I'm starting to get excited about my gym membership.  I noticed that on the treadmill, I definitely walk faster, and I twist from side to side.  That might jumpstart the changes I want to make in my upper body.  I plan to incorporate weights (machines, mostly) in the three times a week I visit the gym.

Can you hang with me for another six months?