Why I Run. Except When I Don’t.

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Before I sat down to write this, I went running.  Not to clear my head, but to fill my head with words that could eventually spill out onto this page.  Now back at my desk, I stroke my rough heels, and massage the stubby toenail that will never grow back properly.  Since I didn’t stretch, I may catch myself limping on the streets later when the old foot starts acting up again.  I recall the orthopedist did not break a smile when I coyly told him my feet were my preferred mode of transport.

Many times, running is simply the practical choice.  The bakery with the light, flaky croissants does not have any parking. The best hot chocolate in town is actually all the way across town.  Running to the ice cream parlor means the hot fudge, whipped cream, and syrupy walnuts never even happened!

Other times, running is a whimsical decision to fly.  I soar to a bright green field where I am eight years old, standing and watching kites float overhead across the piercing blue skies.  From there I drift to the moment when I heard the Police tell me for the very first time, that there was a little black spot on the sun today.   And before long, I glide onstage gracefully, a prima ballerina.  The Bolshoi or The New York City Ballet will do.

When I return home giddy after all that mental air travel, I may do something stupid.  Like flip through my husband’s copy of Runner’s World.  Suddenly, I find myself noting down how to properly eat toast.  Or how to tie my shoelaces for ultra speed.  Or, how best to nap, which is curious because I normally consider myself an expert.

The next day, I may get annoyed at someone using the treadmill for walking.  Or at myself for making shopping plans during prime running weather.  When someone suggests Sunday brunch instead of Sunday’s long run, I snap.

And then I force myself to sit and remember a contractor who came to my house a few years ago, a fatherly figure of sorts who I enjoyed chatting with.  The first time he came over, he saw me still lingering in my running gear, plenty of sneakers in the hallway, and he started quizzing me about race times. And proceeded to give me his, which were faster than any of mine.  His runs were also decades ago.  And yet, he was only as good as his best race time.  His pride saddened me.

Runners obsess, and they judge.  They beat themselves up.  And they live in the past.  I hope to still be running when I reach that gentleman’s age.  But I would like to have had a life along the way.  I choose a sofa cuddle with the cat, even if it’s a crisp fall day, perfect for you know what.  I will delight in the phone ringing, a call from France to chat about nothing in particular, just as I have laced up.  And when Sting comes on the radio randomly in the morning, I may dance in the kitchen wasting precious time.  For that is flying at the greatest heights.

All Ages Show

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Hypnotic trance beats, neon lights at the DJ booth, an unruly crowd at the bar, and me finally trying out some moves beyond child’s pose.  It’s 7am.  I may no longer be checking the “18-34” age box on the mail-in surveys, but who says the fun has to stop?

I hear the groans already.  A middle-aged person at a club sounds as pleasing as a tuna and chocolate sandwich.  Back when I could gleefully check the aforementioned age box, I swore I would know to stop clubbing well before my expiration date.  And what marks the expiration date?  Well, being concerned about the safety of your purse is probably a flag.  Are you standing around trying to guess people’s ages?  Hoping against the odds there is a nice white wine you can order, instead of a shot of Fireball?  And if you don’t know what Fireball is, then that is a very unhidden clue to stay home and keep enjoying “Modern Family.”

But before you get judgy on me, imagining Leona Helmsley squeezed into a bandage dress, trying to avoid getting elbowed in the left eye by a flailing whippersnapper, I give you two words: morning rave.  This is my new mantra.  Forget affirming every morning that I love myself, as well as that mean woman on the Metro who took two seats with her giant backpack.  That only worked when I followed it up with a cherry chocolate scone – then I loved everybody.

Admittedly, I was a little worried when I walked into the spartan club at 7:01 a.m. and couldn’t spot the bathrooms right away.  For a split second, I panicked that I had missed reading about the new trend on retro outhouses.  But once the DJ put his fingers to work, I settled into the beats, and let my anxiety trickle away little by little.  I spotted a group of moms in their yoga pants, dancing protectively in a circle, stopping for the occasional selfie, and then carefully tucking their phones into their bras.  And the slightly overweight youngster, wonderfully uninhibited in his rhythmic gymnastics, unaware he would eventually hurt somebody.  But it was all good.

Maybe it was because I watched the sun from the club’s rooftop, slowly strengthening its rays.  Perhaps the bartender roofied the outstanding iced coffees at the bar.  I don’t care.  Morning Rave.  Close your eyes, and say it with me.

Pride Before the Fall

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It was a sunny summer morning, a Monday morning, to be precise.  I had just finished walking the dog and found myself with twenty extra minutes to spare before beginning my commute.  I suppose it was the fact that for once I did not touch the snooze button, but rather, got out of bed exactly when my phone commanded me to.

Gifted with this sudden luxury of time, I recalled how many successful world leaders had morning rituals of meditation, visualization, or affirmations that set the tone for their days.  I seized their spirit and invested my extra minutes into frothing my cappuccino to perfection, and mindfully sprinkling cinnamon freckles on top.

Even with that feat accomplished, I had some remaining time.  I felt like indulging.  Surely I deserved it after waking up unusually early and getting the redhead basset into bikini-ready shape.  The sun was streaming in through the kitchen window, and I sheepishly looked at him lying on the tiled floor.  “Go ahead, I won’t judge,” his giant brown eyes said.  Or they could have been asking “When’s lunch?”  Either way, I took it all as a green light and opened the kitchen door to the deck.

There in all its morning glory was a magnificent tan hulking specimen.  Smooth and perfectly golden.  Surrounded by six equally sublime companions.  I gawked, unable to take my eyes away, fully aware I was letting my baser desires take over.

They looked as young and shiny as the day they arrived in my home many years ago.  All my sins magically erased.  As they let themselves be stroked, I recalled all the drunken nights of spilled red wine and melted candles.  No evidence remaining.   Oh, my deck table and chairs, freshly pressure washed and stained by my own hands.

I took a step back toward the house, careful to not slip in my leopard-print sling backs, and sipped my coffee.  The wood glistened brightly in the sunlight.   I was worthy after all, as Oprah had always said.  I heard a creaking door, but before I could quickly run back inside, a cry came at me, ”Busted!”  My neighbor M. poked his head out of his back door and grinned.  The only thing worse than doing actual home repair is being caught being impressed with yourself at seven a.m. on a Monday.  I’m hiring someone next time.

My Summer Vacation

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I am in the midst of planning a trip. The kind that covers thousands of miles and stretches over oceans and a few continents. One that requires navigating bureaucratic, unintelligible processes for acquiring a visa, and a regimen of preventive medications to nix any chance of visiting a local hospital during the stay.   It also means packing precious commodities that will decide the happiness quotient of the trip: ibuprofen; a hairbrush (not a tiny plastic comb that will get stuck in my bangs, but a brush please); sunblock that didn’t expire five years ago; Snickers that didn’t expire five years ago; and anti-frizz serum. Lots of anti-frizz serum.

Travel is wonderful. Intricate planning is kind of not. Especially for those of us whose anxiety rises with every click of the mouse. That perfect charming hotel in the heart of the city, tucked away on a tree-lined street? Nasty staff, poisoned food, but very friendly mice, says the reviewer. Well, at least, that’s what I think it says, since the only review since hotel inception is in Italian. That absolute must-do restaurant, latest darling of the foodies? It is open on Thursdays from eight to nine thirty-three in the evening, and Sundays from eleven to eleven fifteen in the morning.

Maybe you are thinking I should just wing it, be more spontaneous, and challenge my rigidity?  That’s the trip where I find myself on my hotel room bed, chewing a veggie Whopper Jr., watching “Friends” reruns, because it is the holy festival of the five-legged goddess, and all businesses are blissfully closed.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not all doom and gloom. For the return luggage will be full of jewels: first off, lots of actual bold, bright jewels; then, fried dough, fried spicy dough, fried sweet dough, fried dough with anise, and fried dough with onions; a variety of Cadbury’s chocolates that are too artificial to pass Western regulatory muster; and most definitely, a tiny intricately carved sandalwood comb that will get stuck in my bangs.

There will also be beautiful memories. A lush mango tree with a monkey playfully hanging off a branch. Wet rice paddies that never end.  Me, shiny-haired and fresh-faced, floating through a weathered marble palace. Ok, that last bit was a Merchant Ivory film. But at least now I see the light at the end of the Trip Advisor tunnel.

Bon voyage, and remember, it is perfectly normal to hallucinate on anti-malaria pills.

Yogi Bear

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I place my hands flat on the ground, fingertips pointing forward.  There is a slight pull on the back of my legs, but the pain actually feels good.  My hair sweeps the ground slowly, side to side.  I try not to think about the bacteria my split ends are picking up with each gentle swoosh.  For my body is at peace, and my mind is clear of thoughts.  In theory.

We all know the drill.  Oprah knows it.  And of course Gwyneth does.  But how surprised was I to find Colin Farrell and Jeremy Piven were not just kindred partying spirits, but also on the yoga bandwagon?  And apparently, even the McConaissance owes credit to this Eastern practice.

Do I really need celebrity validation about what is now a mainstream trend?  After all, I face an obstacle course every Saturday morning, dodging the ponytails, and the awkwardly protruding mats, as I head to the bakery.  Of course, there are always a few lads and ladies that have the right mat carrier, slung sleekly on their backs, perfectly snug pants ending just below the calf.  I am most impressed when I see the ones who have cute mesh shoes purely for the five-minute walk to the studio and back.  I only feel a little guilt, as I trudge on towards my blueberry muffin, adjusting my suddenly tight-fitting shirt.

But I don’t even need to leave my house for reminders of the craze that has taken over cool and uncool kids alike.  Someone has dropped off a postcard for doggie yoga on my doorstep.  Dogs and owners look happy lying together on the wooden floor.  When I turn to stare at my own canine redhead – currently curled on the sofa cushions, belly full of salmon biscuits, lavender scent still lingering from his last bath, relaxed before I drive him into the woods for a walk – I am certain he is already quite blissful.  The promise of a sun salutation is unlikely to lure him off the couch.

So, I meekly explore this new hobby, once a week, sometimes twice.  My bare feet feel the ground, my palms join together, and I silently clear my mind of everything.  Except the running route I will take the next day.   Yoga is a practice, after all.

Deepak Chopra and Me

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Over the past few weeks I had some time off from my routine due to a small medical procedure.  The result was ample time for contemplation, and a more philosophical view of the world.  It started when a dear friend gave me critical advice for the hospital stay: do not neglect your looks.  A simple yet powerful statement.

So being a classic follower, I quickly made plans for hair styling, nails, and waxing (admittedly necessary) before my medical appointment.  I also added to my hospital bag of essentials a cheery mauve lip gloss, and my cream eyeliner that definitely opened up my eyes.  Take action, don’t sit on the sidelines.

As the big day approached, my caring partner offered me the chance for a weekend getaway.  But it would conflict with my aesthetic appointments.  Pretty brazen of him.  Quality time with the most important person in my life vs. the right shade of honey highlights, and a slight trim of the dead ends?  Was I a Clooney or a Kardashian?  Would I ever admit any link with the latter?  So I embraced the trip to New York, and tried not to stare too wistfully at the nail salons at every corner.  When faced with dilemmas, the Clooney vs. Kardashian test can bring clarity and vision.

Soon enough, the countdown to hospital began.  With only a few hours left, I headed with determination into my bathroom.  I didn’t see any neck trauma-inducing basins with scalding water shooting into my ears; or even a blow dryer.  I eyed my tools: orange blossom shampoo and a barely there blob of conditioner – at least it was deep conditioning.  So, wash, rinse, coat, rinse, rub head with towel, and call it a night.  Be determined, but flexible along the journey.

That night, I dreamt of walking through the city streets at dusk, surrounded by the crisp fall air.  My friend suggests we go for an energetic fitness walk.  I decline firmly, and repackage the outing into a foray to our corner bar.  All I had to do was choose words from the heart that were universal: “I am having a good hair day.”  The kind of day you do not waste on trees and buildings, but impart instead on as many humans as possible.  For you never know when the next one may arrive.  Life is short.

So, when all was said and done at the hospital, I woke up in my room groggy and in pain.  Two nurses entered to help me shuffle across the floor to the bathroom.  One of them laid out a hulking adult diaper-underwear ensemble.  The neck of my gown had a trail of drool on it, leading back to my very own mouth.  A mouth that had zero interest in lip gloss, no matter how cheery it was.  But gee, my hair smelled terrific!  And more often than not, that is good enough.

Maturing Youth – Epilogue

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Well, at our age, we often say,

As we start one more activity in the busy day.

Be it grocery shopping, or cell phone talking,

Or hatha yoga or charity auction hawking.

We start to think of our furrowed brows,

And our new daily mantra: peace right now;

Of our blossoming love for herbal tea,

Or beach trips that are just about watching the sea.

It’s suddenly clear, just how much we have shifted,

Towards the finish line of the lives we were gifted.

Snowflakes, crackling fire, fat book, old dog.

Today, this is what I call living high on the hog.

And when nostalgia suddenly seems to appear,

For velvet ropes, thumping bass, permanent high gear,

I rise and sprint in my orthopedic mules

To the nearby pantry, which has all the right tools.

A beloved blue teacup, bought when money was dear.

Add sugar, cocoa, flour, and maybe a single tear.

For we have reached the time when youth can’t be faked,

But oh bliss, oh joy, we can always have mug cake.

 

Maturing Youth

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I was recently face down on a rolling bed, fingering the thin fabric of my hospital gown, and getting a scan of my insides.   The headphones sent waves of Taylor Swift, with a few muffled interruptions by the technician telling me to hold my breath.  But I could only focus on the sting from the doctor’s words that morning: at your age.

Hrrumph.  Really?  Had it finally come to that?  Apparently, I had been skating along gracefully all these years until I slid into the cement wall face first that morning.

There were many moments along the way that had, sadly, strengthened my little illusion.  There was the afternoon I spent at Sephora agonizing over whether I had fine lines, wrinkles, sagging, dehydration, or age spots.  Which was my worst enemy?  And was I correcting or preventing?  Or rediscovering my youthful strength?  Should I smear diamond flecks or gold particles on?  Could I afford either?  Overwhelmed by anxiety, I took one last look at the mirror, and decided my most pressing problem was the teenage-quality pimple on my chin.  I left to find some Clearasil.

And there was the ophthalmologist who forgot to write my power levels on my prescription.  Even though I was never able to get contact lenses as a result, I have a soft spot for him.  For in the dead of winter pallor and holiday party nutrition, he looked deep into my eyes and asked if I was a student.  Yes, my eyes had the health of a twenty year-old.  I suppose I should have asked if he meant graduate student, but I took the leap of faith in my favor.

And of course, my mother-in-law was part of the psychosis.  Every invitation to join her and her friends out in the suburbs on a Saturday night ended with a plea for attendance by the “youngsters.”  She meant me.  And my group of middle-aged friends.  So naturally I raced out the door in my sparkly shoes and Hello Kitty bag, only too happy to comply.

In my mind, the day of reckoning would arrive when I turned about seventy-two, and would have to stop going to Power Zen Spinning Boot Camp Fusion.  Unfortunately, my physician brought that dream to a halt a few decades sooner than expected.

So it seems I have no choice but to embrace reality, and embark on the journey as a mature adult.  Except I suddenly remember a business meeting a few weeks ago.  I had just expressed my surprise at the easy transition to the time zone of our meeting location.  One of the men turned to me and said, “Well, at your age.”

Countdown

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It’s on.  Just hours left until the biggest party of the year.  Everything is planned perfectly.  New shimmery outfits with nails to match, hair gelled just so, shoes shined to perfection, flowing bubbly, everyone around the globe united in the cause of a fresh start.

Yuck.

Some of us would rather have the “best party ever ever” on any other day of the year.   Why not on a random Tuesday in February?  One where fatigued by the never-ending winter and no sight of the Easter Bunny, we rally to decorate a living room with twinkling lights and ourselves with some glitter.  We open up the good champagne and invite the friends we see every week, plus the ones we see once a year.  And, everyone is taken by surprise at a chance February celebration.

Isn’t surprise the spice of life?  Maybe that’s variety. Either way, what is not to love about moments that unexpectedly become joyfully memorable?

And very little is random or unplanned about New Year’s Eve; most of us have mastered the drill, like a well-oiled military regimen.  Mentally tally up the past year and try to focus on the accomplishments (one more year of gainful employment without going postal), not the perceived failures (the grey hair can no longer be strategically hidden under the right side part).  Set manageable small goals for the upcoming year (drink one less soda a month); and create a plan to fulfill one dream (go dancing once a quarter, in order to eventually become a middle-aged ballerina).

Then it’s all about fasting, and haircuts, and trying to look better than last New Year’s Eve photos.  It’s very familiar – even the certainty that one will freeze hunting for taxis, and that at least two people in the party will drink too much.

So, how do we New Year’s Eve grinches cope?  By grumbling and booking a cab in advance, deep conditioning here and tweezing there, and squeezing into shoes that are inappropriate for the weather, and swearing and vowing that we will not do this again next year.

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Blessings, Grandmother.

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Step aside, Fraulein Maria.  Brown paper packages tied up with string are excellent, but there are other things that take the cake.  Including, well, cake.  My list of favorite things also includes feelings, events, political treatises, and it can change with a turn of the wind.  In light of the holiday season kickoff, here is what’s currently on offer:

A freshly cleaned litter box, and the cat’s agreement to finally use it…two days later.

A Korean market with a plethora of guavas and cactus pear – even if I first had to get fully naked in the baths next door, with my friends, to discover it.

Friends who remain your friends, even after you have been fully naked together at Korean baths.

Sniffing my t-shirt collar multiple times, with the joyful discovery the rancid smell during Boot Camp is someone else.

Remembering to eat potato chips out of a bowl, not mindlessly reaching into a bag, and then foolishly setting the bag next to the bowl.

Stopping the living room scuffle between the pets before the cat ate the dog.

My new lip liner!  And yes, it leaves me looking exactly as I did before I put it on.

Thanksgiving dinners that allow dogs, even when one of them christens the brand-new kitchen with some pee.

The jewel box keepsakes given to each of us on her eightieth birthday, with her simple handwritten wish: “Blessings, Grandmother.”

The knowledge that I may not live until eighty, but I will have enjoyed a lot of pie.