Patience?  Ha.

I want it now!

If I can’t accomplish it today, I’m pretty sure I won’t ever be able to–or at least that’s how it feels most of the time.  When things take time, when they require slow plodding I tend to get frustrated or bored or discouraged.  Learning to knit–and completing a project–was a personal test of persistence.  I love the outcome.  I have a a ton of cute scarves and hats now.  I wear them around for a night after I clip the last stitch even if it’s August.

But you can knit while sitting on your butt.

This working out thing?  I have to get up, change clothes, drive to the gym and then actually push my muscles further than they’d prefer. When the workout is over and I feel like a rock star because I completed it I pass by a mirror.  And I don’t look different at all!!!!  On the good days my face has a healthy rosy glow.  On the bad days my ponytail goes from cute to “who let my sons braid my hair again”, eye make-up is smudged across my face and my legs are so weak I’m wondering if I’m going to have to crawl back to my car.  Once there, all of the workout data gets loaded into my handy little app and then I see it.  At my current, ugly workout pace I might finish this damn race in just under a decade.

Fuck.

But I’m getting up from this computer to go put on my workout clothes and head out again.  Why?  Because I have a plan.  It’s not my plan.  It’s Michael’s plan.*  I’m trying to trust it.  He promises it will get me across that finish line.  I’m trying hard–so hard–not to look ahead.  I’m doing what is on the calendar for today.  I’m trying to have faith.  I’m taking this damn thing one day at a time.

Even if you’ve never had an addict in your life–or been an addict yourself–you might be familiar with those five words.

One Day At A Time

Alcoholics Anonymous and Ala-Non base their recovery model on this concept.  Don’t worry about the future.  Don’t worry about the next minute.  Focus on staying clean right now and have faith that those moments will string together into a new, changed life.

And I chuckle.  Who’d have ever thunk that I’d be employing the skills I learned to deal with my sister’s addiction to get myself across a finish line?  Running and addiction?  Rumor has it running can become an addiction.  But approaching running like I’m getting over an addiction?

My fingers are crossed, I’m wishing on stars and just completing what’s on my plan for today, even though last night when I looked at my pace I really wanted to throw in the towel.

*When I finally worked up the courage to admit that I was going to try and run a half-marathon the first question posed to me was about my “plan.”  “Oh sure, I’ve got one” I replied and then I quickly googled half-marathon plans and found this nifty one-pager that I hoped would get me to April 28th.  When I asked Michael if I really could do it and he outlined his approach I realized I needed something more than one page.  Let me tell you that using the Training Peaks app with the plan loaded into it has changed my whole attitude.  As much as I want to progress faster, I do take comfort in the daily plan I hold in my hot little hands.

I am not being compensated by Training Peaks or Vanguard Endurance for any of this.  Frankly, they’d have to pay me in a year’s worth of Louboutin’s to put myself through this.  I’m actually paying them.

Sometimes you just stare.  It might not be anything interesting to the outsider, but to you the subject is a playground for your eyes.

For me, it’s often a fire.

The flames jump, change color, grow smaller or reach higher.  Sparks may even fly off.

My brain swirls while my eyes are occupied with the show.  Thoughts waft in and out.  Problems are contemplated–sometimes even solved.

Fire has a meditative quality.  The bubbles in a drink may hold the same for you.

I walked into the gym for the pep rally and found a spot on the bleachers at the bottom left corner.  There are a lot of kids in here–and I don’t know one of them.  Oh wait, there’s Lisa.  Our neighbor introduced her to me over the summer.  She babysits for them and they thought it would be nice for me to know at least one person at school.  Nice of her to wave.  How obvious is it that I’m sitting here by myself listening to conversations all around me?

I’ve spent all day listening.  Homeroom was interesting.  Everyone bounding into the classroom excited to see who would be there, to catch up over summer.  It didn’t take long to figure out who the popular kids in the room were.  If the squeals and hugs hadn’t given it away, the gawking and fawning were impossible to miss.  And there was plenty of time piece it all together.  Time truly slows down when you’re the 14 year old new kid sitting in the middle of a room of your peers.  Is the teacher ever going to show up?  Will I finally get a chance to use my voice to at least say “here.”

But that was hours ago.  Since then I’ve wandered through halls trying to find classrooms on this sprawl of a campus.  My friends from home won’t ever believe that the hallways are outside.  Guess we don’t have to worry about the snow here.  I suffered through lunch trying not to seem so obviously alone.  There is no way I can come back and do this all again tomorrow.  Two thousand kids laughing and joking and rushing around, and I’m being carried by the current like a salmon that’s given up.

…to be continued

I wish I had come up with the name Amy Farrah Fowler.  I like to say it.  I like to hear Jim Parsons say it.

Amy Farrah Fowler

Amy Farrah Fowler

Amy Farrah Fowler

Is 41 too late to change your name?  It wouldn’t be my first time.  I’m on my second first name, my third last name and what seems to be only my first middle name unless you count the fact that I use my second maiden name as a middle name as well as my given one.  Though since my second maiden name is a second then it really can’t count as a second middle name because it was a last name before it became a middle name and well I’m just not sure what to call that name now.  Let’s call it my first third name.  I’m sure it would prefer to be a first.

What the hell am I talking about?

I was adopted.  What I found out in my 20’s is that I had been given a different first name at birth.  So while I always thought Amie was my first first name, it’s really my second.  As for Adams–married name.  Hurst was my maiden when I got married, but Hurst wasn’t my first last name.  I had another before that but had it changed legally in 7th grade.  Yeah, yeah mom wanted us all to share a last name and seeing how she got remarried and my dad was getting ready to make scarce (not that he gave me a head’s up or anything) and well if you knew my first last name, you would have changed it too.

Got it?

So while I probably can’t go by Amy Farrah Fowler maybe Elizabeth is the name I should latch onto.  It’s the only one that is still my original–and maybe that’s why I kept it when I got married.  I’m like a royal princess or something with four names, though if you ask the federal government I really only have two and one stinking single letter in the middle, but that’s a whole different story.

PS-If you don’t know who Amy Farrah Fowler is…I just feel bad for you.

Back in high school, I rebelled.  I didn’t swoon over popular boys found on the cover of Tiger Beat magazine.

I refused.  I saved my sighs for the boys I could see every day walking the halls.

But I loved music.  Challenge me on any 80’s tune and you will lose.  Lose I say!  I am the queen of 80’s music.  So do you have any idea how much fun I’m going to have tonight??  I’m going to see Duran Duran!

When I found I was going I thought first of my friend Andrea.  Poor Andrea was one of those girls who argued with others over which of the band members she was going to marry–lengthy conversations at the lunch table ensued. Why do I refer to Andrea with sympathy?  I wasn’t part of the conversation, and that pissed me off.  So one day I raged at Andrea.

“You’re never going to meet Duran Duran!  You will never marry any of them!  So SHUT UP!”

I still feel guilty about that today.

So tonight I will take my friend Deb to the concert with me, and you know why?  Because she told me she had a poster of Roger Taylor in her room throughout high school and she kissed him good night every single night of high school.  I can’t take Andrea because she doesn’t live close by, but Deb will enjoy the concert as much as Andrea would.

Tonight I will sing every word (okay to all the songs from the 80’s) and I will dance and I will scream and I will sigh over the boys I should have given my attention to in high school.   They would have gotten me in a lot less trouble.

I am about to go tell my son that his mother is dead.

He’s 14.

He knows too much about the dark side of this world already.

He’s my baby.  How do I tell him?  How do I break his heart?  That’s not supposed to be a mother’s job.  I’m supposed to protect him–not hurt him.

Will he ever forgive me?  Will he ever forgive me for being the one to tell him?

My baby sister is dead, but I have had years to get used to the idea.

Him?

Nothing can prepare you for losing a parent.  We’ve been honest with him as he’s gotten older, but he was afforded the optimism of youth–until today.

I couldn’t bring myself to pull him out of school when we heard the news.  There is no reason to rush.  I wanted him to have this one last “normal” school day.  His life will be far from normal for some time I imagine.

Please let him survive this.  Please let him persevere.

Please help me find the words.

I’m a mom.  I’m a blogger.  I’m a photographer for crying out loud, but have I captured my memories of your childhood?

I know I can’t hold on.  I can’t prevent you from growing up–from becoming an amazing man.

But you’re my beautiful little boy too.  You will always be my beautiful baby.  Even if you won’t cut your hair “until baseball season starts.”

As proud as I am of the incredible person you are becoming, I miss the little baby who disappears with every passing minute.

You are my reserved one.  Never my obvious cuddler, never one to be effusive.

Those giant blue eyes that you hide behind that hair–they take my breath away every time you let me see them.  I’m so grateful you give me a glimpse of them from time to time.  I’m sorry I grab my camera every time that you do, but I don’t want to miss these moments.

Because seven years of them have already gone by.

Happy Birthday my baby.  I am so proud to be your mom and I will love you forever.

Old picture.  No editing.  I’m just glad I had a camera handy.

When you finish your plate of cut-up hot dog pieces and there’s a pile of ketchup left what else are you supposed to do?

I might do that next time I’m at a restaurant.

“Um excuse me ma’am but you seem to have a little hollandaise on your chin…and your nose…and your lips.”

How much more fun would life be if we occasionally dipped our faces in a leftover pile of ketchup?

Life before the mirror.

No worries about wrinkles or zits or grey hair or flabby arms or muffin tops.

Life before the comparisons.

No photos of ridiculously fit high school associates on Facebook to compare yourself to.

Opportunities for fun everywhere you turn.

Why was it I was in such a hurry to grow up anyway?

The sky was so blue. The water was that gorgeous aqua and the sand was a cliche powdery white. The green of the palm trees was crisp and clean against the sky.

I had to stop the car, take off my shoes and walk on the beach.

When I’m near the beach I must feel my bare feet on the sand–put them in the water. It’s an overwhelming desire to greet the edge of the world–to experience the water that has traveled from places I’ve never been and connects me to places I miss with my whole heart.

I’m compelled to feel the water on my feet no matter how cold it is.

I belong at the beach.

That is where I can breathe. The beach is where I feel the most in touch with…something…the earth? Mother Nature? A spiritual thing. I can be all by myself there staring out at the horizon and never feel alone.

I’m renewed by the the sounds of the water lapping on the sand, by the scent in my nose. The softness of the air–the humidity–it comforts me. At night, during the day, I feel safe there.

But which one? Which beach is mine? Where would I plant myself? I know my future is there.

A bungalow with beach roses and a picket fence. Palm trees in the yard that make scrapping sounds in the wind. White exterior walls that reflect the sun, a view of the water, the ability to hear the seagulls and waves all the time…heaven.

Courtesy House Beautiful

It doesn’t need to be a huge home, but must have a good kitchen and a warm inviting place to entertain.

Courtesy House Beautiful

A cozy study as my own retreat.

Courtesy FemTalks

An extra bedroom for guests–maybe two.

Courtesy House Beautiful

And an outdoor shower. Definitely an outdoor shower.

Courtesy Coastal Living

A porch with a swing and some rockers.

Courtesy Better Homes & Gardens

Courtesy TripAdvisor

I can see my little bungalow now.

You know about Sleeping Beauty and Snow White and Ariel and Belle and all those other chicks who needed a prince to save them, right?

Have you met this princess?

Allow me to introduce you to the Princess-Who-Can-Defend-Herself.

She sits in my friend Susan’s office.

Do you know Susan?  How can you not!  She is this amazing blogger, astrophysicist, mom, writer, activist and oh yeah cancer survivor.

While I love the sentiment of  not teaching our children that the only way girls can be saved is by a muscle-bound man who swoops in on a blazing white steed–or beat up old truck for that matter–I do know when a princess could use some help.

Susan had an awful day yesterday–and I mean awful by ANYONE’s standards.  And yet?  She wrote a beautiful post about being lucky.

She blows me away.

I can’t make my friend’s cancer disappear–and damn I wish I had been put on this planet to do just that–but I can let her know that I am lucky to have her friendship, that I love her and I totally have her back if she does happen to run into that bitch cancer in a dark alley.  I’ll even bring a baseball bat to knock the wench out of this universe.

I want Susan to know that she is not alone.  Yes, the fight is hers, but she has an army of princesses (and princes) behind her.

Want to join me?

Take this badge.  Put it on your blog (it links to her post referenced above).

Why?

Because each and every one of us–we are lucky.

*for every blog that posts this button, I will find a way to donate $1 to Crickett’s Answer.  I’m totally stealing this idea from Kristen and Jessica,  but I thought it rocked and our friend needs us. Oh and if you want to donate money to Crickett’s Answer too, please do.