Throwback Thursday: Saying Goodbye 2 Years Ago

As I mentioned last week, for the next few weeks on Thursdays I am going to re-post some of my favorite older posts. The ones that felt important to me while I was writing them and the ones that touched me while I was re-reading them.

This week's re-post is comes from two years ago, just around this time. I was packing up my life in Manhattan and preparing to move north to our new house. One morning, about a week before we moved, I went for my habitual morning run in Central Park and I knew that it would be one of my last ones. So I ran my loops that I had run every day and when I started to leave the park and got to the top of the hill that led towards home I turned around and took a last look at the place that had become my home.

And then, I wrote this.

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Farewell, Old Friend

When my alarm went off this morning, I was completely exhausted. I considered resetting it so I could sleep for another hour, but I didn't. Instead, I got up, donned my running clothes, and made my way to the park to run. And I am glad I did. Because this morning, more than any other morning in recent memory, I was thankful for my morning routine.

This is my last Friday in Manhattan. On Monday morning, assuming we are not all washed away by the monster storm headed in this direction, the movers are coming to pack up our apartment, and move us to our new house.

And I am ready.

I didn't feel ready last week, or even a few days ago, but now I do. We have been busy these past couple of days. Finishing up the construction in the new house, organizing the apartment for the move, and buying the many, many things that one needs when they move into a new house. And with all the preparation, I started to get excited for our new place, and our (semi) new life. 

And on this last Friday, I am thinking about my life in Manhattan, and my favorite place in the city. I have written at length about my love of Central Park. But now that I only have two mornings runs left, I am feeling the loss of my favorite place even more acutely. I know that there will be roads to run in my new home. I have even begun planning routes. But they won't be in this park.

This park is a part of me. This is the place where I fell in love. Where I learned to run, and more importantly, where I learned to love to run. It is the place I go to think and to feel. To process, and to enjoy.

And on Monday, I will run its roads one last time. For an hour, I will forget about moving vans, and construction, and new houses, and change, and I will run. I will join my army of runners and circle the loops that have become my home. And as I exit the park one last time, I will glance back for just a minute at the place that has shaped me, and made me, and helped me find my way.

I am forever grateful to Central Park. 

Farewell, old friend. I'll miss you.

Throwback Thursday: My Favorite Running Home

When I first moved to New York, almost nine years ago, Central Park was intimidating. Its winding roads were unfamiliar to me, and I lived in fear of getting lost in its woods. I didn't understand the walkers, runners and bikers that would circle its paths, and tried to stay away from it as much as I could.

But then something happened.

It started when David and I met. He loved Central Park and exploring it alongside him, the Park became a little less of a scary place.

And then, I learned to run.

If you live on the Upper West Side of Manhattan and you run and you don't like stopping every two minutes for traffic lights and dodging sundry pedestrians, you really only have two choices. You can run the path along the Hudson river or you can run Central Park. Preferring to not run on a path that also borders what passes for a major highway in Manhattan, I chose the Park.

That choice started a love affair with Central Park that lasted until we moved out of Manhattan eighteen months ago, and continues today.

And lately, for some reason, I've really been thinking a lot about my old running home and my early morning Park excursions to greet the day with my habitual three mile loop.

In honor of the place where I learned to run, and learned to love to run, here are my three most favorite Park pictures.

I miss you, old friend. I hope I'll be seeing you again soon.

The Park That Will Always Be Mine

I lived in New York for almost five years before I really discovered Central Park.

I knew it existed, of course. My friends and I spent Saturday afternoons lazing around the Great Lawn, every now and then we would go to a summer concert or outdoor movie, and the first fall that David and I were together we used to eat breakfast there on Friday afternoons. But the vast green space in the middle of this concrete-filled metropolis remained, for the most part, a mystery to me.

Every time I walked into the park I got hopelessly turned around. I could never figure out where I was, or how to get where I needed to be, and heaven help me if I somehow needed to cross the park completely from west side to east. I never remembered where the ice skating rink was or where I could find the tennis courts, and I though I knew that the Central Park Zoo existed in theory, I would have been hard pressed to tell anyone how to get there.

Three years ago on a whim, I signed up to train with The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team in Training for a half marathon in Manhattan. I'm not quite sure what possessed me to do it, but one minute I was minding my own business pouring through some estate planning documents for a client, and the very next minute I was making plans to attend the first session of a thirteen week program. I had flirted with running before - having two marathoners for parents will do that to a girl - but I never got particularly serious about it. Nevertheless, on a cold November night in 2010 I made my way to the middle of the Central Park 72nd Street transverse to start my training.

And it was on that cold November night that Central Park became mine.

Over the next months I did every single training run on those roads, never venturing past the gates of the Park and into the city - the Park gave me everything I needed. Three or four times a week I would circle the roads with the army of runners that call Central Park home. I learned the routes and I knew every twist and turn and hill, and how to run three miles in any direction from my 72nd Street starting line. I took my first tentative steps on those roads, and, in time, steps became strides, and fear turned to confidence. I felt like I could run forever, as long as I was running in the Park.

And after the training was over, I couldn't stay away. I kept on running, and the Park became my home. Those loops and roads hold my secrets - the ones I whispered to myself in the middle of a ferocious ten mile run. They hold my laughs and my stories and even some of my tears. The Park became a part of me, and I a part of it. It is the place that has shaped me and made me and helped me find my way.

I don't live in Manhattan anymore and yet the Park still pulls at me.

Every time I am near it, I have to go in, even if only for a couple of minutes. And when I am there I see myself, running the loops, stretching by the 72nd street benches, running through rain, snow and blazing heat, nursing injuries, and running through highs and lows.

I may not live near it or run in it very much anymore, but it will always be mine. Because it was there that I found myself, and it was there that I became who I am.

Sandy: One Year Later

I listened with half my brain as Bill Evans, the dapper ABC 7 weatherman, talked about a hurricane that had just made landfall in Jamaica and seemed to be charting a course for the northeastern coast of the United States.

The other half of my brain was focused on my living room as I organized its contents and wondered how many boxes we would need to pack it all up for our impending move to suburbia that was scheduled to take place in five days. Totally overwhelmed, the only answer I could come up with was, a lot.

I tuned back into the TV in time to hear that the hurricane was a category 1 storm and that New York City was concerned. Unimpressed, I hit the button for my DVR and turned on a Gilmore Girls episode to provide a more entertaining accompaniment to my chores. Having once lived in Florida, a category 1 storm was not something that worried me.

Show me a category 5, I thought, and then I'll get excited.

I had time for packing, moving and worrying about the construction in my new house. I absolutely did not have time for mass hysteria over a hurricane that would probably turn out to be nothing.

So I spent the next few days ignoring the news reports on how bad the storm was predicted to be, choosing instead to focus on saying goodbye to my favorite places in Manhattan and bemoaning the fact that I would be without TV and internet for a few days since we were transferring our cable from the apartment to the new house a few days before the actual move.

When New York Governor Cuomo declared a state of emergency I turned a blind eye. When the people of the Upper West Side took to Fairway and Trader Joe's and emptied the shelves in a panicked frenzy, I refused to join in. Not only did I not want to stand in line to get into the stores, I absolutely did not want to have food left over that I would have to move.

When my move was postponed 5 days and then Mayor Bloomberg ordered the evacuation of parts of the city and the shuttering of the entire transit system, I decided I was pretty lucky to be able to stay in my own apartment, and was grateful for the extra time to pack.

And when the managing partner of my law firm announced that the office would be closed Monday and Tuesday, I celebrated like a 10 year old on a snow day.

On Monday we gathered our snacks, queued up some movies, and I even went for a run along a closed - but very windy - Central Park. As the day wore on with barely a raindrop in site, I started to feel pretty superior for not getting caught up in the hype.

But when darkness fell over New York, and the water started to rise, I realized it wasn't at all as bad as everyone thought it would be.

It was so very much worse.

26.2: May 4, 2014

Three years ago, I decided to run a full marathon.

It was November 7, 2010, and I was standing on the corner of 96th Street and First Avenue in Manhattan, otherwise known as Mile 18 of the New York City Marathon. I had just registered with a friend of mine for my very first half marathon through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's famed Team in Training, and the head coach asked us to come stand at a TNT cheer station on the marathon course as a little motivation before our training season began.

So on that unseasonably cold fall day, we joined the sea of spectators and, cowbells in hand, cheered for the purple-clad TNT runners as they made their way up to the Willis Bridge which would take them into the Bronx, and through the home stretch of the Marathon.

Having grown up with two distance runners for parents, I was no stranger to the mystique of the marathon. One of my first really clear memories is actually cheering for my dad when he ran his first. So running was in my blood.

I had tried, unsuccessfully, to become a runner for years. There was a stretch in high school when I would run three miles after school a few days a week, but by the time senior year arrived with its SAT and college application mania, that habit had fallen away. Then there was that time in college when I dabbled in distance running, but there always seemed to be something better to do, like eat pizza, or frequent the soft serve machine in the cafeteria.

But five years after college, when I found myself still carrying the 20 extra pounds caused by the aforementioned pizza and ice cream, I decided to try again. This time I was determined to make it stick.

And it did.

I got rid of those 20 pounds and then a few more. Central Park became my home and it was there that I really learned to run, and to love to run. And when we left the city last year, it was running that helped me through the anxiety and confusion that came from the move, and from trying to find a place for ourselves in our new suburban home.

I missed that Team in Training half marathon due to injury, but the following year I ran my first half in Pittsburgh, and then last year I ran it again. And when I crossed the finish line for the second time, I knew I was ready. I knew that I would be back next year, and I would run the whole thing.

I registered this past Tuesday, so exactly seven months from tomorrow, I will line up in downtown Pittsburgh at dawn with 26.2 miles stretching ahead of me. I will run the streets of the city of my heart, and fulfill a dream years in the making.

Training starts now.

Here we go.

Back to the Park

My First Favorite Running Path

I had occasion to visit Central Park one night last week.

My firm was having an evening event for the summer associates at the Central Park Zoo, and I went with some of my work friends. We had some fun checking out the animals, and spent some time at the buffet, and before long I decided to head home. 

But before I left the park, I paid a visit to the Central Park running path. It was the first time that I've been back since I moved away this past November. 

It was a hot and sticky night, but the road was full. And for a few minutes I stood there, watching the runners, awash in memories of my Central Park running days. Of making my way to the park every morning, my brain still hazy with exhaustion. Of feeling the haze clear as I began to run while the sun rose over Manhattan. Of my pace quickening as I reached the transverse that signaled the final turn towards home. Of leaving the park ready to face my day, knowing that I would be back tomorrow.

For more than three years, those roads were my home.

As I stood there, I thought I would feel sad. That I would wish that, just for a moment, I was back in the park, back on these roads. 

But I didn't.

Because I have a new home now. And for a long time, when I ran my new path I closed my eyes and imagined I was back in the Park. But I don't do that anymore. Now I run with my eyes open, happy to be where I am, to be running in a new place. To be making new memories. 

With a final glance back I turned and left Central Park and headed to catch my train, knowing that my new roads were waiting for me, and that I would be paying them a visit as the sun rose in the morning.

Happy National Running Day

I am a runner.

Although you wouldn't know it by my re-setting of this morning's 6am running alarm for a 7am non-running alarm due to exhaustion and lack of sleep, a few times a week, I run. I run short distances on weekdays, and long distances on Sundays. 

I learned to run and to love to run in Manhattan's Central Park, and when I left Manhattan seven months ago and moved to the Westchester suburbs, it was running that helped me get acclimated when I felt like our new place would never be a home.

And today, on National Running Day, we celebrate running, and the people who love it.

Since I started running, one of my favorite things to do is to snap pictures as I go. It helps the time pass, and it helps me remember my runs, both the good and the bad, and the journey that I have taken through this amazing, frustrating, beautiful sport. 

So here, in celebration of National Running Day, is a collection of my favorite shots. A photoblog, if you will, of my running journey to right here.

Half Marathon #1
May 2012

A Rainy Central Park, 72nd Street Entrance

Central Park Road: My First Favorite Running Path

My Very Last Central Park Run
October 2012

Inaugural White Plains Run
November 2012

First White Plains Morning Run
November 2012

Beginning of Winter Running Season
December 2012

First Post-Snowstorm Run of the Season
January 2013

First Bronx River Pathway Run, My Second Favorite Running Path
February 2013

Snowy Pittsburgh Run: Panther Hollow Bridge
February 2013

Flag Flying at Half-Staff Post Boston-Marathon Bombing
April 2013

#RunForBoston
April 2013

Pittsburgh Half Marathon Weekend
May 2013

Pittsburgh Proud, Boston Strong
May 2013

Running the Bridges: Pittsburgh Half Marathon
May 2013

Half Marathon #2
May 2013

Half-Marathon Training Take Two - A New Route

With a little over eight weeks until race day, training for the half marathon I'm running on May 5th has kicked into high gear.

As most long distance runners know, there is a distance threshold beyond which runs are incredibly hard. Not that runs below this threshold are always easy, but just that they are more manageable.

After almost three years of distance running, I have come to understand that this threshold is more psychological than anything else. And for me, that threshold is six miles. Any run shorter than six miles seems, in my head, relatively simple to handle. I can generally do it in under an hour, and it is pretty easy to piece together a six mile route no matter where I am.

But once I get beyond six miles - once I am running for more than an hour - I need a little mental boost. It is no longer acceptable to me to cobble together a route on the streets where I am stopping and starting for traffic lights and busy intersections. The bland scenery of houses and buildings doesn't suit me for such a long period of time - since I don't run with music I need a little ambiance and some distractions along my route.

So it was with some trepidation that I approached yesterday's seven mile run, and the eight, nine, ten and eleven milers in the coming weeks. As you know, I have been struggling with my running routes since moving out of Manhattan. I never really thought much about routes before I moved since I did all my running in Central Park, where there is no traffic, plenty of ambiance and sundry distractions. But now they are pretty much all I think about. Because when one spends a significant amount of one's time running, the route better be good.

I decided on Friday that I needed to find a Central Park-like route that pleased me for the second half of my training season. So I took to the internet, determined not to stop researching until I found some new pavement to pound.

In short order, I discovered the Bronx River Pathway, a trail that runs alongside the Bronx River Parkway from the New York City-Westchester line all the way up to Valhallah - a 13.2 mile stretch. Being a big believer in fate, as I am, I figured it was no accident that the trail spanned the exact distance of a half-marathon. I had to try it out.

So I plotted an out and back route that would take me from the White Plains Metro-North station, where I could leave my car, all the way up to the end of the trail and back for my seven miles. And when I woke up Sunday morning I couldn't wait to get started.

I wasn't the least bit disappointed.

The run was delightful, the trail gorgeous. In some places I had company, and in others I was alone. There were ponds, benches, trees, bridges - all the things I loved about my former Central Park home.

I was so excited about this new development in my running life that I couldn't help but stop along the way to document my first run on the Bronx River Pathway - the first, I am absolutely sure, of many.

Friends, I do believe I'm back.

Starting Line (and Finish Line)

The Trail

Halfway Marker

Kensico Dam Park

Happy Blogaversary to Me!

Monday. In case you missed it, over the weekend there was a huge snowstorm in the Northeast. We were buried under about two feet in my neighborhood on Friday night, and spend much of the rest of the weekend digging out. I love a good snowstorm, and this one was particularly epic. But more about that - with pictures - later in the week.

Because today, I have some rather important business to attend to. Yesterday, was a pretty important day. One I feel compelled to mention, and to write about. On February 10, 2012 - one year and one day ago - I started this blog on a whim. It was a dreary Friday afternoon, and I wasn't busy. I had been toying with the idea of writing seriously for some time, and that rainy Friday seemed as good a time as any. So in the space of an hour, I went from regular person, to blogger.

At first, I didn't have too many readers. My family, of course, but that was about it. But still, I wrote. And the more I wrote, the more I needed to write. The words just poured out of my head, and there always seemed to be more. And I read. I discovered other blogs I liked, and bloggers I respected, and I haunted their sites daily. And reading made me a better writer.

And then, about six months into this blogging gig something happened. This past August I linked up a piece I had written with the Yeah Write weekly challenge, and it was there that I discovered my community. And through them, I truly found my voice. I met other smart and talented writers, and, although we have never met in person, they became my friends. All online, we have learned about each others families, offered a hand and a shoulder in times of challenge, supported each other through Hurricane Sandy (because, amazingly, many of these lovely ladies live mere minutes from me), shared funny blizzard stories, and became a kind of family. And for them, I am incredibly grateful.

So, one year later, here I am. Writing, growing, learning, and changing. Just the way it should be. Over the weekend, I was going through my old posts trying to find a way to sum up the past 365 - now 366 - days. And rather than write more words about what this space means to me, I thought I would do a quick run down of my favorite post or two from each of the past twelve months.

Thanks for sticking with me for a whole year. Looking forward to year two.

February 2012

During my first month, I wrote about coming from a family of women who love books, and I wrote about how I can live anywhere as long as I have my romance novels in tow.

March

I was training for my first half-marathon when I started this blog, and one morning in March I had a completely transcendental run, followed almost immediately by an absolutely disastrous run.

April

In April, I took a trip to Israel, and discovered that Israeli women like romance novels too, and I explained my number one rule when I choose the books I read.

May

I recapped my first half-marathon in May, and I read the book Quiet, by Susan Cane, and wrote about how it completely changed my life.

June

In June, I finally read Fifty Shades of Grey, and to my utter astonishment, I really didn't like it.

July

This month I celebrated David's birthday, and the triumphant return of the Summer Olympics.

August

I wrote my very first post for Yeah Write about some very special shoes, and got a little political on the eve of the Republican National Convention.

September

In September, I wrote my very first fiction, and started thinking about our move away from Manhattan that would take place in a few short months.

October

In October, an article CNN published about how women vote based on their monthly cycles infuriated me, and I said goodbye to my favorite place on earth with a post that still makes me tear up every time I read it.

November

I embarked on a 30 day blogging challenge in November, and wrote about my first date with David, in two parts.

December

My mind was on Newtown and Sandy Hook Elementary School in December, and I wrote about gun control, and the comfort of Jewish tradition.

January

And this past month, I celebrated my thirtieth birthday, and remembered a trip I took to crazy-town just a few years ago.

February 2013

Just last week, I wrote about my new morning routine that I love, and tried my hand at a little more fiction.

Smiles, Laughter and Sparkly Memories: Two Years

Grandma and her Grandchildren
October 10, 2010. My Wedding Day

Two years ago today, we lost the matriarch of our family, my Grandma Freda. And although under Jewish law we generally commemorate the anniversary of a death based on the Hebrew calendar, which is a lunar calendar, it is this particular date in January that sticks in my mind. It was a Sunday. I was mid-way through training for my first half-marathon, and I found out as just as I was leaving for a seven mile run. After I got off the phone with my mom, I took that run through a snow covered Central Park, comforted by my most favorite place during my most favorite time of year, and by the memories of a woman who walked through each and every day of her life with a smile.

Hours later, we were all gathered around my parents' dining room table in Pittsburgh thinking, laughing and talking about the woman who was our greatest role model for a life well lived. The woman who taught us everything we know about filling a family - and a life - with sweetness and joy. At the funeral, my sisters, cousins and I stood together and shared our memories with all the people who gathered with us to celebrate and remember. And this is what we said: 

When we were little, most of us spent a lot of our time at the farm, visiting Grandma Freda and Grandpa Leonard. While we all had a great time picking dandelions, swimming in the lake, going on treasure hunts, and playing in the tire sandbox, I think what we remember most were the pies. Mostly apple, sometimes cherry, occasionally blueberry, and always delicious; served through the little window in the kitchen. It was at the farm, at such young ages, that Grandma Freda taught us about the importance of dessert.

And the lesson didn't end with pies at the farm. Wherever Grandma Freda was, there was always something sweet. Cookies, her signature coffee cake, a chocolate bar broken up into little pieces, and homemade ice cream on the farm for breakfast (“it’s calcium after all”). After dinner, before dinner, in the middle of the day, the timing never seemed to matter. When we were younger we mostly cared about the cookies, but as we got older we all came to understand that they meant something more than just a fun treat. 

To Grandma Freda, dessert was her way of injecting a little extra something special into every day. It meant taking an ordinary dinner (or breakfast or lunch or snack), and making it just a little more fun. 

We would soon learn that dessert isn't the only way to make a day extra special. Grandma taught us that a pedicure just isn't a pedicure unless the polish is red, a bath just isn't a bath unless there are bubbles right up to the top, a little sparkle or some sequins, or even a dress full of pearls never hurt anyone, and eyeglasses just won’t do unless they have something red, pink, or green around the frames. We grew up hearing “honey don’t you just want to put on some color with that plain black top?” and because of Grandma Freda, an outfit, no matter how casual, is not complete without some jewelry to top it off.

Over the years, we also grew used to making sense out of Grandma’s frequent mispronunciations  The restaurant “Gilliftys,” she called “Gulfittys,” the actor “Walter Mathau” she called “Walter Mattau,” “Rick Santorum” was “Rick Santorium,” and her caregiver, “Mary Jo,” she called “Betty Jo,” until the day Mary Jo took a different job. Now, every time a Rosen inevitably mispronounces something we all just look, shake our heads, and say “Grandma?” 

Just last week, after living in Southwestern Pennsylvania for almost 70 years, Grandma’s true Steeler pride came out for the very first time. She was yelling and cursing at the TV, and could barely contain herself when they won. And the very next day, while watching the Patriots-Jets game Grandma said, “This is no Steeler game. These teams look like kids out there.”

If there’s one thing to be said about Grandma Freda, it’s that she was sharp as a tack.  Not only was she an accomplished world class bridge player, she was never without a Sudoku book, and NEVER missed an episode of Jeopardy. A lot of the time she was more aware of what was going on than her daughters, and sometimes her grandchildren, whether it came to politics- she read the Post Gazette and the New York Times, and listened to NPR faithfully - or directions - telling you where the turn is going to be miles before you reach it (except she never could seem to find a direct route from Candy Rama to Brewsters. She was convinced such a thing didn’t exist). 

As the head of a loud, crazy, and sometimes chaotic family, Grandma Freda always got right to the point.  She had her work cut out for her, but we couldn't have asked for a better role model. Smart, funny, independent, never judgmental, fiercely loyal, and always loving, Grandma Freda made us into the adults that we are. She taught the 8 of us the importance of family when she would casually say, “don’t you think we should call your cousin?” And she taught us the importance of acceptance when we would ask her how she felt about someone and she would respond with a simple, “what's not to like?”

With all the stories, fun and laughter comes an amazing woman who we are all lucky to have had as a part of our lives for so long. Her apartment was always open to us, and there was nothing quite as satisfying as walking through the doors. She kept us all together if we ever started to drift apart, and her contagious optimism and sense of humor created a family full of laughter and love. We are grateful for the gifts that she has given us, and are lucky to be able to pass along her shining legacy. Her tiny feet left us big footsteps to fill.

Thoughts at Thirty

Today is my thirtieth birthday.

Ten years ago I turned twenty. On my twentieth birthday, no one was thirty. Thirty seemed like the destination at the very end of a particularly long road trip. A destination so far away that I couldn't possibly imagine ever reaching it, or what it would feel like when I finally did.

I was a sophomore in college when I turned twenty, living on the fourth floor of a big dorm that was filled with friends I had made during my freshman year. The year I turned twenty was the year I started to feel like I had finally found my place. I had friends I loved, friends who understood me. Friends to stay up late with, and talk to, and have dance parties to crazy songs with. Friends to study with and eat junk food with, and explore our little world with. I had classes that fascinated me, and professors who challenged me. I had enough college behind me that it felt comfortable and right, and enough college left in front of me that I wasn't yet thinking about what came after.

The year I turned twenty was the year that I had my first real boyfriend. And I like to think that, until we broke up the year I turned turned twenty-two, I learned all the things that you are supposed to learn from your first boyfriend. I learned what real love is supposed to look like (because this was most certainly not it). I learned how to be independent and retain my sense of self in a relationship (mostly because I didn't). And I learned to recognize when a relationship had run its course and when it is time to say goodbye (because I let it drag on far too long).

The year I turned twenty-two was the year I started preparing for what would come next. I spend a summer in Washington D.C. as a constitutional law intern for the Anti-Defamation League, I bought big scary books with LSAT written on the cover and started studying for my future, and I raced to the mail room every day after my 2:00 class to check for the letter that would tell me where that future would be. And with shaking hands one cold late winter day, I opened the one that did. And during a nostalgic, tear-soaked weekend, I graduated from college, and holding the hands of my very best friends, I moved to New York City to start law school. And I learned for the first time that it is possible to be, at the same time, incredibly excited for what lies ahead and impossibly sad for what will be left behind.

When I was twenty-three, I six months in to what would end up being a nearly eight year tenure in Manhattan. And during that first year I learned that I could live anywhere in the world as long as I had my friends with me. I learned how to answer questions about reading I hadn't done. I learned how to walk twenty city blocks in heels. I learned that I could, in fact, study for twelve hours straight without dropping dead, and I learned how to be ok with bad grades when they came. I found a Steelers bar in lower Manhattan and was there watching when the Steelers hoisted their first Lombardi Trophy in twenty-six years. I discovered that I could watch a ton of TV, read lots of romance novels, and still be a good law student, and I discovered that I really like to cook. And I watched Sister K walk down the aisle to marry her incomparable man, and in the two of them learned the real meaning of partnership.

I was a second year law student when I turned twenty-four. That year I got my first A+, decided that Trusts & Estates law was the practice for me, had my very first real law firm job, and went on my first date with the boy I would marry. The year I was twenty-four I learned how to "do" law school. I learned that love - real love - can come when you least expect it, and that it is possible to "just know" in the snap of a finger.

From age twenty-five to age twenty-seven I got an internship that would lead, almost five years later, to the job I have now. I graduated from law school with honors, passed the bar exam, watched as the financial world melted down, and saw the Steelers win another Superbowl. I learned how to be unemployed for awhile, and then how to work in a job that I hated. I learned what it feels like to be laid off, how to have a job for awhile that had nothing to do with my chosen career, how to interview for a position that I really, really wanted, and what it felt like to finally get it. I started to learn that I really enjoyed my own company, and I learned to be comfortable and confident in the decisions I was making.

Late one night, two months after my twenty-seventh birthday the boy I would marry proposed to me on a website, and we started a whirlwind seven months of parties, planning and anticipation. And on a gorgeous fall day of that very same year I stood at the top of my own aisle, and, surrounded by family and friends, walked into my future. That year I learned that it is not flowers, caterers, and dresses that make a wedding unforgettable, but rather the people who gather to celebrate. I learned how to live - and live well - in a tiny New York City apartment. On a whim I signed up for a half-marathon and when I started training I learned that Central Park is my favorite place in the world.

A few weeks after my twenty-eighth birthday my cousins, my sisters and I held each other close as we said goodbye to our grandma - my mom's mom - the woman who gave us life, and love, and laughter and sparkly memories. I ran double digits for the first time, and I suffered a stress fracture that would keep me out of the race for which I had trained so hard. I cried happy tears and danced at Sister L's wedding, I started a brand new job, I watched the Steelers lose a Superbowl, and I celebrated when Sister K gave us all a new baby girl to love. In my twenty-eighth year I learned that I could get through anything as long as I had my family close. I learned that I could survive on nothing but ginger ale and crackers for two weeks after an epic battle with salmonella, and I learned to say yes when an important career move came my way, even if the job was something I thought I would never, ever do.

I started this blog a few weeks after my twenty-ninth birthday, and quickly knew that I had found my place. I started training for - and crossed the finish line of - my first half marathon, and promptly signed up for two more. We bought our first house and started making plans to leave NYC. We made it through Hurricane Sandy, moved into our new home - that was still a construction zone - and started to get to know our new neighborhood. This past year I learned that leaving Manhattan was far more difficult than I ever imagined it would be. I learned that moving is impossibly hard even when the move is good and right. I learned that writing fulfills me in a way that little else can, and that there is a big and completely incredible community of bloggers out there that has helped me, and taught me, and befriended me in the vast cyber universe. I learned that I could live for almost two months without a kitchen, and I learned once again that I can live in complete chaos as long as my romance novels are organized on their shelves.

And today. Today I am thirty. And when I woke up this morning I thought I would feel different - older somehow - but I don't. I feel the same as I felt yesterday, and hopefully the same as I will feel tomorrow. And I am incredibly happy to be where I am, in this place, living this good life with the people closest to me. And now I hit the road for another destination far in the distance that I can't possibly imagine ever reaching, or what it will feel like when I do. But if the next ten years are anything like the last, I know that there really is nothing to worry about at all.

2012: A Year in Review

New Years Eve.

I have spent some time these past few days reading through my blog archives from the past eleven months, trying to find a way to sum up the past year. And I have spent some time reading other bloggers' end of year posts trying to find some inspiration. Some people were posting their favorite blog posts by month. Some were listing all the books they read, or the places they traveled, or their favorite songs. But none of those felt quite right to me, so I decided to do a little bit of everything. Because, well, I am a woman of many interests, and because for me, 2012 included a little bit of everything. And more.

In January I turned 29. My birthday was on a Wednesday, but I celebrated on Saturday night with dinner and my best friends. It felt a little weird to turn 29. Like I should be focused on the fact that this was the last birthday that would have a 2 in front of it, and that 30 was looming in the distance. But I wasn't focused on that. Instead I was focused on the people around me, and how lucky I was to be living this life with them, at any age. And in January I started training for my first half-marathon. I had been running for awhile, and it was time to kick it up. For four months Central Park became my second home, as I circled its loops four times a week and counted the days until the race.

In February I started this blog. It was February 10th. A Friday. It was raw and rainy outside, and I got an idea. An idea for something I wanted to say. I wanted to write about the books I love, and the people I love, and after I wrote my very first sentence of my very first post, the ideas just flowed. And over the past eleven months my blog has taken on a bit of a different flavor, but I am so proud of it, and will be forever grateful for that first spark of inspiration on an otherwise ordinary day.

In March D and I started talking about moving. About leaving our apartment in New York City and venturing out to parts unknown. About buying a house and another car and becoming suburbanites. We looked at our first couple of houses, and thought how it would probably take months and months to find the right one for us. I fumed over the rhetoric about abortion and contraception coming from the federal and state governments, and took to my blog to express my outrage. And in March we boarded a plane late on a Saturday night and flew to Israel for a 10 day vacation on the beaches of Tel Aviv. And in a Tel Aviv mall I discovered that Israeli women love romance novels too, and my heart sang.

In April I spent the last days of Passover in Pittsburgh surrounded by family. I battled a running injury I thought might keep me out of the half marathon that was a mere four weeks away, and we made our first offer on a house we loved, but walked away after a week-long bidding war. And in April I read Nora Roberts' new book The Witness, fell instantly in love with the premier of Shonda Rhimes' new show Scandal, and bid farewell to One Tree Hill, a show that I had been watching since its premier my junior year in high school.

In May I went back to Pittsburgh to run the race. It was an unseasonably hot day that felt more like the end of July than the beginning of May. For three hours I joined thousands of other people to run the streets of the city I love. And there were some dicey miles, but I finished strong. It was my biggest accomplishment to date. And in May I read Nora Roberts' The Last Boyfriend, the incredible book Quiet by Susan Cain, and the less than incredible Fifty Shades of Gray trilogy.

In June we went to see the house that would ultimately be ours. The first time we saw it I couldn't see the potential, but D did, and twenty-four hours of negotiations later, the contracts were being drawn up, and plans were being made, and I started thinking about what it would feel like to live somewhere that wasn't Manhattan. I discovered Bunheads, a new TV show by the creator of Gilmore Girls, one of my favorite shows of all time, and spent some happy Monday nights with the quirky characters of Paradise, CA. And I stayed up until 4am one night just to finish Gillian Flynn's incomparable thriller Gone Girl.

In July we flew to Cleveland for the weekend to visit my sister and brother-in-law and to smother my little niece with love and presents, and I started the torturous process of applying for a mortgage. I watched in horror with the rest of the nation as news broke of a gunman inside a movie theater in Colorado, and I watched with excitement and glee as the Queen of England declared the Games of the 30th Olympiad open. I watched hours and hours of Olympics, and managed to make some time for the miniseries Political Animals, and the delicious debauchery of Bachelor Pad.

In August I suffered from a post-Olympics hangover and entered my very first blogging competition. I was approved for a mortgage. I watched the Republican National Convention and struggled with how I, a pro-choice, pro-marriage equality Republican, could fit into this modern incarnation of the Party. And in August we found out there was an open permit on our house and that our closing would be delayed, and traded a million e-mails with our lawyer and our mortgage company trying to get it sorted out.

In September we took a late night drive to the Jersey Shore to celebrate Labor Day Weekend and I spent a day looking back eleven years. We celebrated the Jewish holidays, and I wrote my first piece of fiction. We closed on our new house, and I started writing about the nostalgia I felt for leaving the home I had known for more than seven years. The twenty-one TV shows that I watch on a regular basis came back from their summer hiatuses, and my DVR was once again filled to capacity.

In October we celebrated our two year wedding anniversary with dinner and dessert on our living room couch. I started counting down to my last run in Central Park, and started thinking about packing boxes, and whether our cable would be hooked up in time so I didn't miss any of my shows. I wrote a post I love about the female vote, and I took my last Central Park run (or so I thought). And in October our move to the new house was delayed by three days as New York City was devastated by Hurricane Sandy and her aftermath.

In November I took my actual last run in Central Park, we moved into our new house and commenced six weeks without a kitchen as our construction was finished, and I entered a challenge to blog every day of the month. The third book in Nora Roberts' Boonsboro Inn trilogy was released, and it saved my sanity during our first real weekend in our house. D built our kitchen cabinets, I started learning the streets of our new neighborhood, and I saw camels on 51st Street on my way to work. I spent Thanksgiving with my family in Pittsburgh, and I celebrated with my best friend when she got engaged. I finally unpacked my romance novel collection, and spent some serious quality time on my new couch in front of the TV.

In December I got my first blogging award, and saw those camels again. The construction on our house finally came to an end, and I started cooking in my brand new kitchen. My heart broke for the Sandy Hook community as they struggled to make sense out of a tragedy, and I grieved alongside one of the families as they laid their little boy to rest. I finally got my running mojo back, and spent a cozy night in our new home in front of the fireplace.

What a year indeed.

Happy New Year.

Here's to 2013.

It's The Most Wonderful (Running) Time of the Year

I am a runner. Three or four mornings a week I put on my running shoes and hit the pavement. I never run in a gym, and I don't care what the weather is. I run outside, and I love it. My runs are time for me to think and breathe, and to take a break from the world. When I am running, nothing else matters.

But I have a confession to make.

Since our move to the suburbs almost two months ago, my usual delight in my morning runs has been elusive.  I am still running of course, but I haven't been loving it nearly as much as I normally do. It is a combination of things, I think. I am not totally comfortable on the streets of my new neighborhood yet, so I am still carrying my phone for the GPS so I can find my way around, which makes zoning out while I run practically impossible. The weather seems to be sticking in the high 40s/low 50s range, which is my least favorite weather to run in. And most of all, I think, I really miss Central Park. For two years The Park was the only place I ran, and that six mile loop was my second home. Leaving it, and learning to run somewhere else, has been harder than I imagined.

But starting with yesterday's run, I think I'm finally getting my running mojo back.

When I got up, I did my habitual weather check so I would know what to wear, and the temperature was in the low 30s. Perfect. I love running in the freezing cold weather. I love my running tights, and my pink fleece-lined running jacket. I love running gloves, and my dry-fit headband. I love feeling the frigid air in my lungs, and I love seeing my breath as I huff and puff my way through the miles. Running in the freezing cold makes me feel fierce. It makes me feel alive.

Finally time for running tights and my pink fleece-lined jacket. Loving it.

When I run in the cold the world feels quiet. Lots of people run in the spring and summer. But when the leaves are gone, the trees bare, and the sky steel grey with the promise of snow, not very many runners brave the outdoors. Sometimes when I am running the winter streets, I feel like the only person alive, which, for those moments, feels absolutely perfect.

My cold and empty winter streets.

The arrival of winter also means the arrival of training season. Lots of people run their longest races in the fall, and train throughout the spring and summer. And while one of my life goals is to run the New York City Marathon on the first Sunday in November, I prefer to schedule my longest races in the spring and summer and pack my miles into the winter months.

Like a lot of people, I do my best running when I have a goal. Having a race looming in the distance is incentive for me to get out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning before work to get my miles in, rather than re-setting my alarm to get that extra hour of sleep. Marking off training runs on a calendar in anticipation of a race is exciting, and keeps me motivated through the short, dark days of winter.

Knowing these things about myself, I registered for the Pittsburgh Half Marathon (or, possibly, the full if I can get my act together in time) in May, and the Pittsburgh Rock n' Roll Half Marathon in August. And while I am not wild about running those huge distances in the heat of the summer, the fact that I can train all the way through the winter makes those sweaty race miles worth it. And with my first race eighteen weeks away, I have declared my training season officially open.

So, winter is finally here, the cold air has arrived, and I feel like I am finally getting into a groove in my new neighborhood. It is, indeed, the most wonderful (running) time of the year.