They Are Different. And So Am I.

I wasn't imagining things, and the mirror in the Scarsdale Panera where I stopped for iced coffee and a bathroom break in the middle of my errands this past Sunday for my best friend's impending bridal shower wasn't hanging wrong either.

It was my sunglasses. They were crooked.

My sunglasses. My favorite, purchased from a shady guy on 50th and Broadway two years ago for eight dollars, sunglasses. The ones I found on a random Wednesday after an exhaustive search for aviators that were just the right size, with lenses dark enough that my eyes were nearly invisible but light enough that the fingerprints that always seem to live on my sunglasses wouldn't drive me crazy every time I looked in a mirror.

The sunglasses that had accompanied me on one trip to Israel and then another. That came with me to a bachelorette weekend in Cape Cod and a Jersey Shore family vacation. That commuted with me to work. That laughed with me through a birthday snow day and hid my eyes through a month of tears.

The sunglasses that I took care of, that I carefully folded up and kept in a hard case in between wearings, that lasted twenty months longer than anything bought on the streets of NYC should reasonably last, were crooked.

I took them off and, right there in the Panera bathroom, I started fiddling with the nose pieces. When that didn't work and, in fact, made the problem worse, I played around with the ear pieces, hoping that if I bent them just right my sunglasses could reclaim their formerly straight glory, ignoring the fact that the screws holding them together had suddenly started rattling in their holes, causing the temples to bend at unnatural angles.

When I thought they were straight enough, I left the store, congratulating myself for resurrecting my favorite accessory. But my reflection in the car window told me that my victory was short-lived. And when I took the sunglasses off to give fixing them another try and they fell apart in my hands, I knew they were beyond saving.

And suddenly, I found myself standing in the accessories section of the Nordstrom near my house, in front of racks of sunglasses. I put on a few pairs and hated them all immediately. Thinking I would just buy my new ones on the street, right where I bought my old ones, I was about to abandon accessories for the shoe department when I saw them.

They were sitting on a corner shelf, almost by themselves, and I knew they were mine before I even tried them on. And five minutes later, after a surprise 25% off and a moment of indecision over a black or brown case, they were.

As I drove out of the parking garage into the blinding sun, I slipped my new sunglasses on. They weren't exactly the same as my old pair, and I guess they shouldn't be. They are a little bit different, and after the past few weeks so am I.

But together, we are going to be just fine.

New Look

Summer Solstice

The sun comes up, as the longest day dawns.

Half Staff

White Plains, New York.

Daybreak.

Flag at half staff.

Thinking of my Boston friends, and my Brandeis University family in Waltham, MA.

Stay safe.

This is a Time For American Heroes

"...More than any time in recent history, America's destiny is not of our own choosing. We did not seek nor did we provoke an assault on our freedom, and our way of life. We did not expect nor did we invite a confrontation with evil. Yet the true measure of a people's strength is how they rise to master that moment when it does arrive...The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight. They are our students and our teachers and our parents and our friends. The streets of heaven are too crowded with angels. But every time we think we've measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we're reminded that that capacity may well be limitless. This is a time for American heroes. We will do what is hard. We will achieve what is great. This is a time for American heroes and we reach for the stars. God bless their memory. God bless you. And God bless the United States of America."

                                      -President Josiah Bartlet
                                       The West Wing, Season 4, Episode 2

Finish Line

Marathon day.

The buzz in the air is palpable. It saturates the starting line with a dizzying cocktail of excitement and nerves. Runners loiter around. They stretch. They eat. They talk to each other. They laugh. They either try not to think about the distance stretching before them or they focus hard on the miles ahead. The starting gun goes off. The crowd cheers.

The race begins.

They run the course, feet pounding the pavement in a metronomic rhythm soothing in its familiarity. They run through neighborhoods and city streets alongside thousands of strangers who are not strangers but family - a running family. They feel a strength born from months of training and a fierce determination earned for battling cold, heat, rain, snow, doubt and injuries on their journey to the start.

At some point along the miles their energy might begin to flag and they may wonder if they have enough to reach the end. They focus on the spectators lining the course; the people who stand for hours to cheer on family and strangers alike. They grab a cup of water from a smiling race volunteer. They offer some encouragement to another runner in need. And they feel their second wind kick in.

This is their race. This is their time. They are runners. So they run.

And then they see it. The finish line, rising in the distance. Two meters away or two miles, it doesn't matter. Because it's there. They stand up a little straighter. They run a little faster.

They've got this.

Pain is forgotten, as they start to fly. The roar of the crowd helps carry them down the final stretch. They cross the finish line. Head up. Eyes clear. Legs strong.

When they stop moving, the fatigue comes crashing in, but with the medal heavy around their necks the exhaustion feels good. It feels right. It feels earned.

The finish line belongs to them.

Last May that finish line was mine, and in two weeks it will be again. But for the runners in yesterday's Boston Marathon who had yet to reach the finish line when the running world forever changed, and even for the ones who already had, it wasn't theirs. It belonged to horror. To violence. To suffering.

When I cross the finish line in Pittsburgh in two weeks time it will be for me, but mostly, it will be for them.

And when my legs stop moving, and the fatigue comes crashing in, and the medal is heavy around my neck, my tears will mix with theirs.

This is Courage

Source

There is something intensely personal about why we watch the morning shows we watch. I know people who are staunch Today viewers. I have friends who can't start their morning without a dose of whatever CBS This Morning or the PIX-11 news is dishing out.

For me, it is Good Morning America.

Some of my very first memories are of starting my days with GMA. Every morning when I would come down for breakfast my parents had the tiny kitchen TV tuned to Charles Gibson and Joan Lunden. When I was in high school it was Charles Gibson and Diane Sawyer, in law school Diane Sawyer and Robin Roberts, and a month after I started my first post-law school job, it became Robin Roberts and George Stephanopoulos, with a little Lara Spencer, Josh Elliott and Sam Champion on the side.

Each and every morning I start my day with them, and over the past twenty-five or so years, they have come to feel like family.

So six years ago when, with her sisters and Diane Sawyer by her side, Robin announced on-air that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, I cried right along with her. I followed her journey, was awed by her strength, and celebrated when her treatments were over and she returned to work, as graceful and beautiful as ever.

And this past June, when Robin went public with her new fight, I was once again in front of my TV and, along with millions of others across the country, I joined #TeamRobin and was with her every step of the way. I mourned with her when she lost her mother, prayed with her as she recovered from her bone marrow transplant, updated my information in the bone marrow donation registry, and celebrated once again when she returned to work last week.

She is a shining example of what it means to be your very best self, and I am thrilled to once again be starting my mornings with her.

Welcome back Robin, and thanks for the constant reminder to seek out Light, Love, Power and Presence.

We have learned from you to be strong, be brave, be happy, smile, fight and hope.

This is courage.

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.

You Never Forget Your First Time

They say you never forget your first time.

I haven't.

I was seventeen.

It was a damp and grey Sunday. I was home alone. Rain was spattering on the windows as I cast about for something to do.

I turned on the TV, and then turned it off. There was nothing to watch. I opened a mystery I had started the day before, but it wouldn't hold my interest. I set it aside.

I lay back on the couch, wondering at the sluggish passage of time on quiet, rainy days.

And then it happened.

It started as an idle curiosity. Something I had heard so much about, but never experienced for myself. Today seemed as good a day as any to try something new.

Something mysterious.

I began slowly. Tentatively. Shyly almost.

But the deeper in I sank, the faster the waves of pleasure rolled. And I wondered how I had missed out on something so delicious for so long.

I thought for a minute how I should feel ashamed in some way. But I didn't.

I felt strong. I felt alive.

I lost track of time. The rain stopped. The sky darkened. But I stayed there, absorbing the wonder of this virgin outing.

Already knowing with certainty that I would return soon. And often.

As the finale drew near, I unconsciously picked up the pace. Straining for a resolution. Wishing it would never end.

I was a woman possessed.

The garage door opened. The phone rang. And rang again. I heard it all dimly, as if I was at the bottom of a pool and the sounds were coming from dry land. And I ignored it all.

I stayed on the couch.

Remained fixed in place.

Unable to move;

until the final, satisfying conclusion.

Exhausted, exhilarated, already ready to try again.

No, I'll never forget the very first time -

I read a romance novel.

This post is in honor of yesterday's 200th anniversary of the publication of Pride and Prejudice, the book that set the stage for my beloved romance novels of modern day. 

Lady Jane, generations of women thank you.

For a different version of my first brush with romance novels, check out the very first post I ever wrote on this blog.

Preserve, Protect and Defend

A Country. A Man. A Family. 

An Oath.

Spending today watching history unfold.

Morning

Every now and then I miss my old morning routine. The one where I wake up in my Manhattan apartment at 8:30am (on non-running days), and leave at 9 to be sitting at my desk at 9:15. The one that required little effort on my part, and allowed me to practically sleep-walk to work. 

There were obviously things about this routine that were not so good. Like the fact that I could rarely find anything I needed in my teeny-tiny closet. Or the fact that we only had one bathroom that was in our bedroom so I could not possibly get ready for work without waking David up. Or the unpredictable elevators in our building that, more often than not, got stuck for a few minutes between floors 1 and 2, usually when I was sharing the elevator with someone's big, shaggy, drooling dog. Or the absolutely inhuman subway commute. Or the mayhem that greeted me at the front door to my apartment building as the city awoke to meet a new day.

But the 15 minute door-to-door trip is really hard to beat.

And some mornings - like this morning - I wake up already overwhelmed by the magnitude of my commute to work. Not that it's a long trip, but I definitely have to be wide awake to conquer it so that I don't accidentally kill anyone with my car on my drive to the Metro North stop about a mile from my house. And some mornings - like this morning - I'm just not in the mood to be that wide awake. 

Staying up late last night for movie night was probably not my best move, but when we were piling on the couch with blankets, pillows, snacks and a fire in the fireplace I wasn't thinking about 7am. And once I fell asleep, 7am came awfully quickly. So this morning when I walked out of my house I was exhausted, and thinking longingly of my 15 minute commute of latter day.

But as I walked towards my car to start my day I looked up, and saw that view. The trees rising against a backdrop of clouds, rising sun, colorful sky and silence stopped me in my tracks. And in that moment, my exhaustion melted away and I was grateful. 

City living doesn't come with views like this. 

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.

105

A few weeks ago I noticed that I was nearing a milestone on this blog. 100 posts since I started writing nine months ago. And I decided that for my 100th post, I would post something special. I wasn't sure at the time what it would be, but I decided to knock your socks off.

Well, imagine my surprise when my eyes happened to glance over at my post count this morning, and I saw 104. So much for my 100 post celebration.

But there is an interesting reason that this milestone escaped me. You might have noticed that I have been posting far more often than my normal three or four times a week. Well I have. And you may be wondering why. I would. 

A few months ago I discovered an incomparable blogging community on the internet called Yeah Write. Each week, four lovely ladies run a competition on this site, allowing bloggers like myself to link up, read a collection of the best blog posts around, and have our own posts judged. At first this was a little intimidating for me, but I soldiered on. Each and every Tuesday, I post my writing on their site, and get to interact with some truly talented writers while we share our words with each other, and with the mysterious cyber universe.

And through this community, I have met people I feel like I can call friends, and I have really been able to find my voice.

So when, during the last week in October, the curator of Yeah Write proposed a challenge to blog each and every day of November (weekends and holidays included), I decided to give it a try. And in my singular focus to get something on my blog every day of this month, I forgot to celebrate my 100th post.

Well, instead I will celebrate this post. My 105th post. 

When I started this blog back in February with my very first post on a Friday afternoon, I just wanted to write. I wanted to write about the books I love, and the people that I love, and this life that I am living each and every day. And I thought that maybe I had some things worth saying, and worth sharing with the world. And it turns out that I did, and I do. And I love coming to this place to think, to feel, to process, and to learn.

So, here's to nine months of blogging. Not exactly the celebration that I anticipated, but a celebration nonetheless. Thanks for sticking it out with me over these past 105 posts. And here's to 105 more.

Election Day

I'm a couple days late on this post, but I really felt like I needed to think a little about the election, and about Tuesday, before writing about it.

Four years ago, I watched closely as a man took the country by storm. He was young and charismatic. He had a beautiful, smart, and stylish wife, and two stunning daughters. For many months he blazed a trail across America spreading his message of hope and change, and America responded. "Yes we can," became the refrain heard across the nation at rallys, on streets, in schools, and in homes. The economy was melting down, people were out of work, and they were scared. And they responded to this man who said, in a thousand different ways, we can make it better. We WILL make it better.

I was not an early supporter of Barack Obama. I thought that he was too young, too inexperienced, not ready for the challenges that come with the highest office in the land. And as a long-time member of the Republican Party, it didn't occur to me in those early days of the 2008 election that maybe, just maybe, Obama was spreading a message that I could get behind.

It turns out that he was. And I did.

I am not sure exactly when it happened, but if I look back, it was probably around the time that John McCain chose Sarah Palin as his running mate, and the rhetoric out of the Republican party turned so violently anti-choice, anti-woman, and anti-pretty much everything else. When the original message of the Republican party nominee - a man I both respected and admired - was drowned out in a sea of vitriol.

That was when I realized I needed another choice.

So in 2008, thinking of human rights, women's right, gay rights, and the balance of power on the Supreme Court, I cast a vote for the Democratic party. And on election night I watched as that young man and his family stood before roaring Chicago crowds and accepted their place in history. And two months later I watched again as he took his oath and ascended his position. And I felt a surprising well of emotion. A keen understanding that I was watching something seemingly impossible, coming true right before my eyes. It was a somber moment of celebration for this country. And I was simply in awe of it all.

And this past Tuesday, thinking once more of human rights, of women's right, of gay rights, and of freedom, I again cast my vote for that man, and watched as he and his family again took the stage. Four years older, four years wiser, and four years stronger, they again made history. And again, I was in filled with awe and pride.

Because this year, I, too, am four years older. Four years further along in this life of mine. And I understand things that I didn't understand four years ago. That I truly do believe in hope, and in change. That I care, deeply, about other people and their freedom. That I want to leave this world and this planet a better, stronger place for my children and my grandchildren. That I want my daughters to have choices, and that I want my children to be free to marry whoever they wish, without judgment and hardship. That hate and judgment push us back, but that love and acceptance can move us forward to places we never even dreamed.

As I joined Diane Sawyer, George Stephanopoulos and the ABC news team on Tuesday night to watch the election returns roll in, I thought of something that Michelle Obama said in her speech at the Democratic National Convention this past summer. Before a packed convention center, she said:

"If farmers and blacksmiths could win independence from an empire...if immigrants could leave behind everything they knew for a better life on our shores...if women could be dragged to jail for seeking the vote...if a generation could defeat a depression, and define greatness for all time...if a young preacher could lift us to the mountaintop with his righteous dream...and if proud Americans can be who they are and boldly stand at the altar with who they love...then surely, surely we can give everyone in this country a fair chance at that great American dream. Because in the end, more than anything else, that is the story of this country - the story of unwavering hope grounded in unyielding struggle."

I was struck by the fact that at that very moment, all over the country, millions of people were sitting exactly where I was, watching the same coverage, thinking some of the same things. For that night, no matter who we voted for, or what we believed, we were united in our quest to elect a leader. To choose the person we thought best able to guide us into the future. We weren't all pulling a lever for the same person, but we were all grasping the handle of democracy. And that, I think, was what Michelle Obama was getting at in her speech, and that, for me, what what election night was about.

It was less about two men battling it out for the right to lead then it was about a country. A country trying to shake off the cobwebs of the past five years, and move forward. A country united in a wish for greatness, and great hope for the future.

"Unwavering hope grounded in unyielding struggle."

This is what we are about, as the First Lady told us so eloquently just a few months ago.

This is our story. And now that we have elected our leader, it is time to continue to write it.

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.

Central Park Views

Sometimes it's hard to see the signs of fall in New York City. In this concrete jungle where I have lived these past seven years, trees are few and far between, and never seem to turn those riotous shades of red and orange that signal the changing of the seasons.

But if you frequent Central Park, as I do, the changing of the seasons is more apparent. Three or four days a week I run in the park. During all four seasons, in all kinds of weather, you can find me circling the loops. Lately, as summer turns to fall, and my time in the city comes to a close, I have been paying far more attention to the changes taking place around me. 

It is a beautiful time of year for Central Park. When I walk down this hill into the park I feel transported to a different place in time. Vibrant leaves, spicy scents, and crisp air abound. 

As I enter my last four weeks as a resident of Manhattan, I find myself drawn to the park even more often than normal. It will be these fall park views that will stick in my mind and stay with me as I make my way towards my new home.

Skyline

A few Saturday nights ago I went to Hoboken, NJ for Mexican food, conversation and fun with my oldest friend.

I took the ferry back across the river to Manhattan after dinner, and while I was waiting for the boat I snapped this picture of the New York City skyline.

It never ceases to amaze me that a skyline that looks so imposing during the day can look so absolutely stunning when night falls.

Once a Runner

She was already awake when her alarm went off. She kissed her still sleeping husband and swung her legs out of bed. Shuffling slowly to the bathroom, she thought of how many mornings had started just like this over the years. Hundreds; no, thousands for sure. She chuckled as she reached for her toothbrush and looked into the mirror.

A few more wrinkles now than on that first morning, she thought. Lord I'm getting old.

As she dressed, she caught a glimpse of a picture that none of her protests could convince her darling husband belonged in a drawer, not centered on their dresser. The past and present seemed to collapse together and for just a moment she was twenty years old again, filled with the nervous anticipation and restless excitement of her very first race morning.

Then she blinked and she was back in her bedroom, looking at a picture of her twenty year old self after her very first race. The first of many. 

"We certainly had some times didn't we my girl?" she whispered to the picture.

As she made her way through her house, soaked in memories of races past, she could still feel that race day buzz. Oh how she loved that buzz. For sixty years she fed off of it, relished it, and used it to propel herself forward for unreasonable distances. It had been ten years since she hung up her running shoes. She was a spectator now. But she would never forget that buzz.

She wasn't bitter. Far from it actually. She had sixty good years, Far more than most people get to have. At age seventy her knees finally got the better of her, and she was relegated to long walks with her man and her dog. Every evening they walked the streets where she once ran, and she was happy. And every May she set up her chair on the corner by the bridge and watched the runners come streaming by. And if she was a little jealous, she figured that was only natural. Once a runner, always a runner. That's just the way it goes, she knew.

It was eight o'clock and steaming hot outside when she settled into her chair. She knew the starting gun had just gone off, and even though it would be over an hour before she saw any runners pass by, she could picture where the leaders were. She knew every twist and turn of the course. She ran this race seventeen times. Ten Mays before, this race had been her last.

When the police cars came by signaling the leaders were about to pass she stood up to watch. She cheered, but she knew that the leaders didn't hear her. These were not the runners that needed her. They were stunning to watch, but the leaders were not the reason she sat by the bridge, year after year, on this day in May.

As the pack started to thicken, she watched closely, looking for the runners that needed a little boost. She could always spot them, because hundreds of times over the years, she was one of them. Late in the race, energy flagging, wondering if she had enough to finish. And there was always a spectator who helped push her along. Who gave her the confidence to finish. She loved being that spectator now. She thought it was her little way of paying it forward after sixty years of racing.

She saw the girl coming from five or six blocks away. She was moving slowly, hunched over, and had that look on her face that said she would rather be anywhere than here. She didn't stand up because the girl was looking down. She leaned forward in her chair and didn't take her eyes off the girl as she shuffled down the street. When the girl was a few yards away their eyes finally met. She could see the pain and exhaustion on the girl's face. She looked straight into the girl's bright green eyes and said,

"I'm proud of you, you're almost there."

The girl seemed to stand up a little straighter and the fog cleared from her eyes. She looked at the woman for half a second more before making the turn onto the bridge. Her pace picked up, and the woman watched her until she disappeared into the distance. A wave of affection swept through her for that young girl, fighting like hell to the finish. That was a feeling she understood.

She stayed in her place on the corner as morning became afternoon, until the second set of police cars came by, signaling the final runners in the race. Then she gathered up her chair and headed for home.

She walked in the door of her house, and straight to the computer. She called up the website she needed and typed in the number she had jotted down on her newspaper. The girl's bib number. When the results loaded, her smile reached all the way to her eyes. The girl finished. Her final mile her fastest of the race.

She looked up from the screen as her husband came down the stairs.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Always," she said.

He reached out for her hand, and off they went on their evening walk, along the streets where she once ran.

This, my first attempt at fiction, is dedicated to all the commenters on my post from last week who wondered about that old woman's story. Thanks for helping me wonder too.

Words From a Stranger

I heard the words at the end of mile twelve as I struggled to keep on running.

"I'm proud of you, you're almost there."

I had never seen the woman before in my life, but she spoke those words directly to me as if we had been friends forever. The last four miles had been a slow plodding mess and I was giving serious thought to pulling over to the curb and quitting right then and there, but when I heard those words, I kicked up the pace.

It was just after mile eight of my first half-marathon that I decided I would rather be in hell than run five more miles, which was incredibly unfortunate for me, because I really wanted a medal. Which they were giving out at the finish line. Exactly five miles away.

Bands were stationed every half a mile, playing music. Spectators covered every available inch of sidewalk. For eight miles I relished the encouragement. I smiled, waved, and high-fived my way along that glorious distance. After mile eight I hated every last person lining the streets and the chairs they were relaxing in as they shouted at me to "go girl" and "keep running."

"YOU keep running," sneered the petulant toddler who had suddenly taken up residence inside my head.

With no choice but to keep moving, I slogged my way down streets softening in the blazing heat that was so unseasonable for Pittsburgh in May.

Four miles to go.

My running shorts, so perfectly arranged during the first half of the race, had started to bunch up between my legs, causing an excruciating heat rash that no amount of Vaseline from the medical tent would fix. My beloved running hat felt like a sponge that had reached its capacity. The faithful running shoes that had carried me though endless training miles were giving me a blister on my toe. The cups at the water stations were filled with boiling hot liquid from hours in the sun.

My internal dialogue was an endless string of jerky thoughts.

I really hate this song. I definitely have heat stroke. Why would this band play such a stupid song? I hate running. I think I have a cramp. And shin splints. And probably a stress fracture. I. Hate. Running.

Three miles to go.

I very nearly laid right down on the street and forgot about the rest of the race, but I figured that if I did I would probably just end up trampled by the rest of the runners and with a third degree burn from the heat radiating up from the pavement. Not exactly an improvement to my current situation.

Two miles to go. Might as well be two hundred.

Other runners were passing me by the dozens, and I was moving so slowly it was a wonder I was making any forward progress at all. I was mentally cursing myself, and ruing the day I pressed "submit" on the registration form for this god-forsaken race.

Never again. No way in hell.

I saw the woman as I made the turn onto the bridge that signaled the start of the final mile. She was sitting in a lounge chair right on the corner. Her white hair was ablaze in the sunlight; rivulets of sweat trickled down the maze of wrinkles lining her face. Her gnarled hands gripped the arms of her chair, and her bottomless blue eyes looked straight into mine.

"I'm proud of you, you're almost there."

A wave of affection swept through me for this elderly stranger who sat all morning in the sun, cheering so fervently for runners she didn't even know, and I stood up a little straighter. I could do this. I could finish.

Gritting my teeth, I started to fly. Over the bridge. Up the final hill to the top, where I could see the finish in the distance. The crowds were roaring, and my brain played the woman's words over and over, pushing me down the final stretch.

Finished.

I don't know who she was, and I don't know her story, which seems strange considering how big a role she played in mine. I hope I see her next year at the start of the final mile, but if I don't, I'll certainly hear her words in my head as I make the final turn towards home.

I'm proud of you, you're almost there.
 

 

Joining some amazing writers who blog and bloggers who write over at Yeah Write.

Unwavering Hope

"If farmers and blacksmiths could win independence from an empire...if immigrants could leave behind everything they knew for a better life on our shores...if women could be dragged to jail for seeking the vote...if a generation could defeat a depression, and define greatness for all time...if a young preacher could lift us to the mountaintop with his righteous dream...and if proud Americans can be who they are and boldly stand at the altar with who they love...then surely, surely we can give everyone in this country a fair chance at that great American dream. Because in the end, more than anything else, that is the story of this country - the story of unwavering hope grounded in unyielding struggle."

                                       Michelle Obama

                                       2012 Democratic National Convention

Summer Nights

It started with a convertible ride into the night. 

We headed out on our Labor Day weekend getaway with the top down, the starry sky soaring above, and a best of the 90s playlist on the iPad. For two hours our hair blew in the sultry evening breeze, as we chatted about everything and nothing, and laughed as we relived the soundtrack of our high school days. 

As we flew down the open road, it occurred to me that I would remember this night forever. Being young, wild, free, and together. Reveling in the journey, giving little thought to the destination.

It was the kind of perfect summer night that country songs are made of.

And for those few hours, as summer drew to a close, it was our night. 

Our endless summer.