It's All Chemistry to Me

A couple months ago I wrote a blog post titled "Why It's Important to Cheat on Your Spouse." It was a tongue-in-cheek perspective on how to put the "spice" back in your marriage. I suggested remembering your spouse as the person they were when you first met. Seemed to make sense to me: after all, who doesn't remember that amazing spark you felt when you first met the person you were destined to share a roll of toilet paper with? I figured that a little mental "time travel" back to when you first met your DH or wifey could, perhaps & with a little luck, bring back that spark.

And so lo! As I was reading this morning's paper (yes, I am one of the few who still subscribes to a daily paper) and came across an article that completely solidifies my rather nebulous assertion that it's all about the spark. "Why I Get a Kick Out of You" (above-the-fold, Health Section, LA Times) details how scientists have found a cocaine-like reaction in the brain when love "works its magic." So that heart-pounding-head-thumping-hands-sweating-inability-to-think-clearly condition that overwhelms when you meet "the one" is actually on par with illegal drugs! (well, that explains alot...)

Study participants (whom had been in romantic relationships at least one month but no more than 17 months) were put into MRI machines to scan their brain while they were shown pictures of their romantic partner. In case after case, the part of their brain which houses the reward and motivation systems was flooded with dopamine--with the attendant side effects of excessive energy, losing sleep, euphoric feelings and separation anxiety.

All of this was sort of "no duh" to me. After all, most of us have experience that obsessive passion that comes with the beginning of a new relationship. But what struck me about the scientific study, however, was that when they studied the brains of people who had been married for 20 or more years, 30% of those in long-term relationships had similar output of dopamine.

So you can look at it in a couple of ways: 30% of people are just as passionate about each other as the day they met (or at least one of the partners is; the study didn't specify if both felt that way about each other), 70% of people have fallen somewhat "out of love" with their husband or wife, or their love has changed through the years from passionate to companionable.

Those 30% are really lucky. I wonder if they realize how lucky? I'm a romantic by nature, but after a decade+ of marriage, I wondered if it was possible for anyone to even remember what it was like to be "in love"--much less feel it every single day. When I read that it is still possible after years of marriage and its attendant ups-and-downs to be just as in love with the person as the day you said "I do," well, I decided I want me some of that!

So how do you take a so-so marriage out of the doldrums? Is there even a way to regain the passion? I wish the study had said whether or not those 30% who are still madly in love with their spouses had ever gone through a patch when the thought of being single again held particular appeal. Since it didn't, I'll have to go on my gut instinct that those people really just chose well--and figured out a way to work through conflicts without jeopardizing their relationship.

So back to taking the marriage out of the doldrums (I've always loved that word, no idea why). According to the article, the people who were still passionately in love were still dong those "little things" you hear so much about. Yeah, blah-blah-blah. We've all heard it. But it is surprisingly difficult to keep those "little things" going after you've been committed to someone for a while.

So here's your cheat sheet, as it were:

• Call or text during the day to say hi.
• Pick up a thoughtful gift "just because."
• Listen and be supportive.
• Use a kind voice when speaking to each other.
• Do things together--even taking a walk in the evening strengthens the bonds between couples.
• Take a class together, just for fun. The excitement you'll feel about learning something new may transfer to your spouse, helping you recapture what brought you together in the first place.
• Know and respect what your spouse values: their careers, their spiritual beliefs, their political leanings, their hobbies and interests.
• Be a friend to your spouse
• And sex! Sex! So important to a relationship--perhaps the most important thing. The hormones oxytocin and vasopressin are released during sex. And these two hormones are what causes humans to bond with each other.

Personally, I'd add another: spend time with couples you know who are in the 30%. Of all my friends, I can think of three right off the bat who have the sort of marriage I've always envied. So with luck, by spending more time with these friends, both my hubby and I will see how they interact with each other and perhaps learn a bit about how to keep the passion in a relationship, through years and kids and finances and illness and all the other things that turn red-hot chemistry into lukewarm mush.

So while I am putting my own advice to work ( i.e.: remembering what it was like with my husband when we first met) I'm going to also put into practice some of the suggestions from this morning's article. Like most couples I know, my husband and I are committed for the long haul--but wouldn't it be nicer if that long haul was filled with passion, excitement and joy, rather than just that shared roll of toilet paper?

What I Signed Up For

This is not what I signed up for.

Whenever a particularly onerous duty falls my way in the course of my day-to-day activities as a mom/wife/general all-around household troubleshooter, this thought sneaks its way into my brain. No matter the roadblocks I’ve put up—this is what a mom does or this isn’t as gross as it could be, at least—the thought creeps in.

Yesterday the thought became un un-ending mantra as I carefully (and while holding my gorge) extracted a—and this is where it gets truly gross and I apologize—large and painful poop from my dog’s rear end (using about 6 layers of paper towels of course!!). The poor dog—incredibly constipated. (My fault, I’m sure—I let her eat several left over pieces of filet the night before from the girls’ unfinished dinner plates.) After a day of straining to get “her business” over with, she just made it worse. So when she finally did go, it didn’t all come out and—well, you get the picture. The poor thing was whimpering in pain. So my brave daughter Nati (whose express goal is to be a veterinarian when she grows up) held up Daisy’s tail while I did what I had to do. Eeewwwww. The dog felt better instantly, and quickly returned to her normal, happy self. And while I washed my hands in ultra-hot water at the sink, sudsing up to my elbows, that thought circle around in my head.

This is not what I signed up for.

It occurred later this evening when said-same lovely girl Nati “accidentally” twisted the handle off the bathroom faucet and water started shooting up (she was trying, she explained later, to see what would happen if she took the handle off—and I still don’t really know how she managed that—it takes a lot of strength. She’s 7!) Anyway, amid heaps of towels and hysteria (Nati is terrified of floods—my fault; I let her watch “Deep Impact” when she was four, and she’s never looked at water the same way), I managed to screw the handle back in, all the while trying to calm my screaming, sobbing child and reassure her that there would be no flood. The rushing water stopped—stopping the tears took longer.

This is not what I signed up for.

But fortunately, those moments are far and few between. But when they do occur, it confirms a simple truth: being human, we're all susceptible to the idea that somehow, some way, life hasn't turned out the way we'd thought it would (or thought we deserved). I for one (and I doubt many of the people I know) would have imagined when they decided to "take the plunge" that part of that new role might include frantically yanking towels off their ranks to stem the upward rush of a spouting bathroom geyser.

It's a simple truth that we all give tacit acknowledgment to, yet seldom seem to think applies to ourselves: life is hard. For some it's hard in tragically life-altering ways--a loved one's sudden death, the loss of what was thought to be a secure job, the breakup of a marriage, the devastation of one's entire life savings in a Ponzi scheme (ala Bernie Madoff)--and for others, it's hard in little ways that build up, up and up until the cumulative effect makes each day less bearable than the one before: a spouse that, day after day, year after year, works 14 hours days, comes home, works some more, and shares no conversation with you more in-depth than "Did you get the mail?"; a car that breaks down again and again and again; a thoughtless neighbor who lets their dog poop on your lawn despite your requests that they stop it or has one loud, ear-thumping, end-at-3am party after another, knowing you have a baby in the house; a relative who has made it his or her personal mission to dominate every holiday with their own bitterness and frustration. Life is hard because of both huge things and little things.

But's its all just life--that's my point. And all of us being human, it's easy to fall into the "this is not what I signed up for" trap. Don't get me wrong; I'm no Polly Anna eager to tell you to put a smile on your face and just muddle through it. And I'm not particularity religious, either--I'm the last one who will tell you "It's all part of God's plan. We can't see it now, but someday we will." (Having heard this trite phrase from several well-meaning but clueless people at my dad's funeral, I can tell you from personal experience that those words are not comforting. Sorry.) But I will say that if we understand--as friends, spouses, neighbors, colleagues and people who share the same block/city/country/world--that we're not the only one out there having a rough day, I think we will all better for it.

So what did I sign up for then? In life? In marriage? In parenthood? I signed up for the good stuff: the successes, both large and small, that give me enough energy to move to the next level--be it planning a fundraiser that brought in gobs of cash or making a recipe that actually tasted like it was supposed to; the small moments, like the way Daisy leaps with excitement each and every time she sees me even after the briefest of absences; the warm, sleepy goodnight kisses from my girls just before they drift into dreamland. The friends I love, the people I admire, the places I've been fortunate enough to see in my life.

So yeah, yesterday, I spent my fair share of thought-energy thinking This isn't what I signed up for. But then, when I really gave my day the thought it deserved, I realized that it actually was what I signed up for-- I signed up for taking myself out of the "center" of it, and putting someone else there. That's why even though "helping" Daisy last night made my stomach do the long, lazy flip-flop that tell me I'm about to puke, I didn't hesitate to do it because I knew she needed me. Or stanching the bathroom flood (both of water and Nati's tears). I signed up for letting the guy in the car in front of me ease in, and for holding open the door for the harried mother with three little ones and only two hands. I signed up for listening when an ear is needed, for advising when an opinion is sought, and for holding when love is the only thing that will make it "all better." I signed up for doing my part to make the world (my small piece of it, anyway) a little better than I found it--a work in progress, always.

Disney Half--Back on the Road to Runnin'

Note: This post was written immediately after the Disney Half Marathon on September 6th, but I neglected to post it in a timely manner. I thought I'd re-visit it and write it a little better, but life got in the way. So here it is, unedited and probably a little rough. xoxox

Yesterday, September 6th, was the (drumroll please!!) Disneyland 1/2 Marathon. I've been building up to it--although, interestingly, not actually training for it--for the last four months, ever since I reached deep into my wallet and pulled out my Mastercard to pay the (gasp!) $120 registration fee.

It would be my first race (loosely referred to as "race" since there is no way in God's green Earth I was even within wishing distance of placing a top spot--or even a spot in the top 100) since last September, when I ran the Disney Half Marathon. That little excursion re-injured the disks in my back that I had originally thrown out of whack in May (2008) and sent me directly into physical therapy. After a few months of exercises that looked like a piece of cake when done by my PT but were actually muscle-straining agony when performed by me, my back was as good as it was gonna be. That being said, it was still achy enough to wake me up a night once in a while and touching my toes was a thing of my past.

So naturally, I was afraid to try to run again. I'd gotten the original injury over-training for the 2008 San Diego Marathon (I just had to get under 4 hours--ha ha on me, since instead of doing it I was laying prostrate on my couch eating Vicodin by the double handfuls and calling my husband to help me to the bathroom whenever I had to pee). I was pretty sure I'd hung up my Avias for good. But after a while, whenever I'd sit at my desk, I'd look at the various race medals hung up on the wall next to me, and think, "Wow, I'd really like to do at least one more..."

So before I had time to think better of it, I signed up for the 2009 Disney Half. I'd already done it two prior years (2007 & 2008) and had tons of fun (despite the soul-searing heat of the 2007 race--90 degrees at the 6:00 am start). And once it sank in that I'd actually committed to do it, I started to worry.

Oddly, though, I didn't train much. The farthest I ran prior to the Disney Half this year was 6 miles--6 miles!! And I was planning to run 13.1?? What was I thinking??? Many of my friends hinted that I was a little crazy. My husband went so far as to call me certifiable. And to be honest, there were a couple weeks where I agreed with them. I was in no shape to run a half. I'd just eat the $120 and not do it--after all, I had the perfect excuse (my baaaaccckkkk...).

But then, my 10-year-old daughter's Girl Scout Troop Leader told me with a big, happy smile that the whole Troop had signed up to attend the Disney Half to hand out waters and cheer on the runners--all because of me! Well, obviously there was no getting out of it now. In the weeks before the event, I ran 3 - 4 days a week, 3 or 4 miles a day. Short runs, but endurance builders. Up a long hill, then a mile and a half at a slight but continual incline. My back protested, but not overly so. I'd worked so much on my core during PT that my stomach muscles were stronger than they'd been since I was in my 20s (of course, they're hidden by a layer of fat that was non-existence when I was younger, but if you push real hard, you can feel the six pack hidden under there). The core muscles support your back and take off much of the pressure. So note: if you have a back injury, strengthen your core.

But I was nervous. When my dear friend Janelle and I went to the Expo the Friday before the race to pick up our numbers, shirts and goodie bags, the chrysalis in my stomach released not one but several large-winged butterflies, and they were not happy. But that's not to say that I didn't feel the familiar pre-race rush. I love race expos--if you're a runner, and you've been, you know what I'm talking about. The charged up atmosphere of all those about to test both their physical and mental endurance...well, it's contagious. Anyway, mixed in with the adrenalin were those alarmed butterflies. I just didn't know if I would be capable...I comforted myself with the thought that there were several medic stations along the course, along with the thought that if I did collapse, somebody would stop and help me...right? Right?

The morning of the race was cloudy and cool--maybe a few degrees over what I consider ideal race temp (I like it around 58-60 degrees--the bod heats up quick). There was a cloud cover. At 6:02am, corral B got the gun, and we were off.

I'd made sure to tell everyone that my goal was just to finish, that I wasn't in it for a time, but secretly I had to finish it at 2:30 or less. I'd even picked up a timer bracelet at the Expo the day before. Not only had I picked up the 2:30 bracelet, but I also picked up a 2:15 bracelet. (A timing bracelet is a little paper bracelet that goes on your wrist. It has every mile listed and where you should be, time-wise, when you hit that mile. For example, if you are trying for a time of 2:15, you need to be at the first mile by 8:50 or something like that). Anyway, my fastest Half Marathon had been the Huntington Beach Half 2008 at 2:05:18. My "least best" was the 2:18 I'd done at the aforementioned incredibly hot 2007 Disney Half. In that race, had it not been for my BF Jackie, I would have succumbed to heat prostration and general discouragement.

So anyway, in spite of my protestations that I didn't care what time I'd get, I really, really, really wanted to get somewhere between 2:15 and 2:20. I even strategically placed myself next to the 2:15 pace group.

And guess what? Right up until mile 6 (when I got stuck in a 3-mile long line at the port-o-potty) I kept on pace with the 2:15 group. I was astonished...

And my final finishing time? According to the official race time on my chip, it was 2:19:21. I'd done it. A little part of me grumbled that if I hadn't had to pee so gosh darn bad, I would have come in 3 minutes sooner, but really, if I had skipped the potty, I would've been runnin' in wet shorts, if you get my meaning.

And I had alot of things going for me, don't forget. The weather cooperated--I didn't get sun until mile 10, and then it was on my back, rather than in my face like the poor souls who had the misfortune to be stuck in corral G (start time: 6:26 am). I had my tunes--just downloaded "Kings of Leon" and the "Best of 311" to keep my feet moving when my mind wanted to stop. Plus, most importantly, I had those girl scouts--along with their 10 x 6 banner that said "We Love You Kim!" How can you not run well when you have a huge banner dedicated just to you, accompanied by 8 smiling (if tired) faces?

So the 2009 Disney Half Marathon is now a memory that I am so, so glad I have. And now I have something else to look forward to...in the world of running, that is. I've already signed up for my next Half--the Carlsbad Half Marathon in January 2010. This time, I promise, I will train!! (maybe I can get back up in the 2:00 - 2:15 range--hey, you never know!--wink wink)

And as long as those girl scouts are there to cheer me on, I have no doubt that I will!

The Downside of Looking at the Upside...

One of the tritest phrases in the English language is “look for the silver lining.” As in “yes, the stock market wiped out our retirement savings, but the silver lining is that I still have my health so I can work until I’m 80.” Or, “True, my husband cheated on me, but the silver lining is that at least he didn’t cheat on my with someone like that woman from ‘Fatal Attraction.’” Or, a personal favorite that I actually heard with my own ears: “I know he stole the client from me and stabbed me in the back, but the silver lining is at least I’m assisting him on the account.” True story, from my days contracting at PR firms in San Diego. The girl who said it was a wide-eyed, sweet-souled junior account exec who by now has either saved her sanity (and that sweet soul) and abandoned the PR field altogether, or has in the intervening years shaken off the mantle of optimism and replaced it with clear-eyed, hard-edged realism (in other words, she has since thrown offending client-snatcher under the bus.)

Until very recently, I have been the master of looking for the silver lining. Always. In every single situation. When the walls crumbled around me, I’ve been the one to say, “Well, hey, yeah, I know life is caving in on us, but working together to rebuild it will bring us closer.” I’ve been that benighted-eyed optimist who refuses to let “stuff” get me down. The Annie of attitude. Perhaps even annoyingly so (one of my dearest friends, who loves me and knows me best, has said that on more than one occasion).

But over time. I’ve started to alter my perspective a bit. It’s been more than the economic meltdown (which to be fair, with the stock market nearing the 10,000 mark again, may be on the beginning of a recovery—of course, we’d sold much of our piddling remaining stock we had prior to the upswing, natch), or even my wild overindulgence in volunteering, which left me feeling slightly dizzy and almost hung-over with do-gooder-ness. It’s more been the dawning realization that my tendency to always look at the bright side of life was in part a way for me to hide my true feelings about a particular situation. I’ve realized that looking at the silver lining isn’t always the right thing to do. Sometimes seeing and acknowledging that a situation has gone awry is what you need to do.

By immediately jumping on the “let’s think positive” I’ve been denying myself the opportunity to feel the disappointment or frustration that was inside. I felt bad about being angry. As if anger was a nasty boil that needed to be lanced, less someone see me angry and –gasp!!—think bad of me.

I’m not advocating embracing anger and beating everyone over the head with it. That’s no way to solve any problem. That just alienates people and makes you look a little off-balance. But what I am saying is that it is okay to feel anger, or frustration, or disappointment, and not force yourself to gloss over your feelings, as if those emotions had no validity. Those emotions can give you clarity, whereas denying them will only give you ulcers.

I know of what I speak. The last month has been a trying one. In fact, the whole year has been—I can’t remember ever hoping so fervently that the year would just hurry up and end, as if by changing the calendar from 2009 to 2010 will magically change circumstances. I’ve told myself hundreds of times over the last months, “Look on the bright side!” and “Everything’ll work out.” And that ol’ chestnut, “Everything happens for a reason.” And of course the ever-wise “It’s all good.”

So if that was so “all good”, why did I end up one day collapsing on the kitchen floor, hugging my dog and crying hysterically, all because I broke a casserole dish? Obviously, my “out-of-the-blue” crying attack was more than the dish that had slipped from my hand. It was then I realized that faking it might fool some people—but not the people who knew me well. And I especially couldn’t fool myself, at least not for long. My poor dog. She’d probably thought I’d lost my mind.

I’m still the generally positive person I’ve always been, but I have been allowing myself to feel the emotions—disappointment, frustration—I’ve been holding at bay for so long. At least a little. I’ve found that these emotions have galvanized me to take the initiative to get myself into a better situation, rather than wait, look for the silver lining, and hope everything will get better. So I guess…I’m being positive about being …negative? Not really. But at least, at last, I’m being realistic.

An Obvious Lesson it Took Way to Long for Me to Get

Yesterday, I clicked the "follow" button for Tony Robbins on Twitter.

Tony Robbins, you say? Tony Robbins, the toothy, tall-haired self-help guru of the '90s? He of the ubiquitous life seminars, personal growth tapes and Personal Power workbooks? Yup. Him.

Years ago, his face, with its long-tooth, almost predatory smile, was inescapable--it peered out at passersby from bookshelves, billboards, and late night infomercials. Tony Robbins was part of the background landscape of my life, like the Mazda Miatas that zoomed around on the freeways and the self-consciously sarcastic TV shows like "Roseanne" that were so popular at the time. Back then, I always smirked at him. I was in my 20s in the 90s, Tony Robbin's heyday, and was pretty certain I already knew everything. I figured anyone who'd buy into the change-your-life schtick he was selling was a loser and I had no use for them anyway.

Now that I actually have some real life experience under my belt, I'm a gentler judge of character than I was back when I thought everything--relationships, career, the world--was all about me. I realize now that many people do find themselves stuck at various points in their lives. Learning techniques to move forward is far better than wallowing in inertia. Some people take community college courses. Others go to therapy. Still others find a guru, ala Tony Robbins (actually, I believe he goes by Anthony Robbins these days). And people like me, try to muddle through it on their own.

For about a year I've been muddling. The girls are older and don't need me as much, my frantic days of volunteering are mostly behind me (I have taken a sacred, cannot-under-pain-of-death-be-broken vow to never be the committee head of a silent auction/dinner dance again), and I can only have so many lunches with friends before feeling useless (not to mention bloated). I do have things going on--I'm co-authoring a cookbook, plus working on a spec article for Runner's World about youth running clubs--but I've still felt that I haven't moved forward with my life for a very long time.

I suspect, from the casual and sometimes intense conversations I've had with friends, that many people are in a similar situation. At least, I'm reassured, I'm not alone.

So what to do? That is the questions I've been wrestling with for the better part of a year. How to move forward. Then, last night, in a rare conversation with my husband (the man is so busy at work he rarely has time to eat dinner, let alone engage in long conversations with the likes of me) the answer--at least, what I think may be the answer--revealed itself.

Acknowledge your strengths, and build upon them. Let everything else go.

Seems obvious, I know. But let's delve into it a little deeper. I'll be the subject. My greatest strengths are writing and interacting (on both a social and professional level) with people. I'm also pretty good at art, public relations, and marketing. I make a fair pass at decorating and design, too. And therein lies the problem for me--and for most people in my situation, I suspect. I'm pretty good at alot of things--but don't really excel at any. The reason I don't excel in one particular area is because I haven't focused on developing any one talent. I've been all over the board--I've taken art classes, writing classes, I've made abortive attempts at re-starting the public relations consulting business I had when I was in my 20s, I started a less-than-successful mural painting business. And the result is that I haven't made any forward progress. I've been floundering around in a mess of my own creation.

And last night, Dave gently suggested I let it all go--and just pick one thing, one thing, to strengthen. And once I'd pick that one thing, I'd need to commit to it. So that's the decision I've made. And when I brainstormed by list of strengths, the top one was writing. And since I have already started (albeit a short way) down that path, I will (try to) let the other things fall to the wayside and put my effort into building my writing muscle. That's not to say I won't still paint the mural or two. But instead of scattering my efforts around in alot of places, I'm going to pull them in and focus on the main thing.

Sort of like Michael Jordan. I know--not exactly a right-on comparison, but it will do to underscore my point. Basketball legend. Tried baseball--not as good. Tried golf. Not his true thing either. So it was back to basketball, where arguably he should have stayed all along.

And as for Tony Robbins--ahem, Anthony Robbins--while you won't find me at any of his seminars any time soon, I have to admit that the daily affirmations that come across in his Twitter feed are pretty encouraging. And I guess when it comes down to it, when you're stuck in a rut, sometimes one of the most important tools to get yourself out of it is a belief in yourself--and a bit of encouragement from others.

A reunion from the didn't-go-to-that-school perspective

Wow! I can't believe it's been two weeks since I posted a blog. I just returned home from a week-long trip to Omaha. I brought my computer, intending to use the downtime to write a blog post or two and check my FaceBook (can't live without my FaceBook!) but alas, my power cord lay on my bed at home where I'd left it in my frantic pack-myself-pack-the-kids rush. So I only had an operable computer for a couple hours (that Mac promise--5 hour battery life--is a buncha bunk!). Long enough to moan on FaceBook how much I already missed my friends, check my fave online news sources and '*plink!* there went the battery. I was computer-less for five days. 

So why, oh why, were we in Omaha? My mid-western born & bred hubby had his 30th high school reunion last weekend. His parents are still there, same house he grew up in, so we decided to extend the reunion weekend into a rare summer Omaha trip. Typically we go in the winter for one holiday or another, and he usually makes it back in the fall for one Cornhusker college football game (you can take the boy out of Nebraska, but ya can't take the Cornhusker out of the boy...eeeooowwww, that kinda sounds icky...but I digress). There's actually plenty to do in Omaha. Great museum, beautiful public garden, fun down town "old market" area...and unlike sunny Cali, the state has barely been touched by the recession and there is construction around every corner. Omaha's worth a visit if you're every traveling cross country. But again! I digress! I am supposed to be writing about what it was like to go to his reunion from the don't-know-a-soul spouse perspective. 

So his reunion was essentially broken into two main outings--the casual Friday night mixer and the more formal reception at the local country club (yes, they do have country clubs there--in my naivete and smugness when I first ventured to Omaha 11 years ago, I assumed all they had was corn stalks). Let me preface by saying I really didn't want to go to either--I am a firm believer that there is absolutely no need for spouses to attend a reunion. I mean, really, how can you possibly flirt with your former high school love (and possibly the possessor of your virginity) when your wife or hubby is standing right at your side? Or how can the ol' gang reminiscence about the hilarious things that happened at band camp when every inside joke needs to be explained to the spouse with the "I can't believe you did that" expression on their face. And I had already gone to one reunion with Dave, his 20th, and spent the evening chatting with other neglected spouses while Dave chatted up his exceedingly pretty and slim (and newly divorced) former high school girlfriend at the bar. 

But eventually, he won me over by promising that no way, no how, was he gonna leave me. Even with his assurances, I didn't really make up my mind to go until the week before. My thought was I'd hang at his parents' house with our daughters, watch a movie, read, whatever, while he and the guys from the football team joked about the time they almost got arrested for a dine-and-dash escapade. But I did end up agreeing to go, mostly because it seemed so darn important to him. 

Ha! It was important until we got to the Friday night mixer. Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people at the restaurant/bar (his graduating class was 700--senior alone!!) and probably half that number was at the mixer, Dave seemed to forget I was there. Immediately he was swooped upon by a tall, blue-eyed former track teammate who was probably quite the hottie in his day and was still not bad to look at, despite a hairline that was rapidly making its escape to the back of his head. I stood there, the dutiful, smiling spouse, trying to join the conversation with what I hoped were witty sallies and well-placed questions. Then a few other guys joined them, and before I knew it, I was looking up at the broad back of someone who had unquestionably been a football player. 

At last Dave shouted over to me that he would get us a couple drinks at the bar, and went off with his friends. Approximately half an hour later, neither my drink or my husband were within my reach. I finally moseyed up to the bar and found the one vacant stood. I figured I could order my own darn drink. I chatted for a while with the bartender (and exceedingly good looking mid-western boy of about 22--a nice distraction) then decided to make the most of the situation. I spotted Dave in a far corner with his buddies, laughing uproariously, spilling their drinks, and clapping each other on the back. I decided not to join them, lest beer be split on the new dress I'd gotten for the occasion. I wandered around for a while, smiling pleasantly at people who couldn't figure out who the heck I was, sipping my wine, and casting about for others who, like me, were on their own. 

An hour later, a group of us (the Spouse Club, we called ourselves) had gathered at a back table; me, three other wives and two husbands, and had ourselves a grand old time. It was really fun, all things considered. Nebraskans (all those in this group with the exception of myself and one husband who was from Kansas City, were from Nebraska) are warm and genuinely nice people. Everyone seemed to take their abandonment with good cheer--with the exception of one woman who seemed to get more and more P.O.'d every time she glanced at her balding, somewhat portly husband across the room. He was talking animatedly to a dark-haired, middle-aged beauty who seemed overly interested (even to me) in whatever he was saying. At last that member of the Spouse Club was annoyed enough to go home, figuring her hubby could find a ride. Yikes...

See? That is why you don't bring spouses to reunions!

At 12:30, I was ready to go home, too, but Dave was still having the time of his life so I decided to call a cab and head back to the in-laws on my own. When I found him and said goodnight, he looked guilty and stricken at the same time. "I didn't realize it had gotten so late!" he said by way of excuse. 

On the way out--reason two you don't bring spouses to reunions--a pretty brunette who looked nowhere near old enough to have graduated in 1979, threw her arms around my husband and said, "I had such a crush on you in high school! I just loved you!" And when they finally pulled apart, I introduced myself with a big (if somewhat forced) smile on my face.

I'm not against a little flirting with a former flame--in fact, I think the ego boost is something we all need from time to time--but watching it happen was a little, ahem, uncomfortable. 

But apparently Dave was the hit of the night, because he told me in the car on the way home that two other women had confessed similar adolescent crushes on him. And to be fair, he still looks amazing. He's super fit, hasn't lost much--if any-- hair, and is virtually wrinkle-free (the turkey!). He was one of the best looking guys at there. So I can see why a couple of women felt compelled to tell him that they'd put his picture under their pillow when they were seventeen. 

The formal reunion was the next night, and upon bended knee Dave promised that we would stay shoulder-to-hip with me the whole time. Which he did--right up until another long-lost friend spirited him away to reminisce. After 20 or so minutes feeling rather like a horse's ass, someone else, not my hubby, brought me a glass of wine, told me I was a good sport, and went off to talk to someone else. Eventually I found two members of the Spouse Club from the night before (the crowd at the reunion was nearly as large as the one at the mixer) and talked with them while Dave and his friends caught up. 

But it was all to the good. When Dave rejoined me at dinner, and later for dancing, he was smiling as broadly as I'd ever seen. He really had a wonderful time. Promises were made all around to keep in touch, and several of his friends asked him if he was on FaceBook yet. So after six months of telling me I needed to get a life every time I checked my friends' status updates, he is opening his own FaceBook account--at the very least to see some of the pictures everyone took. 

And as for me, I doubt I will be attending his 40th with him. I stick by my conviction that reunions are for the ones invited, not the wife or husband they might feel compelled to bring along. That being said, if I hadn't gone, I would not have met the terrific spouses that shared that back table with me. I exchanged emails with a few, and perhaps we will become lifelong friends. So who knows? Maybe I will attend that 40th reunion with him after all--if only to reunite with the friends I made this weekend. 

Grow old gracefully? Nah....

Ahhhh, 40. I remember my mom turning 40. I was 18 at the time, and remember thinking that she looked pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. So when I turned 40 a few months ago, the memory of that smug evaluation of my mother hit me like a baseball bat--a baseball bat made of chagrin. Here I was, turning 40, and...looking pretty decent for somebody so, well, old. 

And of course, I'm obligated to say that 40 isn't "old." I'm compelled by self-preservation to drop such forced-perky lines as "40 is the new 30!" and "You're only as old as you feel." Well, I'll tell you--when I look at myself in the mirror when I wake up in the morning, I know 30 never looked like this...not even after a long night in Vegas. Yeah, 40 is the new 30 if 30 has bags under its eyes, boobs you can hide an Ipod under, and the beginning of neck waddles. Alright, maybe I'm not that bad in the morning...but you can hide an Ipod under my boob (I'm very entertaining at cocktail parties).

But the "old as you feel" line is pretty true--most of the time I really do feel like I did in my  20s. Sometimes it's a real shock when I look closely in the mirror. The mental image I have of myself is what I looked like at about 24 (sans the rock-hard, 7-day-a-week-at-the-gym-body, of course). I exercise 3 or 4 days a week, I make an effort to eat "right" (whatever that is, depending on which magazine you're reading), and I take my vitamins and my Move Free Advanced (glucosamine for the not-yet-feelin'-it-in-the-knees crowd). 

My mom, now 62, interestingly enough says the same thing--that she feels like she's 23. And then she looks in the mirror and says, "Who the hell is that??" And I have to laugh, rather rueflly I admit, because I know that someday I'll be saying the same thing. 

So! My dilemma--which really, shouldn't be a dilemma. I am thinking it's time for Botox. Yup. In fact, it may be past time. Yesterday at the beach my 10-year-old looked deeply in my eyes. I anticipated a compliment--you have pretty eyes, mommy! Something along those lines. So I smiled at her, waiting, and she said, very seriously, "Mom, you have alot of wrinkles around your eyes."

"Hey, it's sunny! I'm squinting!" I protested. 

"No," she replied, "They're always there."

Huh. 

The reason I've been hesitating is because I wonder if my motivation to "do the Botox" is merely vanity. Why can't I just grow old gracefully? Is there really anything wrong with wrinkles? If I start Botox, am I really eager to keep doing it, ad infinitum? Am I trying to look 20 again? Do I even want to be 20 again? And, the question that I've mused over most of all: what message will I give my two daughters if I do get Botox?

My husband, a corn-fed mid-westerner who looks a full decade younger than his 48 years, is neutral on the subject. (I suspect he'd rather I get a boob job--he's pretty tired of my hide-the-Ipod trick). My friends are terrific supporters--and too my surprise, when I bring up the subject many of them have told me they've taken the Botox plunge already. Who knew? I always thought they were just blessed (darn them!) with really great skin. 

So the conclusion I finally came to is...I'm gonna do it. And no, I don't want to look 20 again (an awful year anyway, between bad roommates, big breakups and crappy jobs). I just want to look as good as I possibly can for my age--40. After all, that's why I exercise regularly. That's why I avoid fast food and (usually) pass on dessert. And why the Estee Lauder anti-wrinkle line takes up the entire top shelf of my bathroom cabinet. 

That's not to say there isn't alot to be said for letting nature take its course--you should see my mom. She's a knock out in her 60s, and has never been near a needle. But she's told me that had a solution to her crows-feet been around when they first began to make an appearance on her face, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. In fact, she thinks I'm silly for even thinking about it at all. I just need to get my saggin' ass to the doctor!

Next dilemma so figure out...should I get a tattoo??

How to Feed Your Soul on $3 a Day or Less

In a parallel, just-like-ours-but-ever-so-different multi-verse (see the TV show "Fringe" for a definition if you're not a sci-fi geek like me), I am a professional artist. You've seen my paintings  in galleries from San Francisco to Laguna Beach and right on down the coast to La Jolla. You've read of me as the premier California artist. You may even be holding in your hand this instant the glittering invitation to the grand opening gala of my new gallery in downtown Laguna.

I've just given you a peek at my daydreams when my  life as an ordinary person wears me down a bit. Driving the kids to practice or folding laundry I often lapse into this fantasy. It's a fun fantasy, and one that some times makes my heart hurt a little because I might have made a pretty good artist (altho I am not arrogant enough to say I would ever have come close to the unparalleled success of my daydreams).

Truth is, I was blessed with some artistic talent from the time I was a small child. My mom saved some of my drawings from when I was around 3/4 years old, natch. I was astonished when I saw them--I had gobs of talent. But as I grew up I never thought much about it. I used it alot--one of my favorite presents to give to childhood friends were drawings, which they always seemed to love. I made intricate hand-made cards for my parents. 

One of my mom's forever favorites of these was one I gave her and my dad for their anniversary when I was about 8. On the front it showed a couple holding hands as they gazed into each other's eyes, with a glorious sunset in the background. On the inside I'd written "Make Love Each Day." Naturally, being 8, I had no idea what sent my parents into gales of delighted laughter when they read the card. I remember distinctly my dad saying, "We do!" My mom still has that card!

But life happened and I never did anything with my talent until it hit me in my mid-30s that maybe I should have done the art route instead of PR. I did end up taking art classes, but I didn't have the time to devote to learning all the basics I so desperately needed to know (I have a screwy thing with proportions--all my people look like long-limbed mutants with overly large eyes). It ended up okay--I spent a couple years doing murals and painting furniture for friends & family & the occasional customer, and countless hours drawing coloring pages for my two daughters, who much preferred my drawing style to that of the Disney coloring books (gotta love my girls; always my biggest cheerleaders). It's all good. I would have made different choices had I known then what I know now, but who, when you really think about it, doesn't feel that way about something in their life? Which explains why "If I knew then what I know now..." is the most overused phrase in the entire world. 

Very luckily for me, one of my best friends did take the art route, and the world is a better place for it. Larissa Marantz (yup, she of the Obama inaugural painting--check out her blog at www.larissamarantz.blogspot.com) is an amazing artist whose work has been featured not only in books, shows, the OC Register (cover of the A & L section, natch) but also, you guessed it, Laguna Beach. In fact, if you are headed down to Laguna Beach, take a look at the light posts. The one right on Ocean & PCH (right near the big white lifeguard tower--or is it a lighthouse? All these year's I've been going there and I still haven't figured that out) you will see the huge banner she painted to celebrate the city of Laguna. She also happens to be an instructor at LCAD, so she has real ties to the community. 

So last night she and I and her hubby Keith went down to Laguna to see her huge banner on proud display. It was very exciting for me, because just such a thing has been part of my "me-as-famous-artist" fantasy since the very beginning. Seeing her success is thrilling for me, not just because I adore her and am glad for the good things in her life, but because she actually took that God-given talent and is sharing it with the rest of us. While my art is limited to the occasional mural, drawings for my kids, and doodles on the church bulletins during services (yes, I have earned many a scowl from my husband, a church Deacon, for covering the words to the hymns with drawings of women in evening gowns, but dude! Ya gotta admit, sermons can be pretty dull!) hers is out there for all of us to enjoy. And as her recognition grows, more and more people will have the same warm feeling in their chest as I do when I look at her work. 

So after taking several pics from a variety of angles of her banner, the three of us toured the many art galleries along PCH and in down town. Since it was the first Thursday of the month, it was Art Walk. Galleries are open until 9:00 and there's wine and cheese. And if you know me, you know art and free wine and cheese will get me every time (don't even ask what I'd do for a piece of dark chocolate!) 

With each gallery we went in, I felt the stress of the day literally falling away. Art does that for me. Looking at art fills a hole in my soul that I usually don't even know is there. Art feeds my soul. While I typically like images of people, a bold landscape will get me every time. With each painting, my soul filled a little more. (I overstuffed myself at the Louvre in Paris, tho--spent 10 hours there and at the end of the day I couldn't remember a thing I saw...)

One of the best parts was actually getting to talk to the artists themselves. Regular people who just happened to have an amazing talent. One of the best artists and friendliest people we met last night was Patrick Whelan, an amazing illustrator and fine artist whose ability to paint people (my fave subject) just blew me away. And finding out that each of these oil paintings took just a week to complete was astonishing. (I, on the other hand, have been working on a painting of a girl getting ready for a date since the last months of the Bush administration. And it's only 1/3 completed!) And Patrick even indulged my request for a picture--lucky me! 

On the far end of the spectrum from Patrick (art-wise, anyway; he was just as friendly & open) was a young guy who goes by the name "Boey." You ever have a drink out a Styrofoam cup, then doodle all over the cup after you're done? (say you're sitting in a really boring meeting and it's all you can do to keep yourself from going insane?) Well, Boey has created an entire mini-empire out of Styrofoam cups and Sharpie drawings. Seriously. He has drawn intricate pictures on ordinary cups, encased them in plastic--and viola! Art. Really, super cool. I took a pic of them but it didn't come out well...you'll have to check out his website to see for yourself. www.rectangletriangle.googlepages.com. 

There's soooo much more, but if you've made it to the bottom of the page I salute you. I do tend to run on a bit! Next month, Larissa and I are headed down to Art Walk again. And if you, too, feel like feeding your soul (you don't have to be an art lover--the gorgeous sunset over the glowing blue ocean will do it) you're welcome to meet us there. 

And as for the $3? Parking. Right, Keith? (wink, wink)

Makes Ya Wanna Run!

Today is the 2009 LA Marathon. 

When I opened my eyes this morning, I was instantly aware of two things: I was slightly hung-over from the four glasses of wine I'd had at a friend's welcome-to-summer party last night, and that my running shoes were lying in a small, dispirited heap next to my closet. I'd worn them to the track a couple days before--not for my own workout, but to watch my 9-year-old practice with her track team. My running shoes were a reproachful reminder to me that while I have a great deal of passion for track, marathons, and the sport of running in general, I haven't run a race since last September's Disney Half Marathon. It's been nearly 9 months. 

And the third thing to cross my mind as I slid out from beneath the covers of my warm bed into the chaos of the girls clamoring for pancakes outside my bedroom door ("Mommy, we're sooooo hungry!") was my friend Jackie. 

She's running the 2009 LA Marathon--and is likely still doing so right now, at 10:42 in the morning. Last year, we ran it together--we crossed the finish line with hands clasped at a solid if uninspired 4:52. The important thing was that we did it together.

I pictured Jackie now at the start line, bouncing on her heels to keep herself warm in the cool morning air, knowing she was feeling excitement and apprehension in equal measure. I selfishly hoped she missed me. I sent her good luck via mental express, and  went downstairs with the girls at my heels to make them breakfast.

It was only 6:37am (my children have absolutely no respect for Saturdays, holidays, or their mom's overindulgence in Cabernet) and I was feeling rather muddled. My husband, who'd just come in from a 6-mile run of his own (sick with a cold, hung over, going on 3 hours sleep--you name it--he never misses a run), asked me if I was going to watch the Marathon.  

Instantly I was awake and excited, the vestiges' of the half-hangover dissipating like smoke. He turned on the TV for me (why he has to turn it on is a long, frustrating and ultimately silly saga that has to do with my complete inability to work a universal remote) and found live coverage of the LA Marathon. The wheel chair racers were on their way and the elite runners had just begun their journey. The camera panned to the thousands of people waiting for the their turn to dash across the start line. I felt a moment of complete and utter envy that I was not there among them. In other circumstances, I know I would have been. 

I don't have a big dramatic back story to share of why I haven't run a race for so long. I injured my back last May (last May 25th, to be exact)  training for the 2008 San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon. I had the goal of breaking 4:15. It was to have been my fourth marathon, (2 LAs, one previous Rock n Roll). My previous PR was 4:21:26. 

To many competitive runners, that's not an especially impressive PR. But to me, it was an amazing accomplishment. I'd spent a lifetime avoiding running just on general principal--it was boring, too hard, it made my boobs bounce and hit me in the eyes (okay, maybe not that). But I'd never been interested in it. I wasn't a particularity athletic girl. I was on the High School Drill Team for a while, and then a cheerleader, but back in the 80s (yes, I'm old) song and cheer was vastly different than the competitive juggernaut it is today. It was more about smiling, being enthusiastic, and knowing the difference between a offense cheer and a defense cheer. And luckily we had the Head Cheerleaders to tell us which cheers to perform, because honestly, not being particularly knowledgeable about football or basketball (the two sports we cheered for) I would not have known the difference. 

So last year I decided I would best my amazing (in my eyes, anyway) achievement by hitting 4:15. If I could hit 4:15, I reckoned I would be a REAL runner, someone who had taken the leap from recreational runner to someone who really had what it took to be a winner (I know, I know). So I completed a 21 mile training run--ignoring the entire time the small but nagging twinge in my back. In fact, I pushed myself even harder that training run than I ever had before, leaving my running companions far behind me in a dash down Taft Ave. that left me feeling exhilarated and a bit smug. (yes, karma is on it's way...)

The next day, I went to a weight training class with a friend, figuring that weight training was an important component to running that I couldn't bypass. I remember hearing the crunch in my back when I lifted a weight--and the sharp, stabbing pain that went with it. I mentioned to my friend in an off-hand manner, hoping she didn't think I was using the aching throb in my back as an excuse not to lift weights. I gritted my teeth through the pain, mentally calling myself a woos/wus (?? spell?? I've never figured out how to spell that word). I was also beginning to feel the first stab of panic--I had never felt anything quite like this in my back, and I was worried. The San Diego Marathon was just 10 days away. 

But, to my lasting chagrin, I wasn't done being an idiot. After my friend dropped me off at home, I decided that the metal decorative bench in the back yard JUST HAD to be moved. No tomorrow. And certainly not by my husband, though he is vastly stronger than I. So knowing that it was a mistake and determined to do it anyway, I tried moving the bench. 

You know that sound a stalk of celery makes when you break it in half? Yup. That sound. That was the sound I heard as I fell to the ground in agony only experienced in childbirth. I lay there, feeling like a doll with a broken back. Until that moment, I'd never really gotten it when people complained of bad backs. I'd always held people like that slightly in doubt--after all, it couldn't be that bad. Now I knew. I really knew. 

Eventually I made my way back to the house and then to the couch, where I remained in various stages of agony for the next few days. I finally made it to the doctor, who clucked her tongue at me for abusing my body to such a degree. She ordered x-rays and sure enough, I had a slipped disc. Not bad (although with my level of pain I thought for sure she would have found my back full of slivers of broken glass) and definitely heal-able. She laughed in amusement when I asked her if I could still run the San Diego Rock 'n' Roll Marathon.

Thus started a regiment of physical therapy that really worked--or seemed to , until I jumped the gun on my healing and ran in the Disney Half Marathon last year. Two karmic punishments resulted from my completely ignoring my PT's advice not to run quite yet: my IPOD broke at mile two (I'd never run a race without my music and found the experience boring and grueling), and I ended the race back at square one with my physical therapy. Yup.

So I was much smarter this time. At the end of several months, my PT declared me as good as I was gonna get (lucky for me, my injury did not necessitate surgery) and said I could try training for a 1/2 marathon again, albeit slowly and with great care. She wasn't overjoyed with my determination to run another 1/2 marathon, urging me instead to try a few 10ks. 

But a funny thing happened when my therapy was finally over. Even given the green light to train, I just haven't done it. I've been going to the gym regularly (I've even lost a few pounds) but I hadn't been able to get up the gumption to train for a long run. The longest I've gone since March was 4 miles--the resulting back pain was mild but it was enough to freak me out. In a last ditch effort to inspire myself to "get back on the horse" as it were, I paid my $120 (yikes! gulp! Holy crap!) entry fee to run in the 2009 Disney Half Marathon.   But I did that last week and I have yet to run 10 feet, much less started the training I'll need if I'm going to actually get my $120 worth. 

But this morning, watching with ever growing excitement in my heart as Kenyan Wesley Korir dashed past Russian Tatyana Petrova at mile 23 to claim the winner title in a race-busting record of 2:08:23, I found the inspiration I needed. And I ran--from the kitchen where I was preparing pancakes to the family room where the TV was so I wouldn't miss any of the marathon. The girls'  pancakes were alternately overcooked and underdone. For the first time ever I found myself wishing we had a TV in the kitchen. 

  Picturing myself with Jackie running last year, I suddenly knew that I would run in a race again. The excitement, the thrill, the amazing feeling of accomplishment I got from running those past marathons and half marathons (a total of seven events since January 2007) was not something I was willing to let slide away. 

So shortly following watching the winners break the ribbons, the girls begged to play with the Wii. (we have only one TV--yes, I know, that makes us a strange exception to the three-TV standard of most families) so I let them (they'd eaten their burned-on-the-outside, gooey-on-the-inside pancakes without complaint and I figured the deserved a reward). I headed upstairs, where the unmade bed and lonely-looking pair of running shoes called to me. I put them on and snugged the laces.

I'm heading out for my run now--I'm going to take it slow--maybe the old 3.1 mile route I used to take when I only had a free 1/2 hour to run. And now it's 11:42 and Jackie should be coming up on mile 23, if my calculations are correct. I'll think about her as I'm running, try to shoot some mental energy her way. Because 23 is where the wall is, at least for me. And maybe, just maybe, as I'm finishing up my 3.1, she'll be running over the finish line herself, and in some small way, she and I will be finishing up our run  together after all.