Brrrrr...

my bedroom window this blustery, flurry-y (?) morning...

A night in Bizarreville

These two images may seem completely unrelated, and that's because they are. They do a decent job of describing my night, though-without boring you with the thousand words involved. Well...decent, but not good enough, sorry. Here goes.

Mom and I went to dinner and a movie tonight-I'm sure I speak for both of us when I say we felt very civilized and organized-coordinating our schedules to do the same things at the same time. Dinner was at our favorite Mongolian BBQ where we noticed straight away that there was very little socializing going on among the guests. It seemed so strange; it was a Saturday night at a popular dinner hour, and the restaraunt was full of families, but the only voices we heard were of children, young enough to be too busy entertaining themselves to be bothered with the business of eating. We were seated in the corner, and I was facing the rest of the patrons, stealthily people-watching as one of the small, thin, deeply accented waitresses brought a pitcher of water to fill our glasses. It was all-you-can-eat-crablegs night, and the eating was fierce-you might say competitive.

As I sat there contemplating the abundance around me I started thinking about what the others must be thinking. The patrons certainly weren't talking, so there must have been some brain activity going on behind the scenes. The parents of the morbidly obese children, from 5 to 17 (their ages were hard to gauge, they were so big); what did they think of their family's furtive attitude toward unhealthy food, and did they take any responsibility? The thin waitresses, speaking in their native tongue comfortably, giggling and watching the melee ensue; were they mocking us? I guess it just distilled my feelings-clarified them as the cooks had done to the butter that was dripping off of my fellow American's chins. It's not worth it. I've been big and I've been small, and I can tell you that the best cake (pizza, chocolate, burrito, etc) in the world isn't worth to me how it feels to be strong and willful and COMFORTABLE. It literally made me watch my choices and portions. I know I sound haughty-that's okay, it's my truth.

Then there was the movie. 'Notes on a Scandal' was creepy, shocking, insightful and somehow, not the least bit overdone. I have a newfound reverence for Dame Judi Dench. Her character was calculating, opportunistic, manipulative, evil, bizarre and yet vulnerable (can you hear the gravelly, private cackle?). I highly recommend it, even though it made my skin crawl. It was a good night that spotlighted (with a gazillion candle-power bulb) some of my feelings on moderation, health and boundaries.

Question:

Does everyone's childhood smell like old library books?

Race Day

This was a proud moment for me. August 20, 2006, at 17.9 or so of 18 frustrating and technically flawed miles, after a 450 yd. swim during which I couldn't breathe ( I was soon thereafter diagnosed with allergy-related asthma; I love St. Louis), and before a 5k (3.1 mi) run that was hillier, and therefore much harder, than the 5 miler in Central Park just two months prior. It was officially my 2nd triathlon, my first being a longer swim ( I could breath for that one), shorter bike and run that was noncompetitive and truly fun. Two of my biggest fans were there for both (I couldn't ask Dad to drive 7 hours to see me as I ran/rode by waving-but he was there in spirit), and were so proud and so patient when I was stressed and cranky for the "real" one, pictured above.

I felt so cool when I got to the check-in area at 6:30 that morning, got my race packet and start time, and got my number written down my right arm and leg in big, permanent black marker. If they had told me that tattooing the numbers was an option, I would've had to have a think. I tried to act the part, warming up and concentrating, all the while trying not to wobble as I walked, feeling the butterflies doing tumbling routines in my stomach. I just didn't want to come in dead last, or wipe out on the railroad tracks ( I wiped out, but not on the tracks-my chain came off going up the steepest of many hills about 4 miles in), or drown in what I knew would be an ugly, gasping, rhythmless swim. Above all, I wanted to finish. I knew I had trained for it, and trained well, so not finishing for any reason would be all that much harder, knowing that I could do it all on a normal training day. Race day is different, though-the energy is intoxicating. It's much easier to doubt yourself when everyone is so amped up on adrenaline and nervousness.

I did it obviously-my official time was 2:05:57 (my start time was 32 min after the first participant), and my times leave room for much improvement. Next year, breathing easily and strong on hills, I'll come in first place-ahead of me. And then, in keeping with tradition, bring on the pasta!

How many people can call themselves triathletes? I wear it proudly. Now get out from behind the computer and go train for something! As my old PE teacher used to say during our yearly timed-mile drill "your body is LOVING this!"

I highly recommend training for something you could never have imagined, and take a couple of great cheerleaders with you-thanks, again Mom, Bryan, et al!

We

So, it's been a couple of days since I started this little experiment. I guess I'm a blogger, now. So, my sweetie is a chopper pilot. I write that knowing he'll cringe as he reads it-but hey, at least I didn't say "driver." I've been supportive in a bumbling way since he started looking for money for training, and actually going after his dream as if he didn't have a care in the world. I know it was scary, but you wouldn't know it, looking at him. He's got the best game face of anyone I've ever known because he's got such a sweet face, he ends up looking innocent and curious, when in fact he's reading every person and every situation with the instincts of a mountain cat. Sounds dramatic and kind of silly-but really-he's so good at assessing people and situations for what they truly are.

So anyways, he's plugging away at his training with a tenacity I couldn't muster-he's had more obstacles and roadblocks than Navy Seal-and it's paying off. He looked through his log book and he's got over 100 hours, much of that as Pilot-in-command (sounds so cool) and is over halfway through the training that will get him a job as an instructor to build hours to become more employable. Did you catch that? He'll be an instructor BEFORE he even gets a decent-paying, stable job. That's how it goes with professional pilots, and it scares me to death that his instructors are still so new to this, AND the first thing he'll have to deal with is fresh students!! I trust him more than anyone, but it's the other guys that freak me right out.

He's doing all these crazy things in training to get him ready for crazy things in the real world I guess. One of his exercises (that I almost wish he hadn't shared with me) is my idea of a nightmare. He's learning to fly by instruments alone, which means that he wears a hood that blocks him from looking outside the cockpit (I hate that word). That's scary enough. Now his instructor is having him put his head between his knees while he (the instructor) gets the helicopter all off kilter and out of whack with his flightplan. Then Bryan pops up and using instruments only, gets the helicopter back on track, and keeps it from falling out of the sky. Within 5 seconds. It took you almost that long just to read "within 5 seconds".
I guess I haven't mentioned to many people, let alone here, that I'm a nervous flyer. My dad's a helo pilot too, and I was never scared to fly with him, and he's answered my questions about the physics of flying a gazillion times and Bryan has as well, but I still don't really get it, and I HATE turbulence. So to get all discombobulated and then have to save it, all while having your line of vision impaired?! I don't think so. I wouldn't even sign on, and if I was forced, I'd totally cheat and look out the windscreen. Forget about it.

But I've been supportive. I'm ignorant about FAA regulations, but I've helped him with studying them. I'm clueless about instruments and what they do and how (gyroscopes are cool, though-thanks, dad). VORs, vectors, RPMs, there's so much jargon that goes right over my head. I've never understood the desire to pilot an aircraft (a 22 just flew right past the window as I wrote that!) but, being exposed to the behind-the-scenes aspects of the industry my whole life has been cool, unique for sure, but I've only ever been kind of a casual-but-interested observer. Except for that month that I decided to be an F-14 fighter pilot, it made sense at the time-Top Gun was big, the whole thing seemed really enticing. Those of you that know me can probably picture me with my dad and his buddies, or with Bryan and his, quietly watching and smiling and nodding, the whole time wide-eyed and watching, pretty much lost but taking everything in.
So the other day Bryan and I had been talking about all the flyboys we've come into contact with, that inflate their own egos by talking about, living, breathing, dreaming about flying and everything that goes with it. You know the type-can't have a normal conversation for all the techy-talk. Every field has them, always pining for the new gear, the latest innovation, or obsessed with the old classics. What struck me was that all these guys seemed to love chewing gum. They'd stand there, cocky and self-conscious, hands-in-pockets or clicking a pen, or something to occupy themselves, talking shop and smacking away on gum. My dad and Bryan are exceptions to the poser, can't-talk-about-anything-else stereotype. They've both got the skills and the knowledge to be confident in themselves to the degree that they can be whole people, with other conversation topics on their minds. I've gotta say it though, I love you, Dad, but you were never more butch than when you were around your guard buddies, in your camo-green "zoom-bag" outfit, with a peice of Extra clicking between your jaws. It was just one clearly defined side of you and it was great.

So my supportive self, gabbing away with Bryan in one of our many existential, contemplative, hours-long conversations mentioned the "Gum Hypothesis." It had been one of those unclear memories, just an atmospheric, tertiary detail, really. One of those things that if you were to set up a scene from an event in your past that you would include without thinking: naturally the intimidating men talking about things I can't understand are chewing gum, I mean, what else would they be doing? Here's another example ( I warned you I'm random): one day I was recalling how my mom would deal with me wanting things in stores and being a brat if I couldn't have them. I just quoted her without knowing where the quote came from; I just blurted out "I can't hear you when you're whining."

So I told him that maybe that was the key to feeling like you're the shiznit and becoming the cocky flyboy--chewing gum, maybe any oral-fixation quencher could be substituted, like a toothpick. We had a good laugh, and I didn't think about it again until a couple of days later when Bryan brought it up again. He had mentioned the Gum Hypothesis to his instructor, an Italian Gent named Damiano. I don't think Damiano realized that I intended it as a joke, because he suggested they try it, and they did. Walked straight over to the shop, bought some Wrigley's and went for a flight.
Here's the kicker-Damiano told Bryan it worked-he thought Bryan flew better with gum. See, I am a good girlfriend.

'ello

I write this first post as I argue with myself about why in the world I would create a blog. No good reason, nothing exciting going on in my life, and no one to read it. It's the posterity of it, though, I suppose. The fact that if someone random found it, they could have a chuckle at the mundane aspects of my life, and if someone I care about sees it, they'll know what's going on in my random, question-addled brain in a sporadic fashion.

So what's going on in my life right now? A relatively decent amount, actually. Work at JC has been relatively profitable. The keyword being relatively. It's feast or famine, I've learned the hard way. Turnover is about 85%, as Bryan says, in his amazingly quick-witted way "those are Burger King numbers." So true. So my days there are numbered. I've done my homework on the Nutrition and Fitness career path and it's not for me.

I've tried entering a career field three ways:
1. Go to school 'cause you've got nothing better to do and you're supposed to go to college straight from HS. Drift around anonymously for a while, trying every field in the school's catalog until you have enough hours to have a degree but no cohesive field of study (African Art, Museum Studies, Biology, Anthropology, Statistics, etc, etc, etc).
2. Go back to school after a break from going to school and working full time. Make the decision to move to go to said school and actually move within a month of the decision. Apply and get accepted to a program that sounds great, has cool toys and fun people. Have a great time and make great friends while in school, knowing but not accepting until 6 credit hours from graduation that you have no skills or desire to make your education a career.
3. Think of something that fits your lifestyle completely, has enveloped your life without you realizing it for the preceding three years, and could actually be the basis for a career. Could, in actuality, be labeled a 'passion.' Try it on. Get a job in a related field, tour schools with programs that would get you to your destination career and sit with it for a while.

The latter is the one I would recommend by far, for obvious reasons. It took a lot of the other 2's worth of life experience to cool my jets and let me do the sensible thing, however. The sucky part: it didn't work.

The moral of the story that I've learned with my latest approach is that people don't want to lose weight and live healthier lifestyles; they just want to be thinner and have energy to do the things that the pretty people on TV do. Mind you, they wouldn't do them if they had the energy, they'd probably just spend more time at the mall buying the smaller clothes. I'm bitter and jaded, but I just want to pack up my health and my fitness and do something that will actually allow me to pay rent, eat regularly, even clothe myself.

So stay tuned, I may be on to a new, more viable idea. My spontaneous, adventurous side (see 2, above), has begun to itch again, and change of scenery may be inevitable. I'm listening to my world-wise, money-conscious side (read: Bryan) more now, realizing that falling on my face is a very real possibility if I move too quickly, think, or should I say acknowledge, too little.