25 December 2007

Crowning Glory

Only one subject could pull me out of hiding to write.....my hair. There is a cardinal rule when it comes to a woman and her hair: never make drastic alterations to one's hair in a time of great emotional stress. And I what did I do? I went out and got a massive haircut, the kind you should never get within close proximity to a break-up. But I ask you, what would you expect from a girl that doesn't follow protocol concerning pants-wearing in upscale salons?

I have had hair this short before, but it always cracks me up to see the response of the public at large concerning short hair on a woman. Some act like it's a personal affront, "Why did you cut your hair?" And then there is the classic look of horror: excuse me, could you please turn down the volume of your face?

Believe me, my haircut is an adjustment for me (and it's on my head). I admit that it's difficult to not have a curtain to hide behind.....the hair is, after all, a woman's ultimate accessory. Like many things in nature, however, hair grows. So in a few months time, my curls will be back where I started: large and in charge.

07 October 2007

Country Mouse, City Life

I got my hair done yesterday at one of those big city salons. Just the sort of place that one would envision in a cosmopolitan city. European techno music, all stylists in black...you know the sort of place. These salons are like a foreign country to me, complete with customs of their own. I am just enough of a country girl, that I haven't completely absorbed these customs. I am not used to the concept of a shampoo girl, or wearing a robe provided by the salon. My inner redneck didn't know how to handle removing one's clothes and donning a robe for a haircut...What for? All your clothes? The latter custom was the most troubling to me; and I'm pretty sure I came to the wrong conclusion in pondering how to handle this request.

As I was sitting under the hairdryer in my little robe, bare (pale) legs crossed.....I was feeling pretty hotsy-totsy. Thought I had this whole sa-lon thing figured out. Then I noticed I was the only client without pants. Mind you I was decent in my robe, but nonetheless I was pretty embarrassed. Might as well have put a spotlight on me and name tag reading: "Hi. My name is: Country Mouse." All the other girls had apparently figured out that you were only supposed to remove your top and wear the robe over you pants....not just your underwear, for cryin' out loud!

Well, hell. I paid a pretty penny for that darn haircut. If I want sit around in my skivvies while Lorenzo works his magic, so be it. At least my hair looks good.

P.S. I dedicate this blog to my Mom...who will laugh hysterically because this definitely sounds like something her daughter would do.

Generosity

I recently ran a 10k to benefit Western Washington Habitat for Humanity. It is always satisfying for me to complete a race, especially when I see the fruits of my labor as I run. The mid-point of the race goes through one of the Habitat neighborhoods, right when energy levels are sagging and muscles are hurting. I panted around a bend and up a hill where men and women in hard hats were working towards the completion of a family's dream. I felt a lump in my throat as I considered that unknown family and the little house that would be theirs.

Charitible organizations like Habitat, and their events, obviously draw a variety of generous spirits. My favorite such spirit was a cheerful little boy of about seven, complete with impish grin and arm in a cast. This one small boy, for the second year in a row, raised the most money for the Home Run Charity Run/Walk. Last year, he walked into the Habitat office with a jar full of a year's worth of birthday money, allowance, savings. He even went trick-or-treating, accepting donations instead of candy. This is what went into the jar that he handed over with a selflessness that could only come from a child. One that came up with this idea on his own, no prodding from parents or teachers.

I look forward to next year; more cheerful givers and participants (canine and human), finishing another race, and more warm houses for families in need.

16 September 2007

My 80's Childhood

Plastic charm bracelets, Free to Be You and Me on the record player, sliced turnips with sea salt for snack, taking turns reading pages of The Berenstein Bears with Dad, pink jellies worn with everything. The Lorax, Monkey, the leopard cub, Penguin and Theodore Bear guarding my bed: the furry brotherhood. Doing laps around the basement in my roller skates, Whitney Houston on the boombox.

Stealthily bumping down the stairs on my blanket sleeper-clad rear end, hoping to catch an extra Saturday-morning cartoon before Dad was on to me. Feeding the dog scraps of whatever we didn't want from our dinner plates, homemade muffins on Sunday mornings, pirouettes in the outfield at softball games. Opening Christmas presents in the living room, my favorite wooden doll ornaments, making sour cream Christmas cookies and singing along to John Denver and Alabama. "Dancing" with the turkey before we cooked it on Thanksgiving. My Christmas stocking hanging down to the floor because of the orange in the toe. Our matching Easter baskets, Trick-or-treating with Mom and Dad on Halloween, root beer floats in tall glasses with the long spoon.

Being herded down the back stairs into the kitchen so we wouldn't see our Christmas presents before breakfast, the bike with the blue S on the banana seat, spinning on the tire swing in the front yard on warm summer nights, catching fireflies in our hands before letting them go, being carried up to bed with blankie, head resting on Mommy's shoulder, reading Trixie Belden by pink flashlight (under the covers, in the bathroom or in the closet). Watching "Murder, She Wrote" Sunday nights as long as I got ready for bed on commercial breaks.

Side ponytails, bright orange Converse high-tops, running through the sprinkler out front, the sound of Duke's clicking toenails on the floor as he wagged his way across the kitchen floor. Apple crisp fresh out of the oven, pink icing on my birthday cake with ballet dancers on top. Stopping at Daisy Queen after dance recitals for butterscotch (or bubblegum)dipped ice cream cone. Learning to dive while GG held a broomstick over the diving board.

Putt-putt birthdays, sitting on the floor in front of the kitchen radiator on cold mornings and nights, dressing the cat (a boy) in doll clothes and attempting to put him in the doll cradle, Dad teaching my 5th grade class about weather, my first Cabbage Patch Doll with red yarn hair, Barbie and the Rockers, using my mother's garlic press to make Play-Doh "hair." Eating my bubblegum chapstick because it smelled good, my pink satin "princess" outfit I wore to second grade, my pewter teddy-bear necklace with the crystal in its tummy that I lost under the porch of a restaurant, PTA pizza parties at Skate-A-Round USA.

Horseback-riding lessons at The Berry Patch, milkshakes made with Strawberry Quick, Tang in my Tony the Tiger mug before bed, using my Winnie-the-Pooh plate until the picture warped off, milk out of my favorite Chipettes Burger King glass. One Morning in Maine read before 8pm bedtime. Jelly bracelets in twos and threes, my brother's metal Gremlin lunchbox, Valentine's treats at the breakfast table before school, Mr. Roger's Neighborhood after school, pink rubberbands on my braces, the navy-blue sundress with white sunflowers, purple corduroy Osh Kosh b'Gosh overalls, pink-and-silver Zips with pom-pom socks.

Ponytail holders that looked like gumballs, peel-off nailpolish in Tinkerbell Pink, The Smurfs, The Gummi Bears, The Snorks, microwaveable s'mores, my favorite t-shirt with satin pastel butterflies, terry cloth jogging shorts with a white ruffled blouse for my second grade picture, playing catch with Dad and Uncle Dave's old baseball glove, watching "Goonies" on the big screen, Barbie Magazine, Rainbow Brite comic books, Care Bears, Strawberry Shortcake, Mousercise the album, my "Annie" album that opened like a book, Oscar Meyer cheese hotdogs eaten cold for a snack.

Reading Rainbow, 3-2-1 Contact, The Bloodhound Gang, Neverending Story, Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Daffodils blooming in the backyard, Tubs and Crocket (our chickens, not Miami Vice heroes), Flintstones and Barbie coloring books, "Morning Has Broken," as played by GG (our grandmother) on our piano, food in "the sidepocket," Double-dutch and Miss Mary Mack on the playground. Hopscotch at recess, swinging from the monkey bars by my knees, Fry Guys and The Burgler, my pop bead necklace, Storybook dolls.

Smokey, Scooter, Fuzzy, Ferdinand, Duke (the best cats, and dog, ever). Watching "60 Minutes," the whole family sitting together on the red couch with flowers, a fire in the fireplace.

10 June 2007

Perfect

I had the pleasure of seeing Brandi Carlile last night at the Moore. I am sure I will not be the only one to write about this event or venue. But it was such an extraordinary show that I still want to put in my two cents. Brandi is local girl that is well-loved by her hometown, and her fans where in full force at this show. The Moore was a wonderful place to hear her, due to the layout and acoustics of the theatre. The acoustics are so good that she was able to sing without a microphone and be heard clear up to the rafters. It was absolute silence until she finished the last note of that song, then everyone rose up in their seats to express their appreciation. Brandi delivered an emotional performance, singing old favorites and covers with her own touch. The crowd was given a real treat when Brandi did a duet with her sister. When the song ended it was silent until one voice said, "wow." That adequately sums up the whole night. It was especially cool that we were able to share her 26th birthday with her last night, complete with a round of "Happy Birthday" by the audience .

Anyone who has seen Brandi Carlile live knows that she is true professional who fully conveys the love she has for her craft and her audience. I enjoyed being able to share her performance with so many others who were as enveloped by the music as I was. Now I would be happy to hear her anywhere, but The Moore was a nice venue for the occasion. I have seen shows from way up on the third level, as well as the lower level for Brandi's show. In both cases I could hear the music with no problem. But for enjoyment's sake, buy tickets early and get as close as you can (obviously). I admit that the third level is a little scary because the seats are so steeply oriented and so high up. But that said, I did see the Kings of Leon from up there and loved it anyway. Also, I recommend being on time to shows or after the opening act finishes. It is difficult enough to find seats when the lights are still on, much less when it is really dark. Not to mention that people coming in during any part of the show is distracting.

For upcoming shows, the theater's website is www.themoore.com. And for tour schedules, Brandi Carlile's site is www.brandicarlile.com. Separately, the Moore and Brandi are wonderful. Together made for an electrifying performance for all who were lucky enough to be there.

13 May 2007

Skinnyphobia

For as long as I can remember, I have been receiving comments about my weight: "Better be careful when you take a shower, you might go down the drain." Or "Heather's so skinny, when she turns sideways...she disappears." I have had people ask me outright how much I weigh, after giving me the once over. I remember being insulted in middle school with the old adage, "Heather is a carpenter's dream: she's flat and easy to screw." My personal favorite is been repeatedly asked if I am anorexic. Then there is also being asked why I need to work out, or how many times I work out in a week. Women also seem to feel free to ask me what my clothing size is: can you believe how tacky people are?

Most people would never walk up to an overweight person and make comments about their size or ask them their weight. So why do people feel entitled to do both to a person who is on the slender side? Many people may read this and wonder how I could possible complain about being skinny....Well, I don't. I realize that I am lucky to have not struggled with a weight problem. But I will complain about ignorant people who label me (and others) as having a debilitating disease or make equally inappropriate comments in front of others.

For those who seem to want this info: I eat three meals a day, I love food, I exercise to stay healthy(and who are we kidding: slender)...What? Do you think I stay this way by sitting on the couch and eating Krispy Kreme? Admittedly, I work pretty hard to maintain my size. I realize two things about this posting: 1) that I sound a little bratty, but 20-odd years of obnoxious comments makes me feel ok about that; 2) Some people honestly don't realize the effect their words have on others, so this is a nudge in the right direction.

22 April 2007

Instantly Single

Tomorrow morning will be the kind that everyone can identify with: the crappy-feeling, first after a break up kind of morning. It will be that much harder to pry myself out of bed, on a Monday, when NPR starts blasting at 5:58am. Nothing is particularly pretty at that hour, especially when I remember that it is the debut morning of my singlehood....super. Warning: possible sarcasm dripping from the rest of my commentary.

Normally I prefer to keep my personal life out of my blog. However, the method of this particular break-up was so noteworthy that I couldn't resist. I'm hoping that this story makes others who are in in my predicament feel better about being unexpectedly single. I preface further commentary with the following statement: no men were injured during the making of this blog.


I have been dumped in a variety of equally unfortunate circumstances. But I do have to say (in fairness to former boyfriends)that my exes were all kind enough to end things in person. Now I realize that certain factors of my latest relationship made doing the deed in person nearly impossible. Long distance relationships and break-ups are always a bad combination (long distance is bad enough). And I curse the creator of instant messaging in this case. To get the "we need to talk" line via real-time e-messaging is about as pleasant as getting a colonoscopy (not that I would know, of course). In our technologically-advanced world, surely he could have least picked up the phone, right? Like my brother said, "that is sooo 2007."

Not only did our romantic ties get severed online, but he was also careful to immediately update his Facebook profile from "in a relationship" to looking for: "whatever I can get." Nice. Very classy. And he seemed like such a nice guy...famous last words (often heard right before some bomb is dropped on the unsuspecting). To be honest, he actually is a nice guy, and I am truly sad things didn't last. But he does lack skills of the relationship-ending variety. I have a feeling he is not alone in this modern world we live in, where emotional short-cuts are made easy by technology.

I hope my sad (and fairly lame) tale helps someone cope with new found freedom, or at least provides a good laugh. In closing, I choose to leave my readers with a profound thought on this topic: take note eligible bachelors....I am now available (again).

14 April 2007

Night Music

All it takes for an incredible performance, is to have exceptional musicians. I could be in a hotel room crowded with people in folding chairs. Or I could be at showcase, people murmuring and shuffling in after the music has begun. Or it could be absolutely ideal, like it was last night: perfect lighting, intimate venue, and an audience of loyal fans. I have seen Girlyman in all of the above settings. Predictably, last night was the best. But it wasn't the external factors that made the show so ideal. I hold fast to my first statement. All I needed was to have Ty, Doris, and Nate up on the stage, smiling and singing in their perfectly intertwining harmonies.

The music was made even better by how radiantly happy the three of them looked as they played and sang. From time to time, they would look at one another and just beam. I have never seen people who so clearly love what they do. And all of them had effortless rapport with the people in the crowd. They joked and told stories as though we were gathered in their living room. It was a satisfying evening from the first notes, to the last waves as they left the stage after a double encore. They even took the time after the show to greet their fans, sign autographs, and hold babies. It doesn't hurt my impression of the evening that I got to speak to them, get an autograph from all, and a hug from Nate. As cheesy as it may sound, all fans of Girlyman will know what I mean when I say: Doris, Nate and Ty: you "Amaze Me" every time.

30 March 2007

The Romantics and Mythology

The sun was burning down upon me, making the top of my head feel like it was on fire. There was only a slight breeze from time to time, almost an insult in its infrequency. The slender trees did little to abate the scorch of the Greek sun.

I was standing a stone’s throw away from the legendary city of Akrotiri, on the island of Santorini. This city of ash served as my backdrop as I talked of Byron, Keats, and Shelley. My fellow students sat on a small gathering of boulders and listened as I compared Pygmalion to the Stepford Wives. My professor swatted at flies and nodded encouragingly when I faltered.

Where Athens had been dirty, the people suspicious, the streets chaotic and noisy: Santorini was lanquid, the locals beaming and welcoming us in. The white buildings with touches of blue cast a spell on all of us. Children played near the fountain in the town square, old women chattered on a nearby bench, a scruffy dog sat in the shade. By night, young people crowded the cafes and restaurants. They leaned in around tables in the sweet night air, and talked animatedly.
My most vivid memory is of a young man on a red scooter. It was twilight and I was walking with my group up a cobblestone street. He spoke barely a word of English, but smiled widely as he offered me a perfect red rose. He gestured at the flower saying haltingly, “Please…..for you. You are so beautiful.” Then he sped away, waving as he did.

Everything about my days in Santorini were magical: the black sand beaches, the people, the storybook views, the narrow alleys crowded with vendors. I will always remember the smell of the air, the view from the top deck as the ferry pulled away, white buildings getting smaller and smaller.

Go West, Girl!

It has taken 9 years, 3000 miles, 5 bags and a lot of nerve to get to Seattle. And I wouldn't take any of it back. This is only the second full day in my new city, and it already feels like home. This place has always felt that way to me. Seattle has been pulling me back since I spent the summer of 1999 here. It was the best summer of my life, exactly what an almost 21-year old would want. I worked in a neighborhood coffee shop and was best friends with everyone at work. I went to concerts, water parks, street festivals, a nude bike race (yep, it's the truth!) I was able to spend quality sibling time with my older brother, something I hadn't been able to do in quite some time. I lived in Seattle for three months that summer, a time that really changed my life.

I was here in the Pacific Northwest again over this past Thanksgiving. The pull to be in Seattle was stronger than it ever had been before. It didn't matter that I would have to quit my job, change coasts, break up with my boyfriend, and relinquish ownership of a condo. None of these things mattered, I had to be in my city. It seemed an impossible task, many people reminded me of this on a regular basis. It would be expensive, complicated, emotional...all these things I knew. But 4 months later, I am in my brother's house sitting in a chair, looking at a view of downtown Seattle out the window. I may not have a job or a place of my own, but I am home. Everything else will fall into place. I have made it this far, I will not stop until I have everything I came here for. And even then, I will not stop.

14 February 2007

Be Mine

This is not an anti-Valentine's Day message, as tempted as I am to write one. No, this missive is in honor of a time when the red-and-pink holiday was still exciting. Back when "Faith" was on every radio station, when my hair curled in a ponytail, and my feet were still in Zips.

Every February 14th, I remember finding a little treat at my place on the breakfast table, courtesy of Mom and Dad. I always dressed the part for this special day: a red jumper or pink tights, a length of red yarn in my hair. It all seemed so exciting when I was eight. I couldn't wait for the class party, the cupcakes, the chalky hearts with their dusty words. The best part was the little pocket made of construction paper that hung solemnly from the blackboard. If I was lucky, I would find a variety of colorful squares (or hearts) of glossy paper with my name on the outside. Beaming, I would clutch them to my chest, cherishing the cartoon messages. I couldn't help but count how many Valentines I got (especially noting how many were from boys!).

Valentine's Day was sweet then, a day of cupcakes, paper hearts and friends. At night, I would fall asleep smiling, with my favorite Valentine tucked underneath my pillow.....already looking forward to my next red-and-pink day.

10 February 2007

Cursed

As a preteen, I met one of my greatest foes: zits. I have been plagued by those pesky red bumps ever since. I have finally figured out how to manage my skin as an adult, but it has been a very long road. I have been on just about every cream, pill, skin system, etc. The road to good skin has been a long one, rife with crappy products and bad experiences.

When my skin had gotten particularly bad in middle school, my mom decided it was time to go to the dermatologist. My nice doctor put me on everything from tetracycline to various nasty-smelling creams I put on at bedtime. After little to no good results, he finally put me on the grandaddy of all zit-zappers: Accutane. I recall really having to push him to let me go on it....but all of the pleading, mandatory blood tests, and peeling skin was completely worth it. Within about a month, people started complementing me on how nice my skin looked. More importantly, I could look into a mirror and feel good about what I saw. I was on Accutane for 6 months, but the effects lasted for years. I would happily have gone through it all again had I felt that my skin needed that strong of a medicine again. thankfully, it has not gotten to the point.

But I remember how frustrating it was to have bad skin, how much it affected my self-esteem. In my work, I see what kind of treatments teenagers now are using to correct their skin. It is basically all of the same stuff I used. I notice that their skin still is not clear. It makes me wonder about the various pills and creams that dermatologists are putting these kids on. From my experience, I know that most of this stuff just does not work. It didn't work for me, and it is obviously not working for these kids I see on a regular basis. I have a friend who has been on tetracycline for a month and has seen no improvement whatsoever....boy, do I remember those days!

It appears that there is nothing new on the market to treat acne medically, which is shame. Have these doctors not noticed that alot of the medicines they prescribe are not working? Yet they keep sending these poor kids home with a prescription for a stinky, expensive cram that is basically a waste of money. ....or some other solution that "research" dictates could treat acne. I understand that there is no cure for acne (which sounds like a load of crap in this day and age). Which is exactly why researchers should get back into the lab and work harder to find a solution to a problem that billions of people have on a regular basis. Dermatologists are also at fault for continually handing out these medicines and not attempting to be more creative in skincare solutions. It is obvious that some of these doctors care very little about the result...I would even go so far as to call them quacks. Don't tell me that some of these women or men didn't suffer from bad skin as teenagers....don't tell me they didn't go through exactly what their patients are going through now. They could at least have a little sympathy and honesty when dealing with a young person's fragile self-esteem.

01 February 2007

Magic

13 women in a dark, hot, cramped room for 60 minutes. This is a description of one of my favorite places and times: spinning class. No, this does not refer to a group of people spinning in place for an hour....To the uninitiated, class members sit on stationary bikes, led by an instructor. The class is dominated by pounding music and shouted encouragements....or insults, depending on the individual in the lead bike. In my case,I was lucky. Laura was equal parts "you ladies are lookin' good" and "don't cheat yourself...I'm watching you!" Just when I got to point where I didn't have anything left, she'd look at me and sing along with music:"Clowns to the left, jokers to the right." It was just enough to give me the pick up I needed.

The perfect spinning class is equal parts motivation, camaraderie, instructor and music. I had all of the above for one hour, three times a week. For that hour, I could let go of everything while singing along with Aretha Franklin or Queen. No matter how much my body screamed in pain and protest, every sweat-drenched minute of that class was sweet. I have said it more than once: if I could package the feeling I had after spinning class, I'd be a very rich woman.

Unfortunately, I am no longer a part of that class due to a move. I have yet to attempt finding a replacement. Let me illustrate why this is such a task: at the end of every class Laura would always play a cool-down song, to help us come back to reality. On my last night with them, Laura looks at me perched on my bike and says: "this one is for you." Twelve pairs of hands clapped as Tina sang "Simply the Best." How else could such a moment be described, except as magic?

18 January 2007

Yellow Town

Far outside of Cancun, lies a tiny town that tourists have never heard of. It is a sleepy place with dusty streets, where the friendly locals nod as you walk by. There are no nightclubs, no cocktails with umbrellas, no beautiful people. But you can get a cool drink and plenty of hospitality.

I was 16 and wide-eyed. This was the first time I had been to a different country without my family in tow. I was in Mexico with my Spanish class, two chaperones, 7 other giggling girls, and Max: my best friend and the only boy on the trip.

We had spent the day exploring Chichen Itza and were on our way back to the hotel in Cancun. Our little group stopped for lunch, and a break from being trapped in a VW bus with no AC. We tumbled out of the bus into the hot, dusty streets. The sun shone on a village with buildings painted in an equally sunny hue. They all had white trim on their stuccoed facades, lined up like old friends.

Our first stop was a small, open air church with large shady trees bowing over its wide open doors. There was an immediate hush as we walked into its cool interior. There were a few heads bowed in prayer, a few faces upturned below the altar.

The thing that struck me the most about the church were its statues. I have never seen anything like them, before or since. They all had human hair and glass eyes that shone in the dim light. Everywhere I looked, there were life-sized statues in alcoves, hair sweeping across their faces in the breeze. Hands outstretched, eyes pleading to an unknown recipient. I felt goosebumps rise on my skin as I gazed into the face of Jesus. Hair softly blew across His face, while sorrowful eyes peered out from behind. I remember sunlight filtering through the open windows, flowers clustered around the feet of the beloved statues. There were candles flickering and dogs barking off in the distance.

The spell was broken when my Spanish teacher called to us. I reluctantly broke away, spilling back out into the sunny streets. Our next stop was a tiny cafe across the alley. The screen door banged behind us, fans whirring crookedly above our heads. The man behind the bar smiled as he set cold Fanta on the countertop. We sat in groups of 2 and 3, chatting and laughing. A small group of men watched bullfighting, the handsome matador teasing his old foe on the screen.

I recall my contentment as I surveyed my surroundings. I felt lucky to be there, in that tiny town with its yellow buildings.

15 January 2007

Mickey and Me, Part 2

Amid crowds of hopeful runners dressed in Mickey ears and Tinkerbell wings, Laura and I set out in the pre-dawn blackness. The air was thick with excitement from all the bodies jostling for position. Adrenaline was coursing through our veins, as we blindly entered our first emotional phase of the race: euphoria. This phase is exemplified by cockiness and the phrase, "hey, no problem!" We maintained this air of false confidence all the way through the 6th mile ("if we keep this pace up, we'll finish in 4-and-a-half hours!") and well into the 12th. The sun was shining, we both felt good,untouchable even. Little did we know that we were getting ready to hit our first wall....funny how it happend at mile 13.

Ironically, things started to fall apart after our first food station. This is when we arrived at the next phase of the race: doubt. The first phase was so blissfully long, that we were lured into a false sense of security. Which is why the next one hit hard enough to make our back teeth rattle. Doubt crept in typified by the words: "what if I can't do it?" It was scary to let thoughts like this creep into my mind. I began to worry incessantly: did I train enough? what if I can't finish? what if my knee doesn't stop hurting? will I have to cross the finish line on a stretcher?

Doubt morphed seamlessly into the phase of crankiness. : "This sucks," was muttered from every pore. Why does the sun have to be so darn hot? My shorts are chafing. Whose idea was this anyway? The litany of inner complaints was nonstop all the way to Mile 25....Is my blister getting bigger? What's that smell? Why is that b*@#% not sweating? But right around the time I crossed a bridge into little France, I allowed my last smile to come out. I remember thinking, "at least I made it to Paris." We continued a slow jog past a perfect miniature of the Eiffel Tower into the last leg of the race.

The last 1.2 miles passed in a haze of pain. Enter the worst emotional phase of the race: despair. "Will this never end?" My thighs screamed and I felt like I was wearing concrete socks. A thin layer of salt had formed on every visible centimeter of my skin. From time to time I would turn my head to look at Laura, just to make sure she was still there. That was not the first time during the race that I felt reassured by her presence, lucky to have her by my side. We passed an Italian villa, a Mayan village, a gospel choir, a growing crowd of spectators on our way to the home stretch.

The final phase of the race, both literally and emotionally, began at Mile 26. Elation grew as we rounded the last corner...."Am I dreaming?" There were trees blocking my view, but I could hear the crowd ahead, the sound growing as we drew closer. Then everything started happening at once. Laura and I saw the Finish line at the same time: "I think I'm going to cry," she said. I could barely answer her for the lump in my throat. Tears pricked my eyes, the people in the stands screamed as they came to their feet. My heart leapt, knowing that I would always remember these moments. I looked up at the giant clock marking my time as I moved in slow motion across the Finish line.

Triumph: the one word to describe how I felt at the end of the 26.2 miles. I was so proud of me, of us. I was thankful my body allowed me to accomplish my goal. I was amazed my mind stayed along for the whole ride. And I was grateful. Thank you, Laura, for never straying from my side. It was an honor to run my first marathon with you. 8426 and 15122 made the 2007 Disney World Marathon look good!

09 January 2007

Mickey and Me, Part 1

This past Sunday I visited three amusement parks, got a suntan and ran a marathon: all before lunch. Not to mention going through every possible emotion and getting a blister so big it earned its own nickname (Pinky and the Brain).

I felt as though I was running for days, even though it was only for 5 hours and 47 minutes (and 3 seconds). It seemed so long partially because the race began a couple hours before the sun rose. The wake-up call came promptly at 3 am. I remember my first thought being: "whose idea was this?" But it didn't take long for the adrenaline to start flowing. Tying on my pink bandana and strapping on my shoes felt like putting on battle armor. By the time I walked out the hotel door, I was ready.

I joined my running partner, Laura, at the staging area where we chatted nervously and sized up the competition. After a final visit to the all-important Port-o-Potty, all the runners made the solemn 10 minute march to the starting line. Hip-hop blared from speakers while Laura and I waited with 15, 998 of our closest friends for the 2007 Walt Disney World Marathon to begin. Some people stretched, some talked, and one was actually doing a little run (what?! isn't 26.2 miles enough?!)...silly girl.

All the runners were divided into 2 groups and 8 sub-groups so that not all would begin in a frenzied crush at the same time. After a short speech from Mickey, Minnie, Goofy and Donald; it was time. "Love you, girl." "Love you too," Laura and I moved forward expectantly as fireworks exploded above our heads.

04 January 2007

The Pilot and the Constellation

It was the last plane out from San Juan to St. John. I was the only passenger on the tiny, eight-seater plane. The pilot was a local who was going home for the night. When he realized that I was his only passenger, he quickly invited me to sit next to him at the very front of the plane.

As we climbed higher into the night sky, the pilot encouraged me to lean closer to the curved window at the front of the plane. He assured me that this was the best way to view the myriad of stars on display. The glow from the stars was brilliant, and became even more so the farther we got from the lights of San Juan. I had never been so close to twinkling stars, it felt as though I was among them.

As we made the short descent into St. John, I was briefly sad to see the constellations get smaller and smaller. But one first was replaced by another. I had never been the only passenger in a plane, and I had never had the pilot morph into personal taxi driver. It turned out that the pilot lived close to the marina that I was going to. He was concerned about a young girl getting a taxing alone at such a late hour.

After he filled out all the necessary flight paperwork, the pilot and I zipped away in his small car. Following a quick stop to pick up his girlfriend at work, the friendly couple deposited me at the marina entrance. The pilot tipped his hat out the window, waving merrily as he drove away. It was a memorable beginning to what would be a wonderful vacation at sea.

Mother Doing Good

Self Magazine has an award contest called Women Doing Good. It honors women who give their time and talents to charitable organizations. I k...