The zone

When I began my marathon training journey I felt like I should do something good with all of the time I would be spending putting one foot in front of the other. Explore the depth of humanity. Develop an outline for the Great American Novel.

Then I remembered the meditation class I took once and realized I'd be better off getting out of my head and into the zone. The blissful zoned-out state, that is.

And I've gotten better at losing my firm grip on reality. Particularly after the sugar-high of slamming a goo gel. So what did I think about during my three-hour, 18-mile run with Husband last weekend (2:53 for the record) beyond when to take walk breaks, how many miles left, etc.?

1. Noticed that I had a new hot spot leaving a bloodstain on my shoe (adding to the carnage of last week's toe blister explosion 2007).
2. Noticed my new running top encouraged sweat to pool around my nipples, highlighting their existence. Sweet.

That's about it. That and what good is running 18 miles if you don't get to talk about it. Man that's a long time to be doing anything.

Softballs are actually quite hard...

Disclaimer: I wrote this a few weeks ago.

As I've become an adult, I've struggled with a small group of things I expected to like/be able to do, that I've found I've disliked/haven't been able to do very successfully.

For example, drive a manual transmission car.

And when I've encountered these few things, I've had a deep personal battle between:
1. Don't be a quitter! Suck it up!
2. It's OK to not like some things.

This issue came up again when [and here's where I reveal something I've been trying to hide, but I'm sure has been quite obvious] I invited a few female friends to join our XX-deprived softball team.

"I don't really get into team sports," one said.
"Yeah, and I'm afraid of the ball," the second chimed in.

And part of me caved in.

For I, too, was quite surprised to find myself [and here I cringe again] afraid of the ball while playing softball last year, after how many years of youth city league softball? But youth softball was women! Women who didn't want to chip their nails because it was prom season!

"And you, like, broke your nose," the first reminded us.

I know! And surely I should be well over that!

But last year I found myself, stomach in knots, thinking, "Don't hit it to me. Don't hit it to me," and dreading my up at bat.

I didn't admit these things because obviously they are quite a downer. And I don't want to be a downer! I want to be:
1. a team player
2. fun!

But I'm admitting it now, regrettably in a very poor setting, as this is my blog, not my softball team, but I plan to rectify this by admitting to my softball team that softball, well, makes me a little nervous, but I want to give it my all and have fun.

Addition after first game: Hurrah! Confessing my insecurities made me feel a lot better. I think part of problem was thinking that I had to hide it.

Pinching Koala and Tree

Even since the days of Seventeen and Cosmo you can't resist a good quiz.
Find out your secret couples sleep position and what it means.

Courtesy of Evany Thomas, author of The Secret Language of Sleep: A Couple's Guide to the Thirty-Nine Positions.

Welcome home

Saturday night, 12:48 a.m.

The ferry-taxi-plane-plane-taxi-car 12 hours of travel had addled our brains, and we'd begun to do things lose the car keys in the mottled pattern of the comforter on my parent's guest room bed. Our silver suitcase sat outside, forgotten in the joy of greeting the cats, were it would remain until morning, frosty in the Easter dawn.

We'd rescued our toothbrushes and paste, listened to 18 messages of hang-up calls, then pushed open our bedroom door to see this:


















Those crazy cats, I thought, as I swept past.

But I soon realized that this was not the work of cats.


















The culprits revealed themselves on a note clipped to a onesie on the bed, a note that also congratulated us on our pregnancy... a note so happy for us that it almost convinced us that we were pregnant.



















But the toilet paper, whispering around us like the seaweed and coral we'd just snorkeled through, was so beautiful. So we stood, agog, admiring the quality craftsmanship, feeling loved. Then we fell asleep under its magical canopy.


















Too wonderful to take down, it remains, drifting down a piece at a time like ribbons of snow.

Vacation Diaries, Days 3-7: St. John

The fourth annual H family vacation broke a long standing rule of not returning to the same place twice by spending a week again in St. John, USVI.

When we arrived I struggled (as much as one can, when one is lying on the beach sipping a BBC) with the desire to DO SOMETHING I'D NEVER DONE BEFORE, as I so firmly resolved, knowing that by doing so I risked doing something new for doing something new's sake.

Because there are plenty of old standbys that I love. Like hiking. Snorkeling. Kayaking.

Exhibit A: Snorkeling at Waterlemon Cay. (That's Husband, the small dot in red.)


















Exhibit B: Hiking (looking down on Waterlemon Cay)


















I did push myself out of my comfort zone a bit. For example, I had a facial. Delightful. And I tried a mango mojito -- very tasty. I'd do it again. I also drove on the left side of the road for the first time. I even got my passport stamped, by going to Jost Van Dyke and Tortola, beating my "to do before I'm 30" goal shamefully easily. (Obviously one needs to aim higher). But I relented when Husband was less than enthusiastic about the "Chi of Relationships for Couples" class -- he'd suffered enough. And when the weather is perfect and the water, inviting, why spend two hours inside?