Running on Empty

I ran in a race last night. It was my second race and longer than the last, four miles. Four miles is a piece of cake to experienced runners, but to a newbie like me, it's exhausting. Man, it lasts a lifetime when it's 90 degrees outside and you're at the back of the pack. I finished fourth in my age group, which was right in the middle of the pack. I'm still really slow, but that's okay. I will eventually get better. At least that's what everybody keeps telling me. It's just frustrating to see people zip past me, especially when they're much older or much, much faster. I'm just so competitive that I hate it when I can't do something really well. I keep telling myself to quit worrying about the other guys and stick to reaching my own personal goals. It's hard when you're surrounded by people who are so skilled and intense. There were some serious runners there last night, and they were very intimidating. I feel like such an amateur, but I can't stop now because I know it's not really about beating the other guy. It's about proving something to myself.

Despite my frustrations last night with my own performance, I felt really good about a couple of things. First of all, the spectators. I noticed a few people who lined the route and cheered for every last person. They didn't leave after the bulk of the runners had gone by. They stayed on the curb and cheered those of us in the back. It's very motivating for a complete stranger to clap and shout encouragement to you because they know that winning to us is just being able to finish. God bless the man in the blue cap with the little girl and the baby in a stroller. Their shouts were a push in my back at the end of that third mile. They have no idea how good they made me feel at a time when I needed it most .

I was also impressed with the senior runners. The 70 year old man with the six pack abs and top gun speed was kind of annoying, simply because I felt so inadequate next to him. Really, though, I was in awe of his athleticism. However, I was more impressed with the elderly fellow who came in last, but never quit. I passed him early on. He had a crooked gait and an untied shoe, but he was DETERMINED. Long after I had finished and was sucking down water, I saw him hit the finish line at the same slow speed and with the looping stride. He never gave up. If you ask me, he was the big winner of the night. It's a shame they don't give out a plaque for "best effort". He would have won, hands down. I hope I can keep up with him.

Leg's Call it Quits

That’s it. I’ve had it. I’m divorcing my pantyhose. I’ve tried. I really have, but I just don’t have the strength to keep up this relationship anymore. This love/hate fling we’ve had for thirty years has worn me out. I’m tired of the abuse those things just keep dishing out. Every time we go out, it’s the same old thing. They suffocate me. They hang on to me so tightly, I feel like I can’t breathe. The waistband won't allow me to relax when we’re around other people. They’re so..I don’t know…controlling. And demanding. Always reminding me to suck in my gut or tuck in my fanny.

I remember when we first met. I was young and carefree, excited about this new love. Everything seemed shiny and brand new. It made me feel so grown up, so adult. After all, they were usually nude. I didn’t mind that we were so tight. I was blinded by appearances and too wrapped up by my newfound love to care.

For a while, we went everywhere together. We were inseparable. But over the years I noticed a change in our relationship. We stopped seeing each other so often. I went from feeling hot and bothered to…well…just plain hot. They just didn’t seem to care how much they hurt me, and I quit reaching for them when I needed them most. We lost that spark, except when my thighs rubbed together. I guess it’s because I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve grown….in many different directions. We just don't fit together anymore. Oh, I’ve tried from time to time to rekindle my interest, but it’s just not there. I'm ashamed to admit that here lately I’ve been flirting with other options…like socks or maybe bare feet. I want to walk on the wild side for a while. Call it a middle aged crisis, but I think we need to go our separate ways, at least for the summer. A few months of sandals might make me feel differently, but I don’t think so. I really think it’s over this time. For good. I‘d prefer that we don’t stay in touch. It will be much easier that way. We'll just remember the good times we had; the parties and dances, and leave it at that.

Special Delivery

Teen Angel is anxiously awaiting a game she ordered off the internet. It’s supposed to arrive via UPS within five to seven days. We’re on day seven. Please God let that game come soon. She is driving me crazy, worrying over that package. I know how she feels, though. I love getting mail, especially packages.

I really liked getting mail when I was a kid. I guess that’s because I didn’t get much of it. That made it special. Every once in a while I got a letter from my cousin, Kim. She was a Yankee from the Chicago suburbs, so it seemed like she lived a world away. For a couple of years we traded letters extolling the virtues of Shaun Cassidy and Peter Frampton and debated which was better, “Happy Days” or “Welcome Back Kotter”. (Just for the record, I voted for “Welcome Back Kotter”. Come on. Everybody knows Vinnie Barbarino beats “The Fonz”.) My favorite kind of mail was those toys you ordered from a box of cereal or the back of a comic book. Do kids still do that? Probably not, but for my generation and a couple before me, it was a big deal to order something like that even though the item was usually pretty disappointing when you got it. You’ve seen the scene in “A Christmas Story” where Ralphie checks the mail box every day for his Little Orphan Annie Decoder Ring. When he finally gets it, his excitement is crushed by his discovery that it’s just an advertising gimmick for Ovaltine. I think anyone who is 35 years old or older has had that kind of experience.

Hubby remembers saving his pennies to order sea monkeys only to get them dead on arrival. I ordered plastic Freakies characters from a box of Freakies cereal. What? You don’t remember Freakies? That’s because it was the Edsel of cereals. It failed because three children in Iowa and me were the only ones who ate it. It took FOREVER for that package to arrive, and the characters were about a third the size I thought they would be. Their arms didn’t bend either. What’s your mail order shame? Come on. Don’t be ashamed. Everyone has a little sea monkey in his past.

These days when I get mail I have a system for opening it. A UPS Box gets opened in the driveway. Yippee!! A goodie for me. Colorful envelopes are next. They usually hold a card or invitation. Sigh. It’s nice to be wanted. Catalogs and sale flyers follow. 40% off at J.C. Penney’s? Yeah! The bills are last. What?! The gas bill is $40 higher this month? As Ralphie would say, “Skunked again”.

Adventures in Chaperoning

Hubby is a brave man. How do I know this? He drove a church bus full of young kids to Six Flags yesterday and spent the day with them. At 6’4” and 200 plus pounds, he can be a little intimidating, and for thirty years he wrangled criminals in a law enforcement job. But even that can’t fully prepare you for chaperoning kids on a trip. Hubby is licensed to drive a small bus so we end up chaperoning a lot of trips. In the last year we have followed young people down ski slopes, around three amusement parks and all over Washington, DC. It always proves to be an adventure.

For starters, somebody always throws up before the trip is over. Always. Always on the bus. Near the front. Where everyone has to walk. Someone always loses something important. Sometimes it’s an iPod or a wallet. Last year, on a trip with teenagers, it was pants. One of the kids hadn’t really traveled much and didn’t realize that buying a locker in the water park is worth the $6 because if you lay your pants on a concrete wall instead, someone will steal them. He wore swim trunks for two days. At least one kid in the bunch always spends all of his money way before the trip is over. He’s the kid who blows $90 on games trying to win a purple pimp hat and then has to eat off of $10 for two days. Speaking of hats, why does everybody have to get a goofy hat on those trips? Last year Hubby won a black and white spotted Viking hat with horns and braids because some park worker couldn’t guess his weight. Ever seen a 6’4” man in a Viking hat with rainbow braids? Well, you sure can’t miss him in a crowd. I’d post his picture, but I like living in my home and want to stay there.

The other scary thing about these outings is that you end up riding rides that you haven’t been on in years or really don’t want to get on. I’m kind of brave about some rides but really don’t like the stuff that launches you from 0 to 90 miles an hour in four seconds. I also can’t handle the spinning stuff. Puke city. But who wants to be a big scaredy cat in front of a bunch of kids. Not me, so I jump on, close my eyes and hold on tight. My pride lands me on things like the “Texas Tornado” and “Drop Zone”, and then it takes my nerves a few days to recover. Last year at King’s Island, I squelched my “you could get hurt on that thing” policy and climbed aboard several thrill rides. We closed down the park on our last night with a wild and rough ride on the “Son of Beast”. My joy at taming the “Beast” was short lived when the roller coaster halted in mid-ride the next day and seriously hurt several people. Apparently, our ride was one of the last few down the tracks before a beam broke and caused the accident. That was too close for comfort. See, you CAN get hurt on that stuff.

Yesterday’s trip was the first of three that he and/or I will take with kids this summer. Next month is King’s Island and Holiday World. I’m not sure what takes more courage, riding the rides or riding on a bus with teenagers.

Dreams for Sale

We were whizzing down the highway last weekend when we passed two little girls who had set up a makeshift yard sale near the road. It looked to be a poor neighborhood, and the little girls were dirty and dressed kind of ragged. In fact, one little girl had on nothing but a pair of underpants. They had assembled about a dozen assorted items including some old silk flowers and a large ceramic cheetah. Whenever someone drove by they would fling a cardboard sign into the air advertising their sale. I got a really big chuckle out them. I suspect they needed money for something they wanted and thought they’d earn it by selling some stuff laying around the house. We passed by that neighborhood again about an hour later, and they were gone. They had packed up their wares and gone home. Because they were kind of pitiful, Teen Angel chastised me for laughing at them. But you see, I wasn’t laughing at them. I was reveling in their enthusiasm. At some point in every kid’s life, usually around age 4, he decides he’s going to be an entrepreneur. He sets up a lemon aid or Kool aid stand in the front yard and tries to earn some spare change. It’s usually spurred by the desire for a toy or something special that mom and dad have refused to spend money on or can’t afford. If you’ve ever watched a kid do this, you know how excited he gets and how much work he puts into setting up his stand and making his signs. You also know how quickly he can fail. Very often his customers are limited to the mailman and the retired neighbor next door. It’s his first business lesson learned the hard way.

I have thought about those little girls all week. They were jumping up and down and putting their heart and soul into waving in uninterested customers. They were flinging that sign in the air with the spirit of Olympic athletes, and they just kept waving even though the cars zipped by them. What a blessing to live in a country where our poorest children can dream big and still hope that a pile of junk could make them a little bit richer. There is an old quote that says you shouldn’t take away someone’s hope because that may be all that he has. In some countries children don’t even have hope, but we do here. I hope someone bought something from those little girls, if for no other reason than to keep their hope alive. I wish I had stopped and bought that tacky cheetah.

I Take This Man

I went to two weddings yesterday, each very different from the other. The first wedding consisted of two long time divorcees who have struggled for years with the dating scene and never thought they'd find love again. Their ceremony was simple and moving. They wrote their own vows and incorporated the bride's teenaged daughters. I don't usually cry at weddings, but this one was a tear jerker. As I watched I thought this was two people who already know how tough marriage is and are approaching it with the honesty and dedication it deserves. The second wedding was a young couple fresh out of college and head over heels in love. As I watched their wedding I thought, boy, they don't have a clue what they're in for. All of the premarital counseling in the world just can't prepare you for the reality of marriage and the grit it takes to make it work year after year. As I listened to their traditional vows, I thought to myself, who wrote this stuff? Yeah, all that "in sickness and in health"and "for richer for poorer" stuff is important, but it doesn't really include everything does it? I think we should add a few things. Keep it a little more real so there are fewer surprises later.

How about promising to take your spouse even if he leaves his wet towels in the bathroom, hogs the tv remote or passes gas with the force of a category three tornado? Or accepting that he will sometimes pick a crappy birthday gift, maybe never send roses or leave used dental floss on the bathroom counter. Perhaps the men should promise to accept hormonally driven mood swings, changes in temperment that can't be explained and a compulsion to hoard shoes. And maybe they should agree to accept an occasional phoned in meal, leg hair left in the shower and the insistance that he learn to read the female mind. Aren't these the kinds of things that prompt most arguments? Loving someone is easy. Loving them when they leave toenail clippings on the living room floor year after year is a lot tougher.

Hair's Looking at You

I took Mama J. to the beauty shop this morning. She doesn't drive these days, so we take her each Saturday morning. The second coming could be imminent, and she would not cancel her standing appointment at the beauty parlor. However, she would be perfectly coifed for her meeting with St. Peter. You see, she is one of those senior women who relies on what's known as the "wash and set" method of hair maintenance. Once a week, a stylist curls, backcombs, sprays and puffs Mama J.'s hair into roughly the same style she's had since 1972. She hasn't washed her own hair in years. It's not a method that I would choose, but it works for her. She is part of a dying breed of "wash and setters". Most women now opt for something more simple as they grow old, but for Mama J. and a handful of others, the weekly trek to the corner clip and curl is the only way to go.

There are some telltale signs of a member of this clique. First of all, they usually fill the shops on Friday and Saturday mornings. That's so the 'do will be fresh for weekend outings such as bridge, dinners and church. They each have the same time slot each week. Mama J.'s is 9:40am. Hardly anyone in the shop this morning was under 50 years old, and it was the same faces we see week after week. Woe is the stylist who goofs and books a newcomer in someone's standing appointment slot. Improving your time slot is a little like joining the country club. You have to get on a list, and someone practically has to die in order for an opening to become available.

The second sign of membership is the satin pillow. When your hair is combed only once a week, you have to treat it gently in order for it to maintain its style for seven days. Sleeping on a satin pillow, preferably the "neck roll" helps with this. Those satin pillows aren't always easy to find. We once spent an hour searching an outlet center for a particular store that was rumored to sell those things. Once we found it, we bought two pillows so we could have a backup in reserve.

The biggest sign is the rain bonnet. Keeping the hairdo dry is of utmost importance, especially early in the week. Despite mass amounts of AquaNet, the wash and set can be reduced to a sticky mess by the lightest of rain showers. Water must be avoided at all times. Experienced "wash and setters" never go anywhere without a plastic rain bonnet. We were once riding on a log flume ride at an amusement park when the elderly lady in front of us whipped out a rain bonnet right before the first big splash. No Boy Scout was ever prepared more. While it is rare for Mama J. to leave the house without her rain bonnet, she did get caught without one during a sudden downpour a few years ago. In fact, so did Aunt K. who was with us. When it was obvious that the rain wasn't going to let up, they both resorted to putting Walmart bags on their head in order to dash from the car to the restaurant. And they thought it would be more embarrassing to have messed up hair? Hmmm.

The wash and set method just won't work for me when I get old. I won't be able to stand the itching and the hair spray. I will probably be the old woman with a long gray braid because I won't know what else to do with it. Oh, excuse me...the long blond braid. I may be brunette now, but in the south, we'll go blonde before we'll go gray. So let's see, I'm going to need an appointment every six weeks for that, won't I?