I was thinking about high school this weekend. I was at West High watching my kids and my brother play soccer and as I sat up in the stands with Ty as he climbed all over the bleachers, I started thinking about all of the times that I played soccer on that field and how many football games I sat through and how many people I've gotten reconnected with over the past year who I knew twenty or more years ago. And what really struck me and bothered me, even on the drive home was the question, Who is going to tell our stories?
I think many of us like to imagine that our kids will sit around and tell stories about us after we're gone and, they will. But I'm not talking about stories that involve them or our lives with them. I mean those stories that we tell each other when we get together after long periods of time and they usually start with "Hey, remember when..." Those are the best stories, the ones worth telling and sharing over and over again and those are the stories that will get lost, many of them, in the passing of kids that make up my generation. So, amidst these morbid thoughts, along with some insane idea of somehow preserving an anthology of the "best of..." stories, I began thinking about the idea of having or leaving a legacy. Sometimes, when I'm writing, I like to let my mind wander and it does an amazing job of pulling the little details into play so that as the words begin to come so do these synchronistic (don't even know if that's a word) images that accompany them. They make sense in my mind and often, oddly enough, they seem to explicate the very thing that I was trying to explain in the first place. Maybe it's comparable to being on an acid trip. Then again, I've never dropped acid so I don't know. Here I sit, as the idea of a legacy begs for a definition while surrounded by all of these little snippets from today's curriculum: Argentina defeating Mexico, Peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, Ty shoving a green M & M up his nose (incidentally, he was watching tv and he put it in the wrong hole; yet another sound argument for shutting off the tube), dancing in the bathroom (yes, it's the only room in the house with a lock on the door so I go in there and cut loose, footloose), reading the newspaper and finishing 10, yes count them again, 10 loads of laundry...
Back to my point, I do have one. Oh yes, leaving a legacy. I have a friend and one of her siblings is dying. Cervical cancer, caught late. She is in treatment as I write this, but the prognosis is not good and for the benefit of my friend, details are not of importance here. What is important is that the conversation that I had with her reinforced what I've felt for a very long time. Maybe even as far back as when I was a kid. I can't remember how old I was exactly, but I remember thinking to myself that I wanted to do something to help. I didn't know who to help or how to go about it, but I had a feeling that my life should be about something bigger. As a kid, I didn't know what that meant. But as the years have gone on, I've discovered that it is absolutely necessary for me, for my survival, to make my life about something other than what it is; something more.
I've always been looking for the next thing; it might be a hobby or a sport or a way to challenge myself mentally. But in the context of altruism, I have a desire and I have, since I was a kid, to make a difference in people's lives. I mean, let's face it, I was never a genius or even that smart. I had to really work at school to get through. I'm a terrible procrastinator and I have a very short fuse. I lose interest in things as quickly as they interest me and I have difficulty finishing things unless they fascinate me. And people fascinate me. One other thing, I've never been great at any one thing, never... but I'm good at many things. I never quit, I have the will of an Olympian and the heart of a Rhino. Unfortunately, I also have the attention span of a gnat so sometimes the combination is fatal.
So, what will my legacy be? Of course, part of it will be my family, my children and hopefully, someday, their children. But, for me, it's got to be more than that. It's got to be more than raising good people and tithing and recycling. It's got to be more than saying hello to people, and picking up trash and giving money to the homeless. Bigger... It's got to be more than being a teacher or volunteering or coaching soccer. Huge... It's got to be more than working forty years and collecting a retirement so that I can sit around all day or play golf (actually that's on my list of things to learn), and donating blood and giving clothes and food and toys to Goodwill. Really Huge... It's got to be life changing. I don't want to live eighty or ninety or a hundred years if every day when I go to sleep, I don't feel like I did something, however small, that mattered. I know that's why when I'm not teaching, like right now, that I have difficulty functioning day to day. I have an incessant need to interact with students in an environment where there is a massive amount of give and take, and not just my giving and their taking. I learn as much from them as they do from me and they change me, each of them, just like I like to think that I change them. I like to think that.
My legacy is going to be... it doesn't have a name or a definition or even a shape. Instead, it is an idea, that because I am unique and because there truly is no one else just like me (Thank God); an idea that every endeavor that I take on will somehow contribute in a positive and forward moving manner to the human race. And that every chance that crosses my path where I can change the course of someone's life for the better, even in the smallest of ways, that I will accept that chance and take on that endeavor with humility and, that I will give it everything that I have, until I no longer have anything left to give.
Erma Bombeck, whose writing and wisdom I miss every day, wrote, "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would have not a single bit of talent left and I could say, 'I used everything you gave me'"
"I used everything you gave me..." Words to live and to die by I think.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
For Jake, my hero
Tonight, in the championship game for the Little League Angels, there was one of those moments; the kind that can change your life or, at the very least, can turn you into a hero for awhile. It was the kind of moment that you wish for your kids so that they can feel that intense joy and taste success that maybe escaped you as a kid or, if you were lucky, the kind that you got to taste at least once. The boys were down 5-2, two outs, bases loaded and my Jake came up to bat...
When Jake was 3 years old, on his third day of preschool no less, I got a phone call from the director of Good Shepherd and, to this day, I will never forget it. I said hello and she instantly told me, "Jake has had an accident, you need to come and take him to the hospital" Click and the line went blank. Nick was only 6 months old at the time and he was napping at that moment. I remember from the second I dropped the phone, all the way until I ran through the parking lot, hearing him scream, the stark terror that crept through my entire body. It wasn't instant. It was like someone had injected the fear and worry one needle at a time into my body and it moved slowly, painfully throughout my entire being until it reached my brain and then it clouded it so that I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, all I could do was move toward my little boy. I ran through the lot, into the classroom and I saw the teacher holding him, cradling him to her chest and he was screaming and sobbing and later, she told me that she saw the color drain from my face when I saw him, but, I also recall telling myself to calm down, to act like an adult, to take charge of the situation. I remember walking over to him and kissing his face and telling him that everything would be okay. Even as the teacher removed the cloth from his forehead and I could see the gaping hole above my 3 year old's left eyebrow. His teacher held him as I drove them both to the hospital. As we waited for the doctor to take him in, my mother in law came to sit with me. A retired surgical nurse, she is the one to call in these situations, calm and collected and trusting of physicians. She was a rock that afternoon. We had to wait for awhile as there were other more vital emergencies before the gaping hole in my kid's head so the nurse gave Jake a popsicle. I even remember that it was orange and double sided. He ate it and then he sat down, never crying again or complaining or yelling or anything about why he had to wait or what he was doing there or why it hurt. He was probably in shock my mother in law said, but thankfully so, thankfully. Not too long after that, the physician took us in and told us that he'd have to stitch up Jake's head unless we wanted to wait for a plastic surgeon. We opted not to after speaking with our pediatrician. Tim came flying in from work and helped me reassure Jake that everything would be fine, even as the nurse strapped him into the papoose and after she lay a paper towel across his face with only the wound exposed. We told him that we loved him and that we were proud of how brave he was and that we'd take him to Toys R Us if he would just hold on a little bit longer... and then, it was over and he was sitting up, smiling, asking for another popsicle and telling us that he was ready for a toy... resilience, maybe the best quality of a child.
Those moments that define who we are as human beings are few and far between because some of us don't even realize that they are happening. Like when you give a couple of bucks to that homeless man on the corner; might not seem like a big deal, but then again, it is to him. Maybe that money helped him to hold on for one more day. The thing I've come to understand though is that as a parent, I'd trade all of my moments so that my children could have one of their own. And even though I know that it's not necessary or even an option, I would gladly give them any success that I've had so that each of them could have at least one memory of their own where they were important, where they mattered just a bit more in that situation than anyone else. Not that they did, but that they felt that way. And, I would venture to say that most parents feel like that. Their happiness means more than our own... that's part of the reason why we had them. We want to see them shine...
I was standing next to the fence, watching Jake swing the bat as he waited for the pitcher to warm up and I turned away and said under my breath, I can't watch. I was so nervous for him, for the possibility that he would get the chance, right then, with all of us there, to have one of those moments. I waited and crossed my fingers. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me, I kind of had tunnel vision for a few moments, until I heard a man say, "Is that your son?" and he pointed to Jake and I said, "Yes." He was one of the parents from Eastview Little League, one who had cleaned up the infield after the third inning. He smiled at me and said, "He is such a polite young man" and I must have looked confused, thinking, how would he know that when he clarified, "After we cleaned the infield, he was the only one on either team who said Thank You to both of us." And, I couldn't help it, I smiled and thanked him for saying that, telling him that I would convey his sentiment to Jake later on. And in that moment, and in many moments since I've had Jake, I've been more proud of the person he is than I have been of any accomplishment that he's attained. He is a fine person and a good hearted human being. He has the qualities that will make him successful regardless of what he wants to do with his life. He's just special and while all parents think that about their children, I know it. I see it every day and I feel it. Jake is special.
I wish I could say that he was the hero of the game; that he hit the grandslam and won the game, won the championship, but, it didn't happen like that and when the third pitch went by, I felt it in my heart, I saw it on his face and he tried so hard, so valiantly, not to let anyone see it. But I knew, I watched it as he collected his Runner up trophy, as he packed up his bag and as he walked toward me, trying desperately to hold it in, asking me if we could "just go." And I fell in step beside him as the tears rolled down his face and as we drove home, the frustration and sadness came through and my son, who I held down in the emergency room when he had 18 stitches, who I held in my arms when he had ear infections, who still holds my hand when we walk together out in public; I watched him suffer and there wasn't anything that I could do to help him. I touched him arm and I told him that I loved him and that it would be okay. I told him that he needed to let himself feel it, all of it and then, he needed to let it go because there would be and there will be other moments. And, I told him, that one day, he would get his grandslam; maybe it will be a college acceptance letter or a yes to a marriage proposal, maybe it will be a winning lottery ticket or courtside seats to Game 7 in the NBA finals or maybe it will be when he is standing on the sideline watching his own child step up to bat, in a similar situation and knowing that he would give up everything just so that his child would feel a modicum of success, of joy... And when that happens, he'll know and he'll be the better man for it.
The ultimate test of whether or not you raised a boy well is not watching him hit a grandslam or marry the prom queen; the ultimate test is seeing him turn into a warm, generous, giving man that others want to be around. Jake is that boy and someday, very soon, he will be that man...
We are very proud of you Jake and we love you very much... always.
When Jake was 3 years old, on his third day of preschool no less, I got a phone call from the director of Good Shepherd and, to this day, I will never forget it. I said hello and she instantly told me, "Jake has had an accident, you need to come and take him to the hospital" Click and the line went blank. Nick was only 6 months old at the time and he was napping at that moment. I remember from the second I dropped the phone, all the way until I ran through the parking lot, hearing him scream, the stark terror that crept through my entire body. It wasn't instant. It was like someone had injected the fear and worry one needle at a time into my body and it moved slowly, painfully throughout my entire being until it reached my brain and then it clouded it so that I couldn't think straight, I couldn't breathe, all I could do was move toward my little boy. I ran through the lot, into the classroom and I saw the teacher holding him, cradling him to her chest and he was screaming and sobbing and later, she told me that she saw the color drain from my face when I saw him, but, I also recall telling myself to calm down, to act like an adult, to take charge of the situation. I remember walking over to him and kissing his face and telling him that everything would be okay. Even as the teacher removed the cloth from his forehead and I could see the gaping hole above my 3 year old's left eyebrow. His teacher held him as I drove them both to the hospital. As we waited for the doctor to take him in, my mother in law came to sit with me. A retired surgical nurse, she is the one to call in these situations, calm and collected and trusting of physicians. She was a rock that afternoon. We had to wait for awhile as there were other more vital emergencies before the gaping hole in my kid's head so the nurse gave Jake a popsicle. I even remember that it was orange and double sided. He ate it and then he sat down, never crying again or complaining or yelling or anything about why he had to wait or what he was doing there or why it hurt. He was probably in shock my mother in law said, but thankfully so, thankfully. Not too long after that, the physician took us in and told us that he'd have to stitch up Jake's head unless we wanted to wait for a plastic surgeon. We opted not to after speaking with our pediatrician. Tim came flying in from work and helped me reassure Jake that everything would be fine, even as the nurse strapped him into the papoose and after she lay a paper towel across his face with only the wound exposed. We told him that we loved him and that we were proud of how brave he was and that we'd take him to Toys R Us if he would just hold on a little bit longer... and then, it was over and he was sitting up, smiling, asking for another popsicle and telling us that he was ready for a toy... resilience, maybe the best quality of a child.
Those moments that define who we are as human beings are few and far between because some of us don't even realize that they are happening. Like when you give a couple of bucks to that homeless man on the corner; might not seem like a big deal, but then again, it is to him. Maybe that money helped him to hold on for one more day. The thing I've come to understand though is that as a parent, I'd trade all of my moments so that my children could have one of their own. And even though I know that it's not necessary or even an option, I would gladly give them any success that I've had so that each of them could have at least one memory of their own where they were important, where they mattered just a bit more in that situation than anyone else. Not that they did, but that they felt that way. And, I would venture to say that most parents feel like that. Their happiness means more than our own... that's part of the reason why we had them. We want to see them shine...
I was standing next to the fence, watching Jake swing the bat as he waited for the pitcher to warm up and I turned away and said under my breath, I can't watch. I was so nervous for him, for the possibility that he would get the chance, right then, with all of us there, to have one of those moments. I waited and crossed my fingers. I wasn't paying attention to anything around me, I kind of had tunnel vision for a few moments, until I heard a man say, "Is that your son?" and he pointed to Jake and I said, "Yes." He was one of the parents from Eastview Little League, one who had cleaned up the infield after the third inning. He smiled at me and said, "He is such a polite young man" and I must have looked confused, thinking, how would he know that when he clarified, "After we cleaned the infield, he was the only one on either team who said Thank You to both of us." And, I couldn't help it, I smiled and thanked him for saying that, telling him that I would convey his sentiment to Jake later on. And in that moment, and in many moments since I've had Jake, I've been more proud of the person he is than I have been of any accomplishment that he's attained. He is a fine person and a good hearted human being. He has the qualities that will make him successful regardless of what he wants to do with his life. He's just special and while all parents think that about their children, I know it. I see it every day and I feel it. Jake is special.
I wish I could say that he was the hero of the game; that he hit the grandslam and won the game, won the championship, but, it didn't happen like that and when the third pitch went by, I felt it in my heart, I saw it on his face and he tried so hard, so valiantly, not to let anyone see it. But I knew, I watched it as he collected his Runner up trophy, as he packed up his bag and as he walked toward me, trying desperately to hold it in, asking me if we could "just go." And I fell in step beside him as the tears rolled down his face and as we drove home, the frustration and sadness came through and my son, who I held down in the emergency room when he had 18 stitches, who I held in my arms when he had ear infections, who still holds my hand when we walk together out in public; I watched him suffer and there wasn't anything that I could do to help him. I touched him arm and I told him that I loved him and that it would be okay. I told him that he needed to let himself feel it, all of it and then, he needed to let it go because there would be and there will be other moments. And, I told him, that one day, he would get his grandslam; maybe it will be a college acceptance letter or a yes to a marriage proposal, maybe it will be a winning lottery ticket or courtside seats to Game 7 in the NBA finals or maybe it will be when he is standing on the sideline watching his own child step up to bat, in a similar situation and knowing that he would give up everything just so that his child would feel a modicum of success, of joy... And when that happens, he'll know and he'll be the better man for it.
The ultimate test of whether or not you raised a boy well is not watching him hit a grandslam or marry the prom queen; the ultimate test is seeing him turn into a warm, generous, giving man that others want to be around. Jake is that boy and someday, very soon, he will be that man...
We are very proud of you Jake and we love you very much... always.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
A note to my students on the last day of class
June 8, 2010
I would be remiss if I didn't take a moment, after spending 16 weeks as your instructor, to leave you with a few words of advice. Whether or not you heed them is your choice, but I am going to give them nonetheless.
The one component of being a successful student, regardless of any other factor in life, is the will to succeed. Sounds too simple or trite even, but it isn't. Think about where you are this week, this semester, this year and then consider all that you still have to do to accomplish your ultimate goal in education. That may not be a degree, however, I would venture to guess that it seems a long way off. This is true for everyone. Taking classes, completing work that often seems trivial or even redundant, forces many students to consider and then to subsequently, quit school. This is why your will has to be strong enough to force you not to quit, not to drop, not to stop studying and, most importantly, to see that it is possible; to finish, to graduate and to accomplish whatever career goal you've set for yourself. Skills are acquired over time, with patience and persistence. Will however is not taught, it is inherent and you have to nurture it in order for it to serve you. It's always easier to quit, always. Just don't...
Developing an appreciation of literature and the ideas that are set forth in a piece of writing is also a skill; one that will only come with a desire to want to understand, evaluate, argue and even just discuss ideas that concern a broader picture of humanity and of life itself. The ability to read well is a privilege, not a right and maybe when you pick something up, you will remind yourselves that you are in a select group of people who have the abilities to read and comprehend and eventually evaluate that piece of writing. A privilege, not a right. Everyone should have that right, but unfortunately, they don't. So, don't take it for granted. Keep trying to read new things every day, consider the ideas and then share your conclusions on paper or with others. Challenge yourselves to read material that is beyond your understanding and work at it, little by little. Allow yourselves the opportunity to fail because then, you'll understand the value of success. Everyone fails, but understanding why we fail and then attempting to correct our mistakes are what makes us successful the next time.
Maybe it's just a mindset; maybe it's nothing more than if you were raised to read then you do. I don't know, I'm not entirely sure. But, what I do know is that a life without reading is one with a much narrower view of the world. And, in the end, if you are making a contribution to society, which you are, just by virtue of being in college, then don't you want your view to be as broad and as deep as you choose? Give yourselves permission to understand and feel ideas more deeply and it will inherently change your ability to do anything; to succeed at anything.
I've enjoyed being here with you this term and I've really enjoyed getting to know each of you. Just like my favorite books, each student leaves an indelible print on my memory and each one alters my perception of the world just a little bit more; helping me to understand and appreciate life better. For that, each of you has my gratitude and my profound respect. I wish each of you success in college and in your lives.
I will miss you and I will hope to learn something from each of you when I see you again in future endeavors as my nurse or my dentist or my CPA or as the police officer who pulls me over to give me a ticket... whatever it is, I will look forward to it.
Have a wonderful summer and keep reading!
Yvette Hawley
I would be remiss if I didn't take a moment, after spending 16 weeks as your instructor, to leave you with a few words of advice. Whether or not you heed them is your choice, but I am going to give them nonetheless.
The one component of being a successful student, regardless of any other factor in life, is the will to succeed. Sounds too simple or trite even, but it isn't. Think about where you are this week, this semester, this year and then consider all that you still have to do to accomplish your ultimate goal in education. That may not be a degree, however, I would venture to guess that it seems a long way off. This is true for everyone. Taking classes, completing work that often seems trivial or even redundant, forces many students to consider and then to subsequently, quit school. This is why your will has to be strong enough to force you not to quit, not to drop, not to stop studying and, most importantly, to see that it is possible; to finish, to graduate and to accomplish whatever career goal you've set for yourself. Skills are acquired over time, with patience and persistence. Will however is not taught, it is inherent and you have to nurture it in order for it to serve you. It's always easier to quit, always. Just don't...
Developing an appreciation of literature and the ideas that are set forth in a piece of writing is also a skill; one that will only come with a desire to want to understand, evaluate, argue and even just discuss ideas that concern a broader picture of humanity and of life itself. The ability to read well is a privilege, not a right and maybe when you pick something up, you will remind yourselves that you are in a select group of people who have the abilities to read and comprehend and eventually evaluate that piece of writing. A privilege, not a right. Everyone should have that right, but unfortunately, they don't. So, don't take it for granted. Keep trying to read new things every day, consider the ideas and then share your conclusions on paper or with others. Challenge yourselves to read material that is beyond your understanding and work at it, little by little. Allow yourselves the opportunity to fail because then, you'll understand the value of success. Everyone fails, but understanding why we fail and then attempting to correct our mistakes are what makes us successful the next time.
Maybe it's just a mindset; maybe it's nothing more than if you were raised to read then you do. I don't know, I'm not entirely sure. But, what I do know is that a life without reading is one with a much narrower view of the world. And, in the end, if you are making a contribution to society, which you are, just by virtue of being in college, then don't you want your view to be as broad and as deep as you choose? Give yourselves permission to understand and feel ideas more deeply and it will inherently change your ability to do anything; to succeed at anything.
I've enjoyed being here with you this term and I've really enjoyed getting to know each of you. Just like my favorite books, each student leaves an indelible print on my memory and each one alters my perception of the world just a little bit more; helping me to understand and appreciate life better. For that, each of you has my gratitude and my profound respect. I wish each of you success in college and in your lives.
I will miss you and I will hope to learn something from each of you when I see you again in future endeavors as my nurse or my dentist or my CPA or as the police officer who pulls me over to give me a ticket... whatever it is, I will look forward to it.
Have a wonderful summer and keep reading!
Yvette Hawley
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Running
I'm looking around at all of these "runners" thinking to myself; I don't belong here. I'm trying to weasel my way into the popular crowd...with their expensive shoes and running clothes and gels and goos, with hats that absorb sweat and salt packets...it's a sub-culture and I still don't feel like a part of it. Most of the time, at running events, I am dressed too warm for the weather or I didn't dress in enough layers because it was fifty degrees outside at 5 am. I don't sleep enough the night before an activity and I have a hard time listening to music while I run because it throws off my pacing. I always have to stop to use the restroom at least once and sometimes, when it's really hot out, I have to keep from vomiting. It's probably close to heatstroke. I'm never hydrated enough, I eat the wrong things the night before and mentally, by the time I am prepared, the race is usually winding down. I prefer to run with friends or in a group and I have been told that I am the chronic "wet blanket" of the group. So, the question remains, why do I continue to run now that I've accomplished my original goal of completing a marathon; why do I continue to subject myself to the rigors of a sport that my body struggles to play?
The alarm clock went off at 3 am yesterday morning and, not being a morning person anyway, I was doubly annoyed. I had gone to bed at 11 and although I don't remember, I'm sure it took me awhile to fall asleep. I got up, ate my Cheerios, took a shower and then I drove in the pitch black, almost an hour so that I could arrive two hours before the race even started. Tired, cold, hungry and needing to pee, I climbed onto the school bus that would take us up 6 miles into the San Bernadino mountains where the race would begin. When we de-boarded, I waited almost an hour, I stretched, I ate some jellybeans, drank some water and needed to pee again. Only this time, there were about 150 people ahead of me in line for the Port-O-potty's. I rolled my eyes and checked my jacket in at the "Baggage Claim" truck, thinking that I would just have to wait. I stretched some more and then I milled around until I was in the middle of the throng of assorted runners. It was then that I realized that I had forgotten sunblock or chapstick and looking up at the clear sky with the sun peeking over the mountain to the East, I thought, You're in deep shit Yvette. Good thing I remembered my hat, but, to no avail, not my sunglasses. I pretended to focus while I actually listened to other people's conversations and I am always surprised and even shocked by the kinds of things that people discuss prior to the start of a race. The four women to my left were talking to the fifth woman about how to combat the running "runs" which clearly the woman had as evidenced by the scowl on her face. The two guys on my left were talking about the next race that they were going to run because this was just a "short" one and the three or four guys in front of me were listening to this other guy talk about the girl that he was "banging" last night. I guess it's just part of the killing time factor in races because there is a lot of standing around. Before a race, we have to get there early so as not to miss the start, but that often includes an hour or more of just standing around shooting the shit, as clearly these runners were. I looked around at the fashions; knee high socks, skintight shorts hiding nothing, funny t-shirts with logos that I try to remember, but can't seem to very often. Yesterday's winner was "Run like a Mofo." I like that one, but my all time favorite was from the Vegas 1/2 marathon. On the front was printed, "If found on ground, please drag across finish line."
Classic and so very true, at least in my case. The hats are often great too, with people decorating them and addding little sayings and colors. Running fashion is eclectic and sometimes hilarious.
An announcement comes on the portable PA system that the race is about to start and everyone cheers, some jumping up and down to get the blood flowing, some hug one another and some butt heads, some high five and some start their IPODS or their watches. Most of us just stand there and brace ourselves for the mileage ahead. I close my eyes, breathe deeply and listen as the whistle sounds and... we're off.
The first two miles are always difficult for me. My body is warming up and adjusting to the terrain. I remind myself to breathe and to set my pace. I try to ignore the people passing me left and right and I constantly remind myself that at some point, I will pass many of them who didn't pace themselves properly. Around mile 3 I start to find my rhythm and I take a long drink of water. I move to the left as there is more shade there and I pull my hat down lower to brace for the next bout of intense sun that is coming at me 25 yards away. I look down at the ground, count my steps, listen to my breathing and it is here, almost to mile 4 that I find it. I don't or haven't hit a runner's high before so I don't know exactly what it feels like, but for me, around 3 1/2 until 10 are the best miles to run, regardless of the length of the race. 5-7 miles is an ideal distance for my body and it's taken me over two years to figure that out. So as I find my groove, I start to enjoy the pace and I begin to relax and to take in the running scenary. It's like when the captain turns off the Seatbelt sign and although you are still in a confined space, you have some autonomy and you can decide what you will do for the remainder of the flight. I look at the backs of people's heads, I listen to a guy in midnight blue belt out the lyrics to "Livin on a Prayer" and for a few minutes I sing along with him in my head, I look at the hills and the greenery of the mountains as we wind down the path that we had just gone up on the bus not two hours before. I listen to the sounds of shoes shuffling along and to the incessant chatter that is broken as people pass me and I catch words like "brace" and "cut" and "bank left" and "help." I smile, I acutally smile as I run these miles and, for me, for someone who never liked to run, that has made the experience worthwhile.
The first 6 miles of this course are the remnants of the winding tail end of the mountains so the course is faster than the average course. Runners come here to time qualify and to break their PR's (personal records). I look down at my watch at mile 3 and I see 27:02. 9 minute miles, I'm running nine minute miles. I normally run 12 minute miles I think, I'm going too fast, SLOW DOWN! But then I realize that gravity is doing most of the work for me so I go with it, knowing that I will slow down when the course flattens out and, I do. When I come up to mile 7, we are clearing the last hill and as I do, the sun hits me like the reflection off a mirror right in my eyes and the heat is intense. I breathe thinking that it won't be like this for long, there is always some shade on a course, something, but as I continue, mile 8, mile 9, mile 10, I'm struggling. I pass the thermometer on the left hand side next to the mile 10 sign and it reads 90. Something clicks in my head, I'm not drinking enough. I can feel it now that I know my body better. So, I gulp down some water and then I walk. For two minutes, I walk and I consume some more jellybeans and I drink some more water and then I start running again. After about 5 minutes, I feel better, but as I continue, I can see the heat start to rise off the pavement and this does something to me mentally. I start to feel like an egg frying on that pavement instead of just imagining that I am.
I pass the mile 11 sign and I see that I have slowed down. I'm back to 12 minutes again which is fine because my legs have hit the point where they feel like someone has inserted ten pound bags of flour in each one. This is normal for me and they will feel even heavier when I finish. I chug along and I think about my Yoga teacher, Doreen who always tells us to smile at least once during class each week, reminding us that we all walk the planet and we all share the same air and how nice it would be if we each took a minute to acknowledge others. I wave and smile at the officers who are sitting in their car on the corner and they wave back and yell "You're still smiling, way to go!" I see a city worker standing on another corner, clapping as we go by and I smile and say "Thanks" and I see some kids, trying to pick up the cups that have been discarded from the water stops as the hundreds of runners go by. "Thanks" I yell to them and they smile and one of them says, "You're doing great!" The moments when people give me this kind of encouragement does more for me mentally than anything else during a race or an event. It motivates me, but, even more than that, it makes me feel like a part of something bigger; something that we are all a part of. Them and me, me and them; symbiosis in the 90 degree heat on an early Saturday morning. The activity binds us, even for a short time.
I'm in my head for mile 12 and I can see the Finish line when I cross the 12 sign and it is here that my body finds that last effort. It doesn't want to; it's tired and angry and hot and frustrated and the banner looks so far away, but it is here that I think about why I came out here in the first place, why it means so much to me. I set out to accomplish something and every time I cross the line, I do. It's as simple as that, set a goal, run, finish, goal met. Simple, but never easy, at least not for me. There are spectators in bigger groups starting at mile 12 and continuing on to the end so I encourage them so that they will help me. I smile and wave and thank them for coming out and they shout nice things, "Almost there" "Way to go" "You can do it" and, once again, it helps.
I have to admit, my favorite part of any race, even though I haven't been running that long, is the approach to the finish, about 50 feet away, not the finish itself, that's kind of anti-climactic, at least for me. I put my hands up and yell "Yes" and I cross and there's a guy standing there and he says "Way to go Yvette!" and I'm not even wondering how this yokel knows my name, but I realize later, it's printed on my bib. He smiled and it made me laugh, it was a good feeling. I walk over to one of the ladies holding the medals and I bow my head, as if I'm getting knighted and she puts the medal around my neck and says "Congratulations!" and it's done. Well, the running is done. Now comes the hardest part, the recovery. As I sit here and type this, my body feels slightly broken and the only way that I could sleep last night or, at least, get to sleep, was to drink too much wine and to take Advil. Today has been a different monster though, a running hangover; my calves and my lower back hurt and I am pink from sunburn and my ear aches and those are just the lighter maladies. I feel a bit like someone took me apart and when they put me back together, they left out the few parts, like joints and tendons that kind of hold everything together. This is normal for me, but it's never pleasant. I had to wear sandals today because I had difficulty bending down to tie my shoes. As I sit, my back is barking at me to go and lie down and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to sleep with my pregnancy pillow to help alleviate some of the pressure. I love that pregnancy pillow. It's like the third wheel in our bed these days... It will take a few days to recover and then, I will run again and, it will hurt, but the pain will be a reminder that I'm not 16 anymore and that if I continue to make such demands on my body, that I'd better give it enough preparation and enough time to recover or it's going to be angry, like it is today.
I do get a runner's high. It might not be that euphoria that runners describe when they hit a certain pace or stride or distance. It might not be that feeling that keeps you wanting to keep going or to come back and do it again. It might not even be the relaxed feeling of knowing that I am doing something great for my body by exercising on a regular basis. It might not even be the intense joy that I feel when I reach the Finish line because I do, every time. Instead, it might just be a high that comes from realizing your own personal potential; like graduating from college or finding the "right" person. I never could have imagined the past two years as they've been in my "running" life because I never imagined having a "running" life. Now, I can't imagine my life without it.
I sat in my dining room, two and a half years ago, holding the phone, talking to a woman who worked for AIDS Project Los Angeles and all I had to do was decide if I wanted to sign up for their marathon training program as a way to raise funds for an organization that I hold very close to my heart. Just sign up she said, you won't regret it. But, I thought, but this and but that and but 8 months of training and but I don't like to run and but I'm overweight and but I can't drive to Griffith park every Sunday morning and but, but, but,
"Yes" I said, "I'll do it." And, now, two marathons and other races later, I am a changed person, from the outside in.
I run because I can and for now, that's enough. Tomorrow there might be another reason, but today, right now, that's enough.
The alarm clock went off at 3 am yesterday morning and, not being a morning person anyway, I was doubly annoyed. I had gone to bed at 11 and although I don't remember, I'm sure it took me awhile to fall asleep. I got up, ate my Cheerios, took a shower and then I drove in the pitch black, almost an hour so that I could arrive two hours before the race even started. Tired, cold, hungry and needing to pee, I climbed onto the school bus that would take us up 6 miles into the San Bernadino mountains where the race would begin. When we de-boarded, I waited almost an hour, I stretched, I ate some jellybeans, drank some water and needed to pee again. Only this time, there were about 150 people ahead of me in line for the Port-O-potty's. I rolled my eyes and checked my jacket in at the "Baggage Claim" truck, thinking that I would just have to wait. I stretched some more and then I milled around until I was in the middle of the throng of assorted runners. It was then that I realized that I had forgotten sunblock or chapstick and looking up at the clear sky with the sun peeking over the mountain to the East, I thought, You're in deep shit Yvette. Good thing I remembered my hat, but, to no avail, not my sunglasses. I pretended to focus while I actually listened to other people's conversations and I am always surprised and even shocked by the kinds of things that people discuss prior to the start of a race. The four women to my left were talking to the fifth woman about how to combat the running "runs" which clearly the woman had as evidenced by the scowl on her face. The two guys on my left were talking about the next race that they were going to run because this was just a "short" one and the three or four guys in front of me were listening to this other guy talk about the girl that he was "banging" last night. I guess it's just part of the killing time factor in races because there is a lot of standing around. Before a race, we have to get there early so as not to miss the start, but that often includes an hour or more of just standing around shooting the shit, as clearly these runners were. I looked around at the fashions; knee high socks, skintight shorts hiding nothing, funny t-shirts with logos that I try to remember, but can't seem to very often. Yesterday's winner was "Run like a Mofo." I like that one, but my all time favorite was from the Vegas 1/2 marathon. On the front was printed, "If found on ground, please drag across finish line."
Classic and so very true, at least in my case. The hats are often great too, with people decorating them and addding little sayings and colors. Running fashion is eclectic and sometimes hilarious.
An announcement comes on the portable PA system that the race is about to start and everyone cheers, some jumping up and down to get the blood flowing, some hug one another and some butt heads, some high five and some start their IPODS or their watches. Most of us just stand there and brace ourselves for the mileage ahead. I close my eyes, breathe deeply and listen as the whistle sounds and... we're off.
The first two miles are always difficult for me. My body is warming up and adjusting to the terrain. I remind myself to breathe and to set my pace. I try to ignore the people passing me left and right and I constantly remind myself that at some point, I will pass many of them who didn't pace themselves properly. Around mile 3 I start to find my rhythm and I take a long drink of water. I move to the left as there is more shade there and I pull my hat down lower to brace for the next bout of intense sun that is coming at me 25 yards away. I look down at the ground, count my steps, listen to my breathing and it is here, almost to mile 4 that I find it. I don't or haven't hit a runner's high before so I don't know exactly what it feels like, but for me, around 3 1/2 until 10 are the best miles to run, regardless of the length of the race. 5-7 miles is an ideal distance for my body and it's taken me over two years to figure that out. So as I find my groove, I start to enjoy the pace and I begin to relax and to take in the running scenary. It's like when the captain turns off the Seatbelt sign and although you are still in a confined space, you have some autonomy and you can decide what you will do for the remainder of the flight. I look at the backs of people's heads, I listen to a guy in midnight blue belt out the lyrics to "Livin on a Prayer" and for a few minutes I sing along with him in my head, I look at the hills and the greenery of the mountains as we wind down the path that we had just gone up on the bus not two hours before. I listen to the sounds of shoes shuffling along and to the incessant chatter that is broken as people pass me and I catch words like "brace" and "cut" and "bank left" and "help." I smile, I acutally smile as I run these miles and, for me, for someone who never liked to run, that has made the experience worthwhile.
The first 6 miles of this course are the remnants of the winding tail end of the mountains so the course is faster than the average course. Runners come here to time qualify and to break their PR's (personal records). I look down at my watch at mile 3 and I see 27:02. 9 minute miles, I'm running nine minute miles. I normally run 12 minute miles I think, I'm going too fast, SLOW DOWN! But then I realize that gravity is doing most of the work for me so I go with it, knowing that I will slow down when the course flattens out and, I do. When I come up to mile 7, we are clearing the last hill and as I do, the sun hits me like the reflection off a mirror right in my eyes and the heat is intense. I breathe thinking that it won't be like this for long, there is always some shade on a course, something, but as I continue, mile 8, mile 9, mile 10, I'm struggling. I pass the thermometer on the left hand side next to the mile 10 sign and it reads 90. Something clicks in my head, I'm not drinking enough. I can feel it now that I know my body better. So, I gulp down some water and then I walk. For two minutes, I walk and I consume some more jellybeans and I drink some more water and then I start running again. After about 5 minutes, I feel better, but as I continue, I can see the heat start to rise off the pavement and this does something to me mentally. I start to feel like an egg frying on that pavement instead of just imagining that I am.
I pass the mile 11 sign and I see that I have slowed down. I'm back to 12 minutes again which is fine because my legs have hit the point where they feel like someone has inserted ten pound bags of flour in each one. This is normal for me and they will feel even heavier when I finish. I chug along and I think about my Yoga teacher, Doreen who always tells us to smile at least once during class each week, reminding us that we all walk the planet and we all share the same air and how nice it would be if we each took a minute to acknowledge others. I wave and smile at the officers who are sitting in their car on the corner and they wave back and yell "You're still smiling, way to go!" I see a city worker standing on another corner, clapping as we go by and I smile and say "Thanks" and I see some kids, trying to pick up the cups that have been discarded from the water stops as the hundreds of runners go by. "Thanks" I yell to them and they smile and one of them says, "You're doing great!" The moments when people give me this kind of encouragement does more for me mentally than anything else during a race or an event. It motivates me, but, even more than that, it makes me feel like a part of something bigger; something that we are all a part of. Them and me, me and them; symbiosis in the 90 degree heat on an early Saturday morning. The activity binds us, even for a short time.
I'm in my head for mile 12 and I can see the Finish line when I cross the 12 sign and it is here that my body finds that last effort. It doesn't want to; it's tired and angry and hot and frustrated and the banner looks so far away, but it is here that I think about why I came out here in the first place, why it means so much to me. I set out to accomplish something and every time I cross the line, I do. It's as simple as that, set a goal, run, finish, goal met. Simple, but never easy, at least not for me. There are spectators in bigger groups starting at mile 12 and continuing on to the end so I encourage them so that they will help me. I smile and wave and thank them for coming out and they shout nice things, "Almost there" "Way to go" "You can do it" and, once again, it helps.
I have to admit, my favorite part of any race, even though I haven't been running that long, is the approach to the finish, about 50 feet away, not the finish itself, that's kind of anti-climactic, at least for me. I put my hands up and yell "Yes" and I cross and there's a guy standing there and he says "Way to go Yvette!" and I'm not even wondering how this yokel knows my name, but I realize later, it's printed on my bib. He smiled and it made me laugh, it was a good feeling. I walk over to one of the ladies holding the medals and I bow my head, as if I'm getting knighted and she puts the medal around my neck and says "Congratulations!" and it's done. Well, the running is done. Now comes the hardest part, the recovery. As I sit here and type this, my body feels slightly broken and the only way that I could sleep last night or, at least, get to sleep, was to drink too much wine and to take Advil. Today has been a different monster though, a running hangover; my calves and my lower back hurt and I am pink from sunburn and my ear aches and those are just the lighter maladies. I feel a bit like someone took me apart and when they put me back together, they left out the few parts, like joints and tendons that kind of hold everything together. This is normal for me, but it's never pleasant. I had to wear sandals today because I had difficulty bending down to tie my shoes. As I sit, my back is barking at me to go and lie down and I'm afraid that I'm going to have to sleep with my pregnancy pillow to help alleviate some of the pressure. I love that pregnancy pillow. It's like the third wheel in our bed these days... It will take a few days to recover and then, I will run again and, it will hurt, but the pain will be a reminder that I'm not 16 anymore and that if I continue to make such demands on my body, that I'd better give it enough preparation and enough time to recover or it's going to be angry, like it is today.
I do get a runner's high. It might not be that euphoria that runners describe when they hit a certain pace or stride or distance. It might not be that feeling that keeps you wanting to keep going or to come back and do it again. It might not even be the relaxed feeling of knowing that I am doing something great for my body by exercising on a regular basis. It might not even be the intense joy that I feel when I reach the Finish line because I do, every time. Instead, it might just be a high that comes from realizing your own personal potential; like graduating from college or finding the "right" person. I never could have imagined the past two years as they've been in my "running" life because I never imagined having a "running" life. Now, I can't imagine my life without it.
I sat in my dining room, two and a half years ago, holding the phone, talking to a woman who worked for AIDS Project Los Angeles and all I had to do was decide if I wanted to sign up for their marathon training program as a way to raise funds for an organization that I hold very close to my heart. Just sign up she said, you won't regret it. But, I thought, but this and but that and but 8 months of training and but I don't like to run and but I'm overweight and but I can't drive to Griffith park every Sunday morning and but, but, but,
"Yes" I said, "I'll do it." And, now, two marathons and other races later, I am a changed person, from the outside in.
I run because I can and for now, that's enough. Tomorrow there might be another reason, but today, right now, that's enough.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Sex
There's something wrong with me. I mean, there is seriously something wrong with me. My libido is in overdrive and I think about sex more than I think about chocolate which, for me, is quite impressive as chocolate consumption consumes most of my caloric count; I'm seeing a pattern with the Cs here... So, sex, I'm getting to the point where even my husband is looking good right now or all the time. I liken these feelings to that teenage boy who lives inside of me, wait, that didn't sound right, that teenage boy libido that has suddenly emerged and has taken over the thinking part of my brain. Growing up with two brothers, I think lately I've begun to understand what they were going through as adolescents and guys in their twenties. And, now I get it, I really get it when people say, "If I had known then what I know now..." I interpret that solely as "I would definitely have fucked more people and I would have had more of a random sampling;" kind of like the mixed pack of See's chocolates, a little bit of everything. The problem with teenage sex is that you're a teenager when it's happening and, even if it is "good" all that meant was that anatomically all of the pieces fit together. But, as a teenager, you could have said G-spot and he would have been looking for the G-string that you were wearing. Whatever... I just understand it a little bit more now; the intensity of wanting to have sex all the time. It's frustrating.
I've rationalized this by telling myself that I'm pre-menopausal and that it's just my hormones coming into play. Well, I'm glad something's coming. And, I can't even use the notion of having a baby as a way to get more sex because I've passed that momentous milestone with the tying of my tubes after Ty was born. Come to think of it, I've got to stop typing that word come (shakes head to clear it just then), maybe subconsciously I named that third kid after the procedure that would in fact eliminate the possibility of any other siblings coming (For God's sake) into the picture. Hmmm, I might be on to something (I wish). I need to go and lift some cars.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this whore-moan phenomena and she likened it to the desire to sleep more; a craving if you will. The body wants what it wants and if it doesn't get it, the want manifests itself in another way. Like addiction I suppose although I don't know what that feels like as my brain has never wanted anything so badly that I actually had physical symptoms from withdrawl. Okay, that's it, I'm going to have to come (Fuck!) up with an entirely new vocabulary to explain my newfound sexual appetite. What a great expression, sexual appetite. As if it can be satiated at this point. Even chocolate isn't sounding so great. So, my friend and I were talking about solutions to this dilemma and also, how to solve other pressing social issues because, after all, there's nothing worse than a lot of horny, angry, frustrated middle aged women walking around. At least I can't think of anything at the moment. A terrible image. I even resorted the other night to surfing the net for good porn (hahahahahaha); there is no such thing as good porn. It's an oxymoron. Not really, but a fun word to type. A real oxymoron is Jumbo Shrimp and if I have to explain it, then you're too stupid to understand my point in the first place. So, stop reading. So, back to my friend and our conversation; well, I don't remember all of it because I was laughing so hard when she talked about how her vibrator broke and her husband fixed it for her. Damn men like that should get a fucking medal, a fucking medal hmmmm. Maybe there needs to be a sex olympics but, you know, I wouldn't want to watch that, would be just like porn and really, all that does is make me laugh.
When I was about 11, I spent the night at a friend's house. There were actually three of us and we snuck out in the middle of the night because the girl's parents had ON tv and back then, in 1980 ON tv was the HBO of television programming. So, we're flipping channels, looking for something offensive or scary or... and all of a sudden, images come on the screen of people in positions that, even after two months of yoga, I cannot get myself into. Nor, do I want to. Although position number 36 sounds pretty good right about now. Positions, I read a knock off version of the Kama Sutra and interestingly enough, after 17 years of marriage, well, during those 17 years of marriage, even when we were in shape, we couldn't get into some of those positions. So, ON tv, my friends and I were watching these images and I was completely fascinated and disturbed and disgusted by such behavior that after a few minutes, I left the room. I remember not even being able to laugh about it because the thought that sex involved such random body positionings and multiple partners was more than my 11 year old brain could handle. So, we never spoke of it again, but it took a long time for those images to wane. Actually, I think that they are still there, but now they don't bother me. Maybe I am maturing finally. So, porn, good for some I guess, for eleven year olds, not so much.
I've been to sex toy parties where vibrators cost as much a a great pair of running shoes. I've been to Victoria's Secret where, no matter what I try on, I never look like Heidi Klum. I've been to my doctor to ask him what the hell is wrong with me, only to have him say, Where do I start? And, maybe we need to prescribe something. Really I ask? Yes, masturbate more he told me. God, I love my doctor. And so, my discussion with this particular friend continues as we explore the ever changing climate of hitting your sexual peak and what to do about it. I'd ask Dr. Phil but he looks like he never gets laid.
I suppose my real problem here is that what turns me on now isn't the same thing that turned me on then. And I don't just mean physically. I don't care for ambience or dressing it up or playing it down or whatever although if it works for some people and I know it does, then I think that's great. But me, I like words. I like the verbal exchange between people and I'm obviously not just talking about in a sexual situation. There's so much to be said for how a person communicates and I feel a connection with people who are witty and funny and charming and who can put me in my place. And those are the people who I'm attracted to, in life and in sex I guess, if you narrow it down like that. I don't think at any time in my life, other than when I was in my early twenties that I gave so much power to the sexual side of myself. But it really wasn't until now that I understand that it really isn't physical; it's mental, it's emotional and it's spiritual. Sure, the vibrator comes (I did pretty well there) in handy for the physical part, but now, as a woman in her forties, the connection is deeper because I know myself and I understand my body and my brain. I can sense the difference between what I'm attracted to physically and why I wouldn't want that, no matter how many packs are on his abs. It's strange because I can see a really attractive man walk by and... nothing, no reaction but then I can have a conversation with one, or even with a man who I'm not physically attracted to and... good lord, watch out! The neurons are firing. I can't remember being that way before. If that was the case, then I've had sex with about a million men. Maybe that's one of the benefits of getting more "mature," I'm not going to say older, I'm not going to say older. The next time the doctor tells me that he can prescribe something for my condition, I'm asking for Viagra and if my husband doesn't want it, I might be willing to try it, just for a go round.
It's funny too because I'm a romantic. Not dim lights, flowers, soft music kind of romantic, but Casablanca, Gone With the Wind, holds your hand in public, lift the toilet seat up kind of romantic. It's all about the little things. Yesterday, Tim turned to me out of the blue and said, "You have a really pretty face" or whenever he goest to bed at night, he brings me a bottle of water and sets it by my side of the bed, or, he always buys me a card on my birthday or our anniversary or Christmas that is both funny and sappy because he knows that I like them. And, best of all, he always gets me a gift card to buy books, on any occasion because he knows how much I love to buy books. Talk about orgasmic; the bookstore is like my Paradise Island. Words, words, words, wait, I need to breathe. Okay, so, romance. I can appreciate the effort and, most often, it does make a difference.
Ironically, right now, it's not even about the quality of the sex; it's totally and completely about the quantity. Like jackrabbits or newlyweds or those first two weeks of dating. I really mean two hours, but that's just because I'm a total and complete slut. No one believes that about me. It's not true. Just for my alter ego. I'm a normal, obsessive, attention deficited (not really a word), exhausted, undersexed mother who cannot get a handle on her rebellious libido. Part of me wishes that it would just go back to normal and part of me wishes that it would stay like this forever, well, at least until the next stage of my life comes (sheesh)...
I've rationalized this by telling myself that I'm pre-menopausal and that it's just my hormones coming into play. Well, I'm glad something's coming. And, I can't even use the notion of having a baby as a way to get more sex because I've passed that momentous milestone with the tying of my tubes after Ty was born. Come to think of it, I've got to stop typing that word come (shakes head to clear it just then), maybe subconsciously I named that third kid after the procedure that would in fact eliminate the possibility of any other siblings coming (For God's sake) into the picture. Hmmm, I might be on to something (I wish). I need to go and lift some cars.
I was chatting with a friend the other day about this whore-moan phenomena and she likened it to the desire to sleep more; a craving if you will. The body wants what it wants and if it doesn't get it, the want manifests itself in another way. Like addiction I suppose although I don't know what that feels like as my brain has never wanted anything so badly that I actually had physical symptoms from withdrawl. Okay, that's it, I'm going to have to come (Fuck!) up with an entirely new vocabulary to explain my newfound sexual appetite. What a great expression, sexual appetite. As if it can be satiated at this point. Even chocolate isn't sounding so great. So, my friend and I were talking about solutions to this dilemma and also, how to solve other pressing social issues because, after all, there's nothing worse than a lot of horny, angry, frustrated middle aged women walking around. At least I can't think of anything at the moment. A terrible image. I even resorted the other night to surfing the net for good porn (hahahahahaha); there is no such thing as good porn. It's an oxymoron. Not really, but a fun word to type. A real oxymoron is Jumbo Shrimp and if I have to explain it, then you're too stupid to understand my point in the first place. So, stop reading. So, back to my friend and our conversation; well, I don't remember all of it because I was laughing so hard when she talked about how her vibrator broke and her husband fixed it for her. Damn men like that should get a fucking medal, a fucking medal hmmmm. Maybe there needs to be a sex olympics but, you know, I wouldn't want to watch that, would be just like porn and really, all that does is make me laugh.
When I was about 11, I spent the night at a friend's house. There were actually three of us and we snuck out in the middle of the night because the girl's parents had ON tv and back then, in 1980 ON tv was the HBO of television programming. So, we're flipping channels, looking for something offensive or scary or... and all of a sudden, images come on the screen of people in positions that, even after two months of yoga, I cannot get myself into. Nor, do I want to. Although position number 36 sounds pretty good right about now. Positions, I read a knock off version of the Kama Sutra and interestingly enough, after 17 years of marriage, well, during those 17 years of marriage, even when we were in shape, we couldn't get into some of those positions. So, ON tv, my friends and I were watching these images and I was completely fascinated and disturbed and disgusted by such behavior that after a few minutes, I left the room. I remember not even being able to laugh about it because the thought that sex involved such random body positionings and multiple partners was more than my 11 year old brain could handle. So, we never spoke of it again, but it took a long time for those images to wane. Actually, I think that they are still there, but now they don't bother me. Maybe I am maturing finally. So, porn, good for some I guess, for eleven year olds, not so much.
I've been to sex toy parties where vibrators cost as much a a great pair of running shoes. I've been to Victoria's Secret where, no matter what I try on, I never look like Heidi Klum. I've been to my doctor to ask him what the hell is wrong with me, only to have him say, Where do I start? And, maybe we need to prescribe something. Really I ask? Yes, masturbate more he told me. God, I love my doctor. And so, my discussion with this particular friend continues as we explore the ever changing climate of hitting your sexual peak and what to do about it. I'd ask Dr. Phil but he looks like he never gets laid.
I suppose my real problem here is that what turns me on now isn't the same thing that turned me on then. And I don't just mean physically. I don't care for ambience or dressing it up or playing it down or whatever although if it works for some people and I know it does, then I think that's great. But me, I like words. I like the verbal exchange between people and I'm obviously not just talking about in a sexual situation. There's so much to be said for how a person communicates and I feel a connection with people who are witty and funny and charming and who can put me in my place. And those are the people who I'm attracted to, in life and in sex I guess, if you narrow it down like that. I don't think at any time in my life, other than when I was in my early twenties that I gave so much power to the sexual side of myself. But it really wasn't until now that I understand that it really isn't physical; it's mental, it's emotional and it's spiritual. Sure, the vibrator comes (I did pretty well there) in handy for the physical part, but now, as a woman in her forties, the connection is deeper because I know myself and I understand my body and my brain. I can sense the difference between what I'm attracted to physically and why I wouldn't want that, no matter how many packs are on his abs. It's strange because I can see a really attractive man walk by and... nothing, no reaction but then I can have a conversation with one, or even with a man who I'm not physically attracted to and... good lord, watch out! The neurons are firing. I can't remember being that way before. If that was the case, then I've had sex with about a million men. Maybe that's one of the benefits of getting more "mature," I'm not going to say older, I'm not going to say older. The next time the doctor tells me that he can prescribe something for my condition, I'm asking for Viagra and if my husband doesn't want it, I might be willing to try it, just for a go round.
It's funny too because I'm a romantic. Not dim lights, flowers, soft music kind of romantic, but Casablanca, Gone With the Wind, holds your hand in public, lift the toilet seat up kind of romantic. It's all about the little things. Yesterday, Tim turned to me out of the blue and said, "You have a really pretty face" or whenever he goest to bed at night, he brings me a bottle of water and sets it by my side of the bed, or, he always buys me a card on my birthday or our anniversary or Christmas that is both funny and sappy because he knows that I like them. And, best of all, he always gets me a gift card to buy books, on any occasion because he knows how much I love to buy books. Talk about orgasmic; the bookstore is like my Paradise Island. Words, words, words, wait, I need to breathe. Okay, so, romance. I can appreciate the effort and, most often, it does make a difference.
Ironically, right now, it's not even about the quality of the sex; it's totally and completely about the quantity. Like jackrabbits or newlyweds or those first two weeks of dating. I really mean two hours, but that's just because I'm a total and complete slut. No one believes that about me. It's not true. Just for my alter ego. I'm a normal, obsessive, attention deficited (not really a word), exhausted, undersexed mother who cannot get a handle on her rebellious libido. Part of me wishes that it would just go back to normal and part of me wishes that it would stay like this forever, well, at least until the next stage of my life comes (sheesh)...
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