Accepting

Yesterday my husband and I went for a two mile run.  The temperature was in the low 80’s, it was humid and a light drizzle fell.  I thought it felt like a tepid sauna.  I was determined to give this short run all my energy and see if I could break through a wall I’ve hit recently.  Unfortunately, I had no luck.

Last year around this time, I discovered the “chi” posture in running.  I started running using the posture as much as I could.  It takes a little more effort and although it cut a minute off my 10 minute mile, I had to build up to do it and could only run a mile in that posture.  I wanted to do more!  I wanted to do 5K in 27 minutes.  How awesome would that be? I love finishing in first half of 5K race!  With a 9 minute mile, I could finish in the top half quite a bit!

Things happen.  Poopoo occurs.  The hypochondria kept nagging me, at times knocking me out of exercise completely.  I tried everything to get past it and finally, when the hypochondria kept me from working, I went to the doctor.

After just one test, the problem was found.  I know WHAT is wrong and that helps me mentally, but it has knocked me backwards in my exercise and physical activity.  I know the doc doesn’t want me to run but he would not come out and tell me to stop.  He said being out of shape and overweight would be worse on my back than running.  He advised me not to increase the number of days I run each week and not to increase my miles.

Ok, fine.  My goal of running a 10K is no longer a goal.

So why have I gone from a 9 minute mile to a 12.5 minute mile?  That is all I can do.  I track my running and for the past 8 weeks, all I can manage is 12.5 minute miles whatever  my distance.

My glass is always half full, no matter what, so I don’t berate myself and kick my own ass over this decline in abilities.  I do believe I can get better if I just work at it.  I believe if I lost a few pounds, it would be easier to run.  I have a BMI that the internet says is the high end of “normal” so I know I can lose a few pounds and still be normal.  There’s no worry about me ever being underweight, I love chocolate and BBQ tater chips too much for that.

I need to push myself more.  I get a little winded on the route and I walk for a minute or two.  See, not only do I have the issue with my back, my hypochondria is more involved.  I am anemic.  So I have a good excuse to walk, my cells aren’t getting enough oxygen.  Don’t forget the arthritis in my feet.

So I have all these medical reasons for not running a 9 mile mile, hell, I’ve got enough doctor’s notes to file for disability and take to the bed.

I really want to get back to where I was last year.  But part of me knows that if I don’t, I have to accept the 12.5 minute mile and be thankful I can even do that.  I really don’t want to accept it, but I may have to.

I think every aspect of running is like life in general.  There are things in our lives that we enjoy, that we want, that mean a lot to us.  But what if something happens to take that away or diminish it?  You can beat yourself up over it, bang your head against the wall to change it or accept it and be happy.

There are some that would argue we should never accept less, we shouldn’t settle, we should never be complacent.  I’m not doing any of those things.  I want to do better, but the fact is s you can’t “think positive” your way out of the absolutes in life.   I have friends who have been happily married and then blindsided with a divorce.  What then?  Do your best to make it work, but if it doesn’t, accept it and move on.  What about losing your job?  You have a job you love, coworkers you adore and boom!  You’re laid off.   You have to move forward, but you have to accept your loss.

I’m not really happy about that 12.5 minute mile.  I don’t want to accept it and by George I’ll do my best to do better.  But there are things worse than a 12.5 minute mile that I am not facing right now and for that, I’ll be happy. If I must, I will accept my 12.5 minute mile and just be happy I finished the 5K, no matter what half I’m in.  After all, I still have my glass and it is always AT LEAST half full.

Oh, yes, I’m Lucky

How else can I respond to people who tell me just how lucky I am to get to travel to fun places with work?

I don’t talk to people about where I go and what  I do.  Primarily because I want to be a normal person, just a peep in the hood.  I don’t want people to be intimidated by me or like me for what I “do.”  There is so much more to me that what I do for a living.  I want my friends to know the real me, not the me that dresses up in my work costumes and jets off to foreign places, like Florida.

My neighbor, Mrs. Cravitz, always asks if I’m going out of town.  My theory is that she plans her spy activities for the week and if I’m out of town, that frees her  to spy on other neighbors.  So she checks in with me.  She asked me last weekend if I was going to be home this week.  No, I replied, I would be gone through Thursday.

Of course she wanted to know where I was going and what I would be doing.  I always have snappy answers to questions like this, but since I strive not be a heartless snark, I refrain from answering “to hell to cavort with your momma.”

I told her I was going to Florida on business.  She wanted to know where.  I said south Florida but that was not good enough.  So I told her Naples.

Oh, she was ecstatic!  She’s been there this year!  She started asking me if I would go to this restaurant or that shop and when would I go to Sanibel.   I gave her a pitiful smile and said never as I would be working and would not likely leave the hotel property.

I will admit that it is nice to stay in five star hotels and resorts on business.  But how lucky am I?

I set the alarm for 3:30 am Sunday.  I drug my sleeping ass out of bed and got in the shower.  I quickly got ready so I could finish packing.  At 4:30, I drug my heavy suitcase out of the house and with all my might and my bad back, I slung it into my trunk.  I drove to the airport, it was still dark when I got to the parking lot.

At the check in counter, I endured the stress of trying to check in with Delta for a flight originally booked on Northwest (see previous post).  I hurried through security to the gate to (not) spend just a few minutes before boarding (see yet another previous post).

Arrived in Atlanta, I don’t even remember what I did during that short layover.  Arrived in Fort Myers, hopped in the car and drove fast.  I had to set up a trade show booth by 4 pm and then rush to shower, wash my hair and get all dolled up for the reception that started at 5:30.  No time to do anything other than rush.

The reception lasted until 8:30.  My coworker, the damnyankee, offered to buy my dinner but I was exhausted.  I had been up 16 hours and had consumed 2 glasses of wine by that time.  He acted offended that I said no but he is a damnyankee so I didn’t care.

Monday morning I set the wake up call for 5:30.  Showered, got ready and rushed to the breakfast meeting.  Attended a business meeting and break, schmoozing the whole time.  My email was filling up, I had 4 voice mails and I needed to get to work.  I went back to my room where I worked until 1 pm returning calls and answering emails.  At 1, I slapped on sunscreen and bathing suit and ran out to the beach.  I found a chair, pulled out a book and tried to enjoy the sunshine.

The wind was blowing so hard it kept blowing my hat off.  I choose the novel, Sarum, a story of ancient England, as my beach read.  Dear God, what was I thinking?  Who the hell reads books about human sacrifice practices of the ancient Druids on the damn beach?  Apparently I do.

I didn’t eat lunch, there wasn’t time.  At 3 pm, I went back to my room, reapplied sunscreen, put on running clothes and went for a run on the beach.  Or should I say an attempted run?  The wind whipped sand and salt in my face and contacts.  I’ve never worn contacts on the beach so I didn’t know the salty sweat would cause them to dry out, shrink and suction their dry selves to my eyeballs.  I know now.

My run last all of 20 minutes because that was all I could take.  I grabbed a $25 sandwich to go at the tiki bar and went back to my room.  I showered, washed my hair and took bites of my sandwich as I put on my makeup.  I reported back to the conference for the 5:30 reception, followed by dinner.   At 10:30 I was falling asleep in my chair as my coworker kept poking me with his damnyankee elbow.

I got back to my room at 11 and didn’t have th energy to wash my face.  I set the alarm for 5:15 and went to bed.

Tuesday morning I rose, showered, dressed and gussied up for the 7:15 breakfast meeting.  Followed by a business session and break as my email piled up and 6 voice mail messages registered on my phone.  I left the conference, went back to my room and worked until 3 pm.  I slathered on sunscreen and a bathing suit and headed to the pool with my novel of Druid murder and blood.  I found a nice pool chair in the shade, got situated and promptly fell asleep.

At 4 pm I had to make a decision:  go for a run or a strawberry daiquiris, made with real strawberries.  After a short deliberation, I choose the daiquiris.  I rushed back to the room at 6, showered, washed my hair, got all dolled up and met my damnyankee coworker and 2 clients at the tiki bar for “scooby snacks” and to watch the sunset.  How nice is that?  A gorgeous sunset in a beautiful locale and I’m with clients?

I excused myself at 9, faking swine flu symptons and went back to my room where I set the alarm for 5:15 and went to bed.  I had a break out session the next morning, so once again, shower, get the professional costume on and stand in front of a class of 50 men and tell them what to do.  And while I was doing that, my email box kept growing and so did my voice mail box.

That afternoon there was more work.  Phone calls, conference calls, research, etc.  At 4 pm, I had to stop working.  I was out of deodorant, I had actually used my fingernails to dig out the last morsel of my Dove solid that morning to have enough to get me through the morning.  I still had another conference function and the trip home to get through and I needed deodorant.  My 5-star room had shoe polish, woolite, make up remover, a comb and a loofah, but no deodorant.

Another dilemma was my valet parked car.  It would cost me $10 in tips to get my car and drive a couple of miles to the nearest Walgreens for deodorant.  So I thought about possible solutions.  I believe my ability to be creative with issues and come up with solutions outside the box is what makes me the successful person I am.

I remembered passing a Walgreens just before I turned on the road to get to the hotel.  It didn’t seem to be that far.  I put on my running clothes, put my room key and my debit card in my bra and literally ran to Walgreens.  It took about 12 minutes to get there, so I’m guessing it was just over a mile.  On this particular run, the stress incontinance hit me pretty hard, all the way into my shoes.  I smelled like a sweaty piss pond.  But I had to have deodorant.  I took a few yoga breaths and reminded myself that no one here knows me and I’ll never see these people again.  I marched into Walgreens, sweaty and pissy and bought my deodorant.  Then I ran back.

I showered, got dressed to the nines and descending the stairs for the “formal” banquet  only to see I was one of the few people who took “formal gala closing banquet” to mean “formal gala closing banquet.”  I had on my fabulous black dress and Cole Haan shoes, a velvet wrap and my expensive jewelry.  Most woman had on sundresses and embellished flip flops.  I sat through a very long dinner making small talk with clients and doing my best to be cheerful, entertaining, and engaging.  The banquet just drug on and on…..

At 11 pm, we called it a night and I sprinted to my room.  I still had to pack.  I crawled into bed at midnight and set the alarm for 6.

I got up that morning and quickly got ready.  I drug my 47.5 pound suitcase, rolling briefcase and travel bag down to retrieve my car and speed to the airport.  I left the hotel at 8 am EST that morning.  I traveled all day, pulling up in my driveway at 4 pm CST.  During the travel, the rush to make the connection, the delayed flight and boarding process, I returned calls, answered emails, found time to pee and fill my water bottle at the water fountain. While pulling my rolling briefcase through Concourse A, I felt it.  That deep slow agony in the base of my spine.  THE backache.  Oh shit.  Not now!  I put myself in the positions I learned in physical therapy to relieve the pressure on my protruding disc.  Yes, I looked like an idiot sitting at the gate with my lower back curved inward and my chest poking out and up to my chin.  But I didn’t care.  If people didn’t like that, I could always piss in my pants and see if they like that better.

I was exhausted when I got home.  I could have laid in my hammock and slept for days in the back yard.

But no rest for the weary.  My dear husband was happy to see me and I believe he wanted an attentive wife, not one nodding off while cooking dinner.  So I smiled and kept going.

Yes.  I’m lucky.   I just can’t wait to do this again.  I could just about pee my pants waiting for yet another lucky trip like this.

It’s Over

Dear Northwest Airlines,
After years of a tumultuous relationship, we have learned that even though we sometimes hurt each other for no reason, we do need each other.  It is that need, you for my money and me for your transportation, that we have stuck together through thick and thin. 

You’ve always had the upper hand, you know that, Northwest.  I have been at your mercy.  You have a permanent authorization on my Amercian Express Gold Card.  You have me by the purse.  You have run off many suitors I might pursue by hogging all the gates in Terminal B at the Memphis airport.  With you taking up all the space, no one else could easily get in.  You had me captive and you know it.

I’ve overlooked so many of your mistreatments.  When I have the really bad experiences in our interactions, I look for others to blame, like Infrequent Flyers or Barney Fife TSA agents.  Even though I know deep down that YOU are responsible for so many of my air travel misfortunes, my loyalty to you forced me to look for others to blame.

I realized last month that it was over between us.  I am disappointed that after all the years you called me your Platinum Elite Best Flyer, that you couldn’t even call me to tell me in person that we were done.  No, you took the passive agressive hurtful coward’s way out of breaking up with me.  You know how I found out don’t you, you spineless ass?  I tried to check a bag and was told I had to pay. 

What?  We had a deal, Northwest!  I was your Platinum Elite Best Flyer!  I do not pay for checked bags!  I was shocked when  the gate agent told me to pony up $15!  Surely this was a mistake!  She pulled up my records and broke the news to me, my heart sank.  I am off your elite list, Northwest.  You ditched me, you threw away the past 14 years of our relationship.  You said, through the gate agent, that I was no longer good enough for you.

How devastating for me to find out this way!  I looked painfully into the gate agent’s eyes, she could see my distress and she had pity on me.  She waived the fee that day to make me feel better but told me we were done.

I spent that flight to Omaha contemplating all we’ve been through, Northwest.  I can’t believe you dumped me like that.  I told you I was willing to stick with you through your merger with Delta.  I did not approve of this merger and I tried to talk you out of it, but you would not listen.  I was still by your side, using only nwa.com for my reservations and giving you that freedom to charge my AmEx card at your whim. 

And this is how you thank me.

I got past it, Northwest.  I reconciled in my mind that we were over, but we should remain cordial to each other.  After all, we still had confirmed plans together and we need to get along so that we both remain professional and unemotional about this break up. 

So, why Northwest, do you continue to treat me like shit? 

I can no longer check in on line.  You tell me in your nasty internet messages “itinerary not found.”  Why, Northwest? 

I tried to check in at your counter and you rebuff me, sending me along to Delta as you no longer wish to deal with me.  What have I done to deserve this, Northwest?

Apparently you have trashed talked me to Delta.  Why?  You send me to Delta for check in at the airport and then you purposefully don’t tell them I’m coming.  They can’t find my reservations.  You have punished me enough!

What used to take 5 minutes is now a battle of 30 minutes in getting checked in.  And you know this, and you know this is just pouring salt into the wound:  my seat assignments are in the back of plane, next to the lavratory where I get to look at and sniff every ass that passes me going to the toilet.  Why, Northwest? 

You could made this easier.  You could have told Delta of my million miles with you, of my Platinum Elite Best Flyer status, of my preference for aisle seats in the front of the plane, but no.  You have chosen not just to break up with me, but make my life hard.

Northwest, I hate you.  You are shitty.  I am glad you are going away and will be eaten by Delta.  Go ahead, trash talk me!  Destroy my confirmed tickets!  I don’t care!  I will rise above your pettiness.  I will build a new relationship, find a new partner and move on.  My life will be better without you in it.

I am moving on.  Although my reputation is shot with Delta, thanks to that creep, Northwest, Southwest wants me.  They have asked me to join them.  I will come out on top.

Guessing

I wish I could read people better.  My manager can sit through a meeting and pick up on body language and nuances that I just don’t see and figure out people.  I can do this to some extent, but not to the extent I’d like to. 

I can pick up the obvious cues, when someone is a an asshole and I’ve got a nice accurate gaydar.  My inability to accurately and completely read people has not served me well in the past as indicated by more than average divorce decrees in my permanent files.

But today I think I did pretty good at reading people and wanted to share my observations.

The place:  Memphis Airport, 6 am, Gate B11, Delta flight to Atlanta departing at 7:05. 

I won’t muss up my clever post with the hassle of getting to the airport that early, you know, the fact I had to get up at 3:30 am and my suitcase was too fat to squeeze into the truck of my new car.  I’ll save that for later.

I sat watching the people arrive at the gate and kept up my eagle eye investigations through our landing in Atlanta at 8:45 EST.

I identified the Infrequent Flyers.  Here they are:

The 60-something man in the patchwork, quilted, seer sucker golf pants in red, orange and pink.  No one wears pants like that in public.  He is either recently single or he played flute in the junior high band and recalls those days as the best times of his life.

The 30-something chick who just crawled out of bed and still had on pajama pants.  Yes, I know 7 am is early for a flight.  If you don’t think you can get your ass out of bed in time to at least put pants on, then just sleep in your clothes.

The 30-somthing chick traveling with her bed pillow as her carry-on.

The older (than me) lady who kept reading her boarding pass as if it were a suspense novel.  She seriously could not put it down.  If she did take her eyes off of it to look up and listen to the pre-recorded announcements, she went right back to reading it as soon as the announcement was over.

The group of women carrying bags of foul smelling food and juggling jumbo cups of coffee from the Lenny’s counter onto the plane along with three carry-ons and recent eidtions of National Enquirer.

The tall nice looking 30-something man who sat in the window seat next to me.  I figured this out when he would not let me get up and let him in his seat, instead he tried to crawl over me, stepped on my feet and nearly kneed me in the chest.

The 40-something lady one row behind and across the aisle from me.  Her ipod was on so loud I could hear it over the engine noise. She was bobbing her head as if in a club trying to draw the attention of a dance partner and her ipod was so loud she could not hear the flight attendant’s announcement to turn off and stow all portable electronic devices.  Either that or she thought she was too cool for the rules to apply to her.

The lady across the aisle from me who pulled out her medium sized carry-on, put it on her arm rest and held it there after the flight attendant told her to put it away.  Perhaps the flight attendant only wanted her to put it away for a minute?  Although whether a person follows the rules or not is not my business,  I recognize unsecured carry-on shit as a danger to my safety in the event of a bad landing or wind shear.  Even something as lame a book becomes a deadly missile in just the right unfortunate airlanding event.

There were numerous infrequently flyers I didn’t single out, but they were all obvious when it was time to deplane.  Instead of following the protocol of allowing those in front of you to get up and go down the aisle first, there was a mad push of people barreeling down the aisle not letting anyone out of their seats.

The 60-something cocky man who blocked everyone else from picking up their valet checked bags off the cart because he couldn’t find his.  He fondled and pulled out every black bag on the cart, and due to his size, blocked the rest of us from getting ours.  I pushed to the front to grab mine and as soon as I got my hand on it, Mr. Obivilous decided to head butt me in the crotch while he wrestled a bag from the bottom shelf.   I hope he enjoyed that.  If I were not deathly afriad of the NO FLY LIST, I would have done something horrible to him in return.  Especially since he didn’t even acknowledge he hit me.

See? I’m doing better reading people.  I picked them all this morning.