On the radio the other day they played Mozart’s Piano Concerto 21 and mentioned that there was a study done somewhere (Sweden? Switzerland? I couldn’t find it) that concluded that women who listened to this specific concerto during lamaze classes and while in labor had a much more pleasant experience giving birth (how they prove this I have no idea). But interesting concept.
So today, I decided to give it a try. Not having a baby, but since I was struggling to produce any meaningful work, I thought listening to Concerto 21 might help me birth out some good results.
So far: not working. But you did get this post. You can thank Mozart and KUSC for that.
Christmas is done, time for resolutions and new levels of productivity and cleaning up the diet after 2 months of figgy pudding and mashed potatoes and See’s Candies.
…and then, three days before New Years, I found out that I’m not going to be able to work out for 2 weeks due to a minor health issue (long story, I’m fine.) Woe is me, time to eat half a pumpkin pie. But after that it was TIME FOR CHANGE. Cleanse the body! Get ahead on work!
…but there are a lot of leftovers the week between Christmas and New Years. And a Breaking Bad marathon. January 1st is a better start date anyway.
…until a trip to Vons for diaper cream and tortillas on New Years Eve (stocking up for a CRAZY night) resulted in me coming home with a one pound bag of Red Vines. Which I am on track to polish off, by myself, in just under 2 days.
So as I sit here on the couch with the first day of the new year already behind us, eating red vines and drinking left over champagne, watching I Love You Man…here’s to better habits in 2015. We can do this. Together.
Monday I had a bad day. If I had to rank them, it would be up there with one of the worst days of 2014. Mid-afternoon I decided I needed to move, so I took Spike up to Runyon Canyon (one of the perks of working from home).
It was nice, the views were cool, no celebrity sightings (boo). I was still kind of in a mood on the way home.
Then, while stopped at a light, I glanced down and saw that the car in front of me had a bumper sticker that said, “Keep our planet clean. It’s not Uranus.”
J1: did you know that one time a guy ate a whole automobile?
M: an automobile? no way. that’s not possible
J1: yes! it’s true! he broke it down and ate it piece-by-piece
M: but…why? why would you eat a car?
D: well because then when someone would introduce you to their friends they’d be like, ‘hey, this is my friend, the one i told you about who ate a car.’
M: why would you want that to be the way someone introduces you?
J2: why eat just a car? why not go for something bigger?
E (joining the table): are you guys talking about the guy who ate the school bus?
M: well, there you go. he totally one-upped the guy who ate the car
J1: it wasn’t a school bus, it was a car
E: no! it was a school bus. his name was hamish mctavish. when i was teaching there was a book called ‘hamish mctavish eats a school bus’
M: they teach that to kids at school? that it’s ok to eat school buses?
J1: i don’t believe it
E (getting up, heading towards the computer): look, i’ll show you. i think he ate everything except the tires
J2: of all things to stop you from finishing a school bus…
E: OH MY GOD!
E: someone ate a 747!
D: how long did it take him to eat it?
E: it doesn’t say
J1: i wonder if his doctor asked him if he gets enough iron
M: who gave him a 747 to eat?
J2: that would be a bummer, you eat a bus and then find out someone else ate a 747
D: especially because then when you’re friend introduces you as, ‘hey, this is my friend that ate a car’, someone else can say, ‘oh yeah? well my friend ate a 747’
Update: there’s a book about the 747. it is fiction. but apparently some french dude did eat a cessna.
A friend of mine from Kentucky was recently in a bike wreck. She broke her neck and back and sternum in several places (just writing that makes me cringe). This friend is incredibly active, an accomplished triathlete and cyclist, and this setback seriously blows.
Since she is more or less immobilized, she’s started to write (and knit). And of course, because I am a blog whore, I am totally subscribed to her blog.
When I was 19 I was in an accident where I broke a bunch of stuff, including my back in six places, and took a good thump on the head (of which my mother is convinced I never recovered). I was in and out of the hospital/ICU for over a month. Reading her blog of course reminds me.
It reminds me how tough things can get once the initial shock wears off. The isolation and frustration. Being so ready for it to be over. And time ticking by ever. so. slowly.
It reminds me how little you can do to expedite the process. You can’t push harder or work longer or train smarter…the best thing you can do, in fact, is not rush it. That is hard.
It reminds me of the day, about 2 months in, when I got maniacally happy because I tied my shoes by myself. I was on the way out the door to get breakfast with some friends (who, for the record, along with my parents, had loved me and babied me and carried me through this entire episode) when I sat up and announced, arms in the air, “EVERYONE, LISTEN UP!! I JUST TIED MY SHOE! BY MYSELF!” expecting some sort of ovation. Everyone was like, “Whoop…let’s go eat.” But I smiled through breakfast, my sense of accomplishment so real that the feeling lingers 13 years later.
Because it’s not going to happen in one day, or one month, or even one year. It will happen in baby steps. Baby steps that nobody else will notice or care about. But recognizing those for what they are, representative of you moving in the right direction, is important.
I try to remember these things. That celebrating the small steps in life is important. That setbacks are not the end. That adjustments to your life plan is not always a bad thing. That being forced to slow down is hard, but sometimes necessary. That every boring, ordinary day really is a gift.
But sometimes I need a reminder. A reminder that if today is just another boring day to take a second, tie my own shoes, and soak in the ordinary.
I usually hate the hardware they hand out at races. Medals are nice, but what are you supposed to do with them? Hand out a bag or a mug or something with some utility.
So this past weekend I was cleaning out some old boxes and tossed some perfectly good medals from a very fun races right into the recycling bin (though to this day I still don’t know if they are actually recyclable.)
Except this. I’m keeping this one.
Once upon a time I raced with purpose. For a team. Not anymore.
Races are great because they give structure to my exercise routine, give me something to work towards, and I usually go somewhere interesting and do them with friends. In the past 15 years, I haven’t once looked at the psych sheet. These days I race for fun.
in hawaii with friends and one of (3!!!!!) complimentary beers. the best part of the race.
And yet when I find myself standing at the start, amidst the nervous chatter the few minutes before the gun goes off, those old feelings come back. Those feelings from high school and college. Like: Oh no, I have to take a dump. And I feel kind of sick. And WHY am I doing this voluntarily. And maybe I shouldn’t have had that egg sandwich for breakfast.
I can’t help it. Some subconscious monster kicks back into gear. Part of me wants to race. And win.
I don’t know if this competitive nature is something that has been ingrained in me over many many years of playing sports, or if it’s just an inherent part of who I am. But on some level I find it really embarrassing. Do I really need to prove anything to anyone? Why do I still feel this pressure to perform?
And it feeds into a horrible circular conflict I have with myself every race.
manhattan beach pier
Invariably, every race, I hit a certain point and this conversation happens in my head:
“Why puke? Look around! Enjoy! This is beautiful and…you are 34! Get over it!”
vs.
“You are loafing and you know it. Stop using excuses about enjoying yourself not to suffer. This is a race.”
post tahoe relay, 2014. not suffering.
I don’t like being uncomfortable and will go to great lengths to avoid it. But at the same time, hitting a time you didn’t think you could hit, or just out-touching a competitor, is just so. satisfying.
But that that is not why I race.
…and here comes the circle.
So back to the medal. Normally, it’d get recycled. But I’m keeping this one.
I’m keeping this one because it was my first race after having my first baby. It was my first ocean swim after coming back to California, which is and always will be my home. And, of course, my tête-à-tête with Jaws. All of these things carry so much more weight than the numbers on the clock when I crossed the timing pad. If I had gotten DFL, I would still keep it.
foggy smoggy view of century city
Rambulatory Ambulatory 