My dancing husband

My husband likes to dance. I guarantee that you will not see him doing the electric slide at a wedding or being the first out on the dance floor at a party. At first I thought he did it as a joke. He would stand up in the middle of our weeknight tv marathon with a beer in one hand while moving his hips in hula hoop fashion. He would giggle like a little kid and then chase Roxie up and down the hall from the kitchen to the living room. Roxie would jump on the furniture; he would jump in place. I, a mere spectator, would laugh.

I know for a fact that his dancing began as a joke but really has become a way for him to release some pent up energy. At first, the nightly dancing was just the two of us practicing our first dance for our wedding. I would be exhausted, content to just lounge in front of the television, while my husband would be jumping up and down begging me to get up and turn and twirl with him to Brad Paisley's "Then." I would, of course, agree, and he would eagerly begin the music. We would perform our practiced dance, sometimes in front of the camera he set up as a video and sometimes in front of the dog, who at that point was just waiting for us to involve her in some twirling. I am convinced that my husband would have practiced that dance twenty times had I not refused after the fifth. Later, he would search youtube for the perfect dance moves that we could incorporate into our choreography.

Like my husband, dancing is also my passion. In fact, on our wedding night I did not leave the dance floor once. I danced to all of the songs. My dancing partners varied and during some songs, it was just me, a glass of champagne and my wedding dress twirling from one end of the dance floor to the other. My husband, of course, refused to dance to any song after our first dance. His friends agreed, nodding, saying that they weren't big dancers either. I just shook my head and laughed, picturing his solo performances in front of the television. In front of his friends, he might be a tough guy. But, Roxie and I knew better. My husband and I both loved to move and shake. But, while I admitted my passion, my husband was a dancer in disguise.

Reflections and Running

I am a firm believer in the importance of reflection. That is the essence of journaling and in modern times, blogging. Thus, I found my experience today at my half marathon quite worthy of reflection. Running has taken many forms in my life. For a long time, it was a drug. I couldn't quite get enough and it seemed to cover or heal any problems in my life. If I had a bad day, a bad breakup, a bad encounter, I would run a few miles, and suddenly I would gather strength as each mile ticked away. Other times, running became that one goal that I could set when I felt like my life had become lacking in goals and the ability to achieve. And so, I would set a distance goal and a time goal and spend my days working to make sure that I would make that goal. Instead of getting A's in classes, I would qualify for Boston. Instead of getting a promotion, which is close to impossible in the field of education, I would PR in my next race. Now, running is different. It is simply a hobby. I no longer need the drug or even the goals. It is instead "what I do on my free time." So, with that said, you can imagine that I have been running fewer miles lately and thus my race times have decreased.

Today, when I was running the Baltimore Half Marathon struggling up the hills at mile 6, when I was walking up the never ending hill at mile 7, I wondered why I couldn't quite make it like I did before. And then, when I was running again as the hills subsided, I realized that running was not the only thing in my life anymore, and that maybe I hadn't trained as I had in previous years. So, I started to have fun. I high-fived a policeman, I shouted at the crowd to yell for the runners, I took a look around at the scenery, and I finished strong. Despite the fact that it was close to my worst race (1:48) and I definitely walked more than I wanted to, I had fun. I was proud of myself for running the race. I was proud of myself for continuing to run even when I was sure I couldn't make it.

Without my reflection of this race, I probably would have thought that the experience was worthless or that I SHOULD HAVE run better. Instead, I looked back at the two hours and realized all of the things I DID do. And I thanked whatever running god is out there for the millions of things that running has done for me.

Picking it back up again

I just read a blog from an old high school friend and it made me want to begin writing again. I suppose I love to write, even if it isn't officially published. I will never shake my passion for the written word. While teaching creative writing helps to scratch that itch, I find that writing myself is most satiating.

My life has changed quite a bit from 2007. I have added a dog and a husband to my family. Both are great companions, and both provide me with so much to "fill me up." I tried to make running fill me up before, and it worked for a short time, but I always felt like something was missing. I tried extra miles, faster runs, additional races, but nothing seemed to work. And so, for my journey into my 30's, for I am no longer in my twenties, I choose marriage...something I have always wanted, but never seemed to find before. And it fits well. I spoke to a friend this summer who describe marriage as "the best and craziest ride of his life." Unfortunately, he got off that ride, but I don't think that he would ever say he regretted it. For me, I find the craziness, but at the same time, I feel stability, and the comfort of knowing that whoever I am and whoever I become will be perfectly and completely accepted. It feels good.

Losing people I never met

Every time I finish a book, I hear a sigh inside of my head; sometimes the sigh is audible and sometimes it is silent, and I feel my breath slow. I almost race to the end, when I can see it and then when I finally reach it and read the last word, I am reluctant to close the book. Closing the book means that the people I have met inside its cover, the characters whose most secret thoughts have been shared with me, the characters who I now know intimately, will never be a part of my life again. Their stories and engagements and connections belong on a shelf now, where once they belonged to me.

I just finished Ann Packer's second new book Songs Without Words. My mind is filled with the thoughts of Sarabeth, the artsy woman whose mother Lorelei committed suicide when she was young and who went to live with her friend Liz's family. I saw myself in Sarabeth, her philosophical view on life, her role as the observer, watching the families around her, while she herself lived alone. I could related to Sarabeth's failed relationships, her search for truth, for intimacy, for connections.

Liz seemed to be the lucky one with the intact family, who took Sarabeth in when her mother died. Liz appeared to have the perfect family with two kids and a husband. Even though Liz now has a completely opposite life from Sarabeth, her life's misfortunes mirror Sarabeth's in a lot of ways. Her daughter Lauren attempts suicide and she has to face as an adult essentially what Sarabeth faced as a child. With the attempt comes a temporary disconnect between Brody and Liz and a lasting disconnect between Sarabeth and Liz.

Brody copes with Lauren's apparent depression by playing tennis in the middle of the night at the courts at Lauren's school. He works. Sarabeth tries to find something inside of her to cope. She doesn't even find out about Lauren's attempted suicide from Liz; instead, Brody calls Sarabeth from the hospital. This crushes Sarabeth, and she and Liz break their friendship.

What is left to say when tragedy occurs? How do we deal with things so permanent, so lasting, so real? These are the questions that all of the characters must face during the book.

What connects all of the women is their art. Liz finally finishes painting a bench that she has started before Lauren's depression; Sarabeth makes lampshades throughout the book and accepts the bench from Liz by the end. Lauren copes by rediscovering her love of art and drawing.

Nothing is permanently fixed by the end of the book. And like life, we as readers wonder if the ties now rebound will remain tied, or if they will unloop once more. The thing is: it doesn't really matter. We are left watching as readers, as Liz and Sarabeth reminisce about their gymnastics show as kids, while they watch the neighbors across the street. And as they watch and the last page is turned, they fade from our lives. And readers, we have lost another group of friends.

Thinking about Time and Old Friends

I could lie and say that I remember college just like it was yesterday, but that isn't true. In fact, college seems like a lifetime ago, like something I experienced in a previous life. Time made sense in college. I always had a roommate, and if she wasn't home, I could always knock on someone else's door. I drank coffee at midnight, sat on the hood of my car to examine stars, and drove up and down the Colonial Parkway in the middle of the night. Those times felt idealistic. I could be anyone and do anything. If I wanted, I could find truth in my freshman hall to the tune of the Macarena, or take a criminology class and aspire to be a sociologist. There were problems in the world, but I could fix them or at least work on fixing them.

Now, it's different. I go to the same job everyday, I live in an apartment with three cats, I spend time with friends, most of whom are married, and the thought of dancing to 80's music in public doesn't even cross my mind. Idealism has been replaced with realism, and I fear that I may never find that truth I've been searching for, or maybe what I'm searching for doesn't even exist. I can't live for the future, because the path has not been created for me, and I am not sure that the things that I want will come into being. I can't knock on a hallmates' door and if I knock on someone's door, I have to worry that a baby might be sleeping.

Today, two of my friends and I will meet one of our good friends from college who now lives in Vegas and is home for Thanksgiving. I have not seen her in four years. I think about the four of us now. She is in Vegas working at a casino. My other friend has just announced that she is pregnant. There are so many things that have changed since college. I am excited to relive some of those years, yet at the same time, I am nastalgic for them, nastalgic for the times when our lives were all on the same pace.

Thankful, Unthankful, Stuffing my Face

You have to love 16 year olds. They really make me laugh. One of the greatest kids I teach came in today and announced that he couldn't wait for Thanksgiving. He said with completely honesty, "I can't wait till Thanksgiving so I can stuff my face and sleep." In fact, isn't that what we all look forward to? But, could any adult be that serious? We may sit at the dinner table and think those same thoughts as we sneak another piece of pumpkin pie or whisper politely if we could have a "small sliver of each." We say the word "small" to convince ourselves and everyone else at the table that we are eating less than them, when in fact, we are really trying to explain why we want two pieces of pie. This kid probably proclaims unapologetically at the table that he wants every type of pie, and people probably smile and admire his honesty and lack of guilt. Sure, Thanksgiving is about family and giving thanks for the things that we do have (and somewhat overlooking for a day the things that we don't), but let's be honest...We all love Thanksgiving because we can eat and eat and eat without anyone noticing and blame all of our weight gain later on "the holidays," as if two days out of a year can make any person gain ten pounds. But, we all do it, and people nod their heads in agreement. "I know," they say. "It's so hard." But, not this kid. This kid disagrees. He tells the truth about turkey day- it's all about the pie.

And so it goes

Today I was a normal person. I was not a runner. I spent the day in my pajamas, guilty about not working out, yet at the same time bored by even the thought of getting on the elliptical. So, I ate soup, drank coffee, and spent the evening at a bar, laughing with newfound friends and trying to remember the last time I felt this "unstressed." In a lot of ways I am terrified of letting go of running, of intense training, of intense control over food and drink. But, when I get a taste of calm life, of laughter without any pretenses, I begin to realize that I need to take everything in stride. And so, here I am on a Sunday night at 10:50, over an hour past my bedtime, trying to reflect on life and my desires and hopes and motivations. I am trying to throw rules out the window, to live how I see fit, to try to enjoy moments, minutes, rather than worry about turning 30 and being nowhere near where I thought I would be. There is a reason I'm here now. There is a reason my life has formed itself around certain people, and has taken the turns it has taken. I don't regret any of that. Sometimes, I just need to remember to feel like this, to feel calm and ready to move where the wind takes me.