Just When I Figured Out Who I Am

(Please forgive the formatting issues. I have no idea what is wrong with it, and I’m pretty sure it isn’t me this time )

My dog changed his name this month, or more accurately, I changed it for him. We moved into our newly purchased home, and along with all of the other address changing activities, I miraculously remembered that I needed to get a new tag for Blue’s collar. At Petsmart I selected an appropriately blue, bone-shaped tag in the self-serve engraving machine and then I began to type in the same words I have typed on that same screen every time I have moved in the past six years: Blue Volle. Then I had to stop for a second. In just months I am getting married. Blue is already the pseudo-adopted son of my fiancé, Mike, but when we get married, it occurred to me, his adoption will become final. To non-pet owners, this might seem strange, but pets actually do have last names. At the vet, on their registrations, and, for many of them, on their tags. I tapped the delete key a few times, and then filled in Mike’s last name. I hit print before I could change my mind, and watched through the glass as the electronic engraving arm screeched out each letter on the metal. It’s official, Blue has a new last name, and it didn’t even require a trip to the DMV.

While I understand that marrying someone comes with the option for a woman to change her last name, that thought has only half-occurred to me on and off over the years until I actually stood there in Petsmart as a soon-to-be-married person. It’s easy for a dog. I just changed it for him, and he is still the same mutt he’s always been.

I’ll be honest, though, I don’t want to change my own. At all.

I am not marrying Mike early in my twenties as was the custom not so long ago. I am 33, and have a 10-year career and a life and an identity, all under the umbrella of the name I already have. I have published work as Cara Volle, and have started a business as Cara Volle, and beam proudly when I am referred to as one of the Volle girls, or the middle Volle sister. When my younger sister got married, she changed her name instantly, and it always felt strange to me to say it. It never rolled off of my tongue or pen, and the dissonance always echoed after I had said or written it. She would always remain a Volle sister to me, but my older sister, who kept her last name, remains a Volle sister to everyone. I always want to be a Volle sister, too, and that is the first reason I don’t want to change my last name.

The other reason is that Mike is the proud owner of a 13-letter monstrosity of a last name. It rarely fits in the allotted space on forms; his email address takes a full minute to type out, and at the request of every customer service person he meets, he has to spell it a minimum of three times, with the tricky double A, and a times-two on S-C-H and then a bunch of other letters thrown in for good measure.

I have a friend who, upon hearing me say Mike’s last name, said incredulously, “His last name is Schnarf-Schnarf?” And while I won’t plaster Mike’s name all over the Internet, I will say that this isn’t far off.

I have frequently seen Mike hand over his driver’s license or credit card, only to provoke the girl behind the counter to stare at it wide-eyed, turn it from left to right in her hands and say something like, “Wow, that is a helluva last name.” That happens to him every single day. Mike has even told me, with a last name like his, that his first name is basically irrelevant. People don’t even notice it. Great. Just what I strive for in life, more irrelevancy.

All humor aside, I think that this name-changing decision belongs to each and every woman who marries, and I think it is personal and that there is not a right answer. We all have our reasons for keeping our names, taking their names, or constructing some combination of the two, or just making something up. The great thing about living in this century is that we can do whatever the hell we want, and I hold that right very dear to my heart.

I have chosen to take Mike’s name, and while there is a large element of biting the bullet involved, I appreciate that it is my choice, and that my reasons can be whatever I want them to be.

I know that my taking of Mike’s name is important to him, and I can respect that he feels that way. He even said, “I don’t care what our last name is as long as it is the same,” which made me respect his feelings even more, although I won’t say that I think he totally meant it. His point was that he wants us to be a family, and to him, a name feels like part of that. That makes me feel a little warm and fuzzy for sure.

Having the same last name as my children is also very important to me. I don’t think it necessarily makes a difference, or that it scars a child in some way to have a mother with a different last name. In fact, I am sure there is a good lesson about strong women with their own identities to be presented in that scenario, but it is a personal requirement, vital enough in my mind to cause me to give up something that I treasure.

I know that I will always be a Volle on the inside, and that I will always be a part of where I came from, part of a family who is hilarious and classy and smart, where sarcasm and hugs are intertwined, and where everyone always gets it and where no one has to prove anything to anyone else. Those are things that never go away no matter what my name is. In addition, I told Mike that I will continue to write under my maiden name and that will be my way to keep a little part of my Volle world in, what is to me, a very big way. As I strive to one day become a published author, I know that I will get to do that as the original me, and I’m pretty sure I can explain that to my future children.

In the meantime, I will stick to planning our wedding and settling into our home and try not to dwell on the paperwork and emotions that will come with changing my name next year, and with that, selling off just a little piece of the person I am. Instead, I will think of my Mike and I a few years down the road, walking off into the sunset hand-in-hand with a gangly child or two and our big scruffy dog. The Schnarf-Schnarf family on their way to living happily ever after.

Why I Tri

I signed up for my first sprint triathlon almost four years ago. It was January, and I was sitting in my cubicle at my old job, my leg splayed out in the aisle next to me encased in a metal brace. It was the armor around my torn MCL that I had damaged while on the ski slopes. I was sad and depressed, and I was 60 pounds overweight, not to mention finding it almost impossible to quit smoking. I felt empty and ugly.

I’m not sure what possessed me to sign up for the race, although I am pretty sure I felt the need to scare myself out of the depression and the pattern of emotional eating that seemed to always accompany my funks. I had previously read about the Tri for the Cure somewhere, but that day I had a sudden surge of guts that caused me to check out the website. It was a sprint triathlon for women only. There would be a half-mile swim. (I hadn’t been in the pool since my days on the high school swim team 13 years prior, and the thought of seeing myself in a bathing suit caused acid to rise into my throat.) There would also be a 12 mile bike ride. (I thought about it as I studied the website some more and realized that the last time I had been on a bicycle was right before I had gotten my driver’s license.) And the last part of the race would be a 3.1-mile run. No problem. I could totally do that. I mean, sure I was out of shape, and heavier than I had ever been before, oh, and my knee was currently in a brace that barely allowed me to walk, but I thought, it couldn’t be that hard. Right? I paid my 85 dollars, and convinced myself that I could accomplish a lot in the seventh months before the race.

Or maybe not.

I spent five out of the next seven months not really doing much of anything except continuing to feel sorry for myself, eating and drinking too much, and complaining about the way I felt and looked, but never owning it and taking action. Two months before the race my friend, Brenna, asked me if I was still going to do it. I hemmed and hawed and said, “I don’t know; probably not.”

And then I made a bunch of excuses. My knee was still bothering me a lot. I needed to get my old bike back from someone I had lent it to. I hadn’t been feeling so great lately. I needed a gym membership with a pool. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Somehow though, she managed to talk me out of the haze I was in and into doing the race. She was signing up, too, and we would tackle it together. She could barely swim; I was vastly unsure of my cycling and running skills. We had two months to figure it out.

My first outing on a bicycle was traumatic to say the least. Brenna and her then fiancé and Mike and I hit the road. All three of them are avid cyclists. Next to that trio, I was a hot mess. I was wobbly and tentative on a hand-me-down bike that was about six inches too small for my six-foot-one, bordering-on-obese frame. I felt like a circus clown cruising around on a child’s tricycle, although I was much less coordinated. My brand new helmet and rolled up yoga pants reeked of my amateur status. As soon as Brenna saw my bike seat, she said, “You’re going to have to get a new saddle.”

Once I realized that a saddle and a seat are the same thing, I asked why. She said, “If you don’t know why when we’re done riding today, I’ll explain it to you”

The brief ride that followed was devastating. I fell just short of having a seizure as each car drove past me. I was in the bike lane, sure, but all I could keep picturing was one false move, me falling sideways into the road, and my head being crushed like a grapefruit beneath the tire of an aggressive Prius. The other three rode ahead of me, going only slightly faster than my snail’s pace of about two miles an hour. They almost couldn’t go slow enough to let me keep up.

When we returned from our ride, which couldn’t have been more than about 6 miles or so, I said to Mike, “I’m going to have to get a new saddle,” and hobbled inside to remove the sandpaper that had seemingly been planted in my underwear

One down.

I dragged Mike to the pool at 24hour Fitness the following weekend, and I was delighted to discover that I could still swim. In fact, I had finally found the one thing I was better at, athletically speaking, than Mike is. Even though putting on my newly purchased, plus-sized bathing suit was depressing, the weightlessness I felt in the water, and the fact that I was still capable of effortlessly gliding through lap after lap did wonders for my severely broken self-esteem. I felt just like myself for the first time in a long time, and the muscles beneath my thick layer of fat felt suddenly useful again. My body was remembering what it felt like to be an athlete instead of a professional depression victim. After swimming for an hour, I reluctantly dragged myself out of the pool, showered, went home, and promptly slept for 10 straight hours. It wasn’t the usual depression-induced sleep; it was a good, tired, earned sleep. While I was sleeping, the old me was just starting to wake up.

Running is the obvious third member of the trifecta. I have always had a weird relationship with running. I actually like it. But I have never been good at it, even when I was really slender. Add 60 pounds to that, and a few more years of puffing on Marlboro Lights, and I was basically screwed.

That first attempt at running will stick in my mind for probably the rest of my life and will keep me from ever becoming sedentary again. I slipped into a pair of XXL sweat pants and a giant t-shirt and put my dog on his leash. My knee was mostly healed, although the strain of weighing almost 250 pounds was still the cause of some occasional pain. With my trusty dog, Blue, by my side, I walked out the door and up the block towards the corner. I told myself that when I reached the corner, I would begin to jog. And that is what I did. As each foot hit the ground, I felt every extra pound that had gathered on my tall body jiggle and jump around. After I heard the smack of Nike to pavement, I would feel the meat of the corresponding thigh continue it’s Jello-like motion for a full second afterwards. A car drove by, and the driver stared openly. Tears started to run down my face as I realized that I must look absolutely ridiculous. I made it one block before I had to stop. My knee was screaming and my lungs were on fire. I walked for about a mile and made another attempt at a run. This time, I made it about half a block and could go no further. This was not going to be good.

Eventually, the day of the triathlon arrived. As I stood in the water with all the other women who were between the ages of 30 and 35 waiting nervously for the gun to start us off, I felt like I was going to throw up. I felt fat and exposed and scared out of my mind about what I was about to do. Then the race started. The water became a whirlpool of athletic 30- to 35-year old limbs and torsos. It was organized chaos, only organized in the sense that everyone was headed in the same direction. I took a foot to the face and got a noseful of water. I freaked, but then realized that my feet could still touch. I thought, I am just going to stand up and turn towards the shore and walk my fat ass the hell out of here. Then suddenly the wake of 100 swimming women picked me up, and I was doing something that I had done naturally my whole life. I was swimming, and I was good at it. I swam past half of the women in my wave, cranked my propeller arms around and around, and felt better about myself than I had in a year.

I finished my swim in a very respectable 19 minutes. The bike and run would be a different story, and it would ultimately take me almost two hours and twenty minutes to complete the race. But complete it I did.

Yesterday, I completed my fourth sprint triathlon. I did it in 2 hours and 2 minutes, feeling slightly defeated because I really thought I was going to break that damn two-hour mark this time. Real triathletes would probably laugh at a time of two hours for a sprint race. It is hardly impressive, and many everyday athletes do it in an hour forty five or less. The elite do it in just over an hour. But I only let myself feel defeated for a few minutes when I remembered that I’m not competing with the elite triathletes of the world. (if I was, I’m pretty certain they wouldn’t feel too threatened) I am competing with the sad, fat girl who started this race three years ago, and I am competing against her with everything that I have. And she is backing down. In this competition, I get a little faster every time. I weigh 47 pounds less than when I first put my shaky toe in that tepid reservoir. I will never touch another cigarette in my life. I can lift heavy things and do hard stuff. When I absentmindedly reach to scratch my arm or leg, I am shocked to find that the flesh is firm and muscular. I sign up for scary things like half marathons and 10k races and then I show up and do it. I log miles and miles running around my neighborhood knowing that the drivers are now staring at my backside in a good, albeit chauvinistic and degrading, way.

Today I turn 33, and I do so knowing that I will never go back to being what I was; I’m in too deep now. Instead of being addicted to ice cream and nicotine, I’m addicted to the endorphins and the runner’s high, and the happy lolling tongue of my dog as we hit mile three. I’m addicted the rhythm and purpose it gives my day and the way it allows me to have an ice-cold Coors Light or two on a summer afternoon without worrying about the calories. I’m addicted to the thought that I will someday raise children who are strong and aware of what their bodies are capable of and who takes risks to see what they can do next. I have more goals to meet along this road: shorter times, longer distances, smaller jeans. There is nothing standing in my way, though. Tri me.

Not Marlo Thomas, But That Other Girl

In the past, I was never one to picture getting married. I never went husband hunting. I never accepted dates with the thought in my mind that I would potentially marry the suitor. I never swooned over white dresses and flowers and never felt even the slightest bit jealous during the seven times I have served as a bridesmaid. I have even been proposed to before in a young, dumb, lovestruck moment, and as young as I was, I still had the wherewithal to say no. Then I broke up with that guy a week later because it was just too much pressure.

I planned on making my own way in the world. Living the single life, getting a couple more dogs and a house with some land, maybe adopting after forty, traveling the world, writing quietly in a sunny corner of my own house, on my own terms, doing things my own way. In fact right now, as I type these thoughts on to the screen of my little MacBook, it all still sounds really appealing.

I’ve changed though.

I don’t know what the life-altering event or moment was, but I have definitely had a serious change of heart. Maybe it was meeting the right guy, or reaching a certain age, or becoming the recipient of a ticking biological clock that I never asked for or expected. Maybe it was seeing my niece and nephew and my best friend’s daughter and how they become more like those people that I love each day— yeah, I’ll take some of that. Maybe it was realizing that sad and scary things are going to happen in life, and while being independent and self-sufficient will always be considered virtues in my mind, I now know that there will be times when I need a true teammate and he needs me back. Maybe it is a combination of all of the above. I just never thought I would turn into that girl, but I think it may have happened while I wasn’t paying attention.

Maybe just a tiny little bit.

Mike and I are going on four years of togetherness. We are in our early thirties. We love each other and want to be together. We share a home and a budget and chores and furry children. We both want children of the non-furry variety. I was ready just to dive in and start with the babies, but Mike thought we should be all traditional-like and get married first. This discussion took place about a year ago. We’ve looked at rings. We’ve talked about potential wedding venues and styles. We’ve talked about the future children we would have, potentially redheaded, and definitely tall, and surely with golden eyes. Daniel (if I get my way) for a boy, Alexis for a girl. These are real discussions we have had. He even screwed himself by setting a deadline, stating “We will definitely be engaged by the end of the year”

Then my friends started to get in on the action.

Mike and I went backpacking in July and all of my friends convinced me that he was taking me out into the middle of the woods to ask me to marry him. I bought into that theory. It made sense, right? Just the two of us and our trusty dog alone in the wilderness. Side by side climbing mountains, making macaroni and cheese, and sipping whiskey from a flask by the fire. The blue skies, the birdsong, the majestic Colorado mountains on all sides. What a perfect place to propose. Ok, except for the shitting in the woods, and the dog romantically sharing our two-man tent. Giant blisters? Check. Dreadlocks forming in my formerly cute hair? Check. Both of us smelling very similar to large farm animals. Check and check. Maybe the backpacking proposal scenario wasn’t the way to go.

A couple weeks later, I raced in a triathlon on my birthday. A girlfriend became convinced that Mike was going to propose as I crossed the finish line. She spun a romantic tale of me triumphing over a major physical challenge on the same day I turned 32, and then being rewarded at the end of it all with a giant romantic and public gesture from my ultra creative and adoring boyfriend. I was horribly sick during the race, and it was 97 degrees outside that day. There were a couple times during the last stretch of the run where I thought I might not make it. The thought of Mike asking me to marry him as I crossed the line pushed me through. As I finished the race, Mike was standing at the line poised to go down on one knee, when suddenly he whipped out his effing iPhone and began telling me what my splits were (worse than last year when I was not in the throes of bronchitis, and when it was 70 degrees outside). My dad stood beside him and said “You don’t look so good, Cara; you’re very red.”

Needless to say, there was no romantic marriage proposal.

There have been other opportunities over the past few months, too, but no such luck. However when the holidays rolled around and Mike voluntarily booked a romantic, secluded, riverside cabin in wine country where we would stay for two nights before heading down to his parents’ house in San Francisco, I knew what was coming. He did this voluntarily. He PLANNED stuff out that didn’t involve purchasing furniture or six hundred-dollar ski boots. He did it all on his own.

I told friends and co-workers that this was it. That was a really dumb thing to do.

Upon arriving in the Russian River Valley, we stopped at the grocery store before heading to the cabin so that we could enjoy a light dinner of wine and cheese and fruit and dark chocolate. It was all very romantic. I began to analyze every move furiously. I applied lipgloss approximately every three minutes. I fussed with my hair and tried desperately to make my 22-hour-roadtrip sweatpants look as sexy as possible. We sat in front of the fire. We sat in the hot tub. We snuggled up on the couch. We gazed into each others eyes. And then… nothing happened. Except for that I started to get a little tired of being so polite and ladylike.

The next morning we were going to taste wine at several vineyards. I put on a little extra mascara and actually blew out my hair.

I wasn’t real smart at the first tasting. Mike was buying wine from the guy behind the counter, and apparently when they find out you’re buying, they start to get a little more liberal with the pouring. I was really enjoying myself. I was sampling champagne and pinot noir one after another, a lethal combination. As we were leaving, I stated tipsily that I needed a sandwich to which Mike replied, “You are so cute.”

Ummm, just for the record, neither one of us say things like that very often. I mean we both dish out the compliments on a regular basis, and we are affectionate and loving, but we really don’t dote that much. I knew it was a sign. But first, I needed that sandwich.

That night, back at the cabin, we cooked together and talked and laughed and joked around the way we do all the time. After all that fun, we went to sit on the couch in the living room in front of the fire. Mike dimmed the lights and handed me a glass of wine. I got super nervous. This was it. I was going to get engaged right then. I was going to say yes and spend the rest of my life with this crazy redhead whom I adore. I was going to get jewelry! Mike sat down next to me, threw his arm around my shoulders, kissed me haphazardly, half on my cheek, half in my hair. Then he said the words I will never forget.

“Packers-Bears have Monday night, wanna watch?”

And under normal circumstances my answer would have been a resounding yes. Do you know why? Because unlike so many other women, I actually know football. This alone should be grounds for proposal! But alas, it was not to be. And so I did what any other low-maintenance, sports-loving, marriage-quality girl would do. I shrieked at him. And I teared up. And I became everything about being a girl that I have always hated “What in the hell are we doing here? We came here to watch FOOTBALL!?!?” I was aghast and Mike was, well, he was simply floored. Needless to say, it was a long discussion that followed.

His beloved Packers lost to Chicago that night, and I lost the game I had been playing with my own emotions. I admitted defeat, and gave up trying to control everything. I am not proud of my behavior. I am not that girl. Adding insult to injury, a girl who is dating one of Mike’s buddies told one of my best friends that all I talk about is getting married. I don’t think she realized she was talking to one of my closest friends and that it would get directly back to me, and you know how girls can be sometimes. But still, as a smart woman with what I believe is a lot to offer intellectually and conversationally, it stung a little bit to hear that. (in my defense, another girl at the table had just gotten engaged, and we were on the subject, but whatever)

So, I am going to take a moment to write my own vows. Only these aren’t wedding vows.

I am vowing to let it go.

I vow to not mention weddings or marriage to Mike or to anyone else until I actually have a wedding and a marriage to plan. And even then, I will keep it to a bare minimum, because everyone knows that girl, too.

I vow to wait patiently for what I know will happen in due time, even though it makes me feel like one of the secretaries from Mad Men waiting around for a man to save her. Still, I vow to enjoy the moments we have together as a young, childless, unmarried couple while I still can.

I vow to not again, in passing, say things to Mike like, “Did you know that babies born to women over the age of 35 have a forty per cent increased chance of Downs Syndrome?” and then glide effortlessly out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

I vow to be the low-maintenance girl he loves, and I vow not to put pressure on him.

I vow not to be that girl anymore.

Till death do I part.

Never Let Them See You Sweat

It’s official. I have to switch gyms.

I have mentioned before how I always feel awkward at the gym, but last week, I really took that to a new level. I went straight to the gym after work and actually felt kind of pretty strolling in wearing a cute dress, control top pantyhose, and sassy heels, my Nike gym bag slung ever-so-casually over my shoulder. I walked straight back to the locker room, changed into my workout clothes, and got ready to hit the floor. I realized that I had forgotten a ponytail holder. This wasn’t a HUGE deal, not like forgetting running shoes, or even a sports bra, however, it still takes away from the sanctity of a workout when you have wet, sweaty hair stuck to your face and neck. I decided that I would go to the front desk and ask for a rubber band thinking that having a few broken hairs would be a fair trade for keeping my mane out of my face for the next hour. First though, I had to pee.

The bathrooms at 24Hour Fitness are not always in the best of shape. So while I am not normally a huge germ freak, I do take serious precautions at the gym in order to protect my nether regions from horrible locker-room concoctions like staph and athletes’ foot. So, I spread toilet paper liberally on the seat before sitting down. (my bad knees just can’t handle the squat method)

After going to the bathroom, washing my hands, and shutting my locker, I strolled towards the front desk to ask if they had a rubber band I could have. They did not, so I decided I would check the depths of my gym bag pockets one more time before resigning to a sticky workout. As I was walking back towards the locker room, I absentmindedly reached to scratch an itchy spot on my lower back. That is when I discovered that I had about three feet of toilet paper hanging out of the waistband of my workout pants and trailing behind me like a cheap wedding dress.

Devastation ensued.

I had paraded through my crowded gym with a toilet paper tail while the onlookers could only stare, rather than graciously stopping me. And who were these girls in the packed locker room who let me walk out like that?

As I yanked the TP from the back of my pants, I looked up to see three guys standing together in front of the water fountain all staring at me with smirks. I disappeared into the solace of the locker room and hung out in the doorway for a minute pleading with my cheeks to go back to their normal color. It took every ounce of courage I had to go back out into the gym for my workout, but I did it.

After the first five minutes on the elliptical with my hair already plastered against my neck, one of the smirkers from downstairs hopped on the machine next to mine. I looked up. He smirked again. I rolled my eyes. And then I proceeded to do what any self-respecting woman would do in this situation. I kicked his proverbial cardio ass.

I looked at his screen and, with purpose, set my cross-ramp higher than his. Then I upped my resistance so that he looked wimpy by comparison. He looked at my screen and turned up his cross-ramp. I only cranked mine higher. He started going faster. I zoned out on my “best-workout-mix-ever” playlist and got my pace up about three times faster than his. When he got off 30 minutes later, I went for ten more minutes, completely aware of his stares from across the room. I finished my workout and walked out on wobbly legs, smirking at him where he was sprawled innocently on the ab roller.

“Take that!” my smile said, “This is MY gym! I will wear my toilet paper proudly, and I will beat you at any machine out there! Bring it!”

In what can only be a moral to this story, I spent the rest of that evening feeling like crap from over-exerting myself and suffered from a pulled muscle for the rest of the week.

Totally worth it.

Dear Michael Phelps

Dear Michael Phelps,

This isn’t a fan letter, so don’t go getting any ideas. I’m a little too old for that. It isn’t a letter resulting from a schoolgirl crush either, although I will admit that I have a grown up appreciation for your goofy ears and puppy dog eyes and probably wouldn’t kick those sinewy legs and torso out of bed for eating crackers.

But I digress.

This is, quite simply, a thank you letter. I was raised the right way and know to send a thank you in return for something I’ve been given; and you, my aquatic friend, have given me something. Maybe you’ve given it to many more than just me, but I really see its value and just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for getting me back in the water.

My triathlon was over just a week before the Olympics began, and in the same tradition as my triathlon last year, the end of the race seemingly marked the annual hanging-up of my cap and goggles until training begins again next summer. I’ll still ride my bike and go for a run on a fairly regular basis, but the swimming always seems like too much of a pain.

Then came 08-08-08 and along with it the buzz that surrounded your attempt at a record-breaking eight gold medals. The spotlight was all over you, and swimming was suddenly cool again. What was the coolest about it for me, though, wasn’t necessarily the racing or the world records or the amazing hundredth-of-a-second finishes. For me it was all about watching you before and after the races. Sitting at the end of the lane, crouching against buoyancy with shimmering turquoise lapping at your neck, hanging over the lane-lines to talk to your buddies. You belong in that water. I used to, too.

Being raised in a single-parent household meant that my sister and I were also partially raised by the Village Seven Swim Club. My mom was a nurse who worked nights and needed to sleep during the day. During the school year this was the perfect schedule, however, when summer vacation rolled around, my mom had to get creative. The pool was within walking distance of our house, open from 6am to 8pm, and had lifeguards on duty at all times. For fifty dollars a month, she could send my sister and I down the street and know that we were happy and taken care of all day.

We donned brightly colored bathing suits, Courtney taking pride in the fact that hers was one of the few pieces of her wardrobe that wasn’t handed down from me. This was because a suit would never last us more than one summer after being worn every single day subjected to the chlorinated chemical warfare, our little butts barely covered by the threadbare material that scraped across the cement each time we lifted ourselves out of the pool. We looked like alien children with our green hair and chocolate skin and sturdy quadriceps muscles. We thought we owned that pool.

I was on the Village Seven club team for the first time the summer between the fourth and fifth grades. I was a backstroker from the start, a five-foot-six nine-year old built like a toothpick wearing a backpack. I was an average swimmer relative to my team.

I made the high school team, too, but was still average. 100 meter backstroke, 200 meter backstroke, the team’s only backstroker, but still just average in the grand scheme of high school sports. There would never be any state titles, never any Olympic dreams, and never anything to write home about. Once high school was over, I basically forgot about swimming.

I signed up for a triathlon last year as a goal to help me rehab my knee. Later in the training than planned, I went to the pool at 24Hour Fitness and jumped into the water for the first time in over ten years, just to make sure I could still swim. Mike got in too, although he had never spent much time swimming.

Weightless in the water, I suddenly felt at home again. Not chubby, not injured, just at home. I stroked out three quick laps then stood to look for Mike. I squinted though my goggles to see him hanging on to the edge of the lane at the other end huffing and puffing. I glided 25 meters underwater and came up for air right in front of him. The man who has beat me handily at every single sport, who leaves me in the dust on every mountain trail and ski slope, the man who has climbed Kilimanjaro and played soccer for 25 years asked me “How in the hell can you do that?” I grinned at him. Later during that same workout, an elderly woman doing water aerobics in the corner of the pool asked me in a thick Eastern European accent if I had been a “stet chomp-ee-yun”. I laughed and thought of my mediocre high school career. Had I actually gotten better in all of these years of swimming apathy? I strutted into the locker room with my head held high, but then I practiced for a few weeks, competed in my triathlon, and for some reason forgot about swimming again.

Keep listening, Michael Phelps; we’ll get back to you here in a second.

A few weeks ago, I had drinks with an old high school friend whom I had randomly found on Facebook. She was a standout on our high school swim team, and during the course of our feverish catch-up conversation I asked her if she was still swimming at all. She said no, and it shocked me in a way. But then she went on to talk about how it ruined her hair, and was so time-consuming what with the multiple showers and wet towels and musty locker room showers. I totally related, knowing that part of swimming sucks.

A few days later, I raced in this year’s triathlon while suffering from a chest-cold and sadly added almost four minutes to my time from last year. I raced, vowed to get ‘em next year, then hung up my cap and goggles, leaving those musty locker rooms behind for awhile.

Then I saw you. Crouching in the end of the lane, eyes upturned towards the scoreboard, waiting on the results of your first semi-final with chlorine-laced water flowing freely into your open mouth. You were almost breathing it in. Like a fish.

I could taste that water. I could suddenly remember the way it felt to be at home in the water. Not even just the way it had felt last year in my tiny moment of fame with the old ladies at the gym. You made me remember the glory days of swimming. For some reason watching you made me think of those late summer afternoons at the VSSC. I could remember my red, burning eyes, and my squeaky brown skin. I could smell the hot pavement mixed with chlorine, taste the melty PB and Js that my mom packed for lunch. I could even remember the swell of responsibility I felt in being in charge of my sister everyday, always making sure to keep an eye on her in the pool. I haven’t thought about those days in years.

I don’t know what it was about your focused, calculated journey to victory that made me think about my lackadaisical, childhood dog-days at the pool. I think I just saw something in your eyes that said “this is still fun.” Whatever it was, I came home from work yesterday and decided to go for a swim.

I packed my bag. With towel and shampoo, and ultra-moisturizing conditioner. And comb, and lotion, and underwear and shower-flops. I pulled my cap and goggles down from their proverbial hang-up all the while praying that my (completely unnatural) blonde hair wouldn’t turn green. I got to the pool, jumped in, and powered through a few laps then stopped for a drink of water from my bottle at the end of the lane. The guy in the lane next to me had been swimming slow physical-therapy drills with a kickboard when he stopped and looked over at me. “Were you some kind of state champion or something?” he asked. I just laughed and told him “Let’s just say I’m no Michael Phelps”

I think I’ll go back tomorrow. So thanks.

Sincerely,

Cara Volle

Photo courtesy of LA Times

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From WW to WTF

My blog buddies, KatieO, Crabby McSlacker, and ThickChick have fabulous fitness/weight-loss/health blogs that I read daily and use as inspiration in my quest to lose weight. I soak up their advice and great ideas and funny stories, and even steal recipes and awesome workout playlists, and I use these things to my advantage. But I never pay them back, except for with the occasional witty comment. (if I do say so myself) So, while my blog is not based on fitness and weight-loss, I am going to attempt to return the favor with a health-related post of my own. Except that this post probably won’t be that helpful or inspiring. And I definitely don’t have any advice. And I can’t promise funny either, so don’t go getting your hopes up or anything. Basically, I’m just going to bitch a little bit and hope that you all understand. Then I will direct you to their real fitness blogs for something that is actually helpful and motivating.

For those who read fairly frequently, you know that I gained forty pounds last year. Yeah, four-OH! And this may be a big shocker, but I’m not happy about it at all. At over six feet tall, I have never been petite, and have always considered myself somewhat athletically built. I’ve always had hip and thigh meat, and my calves are a little bit on the manly side, all of this completely contrasting with my tiny, tiny nearly-A chest. The smallest I have ever been is a size ten, and that is when everyone told me I was “too skinny.” I am currently a size 16, but I am very happy with my body, and will even venture out in a bathing suit at a size 14. I’m built to be a larger girl, just not quite this large. One pants size away seems so close, but when you are very tall, it takes a lot of pounds to change your pants-size. That is why I never noticed that anything was amiss on the way up. The way back down is proving to be much more difficult, and I am definitely noticing.

My goal is to remove this forty pounds from my jeans and return it to from whence it came, in this case to the place where they make really good cheeseburgers. And beer. And wine. Since it is not actually possible to just drive around and drop off your unwanted pounds where you got them, at the local greasy spoon, the bar, or the ice cream aisle of the grocery store, I realized it was time to get real.

Five weeks ago, I joined Weight Watchers online. I did not join the in-person version of WW, because I do not like the meetings. I am not knocking them; I realize that for some people, the meetings are the most important part of the program and what makes it work; like AA for alcoholics. However, when I tried WW four years ago, just to lose ten pounds with a friend, I got sort of annoyed at the meetings. Everyone was talking about food. One woman asked “It says a half a cup of carrots is zero points, but what if I want to eat a whole cup of carrots? Is that still zero points?”

I was sitting there thinking (and biting my tongue to keep from saying) “Uh, lady? I’m pretty sure that overdosing on carrots is not the reason any of us are here”

I also didn’t like the weigh-ins at the meetings. Maybe I am weird in the fact that I don’t really like to be cheered on about my personal issues. When I ran a triathlon last year, I looked up as I was on the homestretch of the run to see three friends standing on the sidelines, friends whom I completely did not expect to be there, and I was ecstatic; it made my day and pushed me that much harder. But when a lady I don’t know said “Great job, Cara” (pronouncing my name wrong) and then tried to hug me after I showed a half a pound loss at a weigh-in, I just wasn’t down with that. It felt like such an invasion. I didn’t want to sit there in a group of people talking about my weight, and what I ate, and how much I exercised, which back then was very little. I didn’t want anyone to clap for me when I was down one pound. I didn’t want them to flash me a smile, which may have been genuine, but which I perceived to be a portrayal of fake joy at my trivial weight loss. Even when Mike makes a comment regarding my improvement, I feel the urge to ask him to please hold his compliments until the end, when I will feel as if I am deserving of them. Losing weight is a really private battle for me. Which is why I am babbling about it on my blog where I tend to air all of the other weird, personal shit I go through. The answer is yes, and the question is “Is nothing sacred anymore?”

The online version of Weight Watchers is pretty handy. You can track all of your “points” right on the computer with access to the vast database of food values. You can still have a drink or two if you want, and lightning does not strike you if you eat a Girl Scout Cookie. Plus, my favorite part is that you can log your workouts to earn additional points for more stuff to eat. It’s sort of like online banking. You know how much you have, and as you spend, your balance goes down, but you can also make deposits by going to the gym. I like the system, and I have done pretty well.

I was meticulous for the first three weeks until President’s Day weekend hit, and I found myself splurging for most of it. I didn’t track my points all weekend, in effect kind of taking a little break from the plan. It turned out ok, though. Tuesday morning, when I weighed in, I was down another two pounds for a total of a twelve-pound loss. Nice. Even with a little bad behavior, I still got the reward. Not so this time. This week, I was perfect all week, worked out four times, and even went skiing, which earns you some major points. This morning when I weighed in, I was up a pound. SERIOUSLY???

When I sadly logged in my increase into the system, it said something like this:

“Sometimes a gain is a normal part of the overall weight-loss process”

It was the virtual version of the lady at the meeting offering me a hug and a fake-ish smile, only this time, she was patting me on the back, saying “It’s ok, Car-uh, you’ll get ‘em next week”

I know, I know. I understand health and fitness, and I know that you sometimes have to gain to lose, but I am still a little bit pissed. I am a big eater, and I have been hungry fairly consistently for the past month, but losing five and then ten pounds made me forget about it. I don’t want to let this increase get me down. I do not want to throw in the towel. In fact, I have been really careful all day, but I also can’t help but think whenever I feel a tiny little hunger pang, that my scale went UP this week. UP! And here I am eating a cup of carrots.

KatieO and ThickChick always seem to be so positive with themselves if they happen to show an increase for the week, or if their jeans are a little snug. I am going to try to follow in their footsteps and keep on trucking. But still, the damn thing went UP! ARRRRRGGH!

In my annoyance, I will share with you some lessons I have learned on my weight-loss journey thus far:

Under no circumstances is it a good idea to save up all of your WW points for alcoholic beverages. After two drinks, you will be tipsy and starving, begging someone to drive-you-thru the nearest Wendy’s, whilst rocking back and forth and clutching dollar bills in your sweaty fists.

Being hungry is very similar to being PMS, or quitting smoking. You have the potential to get just a tiny bit snotty over insignificant things. They should make a t-shirt you can wear stating that you are slightly unstable and prone to lashing out due to being on a restrictive diet. This might really help with your co-workers and loved ones.

Weight-loss begins at the edges of your body and then works its way in. Just because your face and ankles are beginning to look super-slender, and your ring is loose, it does not mean that you will automatically fit into last year’s jeans.

When you try on last year’s jeans, and they still do not go over your ample hips, it is not ok to throw a tantrum. People think a pants-less thirty-something woman kicking, screaming and crying on the floor is just plain weird. At least that is what I’ve heard.

No male person will understand what you are going through. Men who try to explain the intricacies of weight-loss to you, including a paragraph on what works for them, should be incarcerated until you reach your goal weight. You do not need that kind of crap right now.

And finally. The number of pounds you need to lose in order to receive an appraising look and a “Hey, cutie!” from a fast-moving, 20-year old snowboarder wearing pants with flames on them is equal to however many I was down on Sunday. Seriously, if you are out there, kid, I would like to thank you for keeping me going on my quest. I am way too old for you, and taken, but damn I needed that!

Back to the weight-loss blogs, and more on this subject when I’m back into those jeans.

Bless You

I have mentioned before my uncanny ability to embarrass myself in just about every type of public situation (try here, and here, and here). This time, though, it totally wasn’t my fault.

After an uncharacteristically crazy Friday night, we left my car downtown and took a cab home. At the time it was a great idea, but then upon waking the next morning, we vaguely remembered the conversation we’d had with my friend the night before. Mike’s car was in the shop, so she said that she would come get us the next morning and take us back down to get my car. It was already 11:00 when we finally rolled out of bed, and she was on her way to get us. We hurriedly dressed in our Saturday morning best, each donning jeans and a sweatshirt, Mike in a ball cap, and me in a straggly ponytail and the biggest sunglasses I could find. Definitely not our finest hour. My friend picked us up and dropped us off downtown where we began walking the block to the parking garage where we had left my truck so many hours before. As we walked in front of Zaidy’s, a delicious Jewish deli on Market Street, we realized we were both ravenous and decided to go in for a sandwich before we picked up our wheels.

The hostess sat us in a booth right up front, and although I didn’t argue, I would have much preferred a back-corner table where I could hide my unwashed hair and the remnants of Friday night’s mascara. We ordered Diet Coke and coffee and lots of water and sandwiches and fresh-cut French fries.

Mike and I traded sandwich halves, as is our tradition, and ate our late breakfast while joking around about the prior night’s goings on. We waited patiently for the caffeine to take effect. About halfway through our meal, the hostess sat another couple in the booth directly next to ours. I was facing the man; Mike and the woman were back to back.

This couple did not look like they had spent Friday night drinking more than their livers were ever intended to process. In fact, they had probably played backgammon in front of the fire, maybe enjoyed one glass of wine, and then they had turned in early; that was the only explanation for how prim and proper they looked. They were here at Zaidy’s at 11:30 for their second meal of the day, not their first, and they had most definitely showered before leaving their house. The man’s shirt and jeans were both professionally pressed, with straight, crisp creases trailing the lengths of both his arms and legs. The woman was equally cleaned and starched, not a hair out of place in her puffy early-90’s-ish coif. They smelled of Old Spice and Chanel Number 5, and they looked convinced, after taking us in, that they had been seated next to a couple of vagrants. They were politely trying not to stare, but not completely succeeding.

After the couple placed their order, our server moved on to us, deftly picking up our dishes and dropping the check. This is when Mike got greedy. Because of our seating position directly at the front of the restaurant, Mike had a straight-line view into Zaidy’s famous pastry case. He was eyeing the apple strudel, and I agreed that I wouldn’t mind a couple of bites of the huge Snickerdoodle. We flagged down our waitress, and she went off to grab our pastries and adjust and run our check on my debit card. She brought back the card and receipt and a paper bag with the warm sweets inside.

Mike picked up the bag of pastries and stood, walked two steps to my side of the booth, and reached out to help me. I handed him my to-go box containing a half a sandwich, then asked him to hold my credit card and the receipt while I gathered up my purse and jacket. He was standing directly over me with his hands full as the waitress passed behind him. This is why, when he felt that familiar urge, he neither covered his mouth nor turned away. Just as I was standing up with my purse in hand, my boyfriend released world’s largest sneeze directly on to my face. My bangs flapped in the substantial breeze, my face was soaked, and the sunglasses perched on top of my head were covered in droplets of God-knows-what. I looked right up at him, incredulous, touching my face and head. “What the hell was that?” I screeched at him.

As Mike started to defend himself, I looked up to find Mr. Backgammon wiping his face, clearing it of the soda he spat upon seeing my boyfriend attack me with a germy WMD. His wife was completely turned around in her seat, staring at us, trying to figure out what had happened. The man, who had looked to me like the type who might have been completely offended and disgusted by what he had just witnessed, couldn’t stop laughing long enough to explain it to her.

I dragged Mike out of the deli and we laughed all the way down the block and into the parking garage, our shrieks echoing off the walls.

One of these days we will learn how to behave in public. However, until we do, I’m really glad that we can spread joy to the people of Denver.

P.S. I hope that guy gets as much mileage out of this story as I plan to.

Good Morning, James. Or May I Call You Gym?

I’m not sure whose genius idea it was to start lifting weights in the mornings before work. Oh wait, yes I am sure; it was Mike’s idea. I was an innocent, yet agreeable bystander. I want to lose weight, so I have been working out and eating right for the most part, but finding time to lift weights has been almost impossible. I can run on the treadmill or ellipse on the elliptical in the tiny gym at my office after work. It’s free, and I can still be home by six. Plus, very frequently, I am the only one in there, which allows me to sing aloud with my iPod while running and pondering why the other 800 occupants of my building don’t take advantage of the gift-horse that is free cardio. However, if I want to lift, I have to go to my real gym. The gym that I pay 45 dollars a month to use, which, if you do the calculations during my bad months, can bring the grand total per workout to right around $15.

I know that lifting weights is the quickest way to lose weight and increase energy and make my backside smaller, but (whine!) I hate it!! I hate being on the weight floor with all of these machines that I cannot seem to remember how to use, and the five hundred floor-to-ceiling mirrors that allow me to see my sizeable ass at every angle. Sometimes I drag myself away from my own personal butt-obsession-trauma only to look up and make eye contact with someone who is actually LOOKING at me! This is not OK with me. I don’t want anyone to look at me while I struggle through my workout. On the treadmill, I can plug in my iPod, zone out, and just go, staring straight ahead into my thoughts. If people want to look at me then, more power to them. No one will come up to me and ask if they can rotate in while I am on the cardio machines like they do while I’m using the freemotion rower. I’ve let people work in before, watching helplessly as they casually switch my 30 pound pin to their 900 pound pin with a smirk or a smile. On the treadmill, no one realizes how fast or slow I am going. No one is paying attention to the incline level I have set for myself on the elliptical, or the fact that I go a little faster to Bowling for Soup than I do for Kanye West . In the cardio room, I am on my own, and that is the way I like it. But, I know that I have to pump the iron if I want to get back down to my fighting weight.

I made the mistake of complaining to Mike about how I never have time to lift. Our gym is packed to the gills between 5 and 7:30 on weeknights, and if we go at 8 or 8:30, we come home late, get into bed, and then just lie awake all night, our muscles tingling, the endorphins still coursing through our veins. We were down to only one option, and I cringed as I watched it come into his mind. “Let’s start going three mornings a week before work,” he said, overflowing with child-like innocence.

I laughed openly at him.

Don’t think I’m mean; it was only funny because it was not the first time that he and I decided to implement morning workouts into our busy lives. In the past two years, we have probably decided five different times that we were going to commit to going to the gym, running with the dog, or even just stretching in the mornings before work.

In our carefully thought-out plan, we would get up at five ready to greet the day, then we would workout with big smiles on our faces, evidence of our love for each other practically oozing from every pore. We would kiss goodbye on the gym floor, hit the showers by 6:30, and be at our desks ready to productively face the day by 7:30. Not only would our bodies look better, but we would feel better and be more successful! Working out in the morning would solve all of our problems! We would become a power couple with toned triceps and monster paychecks! This was going to be the best thing that ever happened to us!

(end dream sequence)

What we always realize after we agree on these idealistic plans is that, when given the choice between an energizing, healthy, pump-you-up morning workout and sleep, sleep wins every single time. We would workout in the morning once or twice, and then, we would begin to take turns groggily talking each other out of getting up until it was eventually completely phased out of our routine. I agreed to Mike’s plan once again, but I told him I was really serious this time.

I do love lifting weights with him. While I am totally lost in the weight room, Mike knows every machine like the back of his hand. How it works, what it works, and how much each of us should lift on it. I think in fifth grade, when they pulled the girls aside to tell them about getting their periods and making babies, that the boys must have been taken to they gym for a crash course on how to use the Nautilus machines. This would also explain why so few of them understand women.

So anyway, it was decided that Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays we would get up at 5:15 to be on the weight room floor by 5:45. Here is an excerpt from my workout journal explaining how things are going thus far:

Day One of Hell- It’s Tuesday. We both wake up to the grating iPhone alarm. You may already know how I feel about the iPhone, but hate takes on a whole new meaning at 5:15AM. We stare at each other for a full twenty seconds before silently throwing the covers back and getting out of bed. Neither of us says a word to the other, although I do sigh violently and dole out a crusty when he accidentally bumps my arm while reaching for his toothbrush. We dress in our workout clothes and sling our respective “getting ready for work” bags over our shoulders. Mike’s bag is about one tenth the size of mine, and for some reason, this makes me mad at him. The dog jumps around at our feet thinking that if we are up this early and packing this much gear, we must be taking him camping in the mountains. He is going to have to learn to live with disappointment. Mike’s water bottle slides out of the side pocket of his bag and clatters to the hardwood floor. He gets red in the face and starts to grumble under his breath. I, the pot, tell him, the kettle, that if he cannot be cheerful, then I am not going to be able to go through with this each morning. He glares at me, and we storm out the front door to our respective cars, leaving the dog staring sadly after us through the window, convinced we are going someplace fun without him. His sad little look through the glass makes me even grumpier. I drive to the gym. I roll down the window to let a little cool winter air hit my face, and I crank Journey on the radio to put me in a good mood. It works, and apparently Mike has employed some of the same tactics, because he is smiling now as we pull up next to each other in the gym parking lot.

We work out together, enjoy each other’s company, and then kiss each other goodbye on the gym floor before heading off to the locker rooms. I get ready in record time, am at my desk early, and feel energized all day long until I fall into bed exhausted around 8:45. All in all, it turned out pretty well.

Day Two- It’s Thursday. The iPhone starts its annoyingly cheerful guitar music at 5:15. Mike, who’s volleyball game went past 11 the night before, turns it off and rolls over to go back to sleep. I protest for about three seconds, and then I do the same thing. We do not make it to the gym today. Even though it isn’t totally his fault, I make Mike feel a little guilty about when we do finally wake up a couple of hours later.

Day Three- It’s Friday. After having spent an hour the night before ironing my work clothes, packing my enormous bag, and carefully laying my gym clothes out so that I can fall right into them in the morning, the alarm goes off and we both hit the ground running. We arrive at the gym a few minutes early, and ready to go. As we are walking in, I realize that the shirt I had ironed into starched perfection the night before is still hanging on the bedroom door handle at home. I grabbed my bag, but had forgotten my shirt. Pretty sure that I am going to be unable to make my ripped Denver Broncos t-shirt look work-acceptable with my skirt and pantyhose, no matter how much I accessorize, I sigh. I cut my workout 15 minutes short so that I can go home and get ready.

After working out then going home to shower, I am blow-drying my hair in my bathroom, when I hear it. Someone is breaking into the house. The dog runs to the door, while I curse myself for leaving it unlocked. “Who’s there?” I shout, sounding as tough as I can, brandishing my blow-dryer like a handgun.
“It’s me, hon.” Mike rounds the corner, half smile across his face. “I forgot my boxers”

We may very well be too unorganized to actually succeed at this.

Day Four- This morning. The iPhone battery died during the night. At least that is Mike’s story. Needless to say, we did not go to the gym this morning. I am getting very used to living out of my big duffle bag, though, so that is one skill acquired.
Mike called me at work and said we should go tomorrow morning instead of waiting until Thursday.
I hung up on him. Well, not really, but I pretended to.

I really want to do this. I want to see my triceps and my abdominal muscles again. I miss them. I want to look cute in summer dresses this year. I want to be strong and healthy and slender. Mike does, too. I mean, minus the part about summer dresses. I am going to do this if it the last promise I ever keep to myself. Day Five begins at 5:15 tomorrow morning. I’d better get to bed.

The Resolutionist

I have been AWOL for over two weeks now. Holiday craziness and an urgent wisdom-teeth-removal adventure followed by a three-day Percoset-induced state of stupidity have kept me from my blog. (Count yourselves lucky that I did not attempt to write any stories under the influence of painkillers…those things make me so loopy.) However, I am back on the very last day of the year to discuss a subject about which I’m sure many other bloggers are certainly typing their little hearts out at this very moment. That’s right. New Year’s Resolutions.

I think the reason that I feel comfortable spilling my guts on this subject is because, last year, I actually kept a resolution. I vowed on January 1, 2007 that I would, at some point during the year, quit smoking, and I did it. I stuck to it for the first time ever, and honestly, can’t even imagine how I ever engaged in that nasty habit to start with. I feel really good about that. So, one down. On a different note, I was also supposed to lose 40 pounds last year. I was desperate to get back to my svelte age-23 weight, but alas, since realized that I am no longer 23; I am 31. While I did lose a quite a few pounds this past year, I also gained a couple here and there, resulting in a net weight loss of approximately 3 pounds for the year. Uh, yeah. Not so impressive. But wait!! I competed in my first-ever triathlon in August, finishing nowhere even remotely close to first, but actually finishing, and doing so without a trip to the Emergency Room to boot. One small step for me towards my goal.

This year, I am taking a different outlook. My past resolutions have always been about improvements in my health and in my looks. I am still resolving to lose weight this year, because it’s tradition; I resolve to lose weight every year. However, this year, I am resolving to improve my inside more than my outside. I need a new attitude and a new way to engage in and react to the world around me. I need to calm the hell down, not get so stressed, and really take time to enjoy my play and excel in my work. I resolve to think before I speak and to avoid getting angry unless it is absolutely warranted. I resolve to take the proverbial time to smell the roses. I resolve to, as Henry James would put it, be kind. Included within each of these resolutions is the resolve to exercise regularly and to write more because those are things that make me feel happy and fulfilled and useful. That’s it. Basically, I am resolving to give myself a psychological lobotomy. No big deal, right? We shall see.

There will be more stories to come this week, much more typical of my usual blogging than today’s post, but I figured I better put something up here before I lose momentum.

Some housekeeping items:

Happy 70th Birthday to my Dad today. He is an amazing man and my sisters and I are very, very lucky to have him as our dad.

…and many more, Dad!!

Also, sadly, this looks like the end of an era, if an era was indeed a period of time equivalent to approximately four months. After doing some brief internet research, it turns out that my very-not-so-creative blog name is taken. Oh, and copyrighted. Nice. I initially just threw a name on there and started my blog because a friend told me that all writers should have a blog, and so I suddenly felt very left out. I, being very similar to my father as far as technology is concerned, was unfamiliar with blogging until that point and did not realize that it was actually a really big thing. Now that I am addicted and love my blog and my fellow bloggers, I have come to realize that this is a real thing where real people and real writers express themselves as individuals and as a community and it is not cool to, as some of my favorite co-workers would say, bite someone’s steez. In other (real) words, I must change the name of my blog in order to avoid stealing from someone and breaking a law. Capisce? So, ok, I now have no name for my blog….. This blog shall heretofore remain nameless until I can think of something which will accurately capture what I do here. What do I do here? Well, I ask myself that all the time. This is the best explanation: I am a writer who is trying to get over the untimely loss of her mother whilst still attempting to crack people up with silly everyday stories. What do you call that? Oh crap. I feel a brainstorming session coming on.

Anyway, more to follow, and a Happy 2008 to everyone I love, and everyone out there in blog-world. I have a feeling it is going to be a great year!!

Now, I am finally going to go catch up on all of my fave blogs, this time with a slightly clearer head.

Solitary Woman

Ahhhhhhhh, the single life.

Well, not really, but Mike is on a business trip this week, so I am pretending for a few days. Whoa, don’t go getting any ideas there; I’m not going to go out on dates or to a bar to pick up a suitable temporary boyfriend-replacement or anything. In fact, I’m not sure that I even remember how to do that. I am, however, going to revel in my aloneness.

Monday night I watched television for two straight hours. I held the remote loosely in my hand knowing that no one would stroll into the room and sneakily snatch it from my grip under the guise of a fake hug. I did not flip channels 9.4 million times during commercials; I watched every single one of them because I work in marketing, and I like commercials, and I want to watch them, dammit. I engrossed myself in the episodes of The Girls Next Door that I had Tivoed, and even cried when one of Hugh Hefner’s girlfriends talked about her brother being overseas in Iraq. No one laughed at me, no one commented that one of the girls is hotter than another, no one mentioned the fact that I, an intelligent, feminist career-woman, was shedding actual tears over a show about the Playboy Mansion.

I didn’t cook dinner, but instead ate leftovers out of a big bowl with a big spoon and shared with the dog. I picked through the new candy I bought to put out for Christmas. Some of the flavors were really good; some were not so good. I tasted all of the different kinds and spat the not-so-good ones into a napkin.

I closed the blinds and sang show tunes at the top of my lungs in the living room, incorporating my own choreography. Normally when I start singing, Mike immediately turns the stereo on, as if my breaking out into song is simply a desperate cry to hear music, instead of an expression of my feelings. It’s not as if I’m a horrible singer; I’m positive I would advance to the Hollywood portion of American Idol*, especially if Simon Cowell had seen Monday night’s performance. However, Mike doesn’t seem to appreciate the rare talent that exists right there under the same roof. My dog likes my singing and even follows me around when I really get going; his favorite song is Gershwin’s Someone to Watch Over Me. Mike is missing out.

It started to get a little late, so I decided to try on outfits for a while. Then I went on MySpace and looked at the profiles of everyone I went to high school with while I sipped one of Mike’s good, dark beers stolen from the back of the fridge. I wore my rattiest sweatshirt and my comfy pants that Mike has deemed the “unsexiest” item of clothing I own. I blared Joni Mitchell and Brandi Carlile and Alanis Morisette on iTunes, and dedicated the songs to “all of my listeners out there enjoying a little ‘me-time’ tonight.”

I had a full-on conversation with my dog about how pretty the tree looked with all of the decorations, and how much snow he thought we were going to get overnight, and what he wanted for Christmas. Then I let him get into the bed with me. We had been up way past our bedtimes.

I woke up the next morning all stretched out, a proverbial X across our bed, hoarding pillows and blankets. I was so comfortable and well rested. And, ok, maybe just a tiny bit lonely.

Last night, I ate Kraft Macaroni and Cheese for dinner. The kind with the day-glo orange powdered cheese. Mike is a foodie, capable of creating amazing gourmet meals, and so am I, but I also appreciate my childhood comfort foods. Mike does not. I think his parents must have started feeding him caviar and Duck Confit while he was still in the high-chair because he has never understood how I can eat “that stuff.” I, on the other hand, love the simplicity of a kiddie-meal. Give me some chicken fingers or reconstituted cheese-sauce a couple of times a year, and I am happy as a clam. A fried clam.

I watched two chick flicks in a row last night. I painted my toenails, plucked my eyebrows, and polished some of my jewelry. I drank another one of those dark beers.

Tonight, I am planning to read for four straight hours without someone asking me if I have seen his volleyball shorts anywhere. But first, I have to shovel the snow. I also have to lug the huge recycling bin down the front steps and out into the street and take the trash out through the dark garage into the dark alley. This morning, I had to scrape the ice off of my own car, something Mike always sweetly does without being asked.

Wait a second, now I am sort of starting to miss him.

See? I do miss Mike when he’s gone, but then I remember that he will be home in a couple of days, so I go back to basking in the joy of unaccompaniament. Until I have to go down into the dark, scary basement and turn off a light that I don’t even remember turning on. That’s just spooky.

I lived alone for five years before I met Mike. Before that, I was raised by a single mother in a house full of girls. My sisters and I learned to do it all, the boy-chores and the girl-chores, and the spooky stuff, at very early ages. I have fixed my own plumbing, changed oil and several tires, taken tons of garbage out, lifted furniture, and removed many difficult lids in my lifetime. I am very capable of these things, and I loved every single minute of my single days, but there are certain things that a girl, even a strong-woman type of a girl, can get used to a man taking care of. I can still do it all myself, but I kind of just don’t want to anymore. Mike does such a good job at those things (with some minimal nagging), and on top of it, I really just like hanging around him. Who knew that would ever happen to me?

I never used to picture myself settling down. I always just assumed that I would be a little bit of a loner for my whole life, spending time with my great friends, but then going home by myself. Eventually, when I became a famous and wealthy author, I would adopt a child or two and spend my time on charity missions like Angelina Jolie pre-Brad-Pitt. My parents were divorced when I was so young that the single parent lifestyle always made so much sense to me, and was even sort of appealing. Now, though, my outlook has shifted a little bit. I am starting to understand what my girlfriends were pining for all of those years.

I think it took me finding a guy like Mike, my polar opposite who will always have a million things going on, a social butterfly with a crazy calendar. I contrast him with my desire to be alone with myself on a weekly basis, on the couch with a book, singing show tunes with gusto, or running solo, iPod-filled miles on the treadmill. He with his twelve team sports to play, his million friends calling on the phone, and his uncanny ability to get the dog riled up right before bed. I, a little more guarded about whom I spend my time with, a little more content to pass up a crazy night on the town, and a little more annoyed with a happy dog dropping a wet, slimy tennis ball next to my sleeping face at three in the morning. Mike is so anal about certain things, and way too lax about others, and I am his exact contradiction, not properly abiding by the rules of his inanely organized cabinets and drawers, but then going crazy over a pile of boxers on the floor in the bathroom. Oh yeah, we also crack each other up to the point that our cheeks hurt.

In lieu of all of my solitary intentions, I got a crush a few years back that I haven’t been able to make myself get over. I got sucked in. I got stripped of my strong-single-girl crown. I got sold, but I have no buyer’s remorse. I found the guy I was supposed to find, and he found me, and we get each other. It’s a Gershwin song come true, right here in Denver, Colorado, and it is just all so friggin sappy that I don’t even know what to do with myself.

Actually, the ball and chain isn’t back for a couple more days; I’m sure I can figure something out.

*I know that I am too old to try out for American Idol. No one needs to remind me.