the old lady's still got it, part II

So the new season of ultimate frisbee has begun. Ok, actually it began last Sunday, but it wasn't a super good game for me; we were all shaking the rust off. It was still great to be outside, of course. It was sunny and warmish and everything I could ask for in a spring day. But yesterday...

Yesterday rocked. The weather wasn't quite as nice--in fact, it got down right windy and cold, the last quarter hour or so. But I was running on all cylinders and it was a glorious thing.

Now, I'm not trying to complain, because I certainly have no right to. After all, I did it to myself. No one made me fling myself through the air again...and again. I'm just trying to tell it like it is: I laid it out good and hard, quite a few times. I landed so hard once I actually hurt my butt. I was in a good half-dozen midair collisions. (I think I only won two, but the guy had much better ups than me--what could I do?) When I got home, I was so stiff it took conscious effort to get out of the car, stumble to the house, and climb into a hot shower. I went to bed with a hot pack on my quad. This morning, I vaguely feel like I've been hit by a bus.

It was great. No--it was magnificent. Of course I didn't play perfect--I botched a couple catches, for sure, and had trouble getting my long passes to fly right. I got tired on defense. But it doesn't really matter. Because there were moments when everything worked right, when my body and mind seemed to be in harmony, when I acted without hesitation, without fumbling, without thought for what I was about to do.

The play of the day: We were only about a half hour into the game, so I was all warmed up but not yet tired. I charged down the sideline, sprinting to shake my defense, then I obeyed an instinct and began a cut toward the center, looking back over my shoulder. It was a long bomb; I saw it coming. I shifted direction to make the catch, saw the disk curve, lose height. Without thinking, I slid on my hip--a lusciously beautiful softball slide, the well-groomed soccer field turf was dry and just what I needed--and caught the disk a handsbreadth from the ground. In that moment, all was right with the world. I popped back up with ease I couldn't have planned if I tried.

It didn't hurt that from there I was able to throw for the score. Admittedly, the story wouldn't be quite as sweet if I'd been so excited I tanked the toss. Not that I would ever do that...ahem.

But why am I telling this story? I'm not sure. It's probably part of that same personality streak that makes me unashamed of my bruises. (I admit, I even show them off to my mother.) But I think, somehow, that this kind of moment is part of my philosophy of life--or at least how I wish I could live. Perhaps I cannot manage it 24/7, but at least I can lay it out once a week on the field, not holding back, not worrying about what might happen, trusting my body and my brain to take care of each other. Why can't I live like that every day? Why can't that physical abandon translate into my interpersonal endeavors, or my career? I don't really know.

Well, maybe I do. The game has very clear rules, and boundaries--and objectives. I operate within a very secure structure, with known outcomes. I can lay it all out, knowing exactly what I'm risking. And knowing, deep down in, that it really doesn't matter if I make the catch or not. My life will probably not shift direction because I threw the game winning toss or not.

Life in general holds no such easy certainty. And honestly, I doubt I could sustain the kind of energy I would need to live with such abandon. Granted, daily life doesn't generally include flying-through-the-air collisions or short, desperate sprints across the turf. (ok, ok, if you're a professional athlete, ok. shush.) But the energy drain would still be very real. More subtle, harder to gauge. And, I think, harder for me to spend. I know how to replenish my body: stretching, sleep, and hot/cold packs pretty much take care of it; but how do I replenish my mental energy? I know how to handle a physical tumble, but how do I get up after I take an emotional hit? Perhaps I'd figure it out--I certainly haven't made it this far in life with no trouble--but all that gray area makes me feel small, and shy. I've handled smallish hits, but could I handle big ones? Would I even see them coming? Without the boundaries, the rules, the objectives, the reliance on reflexes--I lose some of my fire.

Maybe that's not a bad thing. I'm not sure. I don't want to run through life with rampant recklessness. Forget hurting myself--other people get hurt that way. But I don't want to be a coward, either. As usual, I seek middle ground. But sometimes it's hard to find, and sometimes our hearts cry out to push limits.

Maybe that's why I like this game so much. I get to let all my crazy out, safely. I get to ram around and feel strong, and special, and (maybe just a little) fierce. I get to push myself. And then I get to go home.

Or maybe I just really like frisbee, and all this philosophical stuff is simply a sign that I haven't had enough coffee. Who knows?

running down

I have a gourmet chocolate-covered caramel on my desk. Right now. It's from another editor, who received the box as a thank-you from an author. We like authors that do that.

My goal is to sit and smell the caramel for at least ten minutes before I eat it.

Mmmm....ahhh.

This is hard for me. The more I like something the faster I want to eat it. Chocolate and caramel...yeah, I like. I LIKE. Mmmm....ahhh.

This is a bad habit, and one I want to break. Along with needing three heaping spoons of brown sugar in my oatmeal and not being willing to say no to free doughnuts of good quality.

I know, I know. This sounds like just another New Years' pipe dream. All the health and diet commercials have been getting to me, right? I hope not.

The truth is, I've been meeting my exercise goals for nearly three months now, and have yet to feel my pants loosen at all. I can lift more and run farther that I could last fall, so my time has not been spent in vain, but all the treats and parties of the holiday season have worked their usual black magic and held me captive to sugar.

Mmmm...Ahhh. Smells so good.

Will I be different this year? I don't care about being thin, but I do care about feeling healthy and fit. Can I be different this year? Cue my theme song.

...Running down a dream / That never would come to me...

Who knew Tom Petty could be inspirational? Mmm...aaahhh. Good, it's been ten minutes. Now, let's start with a nibble...

for girls only...

OK, so guys could read this too. I don't particularly care--but don't say I didn't warn you!

I just wanted to share my everlasting delight at finally finding a bra that actually does what a sports bra should. I'm not large chested, but I'm large enough that the wimpy things they sell in Target and MC Sports just don't cut it. I demand dominance over gravity! Not much is less comfortable than feeling yourself bouncing with every step as you try to jog a couple miles. It's a de-motivator, for sure and for certain.

After endless--yet admittedly sporadic--searching for a bra in area stores, I finally and impulsively did something I've been tempted to do for a long time. I went to the Title Nine website and ordered The Frog Bra.


This puppy is 32% lycra. Zow! When I opened to package and tried it on, my initial response was simple and definitive. I said (out loud, even, to the chagrin of my cat) "Wow! I haven't been this flat since junior high!"
And that, my friends, is a beautiful thing when I'm jogging. Or riding my pogo stick. Or jumping rope. Or whatever else I want.

ahh...icy hot!

On Sunday, I had the wonderful opportunity to play racquetball for the first time since...umm...January-February 2003. I'd been missing the game something fierce recently, and was able to hook up with the coworker of a friend to try out the beautiful new facilities at the downtown Y. We had a great time. I was pretty extraneously rusty for a few minutes, but as we warmed up, it all started coming back. Ish.

He creamed me the first game, but I made a comeback. Well, ok, I still lost, but he had to work for it. I enjoy playing with guys--the intensity they tend to bring prompts a similar reaction in me, one I don't often get to cut loose. Let me put it this way: when your opponent is shouting and whooping, it frees you up to do the same. Ha. Really. I have sound effects. I can reign those in if it doesn't feel appropriate, but on Sunday I didn't have to. I didn't have to tone it down or take it easy or worry about running someone over...not that I didn't nail the guy a couple times, but when you pretty much bounce off the other person, it's impossible to feel at fault.

There was certainly nothing tentative about our play. We were whaling the ball--I was caroming off walls and diving onto the floor. We played for a solid hour. I was hot-fuchsia-faced and literally dripping with sweat and...I already knew I would be catastrophically sore.

And I sure am. My racket arm did not want to hold the blow dryer up this morning. I'm all rubbed up with Icy Hot--hopefully, anyone coming by my office will simply think I've got a thing for peppermints.

Still, it's a beautiful thing. Thank God for little square rooms, short handled rackets, and blue rubber balls.

the fine art of keeping your clothes on

I don’t really have much of a problem with this. In fact, the only time I choose not to practice this art is when I’m home, especially when it’s so freaking hot outside. But at home, I’m safe from the eyes of everyone but the deer. And nosy turkeys.

However, more and more each day I realize that there are many men and women who do not seem to be able to stay clothed. Just look at all those guys walking down the street with their pants falling off! I doubt their ability to dodge if a car came careening around the corner and up over the curb. Nope—they’d just be plastered to the bumper, baggy pants and all. Or perhaps sans pants—perhaps the force of the blow would dislodge them from their precarious perch.

And don’t even get me started on the women. Maybe they are all just really, really poor laundresses, and they keep shrinking everything. And I do mean everything. That’s one of the only downsides of going to the beach—having to watch all the girls in ill-fitting suits walk by. Didn’t their mamas ever pull them aside and teach them how to dress their bodies appropriately? Sigh. I guess that’s a rhetorical question.
Still, it’s obvious that these teens are trying to look sexy—don’t they realize that they just look awful? Another rhetorical question.

However, no matter how bad teen girls are, the wounds to my eyes are always worse when the beach culprit is an adult. The stupidity and lack of thoughtfulness inherent in teenagers gives them a little bit of slack. but grownups have no such excuse. Come on, ladies! Just because you can wear a mini-kini doesn’t mean you should. And look at what you’re teaching your daughters!

Sigh again. These thoughts are nothing new. I’ve said this before—and heard other artfully-clad adults say the same. I guess our voices aren’t loud enough. Maybe it’s finally time for me to grab a roll of duct tape and let my actions speak louder than words. But I don’t want to get arrested for assaulting a minor.

So, what made me think of this now, as I sit in a conservative office atmosphere? Well, I was actually thinking about my weekend. Yesterday was warm and sunny and very humid, and I was washing my car and weeding my flowers in pretty much no shirt at all. Remember—none of my neighbors can see me. (I just had to make sure I sprayed on more bug spray, with all that extra skin.)

The weather and lack of clothing reminded me of the far-gone late summer days of my youth, when we’d have basketball practice in a boiling hot gymnasium. I’ll never forget—it still needles me—we’d be sweating gallons and would toss our T-shirts to the side. Most of the time, we still had practice jerseys on; the light mesh was much more bearable than drenched cotton. So, there we were, 16- and 17-year-old butch girls, absolutely not-sexy in our knee-length shorts and high-impact sports bras, running suicides and other drills. Someone’s mother comes by, sees us, and complains to the athletic director. And we are mandated not to take off our shirts.

Meanwhile, out in the much cooler—and more public—hallways, the cheer squad is practicing in their little spandex shorts. They aren’t sweating much. Neither are they wearing shirts. Do they get yelled at? Nope.

But I’m not bitter. Oh, not at all. Nor do I think that the attitudes and actions of adults are impacting our children in harmful ways. Oh, no.

summer cometh

A bold statement to make? Perhaps. Especially since there was a nice glisten of frost on the lawn this morning. But summer is definitely coming. And soon. How do I know?

Because summer softball starts tomorrow. And I, for one, am darn near geeked about it. I just plain old love to play. Granted, it's just church league coed slow pitch, but last year we weren't half bad. I have a fabulous sliding scar to prove it. Actually, to be technically honest, I have three scars. A triple hit, as it were. But the ones on my ankle and lower hip are inconsequential compared to the palm-sized beauty on the outside of my knee.

I had shorts and low socks on, ok? I didn't really expect to be sliding. But the right fielder blew the throw and I had a chance to stretch a triple into a homer...so of course I did it. The only problem was, the ump didn't clear the bat for me, so at the last second I had to sort of hop over it before going down into my slide. Hence the triple scar. It was a junior-high level slide. Not so graceful.

But I was safe and that's all that counts. That and the fact that I earned some points with my more masculine teammates. Ha.

But enough reliving the past! Tomorrow a new season starts! What has been done last year doesn't matter. Ol' Red and I are ready for another season at first base. And...I have tall socks now. Bring on the gravel!

a decaffeinated update

Well, I am happy to say that I am quiet firmly beyond the physical symptoms of caffeine withdrawal. It is a humbling, scary experience to realize the pull something as “normal” as coffee has on your life. I would not like to tangle with a more difficult addiction. This one, a mild habit of only four or five years’ depth, was quite enough. That may sound wimpy, but I don’t mind. It’s true. Four days of sludge-like headache (exedrin has caffeine too) was quite enough.

So, will I go back to drinking coffee after Lent? Probably. I’m already getting very tired of decaffeinated tea. My goal, however, is to significantly decrease the amount of caffeine I drink. To be honest, I will probably go back to drinking regular coffee soon. I will strive for half-caf, though. I adore dark roast, and the only way to get dark roast half-caf is to blend it yourself. Somewhat more trouble than usual, but not beyond me, I should hope.

Three weeks and three days until Easter. I might just have a big ol’ bar of dark chocolate for breakfast, chased with espresso. Mmmm. I want. Yes, the physical symptoms are gone…now only the psychological ones remain. And here we come to the true meaning of Lenten sacrifice: the humbling of human desires before the coming of the Christ. May I crave God more than coffee, and look to Easter with anticipation stronger than is warranted by any food.

Richard Simmons's Legs

At the office, some of the girls have started a sort of workout video co-op. We all brought in one or two exercise videos or DVDs and created a bit of a lending library of fitness. Pure genius. Who wants to spend the money on buying untried workouts, especially when so many of them stink? And it is hard to keep doing the same workout weeks on end. It gets boring. So we swap.

Yesterday, feeling a bit humorous, I took home Richard Simmons’s Sweatin’ to the Oldies 2. Oh, yes. I knew it would be terrifically bad. But wicked curiosity got the better of me. And I figured it might still be a worthy workout, even if he scared me.

Oh, he scared me. And the workout was not so good. Not for me. Now, if I were gratuitously out of shape and hadn’t worked out in years, it might be a good place to start. And Richard is so distracting that you might be able to forget about your physical discomfort. Let me put it this way: we did sizzling jazz fingers in the warm-up. ‘Nuff said.

One thing about Richard, though, that I did admire was his legs. I want his legs. They were smoothly shiny (definitely waxed) and gloriously tan. They were trimly muscled and very sleek. Yeah, they were chick legs. And I want them. I should get a picture of them and pin it up next to my workout chart. For motivational purposes. The rest of his body, of course, will be cut off. I just want the legs.

the day of birth

Well, I've gone and gotten a year older. Again. This past Sunday marked my 26th year upon the earth. 26 isn't a particularly meaningful number to me, other than the fact that it doesn't divide nicely into 5s. I liked that part of 25. I'm riding the downward slope to 30, but I don't put much stock in that. It's not like I woke up on Sunday and felt any differently. Well, if I did--it was just because of the gratuitously large piece of chocolate cake I ate Saturday night.

I've had a few changes in my life over the last year. I've moved twice--and hopefully won't need to again any time soon. I've changed positions at work, for the better. I've become the only member of my immediate family in the state. I've finally realized that I really should be wearing my glasses. I've decided that I want a dog.

And I've noticed that my body is a lot less forgiving than it was back when I was in college. I do anything remotely interesting, and I'm bound to be sore the next day. Perhaps my body has always done that, and I just failed to notice? It's possible, but not likely. I think I've just finally lost the last of the childhood rubber--and realized it.

I'm going to miss it--hey, I already miss it. I did a little work last night on my winter woodpile, and I certainly don't think it was enough to feel it so emphatically this morning! Shoot, from the way my shoulders feel, I should have two or three cord stacked about now.

This isn't complaining. It's just stark disbelief.

I'll have to start stretching and things--the sort of things that I nag my parents to do. And I'll have to get to the eye doctor soon. Perhaps I'll just get my eyes lasered. Perhaps not. I'd rather spend my money on a woodcutting crew.

Well, actually, I'd rather not spend my money at all. Gotta save it for when my knees go.

So, now that my age is divisible by 13, are there any major changes looming on the horizon? Not that I know of. I guess only time will tell. Perhaps, in a year from now, I'll look back and think "Man, 26 was the year that my blog got really boring."

I hope not.