5.9.18

Regina uses the word “THREAT.” That’s an attention-getter, isn’t it?

A threat is something you don’t ignore. A threat is a hulking guy on a dark street, moving towards you with a purpose. A threat is the smoke detector going off with shocking, ear-shattering suddenness. A threat is something rustling the leaves RIGHT THERE where? THERE I don’t see anything I KNOW WHAT I HEARD I’M LEAVING it’s your backyard, you live here SHUT UP.

I have very definite notions of what a threat is – but Regina, with her training and decades of experience, has a broader definition.

(Regina is my biofeedback counselor at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA. I went to her at first because as I drew closer to the first anniversary of my husband’s death, I’d begun to forget things and go mildly crazy; Regina helped. A lot. But I stayed because her insights are like flipping the switch on the Las Vegas strip, and suddenly something dark and a little dull is lit up and flashing and moving and hoochie-coochie girls are doing a razzle-dazzle over the main doorway, and that seems like a USEFUL thing to have happen every Friday, yaknow?)

I was thinking about the concept of a threat because a friend of mine mentioned in passing that he was – as he put it – planning on applying a little 420 in response to a stressful situation. (Or he said something like that; I don’t exactly remember. I’ve always been too much of a nerd to be in the know on pot culture.)

(Jonathan, the dead husband, used to say that in high school, the code was “Is she cool?” That meant – is she likely to hang out in a nearby stand of bamboo and furtively smoke a joint with us? By this definition, I was most certainly NOT cool.)

Where was I? Trapped by parenthetical thoughts…

Right. My friend was going to take the edge off a situation with a puff or two of chemical relaxation.

So I was thinking about stress – about how everyone has a coping mechanism of one kind or another. Maybe you smoke pot or cap off your day with a glass or wine or stein of beer. Maybe you bite your nails or pick at your feet. Maybe you buy containers of Ben and Jerry’s with no intention whatsoever of making it last for more than the twenty minutes it will take to get you home from the grocery store and to the nearest spoon.

Barbara, my genius trainer at Body Dynamics, points out that exercise is an outstanding stress-reliever, and she’s right – but somehow I don’t crave half an hour of cardio as much as I crave potato chips and a good reading lamp when I’m overwhelmed by my day…

I had a point, didn’t I? I did. It was the dawning understanding that Regina would say any response you make to STRESS is actually a response you make to THREAT.

That changes the perception a little, doesn’t it? Responding to a threat is something immediate; you HAVE to do it. But every person on the planet believes – no, knows – that the presence of stress in your life is just something that’s there; like you have to eat every few hours and you’ll need a bathroom eventually and your neck muscles are tired by the end of the day from the tension created by holding back the urge to DECK THAT CREEP WITH A QUICK LEFT TO THE JAW.

We live with stress; we let it build up and we tolerate it… or we THINK we do. But really: Stress is a source of threat, and you have to respond to it. You DO respond to it. Maybe it’s getting mildly buzzed or maybe it’s eating something or maybe it’s staying up far too late because THAT at last is time that YOU control…

… but if you think you’re not responding to the stress in your life, then you’re fooling yourself.

That’s sort of interesting, isn’t it?

“Coping.” The other definition of the word is from carpentry or masonry; it’s the decorative top of a wall. See how much you’re learning?

 

 

 

 

5.8.18

My sister-in-law had a schipperke named Scout.

A schipperke, if you don’t know, is a small, black dog that looks like a heraldic lion. They’re fierce and loyal and renowned for their stubbornness. And Lura’s dog added to an extremely strong personality by refusing to believe she was a dog; Scout knew that she and Lura were both ladies, and ladies of impeccable quality at that.

Lura would take Scout for a walk. Unable to access the crown in civilization’s glory (the flush toilet, of course), dogs view their walks with delight. But there were times after Scout had been for a short walk when she would decide the walk was over now.

Lura would find herself standing a few feet ahead of her dog, her arm and a long leash stretched behind her to a tiny dog with planted feet, arguing with about twenty pounds of determination.

Lura said you could plead or sweet-talk or threaten – or you could do the dog trainer trick of refusing to notice; just keep walking and the dog will follow the pack leader.

No. Nope. Not Scout. “She just gives me the ol’ stiff leg.” Lura would find herself literally dragging a small dog down the sidewalk like a dead weight at the end of a rope. This is not good for the dog OR for the neighborhood reputation.

I had occasion to think of the frustration of the ol’ stiff leg last night at three in the morning.

My adductor magnus has been as tight as a banjo string of late. This muscle, from knee to pubic bone, has been tormenting me and the wizards who train me have given me exercises to persuade it to relax a tad, but every time I sit down for a few minutes, it tightens up again and I have to limp and wince for five or ten feet when I stand to walk again.

My low back muscles are overwhelmed by something, and if I forget to hold my transverse abdominus tight like steel, I also wince during the process of standing up. Or sitting down.

I’m physically tired and have no energy.

And it was three in the morning and I still hadn’t gone to sleep. My standing appointment with Barbara today was at 11AM – eight hours away.

My spirit gave me the ol’ stiff leg.

Didn’t matter that I love working out with Barbara. Didn’t matter that the day is sunny and pleasant and lacking in the humidity that slows me to a crawl – perfect weather, in other words, to stagger around our run-walk-run loop. Didn’t matter that I have a new running skirt and am just about brave enough to wear it in public.

No. Nope. Not Pru. My willpower planted its stubborn little lion-like paws and refused to be budged. Not going. Not going to do it. No.

I emailed Barbara at three in the morning and told her I was going to skip our session. (And I forgot to email Grace to say I was going to miss stretch class after that, too – but I sure did miss it.)

It did not make me feel BETTER to give up; I felt a lot of shame. But I was also able to get to sleep. And I’ve been napping all day. I’d be napping right now if the dog hadn’t decided he was having a barf-fest, and ever since the Dog Butter Incident required not one but two rugs to be sent out for professional cleaning, I’m inclined to leap out of bed and give in when he utters that “I’m gonna york if you don’t hurry” bark.

Last Tuesday I ran a mile with Barbara.

Last Wednesday, I went for 11 minutes on the elliptical.

Last Thursday, I sweated through Barbara’s Balance Class.

Last Friday, I ran a mile and a half.

Last Saturday, I had a day off.

Last Sunday, I ran up 20 flights of stairs.

Yesterday I repeated the 20 flights of stairs.

Today I came to a halt, like a dog on the sidewalk refusing to go even one step farther.

No forward progress today. No cardio. No home exercise program.

I’m really hoping this vacation will refill my sisu reservoir. As Cole Porter said, my “will” is strong, but my “won’t” is weak. Hoping for more gumption tomorrow.

This is the most stubborn dog on the planet. It is a good representation of the stubbornness that overcame me at three in the morning. No. Nope. Not gonna.

 

 

5.4.18

Embarrassing but true: I base most of my understanding about the lure of running on the movie “What Women Want.”

You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Mel Gibson is stricken with the ability to hear what women are thinking; ho-ho, how funny. Women – what can you do.

(To its credit, the movie does NOT drum up an ancient Aztec curse or a wise Chinese crone or anything to explain this, which I appreciate. It just happened, okay? Get over it.)

(And also – I’d feel a lot more comfortable citing this movie if Mel hadn’t turned out to be such an immense dick, because it really is a good movie, with Frank Sinatra and Bette Midler and Helen Hunt looking particularly lovely.)

(Where was I? Oh – running.)

So Mel reads the minds of women all around him and creates the world’s best advertisement for Nike. “The road doesn’t care if you dress sexy. The road doesn’t care if you make more money than it does. All it wants is for you to pay it a visit from time to time.” And that was the only visualization I could ever get my brain around for why anyone would run – because it was a cool, after-rain moment on an empty paved road and your legs felt strong and your shoes fit just right and you just couldn’t help but burst into a run because it felt so empowering…

Okay. That sounds good. You’d run and your brain would empty out and you’d achieve a zen state and a mystic balance of mind, body, and spirit.

Yeah. That’s not how I run.

This is my internal monolog:

All right – headphones in. Fast-walk playlist on, loud enough so I can’t hear my own gasping, panting breath. Timer? Yes, set the damned timer. Barbara says it’s not important, but I know it’s important.

Okay – ready? Here’s the line of paint on the path with the numbers 0.0 on one side and 1.5 on the other. Head towards 0.1. And – JOG.

Feels so damned thuddy. That will smooth out. Go through the body parts list:

• Low abs engaged. Don’t tip the hips forward with the spine; it’s no good pulling the hips up by tucking the tail bone under; you have to tug it up from the front by tightening the transverse abdominus. I think of it as a flaccid, wide-but-not-deep rubber band running from hip to hip somewhere deep in the groin. Trying HARD to turn mine into something mighty, but I’m still at shot rubber band status.

 

• Ribs down. Distance from ribs to hip bones has to stay consistent. Why else did I do two 30-second planks before I started if not to wake these muscles up for the run?

 

• Obliques – keep ‘em on. That’s the other part of the planks. Essentially, the entire middle of my body is supposed to feel like an oak tree. It does NOT feel like an oak tree, but for limited periods measurable in seconds only, I can force the issue.

 

• Shoulders down and not pushed back. Yes, pushing the shoulders back would seem to provide space for the rib cage to lift up, allowing those heaving sacs of air to gaspingly suck in more wind – but no. If your shoulders are back, then your wingbones are down, and those are capable of stopping the lungs from expanding out the back. OUT THE BACK?? Yes. Breathe out the back, too. So weird.

 

• Roll from heel to toe. Why else have I been doing calf stretches every single day? This is supposed to be getting easier and less thuddy as I stretch never-before-stretched calf muscles. If I focus on it, on flexing my foot hard before every heel strike, I can ease up on the thud sensation. Jeff Goldblum isn’t watching impact tremors in a glass of water somewhere and saying “I’m really quite concerned, here” in a mild Jeff Goldblum voice.

 

• Now, the big one: The glutes. The big, heavy glutes that I’ve been hauling around for decades. Time to make them pay their way. Still not easy to simply FEEL them into working, so…

 

• Push off the back foot. Don’t pull forward with the front foot. The front foot is just there for balance, to catch me as I push off the back foot. With every stride, kick off the ground with the back foot. Back foot. Back foot. Back foot. Damn it. I thought running was supposed to be instinctive. It’s so not.

The mental check list is almost as long:

• This song isn’t good for jogging. Can I open the case, wake up the phone, and hit the “next” button without completely falling over?

 

• The headphone cord is bouncing around and annoying me. Loop the slack around a finger, or something.

 

• Christ – I have to go up a (short but steep) little hill. Kill me now.

 

• Oh, lord. Someone remind me to ask Barbara how to go down a hill. Can’t roll from heel to toe going downhill; I’d fall right over. Have to run on my toes. That seems like a bad idea. My carefully-tended stride is getting ugly again, and I’m thudding. I can hear Ian Malcolm. “I’m really getting quite concerned here.”

 

• There’s someone on the path in front of me. Coming towards me – reach for eye contact at exactly the right distance. Not so far that a person with poor eyesight doesn’t see; not so close that it’s startling. Judge the moment, glance up. If contact is made, small smile and nod. Yes! Now if we meet a second time as we travel around the lake, we can add a rueful “Still at it? You, too?” smile.

 

• There’s someone on the path in front of me. Going the same direction I’m going, walking. This is the worst. I’m going to have to pass him/her, and I will be huffing and puffing like a grampus so they’ll certainly know I’m coming, but when I slow down to walk, they’re going to pass me. And then I’ll have to pass them when I go back to jogging. This is going to be ridiculous. My choices are: (a) Play leapfrog with a small Korean woman or a retiree with a cane. (b) Run faster; get far enough ahead that s/he won’t catch up when I start walking, like I have the energy to do that. (c) Pull over and sit down for a few hours until they go home. Or possibly expire from old age. Them or me; either would be fine.

 

• What the hell am I going to do when the Virginia weather is swampy? It’s supposed to go up to 91 today, so I actually set my alarm and got up at 6 in the morning to be running by 7. (I swear, I’m not a pod person. It’s really me.) But what happens when 7AM is already 85 degrees – and even more debilitating, when it’s HUMID? How will I possibly keep this up? I’m barely maintaining my sanity now.

 

• Where’s the next tenth-of-a-mile marker?? Maybe it was washed out in a freak acid storm I missed; surely I’ve gone a few miles by now?? (In fact, today I managed to stagger along for a full half-mile before switching to a walk-a-tenth-jog-a-tenth pattern. Frustratingly, even though my first burst of running was 5/10ths of a mile, not last week’s 4/10ths of a mile, the run took me almost a full minute LONGER than it did last week. This is why Barbara doesn’t want me timing my runs. I hate it when she’s right.)

The road doesn’t care if you dress sexy or make more money than it does. The road just wants you to pay it a visit occasionally, so it can completely tangle up your brain and exhaust you and make your shin bones tender to the touch. Damned road.

What women want: A comfy armchair. A great book. Something crispy/salty and something sweet/creamy to nibble on. Clothing that is in no way binding.

All right, women also want cardiovascular fitness. To be able to jog without feeling like our lungs have been scoured with a Brillo pad. A good cholesterol reading above 40. (I’ve never gotten above 30, me, but I’ve never made it a point to sweat every single day for six minutes, eleven minutes, twenty-three minutes and twenty-eight seconds at a time. Next time, my good cholesterol is going to be GOOD, by damn!)

4.24.18

I’ve often thought the human body could use a 2.0 version – an upgrade. That spine seems to be a trouble spot for a lot of people, and a stronger system for vertebra alignment seems indicated.

Skin would be better if it could resist solar radiation better. Fat storage in an era of plenty turns out to have more negatives than positives…

…so there are lots of things I thought could do with a redesign.

Then I discovered not one but TWO things about my own body that I never knew before. It’s like I’ve been redesigned and made better!

First, did you know that your lungs push the ribs out along your BACK as well as along your front??

I didn’t. I believed that the back was supposed to be strong – muscle-bound – stalwartly firm. The lungs went out the front because the back ribs were nailed down by muscle and shoulder bones and iron and John Wayne-like true grit. So if I was, just as an idle example, gasping for air while jogging along next to Barbara, I thought all the expansion I needed to suck in more oxygen was going to come from the front.

“Why have your ribs popped up so much?” asked Barbara reasonably. She can ask reasonable questions while I’m jogging because she’s practically walking next to me. For the 10K she ran a few weekends ago, she averaged about seven minutes per mile; it took me 15 minutes to do ONE mile today – so she’s having a pleasant stroll while I’m forcing myself through an oxygen-deficient hellscape.

“So I can suck in some air, of course.” (What I actually said was “AIR,” but she understood what I meant.)

“So relax your shoulders.”

“SHOULDERS?!”

“Your shoulders are back and down.”

“KEEP… BACK… LONG.”

“Well, don’t. How can your ribs move if your back muscles are locking them into place?”

“RIBS… BACK??”

“Yes, back. Your lungs need to inflate to the back as well as the front.”

“SHUT… UP.”

“ ‘S’true. Breathe into the back of your lungs, and let your back and shoulders be easy.”

This is the sort of physical, muscular puzzle that can totally distract me from my oxygen-less state, and I actually made it a few feet further at my graceless jog.

Lungs expanding to the back?? The mind boggles. Okay – that’s something I can work on.

Once we’d arrived back at Body Dynamics and I’d stopped gasping, we talked about it. “So really, all the power of running comes from below the waist. Above the waist is just for oxygen, huh?”

Barbara made a considering face and shifted her arms back and forth. “Well, you get a little momentum from the arms…”

“Yeah, but really, running is all below the waist, huh?”

“Okay. You can think of it that way.”

(I’ve been an above-the-waist mover forever. Hence the remedial exercises needed to find my low abs and my glutes. I think and move with the brain-side of the body; meeting up with the lower half has been revelatory. Like meeting relatives from the Old Country because DNA tests suggested we were family. Cool – but you’re not coming to Christmas, are you?? Oh, you ARE? Huh.)

I was thinking about that when Barbara noted that I tend to bounce up and down when I run.

“I’m popping up to give those muscles a little break. I’m not strong enough to run in a permanent crouch.”

“What? What permanent crouch?”

“Well, to move without bobbing up and down, don’t you have to crouch down a little?”

I could see Barbara attempting to translate such an odd question into English; it was rough going. My concept was so far away from reality that she decided to break down the action of running in super-slo-mo.

And guess what? SHE powers her run off her back foot, kicking away from the earth as she moves.  And *I* power my run off my front foot, pulling my body forward from the grounding of the leading foot. So I bob up and down and she runs like she’s on rails.

It was like staring into a hypno-drawing; my brain couldn’t hold the two opposing concepts together. I was partially paralyzed and was slo-mo running around the big room at Body Dynamics, trying to figure it out. “Wait,” said Barbara.

She got a long strap with rubber tubes strung on it. We put the tubes across my hips and she held the end of the strap behind me like a farmer working a plough horse. “Run to the far wall,” she said.

I ran forward, with Barbara (who is lean but very strong) pulling me back. There was no way to move forward without kicking from the back foot; the front foot became entirely about prepping for the next push. It was exhausting. We did that twice, across the long length of the big room. Then she took away the strap and said “Run to the far wall. Don’t think about it – just do it.”

I flew across the room like I’d been shot from a cannon; it was actually scary. I felt out of control and like a car whose brakes had gone out. “What the hell?!”

“Better!” crowed Barbara. “Did you feel it?”

“Feel like a pinball being shot out of the tube? Hell yes, I did!”

“Let’s do it again.” Back I went into the plough position and I dragged Barbara across the room a few more times (thinking – damn, I just ran a mile! Why am I running again??), and then I ran again unencumbered, so powerful I couldn’t believe it.

Jeez. Is THAT how you’re supposed to run?? How do I reproduce that without forcing Barbara to allow me to drag her around before I run anywhere?

The point is – I thought the body needed a redesign; now I find the problem was user error. Typical.

Hypno-pattern. This is me trying to think about running, as opposed to just running.

4.23.18

The devil came to me last night.

He arrived (or in this case, she arrived) not with a whiff of sulfur or with a writhing, snake-like forked tail. No, the devil came in the form of a perfectly charming waitress named Alexis. She was a delight; exactly the waitress you hope for. Friendly without looking like she was going to pull up a chair and dominate the conversation. Competent without being intrusive. Fast on the drink refills.

But then, she opened her smiling mouth and said it.

“So – did we save any room for dessert?”

For the last few weeks (okay – months), I’ve gone back to being sugar’s bitch. I’m still exercising every day; I’m still making good food choices; I’m still drinking plenty of water. But on top of all that, I’m also eating sugar like there was going to be a shortage and I needed to stockpile.

I remind myself of all the things I’ve learned about sugar – that it’s poisoning my system. That it laughs like a mad scientist as it absorbs all the zinc I’m putting in through pumpkin seeds. That it shatters the digestion. That my brain, addicted to the substance, releases a tiny drop of serotonin when it needs a hit, crooning to me, “Come on baby – just a little bump. I’ll do ALL those things you love for a container of Ben and Jerry’s.”

I know this, and yet somehow I have not yet come to grips with the oomph to go back to the virtuous life I found after working with Chip, the nutritionist at Body Dynamics in Falls Church.

And I know that if I could just say “no, thanks” even ONCE, then the next time would be easier…

…yet here came the devil.  “We have an outstanding turtle cheesecake tonight,” she said, wafting pure opium vapors under my nose. “Caramel, and a drizzle of chocolate…”

I am a FRAIL HUMAN – I have weaknesses. “I’ll have that!” I gasped like a man gambling the mortgage at the craps table; I’m SURE this is going to work out for me!!

And then do you know what happened?!

It might have been that Chip the nutritionist snuck into the restaurant’s kitchen and began messing with the staff. It might have been Barbara and Grace, the trainers, teaming up to knock waiters and cooks over, one kneeling quietly behind while the other pushed athletically from the front – BAM! Down they go, chef’s toques a’flyin’. It might have been Clara from stretch class, grabbing all the turtle cheesecakes and hiding them in the vegetable fridge…

…but SOMETHING stalled the arrival of my dessert.

Time passed. Conversation faded. My water glass was empty again.

“Where IS Alexis?” we asked, looking around the restaurant as if we were coming out of a daze. The sugar craving had begun to weaken.

The seconds ticked by. Then the minutes. “Dessert should have been here by now, right?”

“Definitely.”

And then Alexis appeared, apparently wanting to see just how much power the devil had over her acolytes.

“I’m so sorry – we’re out of the turtle cheesecake. So the chef is sending out a heavenly white chocolate cheesecake for you. Is that okay?”

It was like a phone call from the governor before the electric chair switch was thrown. REPRIEVE!

“No, that’s okay – nothing for me, thanks.”

The devil looked both disappointed and embarrassed that she could not provide the offered temptation (the devil is really an extremely good waitress), but the craving had passed, and fate had intervened to give me a tiny little victory. A victory-ette.

And look – I said no once! This is definitely the start of something good!

Get thee behind me, Alexis!

Who needs dessert when you have Chip’s spectacular breakfast? Fresh fruit, various nuts and seeds (zinc-rich pepitas!), a dusting of delicious wheat germ, the creamiest whole milk organic yogurts, and topped by a drizzle of the North’s life’s blood: maple syrup from the far reaches of Vermont. Pair that with a big glass of water and GOOD MORNING!

 

 

4.21.18

I am happy – no, horrified – to report that I am no longer furious with my dead husband. My anger has drained out of me like a bathtub once the plug was pulled. Glug, glug, glug – gone.

And as expected, anger was a far easier emotion to bear than what replaces it.

I had a fascinating session yesterday with Regina, the 5K-running biofeedback counselor. I have no idea if the biofeedback really is training my brain to be more efficient. How could I possibly assess the biofeedback’s effectiveness when Regina keeps hitting me with truth bombs every single week?? It’s not like I have a clone who’s getting JUST the biofeedback without the counseling, to judge the effectiveness of “brain training.”

Last week, you might recall, she came to the session bearing an offering on a silver salver – more priceless than gold, myrrh, or frankincense: the concept that you could have ANGER without BLAME. It took me a solid week to get my arms around the concept; I haven’t even begun to shape it to fit into my daily life yet…

…but this week’s gift was even more profound. Like – DAYUM.

After hearing Jonathan’s story filtered through my highly-subjective telling, she offered that it sounded like Jonathan’s brain implications (whatever they were) resulted in him being trapped in a permanent “threat” mode.

I sampled the concept, assessing its flavor. If that was right, then everything would be a threat to him. It wasn’t his choice, any more than you could see a coiled snake in your path, hissing and rattling, and decide to think “All things have a place in this world; I am entirely neutral to that serpent.” No – it’s a threat. No matter what you decide to do, neutrality is not an option.

Can you imagine being trapped in that mindset for FOUR YEARS? It would be an unending nightmare. You’d be afraid to leave your home. You might take to your recliner and come up with excuse after excuse to stay right there. You might see a perfectly normal stranger on the street and mutter to yourself (and whoever was near you listening), “That lady’s scaring me.”

You’d refuse to even consider switching to decaf coffee, in deference to failing kidneys.

Oh, fuck. I’m beginning to understand. At last. And I don’t like what I’m learning.

“But,” I said desperately, “Jonathan could go back to being normal – funny, engaging, kind – when he was with other people. I used to love to get him to go out to dinner with people or get involved with others because it reminded me that he was still in there.”

Regina was so kind in her delivery of bitter truth. “That tells me how important you were to him.”

What, now?

“The most powerful emotions get inverted. The people he loved the most became the greatest source of stress.”

She had more to say on the subject, and it was far more scientific than I’ve recaptured here; I kind of got rolled by the tidal wave and missed the details. But the point is – if Jonathan was ever an utter bastard to you (and I remember him making Karol cry at a summer reunion at Kathy and Gerry’s house, or suddenly announcing we had to leave and rudely walking out of Robs’ house), then now you know how close you were to his heart. Alas.

He was horrible to his mother. He was perfectly awful to his sister. He filled me with such a swirling, oily cloud of fear and rage and tears and unhappiness that I’m still trying to scrub the residue off the walls of my soul.

The only exception was his son. Jonathan acted as if he was Rusty’s brother; he was constantly playing with Rusty and giggling with him and uniting with Rusty against me, The Stern Authoritarian. While this was entertaining for my son, it was also confusing to him, and put Rusty in the unenviable position of needing to be the parent to his own father. Still, a smile from Jonathan during his last four years was rare enough that Rusty and I were both happy to get that much.

It’s not very typical that one is given The Answer to a bad situation; it’s more like someone has poorly translated instructions in a foreign language. You have to pick up a lot in the syntax, and there is often unintentional hilarity and confusion in the translation…

…but getting this explanation – the fact that Jonathan was in threat mode for four solid years – fits like a key in a lock. It opens up understanding. Now I know what he was going through, and my anger at him is … gone. Pouf.

What replaces that anger is much harder to contain. I feel such profound pity for him. I know I didn’t treat him with anything like the compassion he deserved. He needed to be protected and cared for, and I didn’t know. He didn’t know. No one knew… so he suffered, trapped in the unyielding prison walls of his own cranium, and I just rolled my eyes at him and gritted my teeth. At my best friend ever.

I feel like I betrayed him. I feel ashamed. I feel huge tidal currents of sorrow. I want to apologize. I want to help and fix it, and I can’t.

Yeah. The anger was easier.

The last photo I ever took of Jonathan was of him, typically, playing with Rusty – who, you can see, is just trying to make a cup of coffee.

4.18.18

The seats we got for P!nk could have been higher; there was one row behind us – but there’s no doubt we were up where the air is thin. Next to me, my friend Susan (who is not comfortable with heights) was already thinking about how scary it was going to be getting back down again.

I sat in my seat oddly comfortable with the we’re-definitely-perched-on-the-side-of-a-cliff feeling. I don’t mind heights (although I’m not as in love with them as the woman we’d come to see, who spent at least a quarter of her show attached to several aerial harnesses, singing with full-tilt rock star brio from way high in the air), but there was still something peculiarly familiar about the view.

Oh. Ah. Got it.

Say you’re sitting in your favorite armchair – maybe the big, red, overstuffed chair in the office – with your feet comfortably propped up. Say your iPad is on your belly and you’re gazing down into it, to read one of an endless series of trashy novels. I say “gazing down,” but the angle isn’t as steep as, say, looking at your feet while standing. It’s a comfortable angle; you can (I have) stay there for hours at a time.

That’s exactly the angle from our seats to the floor of the Verizon Arena in Washington, DC. It was like looking into a book, and seeing a view that is every bit as deep and far as the feeling you get when you’ve been absorbed into a book. Rich. Action-packed. Vigorously entertaining.

So I was loving it – I was already happy before the performance began.

And then the warm-up band frontman persuaded the half-crowd (lots of empty seats for the warm-up that were definitely filled by the time P!nk began) to hold their hands over their heads, like referees signaling a touch-down. Then he got us to clap on the beat. Not exactly rocket science, but it pulled the tattered remnants of the audience together, and because I was in the mood to be happy and a part of things, my two clapping hands were a tiny portion of the large noise that ensued.

So I was about as far from the singer as you can get and still be in the same room, and yet I had a connection to him, and the band, and the other people in the audience. We had a unity that would have seemed impossible moments before. And I got hit upside my head by a metaphorical sledge hammer:

You could sit at home and put on a P!nk album (which I recommend you do) and hear her music and dance in the kitchen all by yourself and it would be a good experience… but there’s something about a crowd’s unity – about everyone stomping their feet in time, and clapping, and screaming lyrics together that is purely different than experiencing it as an individual…

… JUST LIKE THERE’S A DIFFERENT ENERGY AND SPIRIT FOR THE PEOPLE WHO RUN A 5K TOGETHER.

Omigawd. There I was, raising a glass ‘cause I am wrong – in all the right ways – all my underdogs – I will never be, never be anything but loud – and nitty-gritty – all my little freaks – so come on and, come on and raise your glass, and suddenly Barbara and Regina and Kathryn and all the runners at the Workhouse Prison Break Run from Sunday were grinning at me, waving me over, saying “Join us. Dance like no-one’s watching. Make some noise.”

You can run alone – you can keep going until you’ve covered 5K of ground. That would be good. But it wouldn’t be the same as joining in unity with a whole bunch of unconnected humans to form a suddenly cohesive, energetic, more-than-the-sum-of-its-parts whole – and that’s different, and also good.

I don’t know why I feel utterly comfortable at a concert and so alien and out of place at a race – but I think I made a connection. I think I understand, at least academically, why running a 5K might be fun.

P!nk. Is there nothing she can’t do?!

I like so many P!nk songs, but if I were to pick just one to recommend you try? I guess it would be Raise Your Glass. Go ahead – get the thirty-second free listen on iTunes. See if you like it. She’s awesome.

4.16.18

Yesterday I wrote about observing friends in a 5K/10K – here’s the photo of those intrepid athletes. I stole it off the Body Dynamics Facebook page; hope they don’t get annoyed! That’s Barbara on the right (her yellow “I’m a long-distance greyhound” 10K tag is under her pre-race jacket), and lovely Kathryn the therapeutic masseuse is next to her. Then came wise Regina, the biofeedback counselor I’m working with, and Regina’s son (who came, if Regina’s grinning statement is to be believed, because runners got free food).

Aren’t they beautiful?

And isn’t it surprising that this race – a race I didn’t even run – plunged me into a depression?

The thought of doing what they did (or at least what Regina and Kathryn did – the 5K, not the 10K) filled me with a don’t-bother-fighting-just-flight response. It makes me shake my head wordlessly. Attempting to verbalize my feelings, I fall back on “Oh – no. No, no, no. HELL no.”

I don’t want to run that far. I certainly don’t want to run that far in public, with people watching and clapping and encouraging and someone holding a stopwatch. I don’t want to think of me gasping for air while person after person passes me, possibly stopping long enough to say something encouraging or make sure I’m still experiencing a typical heart rhythm… I just don’t want to do that.

And the plan is for me to do it in JUNE. That’s just terrifying.

I’ve run FIVE TIMES. And if Barbara and I continue our pattern of running at the beginning of our Tuesday sessions, that would mean that my twelfth run ever would be a 5K. That’s too much. It’s too soon.

I’m giving this plan the ol’ stiff leg. Not doing it.

But I WILL run a 5K in October, when the Virginia weather breaks and the swelter oven is turned off in our region. By then, I should be able to run more than I walk; by then I might greet the thought of a 5K with mild pleasure instead of paralyzing fear.

I’m stalling – and in one use of the word, “to stall” means to lose engine power and fall out of the sky. I hope my stall doesn’t mean I’ll crash and burn. I don’t have the courage to do a 5K in June – but I’m not giving up. I’m just delaying.

Yes, it feels like failure. On the other hand, I’m no longer scared and anxious. So I’m willing to accept the failure. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to work out on the elliptical.

4.15.18

Barbara slipped beneath the inflatable purple “FINISH” arch like she was on rails – like the camera crew had snuck in while no one was looking and laid tracks. When Barbara runs, there’s no up-and-down bobbing; she’s straight ahead, like her spine is a firm metal rod and there’s a massive, Wile E. Coyote type magnet just ahead, pulling her forward.

She’s efficient. There’s not a wasted movement – nothing but grace and ease and an economy of motion that is utterly deceptive…

…as Barbara was the third woman to cross the 10K finish line. “Yeah,” she said mildly when she found me after the run. “That was pretty fast. I sort of surprised myself.” She wasn’t even ultra-sweaty. She didn’t need to stand just on the other side of the finish arch with her hands on her knees, sucking in air – far from it. Barbara was FINE.

I was there to observe the race. (Barbara, my trainer at Body Dynamics, is very smart; she knew I needed to see and experience at least the start and finish of a race so I could prepare mentally for the 5K I’m planning to enter in June.) And I did have many observations. Including…

I observed that I want to be like Barbara. I want it the same way I want to be able to play the trumpet or run for political office or hold the arch of my foot while I stick my leg up around my ear, like a ballet dancer; that is – this is a desire I hold very loosely, aware that it’s not going to happen.

But I wonder: What does Barbara want? There’s not a one of us who looks in the mirror and smiles; we ALL want something different. Does she want to be a voluptuous Jessica Rabbit type? Does she wish she was taller, shorter, darker, paler? Does she look at her lean, balanced body and think “If only…?”

I observed that there are many types of people who enter 5Ks; there are runners like Barbara, of course – but there are also men and women who look like they’re facing a really grueling task and they’ll be damned if they’re going to stop before the entire wood pile is chopped. Some people are there for joy and oxygenated corpuscles; some people are there despite the many, MANY reasons to stay home.

I observed that these races are held in the early morning. Not to overshare (yeah, like that’s ever stopped me!), but my digestion is established for activity by around 9, 9:30. As the racers took the starting line at 9:20 (the 5Ks; the 10Ks left at 9), I thought – “Glad I’m not standing there. Port-a-potties to the left, you say?”

I observed that a race in mid-April is probably the ideal time to run, as the weather was cool (and got colder as the morning wore on). If I’m going to run, I’m going to need cool air – so why am I deliberately ignoring the swamp-like qualities of northern Virginia in early June?

I observed that I need to do a little shopping; I’m going to need 5K-worthy running clothes. Guh.

I observed that Barbara is a team player, while I never played on any team. She and I stood near the finish line to cheer on the other Body Dynamics participants – Regina, the biofeedback counselor and Kathryn, who joins Gwynn in the masseusery. (Just made that word up; like it? Where do therapeutic masseuses work? A masseusery, of course.) As we waited for them to round the corner, Barbara offered her cheers and praise especially to anyone running past with a yellow tag.

(White tags were 5K runners; yellow tags were 10K runners.)

Far from looking down on the 10K runners who were arriving so late, Barbara’s cheers and encouragement got louder as the race got longer. It was clear she didn’t care about the time it took to complete the run – just that the run was being completed. The longer it took to get to the finish line, the greater the triumph and the louder her cheers. Barbara is a wonderful, kind person.

I observed that Barbara not only called out “Great job!” to the runners – she also shouted “Finish strong!” That comment terrifies me. It means that as you draw closer to the purple arch, you’re supposed to SPEED UP. I’m pretty sure by that point I’m going to want to find a bench for a little rest. Am I supposed to keep enough energy in reserve to FINISH STRONG when all I want to do is find my car and drive away as quickly as I can?!

I observed that both Kathryn and Regina crossed the finish line (strong, as it happens) wreathed in smiles. “Is this fun?” I asked Kathryn. She looked at me to see if I was joking, and realized I wasn’t. “Yeah – this is fun.”

“Why?”

“It was a nice run, and it’s fun that everyone is cheering.”

“Huh.”

Regina said she’d do the run again next year; that she was looking forward to it. All three runners looked very happy and contented. I realized I had a vague headache and wondered how soon before I could go home and hide.

I’ll do a little research, but I posit the theory that Regina and Kathryn both played on sports teams at some point. (I know Barbara was on a basketball team.) I think that people who succeed on sports teams get a buzz from the energy of a group action – of people cheering you on, of others running beside and around you.

I played on the International Read A Book Team. I keep thinking that if I run twice around the lake, that would be 5K, and then I’d have done it and wouldn’t have to do it in a crowd. “You don’t find this inspiring?” Barbara asked, astonished. “Look at all these people – all different shapes and sizes, all working for the same goal. That’s motivating!”

I observed that she spoke the truth, as she saw it. I observed that I’m going to give it a try, but I have my doubts that I’ll be much changed by the experience.

Why didn’t I take a picture of Barb, Regina, and Kathryn? They were RIGHT THERE in front of me. I’m a fool! This isn’t a photo from the “Prison Break” race at the Workhouse. I stole this one off Google. You don’t care, do you?

April 13, 2018

A hypothetical for you: Can you envision a circumstance in which you felt anger – from mild irritation to blazing fury – that did NOT include the concept of blame?

I had a most remarkable session today with Regina, the biofeedback counselor at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA. After she goo’ed electrodes to my ears and scalp (the only unappealing part of biofeedback), we got into a discussion about The Dead Husband Issue.

(New readers start here: My husband Jonathan died last year after four years of altered behavior  and probable mental impairment that made living with him… challenging. His death infuriated me, since it didn’t have to happen. He didn’t kill himself, of course… on the other hand, he took no steps to protect his life, so WHAT A JERK.)

“Of course,” Regina said, “anger and blame don’t HAVE to go together.”

“Yes, they do,” I protested. “Always. Anger is the result of an injustice – something unfair. That gets you angry, and it’s always attached to a wrong that must be righted. That means blame.”

“Not necessarily. You can be angry about karma – about being dealt a bad hand. There’s no blame in that.”

I sat in stunned silence. STUNNED.

Is it possible that I could be angry with my husband for leaving me, for putting me through this trauma, for putting our son through it – and NOT blame him?

The metaphorical earth beneath my feet began to shake. Jonathan was incapable of making a good decision by the end, but it wasn’t his fault. He had the gastric bypass (the one that led to the B-12 deficiency that led to the brain imbalance) for us – he did it for his family. Was he, then, to blame for the physical effects of that decision?

Of course not… yet if you always pair anger with blame (as I always have), you have to have both or neither, and I have too much anger for neither. Both was my only option.

But if you can uncouple the two – if you can legitimately be angry without pointing a finger…

…might this not be the route, the path to – what? Resolution? Forgiveness? Acceptance?

Regina was still talking; she had very valid points, but they rolled off me like raindrops on a slicker. I waved her off. “Hang on – I’m still on anger and blame.”

I am READY to be done with anger; I’m ready to remember the man I loved so deeply for twenty years and forget the bitter bastard who unintentionally poisoned the last four. Maybe, maybe, maybe…

Can YOU think of an example of anger without blame? I’d be most grateful to hear it in the comments; here or on Facebook.

This Venn diagram is actually wrong… I really need a HUGE overlap between anger and blame, with a question mark to indicate curiosity as to what happens when the two conditions are separated, but I couldn’t figure out how to draw that. What – you want your money back?!