I'm still running down a dream. Coincidentally, that's another of the songs on my running mix that really gets me going. So far this week I've clocked about ten miles.
A long 4.5 on monday, impressive considering the shoddy start to my week. I logged these miles on the treadmill at the gym, because it was rainy out. It was boring and all of the numbers on the machine really weren't good for my neurotic tendencies. Running on the treadmill has several drawbacks. First, I really get a sense of how slow I actually am. Second, it's surrounded by mirrors, which I can't ignore (and it's not like I look good). Third, I immediately feel as though I must compete with the pace/time/calorie count/ of the runners on either side of me. Fourth, I'm not getting anywhere. Fifth, my excessive sweating is on brightly-lit display.
Of course there are benefits as well. I run faster on the treadmill. If I feel like running a ten-minute-mile, all I have to do is bump the thing up to six mph and hang in there. I can see how many calories i'm burning, which isn't actually that important to me, but at least when i'm running nowhere I can derive some sort of satisfaction from knowing that I just eliminated a hefty chunk of the day's caloric intake. Other than that...I guess it's easier on my joints than the esplanade is. Mmmm, esplanade.
I took tuesday off, and made wednesday a really easy short run (because I was pressed for time), compensating by climing up and down the six flights at home at least ten times for the sake of the laundry.
Wednesday night I went to the screening of The Savages, and afterward listened to three incredible actors and a magnificent director talk about their craft in a way that made me so joyful I cried. The words and phrases the used, and the passion with which they expressed themselves was so akin to the way that I feel and articulate that it took my breath away. And then I said to myself "I can't keep working this bread job". I can't keep doing something that keeps me from doing the something I came here to do. Do you follow? Then I went to P.J. Clarkes and ate a delicious sit-like-a-stone-in-my-belly bacon cheeseburger. Effectively negating at least a week of training.
Tonight was another good jag at the esplanade. Did I just say jag? Who does that? Jesus. My blood sugar must be low. Anyway, 4 miles or so today, and not quite as cold as my last long run outside. OH! And my new baby ipod is here! It was MUCH better to run with. I'm still enjoying my new mix, interspersed with lots of Christmas music (Run DMC's "Christmas in Hollis" really gets me going).
This leads me to my desperate plea. Dear friends, please oh please, send me music to run to. I don't care how you do it - a cd, a playlist, a comment with "hey, put [insert track here] on your running mix", anything. I find that once my body realizes that it can keep moving, it's really the songs that keep me from stopping. So, help a sister out. Send me some love, via Sly and the Family Stone, or whatever it is that works for you.
Please? Thank you.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Training Update
It seems that this blog is probably about to take a major turn. No longer the forum for discussion of my romantic failings. Lesson learned there. Apologies rendered. Ego bruised. (Coincidentally, this blog will also be moving to a strictly by-subscription basis. I know of a few regular readers who will be able to access the blog. If there are others out there who wish to be subscibers, please make yourself known.)
I would, however, like to use it as a way to document my successes and failures on my journey to a marathon (and just to success in general). My major guidance thus far has come from a clever little book, The (Non) Runner's Marathon Guide for Women, by Dawn Dias. I find her story of undertaking this training, and her biting sarcasm to be incredibly similar to mine. And it's really helpful to know that I can do this and not actually die. She did. Her most vehement suggestion is to regularly journal or blog to record your progress and experiences with the run. Everything, from distance, to shoes, to ipod programming is worth noting. So, here we go. I promise, my sarcasm and self-deprication will not disappoint.
This week I ran eight miles. That's not much, but since I only ran twice this week, I think that's saying something. My first run this week (and actually in several weeks) was my Thanksgiving Day 4-miler along the East River Esplanade. This was my first foray onto this particular path. It's much less of a trek from home than the park, and a nice option to have for an outdoor run. Thanksgiving day in NYC was lovely this year. It was a comfortable, sunny sixty degrees, and i ran in sweatpants and a tee shirt. The sweatpants turned out to be far too baggy. I won't be doing that again. In fact, if I have the chance to run in sixty degree weather again anytime soon, I'll be doing it in shorts. I think I must have been enticed by the concept of the pockets in my sweatpants...and the fact that I definitely hadn't put razor to leg in more than a fortnight.
I'm consistently finding that the most difficult part of my run is the first half-mile or so. No doubt this will change as mileage increases, but for now, it's definitely the getting started that's the hardest part. I inevitably feel like I'm going to have to turn around and pack it in for the first five to ten minutes of the run. Also, I am happy to report that I might be well on my way to setting a new record for "world's slowest runner". Seriously, I walk faster than I run. I think I might be doing it wrong. I need a coach. I entertain the idea of a running buddy, but then realize that finding one as slow as me might prove problematic. Perhaps I could pitch a reality show to VH1 about it. They'll make all manner of crap into a televised competition. And really, I think my journey from couch to finish line is far more interesting than anything they're cooking up on A Shot at Love, with Tila Tequila. Who is that tiny bisexual, anyway?
So, anyway, Thursday's run went pretty well. My only major complaint being that I have grown tired of the playlist I've been running to. Also, it was the only time on Thanksgiving that I actually came in contact with other living, breathing human beings. Had I not left my apartment for this run, I would have gone the entire holiday without seeing another living soul. I am thankful for my little Turkey Trot. I wasn't even terribly sore on friday. A little strained in the legs at work, but definitely not debilitatingly aching. This probably means it's time to up my mileage. Or my speed. Or my skill.
I took friday off, opting for a big Italian dinner and wine at Bar Pitti, followed by a late night showing of I'm Not There at the Film Forum. Both were delicious. And I think that you're supposed to do that anyway, right? Give the muscles a day to rest and rebuild, right? Eat tasty pasta and Italian deserts, right? Right.
Today was a full day at work until 5 or so (oh, the Saturday horror), and then upon my return home, a preparation for another run. Major difference between Thursday's run and today's...about thirty degrees. Sweet Lord, did it get cold here. And let me just say, this drop in temperature in combination wtih my stubborn idea to become a runner has led to some fashion...douche-baggery...of epic proportions. I fear that it shall only get worse as the temperature begins to drop. Let's just say, this is the first time in at least fifteen years that I have left home with my head completely covered by a tuque. (See that Canada word there, we call them toboggans where I come from. I know it's a sled. It's a hat too. Fuck off, Yankees. Wikipedia recognizes my jargon.)
I also left home with triple layers under my puffy vest, legwarmers over my socks, and new patagonia yoga pants - fold down waistband folded UP to keep my tummy a little warmer, and my everyday gloves. The run was actually even better than Thursday's. Same route, but this time, after dark, and with the full moon bouncing whimsically off the swirling black water. I could see all the way down the island, bridge by lighted bridge. It was really beautiful. There are a couple of folks a little upset with me at about the half-mile marker. I'm assuming based on sheer location, that these angry beasts are my ovaries. I don't know what else it might be. Something in the general vacinity of my lower abdomen doesn't appreciate this cold-weather jarring. Neither do my knees, or my left arch. My ass is okay with it, because it was immediately numbed when I stepped outside, and never regained feeling for the duration of the run. Really.
My ipod is not okay with the repeated jarring either. It's frozen up consistently on all of my outdoor runs. This is going to be remedied in a couple of days when my new shuffle arrives in the mail. Yep, a black-friday online special on the little devil was too good to pass up. And my big daddy ipod will thank me for the minor expenditure. I was hoping to hold out until christmas, but I think this will be a much better idea. The best thing about tonight's run, I must say, was a new running mix (thanks, Max), full of things that I couldn't predict. Several songs made me burst into full out sprint, the first one being the Chili Peppers "Can't Stop". That's actually what snapped me out of my normal shitty first half mile. Thank God.
This first cold weather run did give me a whole list of things that I need to aquire to make this whole thing run more smoothly. Pun intended.
1. Expertly fitted shoes. These have treated me well for over a year of cross-training, but they aren't the right shoes for me to be running in. I don't know which shoes are. I need to go to a store that caters exclusively to runners and get this really figured out. It's going to be a big expense. I'm going to try to hold out on this until after Christmas too, but my joints might not allow it.
2. Running tights. That's what they call the spandexy leggings that you wear while running. They're warm.
3. Layers of moisture-wicking fabric. Cotton thermals are no good. Although I wasn't aware of my sweating until I returned home and began to shed layers, I think there's a better way to do this. Also, things with key pockets are...key.
4. Some kind of lame specially for runners tuque. Toboggan. Aforementioned moisture wicking material.
5. Camelbak. Longer runs will demand that I actually take in some water.
6. these nifty earmuff/headphone things i saw in the sharper image catalog at work. for something like thirty five bucks, you can have warm ears and hear your tunes. i became a bit alarmed tonight when my sweaty headphones began to shock the inside of my ear.
7. a stopwatch and pedometer. preferably combined. something that tells me how far and how fast. or slow.
8. someone who knows what they're doing to oversee me doing what i'm doing.
9. more time in the day.
I'm exhausted, and feel TB settling in, as a result of breathing arctic air while panting my way down the esplanade. I like that word.
I would, however, like to use it as a way to document my successes and failures on my journey to a marathon (and just to success in general). My major guidance thus far has come from a clever little book, The (Non) Runner's Marathon Guide for Women, by Dawn Dias. I find her story of undertaking this training, and her biting sarcasm to be incredibly similar to mine. And it's really helpful to know that I can do this and not actually die. She did. Her most vehement suggestion is to regularly journal or blog to record your progress and experiences with the run. Everything, from distance, to shoes, to ipod programming is worth noting. So, here we go. I promise, my sarcasm and self-deprication will not disappoint.
This week I ran eight miles. That's not much, but since I only ran twice this week, I think that's saying something. My first run this week (and actually in several weeks) was my Thanksgiving Day 4-miler along the East River Esplanade. This was my first foray onto this particular path. It's much less of a trek from home than the park, and a nice option to have for an outdoor run. Thanksgiving day in NYC was lovely this year. It was a comfortable, sunny sixty degrees, and i ran in sweatpants and a tee shirt. The sweatpants turned out to be far too baggy. I won't be doing that again. In fact, if I have the chance to run in sixty degree weather again anytime soon, I'll be doing it in shorts. I think I must have been enticed by the concept of the pockets in my sweatpants...and the fact that I definitely hadn't put razor to leg in more than a fortnight.
I'm consistently finding that the most difficult part of my run is the first half-mile or so. No doubt this will change as mileage increases, but for now, it's definitely the getting started that's the hardest part. I inevitably feel like I'm going to have to turn around and pack it in for the first five to ten minutes of the run. Also, I am happy to report that I might be well on my way to setting a new record for "world's slowest runner". Seriously, I walk faster than I run. I think I might be doing it wrong. I need a coach. I entertain the idea of a running buddy, but then realize that finding one as slow as me might prove problematic. Perhaps I could pitch a reality show to VH1 about it. They'll make all manner of crap into a televised competition. And really, I think my journey from couch to finish line is far more interesting than anything they're cooking up on A Shot at Love, with Tila Tequila. Who is that tiny bisexual, anyway?
So, anyway, Thursday's run went pretty well. My only major complaint being that I have grown tired of the playlist I've been running to. Also, it was the only time on Thanksgiving that I actually came in contact with other living, breathing human beings. Had I not left my apartment for this run, I would have gone the entire holiday without seeing another living soul. I am thankful for my little Turkey Trot. I wasn't even terribly sore on friday. A little strained in the legs at work, but definitely not debilitatingly aching. This probably means it's time to up my mileage. Or my speed. Or my skill.
I took friday off, opting for a big Italian dinner and wine at Bar Pitti, followed by a late night showing of I'm Not There at the Film Forum. Both were delicious. And I think that you're supposed to do that anyway, right? Give the muscles a day to rest and rebuild, right? Eat tasty pasta and Italian deserts, right? Right.
Today was a full day at work until 5 or so (oh, the Saturday horror), and then upon my return home, a preparation for another run. Major difference between Thursday's run and today's...about thirty degrees. Sweet Lord, did it get cold here. And let me just say, this drop in temperature in combination wtih my stubborn idea to become a runner has led to some fashion...douche-baggery...of epic proportions. I fear that it shall only get worse as the temperature begins to drop. Let's just say, this is the first time in at least fifteen years that I have left home with my head completely covered by a tuque. (See that Canada word there, we call them toboggans where I come from. I know it's a sled. It's a hat too. Fuck off, Yankees. Wikipedia recognizes my jargon.)
I also left home with triple layers under my puffy vest, legwarmers over my socks, and new patagonia yoga pants - fold down waistband folded UP to keep my tummy a little warmer, and my everyday gloves. The run was actually even better than Thursday's. Same route, but this time, after dark, and with the full moon bouncing whimsically off the swirling black water. I could see all the way down the island, bridge by lighted bridge. It was really beautiful. There are a couple of folks a little upset with me at about the half-mile marker. I'm assuming based on sheer location, that these angry beasts are my ovaries. I don't know what else it might be. Something in the general vacinity of my lower abdomen doesn't appreciate this cold-weather jarring. Neither do my knees, or my left arch. My ass is okay with it, because it was immediately numbed when I stepped outside, and never regained feeling for the duration of the run. Really.
My ipod is not okay with the repeated jarring either. It's frozen up consistently on all of my outdoor runs. This is going to be remedied in a couple of days when my new shuffle arrives in the mail. Yep, a black-friday online special on the little devil was too good to pass up. And my big daddy ipod will thank me for the minor expenditure. I was hoping to hold out until christmas, but I think this will be a much better idea. The best thing about tonight's run, I must say, was a new running mix (thanks, Max), full of things that I couldn't predict. Several songs made me burst into full out sprint, the first one being the Chili Peppers "Can't Stop". That's actually what snapped me out of my normal shitty first half mile. Thank God.
This first cold weather run did give me a whole list of things that I need to aquire to make this whole thing run more smoothly. Pun intended.
1. Expertly fitted shoes. These have treated me well for over a year of cross-training, but they aren't the right shoes for me to be running in. I don't know which shoes are. I need to go to a store that caters exclusively to runners and get this really figured out. It's going to be a big expense. I'm going to try to hold out on this until after Christmas too, but my joints might not allow it.
2. Running tights. That's what they call the spandexy leggings that you wear while running. They're warm.
3. Layers of moisture-wicking fabric. Cotton thermals are no good. Although I wasn't aware of my sweating until I returned home and began to shed layers, I think there's a better way to do this. Also, things with key pockets are...key.
4. Some kind of lame specially for runners tuque. Toboggan. Aforementioned moisture wicking material.
5. Camelbak. Longer runs will demand that I actually take in some water.
6. these nifty earmuff/headphone things i saw in the sharper image catalog at work. for something like thirty five bucks, you can have warm ears and hear your tunes. i became a bit alarmed tonight when my sweaty headphones began to shock the inside of my ear.
7. a stopwatch and pedometer. preferably combined. something that tells me how far and how fast. or slow.
8. someone who knows what they're doing to oversee me doing what i'm doing.
9. more time in the day.
I'm exhausted, and feel TB settling in, as a result of breathing arctic air while panting my way down the esplanade. I like that word.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
The Purges
In the few days since the elimination of the boy, my spirits have soared by leaps and bounds. I wish it had happened sooner. I had no idea how absolutely liberated I would feel. It was as though once my mind was made up to be truly finished, my life could come back into being. I haven't felt so absolutely free in almost a year.
You see, with the boy, even when it was good, I was never at ease. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I anticipated the inevitable breakdown. I didn't ever reach a point of actual trust. And why would I? What precedent would lead me to believe that he could in fact be trusted? None.
I wonder how much of the whole thing could have been avoided had I stopped letting my pride dictate my decisions. I think that more often than not, I sacrified my happiness and kept trying in an effort to save face. I didn't want to be that girl who couldn't make it work. How completely ridiculous.
I'm reminded of something Gary said to me once. I was rambling on about something completely unrelated, and he stopped me with these words: "Laura, you can't fix him."
And now that I've finally stopped trying, I couldn't be happier.
And now, it is time for the purging. I feel the need to symbolically rid myself of all of this dust-collecting (literally and metaphorically) crap in my life. I am purging my closets, my paperwork, my bookshelves, and my heart and mind. I am replacing my bedding (which carries the bad karma of relationships past) with fresh, clean, white linens. I don't want to sleep amidst the ashes of things past anymore.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, and bring on the new day...
You see, with the boy, even when it was good, I was never at ease. I was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I anticipated the inevitable breakdown. I didn't ever reach a point of actual trust. And why would I? What precedent would lead me to believe that he could in fact be trusted? None.
I wonder how much of the whole thing could have been avoided had I stopped letting my pride dictate my decisions. I think that more often than not, I sacrified my happiness and kept trying in an effort to save face. I didn't want to be that girl who couldn't make it work. How completely ridiculous.
I'm reminded of something Gary said to me once. I was rambling on about something completely unrelated, and he stopped me with these words: "Laura, you can't fix him."
And now that I've finally stopped trying, I couldn't be happier.
And now, it is time for the purging. I feel the need to symbolically rid myself of all of this dust-collecting (literally and metaphorically) crap in my life. I am purging my closets, my paperwork, my bookshelves, and my heart and mind. I am replacing my bedding (which carries the bad karma of relationships past) with fresh, clean, white linens. I don't want to sleep amidst the ashes of things past anymore.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, and bring on the new day...
Friday, November 16, 2007
Public Forum
Happy trails, Boy. I hope you find the things in life that bring you closer to truth, to happiness, and to that difficult transition from boy to man.
I hope that I do too. Except for the man part.
In all honesty, I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted. Yes, goodbyes are always difficult. Yes, there were tears (probably all mine). Yes, there will be moments of weakness where my heart will ache, and my body will long, and my soul will heave, but I will be fine. One of these days, I will be just fine. A little bruised, maybe. A little more guarded. A little less likely to let myself fall again. Smarter, but colder. Stronger.
Closure is what I've been after. It's enough.
And to whomever let the proverbial cat out of the bag, thanks a lot. Is my sarcasm apparent?
I mean, nobody reads this thing, right?
The End.
I hope that I do too. Except for the man part.
In all honesty, I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted. Yes, goodbyes are always difficult. Yes, there were tears (probably all mine). Yes, there will be moments of weakness where my heart will ache, and my body will long, and my soul will heave, but I will be fine. One of these days, I will be just fine. A little bruised, maybe. A little more guarded. A little less likely to let myself fall again. Smarter, but colder. Stronger.
Closure is what I've been after. It's enough.
And to whomever let the proverbial cat out of the bag, thanks a lot. Is my sarcasm apparent?
I mean, nobody reads this thing, right?
The End.
Monday, November 12, 2007
You can't start a fire without a spark
Today I awoke with a mission. My anger with the boy has not subsided. My mission, therefore, was to find someplace that could chop of my hair and dye it black. This has little to do with the boy, and much to do with my own habit of matching my outward appearance to my inner emotional state. And that state has lately been much edgier than my basic red-brown bob was projecting. I wanted to do something drastic and bold. And I did. It looks badass.
Around 10:15 tonight, as I was in the drugstore picking up black hair shampoo and red lipstick, my phone rang. The familiar number belonged to that of my friend Michael, with whom The Boy trekked to DC to see a little American history and (most importantly) take in a Springsteen concert. I was accutely aware that this was where the boy would be this weekend, and reminded of it earlier in the evening by a couple of cryptic texts from boy. I answered the call, which had been timed just right, so that I would pick up at the chorus of "Dancing in the Dark". I really, REALLY, wanted to be at that concert. The Boss is one of those things that is very much wrapped up in my experience with the boy. I found it strange that Michael would call me during this song, but listened as he sang along with Bruce, screamed "I love you so much!", and hung up.
After I made it home, I sent Mikey a text, requesting a full recap of the concert when he got a chance. About half an hour later, my phone rang again, again Michael calling. I answered excitedly, "Hey, Baby! How was the show?". I was surprised to hear, not Mikey, but the Boy's voice on the line. "Oh my God, it was incredible. I wish you had been here." Uhhhh, what? I stammered out something that amounted to "why the hell are you calling me." It was at this point that The Boy revealed that it was he, not Mikey who had called during the concert. Well, that would make a lot more sense. The song has significance in our dsysfunctionally passionate relationship. I put up my prickly defensive shield, even as I was beginning to cry. Told the boy I hated him, which is untrue. I then listened as he marveled about the haunting patriotism of our nation's capitol. Not his nation's.
We talked about the "kings" of America, comparing Lincoln to Shakespeare's Henry V, his inaugural address to the St. Crispian's Day speech. We talked about the bittersweetness of Bruce, of his activisim, of his outrage at the current state of affairs in ths country, and of the fact that our generation does not have a voice like that. We talked about Vietnam, and Abbie Hoffman, and Martin Luther King Jr, and the utter disgrace it is for George Bush to be sitting in the White House, running this great country into the ground. We talked about the difference between the 1960s and now, our lack of a united voice of the youth of America. There is no movement. Everyone is in their own ipod-induced self-serving world. He said that now he understood why I was so wrapped up in Hair this summer. Where is our generation's Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, ANYTHING? We want to hear OUR voice - the voice of a young people who are mad as hell. It's not out there. Why? How can we become that voice?
Conversations like this, and like the ones that the boy and I have about art, and acting, and our place in this world are ninety percent of the reason that I fell in love with him. His passion for the things that I find important, and the eloquence with which he expresses himself make me want to spend my life talking with him. I've never had that kind of exchange with another person. Not in the same way. It is what I miss the most, and will miss the most if we do in fact cease to be a part of eachother's lives.
It was at this point that Mikey actually DID get on the phone with me, proclaiming his and the boy's undying love for me. I argued that I knew he loved me, but that I was pretty sure the boy didn't. He said his battery was going dead. The boy got back on the phone. "You know I love you. I love you. I just need to live my life." I replied with, "I am not keeping you from that. Call me tomorrow." He changed from dreamer mode to jackass-who-is-making-me-miserable mode in a split second. "Your messages have been really angry lately." Wow. "No, shit. I am angry. I can be angry. You're making me angry. Call me tomorrow."
"Yeah, uh-huh, ok. I will."
Good God. What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid? And what am I supposed to do with what I feel for him?
"You can't start a fire
sittin' round cryin' over a broken heart
this gun's for hire
even if we're just dancing in the dark."
Around 10:15 tonight, as I was in the drugstore picking up black hair shampoo and red lipstick, my phone rang. The familiar number belonged to that of my friend Michael, with whom The Boy trekked to DC to see a little American history and (most importantly) take in a Springsteen concert. I was accutely aware that this was where the boy would be this weekend, and reminded of it earlier in the evening by a couple of cryptic texts from boy. I answered the call, which had been timed just right, so that I would pick up at the chorus of "Dancing in the Dark". I really, REALLY, wanted to be at that concert. The Boss is one of those things that is very much wrapped up in my experience with the boy. I found it strange that Michael would call me during this song, but listened as he sang along with Bruce, screamed "I love you so much!", and hung up.
After I made it home, I sent Mikey a text, requesting a full recap of the concert when he got a chance. About half an hour later, my phone rang again, again Michael calling. I answered excitedly, "Hey, Baby! How was the show?". I was surprised to hear, not Mikey, but the Boy's voice on the line. "Oh my God, it was incredible. I wish you had been here." Uhhhh, what? I stammered out something that amounted to "why the hell are you calling me." It was at this point that The Boy revealed that it was he, not Mikey who had called during the concert. Well, that would make a lot more sense. The song has significance in our dsysfunctionally passionate relationship. I put up my prickly defensive shield, even as I was beginning to cry. Told the boy I hated him, which is untrue. I then listened as he marveled about the haunting patriotism of our nation's capitol. Not his nation's.
We talked about the "kings" of America, comparing Lincoln to Shakespeare's Henry V, his inaugural address to the St. Crispian's Day speech. We talked about the bittersweetness of Bruce, of his activisim, of his outrage at the current state of affairs in ths country, and of the fact that our generation does not have a voice like that. We talked about Vietnam, and Abbie Hoffman, and Martin Luther King Jr, and the utter disgrace it is for George Bush to be sitting in the White House, running this great country into the ground. We talked about the difference between the 1960s and now, our lack of a united voice of the youth of America. There is no movement. Everyone is in their own ipod-induced self-serving world. He said that now he understood why I was so wrapped up in Hair this summer. Where is our generation's Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, ANYTHING? We want to hear OUR voice - the voice of a young people who are mad as hell. It's not out there. Why? How can we become that voice?
Conversations like this, and like the ones that the boy and I have about art, and acting, and our place in this world are ninety percent of the reason that I fell in love with him. His passion for the things that I find important, and the eloquence with which he expresses himself make me want to spend my life talking with him. I've never had that kind of exchange with another person. Not in the same way. It is what I miss the most, and will miss the most if we do in fact cease to be a part of eachother's lives.
It was at this point that Mikey actually DID get on the phone with me, proclaiming his and the boy's undying love for me. I argued that I knew he loved me, but that I was pretty sure the boy didn't. He said his battery was going dead. The boy got back on the phone. "You know I love you. I love you. I just need to live my life." I replied with, "I am not keeping you from that. Call me tomorrow." He changed from dreamer mode to jackass-who-is-making-me-miserable mode in a split second. "Your messages have been really angry lately." Wow. "No, shit. I am angry. I can be angry. You're making me angry. Call me tomorrow."
"Yeah, uh-huh, ok. I will."
Good God. What the hell am I supposed to do with this kid? And what am I supposed to do with what I feel for him?
"You can't start a fire
sittin' round cryin' over a broken heart
this gun's for hire
even if we're just dancing in the dark."
Thursday, November 8, 2007
I Guess I'll Drown in My Own Tears
today i learned that "real" people:
a. don't cry on the 6 train
b. look at you like you're crazy if you do.
unfortunately, having been repeatedly kicked in the heart/pride/hope departments for the better part of a year now has left me unable to fight the rising lump in my throat and welling of eyes while on mass transit. i find that it is highly unadvisable to weep in the workplace (now that the workplace is not the theatre, where i can safely weep away), and therefore have trained myself to hold it back. i just can't quite make it all the way home.
yesterday, as i fitted a very happy bride into her beautiful gown, her flower girl looked up at me and asked, "are you married?" i laughed bitterly, and replied "nope, not even close." i thought i had evaded further probing. i thought wrong. as the child began to ask me more and more questions about my romantic life (HAH!), i felt myself turning ten shades of red and wanting to scream. how do you explain to a six year old that you're pretty sure you're going to be alone forever? "listen kid, i'm apparently not worth the effort. let me give you a little advice - never let your guard down." i figured this wouldn't go over well, so i made a hasty exit, lest i drip mascara on a spanish silk gown.
this morning, we had a bridal client who was in her late 40's or early 50's. i don't know if it was her first wedding or not, but it depressed the shit out of me. she kept saying that she wanted to bring her mother back to see her favorites. her mother is in her nineties. i don't want my mother to be in her nineties when i get married. i mean, my parents are smokers. at the rate i'm going, who's to say they'll make it to my nuptuals.
i don't know y'all. i'm pretty sure the pursuit of happiness isn't supposed to be this...i don't know...sad.
i'm also pretty sure that i kick ass. thus my confusion.
all is not lost - i am keeping up with the marathon training. it will be a year from last sunday, if i make it to the goal. although, it will be diffcult to qualify for next year, it seems that 2009 is a better bet. baby steps. i'm beginning to realize that there is much that i have to learn. i also find myself in need of "stuff" to actually get this going. like, a smaller ipod (a shuffle would be ideal), a new pair of running shoes (mine are broken down, and no doubt contributing to the pain in my joints), appropriate cold-weather running attire, and ideally, a trainer. who am i kidding? i don't know what the fuck i'm doing, and even though i'm reading up on the subject, i'm one hundred percent sure that i'm not eating enough or doing the correct cross-training. but i'm not sure what to eat or do otherwise. maybe i should jog down to the barnes and noble and try to figure this shit out. i'd love a running buddy. one that will not judge me for my sorry state. it's not that sorry. i actually do pretty well on the treadmill. outdoors is harder, but more fulfilling.
i think i might (fingers crossed) get to go home for christmas. i'm trying to stretch that possibility out for as long of a visit as is humanly possible.
i need to nurture my craft. my job is sucking the artist's soul out of me. i need to be writing. i need to be singing. i need to be dancing. and i need - repeat - NEED to be acting. i feel like a shell.
i miss my partner in crime, away on her texan jew-truck adventure. i miss my friends in the city, whom i never see anymore. i miss the boy, although the prodigal did make a return on tuesday night. it seems to have only been a momentary lapse. while i see that he is gaining some clarity about the relationships in his life and the way that he treats those who care about him (which is good), i don't see that he's pulling his head out of his ass about the prospect of losing me (which is bad). i'm having one of those major head/heart battles about it at the moment. all of this contributes to the subterranean crying spells.
balls.
a. don't cry on the 6 train
b. look at you like you're crazy if you do.
unfortunately, having been repeatedly kicked in the heart/pride/hope departments for the better part of a year now has left me unable to fight the rising lump in my throat and welling of eyes while on mass transit. i find that it is highly unadvisable to weep in the workplace (now that the workplace is not the theatre, where i can safely weep away), and therefore have trained myself to hold it back. i just can't quite make it all the way home.
yesterday, as i fitted a very happy bride into her beautiful gown, her flower girl looked up at me and asked, "are you married?" i laughed bitterly, and replied "nope, not even close." i thought i had evaded further probing. i thought wrong. as the child began to ask me more and more questions about my romantic life (HAH!), i felt myself turning ten shades of red and wanting to scream. how do you explain to a six year old that you're pretty sure you're going to be alone forever? "listen kid, i'm apparently not worth the effort. let me give you a little advice - never let your guard down." i figured this wouldn't go over well, so i made a hasty exit, lest i drip mascara on a spanish silk gown.
this morning, we had a bridal client who was in her late 40's or early 50's. i don't know if it was her first wedding or not, but it depressed the shit out of me. she kept saying that she wanted to bring her mother back to see her favorites. her mother is in her nineties. i don't want my mother to be in her nineties when i get married. i mean, my parents are smokers. at the rate i'm going, who's to say they'll make it to my nuptuals.
i don't know y'all. i'm pretty sure the pursuit of happiness isn't supposed to be this...i don't know...sad.
i'm also pretty sure that i kick ass. thus my confusion.
all is not lost - i am keeping up with the marathon training. it will be a year from last sunday, if i make it to the goal. although, it will be diffcult to qualify for next year, it seems that 2009 is a better bet. baby steps. i'm beginning to realize that there is much that i have to learn. i also find myself in need of "stuff" to actually get this going. like, a smaller ipod (a shuffle would be ideal), a new pair of running shoes (mine are broken down, and no doubt contributing to the pain in my joints), appropriate cold-weather running attire, and ideally, a trainer. who am i kidding? i don't know what the fuck i'm doing, and even though i'm reading up on the subject, i'm one hundred percent sure that i'm not eating enough or doing the correct cross-training. but i'm not sure what to eat or do otherwise. maybe i should jog down to the barnes and noble and try to figure this shit out. i'd love a running buddy. one that will not judge me for my sorry state. it's not that sorry. i actually do pretty well on the treadmill. outdoors is harder, but more fulfilling.
i think i might (fingers crossed) get to go home for christmas. i'm trying to stretch that possibility out for as long of a visit as is humanly possible.
i need to nurture my craft. my job is sucking the artist's soul out of me. i need to be writing. i need to be singing. i need to be dancing. and i need - repeat - NEED to be acting. i feel like a shell.
i miss my partner in crime, away on her texan jew-truck adventure. i miss my friends in the city, whom i never see anymore. i miss the boy, although the prodigal did make a return on tuesday night. it seems to have only been a momentary lapse. while i see that he is gaining some clarity about the relationships in his life and the way that he treats those who care about him (which is good), i don't see that he's pulling his head out of his ass about the prospect of losing me (which is bad). i'm having one of those major head/heart battles about it at the moment. all of this contributes to the subterranean crying spells.
balls.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Let the games begin...
Today was Halloween. Halloween was once my favorite holiday. This was the most depressing halloween of my life. I didn't dress up, for the first time ever. I didn't get ridiculously drunk and parade about in a skimpy outfit. I didn't do anything. I avoided the playhouse halloween party because I didn't want to deal with any kind of awkward situation with the boy or the other girl. Mostly the other girl. I don't have any problem interacting with the boy, and if I had been there, I could have easily kept that under control. There's just something about being in the same physical space as that girl that makes me so uncomfortable I become physically ill. Panic sets in. I can't even step foot in the playhouse unless I've verified that I won't be running into her. It's absurd.
It's depressing for more than just the obvious reasons. Last night, while on yet another marathon phone-call with the boy (yep, we're back to that stage), we got around to the subject of the holidays. And, for the first time ever, I'm dreading them. Let's get something straight, here. I'm jolly. I love Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I love the decorations, and the music and the family and the food, and just...all of it. Maybe that makes me a huge tool. The boy finds it comical, because he is grinchy. But, as we started talking about Thanksgiving and Christmas, and our respective families routines for these holidays, and I began to cry, he softened up about it. You see, it has become increasingly difficult for me to fight off tears at the thought of the approaching holiday season. The reason is very simple. I'm not going to be able to go home this year, unless some sort of a financial miracle occurs. Every single time I think of the fact that I won't be back in Arkansas with my family on Christmas morning, I want to jump off a bridge. Really. That's the kind of hurt that it creates.
I just don't think it's in the cards.
Thanksgiving will hopefully be ok. I haven't actually been home for that one in the last three years. This will be the fourth. So far, I'm planning on trying my hand at Thanksgiving dinner for the first time.
It's something.
The new job is soul-sucking. Seriously. I am already becoming resentful of the effects I can see it having on my artistic career, and of it's role in my holiday demise.
Boo. Happy Halloween.
It's depressing for more than just the obvious reasons. Last night, while on yet another marathon phone-call with the boy (yep, we're back to that stage), we got around to the subject of the holidays. And, for the first time ever, I'm dreading them. Let's get something straight, here. I'm jolly. I love Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I love the decorations, and the music and the family and the food, and just...all of it. Maybe that makes me a huge tool. The boy finds it comical, because he is grinchy. But, as we started talking about Thanksgiving and Christmas, and our respective families routines for these holidays, and I began to cry, he softened up about it. You see, it has become increasingly difficult for me to fight off tears at the thought of the approaching holiday season. The reason is very simple. I'm not going to be able to go home this year, unless some sort of a financial miracle occurs. Every single time I think of the fact that I won't be back in Arkansas with my family on Christmas morning, I want to jump off a bridge. Really. That's the kind of hurt that it creates.
I just don't think it's in the cards.
Thanksgiving will hopefully be ok. I haven't actually been home for that one in the last three years. This will be the fourth. So far, I'm planning on trying my hand at Thanksgiving dinner for the first time.
It's something.
The new job is soul-sucking. Seriously. I am already becoming resentful of the effects I can see it having on my artistic career, and of it's role in my holiday demise.
Boo. Happy Halloween.
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