where do the hours go?

When we were in Brazil last fall, we had very few responsibilities. Pretty much all we had to do was eat*, sleep, wash a few dishes, try not to get sunburned on endless hikes or gobbled up by prowling mosquitoes in the night, and amuse our 1 year old companion.  On the surface, it seemed like a lot of people on the island were in the same boat (that pun was so unintentional, but I'm leaving it in because I can't help myself).  This sign at the center of the nearby village was a hot spot for socializing and doing what looked like a whole lot of nothing. I'm sure the people on the island all have obligations and worries of their own, but their constant loitering contributed to my overinflated sense of leisure.

Fast forward about 8 months, and I can barely remember what it felt like to have nothing to do for hours on end. We've been in constant motion since we left for our Brazilian adventure. Yes, everyone is busy. New York is overflwoing with doers. So many opportunities!  So much to do!  I know people that pick up extra hours at work because they're just not sure what to do with free time, but I can't say that I have ever had that problem. I know people that make plans almost every night of the week, but if I have plans 2 days in a row, I feel like my routines (and the resulting functionality of our household) crumble and it takes days to get things back on track.

What I've been trying to do lately is reframe my idea of "free" time because in my head it seems like it should be protracted hours in which I have to figure out what I want to do with myself. But that just isn't happening right now, and won't for the foreseeable future. So I've had to chunk down and try to appreciate increments as small as 15 minutes. Some days I dive right in and spend those 15 minutes practicing my banjo or scanning film negatives or (gasp) writing a blog post.  But a lot of days, I spend those 15 minutes sitting on the couch, resentful and bemoaning how little time I have.  Before I know it, my free time is up, and I have to go finish the dishes or walk the dog or feed the cats or pack my lunch for the next day or this, or that.

And what about friendships?  You can't nurture a relationship with scraps of time, and forget about making new ones.  Well, I guess you can if go virtual, but what I'm craving is 3 dimensional face time.  I used to spend entire weekends visiting friends on a regular basis. Granted, I was single, hated my job, was apathetic toward my living situation, and did not own a dog. But there has to be a way to make time for people, right?

I've been a variety pack of contradictions lately: lonely and craving a network, too possessive of time to use it on anything besides zoning out at home, and too married to routines that make me feel functional to break the cycle. There's no pat resolution to this post. I merely wanted to use a few minutes of my newfound weekend (no more working on weekends!) to share what's been on my mind for awhile.


*Eating was not actually as small a feat as I'm making it in this sentence. To buy groceries, we had to hike 20 minutes down into the village and then hike back up the side of the hill (I don't think it really counts as a mountain, but it was pretty steep in places) with all of our groceries in tow.

get out there

I often see the same older Asian man walking in Prospect Park.  He carries a cane and contends with a robotic hitch in his stride.  Last week I went running on a wretched winter day.  At the beginning of my loop around the park, I saw this walking man (not to be confused with crazy walking guy whom I will save for another post).  I was surprised to find my cane-toting acquaintance out on such an unpleasant day, but there he was: hugging the far edge of the drive, bent into the wind, making steady progress.

Some days he carries his cane high off the ground and some days he leans on it for support, but more often than not, he's out there.  Motoring along.    

mosquito montage

I had to hand write a receipt for someone at work today (after they signed the iPad screen with their finger - oh the collision of technology and a lack thereof), and when I wrote "9" for the month, it made me weep on the inside.  September.  I hate what it represents, even though the month itself is quite nice. More comfortable temperatures, theoretically.  Fewer mosquitoes, maybe.  A sense of renewal and change that feels more logical than New Years, which can also be a source of angst for those of us who are prone to such wastes of effort.  But it's also the first step on the mud spattered spiral staircase to winter.  Effing winter.

But we're not there yet.  It's technically still summer, damn it.  Which I love, even though it comes with high electricity bills and the smothering odor of big city garbage days.  It's clear that I have not been spending my summer in blogland, so I thought I'd do a little photog summary to commemorate the joys of sweating and eating ice cream.

We did a LOT of running.  Some of it over bridges and into greener (and unfortunately hilly) pastures:

Some of it by the beach and into labyrinthine, mosquito-infested marshes:

We went canoeing and dog coveting with an old college friend and drank beers with names like Mean Old Tom:

We went to my mom's and got to spend time with her ridiculously cute dog:

We did the NYC Color Run, which was most decidedly not in NYC:

Then we took a birthday ferry ride on the East River, and I ate a carrot cake donut but there's no evidence of that because I ate it too quickly to be seen by the naked eye:

This is just a slice of the summer squash pie, but I've already made this into too much of a list, so I'll stop here.  I'd say we did an okay job of filling in the cracks of a work-filled summer.

progress?

There's a line from the Scott Jurek book Eat & Run that has really stuck with me: "Sometimes you just do things."

I'm not really in to just doing things.  In fact, part of what contributes to my eternal stagnation is that I can't just do things.  I always have to ask "why" or "what's so important about this" or "what is the point of doing that," and look how far all of that rumination has gotten me.

It seems like such a simple statement, but you'd be amazed at how useful it is when you're 8 miles into an 11 mile run, and the humidity is 127%, and you think maybe your toes have turned into little ginsu knives.  Other useful statements at such a juncture: "this is what I want" "I choose to be here" and "I will eat my face off when this is over."

Because choice is important, isn't it?  Feeling in control is a creature comfort.  Although it becomes less of a comfort for other creatures when you decide to try to control them, but overall I would say that feeling like you are your own master is an important element to happiness.

I turned 32 last week.  32!  Which I know won't seem like much to some of you, but it feels like a big deal.  People in their 30s own things.  They have paths.  They are in charge of stuff.  Or so it seems.  I've decided to embark on my own 30-something avenue that will be kind of a big deal if I see it through.  Naturally I don't plan on sharing it with you yet (not for quite awhile really), but I have to say it feels good to decide to just do something.  Because why the F not.  

*and sometimes 2 people in the course of a day ask you to write more blog posts, so you just sit down and do it 

blahttes and crappucinos

Remember when I used to write some stuffs?  Yeah, me neither.

There are so many things I could try to use as an excuse.  Post marathon depression.  Holiday Hangover.  February flops.  Mental hay fever.  The real reasons are so existential and wiggly that I can barely figure out how to describe them.  I tried to explain the problem to an old friend today, and it sounded like I was quoting a Portlandia script, minus the quirky coolness.  

I'm not sure people with my grab bag of neuroses are supposed to have blogs.  Being torn between wanting attention and gold stars (comments! thumbs up! like me!), not wanting attention (don't ask me questions about myself!), and not understanding the point of anything makes for a difficult first draft.  But why does everything need to be injected with meaning?  Why can't something just be a collection of stories for the sake of storytelling?  I spent over 30 minutes this evening scrolling through Humans of New York (non-Facebook version here), completely enthralled by the snippets included with each photo, and would have kept going if I hadn't promised myself I would write something tonight.  

So I'm not breaking up with you internets.  I'm merely trying to define our relationship and figure out how to make this space something I look forward to inhabiting instead of this thing that needs to be Great and Noticed.      

This brief feline interlude has been brought to you by a very stressful little thing called Moving in December.  'Tis the season for overcommitment!  I know it doesn't rhyme, but I don't have time to agonize over syntax right now (or to wonder if I used the word syntax correctly).

As you can see from the way she's clutching the drawer, Fatty could care less that there are moving boxes in one corner of the apartment and piles of clothes heading to Beacon's all over the bed.  Petey, on the other hand, has been even more fidgety than usual and will occasionally let out a harrowing wail as he paces from one end of the apartment to the other.  He's taken to laying all over the boxes in a very obvious display of denial.

Long story short, our landlord is coming home to her apartment in January, and our sublet in the stodgy but oh so well located co-op is over.  Our next step?  Moving down the hall.  Seriously.  There's an empty apartment that is available for sublet and after much stalling and nail biting, we should receive the keys sometime* today.  I'm leery of telling the whole story here on the interwebs, otherwise known as naked land where everything is permanent and accessible to prying eyes.  Basically, it did not need to be this drawn out and ridiculously close to not happening in time for both christmas and the end of our lease.  Certain parties involved wanted certain things that they should not have been entitled too, but they negotiated their way into what they wanted at the expense of my sanity.  Yes, we could have tried harder to find another rental that wouldn't have involved such waiting and lack of control, but who wouldn't want to move down the hall? to a brighter apartment? and pay the same rent?  and live in exactly the same location that you were depressed about leaving?  So I suppose it was worth it.

*I say sometime because, in keeping with all other communication with these people, we have not been told when the owner is planning to stop by today.

Portland Marathon: the slog

The first seven miles of the Portland Marathon went by pretty quickly.  We got caught up in the atmosphere (complete with musical groups around almost every corner) despite the unwelcome chainsaw in charrow's stomach.  But eventually Charrow got pastier and had to walk more often than planned.  I tried to get her to eat something a few times, but she took a microscopic bites and immediately handed the snacks back to me.  Around mile ten, she finally made the decision to stop.

The next 16 miles were long and lonely.  I felt mixed about leaving Charrow in the hands of volunteers,  but I knew as soon as she said she was quitting that I really wanted to finish the race.  She dropped out a little ways before the half marathoners split off towards their finish, so I had about a mile with a moderate crowd, but at the split things thinned out considerably.  Part of what makes a marathon manageable is distraction, be it through a running partner, music (live or otherwise), podcasts, whatever.  When you're running alone, you have everyone around you to act a surrogate partner, but when the field consists of a speed-walker and a distant trickle of other runners, you get bored quickly.  Boredom equals time to focus on other things, like how much you hurt.  Thankfully it took a long time for that feeling to settle in (mile 22 to be exact), but I was definitely sad to be out there doing this huge thing on my own (oh, co-dependency, how you thwart me).  Granted, I was not nearly as sad as Charrow, but hey, this is my blog so I can cry if I want to.

Miles 13-18 were pretty dismal in terms of scenery.  The musicians scattered along this part of the route were obviously getting bored and the roadside attractions included cement mixing factories and storage facilities.  The weather was holding steady at a 100% chance of gray and a 20% chance of drizzle.  I plugged along, care of my 8 song playlist that I whipped up just in case I decided not to listen to podcasts.  That's right, 8 songs, over and over and over.  Hey, when they're all your favorites, it's okay to hear them 20 times while you wonder what in the world you got yourself into.

As required by all sadistic marathon course planners, mile 18 marked the beginning of a very long, very steep hill heading up to the St. Johns Bridge.  I do love me some bridges, but after 18 miles, I would have been happy to stick with something a little less dramatic (I know, I just complained about being bored, but bridges don't slake boredom when they come with hills).  I suppose it was worth the effort because this was the view from the top.

After crossing the bridge, it was literally all down hill from there, which was good and bad.  The purple spot on my big toe nail says it was bad.  The rest of my legs were happy for the break.  The neighborhood on the other side of the water was quirky and way more interesting than pretty much the rest of the course.  Sad, but true.  A smattering of fans were sticking it out to cheer us on, and by "us" I mean me and the walkers and the old guy about 100 yards ahead of me that I pegged as my running beacon.  People were handing out homemade baked goods (thank you for the banana bread, it was just what I needed) and holding signs that said "dear complete stranger, you're doing great."  Everyone cheered me on using my full name because that what was listed on my racing bib, so I pretended that everyone was my mother because she's one of the few people that still uses my given name.  It was actually pretty comforting.  Every so often my run/walk ratio had me approaching a group of spectators at the walk phase.  It always seemed to coincide with the cheerleaders (as in uniform wearing, pom-pom toting) and not the silver-haired smilers.  I couldn't bear to stroll by gaggles of teenagers so I would start my run right before I got to them and then resume walking after I covered a respectable distance (i.e. 30 feet past the echoes of my name)

Somewhere around mile 22 the pain kicked in.  My knees started to feel like they were being squeezed by rose stems and my feet were under the impression that I had filled my socks with Nerds.  But I followed my old guy and put "Dog Days Are Over" on repeat to keep me going.  It's a fantastically motivational song, but if you listen too closely to the words when you're feeling swamped by exhaustion, it may cause you to cry, which I almost did like 5 times between mile 22 and the finish.

Eventually I passed my beacon, which was both triumphant and kind of sad because he was really keeping me good company.  I picked another secret friend and followed her to the end because that's what you do -- you just keep going.  It didn't really occur to me stop.  I managed a feeble kick as I rounded the last corner and made it across the finish line without falling on my face.

Stay tuned for the Aftermath.

Fair warning to other runners planning to do Portland:

- If you run slowly, you will miss most of the music acts in the second half of the course.  Race planners should consider hiring 2 sets of music acts so that the people at the back of the "pack" have some entertainment.  Bring a friend, your nerves of steel, or an ipod to keep you company!

- The Portland course was significantly drearier than the Philadelphia course, regardless of the weather.  It was very friendly in terms of walkers and slower runners (hugs!), but don't do it for the scenery unless industrial is the cream in your wheat.

- There are some amazing post-race snacks.  All I have to say is white pizza.

- There are tons of water stations and a decent number of bathroom stops.  I brought water with me, but I barely made a dent in it.

- There may be awesome older men playing accordions under the tents that probably housed other musicians at the beginning of the race.  Smile at them and they will nod their head while they get their groove on.

- Same goes for the bluegrass band that was still going full steam when I passed them around mile 21.  Those guys were awesome, and it took some willpower to run away from them.

*all pictures from the race were taken with a plastic fisheye camera (thanks steve & liala).  I should have considered my destination a little more carefully because I used 100 speed film for a city that is notoriously gray.  oh well.