Of All The Things I've Lost, I Miss My Shoes Most

While I was sifting through the usual pile of holiday catalogs, I saw a nifty bluetooth fob that is supposed to help you find your lost keys. I'd like to give a better explanation, but I lost my train of thought before I read the entire description. And I can't go back and look it up because I lost the catalog.

My point is, I wished I had some kind of super-duper, bluetooth finder fob this morning when I was looking for my cup of coffee – which I lost somewhere in the house as I went about my normal morning routine. A quick internet search confirms that the fobs can be used to track everything from keys to phones to cars. They don't mention coffee cups, eye glasses and tape measures – my top MIA objects – but I'm sure adjustments can be made. And, judging by the way their ads took over my Facebook feed, I'd say they actually are quite good at tracking.

While it would be wonderful to tag and track all the tangible items I lose on a daily basis, what I really need is some way to track all the intangible things I've lost. Of course, sometimes the two are related. As the search for my coffee cup continued, I lost my sense of humor. And, since this wasn't the first time I lost my coffee cup – not even the first time today – I'm pretty sure I have lost my mind.

There are some things that are probably lost and gone forever. For example, since becoming a parent I have lost not only my cool, but my cool as well. My children don't think that I ever was cool and argue that you can't lose something you never had.

On the other hand, some things I've lost have found their way back without me looking for them. It seems every time I lose weight, all I have to do is turn around and I find it right behind me. And, just when I think I've lost my fashion sense, I find another trend or fad is back in style. This usually happens right after I've cleaned out my closet.

Sometimes the reason for my loss is clear: a good book makes me lose track of time, while driving through downtown Iowa City makes me lose my patience. I know I should avoid the things that cause me to lose my temper, but I haven't lost my sense of optimism. Well, not all of it, anyway.

Sometimes I'm at a loss for words, and sometimes I lose sight of my point. Sometimes I lose the battle and sometimes I lose interest. I've backed lost causes and lost my objectivity.

I sang “You've Lost That Loving Feeling” after Top Gun helped it find popularity again, proving that I've lost my sense of decorum, decency and pride.

I've lost people I love.

I've lost my way, lost my place, and lost my sense of self. I've lost money, lost sleep, lost my nerve, and lost my sense of adventure.

I have occasionally lost hope, lost my will, and lost my faith.

I frequently lose my balance, and once in the late 1980s, I lost a really nice pair of penny loafers. That one still baffles me.

I don't know if these wonder-tags will help me find everything I've lost, but I think it's obvious that I should order the multi-pack.

You know, just in case I lose one.

Have I lost you with my rambling? What have you lost? Please leave me a message.

Deep(ish) Thoughts

Last summer I ran. A lot.

OK, so maybe not a lot, but quite a bit. Or at least a lot more than I have this summer.

My point it, there's a part of me that still thinks I should be able to go out there and pick up right where I left off. OK, so maybe not right where I left off, but somewhere in the neighborhood of “not dying after three minutes of running.”

It's the same part of me that thinks I can still skateboard, climb a tree or do a cartwheel.

Everyone's a critic.

The same part of me that overestimates my piano skills, or thinks that I could jam out on the ukulele.

Or thinks that I will remember how to take a screen shot on my computer or my phone, drop out the background on an image in Publisher, or remember how to insert the formula to calculate the sum of an column in Excel. Because, No. I can NOT always get the magic “sum” icon to magically plug in the “sum” formula.

That part of me that thinks I can still hop right back up after sitting on the floor, or that I can fall asleep on the couch and not wake up with a stiff neck. Or that I can eat an entire Big Mac Extra Value Meal without feeling sick, or eat pizza after 7:30 at night without getting heart burn, or drink caffeine after 3 in the afternoon without being wide awake half the night.

It's the same part that thinks I can still walk in high heels without turning my ankle. OK, so this has never happened, but there's a part of me that thinks it still might happen some day. And that part always ignores the part of me that knows I can barely walk across a flat surface in tennis shoes without tripping or turning my ankle.

And that part is closely related to the part of me that thinks that I can play disk golf without spending most of my time searching for a lost Frisbee, or without loosing a Frisbee at all.

Which has spawned a part of me that thinks that one day I'll be able to watch a political ad – for any party and any candidate – without rolling my eyes so hard I get a headache.

But what I've really learned from that part of me which is so clearly disconnected from reality is that it's good to know your limitations.

But it's even better to not let them stop you from trying.

And that's why next weekend I'll be running(ish) up and down the hills surrounding the Village of East Davenport in the Lagomarcino Cocoabeano 5K, and (hopefully) standing around afterward enjoying a cup of cocoa and a piece of Lagomarcino chocolate candy.

Because the part of me that likes chocolate is bigger than all those other parts combined.

(Dirt Road) Party Like It's 1984

I've come to the conclusion that 50 is the new 18.

As the wave of my high school classmates turning 50 crests, I've (re)discovered that we are, indeed old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. Not only are we old enough to know better, our kids are old enough that they don't need babysitters and can serve as our designated drivers. Heck, they're old enough to know better, too.

July has been particularly 50-candles intense (I'm not sure what happened 50-years and 9-months ago, but my money is on extended power outages, or a lame TV line up). With each get-together, we recognize the gravity of reaching this milestone (and the toll gravity has taken) even as we celebrate our good fortune in achieving it (remembering fondly our classmates who did not).

We also wax a bit nostalgic for our semi-wild, perhaps misspent youth. There is a good chance that we recall those days being wilder and more fun than they actually were. Still, the memories of that freedom, daring and excitement, and the sense of endless possibilities warm our hearts. More than one story has ended with a collective sigh, and a “If my kids do that, I'll kill them,” or “My parents would have killed me if they knew!”

Recently we gathered in the beer tent at the county fair to celebrate yet another addition to the Fabulous 50s club. I don't think the fair had a beer tent when we were 18 – and even if it did, we wouldn't have been old enough to enter it (as the drinking age was 19). Instead, we had to go to the barns or the campgrounds at the edge of the fairgrounds to sneak a drink.

More often than that, though, we headed out for a dirt road party (DRP). The memories of those illegal, ill-advised, quasi-impromptu events prompted one of my classmates to suggest we plan a DRP as part of our next class reunion. We all thought about it a moment, laughed, and then gave a collective sigh.

There would have to be some changes, we agreed, for example...

Parking

In the Good Old Days both sides of the narrow gravel road would be lined with cars and trucks. Usually, they were perched precariously on the edge of a deep, weed-filled ditch, making getting in or out of a vehicle challenging (and that was before we started partying).

These Days our minivans and Mom-U-Vs could present a tipping hazard if we parked too close to the edge of the road.

Amenities

In the Good Old Days when nature called, our sprightly, bendy-legs allowed us to cop a squat in the corn field. The balance-challenged among us would use a car bumper for support.

These Days? Ain't gonna happen, no how, no way. I get skeeved out using a port-o-potty, let alone baring it all to the great outdoors.

Timing

In the Good Old Days parties didn't start until dusk, at the earliest. On an Iowa summer night, that meant most parties didn't start until 9:30 p.m. or so. In the winter, however....

These Days most of us are yawning by 9:30 p.m. or so, and we're sound asleep by 11. While we're at it, our night vision isn't what it used to be, either.

Refreshments

In the Good Old Days we drank beer – usually cheap and warm – and lots of it. Kegs were always a popular choice and occasionally lasted for more than one party (see “cheap” and “warm).

These Days the deposit on a keg and tap is steep. Besides, we may not have the same capacity for consumption we once did. Or maybe, just maybe, with age has come the wisdom not to drink as much.

Location

In the Good Old Days, true DRPs alternated between three or four spots, one of the most popular being “Pete's Ditch.” Given the relative frequency of these events, the grid-like layout of country roads, and the party-radar inherent in teens (along with the trail of red tail lights and plume of gravel dust) we were able to navigate to these remote locations with ease.

These Days, a quick and random survey revealed that no one could remember the directions to Pete's Ditch. We may have to print out maps, or at the very least make sure everyone has GPS on their phones.

Looking over this list of new requirements for a dirt road party, it would seem the perfect party location These Days would be somewhere with plenty of well-lit, flat space for parking, somewhere easy to find, somewhere with flush toilets and cushy places to nap, and somewhere with plenty of cold beer on tap.

In other words, a hotel reception hall. But that doesn't sound like nearly as much fun.

Not that I ever went to a dirt road party, of course.

My parents would have killed me.

Colon-NAP-scopy, the Rest of the Story

I hadn't planned on writing a follow-up to my last blog about preparing for my first ever colonoscopy, because really, who wants to have a colonoscopy, let alone read about someone else having a colonoscopy?

Not me!

Which is good, because I really don't remember anything that happened Monday. Except that I slept. A lot. And sleeping is my very next favorite thing, right after eating.

So, if you ignore the part where I couldn't eat solid foods for 24-hours and I couldn't eat or drink anything for 8 hours, and concentrate on the part where I got to sleep for more or less seven whole hours, my colonoscopy wasn't such a bad thing.

I've taken to calling it my colon-naps-copy.

I'm still a little hot about the whole “no eating or drinking” clause, because I woke up Monday morning thinking “Woo Hoo! Coffee counts as a clear liquid! Come to Mama!”

But then I thought – and who knows why I had this rational thought after not eating solid food for 24 hours already – “Wait a minute....” And sure enough, there in CAPITAL LETTERS, buried in the middle of the instructions, it said “DO NOT EAT OR DRINK ANYTHING 4 HOURS PRIOR TO PROCEDURE.”

Of all the mornings to sleep in.

Yes. Yes, I would have set my alarm for 5:30 a.m. just so I could have a cup of coffee. If I would have remembered that little detail.

Everything turned out for the best, though, because Me+No Coffee=Tired.

This means that after arriving at the hospital at 8:30 a.m., checking in and changing into an adorable matching gown and robe set, I sat in the waiting area and promptly dozed off. I woke up in time to listen to the final boarding instructions and to have the I.V. started (not of coffee, unfortunately), then promptly dozed off again.

After this short nap I was given my boarding pass and ushered down a short hallway and into the procedure room. Once comfortably seated... er, arranged... on my side, the Wonder Drugs were administered. I don't remember what they were exactly, but it doesn't matter, because I will always refer to them as (cue the choir of angels) The Wonder Drugs.

Nurse A (my favorite nurse of all times) administered The Wonder Drugs and told Nurse B (second favorite) to mark the time. It was 10:03 a.m. This freaked me out a little because in all my vast TV medical drama watching experience, the only time they ever “mark the time” in a hospital is when someone dies.

I was still checking to make sure I was alive when (and this is where things get fuzzy) Nurse A asked the time (10:05, apparently she realized I wasn't dead yet), and the doctor asked me if the drugs were working. I couldn't figure out why she was asking me this so soon, or how I would know if they were working, or why her voice was coming from across the room when she was standing directly over me and why her face look so loooooong and wavy.

And that's when I thought “Yes. Yes they are working. And I like them.”

The next thing I knew it was 11 a.m. and I was in the recovery room.

My husband, the long-suffering King, was there waiting for me and looking forward to taking me to the Hamburg Inn for breakfast. Despite not having eaten for more than 24-hours, I vetoed food. Apparently when they were scoping my colon, they left behind a fully-inflated beach ball. I couldn't bend over to put on my socks, much less think of eating. If you've ever had a fully-inflated beach ball in your tummy, you know that not even pancakes or biscuits and gravy sound good (although they sound good now, hint hint).

I managed to stay awake for most of (a little bit of) the ride home, then curled up tight around my beach ball and slept for another five hours.

Best. Day. Ever.

I have decided to use my enforced fast as inspiration to clean up my diet. I have made a pledge to become a mindful eater, to pay more attention to the foods I eat. This means I will carefully consider and fully appreciate each and every Cheeto and Oreo that I stuff into my mouth.

Long story short? If you are putting off having a colon-naps-copy – I mean colonoscopy -- don't. Early detection saves lives. There's nothing to worry about (but I'm not a doctor).

And everything to nap for.

Bottoms Up: A Colonoscopy Primer

Now that I am no longer 39 years young, I've had to start doing all sorts of grown-up things. My most recent grown-up activity? A colonoscopy.

I've been getting the girls checked with yearly mammograms for a while now, so I'm no stranger to uncomfortable medical exams. I really wasn't too concerned about this new exploration of the southern hemisphere, either. Until I made the mistake of telling a few people about it.

“Is this your first?” They asked. Yup.

“There's nothing to be worried about.” Nope. Didn't think there... wait, what? Worried? Was I supposed to be worried? I WASN'T worried until you told me NOT to worry. What exactly should I NOT be worried about?

So here I am, less than 24 hours away from C-Scope, and the only thing I'm worried about is lasting another 17 hours without solid foods.

I got through the morning alright without eating. Like most mornings I had coffee, followed by coffee, with a coffee chaser. But after I'd been awake for an hour I started to get a little hungry.

I indulged in a glass of water. Followed by a bottle of Gatorade. Followed by a glass of water.

Mmmm-mmm. Nothin' hits the spot quite like clear liquids. Nothin' like a hamburger, that is.

Do something to keep your mind off eating. Ha! That sounds like something someone who has been eating would say!

There's nothing better for mindless distraction than a little Facebook drama, so I logged on and tuned out. Do you have any idea how many people post pictures of food on Facebook? A lot.

Around 2 pm I decided I'd have a little clear chicken broth to take the edge off. Yep. That really hit the spot. But I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something missing. Something like a cracker. Or a box of crackers. Or maybe a hamburger.

Next up on the list of approved (non) foods? jello.

How long has it been since I made jello? Plain jello. Jello without mandarin oranges, Cool Whip or vodka? Apparently a long time, and apparently my jello making skills require frequent practice. Still, I enjoyed my partially set jello curds. I would have eaten the unmixed jello powder at this point.

Mmmm-mmm. Plain jello. You know what would go good with plain jello? A little whipped cream. Or maybe a hamburger.

By mid-afternoon I was certain I had made a terrible mistake. I wanted to call the doctor's office and reschedule. Or just cancel. Just canceling would be fine. I don't really need to know what's going on in my insides, do I? I wondered how many people fail their pre-colonoscopy eating restrictions.

No solid foods? No solid foods? Are we really sure that crackers are solid foods? What about bananas? What about hamburgers? Really?

I wanted to quit. But I'm no quitter. Besides, it was time for phase two: the evacuation notice.

I mixed up the first dose of purgative and took a big swig.

I lost my appetite.

Remember back when you had your first warm, skunky beer? Remember how you squinched your eyes closed, wrinkled up your nose, stuck out your tongue and shook your head (as if that could dislodge the taste)?

Yeah. No. This was worse. Much worse.

The good news? Psych! There is no good news. Still 30 of 32 ounces left to drink. For the first batch.

“Follow with 16 oz of clear liquids of your choice.” Does beer count as a clear liquid? Does white wine? How about vodka? Cause I'm gonna need at least 16 oz of Chardonnay to prepare me for that second liter of purgative.

Instead I followed up with Sprite. In hind site this was not the best option, as it left me feeling bloated, made my tummy gurgle and I belched up purgative-flavored Sprite bubbles.

Just one cracker. That's all I want. Just one Cheeto. Just one hamburger.

I was going to make soup for the rest of the family for dinner. Then I decided it would be in everybody's best interest if they went out to eat. Somewhere far, far away.

But they didn't.

My son microwaved a pizza. It smelled really good.

My daughter burned microwave popcorn. It smelled really good

My husband munched on potato chips. It sounded really good.

The cat crunched his kibble. It sounded really good.

I had a lemon drop. Woo hoo.

I know there are people who fast for religious or political or health reasons. I know there are people who go to bed hungry every night, not by choice but by necessity.

At some other time, when I'm feeling more introspective and philosophical and less hungry, cranky and nauseous I will ponder the deeper lessons I could be learning. And I'll make a donation to the food pantry.

But right now I have another liter of purgative to drink.

I'll let you know how it all comes out.

No. No I won't.

Little Thoughts on the Prairie

Some days I run just to clear my mind. To escape from my thoughts.

But today I cannot out run them.

I run on “my” little prairie for its solitude and beauty. The summer wildflowers are now blooming.

The challenge of the grassy trail and the relentless hills require concentration. I am “all in”.

Until I'm not.

After a mile and a half I slow to round a corner and my thoughts overtake me, crashing over and crushing me, as the humid air wraps around me in a claustrophobic hug.

I have no choice.

I stop.

The warm energy of the Iowa summer-time green growth seeps into my muscles, even as it sucks the life from my bones.

I'm caught.

I wonder: If I lay down on the trail and stay still long enough, will the prairie absorb me? Will I become part of this wild green?

I've stopped at one of my favorite places. The view here is vast and sweeping. The prairie teems with life. The air vibrates with the hum of industrious bugs. Bird songs ring high and twee. Rabbits dart across the trail. The tall grass is restless in the wind.

And yet it's so wide open – here on this small patch – that I feel isolated and lonely. I marvel at the pioneers' determination and drive. Imagine crossing this small patch a thousand times over!

I give up. I give in. Admit defeat.

I turn off my runner's watch.

Ignore miles and time and pace.

I walk.

I jog.

I lay down and let the prairie take me.

I breath.

I grieve.

I accept.

Jacks And Better

I saw a package of Jacks by the checkout counter at the craft store the other day and I had to smile.

That simple, classic kids' toy reminded me of the stories Mom and her cousin Eloise used to tell about when they were little girls. They were distant cousins but since the families got together so often, and Eloise was an only child while Mom had just one older brother, the two girls were much closer than most cousins. Eloise was at all our family gatherings – she and Mom rotated hosting duties for the holidays – and I always thought of her as Aunt Eloise.

The two of them told me of the hours and hours they spent playing Jacks. They talked about “onsies” and “twosies,” how to bounce the ball just the right way -- once, twice, or not at all. And always – always – they remembered “the concrete sidewalk was so hot on our little, bare legs!”

And they laughed.

They laughed so hard and smiled so much at the memories that I figured Jacks must be the most fun game in the entire world. So I would run to get my over-sized set of plastic Jacks and I'd go outside to sit on the big, flat square of concrete between the sidewalk and our front stairs. I sat out there practicing for what seemed like hours and hours, bouncing and grabbing, scraping my knuckles raw on the concrete, sweating as the sun beat down on me, feeling the hot concrete burning the backs of my little, bare legs.

Mom and Eloise would watch from the cool shade of the front porch, where they sat gently swaying on the porch swing. Dinner was over, the dishes were done, there was nothing to do but visit until it was time to serve dessert.

They would occasionally offer up advice, or chastise me for cheating. (Is it really cheating if you're playing by yourself?) Every once in a while, if my offenses were particularly greivious, one of them would kneel down beside me and show me the right way to do it.

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” they would say as they struggled to stand up again, girdle and nylons, high heels, age and gravity conspiring against them.

And they would erupt into laughter all over again.

The memory of that laughter warmed me as I stood there at the store, weighing the pros and cons of an impulse buy. A surprise gift for Mom.

“Remember when you and Eloise used to play Jacks, when you were little girls?” I would ask.

But....

But... what if she didn't remember? What would I do if she looked at me with that sweet, placid smile and just shrugged her shoulders?

I've lost so much of her already. I couldn't take loosing any more.

And so I put the package back on the hook.

But....

But... the stories, the laughter, the kneeling in polyester skirts and nylons and heels and struggling to get back up, those are my memories.

So I bought the Jacks.

And that night as I sat on the kitchen floor, the cool of the linoleum tile chilling my (not so little or bare) legs, I practiced the bouncing and the grabbing, calling out “onsies” and “twosies.”

“Ooof, that used to be a lot easier!” I said to the cat as I struggled to stand up again, achy knees and hips, age and gravity conspiring against me.

And I smiled, knowing that through the telling and sharing, memories can live on and on.

Fun and Photos in the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K

Last November when I ran the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K (Nov. 30, 2014, post) I got so caught up in trying to cover it for the local newspaper that I forgot my number one rule for running:

Have fun.

I mean, I did have fun.... But I was so worried about everyone else finishing and leaving before I could take pictures or get quotes that I didn't really have fun.

So, when they moved the Chili Chilly to March, I had to try again. But this time I wanted to focus on having fun instead of focusing on photos.

Which is a really good thing, because now I'm thinkin' pictures during a race – especially an “extreme” one – might be a really bad idea. Or a really, really good source of blackmail material.

For example...

The Chili Chilly starts on semi-solid ground before going off-road through a field. The established trail quickly turned into a slippery, slidey, bog of sucky, sticky mud, so I decided to blaze a new, more solid route by doing a “high, wide knees” run to straddle the corn stubble next to the trail.

The only problem is that I am about as graceful as a water buffalo when running on dry, solid surfaces. Add in the slippery-slidey mud and high, wide knees and I was about as graceful as a drunken water buffalo.

Then, just for kicks and giggles, let's say there were cockleburs mixed in with the stubble. The stubble that I was straddling.

There I was, trying to run and pick cockleburs off my crotch when I looked up and realized I was quickly approaching a volunteer who was directing us out of the field and into the woods.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

I was really, really glad he did not have a camera.

Half a mile later I looked down and saw a gigantic spider climbing up my thigh. My forward progress was eclipsed by my skyward progress as I flailed about trying to dislodge the... mass of cockleburs.

“Not. A. Spider.” I explained to the policeman who was directing traffic on this portion of the course.

And laughing. Really, really hard.

Really, really glad he did not have a camera.

A few hundred yards later the trail ran smack-dab into a huge, fallen tree tagged with a sign indicating we could go over or under.

“This one's for you!” race course designer and evil mastermind Jerry cheerfully announced. Note to self: Quit taunting evil mastermind race course designers.

Faced with the option of hard or harder, I, of course, chose harder. Placing my hands on top of the log (about chest high), I gave a mighty jump, hoisted myself up, and flung one leg over. Relieved to have more or less made it to the top, I lay there straddling the trunk.

Then I realized I still had to get back down... before Jerry could quit laughing and grab a camera.

I managed the dismount with all the grace of a drunken water buffalo and scrambled off up the trail. A couple of twists and turns and 30 yards later the trail circled back to a small rise beside the Sequia obstacle. I was just about to call out to Jerry and tell him how glad I was that he didn't have a camera when SCHWA-LIP my feet shot out from under me and I slid down the trail on my cockelbur.

Really, really glad.

The final, big obstacle involved sliding down a creek bank to wade across the Mississippi River... or maybe it was just a creek. A really, really cold creek that was ankle deep on one side and chest deep on the opposite side.

The drunken water buffalo was finally in her element.

I am really, really glad there were no cameras to prove otherwise.

After the race I was trying to clean off the worst of the muck when a chipper girl from the youngest age group asked if I had gone through the creek.

“Of course!” I answered. “That was the best part!”

“I know!” she said, excitedly. “Some people skipped it, but me and my friends sprinted to get there!”

An ear-to-ear smile lit up her mud-covered face and she laughed really, really hard.

She really, really had fun.

And I really, really wished I had a camera.

Fear and Loathing in the Chili Chilly Chill

Runner's high is real.

Any doubt I had of that vanished when I tried to interview a bunch of runners post-race at the Chili Chilly Extreme 5K in West Liberty last weekend.

It was like trying to talk to a bunch of drunks.

Focus, people. Focus. Bunch of Chatty Cathys, all talking at the same time and none of them finishing their...

“Oh look! A picture! You gotta see this! And I was all runnin' and then it was muddy.... And the water was so coooold.... Only up to my knees they said.... I didn't expect that much shrinkage...”

The drunks/runners parallel only hit me when I tried to read my interview notes. They looked suspiciously like the checks I used to write at the bar at 1 a.m.

After the run I was too busy scribbling illegible notes and trying to keep up with the 7-minute-mile pace talk to work off my own post-race energy. So the Princess got it all (and then some) when I took her to lunch. After I had taken a warm shower and finally quit shivering, that is. Not only did she get my race-course recap (the same as my interviewees'), but I got to share their stories with her as I organized my slowly thawing thoughts.

“There I was, finally changing out of my wet clothes in that tiny bathroom stall, shivering so hard I coulda' been twerking, wishing I could have had a bowl of chili while I was asking questions because it looked so good and everybody else was enjoying it while I was scribbling and dripping all over the floor and my paper was all wrinkly because my sleeve was still wet. Still wet! But anyway, I thought “What's that awful smell?” And I realized it was me because we had to go though the creek  and the culvert once -- and I don't know what died in there! -- and my shoes REEK, and I mean REEK like you wouldn't believe! And then I wondered how I managed to sweat so much because my bra was still wet and I realized I SLIPPED in the creek and the water was up to my pits and it was SOOOO COOOOOLD, but I only brought dry sweat pants AND why does my thumb hurt? How could I have hurt my thumb running?”

The Princess: “Yeah. You know, with this mix-and-match thing I could just order eight pieces of bacon.”

She has quite the way of putting things into perspective.

Speaking of perspective, some of the race participants and organizers said they hoped the event could some day draw closer to 100 runners. The numbers were way down this year (only about 30, being generous). It's a fundraiser for the Muscatine County Fairgrounds and it was a lot of fun, so I can see where they're coming from.

But.

I managed to place first in my age group.

I kinda like that. In fact, the last three races I've participated in, I think I've placed first in my age group. Granted, I've been the only one in my age group each time. There is something to be said for being old, decrepit and stupid enough to run in November.

Of course next year I'll be one of the youngsters in the really old age group, so I may still have a chance to place in the top-ish for my age group. It brings to mind that venerable quote from Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe: “Face it honey, I'm older and I have more knee cartilage left than you.” At least I think it went something like that.

Then there's the fact that this Xtreme run involves a lot of narrow trail running – in other words, single-file. Once you've established your running order it's tough to move up the food chain (and unless you're the lead dog the view never changes).

Not that I would know about moving up. I was pretty well occupied just trying to keep the runner ahead of me within view so I didn't veer too far off course. But I did feel sorry for the poor soul (souls?) slogging along behind me.

And I need to apologize to them and all of the south end of West Liberty for the foul language I used when I fell. And when I crossed the really, really cold creek. And when I climbed up the really, really muddy creek bank. And when I realized we were no where near the end of the run. I can either control my feet or my mouth, but not both at the same time.

One good thing about being at the back of the pack: the trail is well established. One bad thing about being at the back of the pack: the trail is a well-established smooshy, wet, slippery, mud fest. And the creek banks are nothin' but a sheet of slime, which makes for fun sliding down but not so much fun trying to crawl back up.

I did manage to improve my position early on in the run when I sprinted out ahead of a pack of runners so I could take pictures to accompany my newspaper article. Unfortunately that burst of energy – and stopping a couple other times to take pictures – ruined my planned pacing-strategy. I was just never able to get my head back in the game, and I think my time really suffered because of that.

Yep. I can explain my slow time and frequent walk-breaks.

Runners also have a lot in common with fishermen.

And did I mention that I hurt my thumb?

Just wait until next year.

Carpe Birthday

I wanted to make my 49th birthday special and -- boy howdy! -- was it ever! I started celebrating by preparing a bribe for Billy Joel and ended up on stage at a concert.

But first, the backstory.

I realize 50 is supposed to be the milestone year, but I figured why not celebrate everything leading up to the milestone? It’s like celebrating Christmas Eve, New Year’s Eve, or TGITh.

Forget carpe diem. Carpe anum!

In that spirit I began celebrating my birthday, which officially occurred Sunday, on Thursday. How else to kick off a big celebration, than by baking nearly eight dozen cupcakes and almost as many chocolate chip cookies? Those treats were the key to my brilliant plan: Operation Bribe the Students to Bribe Billy Joel.

Carpe Piano Man.

I figure Billy Joel might be able to ignore my request for an autograph, but how could he ignore a bunch of junior high and high school students writing him in support of their teacher's request? In exchange for a cupcake or a cookie, I asked students in my classes (and any random student who happened to wander by) to write a short note to Billy Joel explaining what makes me so special and why he should send me his autograph.

What I wanted was an autograph. What I got was a day as one of the most popular teachers in the school (who doesn’t love cupcakes, cookies or the person who gives them to you?), and a bunch of complimentary notes that made me feel warm and fuzzy. 

Carpe Sugar Rush.

Not everyone who took a treat wrote a letter, but that’s ok because the smiles and thanks (and puzzled looks of disbelief) they gave me were a gift, too. I had almost forgotten how much fun it is perform random acts of kindness.

Carpe Pay It Forward.

The down-side to my brilliant plan is that kids are already asking me if there's been a reply yet. Obviously I didn't think this through. Some how, some way, someone's autograph is going to have to be hanging on my wall by May.

Carpe Snail Mail.

Flash forward to Sunday and the concert.

After I managed to not embarrass The Princess at the One Direction concert this summer, she graciously invited me to a concert for my birthday: a concert she wanted to go to, but couldn't convince any of her friends to go with her (or they couldn't convince their parents to let them go, not sure which).

Carpe Cool Mom.

And that's how I wound up at a bar in Iowa City on my 49th birthday with a bunch of 21-and-youngers at a concert by hip-hop artist Huey Mack.

I'm going to give you a moment to let that soak in.

I'd like to say I was offended by the language. But let's face it, I'm the woman who gives up swearing for Lent. Every. Year. (Or as they would have said at the concert, “every mother f****ing year.”)

Carpe Potty Mouth.

I'd like to say I'm appalled by rap and hip-hop lyrics. But let's face it, as an English major and writer I admire the story-telling and that poetic ability to create rhythm with words.

Carpe Mad Writing Skills.

I'd like to say I didn't like the music. But let's face it, I was jumping up and down and waving my arms just like everyone else.

Carpe Dance Shoes.

I'd like to say I didn't get a kick out of it when Huey Mack said “We've never had a Mom in the audience before. Come on up here!” But let's face it, I did.

Carpe Are You Kidding Me?

I'd like to say I didn't chug a beer on-stage with a 22-year-old hip-hop artist. But of course I did.

Carpe Budweiser.

I'd like to say going to a concert with my daughter, laughing and dancing with her, and having her think it was cool that I was on stage with Huey Mack was probably one of the best birthday presents I've ever had.

Because it was.

Carpe Birthday.

Reunited (and We Look So Good)

The West Liberty High School class of 1984 just had a super-fantastic reunion at the Riverside Casino. A small, but fun group of us got together for good food, good times, good music, and cold beer.

The organizers only got one thing wrong: The reunion year.

According to them, this was our 30 year reunion. Assuming the average person is 17- or 18-years-old when they graduate from high school, that would mean that we are damn near 50.

That can't be right.

I've done the math and I'm pretty sure I'm only damn near 40. Ish. (But some mornings I do feel damn near 50 for those first two or twenty minutes right after I get out of bed.) Of course I did drop calculus after only two days my final semester of high school, and went on to become an English major in college, so I could be wrong.

There were a few minutes right after I arrived at the reunion that I thought maybe the organizers were right. Maybe we really were damn near 50. Or, more accurately, somehow my classmates were damn near 50. When I walked in to the casino, I was taken aback by how... well, to be blunt, how old everyone else looked!

My God! It looked like my classmates had really gone down hill fast. Grey hair, no hair, thick eyeglasses, walkers, motorized scooters (OK, I was jealous of those) ear trumpets... and all that polyester held up with suspenders! I didn't recognize a soul!

I tried to introduce myself and chat up a few of the better-preserved classmates I saw standing around the bar (a familiar sight). I wasn't real sure of their names, but I thought one of them started with a “B,” or maybe a “K.” On the other hand, they had absolutely no recollection of me at all! Not that I was Miss Popularity or anything, but there were only 80-some in our graduating class. Poor dears must need even thicker glasses, I thought. But they're already nearing Hubble telescope proportions.

I started to worry that maybe those old-age symptoms were contagious, because I was developing a loud bell-like ringing in my ears. That gave me an idea – they may not remember me, but they couldn't forget our high school mascots.

“Did you realize they've changed the girls' teams from the Belles to the Comets?” I asked, hoping this would spark some of that old school spirit. They looked at each other. Finally! I'm getting through, I thought. Then they started to edge away. I was about to tell the bartender to cut them off when I heard someone call my name.

“Joanne?” It was my friend Tammy and her husband. And they both looked young! “What are you doing out here in the casino? Why aren't you in the ballroom at the reunion?” she asked.

Ohhhh, I see. This is the... and the reunion is in the.... Well, that explained a lot.

They guided me across the casino floor, through the doors and out to the designated ballroom. As we stood in the hallway signing the reunion guest book I scanned the crowd. Ahh, this was a much younger-looking group of people.

Muh-huh-huch younger.

All in all, a good-looking, young-looking, fine group of people. Much too young-looking to be damn near 50. And much too young-acting to be damn near 50. We still like our music loud, our beer cold, and our laughter raucous. The memories flowed freely, although I suspect some of the details may have been embellished or diminished over time. I recall being much more hip, cool and physically coordinated than some of the stories indicated.

And quite frankly, some stories just seemed a little too tabloid to be true. As I point out frequently to my children, I never did anything wrong when I was in high school. I recall weekends spent helping shut-ins and the less fortunate, volunteering at soup kitchens and rolling bandages to support our boys in the trenches. That is, when I wasn't studying or reading scripture to the blind.

I've missed the last couple of reunions, so I did notice a few changes from, say, our first reunion. There was a lot more talk about kids (and some grandkids!) and memories of classmates and parents who were no longer with us.

Picture taking was a lot easier at this reunion, too! Everyone could whip out their cell phone to take a selfie or groupie, provided they could hold the phone far enough away to see the icons without their biofocals. Of course it would have been easier if our kids were there to show us how to turn the flash on.

Judging from how many of us stayed until damn near midnight (well past our bedtimes) I think we all had a wonderful time. The organizers did such a good job several of us suggested they could plan the next one as well.

Although I might volunteer to help a little.

I want to make sure they get the year right next time.

   

Vanity Is My Name-o

I'm depressed.

Blue, sad, in a funk. Add to that irritated and annoyed. All over a photograph.

Well, not just any photograph. The photograph. Quite possibly the defining photograph of my life. The photograph that divides my life into two distinct, separate parts: Happy Me and Sad Me.

Why allow a photograph to wound so deeply? It's not just the picture, although it is one baaaad picture, let me tell you. What really bothers me is how much it bothers me.

Let's start with the picture itself. Ohhh, is it bad. So bad, that if it wasn't of me, I would laugh. With evil glee. Then, after snorting and wiping the tears from my eyes, I'd say, "Oh, poor dear. What an awful picture. She's really much better looking than that." Then I'd start laughing again.

There are logical reasons for my thinking it is a bad picture. I know there are, because I Googled it. That's how upset I was. According to on-line experts, this photo looks different than the me I see in the mirror because "blah, blah, blah, 3-dimension, 2-dimension, flip-flopping right and left sides, yadda, yadda, yadda." Or something like that.

I blame poor angle, poor lighting and poor caffeination. The photographer (who obviously hates me, although I don't know why) shot this from slightly below eye level, guaranteeing a good view of the turkey waddle starting to form under my chin. The crappy lighting forced the use of a flash and the red-eye eliminator pre-flash, guaranteeing a mid-blink picture of any contact lens wearer.

And it was taken after 8:30 a.m. Mass, so I had drank just one cup of half-caff an hour earlier and was running on fumes. Probably fumes from the decaff-half.

Oh, did I mention that this marvelous photo was going to be in the church directory? The adult equivalent of, say, a yearbook? I should be glad I didn't have a mondo-huge zit or that I wasn't wearing my "I'm with stupid" t-shirt. You'd think -- with the photo being shot in a church and all -- that God would have taken pity on me. But apparently he was siding with the photographer.

This brings me to part two of why the picture bothers me so much:

I can't believe it bothers me so much!

How vain! Who is this vain person obsessing over a silly picture? I'm not that vain! Am I?

Am I?

Crap. The truth sucks.

It double sucks, because not only have I been smacked upside the head with my own vanity, I finally have to admit that yes, I do look as old as my high school classmates. Let me tell you, some of them look like the birthday fairy beat the youth right out of them.

Holy Crow's Feet, Batman!

Of course, I only saw a poor quality, black and white, proof sheet copy of the photo. Everyone knows those are crap. And I'd been feeling a little under the weather. A little flu-ish. That would explain why I look so tired. Did I mention Mass starts at 8:30 a.m.? And that I haven't been sleeping well?

That part about my high school classmates looking old, you know I didn't mean you, right? Just those other people.

The old-looking ones.

Yeah.

'Cause you and I? We still look go-od.

Maybe even mahvelous.

If the lighting is right.