acoustic june.

It's official: I am unplugging for the month of June.

I don't know how this is going to sound coming out, but: I have a lot of stuff in me. Ideas. Plans. Stories. Words. Music. Art. Creations in General. And it overwhelms me. I don't know where to start. I don't know what would happen if I completely unzipped and let it all out. (Does everyone feel this way? Chris said he would if he didn't play his guitar.) My long-standing habit/approach when dealing with overwhelmption is to avoid. The time I spend doing--truly--the dumbest things (like playing Tiki Resort and Cube Crash on Facebook) is classic avoidance. Classic! And they are 100% habit behaviors.

So I'm going to stop doing them and see what happens.

I'll be logging out of Facebook for 1 month. I'll be logging out of here for 1 month. I'll be logging out of my free write site for 1 month. And if I want to write any blog entries or free writes, I'll just have to do them offline. Maybe I'll even take to handwriting like Tawni and her old-fashioned lady pens.

Other things I look forward to doing with all my new spare time:

meditating

writing music

painting

working through the Gotham Writer's Workshop book

journaling (by hand and without an audience)

practicing guitar

practicing piano

learning to like yoga (I don't like yoga. I feel bad about this.)

working on my giant landscaping project

reading

cooking new and interesting things

sewing

This is exciting. I'm excited! I probably won't write tomorrow, so see you in July.

nevermind.

Yesterday I realized I talk about the same things over and over and over again:

• my guts
• food (and what it does to my guts), and
• running (as it relates to food and my guts)

Kind of embarrassing, really. It sort of makes me want to not talk anymore; and I don't talk that much to begin with. Now, I don't know what to talk about here. Because right now I'm thinking about:

• my guts (and how they don't feel all that great)
• food (because I've been eating all the things I shouldn't, which is why my guts don't feel that great), and
• running (specifically about the 10 miles I'm about to run and how that will go considering my guts and the food I've been eating).

I've been thinking about unplugging for a while -- closing up facebook, the blog, etc. I think I might pick a month -- maybe June (It's best to do things right away as I think of them, before I think myself out of them or just forget.) -- and dedicating that month of spare time to creativity and books. I'm happiest when I'm being creative, in whatever capacity, and yet that's not what I choose to do with my free time. That doesn't really make any sense -- to know how great something is and how much you love doing it and how terrific it makes you feel, and then choose over and over again to not do it, even though it wouldn't take any more time or energy than the lame stuff you choose to do instead.

I've decided humans exist in shifty planes--mind body soul crisscrossing out of alignment--and that makes us defy logic repeatedly and habitually.

But I talk about that too much, too. So nevermind.

baubles

I had lots to say, then I didn't say it, and now it's gone. So I'll say something else.

For my birthday, Chris took four of my songs we recorded in our old basement several years ago, to his friend's recording studio and had them mixed onto a CD. One of the coolest gifts ever, for sure, but I'm having a hard time listening to them. Chris presented them to me last night. Two are okay, because they're full of harmonies, and I'm a thousand times more comfortable with harmonies. The other two...not so much.

When I listen to them, I hear every flaw in my voice--sinusy. Nasal-y. I think about how corny the lyrics are. I hear my guitar baubles and cringe. Oy oy oy. I want to listen to myself/observe myself as a stranger. But I can't. Not really. It's silly. I don't really know how anyone gets over that.

Blah. This blog entry is boring and dumb and I want to delete but I won't. Sometimes I'm boring and dumb. So be it.

I also do not feel like crafting a conclusion. So I'm just going to stop writing. Now.

break your heart 1000 times over

I've not been writing, and I think I miss it.

I mean writing, writing. I don't really consider this writing. This is burping sentences. I just wrote a free-write at edit less more. I wrote it with my eyes closed. I don't mean that in the "I'm so great, I could do that with my eyes closed" sense. I mean it in the, "I actually closed my eyes so the room would be dark" sense. Sometimes I just want to free whatever bird is in my cage, and it works better to not look at anything or notice too many colors or light plays.

In general, I think it's best to think as little as possible when I write. Maybe that's what I miss--the not thinking part. Maybe I've been thinking too much and would like to start writing again just to get a little break from my brain.

It's just so much work: It is surprisingly hard work to do so little thinking and so much writing. I keep telling myself that the book hasn't been born yet, because it's still growing a central nervous system, and when it's meant to happen it will happen. It will birth itself, and I will be some kind of doped up womb channeling genius through portholes in my fingertips. But that's such a giant fat lie, I'm embarrassed to even say it. The truth is that it's an excuse to be lazy. Birthing them is one thing, but then you have to clean off all the crud and raise them and teach them to walk and to chew with their mouths closed and to be responsible and make sure they don't swear at their teachers or throw wet towels on the floor. And you have to send them to college and that's expensive. And after all that, they break your heart 1000 times over.

Who needs that crap?

is as is does

You know what I think it might be? -she said, assuming you must know exactly where she is picking up her train of thought. I think it's that sometimes I don't want to talk about it (a myriad of its), because as soon as I arrange words to explain, it changes. It doesn't even have to be a particularly special it. It could be just a regular it. But sometimes (actually, a lot of times, if I'm being honest), I just want it to be my it and just be the it that it is, and I don't want it to morph as soon as I start talking clumsy, and I don't want to assign it any meaning, and I don't want to try to make it make sense to anybody else or line its details up word by word or paint a picture or anything else. I just want it to be it and me to be mine and is as is does and there it's done.

That's all it is.

more stuff about running

I think I can correlate the success of a run to the amount of snot produced. More snot = less success. This morning's run = very snotty.

[I'm sure it is bad etiquette to use the word "snot" in the first sentence of a blog post. But when it comes to running, I don't really think a lot of etiquette is necessary--other than wave at cars who give you room to cross the intersection, give bikes the right-of-way on the bike trail, and say, "On your left!" when you're passing walkers from behind (unless you are passing them on the right). Oh, and don't spit your gum in somebody's yard. That's crass. Just stick it to your ipod and worry about it later. But otherwise, you are free to spit, blow your snot straight into the sidewalk, curse, and mouth-breathe without repercussion.]

However! I am still calling this morning's run a success, because it was. I proved a point to myself that attitude is the key to many operations. I was sure today would be a failure. I was sure because in the past 3 days, I have eaten nearly every single one of my trigger foods. Chips? Sure. Chocolate? Yep. Baked goods? Several. Greasy baked cheese? Delicious. Fried XYZ? Bring it. I've also been drinking too much wine. All of this turns my guts inside out (not quite literally, but almost), which depletes all my good stuff, and makes everything else harder.

I had low expectations. And the first mile felt horrible. So did miles 2-6. Finally, right around 6, I had to stop. I saw spots and squatted in a strangers yard until they went away. I chugged my gator-water (The woman at the gym who told me start running with a water bottle that straps to my hand is a genius and a saint and a very lovely person.). Then I walked. Then the Self-Bashing started. (This is a very familiar routine. I know I've said this before, but there is no one on the planet who could say anything even remotely as awful as the things I say to myself when I think I've screwed something up. I would guess you're the same. Why are we like this? It's so mean!)

BUT! And here is where success happened. I observed the auto-current of self-bashing and then stuck my finger in it. I said to myself, "You know, P. This is irrational and it gets old. Don't do this anymore." And I said Okay. I noted the weather was nice. It felt good to walk. I was glad I had my gator-water. Then after about 5 blocks, everything felt fresh. My body felt good to go, so I started running again. And the remaining 3 miles went without hitch. I didn't even falter on the Euclid hill that usually sucks the life out of me. My body just needed a quick break to replenish. What's the crime?

I don't know why I think it's such a colossal failure to stop and walk in the middle of a run. I think it's some kind of warped association between rest and weakness. That's such a skewed way of thinking--really about any endeavor at all, not just running--that perfection is possible and looks only one way. I think I might be done with that.

chocolate cake on the soul plane

Today I was going to write about how recent nutritional changes have really changed my life -- my mood, my body, my skin, my digestion... everything. I was going to write about how I think I've finally stumbled into my future, and the beautiful world my digestive disease had been trying to lead me all along. I was going to wax long and poetic about how we nurture our physical form as both a symbolic and literal measure to nurture our spiritual selves on a soul plane. I was going to get very self-righteous and preachy about how everyone should be treating their bodies as sacred temples and beneficent entities, divine vehicles for universe exploration and character growth, vessels of oneness with nature and the transcendent.

Then, I ate 2 cookies, pizza, fried ravioli, and a giant piece of chocolate cake. And man, it was good.

red feathered fedora

I really loved my birthday. It felt like spending the day with an old friend. I like my job, but it was okay to have some time off to just wander and relish. There isn't a whole lot about the part-time teaching gig I miss... but the schedule and the coming and going of it. I miss the freedom of it. I love freedom. I love the lightness of flitting around, stopping when I want to stop, going when I want to go, basking when I want to bask. I miss flip flops and windows and coffee stirring and book reading. I miss open and quiet and color. So much tan and pressed clothing and elevators. My soul is a sun soul; it needs light and air and water.

They dug up the tulips on Locust. No replacement, yet. Just pock-marked dirt clods.

I sat in the sun at Nollen Plaza today, and a man in a pimpy red fedora asked if he could buy me lunch. I said No Thanks, indicated my husband. Tried to balance open and protected at the same time. I bet he has interesting stories. Don't doubt I'd learn something. Don't doubt he needs a warm soul to talk to. I don't like the walls that go up when I'm trying to commune with sky. I don't like how distrustful I am, immediately; but I'm not sure how else to be with men in red feathered fedoras who swagger even though they don't have all their teeth. Even if everyone is kind on the inside doesn't mean everyone chooses kindly on the outside. He left, and I gave him a 5-minute head start before I strolled back across the bridge in my flip flops up the capitol steps, through the heavy smudgy brass doors, elevator, to my cubicle, where I changed into my dress shoes and logged on.

be that.

Here is something that I like about myself: my lack of age issues. I'm getting older, and that's just fine. I think when people get all wonky about having birthdays, it's really about something else -- about what they've done or haven't done with their lives, or the ways in which they're dissatisfied with who they've become. That has nothing to do with age. Plus, it's totally fixable. You can set new goals, accomplish cool things, have new adventures, and become a better person at any age--if you choose to. And I choose to.

Choosing to has actually gotten easier, I think because the more I choose to, the more I learn how capable I am. And the more capable I become, the more I want to choose to. It's a pretty cool cycle that feeds itself once you set it in motion. Last year I learned that I'm capable of following a training schedule and running 12.4 miles (Dam to Dam). It made me realize I'm capable of following a training schedule and running 26 miles, so this year I'm going to train for my first marathon.

It doesn't have to be big stuff. Even relatively small stuff can have big impact. One of my proudest accomplishments of 35 was figuring out a lot of my food triggers (for my messed up guts) and then having the gumption to get rid of them (more or less). In the process of doing so, I developed a lot more respect and reverence for my body (which I understand sounds weird and slightly masturbatory, which I really don't mean).

Some accomplishments are much more... figurative. Watery? Harder to explain, for sure. One of the coolest things my mom has ever said to me is, "You're becoming more like yourself every day." It was several months ago, and I'd taken her with me to Woodward to Prairieland Herbs and Picket Fence Creamery. We drove in the country between two farms, and I told her how much it appealed to me, and I how I wanted to leave town and just live on open land and grow things and be quiet.

Maybe that isn't an obvious compliment, but I do think it's a significant accomplishment to figure out who you are at your purest level and then just go ahead and be that, unflinchingly, even if it isn't sophisticated or extraordinary or especially unique. Even if it doesn't mesh with the fantasy of yourself you'd created when you were 16. I know I do that much better and more consistently at the age of 36 than I did at the age of 26. I'm sure that at 46 I'll be even more like myself. And that's exciting, because I'm pretty okay.

monster in the closet

Here are some of my flaws:

1. Having to explain myself verbally makes me irritable.

2. I don't speak well. Words don't come out. Or they do, but they're the wrong words and in the wrong order. Then, I hear them, and I cringe, and I get frustrated, because I can't get it right.

3. So, sometimes I'm too quiet. I know this looks like snobbishness, and sometimes it is.

4. I hate being asked a lot of questions. Unless I can answer in writing.

5. Sadly, I don't hide my irritability well. Sometimes, I don't hide it at all.

6. Weak minds/weak energy/timidity repulses me. I can't stand to be around it. It makes me feel violent. Actually violent. Like a wild animal that senses the weakness in the other and goes in for the kill. This is likely one of my most horrifying traits. Really quite alarming. I have to check myself on it constantly, but don't. When people comment on how laid back and easy going I am, I think they are either wildly unobservant or I am a master of disguise.

7. I don't hide my repulsion well.

8. I can be horrifyingly judgmental. And it happens in an instant.

9. I frustrate easily. I hate messing up. Hate it.

10. And when I get frustrated, I unleash long, impassioned strings of obscenities. The things that come out of my mouth would burn your eyebrows right off your face. Just ask my husband.

11. Sometimes, when I'm frustrated, I throw things. (But just things like towels and paper bags. I don't throw things that break.)

12. If I've been eating too much bad food, my moods swing. I eat too much bad food.

13. I task avoid when I'm overwhelmed.

14. And when I task avoid, I TASK. AVOID. I could win medals for my task avoidance.

15. I can be surprisingly dense about my emotional state.

16. Which means I have to rely on my physical symptoms and my behavior to signal when I'm anxious or overwhelmed. This seems immature and kind of stupid, like I should be a little more in-tune.

17. My first sign of being overwhelmed is that I start being late to things. I know this is rude, and I know it's irresponsible, and I still do it.

18. My ego is a giant and unruly beast sometimes. And I always ALWAYS make very bad decisions when I let it do the talking.

19. When I think someone is pulling one over on me, I can be vindictive. And manipulative. And cunning. I don't like looking like a fool. In other words: I do not transcend others' pettiness -- not always, anyway.

20. I complain about other people even though I know I shouldn't, and that it's tacky, and that more times than not, it's none of my beeswax.

21. I think I'm right more than I should.

22. Despite making long lists of my character flaws, I can be pretty arrogant.

23. I flex in the mirror. I absolutely do.

24. I don't like leading. I don't like following, either. For the most part, I think I just want to do my own thing and not be bothered. That's not very nice or collaborative.

25. I'm selfish with my time.

I could go on. But I'll stop at 25. I have a lot of good qualities, too. So I'm not really beating myself up. I think it has something to do with wholeness and how tiring it is to hide the monster in the closet. So much easier to just expose and move on. I feel oddly compelled to constantly confess my humanity. Maybe it's an attempt to feel okay with how imperfect everything is. It also feels a little like a service. Like I'm serving others by giving them permission to let the monsters out of their closets, too.

But mostly I think it's about finding the balance between improving what needs to be improved and accepting what needs to be accepted. Tomorrow is my birthday. I hope to have many more. And I hope to get better at this balance business -- especially the acceptance part. I have what is likely the best family on the planet (husband included), and they're constantly accepting my total lack of grace. I don't know why they do, but I'm glad they do.

That's all.

jackhole

A few things:

1. I bought strings for my acoustic guitar and pics for Chrispy's electric today and the guitar man at The Un-Named Store was a really condescending jackhole to me. Just because I don't know the lingo doesn't mean I can't play. I forgive you, Jackhole. But I still don't like you and your stupid haircut.

2. Have I mentioned how much I love dogs? I love them. I do. I want to be a dog. Which I think is why I had a dream about a giant great dane last night (with her legs tied together), which I started to write about this morning, but then thought, "Eh, too much for the blog," so I wrote it in my journal, instead. So I will say, instead, that last night I had --what I thought to be-- a very clarifying dream only to wake up and then overthink it until it didn't make sense anymore.

2b. But that's not what i meant to write about here. I meant to write about the black pit mix (I'm guessing) who rode in the back seat of the car with his head out the window FACING BACKWARDS so he could see the golden poodle-ish dog with her head out the window behind him. They made me laugh for a long time. Dogs make the world better.

(So do cats. I am currently typing over my very favorite one who is purring in my lap.)

3. Chrispy McNichol had a gig tonight --Urbandale Friday Fest. My family came, including 3 of my nieces. I want to be someone who isn't all goofy about dancing if I feel like dancing. That is to say, I want to dance when I feel like dancing. And I want my nieces to dance when they feel like dancing. At approximately 7:30 p.m. this evening, I had to walk the talk and dance with my nieces in front of a lot of strangers, even though not a single other person was dancing. I like the way kids help you become the person you always wanted to be in the first place.

4. Making new friends at the age of almost-36 feels a lot like dating. I met a really cool woman tonight, thought, "Hey, we should hang out and be friends," but felt too shy to say it. Then she left, and I didn't even get a number. I don't know if saying this makes me creepy, but I suspect it does.

5. Beer makes me want to eat a lot of bad, colon-unfriendly foods.

The end.

implosion.

My body quietly imploded today. Everything set to buzz and wobble. I felt fine when I woke up, when I worked out, when I drove to work. And then, in a room full of people.... everything went squish.

So I have spent the afternoon at home, laying on the couch, contemplating the bizarre inner workings of my person.

I blame it on my fine mind-body-soul intonation. I posit that my weird body blips are a result of too much navel gazing. I notice the very smallest shifts -- like sitting in the backseat of a van. Every curve feels like a complete 180. I get a cold and it feels like cancer.

My breath has been goofy, too. For months now, I have shallow spells -- can't pull air all the way in. It makes me gasp. I don't panic anymore, but it's annoying and uncomfortable. It's not my heart. It's not my sinuses. It's not an allergy. I don't have asthma. My intuitive friend, Mary, says I have a problem with the flow of life. My allergist says I'm anxious. I am watching the news, and oil is spewing into the ocean, and I'm wondering why we aren't all imploding and gasping for air.

I took the day off tomorrow. Monday, too. I may or may not leave my house.

expressing emotions when you're all by yourself.

I was alone and walking through the tunnels to work (hello, yucky cold wet weather) along with all the other government drones walking through the tunnels to work, and I started to laugh, tried to suppress, snorted, and then pretended to cough.

I have discovered my love for electric windows and childproof window locks. Yesterday, driving to my mom's orchestra concert, sweet, unassuming Chrispy was in the passenger seat when I decided to roll down his window and then lock it. I laughed for a very long time (in fact, I'm laughing now). In the tunnel -- with the drones and the government and the working -- I thought of this again but imagined us on the interstate and the wind really gusting through his window and whipping his hair back, and that was genius and hilarious and I loved it. So I laughed.

But I was alone, so it was embarrassing to laugh, so I tried not to, which made it come out as a snort, which also embarrassed me, so I tried to save face by pretending to cough.

Later I thought about how stupid it is to be embarrassed to laugh just because I'm alone. We're not allowed to laugh or talk or sing or express any kind of emotion or thought unless other people are involved, because that would be ... WEIRD! Look at that person experiencing emotion when she's not in a group of people! Crazy!

You know what's actually crazy? That we think our minds go still and quiet just because we're not keeping company. That's weird and totally irrational. I've decided we get embarrassed about all the wrong things.

(Even though I've decided that, I'm still going to get embarrassed.)

cool stuff about my mom

I have really good parents. When I went to work in schools I learned what a privilege that is -- to have parents who are really good at being parents -- parents who weren't throwing their unresolved garbage all over their kids -- parents who genuinely and entirely cared whether or not they were raising good, smart, responsible people. My parents didn't care if I was popular. They just wanted me to be happy with myself and to make smart decisions. They didn't necessarily even care if my decisions were exactly the ones they would have made (This is a recent realization. As I look back, I don't see any time when my parents were trying to just mold me into another version of them.) When I was a kid, I thought of them as these two people who were all up in my grill. Always asking me who and what and where and how and when and ... oddly... how many.

(I hated the "how many" question. My parents were obsessed with knowing how many people were in attendance at any given event. And they still are. "My flight was delayed because the plane caught on fire, a tornado ripped away the airport, and a giant lizard ate the grounds crew." "How many people were there?" I'm pretty sure this is the root of my compulsion to count things.)

Today is Mom Day, and my mom has an orchestra concert. We'll go and watch her play her cello, and it will be nice, but we'll all note the difficulty of listening to 1.5 hours of music that has no lyrics, and we'll eat cookies with strangers in the reception hall. Then we'll go back to my parents and let Mom cook for us (We are very generous children.). My sisters both have kids, so they can get away with it. But I don't have any, so it seems like maybe I should be doing a little more. I feel like I should vacuum their houses and bake them little festive cakes or something.

One thing about my mom that's really cool is that she doesn't know she's really cool (Possibly because my sisters and I spent most of our teenage years telling her how UNcool she is. For shame. We were so stupid.). I don't mean cool like she uses hip slang and wears funky hats and listens to obscure music. I mean, she just kind of does her thing and doesn't really care if it's popular. Not as a measure of defiance or rebellion. As I see it, my mom has quietly lived her life according to 3 principles:

1. Work hard (out of principle, not for gain).

2. Be honest (because it simplifies things).

3. Do what's right (even if it isn't in your favor).

What I've also learned from my mom is that these 3 principles are very flexible. They are true for Republicans and Democrats and Anarchists and Baptists and Buddhists and Atheists and Vegetarians and Meat Eaters and CEOs and garbage collectors. I think a lot of people, no matter their persuasions, would be much cooler if they would learn from my mom.

[p.s. I feel the need to point out that I don't edit blogs. So please don't judge my lack of flowy composition.]

renegade vegetables

I'm supposed to run 8 miles today. It's cold and windy -- not fair weather (and I am a fair weather runner). I will need to wear a hat and a jacket. I hate wearing hats and jackets when I run, so much added weight. I have a hard enough time carrying my unadorned frame, my ipod, a little water bottle that straps to my hand. Too much baggage. I'd run naked if it wouldn't attract so much attention.

I haven't read the newspaper or watched the TV news in weeks. It hasn't been a conscious or philosophical decision, not a spiritual exercise or an act of civil defiance. I just get lazy. The news takes a lot of time -- there is the reading and watching time and then the fretting time and then the forgetting and then the fretting over the forgetting (because how dare I forget how painful life is and how many people are in need while I complain about the weather and deliberate over how many tomato plants to... plant?).

No, it's too exhausting to keep up with the world. And I just don't have the resources.

So I ate my Spargel last night. My asparagus. (I like that all Nouns are capitalized in German. It gives everything a certain degree of importance.) I like asparagus. But I don't understand why it makes pee smell so bizarre. Why asparagus? Why not lettuce and radishes? If anything should make pee smell weird, it's a radish. At any rate, I learned about cooking asparagus that you don't just chop the stalk willy-nilly, you bend it gently and let it break where it decides to break. Then, you don't get the strings. I like that about asparagus -- not the strings, but that it doesn't let you bully it around. I like autonomous, renegade vegetables that break where they want to break. Your knife means nothing, Sucker Face.

I think it was asparagus that Pappaw found growing wild in his Granger garden. He showed it to me one day. It was as tall as my shoulders; I thought it was pretty and had an interesting smell (again with the smell). He said if you didn't harvest in time, it would just go wild and not produce. It made asparagus more alive to me. I felt solidarity. I imagined it with untamed hair riding horses through Montana.

I imagine that would happen with everything -- fruit, herb, vegetable, weed, flower... Sometimes I wonder what would happen if we all stopped mowing our lawns and pruning our trees. What would happen if we let everything go wild? I guess there'd be a lot of bugs.

neuro circuitry

I spent a large part of yesterday, Wednesday, explaining to myself that it was not today, Thursday. I spent a significant but smaller part of today, Thursday, explaining to myself that it was not tomorrow, Friday. I hope to have this straightened out by Sunday (actually Sunday).

The tulips along Locust are nearly dead (I hope the city switches them out soon. They depress me.), but this weekend is the Pella Tulip festival. I can't explain that.

At lunch, on my walk, in my periphery, I caught the fuzzy figure of a man inside a glass front, mirroring my reflection outside the glass front. It threw me momentarily -- was that him? Was that me? I couldn't tell. I was over it by the time I reached the end of the block.

If I walk while listening to music and think too much about the rhythm of the song, it disturbs me if the rhythm of my step doesn't match. Michael Jackson wrote perfect stride songs, which makes me think he composed everything while walking.

I stopped at a stop light on my way home from work. I rested my elbow on the door and pulled on my left ear lobe. I looked in the rearview mirror and the man in the car behind me was doing the exact same thing -- resting his elbow on the door and pulling on his left ear lobe. I wondered if everyone in London was pulling on their right ear lobes.

Some days I feel a little more plugged in than usual, and I think it causes weird blips in my neuro-circuitry.

filthy sweaty potty mouth

I thought I ran 7 miles yesterday. Today I learned my block-math was off; I only ran 6. This is terribly disappointing. This is terribly disappointing ESPECIALLY considering what a hard 6 it was. I don't really understand why running never actually gets easier. I go farther, but it never feels very pleasant, if I'm being honest. I am not a zen-ful runner. I don't have wise thoughts as I glide along a cement paradise. I am a snorting, heaving, crashing-through-the-forest runner who thinks long lists of swear words while I try not to fall down in traffic.

I got really mad around (what I now know was...) mile 5, because my side cramped, and I felt dehydrated. My guts don't work correctly (They have holes.), so I don't absorb all the things I'm supposed to absorb. My body depletes. I shot several violent f-bombs into the neighborhood, cursed my dumb, hole-y guts for being giant pieces of worthless crap. Ridiculed myself for running. Called myself a lot of mean names. It was not a very kind moment. I've always had a bit of a temper -- especially when it comes to me falling short of my own expectations.

I swore for at least 3 blocks down Madison about how sick of my stupid guts I am, and I wish everything would just work like it's supposed to, and why is running never easy? It was a really nice pity party. I'm sorry I didn't invite you. Next time.

But around Lynner Street I realized my body works just fine. I know my guts; their holes are nothing new. I know what works and what doesn't. I know how to over-hydrate and over supplement to compensate all the stuff I lose. And... I know the quickest way to reverse every good thing I do. Then I make choices....say...an entire bottle of wine on Friday night and a whole bunch of potato chips.

So around Lynner Street, I realized my body just responds to how I treat it. It's given me a very clear set of directions with a very clear list of consequences should I not follow the directions. It is an absolute perfect system. I make a choice, and it responds in consistent, finely tuned, logical accordance.

Later on Euclid, I thought about how when other people have tough runs I say, "Hey, but goodjobwaytogoniceefforttwothumbsupforgettingoutthereanddoingitandkeeptryingandyou're-terrific!" And I mean it. But when I suck, I get pissy and swear a lot. What a double standard. I should write myself a letter of apology, send some flowers, and stop being such a jerk.

And also, to the people who live on Madison between MLK and Lower Beaver, sorry about the filthy, sweaty, potty-mouth.

two boys in a monte carlo

I think my self-image is transitioning. It's sliding or morphing or scrambling or resorting or... something. I'm redefining and honing. Regardless [Note to the world: Please stop saying "irregardless." It makes just as little sense as "acrossed."]... Regardless, the surface of me has been disturbed over the last several months. Now, when someone compliments me, I suspect they're teasing me and rolling their eyes when I'm not looking. I've really become quite paranoid and hope it's not clinical.

I started noticing this shift a couple of months ago after a bizarre interaction with 2 boys in a monte carlo. I was walking Kaya Jambalaya, and 2 boys in an old black Monte Carlo pulled up at the intersection in front of me. By young, I mean YOUNG. 20? The driver rolled down his window and said, "Does my car make me less attractive?"

I said, "...Uh...what?"

"My car. I think it's time for an upgrade."

"...Uh... your car's fine."

And then he said, "I think I just need you in my life."

"...Uh..." Totally confused, I shrugged and nodded and waved them away. And they left.

I spent the rest of my walk trying to decide if they were making fun of me and wondering what it meant that I was even having that debate. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have questioned it. I would have just told the story about the time I got hit on while walking my dog. But, ten years later, I figured they were making fun of me, and I felt kind of stupid.

It reminds me of the lighting in our bathroom.

I love the lighting in our bathroom. Soft, warm. I leave home thinking, "Damn, I look good today!" And it doesn't matter where I'm going -- by the time I get there, I look haggard and lopsided. (Especially the bathrooms at work, where they have installed spaceship lights. It's like they want to beat us down so we'll stay in our cubicles and hide our ugly faces in work.)

At any rate, my inarticulately expressed point, is that I am noticing more and more lately that I have no idea what I look like to other people -- of course, I don't just mean my physical appearance -- and it's made me feel a little unstable. I'm sure it's just a phase.

I have a long run on the training calendar today. I will be sure to wear my headphones so I can't hear it when people are making fun of me.