The Perfect Man

David Bell was my very first crush. It was kindergarten at Chambers Elementary in Houston. He was in my class and he was perfect. David Bell was everything a five year old girl could want in a five and a half year old boy: never ate glue, never picked his nose, nice to girls, had brown hair to match his deep brown eyes, and he had two perfectly placed dimples that lit up the room when he smiled. I hearted him immensely. Of course I never made this known. And I'm sure that he never noticed me staring at him awkwardly and then quickly jerking my head in the other direction when he looked back at me...multiple times throughout the day. Actually, now that I think about it, I wonder if he remembers me as "that girl in kindergarten who may have had tourettes". Needless to say, we never spoke to each other. I guess I was waiting for that perfect moment with the right words to say, and then we would become the "it" couple of Chambers Elementary. Having a boyfriend in kindergarten was the best because it meant the boy let the girl have his turn on the swings. So I really wanted him to like me.

Then the perfect opportunity came in the form of the Valentines Day school recital. David Bell was chosen to sing "Let Me Call You Sweetheart". Not only to sing it, but to sing it wearing a suit, holding a rose, and to a girl sitting on a stool. The best part was at the end of the song he would kiss the girl on the cheek! I was estatic. This would be my perfect moment. Not only was I a girl, I had cheeks, and no one could sit on a stool better than I could (just ask my parents). A handful of girls and I "auditioned" for the part of sweetheart. I was focused and determined to be the chosen one. Evidentally so was the short girl in the seat in front of me. She had a bad bob hair cut, wore knee high socks, and her glasses were thick enough to serve as coasters. I don't know what happened or why the teacher hated me so much, but 'bad bob hair cut' girl was chosen over me. I was placed in a chorus for some song I don't remember. What I do remember is being backstage, watching my David Bell sing my song to 'thick coaster glasses' girl, giving her my rose, and then kissing her on what should have been my cheek. I was devastated. And although it wasn't his fault - I was done with my first perfect guy. David Bell has the honor of being my first crush and my first heartache.

I did not let this heartache make me bitter and turn me into the middle school girl with all the cats. I rose above, and found love again. Their names were William Katt, Hans Solo, and Charles Ingalls (not the actual Charles Ingalls, the one played by Michael Landon). And yes, really: William Katt from The Greatest American Hero. I fell in love with his curly golden locks of hair, his sense of humor, and the way he rocked those red tights. Unfortunately the show was canceled after three seasons, so I had to end that relationship. But then Hans Solo came into my life. He was perfect because he always kept his cool, had snappy come-backs, and knew how to fly cool ships. Plus he wasn't near as whiny as Luke. I tried to be all Princess Leia and do the two bun thing. It was not successful, but I did try. Along with my hotties William Katt and Hans, I fell in love with Charles Ingalls. He embodied everything I thought a perfect man to be. That man knew his Bible, could chop some wood, fight outlaws, and passionately kiss Carolyn Ingalls all in one episode. Perfection.

Looking back as an adult it seems these three have little in common. And if these childhood crushes are to serve as a map to what I'm looking for in a man today - it's no wonder I'm still single at thirty-four. Evidentally I like men who can quote scripture while they build log cabins wearing a red unitard and have awkwardly hairy freinds. I gotta tell you - those kind of men are hard to come by.

All that said, I am not on a quest for the perfect guy. It wouldn't be fair because I am far from the perfect girl. I'm actually sort of a mess. A fun-loving, charming mess; but still a mess. In fact, I have broken two bones in my body: my right arm in 3rd grade, and my left leg in 2007. Both times were because I was trying something stupid to impress a boy. Neither were impressed by the way. Therefore, what you see is what you get; I'm running out of limbs (my apologies to any future potential manfriend).

A man I dated shortly awhile back once asked me, "what do you want?" We had been discussing our relationship status or if there even was a relationship to have as a status. The question caught me off guard. It had been awhile since I really thought about what I wanted, and I thought it'd be awkward if I blurted out, "William Katt". Also, there had never been a list for what constituted 'a perfect guy' or 'the guy I want'. If I had to make one I guess it might look like this:

• fidelity
• not a serial killer
• lets me have the last piece of pizza
• shows interest 
• will tell me about his day, and let me tell him about mine

I fumbled around with my actual answer and can't even really remember what I said. But by the end of the conversation he expressed he wasn't ready to be exclusive and I just wanted some coffee - so that didn't really work out.

I do have a reputation of being a romantic. My ex manfriend used to joke that all I did was day dream about unicorns and rainbows all day. Which, in my defense, is not the worst thing in the world to day dream about. Rainbows happen to be very pretty and unicorns are mystical creatures. I also love a good romantic comedy and most power ballads; I just can't help myself. And indeed, if you were to ask me what I wanted two or three years ago, I probably would have answered "I want love". But I've realized I already have an abundance of love. There is an incredible group of people in my life who love me, even when I don't make it easy. It has been this group of people who listen to me  without judgement, pray for me continously, and encourage me when I'm down. I am surrounded by love. There is no shortage of it in my life. And for me to think that I am somehow lacking because I don't have a "someone special" is a disservice to them and to myself.

The truth is I don't believe in soul mates as far as 'there is one particular person out there for each of us and the universe is working throughout our lives to bring us together'. Basically I don't believe in the movie Serendipty (although I love it and will watch it anytime it's on TNT; and Gladiator, I watch Gladiator every time it's on TNT. But I'm getting off subject). I don't believe that there is a "one" out there for each of us. If we meet someone and like being around them and are willing and have the desire to put in the effort to keep that person in our lives (as long as they are putting in the same amount of effort), then at the point of making that commitment - of saying "I do" - that person then becomes our soul mate. I also believe that sometimes we don't meet someone, or things don't work out. Not all of us end up with a great romantic love story. And I think that is just fine. Being single is no tragedy, and actually has a lot of perks. Especially around tax season when I get to claim 'head of household'.

Now don't take all this as me rejecting the idea of being in a relationship, or knocking romance. I have been in love before. And it was great. Although it didn't work out, I have no regret or bitterness about the time I had with him. Not to get all "inspirational facebook post" on you; but I truly believe love is the greatest thing we have to give. I feel lucky to have had the opportunity to love him, and would never change feeling that way.
And as an aside: if you love someone you should tell them. Even if they may not love you. Because time is too short and precious to waste on fear or insecurity. I think everyone deserves to know if they are loved, even if those feelings are not recipocated.

If I was asked today, "what do you want?" from a relationship, my answer would be "simplicity". I don't have to have fireworks or be swept off my feet. Some of the best examples in my life of 'good couples' are the quiet ones. The couples who talk to each other and can be themselves around each other, who realize every fight isn't the end of the world, who can roll their eyes at the other's annoying quirks and move on, who realize they are not in the relationship to complete the other but to advocate for them - those are the ones I know will make it. That is the kind of relationship I want - simple, equal, and selfless. And if you were to ask me what kind of man I want, the above list still stands with maybe the addition of the following:

• truthful
• is not a Kid Rock fan
• puts forth effort
• wonderfully flawed
• lets me be wonderfully flawed

And if he happens to know the words to the song "Let Me Call You Sweetheart"; well that'd be almost perfect.

Oh-oh Here She Comes...She's a Job Hunter

I'm job hunting. It's such a tedious process. First you actually have to look to see who is hiring; then you have to put on paper why you're the best person ever in the world to hire; followed by having to decide if red is really an intimidating color to wear on an interview and "oh crap" I don't own anything navy which experts say is a soothing color and the best to wear which means I'll come across as a very non soothing individual whose red blouse screams "I am intimidating and unapproachable and will slash your tires if you don't give me a job immediately followed by a raise!!" which isn't true because I am the least intimidating person I know - all you gotta do is have one thing in common with me and laugh at one of my jokes and I'll love you forever - and I wear red because it goes fantastic with my skin tone opposed to navy which does nothing for me. Whew. See. It is very tedious and very stressful. And maybe I should stay in retail forever.

But I can't. It's time to find something new, to do something else. It has been time for a while. There's a reason a comfort zone is comforting. Unfortunately comfort doesn't always equal happiness or being fulfilled. This has been quite the lesson for me.

My resume is all set. It's quite good I should say. The hard part is just getting in the door and then, once in, being impressive. Interviews are like a first date but without the free dinner or the potential for make-out time (of course, that depends on what kind of job you're interviewing for).

When I was the manager at AE I had to review numerous applications and conduct the interviews. I loved it. One applicant put down his reason for quiting his last job after two months as 'road trip'. My favorite applicant was the guy who wanted to apply for assistant manager. Under 'Position Desired' he wrote 'Ass. Man.'. Although very tempting, I didn't hire him. My friend, Amy Jo, interviewed this poor guy whose mother insisted on sitting in on it. She ended up answering all of the questions with her son just sitting there nodding his head.

Don't worry. I'm not going to bring my mom to any interviews I may get. But if I have to use the kids to get a sympathy hire - I'm not above that. We've practiced the pathetic "please sir/ma'am, hire my mommy so we can eat" look. But, that's only if I get desperate.

Of course, with looking for something new comes all the insecurities. When I first worked at the law firm with ex-manfriend the fax machine was the scariest thing in the world; and how the hell do you figure out which direction to place the paper to be faxed? And why do I keep answering the fax line? And when will I stop printing the addresses on the envelopes upside down? And did ex-manfriend say he was taking calls or not taking calls? I figured it out eventually. But not before I began to wonder if my skill set was limited to catering to high-maintenance women and whiny tweens.

I wish I could be honest about that during an interview:
"True. I have no experience with this. But, I will show up everyday and work my ass off for you and if you give me a little bit of time I'll be the best decision you've made."

Honesty like that doesn't get you hired. That said, I was more likely to hire the kid who said "I just really need the money" when I asked why they wanted to work at AE. They showed up more than the kid who said BS like, "well, I've always liked the style of AE and think it's a great company blah blah blah...".

So, wish me luck. Insecurities and navy pant suits be damned.

586,901 Easy Steps To a Better You!!

There are certain times of the year when I decide I need to better myself. Immediately after, I realize that will take work and I'm probably as good as it's going to get - so I just abandon the whole thought. But, now that I've graduated from big girl school I feel the need to get off my bloomin arse and do something - to be something.

So I did a little research. Research, of course, meaning I googled some things while watching a House marathon. It's amazing what pops up when you type in steps to a better you. For one thing, when you click on 'images', most of them are of people looking at the ocean at sunrise or people on top of the mountain with their hands up in the air. I didn't realize a body of water could do so much. I wonder if Lake Maumelle counts? Do I have to go at sunrise? Because that is really early - like before 9:00am. And if I climb Pinnacle, do I have to put my hands in the air for a better life? Because I'll probably be a little winded.

As far as the lists goes the norm is seven steps. Only seven things to accomplish to better your life! How easy is that? We should all have the best lives ever. There was one site that gives just five steps on how to stop talking in a monotone voice. And then there are the over achievers who give ten to thirty steps to a better you. I figured those must be for those who have really hit rock bottom. Not for me. I'm a seven stepper for sure. Although now I wish I spoke in a monotone voice so I would only have five steps to a better life. Damn my colorful voice inflections!

Then there are the magazine steps to follow. Cosmopolitan has a riveting 'how to' be a tiger in bed and make him purr with pleasure- in just seven easy steps! Although, I think just showing up usually does the trick. But that wasn't one of steps, so I could be wrong. Glamour has 101 ways to have better sex. Again, I think just showing up gets the job done. Thinking about 101 ways to do anything just makes me want to take a nap. That said, thank God for women's magazines. Without them how would women ever feel empowered and as more than sex objects?

The funny thing is, in all these 'how tos' (and by all I mean the four I "researched") none of them listed get moving or get off the couch as the first step. Shouldn't that be the most important one? After all isn't that the biggest problem most of us have - getting started? Most of us are not dumb. We know what needs to be done. We know how to manage money, how to lose weight, how to take better care of ourselves; that's not the problem. The problem is we just don't want to get started. Most of us just sit on the side lines hoping, praying that if we want it bad enough then it will just happen. Then we have the audacity to wonder why life is so unfair when it nothing happens at all.

We'll watch silly movies like Eat Pray Love and think "if only I could get to Italy or Bahli, things will get so much better." The fact is - if you can't make it work in Arkansas or where ever you are now - you won't make it work in a foreign country. Because there are plenty of places to get fat where you are. And the beauty of God is you can pray where ever you are and it's good enough. And love? Well, love is easy. Stop getting caught up on the romance of it and recognize that more than likely you're surrounded by it. The romance will come eventually.

Although the scenery in Italy is probably a little nicer and I hear Italian men are amazing.
Hmm...maybe Gilbert is on to something.
If only it didn't take so much effort to get a passport.

So I have decided to take steps to a better me. My own. No Oprah, Oz, Cosmo steps. Angela steps.

To begin - I'm going to get moving. I'm going to write something everyday. Some I'll share on here, a lot I probably won't. But, I'm going to write because I love writing. And I think it's something I'm half way decent at doing. I won't worry about whether it's a master piece, or even if the reader will like it. I'm just going to do it - for me.

The rest I'll take as it comes. I'll get it done one at a time. No wishing it away, or ignoring the problem. Basically, cut down on the worrying. And then just start enjoying all I have. My kids, my family, my friends, my cable. You know - the important stuff. 

But, for you who love the list - here is the breakdown:
1. Get moving.
2. Take care of stuff.
3. Enjoy the good stuff.
4. Stop hanging on the mistakes; the hurt; and all the things that one guy/girl said to hurt you.
5. Get a day planner.
    5a. Write in the day planner.
    5b. Open the day planner after writing in above stated day planner and carry out whatever was written in day planner.
   5c. If too lazy to go get day planner, post it notes work well.
6. Stop complaining.
And when you get discouraged and stop all the steps...
7. Get a large pizza, watch a cheesy TV marathon, pass out on the couch, and then start the steps over in the morning.

As I said before, just showing up usually does the trick. I think it's about time I show up to my own life. I'd hate to miss it all just because I couldn't follow through on seven easy steps.

The United Nations of Goodsons

Rozelle

            My grandmother was born in 1920. The day after Rozelle was born, her mother died. Her father was a traveling salesman, and an alcoholic. He took her with him as he traveled from town to town. This is how she grew up, traveling on trains and staying wherever her father found a place for them to spend the night. No childhood home. When she was a little older her father got married to a woman who had two sons herself. This was the first experience Rozelle had with a family. Her mother was Catholic, and her stepmother was Episcopalian. While growing up her stepmother made sure Rozelle went to Catholic school and crossed herself at dinner – the only one required to do so. Although this was her step mother’s way of making sure Rozelle held on to her heritage, Rozelle began to resent this. Later she would joke about being raised a Catholic by an Episcopalian who later became a Southern Baptist.

            Eventually her stepmother left her father and they divorced. Again, Rozelle found herself without a family. Her father would step out of her life. She would hear nothing about him until over twenty years later, when he passed away. At thirteen Rozelle made a way for herself, going from family to family as a nanny or housekeeper. It was a high school teacher who told her she was good writer. He encouraged her to extend her education. She worked and she saved, and finally had enough to go to college. At twenty-three Rozelle met Carl. They fell in love, got married and began their family.

The United Nations

“Every time our family gets together, it looks like a meeting of the United Nations,” joked my Aunt Char at the last family gathering, “all we’re missing is an Asian.”  Looking around the room one might not realize the three Hispanics, one Native American, one Irish/Scotch/Native American, one bi-racial African-American, and cousin Lauren (we don’t know what she is) scattered among the other eight grandchildren come from my Irish-British grandparents.

Rozelle and Carl Goodson had five children. Those five children went on to have a collective fifteen children. Of those fifteen grandchildren eight are biological. The remaining seven are adopted, or as my mom likes to say – the chosen ones. My sister and I are two of the chosen ones. Each of us seven has a different story. Each has a different reason for being part of this family and becoming a Goodson: teenage pregnancy, being taken away by the state, drugs and alcohol, poverty, infidelity. These are the things that distinguish us from another; these are the things that tie us together.

Us chosen ones have only vague, superficial tidbits about our biological pasts given to us through lawyers, adoption agencies, and foster homes. These tidbits have become our inside jokes to each other. When I broke my leg snow skiing, the response of half the family was, “you should have known better.  Mexicans are not snow skiers.” We use these to accept our unknown past, but not dismiss the known present. My sister, who is Native American, comes to visit and comments on my unkempt room, “I would think you’d be better at housekeeping.” I respond, “Go make it rain somewhere.” No matter our knowledge about our biological parents or ethnic heritage, we never lose sight of the family we are actually a part of. All of us have become experts of balancing this.

Cousin Jennifer is a product of teenage pregnancy. Both her biological parents were athletes. As a kid, Jennifer played every sport imaginable. To this day she does 5ks, marathons, triathlons, and other such things that just make me want to nap. Her competitive nature is fierce and evident. This is something, someway for her to connect to the parents she never knew. Jennifer also has four kids of her own and is in the process of adopting a fifth. My twelve year old daughter, Karmyn, has plans to attend Brown University; become a pediatrician; marry a neurosurgeon; have five children – two of which she plans to adopt. The legacy lives on. Adoption is our norm.

You Look Just Like Your Dad

Of course adoption is nothing unusual. In our family it is a household word, a completely open subject. Never talked about with shame or sadness. I remember going to my dad’s work when I was a kid. A lady in his office exclaimed, “Oh I could tell you were one of Lynn’s the moment I saw you. You look just like your dad.” My dad and I gave each other knowing smiles. He then said, “She doesn’t have my balding hair and belly yet, but she’s working on it.” It was our inside joke. It was a rare occurrence when I remembered, oh yeah. I share no DNA with this man I call dad.

Maybe that’s what is unusual – how much we don’t think about it. Sometimes I’ll ask if any of the other adopted ones want to try to find their parents. The answers are always the same, “if they wanted to meet me, but otherwise not really.” Only one of us has attempted or actually got in contact with their biological family. It was my sister, Heather. Admittedly, she only did so to get a Native American scholarship for college.

Her biological father still lived with his tribe, Otoe-Missouria, in Oklahoma. Heather met him and his sister, her aunt. Her biological parents were engaged when Heather was conceived. But they broke up when his parents didn’t approve of the marriage, because she wasn’t part of the tribe. He enlisted in the Navy and was stationed away. Heather’s mother never told him about the baby. She gave Heather up for adoption and three months later, our parents adopted her. When her father came back to Oklahoma, the couple went on and got married and had another daughter. Only after their divorce did she tell him about Heather. When he asked Heather if she wanted to meet her mother and sister, she replied, “No. I have a mom and sis. I don’t need to meet them.” The father and daughter correspondence was brief, with only a few letters and phone calls after meeting. He died a few years ago. My sister didn’t go to the funeral. What Heather does hold onto is her heritage and her tribe; her tidbit.

Three Days

What I know about my biological parents reads like an incomplete fact sheet:

·        Mother: aged 25 at time of my birth. Married, but not to my father.

·        Father: Mexican, all other facts unknown.

·        Siblings: one, a brother who is seven years older than me.

·        Socioeconomic Class: really poor.

I was born in a Houston hospital on a Monday in January. My mother told the nurses she needed to put me up for adoption. This was the same hospital my dad worked. Someone on the nursing staff heard about my mother and knew my parents were looking to adopt another baby. Three days later I became Lynn and Mary’s second daughter. This is all I know.

            When I was in elementary school and through middle school, I would go visit my dad in Houston after my parent’s divorce. My mom, sister, and I moved to Arkansas. But, Heather and I still flew to Houston every other weekend to see my dad. On Sundays we had a routine before our flight back to Arkansas. We would wake up early, go to a restaurant and have brunch, and then stop in the Hispanic district of Houston. This was on the way to the airport. They had outside floral shops on the corners of multiple blocks. My dad would let me and Heather pick out a bouquet of roses to take back home with us. I remember walking through the rows of flowers and looking at the Mexican men working there. My mind wondered, looking for any physical similarities I may have with one of them. I liked the thought of being connected to them. I liked feeling a part of this culture.

            I had to take an upper division foreign language course for my major requirement. I decided to take Spanish Composition. I’m not sure why I took the course. I think a part of me thought I’m half Mexican. There’s got to be some natural ability to speak the language. There was no natural ability whatsoever. After the first day, I had no idea what was going on because it was all in Spanish. I just smiled and nodded my head all semester. In fact, I did so bad the professor actually emailed me after my final to congratulate me on making a ‘C’ on the exam, which brought my final grade to a ‘D’, which was good enough to pass.

            Every once in while, when I glance in the mirror I’ll wonder: who gave me this mass of ridiculous curly hair? Whose eyes are mine shaped after? Who gave me this mole above my lip? Whose nose is this? Who is responsible for the fact my bra size at age 32 is the same as it was at age 12?  I wonder about my father. It is doubtful he knows of my existence. It’s a surreal feeling knowing there’s someone out there with my genes, with my face, and my mannerisms. There’s someone out there who’s a part of me and doesn’t know my name, or that I have started my own family. I thought of this a lot with my kids. They will make a face or lift their eyebrows a certain way that reminds me of myself or their dad. It used to freak me out. It was my first experience with something like that, with an inherited physicality. My kids have knowledge of their background I never had.

But that’s the extent of it. My wonderings are mostly of the physical, nothing more. My day goes on. Other things occupy my mind. I used to feel guilty about this. I used to think what I felt was indifference. How heartless is that? Isn’t it heartless to feel nothing for the woman who gave life to me? But, later I began to realize ‘indifference’ is the wrong word. It is peace. I am at peace with who I am and the decision she made.

Although, as I’m writing this I remember once when I was thirteen a boy in my class and I were talking. Somehow my adoption came up. He looked at me sympathetically and asked softly, “You know what being put up for adoption means don’t you?” I looked at him like he was an idiot and replied, “Well, yeah. Since me and half my family are.” The idiot looked at me surprised and said, “It means your mother didn’t want you. It means she didn’t love you.” This angered me. Never had I thought of my circumstance in that way. “That’s not true. She did love me. She stayed with me for three days. I was in there for three days, and even though she was discharged the day after I was born, she stayed. She stayed all three days until she knew I had a home to go to.” I have more to hold on to than I thought. She had a son to take care of, and husband who knew I wasn’t his, another life to live; but she stayed with me all three days.

Grandmom

            I visit my grandmother in the nursing home. At 90 years old and 10 years of battling dementia our conversations begin the same.

She’ll say, “Oh, it’s so good to see you. I never get to see you. How are you?”

My reply, “I’m good. I’m graduating college soon.”

“Good, good. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thank you, I hope so. How are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m old, but I do okay.”

Then we pause and she looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. The conversation is repeated, sometimes two or three times.

            But, then she looks over at her wall to her left. It is filled with family pictures of all the children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. The family she started. At the top of the other pictures is a black and white photo of her and my grandfather, Carl.

     She smiles, “I do miss that man. We had a lot of good years. Sixty years I think.”

     I smile back, “It would have been sixty-five years last April, grandmom.”

     “That’s right. My goodness, that’s a long time. You know he didn’t like me at first. But, it didn’t take long until he came around.” 

     She goes on and tells me how they met, how it was snowing the night he proposed, she tells about their quiet ceremony and where they lived after. Rozelle tells me this with perfect clarity. It is a story I have heard a hundred times. I look at her face which bears no physical similarity with my own. Her eyes are a faded blue, her skin is pale, and her nose and chin are different shapes than mine are.

            I sit and listen to her and drink in every word. Her story is my story. Her past is my past. This is where I came from, this is who I am.

Just to start...

I'm in my last semester. In December I'll graduate and then the most horrible thing ever will occur - I will be expected to do something. Not that loved ones never expected anything from me, it's just that until now I've made do. Never really moving ahead, not really hanging behind. I just make do with what I have. It's not a good way to live, although it is the most comfortable. Now is the time for me to become uncomfortable. Time to do something.

And you ask "what will that be, Angela?"
To which I answer "Uhh...I was kinda hoping you'd tell me."

This semester is all writing classes. Creative non-fiction and Dramatic Writing will be the toughies. Not because of studying or even work load. They will be tough because these will require me using any talent I may have. All insecurities and doubt creeps back in. I sit in front of the computer screen and think "yes. I can just write. No APA format, no abstracts, no constraints. Hell, I ain't even gots to use proper grammar if I don't wanna! Life is sweet." And then I just sit. I can't think of a thing to write about.

I am an over thinker with little conclusions made. Take this post. It doesn't really say anything, but I just wanted to write. Because for years when people would ask what I liked to do or what my hobbies were, I had nothing. Now, I have something. And I want that something to actually become something.

One fun thing: I have to write a script for a play, 20-35 pages. So, just a warning- be nice. I am a creative non-fiction writer at heart. I will write about you. Just ask the manfriend.

Love and a 5K (the remix)

Went to the doctor yesterday and it turns out the pain in my ankle has an actual name. I forget what it is, but it ends in "itis". So, I'm taking an anti-inflammatory and will need to lay off the running for a bit.

And you know...it's okay. He said I could still swim or use the elliptical. I thought, "let's not get carried away with this whole fitness thing doc", but smiled and nodded instead.

I really wanted that 5K in 30 minutes. But, it's okay. I'll work my way back to it. I got really close, and that felt really good. Plus, it's kind of cool having a running injury. I mean, who would have thought? Certainly not me or anyone who knows me.

I think I've let go. Or at least am really close. And that feels good as well. Trying so hard to make something work, or holding on to something that doesn't want to be held,  is so tiresome. And hurtful.

There's something else out there. I haven't found it, but knowing it's out there is comforting beyond words.

As for you, 5K....I'll get you yet.
Not tomorrow. But one day...

Love and a 5K

I'm the girl who faked cramps to get out of volleyball. I don't have good luck when it comes to balls and my face...yeah, that made me giggle too. But, seriously sports and I don't get along very well. My son is good at all sports. He's one of those annoying naturals. My one hope was my daughter. She was my sarcastic partner in crime about athletics. But, she betrayed me this past Spring and got herself on the cheer leading team. I didn't even make flag line in Jr. High band...I don't want to talk about it.

This past Spring I was enrolled in Positive Psychology and then this last Summer session in Health Psychology. Both with the same professor and both with a physical goal to be worked on during the semester. So, I decided to work out. I actually impressed myself. I started at putting in the workout DVD, doing 10 minutes of the workout, and then going to the fridge to get cold pizza and watching the last 30 minutes of the DVD on my couch. Now I've worked up to running 3.1 miles in 33 minutes.

My goal is to make it under 30 minutes. This is huge for me. I hate running. I usually mock those hard core, running at 3pm in the hot ass afternoon, runners while driving by them sipping on my White Chocolate Mocha. But, this is different. I've got something to prove now. The before mentioned 'manfriend' is unsure of this. His concern is for my leg. Ah...the damn leg. I dismiss his concern. I'm not helpless. I'm not an amputee. The "incident" was three years ago. The leg will hold up. The leg is a toughie and we shall prevail. So, cut me some slack and shoot me a "way to go." That's all I'm asking.

Of course, as I type this the leg is killing me and I would love for someone to come by and accidentally stab me with a needle full of Morphine. But, I'll be fine.

Oh the things we do to prove ourselves and our self worth to people who may/may not care. Honestly, if they really cared there would be nothing to prove. The evidence is already there. But, that's not enough for us, is it? If I was really truthful, I'd realize I have all the love I need; my family, my friends, God. What more is there to need? Although, I think we all know once I truly accept this, then that means I have let go.

I have to let him go.

Don't misunderstand. This isn't all about before mentioned 'manfriend'. I've got a lot to prove to myself. If I can do 3.1 miles under 30 minutes, that means I took something I never thought I could do; made it a goal; worked towards that goal; and then, holy crap!, what if I achieve this goal? I mean, I want some fireworks and maybe someone there throwing confetti in my face. All that said, will this make my other troubles disappear? Will I be a different person? Will it get me into grad school? Will it help me let go of all those regrets? Will it make someone love me?

No. Of course not. It is just running. Not even towards anything...just round and round in circles. The running will answer none of those questions. At the end of the day it's still up to the girl running in circles.

But, it will feel damn good. And maybe, the next time that jerk that disguises itself as self-doubt creeps back in, I will be able to say: "No problem. If me and 'the leg' can do a 5k in 30 minutes, we can handle this."