Rockin' the Jersey Shore

I was prepared, and I knew I was.  Maybe that’s why I slept like a baby the night before my second marathon.  Running, like many challenges in life, can be a humbling experience.  I knew better than to take anything for granted or to have lofty expectations.  But I was very prepared.  I don’t think I could have done another thing to make myself any more ready for the big day.

My biological clock woke me up 5 minutes before my iPhone alarm did.

I dutifully ate a breakfast of sprouted bread and natural peanut butter with half a banana.  My stomach wouldn’t let me eat any more than that.  Quick shower, layers of sunscreen and Body Glide, and lots of glowing neon race gear. 

We arrived early, and I had time to stretch.  Excited but not nervous.  The weather was my running dream – cool and cloudy with very little breeze.

Smiling before the start in a rainbow of bright colors

I lined up between the 4:40 pacer and the 4:55 flag.  He gave me instructions to stay behind 4:40 for the first half, but not to let 4:55 pass me – ever.  My goal was to break 5 hours. 

National anthem… not much fanfare… and we were off. 

The 4:40 pace team disappeared quickly, but I stuck to my pre-decided pace.  I felt like everyone in the corral had passed me by mile 3, but I vowed that some of them would be see me again later in the race.

We wound around some simple neighborhoods for the first few miles.  The local support was really great – I always love seeing little kids along the way.  But I started to get restless after awhile;  I wanted to see some ocean.   

My aggravation worsened when I came upon an interesting trio – it looked like a dad and his twin daughters, who were dressed in animal print running gear.  They were using an annoying run/walk strategy, and they would pass me at a trot, then slow to a walk, three abreast, in the middle of the road.  I wanted to shove their young zebra asses out of my way.  Finally, I simply sprinted ahead and left enough distance that they were no longer an issue. 

Ahead of the jungle crew, I spied a young woman who was keeping a nice, steady pace, and she looked like she knew what she was doing.  I caught up to her and slid in beside her.  We were keeping perfect pace together.  I wondered if I was bugging her, but I gave her a couple of chances to ditch me, and she didn’t.

A few more miles in the ‘hood, and then I saw him with his familiar yellow support sign and felt a surge of relief and happiness.  Ahh…  I ran behind my pacer girl and gave him a quick kiss on the move before rejoining her for another mile or so.  

Finally, one of us said something, and we quickly discovered that each of us appreciated the other and that although neither of us had ever run with another person before, we were enjoying ourselves very much.  I stuffed my headphones in my bra and we talked for a couple of hours about all sorts of things as we made our way down the shore through Deal, Asbury Park, and Ocean Grove.

Pacer Girl wasn’t feeling well and had to make a pit stop around mile 21 or 22, and I reluctantly went ahead on my own.  I missed her, but I finally settled back into my own isolated groove with my tunes. 

I think if the race had been 30 miles, I could have run 30 miles.  But knowing I could stop at 26.2, those last 2 miles just seemed like 10.  My groin and my glutes were starting to ache.  Where was that finish line?  The crowd had thinned out to nearly nothing, and I was sure I was going to finish dead last.  But suddenly I became aware that I was passing almost everyone in front of me!  I began to “woo-hoo” my way through with new energy, and then… I saw it.

The 4:40 flag.

Oh yeah, her ass was mine.  I dug deep and motored past, knowing that I was going to be very happy with my final results if she was doing her job.

Finally the finish flags were in sight, and I gave a final push with every bit of energy I could muster, crossing the finish line faster than I had run any other part of the race. 

My body was empty.  I felt comforted when I saw him on the sidelines, and then I stumbled down the line to grab a water bottle.  Keep walking.  Someone asked me if I was okay.  I guess I said yes, but I wasn’t sure of it.  I wanted my medal more than I wanted the water, but I didn’t see them anywhere until out of nowhere came a smiling woman who draped one around my grateful neck.  He was grinning the biggest grin I’ve ever seen and congratulated me with elated eyes, but I was watching the finish line for Pacer Girl.

A couple of minutes later, there she was.  She said she had my neon pink tank in sight for the last few miles.  She made it.

I can’t wait to do it again. 

Freedom from Fear

I am free.

In the middle of chaos - in the middle of an upside-down world - I am happy.  There is nothing he can do to take that away from me.

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.                                                                ~ Romans 8:38-39

Holy shit.  I get it.  Today, in this sunshine moment, it rings true and clear and my heart shrieks with laughter at the simplicity of it all.

I am free.

None of the things that make me happy can be taken away by a court.  No judge can reach his hand down into my soul and remove that which radiates joy and life and love.  It is me.  I am life.  I am love.  I am joy.  The Universe is my body, my soul, and my mind.  I am that which I have been seeking.

I am free.

Imagine... I got all of this terrific insight from a Katy Perry song, Part of Me, today:

Now look at me, I'm sparkling
A firework, a dancing flame
You won't ever put me out again
I'm glowing, oh woah oh
So you can keep the diamond ring
It don't mean nothing anyway
In fact you can keep everything
Yeah, yeah
Except for me

This is the part of me 

that you're never gonna ever take away from me, no
This is the part of me

 that you're never gonna ever take away from me, no (away from me)
Throw your sticks and stones
Throw your bombs and your blows
But you're not gonna break my soul
This is the part of me

 that you're never gonna ever take away from me, no 

 My light has been lit.  Am I shining?

The Turning Point - Part II

Read Part I here.

After the St. Martin incident, 9 months passed, and I never saw my husband pick up a drink.  I didn’t ask him to give up alcohol – it was his choice.  Neither of us talked about it, but I figured he was proving to himself that he didn’t have to drink.

Then a family friend showed up for a visit and told us she was divorcing her husband.  We had spent holidays and countless dinner parties with this couple, and the news shocked us.  She brought a bottle of wine and we sat down to talk.  He looked at me – I remember it – searching for my approval to serve himself.  He opened the bottle and poured us all a glass. 

And that was that.

Not too long afterwards, we hosted a birthday party for our 3-year-old son and invited some close neighbors and his parents.  We spent a nice afternoon on the patio, eating and drinking and yapping it up.  By nightfall, the other guests had left and only his parents remained.  We took the party indoors, where his drinking continued.  When his parents decided it was time to go home, I panicked.  He was sitting in a chair, all glassy-eyed and wobbly with slurred words, and I pulled my mother-in-law aside and begged her not to leave me.  She brushed me off with an “Oh, Lisa… you’ll be fine,” with a “you’re so dramatic” undertone.  They left.

I don’t remember a lot about that night, but I think that was when he punched the column in the garage.  I was scared to death.  I’m pretty sure I just went straight to bed and avoided any conversation with him. 

I never consciously sat down and made a decision to leave my husband.  But the past year’s events took a toll, and I was not a happy person.  My nerves were shot and I was afraid of my own spouse.  I needed to be able to eliminate the daily fear in order to think clearly and figure out what to do to take care of myself and my children.   

One Sunday afternoon at my house, after a visit from his parents, I sat everyone down at the kitchen table, sent the children outside to play, and told the family we had a problem.  I was too afraid of Mr. N/A’s temper to approach him without some support.  I said that I wanted Mr. N/A to attend AA, and that I needed him to move out for a little while so I could get myself together.  I was thinking he would just go stay with his parents, get sober, and all would be well.  After all, when his sister relapsed and kept drunk-dialing me, telling me how much she loved me while ice was clinking in her glass at the other end of the line, I shared my suspicions with the family and they seemed grateful that I called it out and made them aware.

But I did not get a loving reaction.  Instead, my father-in-law almost jumped across the table at me.  He bellowed, “Who are YOU?” and insulted my housekeeping abilities (like this had anything at all to do with his son’s alcoholism).  His fucked up daughter was one thing, but I was messing with his golden child here.

I looked to my mother-in-law for help and asked her if she was going to sit there and let him talk to me like that.  She shrugged her shoulders.  And I knew. 

She lived with abuse, too.

I accused my father-in-law of being unfaithful in his marriage, as I had long suspected it, and he did not deny it.  The fighting and yelling continued until they finally left. 

I don’t remember talking to Mr. N/A about that day, but he emphatically stated he would not be going to AA, and he would not be moving out.  I couldn’t leave – I had no money of my own and I was a stay-at-home mother of three.  I felt I had no choices and I could no longer live in fear.

So I filed for divorce.  

Playing with the Boys

When I was a young girl, I remember lying awake at night in my bed, going over the day’s events in my mind and counting the number of “good” and “bad” things that happened.  Then I would decide if I felt happy or upset.  It seems so silly, but I guess I do that unconsciously as an adult, too.  I wasn’t thrilled about my race last weekend until I found out I set a personal best.  Then I was over the moon.  My thoughts control my feelings. 

Today started off with a bang at 5 a.m. when I popped out of bed and went about my pre-run morning routine.  The information from the scale immediately went into the “fucking awesome” category, if there is one of those on my mental tracking list.  I really can’t believe how well this new food plan is working for me.  It is a miracle – thank you, Universe.

My run was “eh.”  The 5-milers are becoming a bit of a bore now, since it’s not enough time to really let go of much. 

The daily grind added excitement and adrenalin to the mix, though.  I think I’ve finally met my match in sarcastic wit, and I can never really tell what this guy’s thinking, which provides me with hours of free entertainment and keeps my mind from sprinting off down Doom-and-Gloom Drive.  I’m usually pretty good at reading people, but this one… not so much.  I love a good challenge.

This executive pointed out to me today that who I appear to be to him and who I tell him I am don’t sync up.  (Like anything he says and does syncs up.)  When I am venting and showing off and expressing myself, I suppose I’m tapping in to the more masculine side of myself, which happens to be beneficial in the work environment.  I am Tough Girl – in a dress and 5” heels – and I don’t take any shit.

But I complain that I’m too soft – that I’m insecure and unsure.  He doesn’t believe me. 

This whole blog began as an experiment to discover and embrace each of my different roles and personalities.  Work is a wonderful venue to mix it up.  Masculine traits such as assertiveness and bold egotism blended with the ever-feminine blushing demureness and open sharing of my Self make me feel vibrant and alive.

So it will be interesting to see who I am in this corporate world dominated by male leaders.  I think it’s a good place for me – and my sarcastic wit.

I can bring home the bacon, but I will never ever forget I’m a woman.

The Turning Point - Part I

A couple of weeks ago in yoga class, I was flat on my back for shavasana, and my mind wandered to a traumatic event in my marriage.  I found myself crying there on the mat as I breathed through the memory.  I suddenly realized with great certainty that my marriage did not end because of Mr. N/A’s infidelities. 

It was the summer of 2003, and he had purchased a St. Martin vacation for our family at a charity fund-raiser at his company, presumably to impress the partner whose child’s disease was the focus of the auction, because he rarely took us anywhere. 

Our accommodations were provided by a co-worker; the apartment was in a fairly remote area overlooking a rocky beach.  The space was nice, but it didn’t seem very secure and there was no telephone, which was a bit concerning to me.  Next door was the local bar and restaurant, if you could call it that.  Mr. N/A quickly befriended the owner and enjoyed sharing drinks with him. 

One afternoon, the restaurant was having a barbeque, and we took the children over for lunch.  Mr. N/A began drinking with the owner while the kids ran around.  Joey was only 2, so someone (me) had to supervise.  Hours later, as darkness fell, the conversation with the bar owner turned to the catastrophe at the World Trade Center.  My husband, after 6 or 7 drinks, suddenly became enraged.  Born in Brooklyn, he had a love for New York and felt very passionate about what had happened there. 

The kids were tired, and he was out of control.  Somehow, I managed to get him to leave with us.  By that time, we were all hungry again; the original plan was to go out to dinner.  Obviously that was now out of the question, as it was dark, he was drunk, and I wasn’t comfortable driving the rental on this crazy, hilly area of the island.  So, I begrudgingly fed the kids pop-tarts and grumbled about not being able to go out.

A huge fight ensued.  He threw his wedding band across the room in front of the kids.  I sent the girls to their upstairs room and held onto my son for dear life.  Then Mr. N/A decided he wanted to take the boy for a walk.  In his condition?  No fucking way.  That was not going to happen.  He tried to grab our son from my arms, and I ran for the downstairs bedroom and tried to close the door.  He threw his weight against the door to get in, and the edge of it caught me in the face and threw me backwards onto the floor.  I dropped my son and hit my head on the bed. 

I don’t remember how I finally got him out the front door, but I think I yelled out the window for help and the groundskeeper came up.  A crowd had gathered downstairs, and I remember wishing they would do something.  I asked someone to call the police.  The groundskeeper strongly advised against it, saying, “You’re not in America.  He could end up in jail for 3 months here.”  Of course I didn’t want to cause a huge issue for my husband, but I had to get him out of our apartment. 

The groundskeeper convinced him to stay outside, and supposedly settled him in down by the pool for the night.  He came back up and assured me my husband was going to pass out quickly and not bother anyone.  He promised me that he was within yelling distance if I needed anything. 

I called my girls downstairs and had all the kids pile into bed with me.  It wasn’t long before I heard the groundskeeper take off with some friends in a car, and then Mr. N/A was at the front door, trying to get in. 

I don’t know how long we lay there, listening to his crazy ranting.  He rattled the windows and door and tried to find a way in.  He sneered in a crazy voice, “I know you’re in there…”  He threatened to kill me, and I honestly thought he would.  I hoped he wouldn’t hurt the kids and that they wouldn’t see it.  They were crying and scared to death - we were all scared to death.

Eventually, he wandered away, and I’m pretty sure I never really went to sleep that night. 

He came back in the morning with an apology.  My face was shining with purple and green evidence of the brawl.  Somehow we made it through the rest of the vacation, but it was strained, to say the very least. 

When I got home, I avoided my mother-in-law’s phone calls.  She has a sixth sense, and I wasn’t ready to talk about the St. Martin trauma.  When I ran into her in Sam’s Club later that week, she was shopping for booze for the 40^th birthday party she was planning for her daughter, who was coming in from California (a recovering alcoholic).  She saw my face and looked worried.  I decided to come clean and tell her the story.

She listened.  At the end of it, she finished her shopping, and I finished mine. 

When I arrived at the house later for the party, I was sitting with my sister-in-law at the kitchen table when my father-in-law came in.  By that time, my bruise was getting easier to hide with makeup.  He kissed me, looked at my jaw, and whispered in my ear not to worry – that we would discuss this later.

But we never did.

Read Part II here.

Something Old, Something New

I’ve got ants in my pants. 

You know that feeling you get when the days get longer and the sun casts shadows that make your living room look completely different?  When the weather warms up and the whole neighborhood is outside – and smiling?  When the sound of lawnmowers after dinner comforts you?  When you feel like something huge – something truly wonderful – is going to happen and you feel like your heart is going to jump out of your chest?  When you want to run into the backyard and do cartwheels?

That’s how I feel.

Some changes are coming down the pike.  I get a titillating sensation when I think about the opportunities ahead of me.  New scenery, new friends, new experiences… great stuff.  Yeah, I have reservations.  Yeah, I have some fears. 

And…

I can’t wait.

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.”

 -Deepak Chopra

Just Drop It

All right.  That’s it.  No more excuses.  I am getting into fighting shape.  I’m dropping all my fears right here, right now, and I’m going for it. 

What’s the worst that could happen?  I’d rather obsess about sex than whine about my weight.

By the time my next marathon rolls around, I have the potential to carry one less gallon of milk for those 26.2 miles.  That sounds good to me.  I want to feel great in my clothes.  I want to feel great without my clothes.  I want to feel great - period.  Shopping should be fun, not agonizing. 

I can’t do anything to prevent wrinkles.  I can’t stop gravity.  But goddamn it, I will not bow gracefully to the battle of the bulge.  I won’t.  I just won’t.

I reclaim my body.  It has served me so very well this past year, performing in amazing ways (ways I never thought possible for a non-athlete like me) so that I could heal my mind and my soul.  Now it’s time to love my body, which frankly is a much more daunting challenge.

Revival of the Fittest

Spring has exploded all over central NJ like a pent-up orgasm, fertilizing the local landscape and creating new life everywhere you look.  Last week’s barren tree branches are now laden with soft, heavy blooms in shades of pink and white.  My darling forsythia has overtaken the I-295 corridor, and daffodils echo the bright yellow color along the ground in clumps.

That which appears dead is capable of resplendent reincarnation.

Bring it on.

I'm a Good Girl

Foreign Affairs

I took my new running shoes for a quick 2-mile spin last night before dinner.  Other than that, I haven’t run since Saturday, and I feel like I can’t sit still. 

My brain is turning, my emotions are high, and I’m… eating. 

You’d think running 1,000 miles last year would have put me into wolf-whistle shape, but unfortunately, my body is desperately holding on to fat like it’s the last candy bar on a desert island full of sugar addicts. 

I’m well-aware that my fears about my running performance are merely symbolic for a much more primitive demon I’ve been battling for years now – I just can’t name it.  I believe it has to do with being afraid to feel good about my appearance.  I believe it has to do with being afraid of an unmanageable sex drive.

(Pudgy thighs) + (low self-esteem) = (Modest Lisa)

whereas

(Tight and toned) + (confidence) = (I’m too sexy for my shirt)

I’m sick to death of all the proposed excuses – you’re building muscle… you’re thinner than a lot of people your age… ah, live it up while you can… maybe it’s menopause – all things I’ve told myself and tried in vain to believe.  

It’s none of the above. 

Maybe Marianne is right.  Maybe my biggest fear is that I’m powerful beyond measure.  And maybe I’m afraid that I’ll use my powers for evil instead of good.  What is evil?  What is good?  I just don’t even know anymore. 

Beliefs I once held that were carved in stone have become worn with exceptions and justifications, much like the New Testament rewrote the 10 commandments.  Don’t work on the Sabbath – unless you’re saving a helpless animal.  Don’t steal – unless you’re feeding a starving child.  Don’t create babies outside of marriage – unless you’re sending your son into the world through a virgin to save it. 

C’mon.

My beliefs about marriage were shaken to the ground.  How often to two people keep the promises they make to each other on their wedding day?  Surely they mean it when they say it… although Mr. N/A convinced the Catholic Church that he really didn’t mean it and managed to get our 17-year union that produced 3 great kids annulled.  So since the marriage wasn’t valid, he neither cheated nor divorced, and therefore is not a lousy asshole jerk and can serve others holy communion on Sundays on a stage next to a priest who looks like a creepy pedophile and insults my daughter from time to time. 

Is marriage an outdated law?  Are human beings built to be monogamous for a lifetime?  Is it possible to break a promise you made to a person years ago that you intended to keep but then you find yourself in extenuating circumstances and you can truly justify your change of heart?  Should we ever believe someone who makes such a promise to us?  Should we ever promise such a stupid thing?  Are people who cheat always “bad guys?”  What are the exceptions, if any? 

A priest called me yesterday as a witness to a friend’s proposed annulment.  I told him honestly that I didn’t have a lot of confidence or support for the whole process, but that I wanted my friend to move on with her life and be happy.  We spoke at length about my friend and ended up talking briefly about my own experience and marriages, and I guess that set off a whole slew of thunderstorms in my beautiful mind.

Marriage and commitment.  Sex, fun, happiness.  Following my heart.  Keeping promises.  And… being sexy. 

Sigh…

I really have no fucking clue.