Love – Page 26 – Rant and Roll

For Boston

I’m having a hard time finding what it is I want to say.

I started Running when I was ten years old. I capitalize the R because anyone in my family will tell you that I have been running since the moment I started to walk.

My formal training didn’t start until the summer after grade five when my dad would take me out with him on short routes on Saturday mornings.

I absolutely loved this time we spent together.

Those minutes, hours, kilometers, miles, defined by an intimate ease, a shared love. Moving our legs in unison, marking our way in the world with nothing but a simple stride.

Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t.

We’d run the length of Jericho beach, past the old concession stands, and the gleaming, gorgeous, newly erected “Beach Cafés.”

We’d watch the gulls swoop and glide overhead, listen to the roar of the surf, hear the shrill trill of an approaching bicycle bell.

Our sun-baked skin, glistening in the heat.

Our quiet breath, constant.

Arriving home my skin would smell of sweat, and sunscreen, and the sea salt air, and my shoes would crunch underfoot, coated with a golden sand.

I would stand exhausted in the middle of the entranceway, feeling the remains of the run course throughout my legs, my arms.

With each pump of my heart: around, and around.

Around again.

Seeing what has happened today in Boston has struck a chord inside of me and – I just don’t know.

I don’t know as a human being.

As a sister. As a wife. As a daughter. As a friend. As a runner.

I just don’t know.

I have run so many races.

I have loved each experience so much that I’ve always found it hard to properly communicate what it means for me to participate in these events.

They are camaraderie.

They are fearlessness.

They are grit.

They are endurance.

They are excitement, and heartbreak, and exhaustion, and triumph.

They are love.

They are human beings getting together and doing something that they love.

Together.

Running may be a predominantly solitary sport, but come race day, those other runners are your peers.

They are your friends.

They are your support, your energy, your kick, your drive.

They encourage you, they test you, they make you run harder, and faster, and longer, and better.

They make you better than you ever thought possible.

And for someone to see this, and decide that they are going to take this away – that they are going destroy a peaceful event that serves as a support and conduit for all these amazing traits of humanity – well, it breaks my heart.

And I see these pictures everywhere and I cry.

But I also know that nothing can come from my tears.

So I think about how one day I will have a child.

And I will teach them to be a kind-hearted, open, supportive, loving person.

And I will take them running with me.

You’ve got to put one foot in front of the other

Question:

Do you make the first move?

I do.

I have only had three relationships in my relatively short time here on planet earth (the last one being my very happy – and enduring – marriage to my completely bonkers husband), and in all three instances I was the one to initiate the formal courtship proceedings.

Writer’s note: I did not in fact propose to my husband – he was the brave one to take that leap. However, had I not been the one to first declare my attraction, said proposal may never have happened.

To me, there is only so much angst that one can go through before reaching that crush crossroads: either declare your love for the person, or do everything in your power to get over your quivering loins (and moony eyes) as quickly as humanly possible.

While most would say the former is pretty much one of the hardest (and scariest) things out there, hot damn, I cannot even IMAGINE taking on the latter. Sure, there is the chance that you will be left with a relatively heavy heart, especially if your plans to profess your love fall short of a successful outcome, but COME ON.

Never knowing if the other person likes you back? Constantly destroying yourself by wondering, “What if?”

That, my friends, is Dante’s ACTUAL tenth circle of hell.

The first boy I ever asked out was a dude name Jacob*. He was a year older than me, and we did improv and theatre together, sat next to each other in chemistry and physics, and just generally had a great time.

He was really into skateboarding and making movies, and I was into pretending I was into skateboarding, but I did like to make movies, so our friendship was pretty stellar.

One day after school he was in the editing suite, piecing together the score for his latest project when I thought to myself, IT’S NOW OR NEVER.

I awkwardly stood in the doorway and mumbled through my much-practiced lines. Our dialogue was something along the lines of:

V: Hi.

J: Hi.

V: Ummm, do you want to go see a movie with me this weekend?

J: Ummm, sure.

V: Like, just the two of us?

J: Okay.

V: Okay, great!

I leave. He then follows me out a few seconds later and qualifies:

J: Uh, were you just, like, asking me out on a date?

V: Um. Yes.

J: Oh. Okay. Yeah, so, I really like you as a friend, but I don’t think it’s the best thing if we go out.

V: Okay. Sure. No problem.

END SCENE.

Okay, I would be lying if I said that this exchange didn’t leave me feeling REALLY bummed out, but truth be told, I would much, MUCH rather have endured that short (intense) grieving period then never knowing if he liked me or not.

And hey, in the end, our friendship survived, and I ended up dating his (much better looking) friend Ryan*.

JOKING.

About the better looking, not about dating him.

(Kind of.)

My solid-steel guts were also the catalyst of that relationship. After months of extreme back and forth ICQ flirting (holy crap ICQ!!!) I accosted him as we were exiting the gym after our high school’s annual holiday square dancing jamboree.

I basically just dropped all of my Christmas cards, gifts, exams, and papers on the floor before turning to him and blurting out:

“Soooooo, I don’t know if you like, but if you do well, that would be awesome, and if you don’t, well, that’s okay, because I really like you as a friend, and I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but if you like me more than a friend, well, I think we could have something great, and…yeah.”

To which he replied: “Oh. Yeah. Great. I’m totally in the same boat.”

SUCCESS! SUCCESS!

I was so happy I practically started crying. Then we went ice skating and didn’t kiss for a week.

Ahhh, young love.

My next boyfriend I snagged by asking him to go for a late-night walk down at the beach, which was actually just a smoke screen for me to seduce him into kissing him under the moon AND GUYS SERIOUSLY IT WAS SO ROMANTIC.

Oh, and I also told him: “I like you.”

(In my head I was thinking – PLEASEPLEASELIKEMETOOANDKISSME)

And he did! (Like me AND kiss me!)

SUCCESS AGAIN!

Finally, my last foray into making the first move was when I told my beautiful, brilliant husband that I liked him, by literally doing just that.

We were eating dinner (AS FRIENDS) and I wasn’t saying much. When he asked me what was wrong, instead of lying, I took a huge gulp of water, looked him square in the eye, and then said:

“I REALLY LIKE YOU.”

To which he replied, “Oh. Thank you!”

What a gentleman.

And then Ilikeyoutooblahblahblah…

SUCCESS TIMES THREE!

Now, I’m not going to lie and pretend that letting these guys know how I feel didn’t make me sweat like a glass blower’s arse. And sure, my track record is pretty good.

But I swear it – I felt a million times better just saying those words, rather than having them fester away inside of me like a rotten banana peel made out of feelings.

Because dudes, that is just the worst.

So I implore all of you – take your love and run with it! You never know what amazing relationship adventure (short or life-long) you may end up on.

And then when you do, please be sure to tell me all about it.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. And nerdy.

For no particular reason, I decided to go for a little run

Hey dudes!

This weekend I competed in the BMO April Fool’s Half-Marathon on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia.

Somehow I managed to pull out the best run of my career, finishing the course in 1:31:36, and coming 7^th out of all women (3^rd in my age group) and 29^th overall (out of 537 participants).

HOLY SMOKES.

To say that I am stoked would be a bit of an understatement, but I am very, very tired and as such, there is a bit of a competition between my exhaustion and my happiness.

So as I sit here in front of the fire, clad in nothing but an over-sized t-shirt and sweatpants, I am mostly just very comfortable, and very cozy.

And that’s pretty awesome.

Marc and I left for Gibsons on the last ferry on Friday night, eager as we were to avoid the Saturday ferry traffic, and just get comfortably ensconced in our race-weekend digs (the paradise on Earth hideaway I have so often written about) as soon as possible.

His parents were also up for the weekend, and were lovely enough to accommodate our late check-in. As such, we tried to be as quiet as possible when we arrived a little after eleven o’clock at night.

Despite our own knackerdness, the lateness of the hour had made us absolutely ravenous and we spent a good fifteen minutes loitering about the kitchen, stuffing our faces with the delicious sushi we had not been able to eat earlier.

If you haven’t had the chance to sample the Maple Roll from Okonomi Sushi, YOU HAVEN’T LIVED.

Then we went to bed and slept for nine and a half hours.

Saturday, in an effort to conserve as much energy as possible, I did pretty much zilch.

Highlights include: listening to a lot of good music, completing the NYT Saturday crossword, enjoying a beautiful jaunt about the harbour with my parents-in-law in their boat, and finding this record:

EPIC.

This is why I married a (half) Swiss man.

I mean, they are LITERALLY singing about ham.

I love it.

That night, after eating my fill of spinach and cheese ravioli, grilled veggies, salad, fruit, and rhubarb and strawberry cake, I read a little before falling into a rather (for lack of a more eloquent word) crap sleep.

My dreams I tell ya, they are CRACKED.

The next morning I woke up to my alarm at 6:15 and immediately checked the weather outside.

No rain.

Thank goodness.

Then I made coffee, and read the newspaper.

I’m pretty weird and slightly superstitious when it comes to my race-day preparations, so I like to do everything in the same order as I have in the past:

Drink water.
Drink coffee.
Drink more water.
Get ready
Eat a banana with peanut butter.
Leave.

We were out the door by 7:30, and although the day was cool and the wind was making its presence known, the skies were still clear.

This was a terrific sign, because I’ve never run a race without a pair of AWESOME and GIANT sunglasses, and I didn’t want to end this streak to end at this run.

To combat the cold, I wore my long lululemon running pants (I normally loathe ye olde cult of LULU but heck if they don’t make a cracking running pant), a long MEC running top (SO GOOD) and my ScotiaBank half-marathon shirt (for great memories).

The ride to Gibsons was about forty-five minutes, and to pass the time, Marc and I sang along to this sweet mixed CD I recently made. (Highlights included a raucous version of Sisters are Doing it for Themselves and Third Eye Blind’s Never Let You Go.)

Once we got to the community centre, I picked up my race package and then proceeded to go to the bathroom five times.

Phantom pre-run pee here people. LOOK IT UP.

Before I knew it, it was 9:15, and it was time to head to the start line with all the other competitors.

Marc, playing paparazzi, took a number of snaps of yours totally unaware.

Oh, and also this one:

(Of this I was aware.)

I like to start as close to the start line as possible, so I huddled up with all the other elite runners and counted down with the course marshal –

5…4…3…2…1…- and they’re off!

The first part of the race I felt that I was running really fast. I was a bit worried that perhaps I had gone out a little too quick and, believe it or not, I actually wondered perhaps if I should have peed one more time before setting off.

Sheesh.

At around the four kilometer mark I felt as though I settled into a good rhythm. As we maneuvered in and around one of the town’s residential neighbourhoods, I tried to focus on keeping my stride as long as possible.

Around the six kilometer mark we were back out on the highway, which if I’m honest, was pretty miserable, what with the wind blowing right into me, and the traffic creating even more of a head wind.

But soon enough we were back into beauty central, running down side-streets flanked by gorgeous arbutus, douglas fir, cedar, and alder trees.

It was also around this time that the terrain began to get really hilly.

And we all know how fun that is, don’t we?

Kilometer seventeen was a mixed bag, because I felt absolutely destroyed after cresting a massive hill, but overjoyed because Marc’s parents were there waiting to cheer my on.

And from there, believe me when I say that it really did seem to be over in a flash.

My right foot felt very hot, so I knew that I had a blister forming, and my knees were a little sore, but otherwise, I felt great as I put the pedal to the metal for the last four kilometers.

As I ran past the final aid station at kilometer nineteen, all these little girls yelled out. “WE LOVE YOUR SUNGLASSES!”

That was all I pretty much needed to get me through the homestretch.

As I rounded the very last corner, I caught sight of the race clock, and I couldn’t believe that it said 1:31.

I sprinted as hard I could across the finish line, totally incredulous that I had run so fast.

Then I met up with Marc and his parents and had the chance to take many funny photos.

After, it was time to chow down on some cookies and yogurt, and head back to town.

So in the end, it was a really brilliant day.

I must give a HUGE thank you to my lovely cheering squad (the amazing Mr. M and his parents) and the fab organizers of the race.

I’ll for sure be back.

You can count on it.

Anybody hear that? I’m fairly alarmed here

Hey dudes!

I don’t know about where you live, but it’s raining like a raining thing out here on the west coast of BC.

Normally this isn’t something to really gripe about (what with it being my choice to live smack dab in the middle of a temperate rainforest an all) but come this Sunday I will be running 21.1 kilometers (13.1 miles for all you lovely Yanks/Brits out there) and I would prefer to do so sans soaked running shoes.

(Sans soaked shoes and/or any garment really.)

It’s not that I don’t like running in the rain, I just always imagine it being so much more romantic than it actually proves to be.

And for that, I blame Four Weddings and a Funeral.

“Is it raining? … I hadn’t noticed…”

NO ONE BELIEVES YOU ANDIE MACDOWELL.

NO ONE.

Okay, let’s get back on track.

And what better way to do this than with one of my favourite blog posts:

THE FRIDAY FRY-UP.

Hold on to your butts.

YOU GUYS.

Jurassic Park is back in theatres!

HECK YES.

Let’s take a quick walk down memory lane shall we?

1993. Age 8. Summer. Vacationing in Calgary. Staying with my mum’s friend Claire. She has twin girls who are 10, and a boy who is 12.

We all get along like gangbusters.

Are we going to go see this movie?

OF COURSE WE ARE.

If I remember correctly, I talked my way into permission by telling Claire that this film would be easypeasy compared to some of the other flicks I had previously sat through (despite my, well, extreme youth.)

Her eyes got pretty wide after I told her that on Easter we had rented The Fugitive for some festive post-egg hunt family bonding.

But I mean, c’mon lady, if I could handle Han Solo jumping off of a dam and the terrifying one-armed bandit, I could definitely hack a bloodthirsty T-Rex and a shirtless Jeff Goldblum.

AM I RITE DUDEZ OR WUT?

The other thing that really sticks out in my memory about this day (other than how much I loved this movie, despite it scaring the absolute crappola out of me) is that it was also the day I first heard the term “Jeeze Louise.”

This, to my 8 year-old self, was pretty much THE FUNNIEST THING OF LIFE, so in order to calm myself throughout the scariest parts of the film, I just repeated it over, and over again.

OH HAI NEWMAN BEING SPRAYED AND KILLED BY DISARMINGLY CUTE BUT ACTUALLY TERRIFYING DILOPHOSAURUSjeezelouisejeezelouisejeezelouise…

(And so on.)

Anywho, as you may imagine, going to this re-release is very high on my TO-DO list (as it too should be on yours), but in the meantime if you want the very best ever summation of the movie, please read this.

You will laugh.

I promise.

I am very famous.

Just saying.

And because I am very famous, I eat things like this:

And take family portraits like this:

Help.

Goodbye, my friend.

So come Monday, my best friend at work (the amazing, brilliant, and beautiful Jen) is moving on to a new job, and despite the fact that I am SO HAPPY FOR HER, my little heart is pretty sad knowing that I won’t be working with her for the REST OF MY LIFE.

Veteran readers of this blog will know that she has been a top partner in crime for the past two years as we’ve kicked butt and taken names, skulked about local shopping haunts, and tried out delicious cuisine in and around the downtown core.

(She is also a formidable gym partner, professional Ticket to Ride competitor, and the official Rant and Roll fairy god-mother.)

So Jen, if you’re reading this (and I know you are), let me say this-

GTFO.

YOLO!

Also:

Yeah. That’s pretty darn cheesey.

And I love it.

…

So there you have it folks.

What are you up to for the weekend? Any there any runs, films, fame, or friends on your radar? Do tell me all about it.

Happy Friday to you all!

Making it up as I go along

There are times when I think to myself, “Will I ever grow up?”

Sometimes it is when I am speeding along the highway blasting some terrifically terrible pop song du jour, or buying sluprees at midnight, or laughing so hard that I snort.

Snort repeatedly.

(Because it’s either that or pee my pants.)

Will I ever grow up?

I don’t know.

And what does this even mean?

For all intents and purposes, I live a relatively “adult” life.

I am married.

I have a mortgage.

I have a BA and an MA (although I am missing the PhD to complete the trio.)

I am gainfully employed.

I pay my taxes.

But then again, do any of these things actually constitute “adultness”?

Or is it just evidence that I am, on paper at least, a compliant citizen?

And in the end, isn’t it this all [picture me gesturing about the place] just play acting?

…

When we were little girls, my sisters and I lived in worlds of make believe.

While Jessi and I got to inhabit the kookiest of characters, Kate, being the eldest, was always saddled with the most vanilla of roles, which usually included “Owner” or “Nanny Kate.”

(For whatever reason, our otherwise shockingly powerful imaginations seemed to run out of steam when it came to her parts and their accompanying monikers.)

In one iteration of our fantasy world, Jessi and I played Shampoo (pronounced Shaum-poo) and Squirt, two extraterrestrial creatures who lived with Owner.

Shampoo (in my imagination at least) was part bulldog, part Tasmanian devil, part vacuum cleaner. He was a little ball of fury, always tearing about the house, and to the best of my knowledge, foaming at the mouth.

Jessi (who never had very complex speaking roles with any of the characters she portrayed) mostly just made crazy guttural gnashing sounds to communicate Shampoo’s feelings.

Squirt was long, blue, and strangely collapsible. As we walked to school in the mornings, Kate would press down on my head, and I would chirp, “SQUIRT!” before crumpling down into a low squat.

(I always pictured his body as the middle part of an accordion.)

Squirt was from a pacifist alien tribe, and never wanted any trouble. Thinking back, I’m pretty sure the only thing I could say whilst in character was also just, “SQUIRT.”

A couple of budding linguists we were not.

Now Shampoo hated Squirt, and was always trying to eat him. So as you can imagine, most of the game involved Shampoo running after Squirt, with Owner every so often stepping in and playing intermediary.

(I think this was Kate’s genius idea to let us play 90 per cent on our own, tire ourselves out, and then step in when the time was right for a brief hang out.)

And what can I say?

It worked.

…

Let’s flash-forward to grade five.

I really liked Sailor Moon.

Like, a lot.

After watching the latest episode on YTV (best Canadian youth television channel EVER), I would dress up in my highland dancing outfits, and then creep upstairs to my parent’s bedroom.

There I would sneak into their closet, and dig out my Dad’s old tai chi swords from behind my mom’s many shoeboxes and Hudson’s Bay Company shopping bags, (and other miscellaneous OLD PERSON detritus that was lying about).

Then I would choose between the long, thin blade and the fat, curved sabre.

I normally went with long and thin.

Fatty Curve (copyright) always seemed like something the bad guys would use.

From there I would race about my house, pretend-battling alien evil-doers, and then quasi-make out with my hand (in lieu of a real-life Tuxedo Mask.)

This was the main difference between my world and the television show: I never needed a man to come and save me at the last minute. I did my own butt-kicking, and saved the disguised suitor for kissing (and other general pretend-boyfriend duties.)

…

Jump ahead twelve years.

I am twenty-two years old and I am walking home from the gym.

It’s summer, and therefore quite warm. I can feel the sun baking down on my sweaty, salt-licked skin.

I am listening to my “I JUST FELT LIKE RUNNING” playlist, which basically consists of any and every song that makes me want to get up and dance.

Pretty much anytime I am going anywhere listening to music I imagine that I am in a movie, and whatever song I am listening to turns in the de facto score of Miramax’s newest release: MY LIFE – THE FILM.

As I near my apartment building, Metric’s Poster of a Girl begins to play.

I try everything in my power to not dance.

I kind of shuffle a bit, and maybe side step once or twice.

I even try to speed up my pace, thinking that the sooner I get home, the less likely I am to break it down in the middle of the Ukrainian church parking lot.

No dice.

My body is physically incapable of not dancing to this tune.

So I just give in, and dance like I am in the credits of some absolutely ridiculous teen comedy, (probably titled “Gym Nuts!” or something equally as trite.)

After a little while, I manage to regain my composure and continue my walk home.

That is of course, until I realize the painters working on the building next to mine have been watching me the entire time, and burst into spontaneous applause after I finish.

I am torn between pretending nothing happened and running away.

Instead, I curtsey.

And then I run away.

…

Now I’m pretty sure that I am still all three of those people – SQUIRT, Sailor Moon, and mad-dancing gym nut.

And I don’t think any number of “adult” qualifiers will ever change that.

I mean what, my friends, would be the fun in that?