Monopoly

Last year at this time I was in the 757 with my friend, Miranda.  She had recently moved back home to VA Beach from Lynchburg (against my better wishes, mind you).  We met at a Bible study where she would always sneak out fifteen minutes before the study was over in order to attend a Zumba class at our local YMCA.  Miranda and I became fast friends, bonding over our mutual love of reality television (Toddlers and Tiaras, anyone??).  She all but begged me to join her Zumba class.  You should know, my father is a Southern Baptist preacher.  By default, my hips do not move that way.  You know that age old expression, “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?"  Well, it could just as easily read, “You can’t teach this Southern Baptist girl to Zumba.”   (I will, however, admit-it sure was fun trying!)  Mir is a high energy girl and after one particular Zumba class she was still wired.  I suggested a quick and easy 2 mile jog to burn off some of that excess caffeine (after all, our Bible study served unlimited coffee).  She thought she hated running (so did I).  She was wrong (so was I).   I was stoked to have a new running buddy and we agreed to run the Blue Moon Wicked 10k together.  The race would combine two of Miranda’s favorite things: dressing up and running.  I was in it for the beach part-a great place to recover-and most beach towns are nice and flat since they are at sea level (read, easier to run).   I spent weeks contemplating what costume I would wear.  I scoured the internet for ideas.  There were some great costumes.  But, I had run a few races and thus, I cared much less about the costume contest then ensuring that the 6.2 miles we were running would be as comfortable as possible.  I decided to be Pippi Longstocking.  It was easy to put together-I visited the Goodwill for some mismatched clothing and tall socks, and ordered a red, braided wig from the internet.  Miranda, however, thrives on creativity, particularly when it comes to dressing up. (Don’t believe me?  Follow her blog where one of her latest posts reviews all of her past costumes.)  So, she decided to be cotton candy.  After school on Friday I hopped in my car, made the 3ish hour trip to VA Beach (I should say four hour trip since I am sure my mother is reading this blog and is less than thrilled that I made it in so short of a time.  Don’t worry, Mom, I was not the "lead car" and my seat belt was buckled the whole time.)  Anyway, Miranda and I had a late night.  We visited Wal-Mart where Miranda bought pink polka-dotted leggings and a pink fleece in the girls department, and when I say girls I mean young children’s department…did I mention she is tiny?  I warned her that she would be hot by the end of the race.  She didn’t believe me. After all it was chilly that night as we traipsed from store to store.  Her purchases also included quilt batting, clear trash bags, pink spray paint, and a piece of poster board.  I think we turned out pretty cute.  

Credit for my short jagged bangs goes to Miranda.  She assured me she could cut hair.  Come to find out her only practice had been on her Barbie.

And, because I tend to think I am ALWAYS right, I would like to point out that sure enough, by the end of the run Miranda almost passed out from heat exhaustion.  The inside of her trash bag/cotton candy cover was covered with sweaty condensation.

This race will go down as one of my favorites!  We saw a “Cool Runnings” team that ran the entire race together inside of a cardboard bobsled.  And they killed us.  I think they averaged 6 minute miles.  Good for them.  We saw the “12 Days of Christmas” and “Three Blind Mice.”  We even made plans to run it together again this year.  But, alas, it was not to be.  (Miranda and I also tried to run Nashville’s Rock and Roll Half Marathon together last year but were de-railed by tornadoes.  I'm beginning to notice a trend.)  You see, a few months ago two things happened that changed our 2011 Halloween destiny forever.  Miranda broke her foot while singing (and dancing) in the rain.  Seriously.  Again, check out her blog.  And, I signed up for a marathon. 

I know that when I cross the finish line of the Richmond Marathon on November 12^th I will be so proud, thankful, relieved, and glad I did this.  But, in the meantime, when people ask how it’s going, I can only reply with a frustrated sigh.  Marathon training has completely monopolized my life.  I read (well, skimmed) all of the books I could get my hands on.  Each one had me running about 40 miles a week at the peak of my training.  That included 20 mile long runs on the weekends.  But, that left 20 miles to be spread out throughout the rest of the week.  Let’s face it, after running 20 miles on a Saturday, I am not ready to WALK again, much less RUN, until MAYBE Wednesday.  Not to mention, I teach during the day, have after school activities/responsibilities most days…there is only so much daylight to take advantage of and I’m not one of those crazies who will wear the reflective gear or flashing ankle bracelet and run at 3 a.m.  (Props to you if you are-I’m just not that dedicated-and I don’t feel a bit bad about that…)  So, my reply to “How’s training going?” is never really favorable.  I always reply with a list of things that the monopolizing marathon has already prevented me from doing (and I haven’t even run it yet…)  The list usually sounds a little like this:

1-I cannot travel. Ever.  My family lives out of town, one of my dearest friends just birthed triplets, we had a nice fall break/long weekend a few weeks ago; however, I have not left my hometown for any reasonable length of time in months.  I have a fabulous training partner here in town (this whole marathon was her idea by the way…) and I know better than to think I will run 20 miles alone wherever I find myself.  Not to mention, long road trips make my muscles stiff and I am either recovering from a long run or preparing for a long run at all times.

2-I cannot eat what I want. Ever.  I started running to lose weight.  I am not at goal weight yet and would prefer to eat way less carbs than I am now.  But, I tried that once.  Twelve miles into a 16-mile-run I was on the side of the road crying and cursing my running buddy who was trying to encourage me to “keep going.”  She was entirely too chipper and hopeful-and it was her fault I was even running 16 miles to begin with.  The next week I consumed more carbs and ran 18 miles as happily as one can possibly run 18 miles.  Then there were the times I figured I was running 20 miles the next day so I could afford to “indulge” a little.  Let’s just say it’s a good thing we ran those days on busy roads with lots of public restrooms available.

3-I cannot have a social life. Ever.  (Okay, I feel like I should preface this by saying, should I be asked out by a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman who loves Jesus with his whole heart on a Friday night, I would happily skip my marathon training the following Saturday morning.)  However, at this point, the only invitations I have received to hang out on Fridays are “Girls’ Nights Out.”  I love my girls.  And I love going out with them.  But, I cannot justify a late Friday night with them when I know 20 miles is looming over me Saturday at 5:30 a.m.

4-I cannot wear my cute shoes. Ever.  I will admit to having a bit of a shoe addiction.  I will also admit to being the shortest person in my family (with the exception of my 9-year-old sister, but even she is getting close-her foot is already as big as mine).  As a teacher I would prefer that not all of the students tower over me.  So, I wear heels.  A lot.  Not this year.  Mainly because of side effects of long runs-you know ridiculously tired and/or sore legs and giant blood blisters on my feet.  This year I have been oh-so-fashionably sporting my Dansko clogs most days. 

So, if you want to find me on Sunday, November 13^th (the day after the marathon) I will most likely NOT be in my hometown.  However, I probably WILL be out at some restaurant indulging my sweet tooth by ordering dessert after I eat a steak, surrounded by all of my girls (and maybe-crossing my fingers-a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman who loves Jesus with his whole heart), standing at least 5’7” with my 3” heels,  all the while sporting this:

And next Halloween you will probably find me running the Blue Moon Wicked 10k again…and I will probably STILL be wearing the medal.  Good grief, I’m getting my “times’ worth” out of that thing-after all, I earned it! 

Against my Better Judgement

I am a teacher.  Despite the entire make up of my being waging war against this idea, education is where I have been called to serve.

 I am not a morning person.  I loathe mornings.  My 78 year old grandmother gifted me with a travel coffee mug recently.  (Sidenote: I used to loathe coffee as well.  I had a friend tell me in the early days of college to choose one, coffee or drugs, in order to succeed at the collegiate level.  As a poor college student, I figured coffee was the more economical choice.)  Anyway, the mug….it states, “All the coffee in the world could never make me a morning person.”  Even my aging grandmother has figured this out about me.  And yet, I willingly chose an occupation that not only starts earlier than most other jobs, it requires actually dealing with little people at such ungodly hours. 

Also on my “not top ten list”: hugs, or public (okay, private also) display of affection of any type.  Specifically, I hate to be hugged, embraced, touched, poked, prodded, or rubbed.  I would have been perfectly content to be that boy who lived in a bubble from that movie made in the 80’s.  One thing I know-children like to hug, poke, prod, and touch.  And it doesn’t matter where their grubby hands may or may not have been previously (Oh, the stories I could share…will share….another day).  (Is this where I should mention I am also a bit of a germaphobe…?) 

I don’t do emotions.  I hate to cry, though I am woman enough to admit that I tear up every year when those adorable 12 year olds win the Little League World Series.  Anyway, I haven’t always hated emotion, but I had a coach once who constantly (and affectionately I’m sure) reminded me to “suck it up.”  I did.  And continue to.  And expect my students to do the same.  When I first started teaching I had a crying chair where children were “encouraged” to cease their (ridiculous) displays of emotion…

While I don’t know anyone who revels in throw up, I am particularly sensitive to what my sweet grandma refers to as “up-chucking.”  My siblings (and even my father) know the quickest way to get a reaction from me is to pretend to retch.  Even that initial gagging sound gets my eyes watering and my gag reflex going.  Ashamedly I will admit to once abandoning a young student in a bathroom (lest you call for my immediate resignation, you should be aware said bathroom was located in our classroom) as he tossed his cookies.  I did reassure him (through the closed door) that help was on its way albeit in the form of janitorial staff.  The fact is, children puke, and very often they don’t know when it’s coming until…well, it has come. 

My mother has the patience of Job.  No lie.  I inherited a lot of things from my mother, particularly in the looks department (thanks, Mom!).  However, no one would ever accuse me of being patient.  And while it has been said that patience is a virtue, patience is inexorable for a teacher. 

The above reasons may explain why I changed majors umpteen times in college (physical therapists have to touch feet-another phobia of mine; nurses have to deal with vomit more often than teachers-although, their working environment is at least more sterile…).  But, alas, eventually I settled on impacting young lives for the sake of our future, or elementary education.  I think I made the decision right after a particularly late night of studying the muscles, bones, blood vessels, cells, and whatever else one may find when one cuts into a dead cat (did I mention kitten fetuses?-ugh).  Anyway, there I was, in the hallway of my dorm, diligently memorizing where the bronchial aorta was located (sipping on the aforementioned coffee) while down the hall a bit a dorm mate was designing a bulletin board.  She was busy coloring a grinning pig-tailed child using a box of 64 Crayolas, gluing strips of fabric on the cardboard child’s plaid school uniform, and giving her yarn for hair.  It felt like kindergarten all over again-except we had adult sized toilets in our dorm bathroom-and I knew: her college life HAD to be easier than mine.  I showed up at the registrar’s office soon after.  She knew me by name, already had my status sheet pulled, and had the course catalog ready in order to find appropriate classes for when I changed my major-again.

Okay, truth is, all of the above is gospel truth, and yet I teach…because, well, I love it.  I do.  Call me crazy, but I love these little urchins that God has called me to instruct.  I love the “light bulb” moments when they (finally) grasp the concept of long division.  I love cleaning my classroom in the afternoons and finding the notes passed between friends throughout the day-particularly when those notes contain juicy classroom gossip.  I love the hand-drawn pictures that adorn my desk-especially if they include notes like, “Miss Jackson ROCKS!”  Most importantly, I teach because I know beyond a shadow of a doubt (for this season) this is what the Lord has called me to do.  He has uniquely gifted me to do exactly what I am doing every day.  And while there are moments (or days, or even years) that I may question His calling (or my sanity), I remain convinced that I am most “at-home” in front of a large group of little bodies feebly attempting to explain my dry sense of humor joke that is now no longer funny- all the while, coffee mug in hand.