Friday, January 30, 2009

I'm not crazy. . . just a little insane

I am a sweater. Not the argyle kind, the kind that has rings around her armpits. Ewwww. I sweat when I walk up stairs, I sweat when I run, I sweat when I'm sitting down in the summer doing nothing. I sweat. I also turn bright red. It's a very attractive trait, being so sweaty and bright red. I practically have to fend off suitors with my wedding ring.

My job makes me sweat profusely. My job is to call people and talk to them, or walk up to them and talk to them and then write newspaper stories. I was never going to be a newspaper reporter because I dislike talking to people I don't know. I feel claustrophobic in large crowds. I am not naturally outgoing. I am curious though, and I like making money by writing, so here I am, a newspaper reporter.

I have to give myself extreme pep talks about my awesomeness before I call someone or go to an event that I'm reporting on. And even if I believe my self-pep talks, my nervousness is still evident in the sweat that pours forth from my armpits.
Even if I'm just talking to you on the phone asking you about how you break bricks in a karate tournament, I'm sweating because I am so nervous.

When I taught school, this was a problem. I think I have tried every deodorant on the planet in a quest for less sweat. Now I'm probably going to end up with cancer because of all the aluminum in deodorant. And I'll still be sweaty.

Umm, I'm having trouble with this blog. My family blog already has a following (kind of), and I feel like this blog exists merely for entering writing contests because I'm so lame at thinking of things to write about. And when I think about things to write about, I think, "Man, I should just write that on my family blog, because then I'll get some feedback." So I'm not sure if this blog is going to keep existing. I have to think about it. (And probably sweat about it)

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


Resolutions 2009
Personal Goals:
1. Stop fearing that I am a subject of a "Dear Abby" letter. To do this I will have to call babysitters (including the ones related to me) at least two days in advance, always remember the diaper bag, and do nice things for my babysitters.
2. Run a marathon--the Ogden one
3. Have a magazine published article
4. Stop obsessing over blogging. (Only check for comments three times a week, instead of four times a day.)

Mommy Goals:
1. Be consistent in our new "ticket system"
2. Play with girls at least twice a day.
3. Stop piggy backing. (Trying to do too much at once, like pretending that going snowshoeing with girls is about having fun with them and then getting frustrated when I don't get a workout in.)
4. Take a deep breath and have some more patience
5. Don't be afraid to live inconveniently.

Spiritual Goals:
1. Read scriptures at least once a week (I'm setting the bar low here, I know. But goals are supposed to be achievable.)
2. Be a kinder person-- don't just say what I think.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The Finish Line

It's always been there, stretched out across the horizon, beckoning. And I've crossed it countless times. It's so final--The Finish Line.

I can still remember the first finish line I didn't cross. I was in jr. high and we were doing a 4x400 relay for practice. Each member of the relay team ran a 400. I was last, and I was 30 yards from the finish when I wavered and stepped off the track. I collapsed on the grass, and my teammates ran over to me.
"Why didn't you finish? You were doing so good!"
I was tired. And ashamed.
I always finished after that.

There was the time I got spacers in my braces. It hurt too badly to eat. So I didn't. At my high school district 400 meters that day, I ran as fast as I could, but within sight of the finish line, darkness. I still finished, my bare shoulder sliding painfully across the finish line.

Then there was the time at the state meet, on a blue track, that I crossed the finish line, my heart pumping so quickly in my legs as I looked up to see my time and place on the scoreboard. I had worn the wrong hip numbers and they credited another girl with my personal record and second place. But even though the 57.91 wasn't next to my name, it was my time and I laughed--triumphant and weary. I had never ran that fast before.

Through college the finish line always called to me. Through workouts, as we sprinted against each other, in my first college 4x400 where I ran with fear of disappointing three intimidating, powerful seniors, at the top of sidewalk hill by the gym. Always we would thrust our arms into the air as we crossed, not as a sign of triumph, but as a sign of finito, finished, done.

Another time at a track meet in Oregon--one of my last chances to qualify for the National meet as a senior--I watched the finish line waver and flip, as I slid, somersaulted, and went down in a pile-up of girls during the first lap of an 800 meter race. I watched from the ground, bloodied, as the last girl hurdled over and past me, carrying my dreams away around the track. And I stood up, and I caught that girl and a few others, but I didn't catch my dreams. Nationals eluded me that year.

My life was a finish line: getting good grades, turning in the best paper, graduating with honors, getting married--- a race to be won, one more finish line, triumphant or bruised and battered, I always crossed, and then there was always one more finish line, stretched out for me to cross.

After college, I still raced actual races, and always the finish line arched over my life.

Then my husband and I decided to have a baby. 9 months, and my finish line was ubiquitous and unreliable and fascinating, and difficult and never crossed. Mckenzie. When I held her for the first time, our hearts were both racing. And the world changed.

"I am your parent; you are my child. I am you quiet place; you are my wild. I am your calm face; you are my giggle. I am your wait; you are my wiggle. . . I am your finish line; you are my race. I am your praying hands; you are my saying grace."

Poem by Maryann K. Cusimano, "You Are My I Love You."

My bane in trying to become a writer is coming up with themes, or things to write about, so I give you another entry into a Scribbit contest.
Thanks for the prompt! I'm going to overcome this ideas-to-write-about" rut!