Wow. Somehow, it’s February, 2013. Somehow, I forgot to write. There is a reason, it’s just kind of a boring one. I spent most of 2012 deeply depressed which is something I’ve struggled and lived with for the better part of a decade, and also, something I don’t love to write about for a variety of reasons. The biggest being watching paint dry is more entertaining than reading about another person’s struggle with depression. (Evidence.)
I stayed away from here because I wasn’t baking, running, or accomplishing anything interesting. My life for most of the year was like a dial-tone.
Luckily, I think things are getting better. I went for a run this week and on the way home from the gym (yeah, I run inside in the winter. I hate being cold SO MUCH) I noticed I was happy. Yay for me. And yay for this blog, where I should be a little more active this year.
To celebrate, here’s a picture of me crossing an item off the ol’ 30-before-30 list:
This horse, Beau, was really grumpy and about 1,000 years old. But it still counts.
And just for your entertainment, here’s a holiday photo of my brother and I at our family Christmas party. Which was also the best night of the holiday break. And was also the night I taught my Grammy how to Tootsie-Roll.
This was a costume race – I hate costumes so I didn’t dress up. But, based on this photo, I’m going to say I went as a ghost.
I love my city and today was a good reminder of that. I ran the Run Like Hell Half Marathon and even though it was cold, wet, and my training was pretty half assed (though not as non-existent as it was in July for this race), I loved it.
This has not been a great year happiness wise. I fell into a post holiday funk in January and never really got out of it. Still in the middle of it to tell the truth. I should write about that, when I’m out the other side. But today – today I was happy. At the starting line surrounded by damp Ninja Turtles, Wonder Women (yes, plural, this was a VERY popular costume), and the Noid, I was just excited to run.
The race was pretty challenging. Like, four uphill miles through the Terwilliger Curves challenging. And, it was also beautiful. The leaves were changing, the bums under the Hawthorne Bridge were cheering (serious – they were my favorite cheering section and the course took me through their area twice), and even though I lost a toenail and bled through my shoe, it was fun. I’ll take it.
Signs of something very bad inside…
(PS: For anyone keeping track – and I doubt anyone is but me, but still – this race keeps me on track for the 30 Before 30 goal of running one race per month. In September I did a quick 8k with Race for the Cure (ahhh sorry super lefty lady friends – I needed a race and this was the only one that would work with my schedule. It was super boring and not worth a post.)
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about defining moments. Both within the small context of my life and the larger context of my country. The thought I keep coming back to is that they are always moments, not Moments — and they’re never what you think they might be.
When I was younger, I had this idea that one day I would wake up one day and discover meaning. That something would happen and define me.
I always assumed this would be a huge tragedy during which I would rise to the occasion (whatever that occasion might be), or, some other sort of demonstration of greatness. Ego? Yeah. Mine was out of control.
As I watched the final episodes of Paris Hilton BFF (my new favorite television show) it occured to me that I’m not the only one who believes that she is too special to be normal. In fact, I think this is something that every reasonably attractive, moderately intelligent/funny person in my generation believes.
It was amazing to me how clear it was that each of the girls on this show had spent their entire lives practicing talking to a camera in a confessional booth. I have to admit, I actually used to practice this in the mirror myself. I also used to devote a lot of time to giving a good angle to the imaginary cameras following me around. I still have ongoing conversations in my head where I am saying devastatingly brilliant things to Oprah, or Rosie, or whoever will give me a captive audience.
I blame three things: late 90s “cinema” that exaggerated and romanticized every dull teenage experience (thinking specifically of the movie “Can’t Hardly Wait” here), the Real World and Coldplay.
We expect our lives to be full of Grand Gestures, Great Loves and Defining Moments.
And I’ve learned that by internalizing these subtle messages, I’ve often really missed the point.