just begin from here

Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me.

We were standing in two separate lines, waiting to check in. Me: cocktail dress and manicured nails. Him: plaid flannel and faded work boots caked with mud, at odds against the gold swirls of the hotel lobby carpet.

I felt embarrassed for him.

We inched forward in our lines and I willed my phone to ring. For my luggage zippers to spontaneously yawn open, demanding my immediate attention. But our eyes were painfully parallel now and I couldn’t find another reason to look away.

The follicles along my hairline jolted up from the heat that rose at my neck.

“Did you paint those yourself or did you have them done somewhere?”

He was pointing at my fingernails, done up in black and white zebra stripes that suddenly seemed far too garish and entirely wrong in the space between our two lines.

We inched forward.

What is his angle? Where is he going? What does he want? Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me. Please don’t look at me.

“Oh, they were from a kit. Sally Hansen. I did them myself.” Stop talking, Melisa.

“They really look professional. Really nice.”

Oh god, here we go. 

We inched forward. I watched his faded work boots embed dusty tracks in the gold swirls of the hotel lobby carpet. Perfect crime scene evidence, should this scene happen to lean that way. Stop thinking, Melisa. 

“Do you use a clear top coat over that?”

Wait. What? 

“Um, actually yes. Normally I WOULD use a clear top coat so the manicure would last longer, but I was in such a rush to get to our event tonight, I didn’t have time.”

We inched forward.

I felt my tense shoulders start to ease down. The bead of sweat under my arm chilled my skin as it dried up.

“My daughter would love that pattern.”

STEP 1:
Marry your best friend from high school. This way, you’ll have a built-in security blanket to help calm your anxieties. Safety in numbers. Plus, he/she already knows everyone so you won’t feel bad leaving him/her to make small talk while you hide in the bathroom.

STEP 2:
Choose outfits that consist of bright colors, patterns or black. Even better if you can combine all three elements. These things help distract from what has been happening to you over the last 20 years. Remember, you’ve got two nights of this to get through, so choose wisely.

Best to save the black for Night Two after you’ve drank your own body weight in adult beverages on Night One and are feeling just a tad bloaty.

STEP 3:
Don’t forget your name tag! Admit to the world that you grew up with a ridiculous nickname.

STEP 4:
Take lots of fuzzy pictures that will totally surprise you the next day. Like little presents in your iPhone.

STEP 5:
The morning after Night One, make your way to the nearest plate of grease. Stat. Remind yourself that you are approximately 20 years too old for these shenanigans.

STEP 6:
After breakfast, tell your mom that you need to “catch up on some work deadlines” which really means that you are about to take a two hour nap in her living room.

If  you want to survive Night Two, this step is crucial, people. Do NOT be deterred even if your high school friends stop by and want to rehash Night One.

Utilize your tools from STEP 1 above. They continue to come in handy, whether you need to hide in the bathroom or “rest your eyes”.

STEP 7:
While you’re home, take a quiet moment to reflect on your youth. You are sure to find plenty of evidence to jog your memory as you walk through your mom’s house. For example, here is a lamp I made in 11th grade stained glass class.

STEP 8:
Give thanks to the universe for finally providing you with the common sense to embrace eyebrow waxing.

STEP 9:
Get into a zen frame of mind before heading out for Night Two AND spend some quality time with your parental unit. Win-win.

STEP 10:
Walk down memory lane with your spouse/high school BFF before entering the Night Two reunion venue. “Really? The last time we were here was 8th Grade Honor Roll Skate Party? Crazy!”

And last but not least, STEP 11:
Hug old friends, talk about the good ol’ days, share stories of babies/careers/wrinkles and be thankful … when they finally dim the lights!

TGIF, my friends!

I found this fun idea over at this great blog and thought, what the heck? Friday’s as good a day as any to give you all a break from my ramblings. Alright, there will be SOME ramblings, but they’ll be much smaller  and more digestible.

I don’t really know the rules, but that’s never stopped me. I think I’m supposed to show you five photos fotos that I’ve taken throughout the week. Hope that’s right cuz that’s what I’m gonna do!

Ready? Let’s do this:

Let’s face it, times are tough. I don’t know about you, but I appreciate the chance to save a few coins when I can. And so, I give you the ingenious LaundryBasketScooterArounder. I’m still flushing out the name. But anyway, it’s simple to assemble. Just find a small child, insert them into a laundry basket, slap a bathmat under the whole operation and voila: in-home CrossFit AND cheap entertainment.

You’re welcome.

We sorta have big news at our house. BIG. The 5-year-old has her first wiggly tooth and we are all abuzz with anticipation. There is daily wiggling. Lots of mirror-looking. Oh, it is big time. The best part, though? Olivia wants to use MY childhood tooth fairy pillow. I know, right? So sweet? And also, a little gross. Which is why I’m not showing you a picture of the backside, where the little tooth pocket lives. You know, on account of my childhood blood stains.

See that guy over there? I’m kinda crazy about him. And not just because he installed these super rad patio blinds so it’s nice and comfy to sit out on the deck during our two warm days of the year. I’m also crazy about him for the margarita he made me when he was finished. I am teasing! Mostly.

You know what’s great about having a horrible memory? It’s like Christmas in July! I was belly achin’ on this post about how I just can’t figure out what to wear running, and I want to try compression socks, etc etc and then, guess what? A package came with a running skirt in it! I TOTALLY forgot that the awesome guy shown above ordered it for me. Thanks, love.

So, the 5-year-old had Art Camp this week. I thought it was going to be a lot of glitter and pipe cleaners, but check it out! They were doing real-live artwork! I confess, I have never been a fan of Jackson Pollock-style splatter painting. UNTIL NOW, hello!  Can you believe this kid? I think I just found our retirement ticket! Biased much? Nope. Not one bit.

What have you got going this weekend? I’d love to hear from you!

The other day I walked (ran – ha) you through my gear list for running.

BUT, I left out the two biggest must-haves:

YOUR BODY.

and

YOUR MIND.

Duh, right? Kinda hard to run without either of these. Here’s the deal, though. It isn’t always as easy as just waking up in the morning and being ready to GO the moment your feet hit the ground.

Yes, yes, NIKE. I do realize what I should JUST be doing.

The fact is, I’ve been struggling pretty hard with motivation this week.

Alright, fine.

We both know I’m a recovering procrastinator, too. I might have mentioned it a time or ten, and it may or may not be part of my actual blog name. I don’t know, I can’t be sure.

What I do know is that motivation is something else entirely. The irony is not lost on me that while I am sitting here with an able, healthy body complaining my way out of doing my runs, I have plenty of friends who only wish they could toss their injuries and ailments aside and get out for some pavement-pounding.

And those friends have every right to call a WTF? on me.

I want to be the motivated runner who can get up every morning at 5am and push through regardless of how little sleep they had the night before. Or that they have outside forces like stress, deadlines, naps, etc. that try to wedge themselves in between them and their goal.

But I am not that runner.

I am the runner who struggles.

every. single. day. When I go to bed at night, I am the most ideal of idealists. Tomorrow is going to be THE DAY that I start over. That I become that runner. That I eat better. Drink more water. Stretch. Cross EVERYTHING off my to-do list.

But we both know what happens in the morning.

The good news is that while my mind often plays tricks on me, thwarting my best laid plans with demotivating speeches and procrastinations, I also still have some say in the matter.

I am still running this ship, and I’m putting it back on course.

Wow, um. This wasn’t really the funny post that it started out to be in my head. Speaking of turning the ship around, let’s go ahead and end this on a fun note, shall we?

The BODY part of the gear must-haves deserves a little shout-out too. It’s no secret that I’m a speed-challenged runner and that ending a run on the vertical is what I call a “win” but I have learned a few tricks along the way to make my runs physically more bearable.

Like this one:

I tried Cross Country (XC) in high school. My brother was the XC Captain and an awesome runner, so I figured it must run in the genes (ha ha, not true). Regardless, I did it anyway. My XC career is mostly a blur and not because I was lightening fast, but I do remember a valuable tip that the coach taught us:

When you’re running, especially long distances, it’s only natural to get fatigued. And when you get fatigued, you start to change your body position – scrunching up your shoulders, hunching your back – making yourself more and more tired.

What can you do? Well, here’s what I do (thanks, Coach Sheedy!):

Pretend you are holding a potato chip in each hand. Now, hold each chip so gingerly between your thumbs and forefingers, making sure not to break the chip.

See? When you do this, you can’t clench your fists, which makes it harder to scrunch your shoulders, which keeps your back in a more natural, straightened position, and so on. You’re welcome.

On today’s to-do list? Give myself an air high-five. Why? Because we all deserve one, no matter what.

What’s your favorite type of potato chip? I’d love to hear from you!

She looked like a character from Rocky and Bullwinkle with her tiny gray goggles.

I called her my squirrel.

Let’s be honest. No one – myself included – wants to hear any of the special details reserved only for birthing stories. All you need to know is that when Olivia entered this world, she was strong, healthy, beautiful,

and seven pounds of something I wanted to pick up and throw out the nearest window.

What?

Wrong reaction? Well, none of it felt right. I barely knew this tiny, wrinkled stranger and I was supposed to let her do WHAT with my boobs?

I needed a plan. Quick-like. My survival was to make one small decision at a time.

A) pull the nearest fire alarm. risky.
B) push this thing back in. painful.
C) learn to feed it. keep it alive. it’s the right thing to do.

I was in doubt. When in doubt, choose C.

Somehow we got through the first night, oh miracle of miracles. These things sleep a lot, who knew?

But then, she turned yellow.

It happened so fast that the doctors opted to treat her aggressively. It shouldn’t happen so fast. That’s what I think they kept telling me.

With little warning, our shoebox room was overtaken by a behemoth of a box.

A clear, plastic “bili box.” It’s a type of light therapy for babies with jaundice, but all I could see was the way it swallowed my squirrel whole.

She was splayed out like a frog in science class. Nothing to protect her but a tiny diaper

and her gray goggles.

There was a small, round hole at the side of the box that we could reach through to touch her, but we couldn’t take her out. She was sequestered to a baby tanning bed which would have been the stuff of a great joke if the joke hadn’t been on her.

How do you console a brand new life that is flailing around, blindly grasping and kicking for the soothing comfort of a swaddle?

That second night was unbearable. The screaming. Oh, the screaming. Of strong, healthy, beautiful lungs.

I needed a plan. Quick-like.

I eased my tired self out of bed and unfolded the metal chair from behind our door.

Lowering myself down, I tested the strength of my legs, the courage of my mind, and the pain of new wounds.

I scooted myself and that metal folding chair as close to her box as I could and let the warmth of the healing lights take me for just

a moment.

With the care of someone with no clue what to do next, I twisted my arm through that small, round hole at the side of the box and placed my pinky finger into her tiny, desperate mouth.

I was shouting so loudly inside I couldn’t tell if the words were coming from my own mouth or my head

I AM A MOTHER RIGHT NOW!

And I hoped my heart wouldn’t wake the baby.