17 years ago, almost immediately after I turned 21, I wrote my weekly column in the University of Alabama's school paper wondering what all the fuss was about.
Well, it wasn't immediately after I turned 21, because that would have meant being at the Crimson White office at midnight. Which I usually was, actually. But not generally when it was my birthday, and also a Saturday. So I actually wrote the column the first of next week.
But this is not my central point.
The point is, and was, that my birthday was anticlimactic because I should have turned 21 nine months sooner. Instead of my birthday in November, we should have celebrated my Conception Day nine months prior, because that's, at least scientifically, when life begins. As another birthday creeps ever closer, I'm again thinking of the benefits of this approach.
See for yourself:
----------------------------------------------------------------
After minutes of extensive scientific research, I have determined life begins at conception. Or not, depending on whom you ask.
I'm using this space to advocate for either point of view, but it's without serious question that the idea of celebrating your Conception Day is a winner all around.
Currently, the majority of humans celebrate birthdays, or at least have parties where they pretend to have a good time. But at the potential expense of your upcoming party, this may not be the most accurate way of keeping track of how old we are.
If our lives really do begin when our parents sperm cells and egg cells get together (sorry for putting that mental image in your head), then I propose we begin celebrating our conception days instead of, or at least in addition to, our birthdays.
The advantages of the Conception Day idea are numerous. We'd get presents earlier, and possibly twice a year if we celebrated both occasions. College students would turn 21 nine months earlier, ensuring that they could, um, legally rent cars sooner to avoid missing class in case of needed automotive maintenance. That's not all.
We could retire 9 months sooner, collect social security nine months earlier, and we'd more quickly be eligible for Senior Day discounts at the grocery store. We'd be statistically more likely to still be here for our 100th Conception Day celebration, than for our actual birthday.
And going back to that Senior Day thing, those savings would totally add up over nine months.
The celebration would be better too. Current birthdays are just pretty good. Currently, you get candles, cake, and even presents from your 80-year old grandparents. They suck (the presents, that is), but it's the thought that counts of the effort people go to celebrate your entry into the world. So if we do all that just to honor the day you merely arrived, imagine would much more fun could go into a celebration of your springing into life as an embryo.
For example, instead of awkward old baby pictures popping up on the day of your celebration, you could post old ultrasounds, where everyone would coo about how much you looked like a peanut. Some people get a kiss on their birthdays. Imagine what you'd be in for if you were celebrating Conception Day!
Actually, the biggest problem with the Conception Day idea is probably along these lines. Soon people would start trying to be cute and buying each other Hallmark conception-related items to celebrate, and there would be office Conception Day parties for everyone's big day, and this would get super awkward fast. So we'd have to all start with the understanding that a cake is the only office-appropriate form of celebrating is a simple cake. We don't give diapers to people for their birthdays, so no one should get Viagra on Conception Day.
Can we all just agree to this?
With this rule of Conception Day etiquette out of the way, we can go back to the benefits of Conception Day. Although to realize these benefits, one would have to of course figure out the exact date of one's conception.
This would be the tricky part. And in-depth interview with your parents would be required.
Of course, you could just be lazy and subtract 9 months from your birthday, but this could easily be wrong. You might have been early. Or late. Or born in a leap year. And since the whole point of Conception Day is to accurately count the true time of your existence as a life form, it would be essential to get this right.
So you will need to have your parents recount all the details of their, um, experiences roughly nine months prior to your birth. You will need to know dates, places, and times, just to make sure that a date that started on Friday night didn't end up resulting in you on Saturday morning.
While this may sound uncomfortable, you can take comfort in the idea that if your parents were as old as mine when I was conceived, there may not be too many viable choices on the date. As an added bonus, like me, you might perform this exercise and realize to your considerable surprise that you were born almost exactly nine months after your parents anniversary.
But if your parents were a little younger and more energetic, it may be a little harder to figure out the exact date. So you will have to have them map out in graphic form (by which I mean Microsoft Excel, not the other kind of graphic form) all the possible occasions that could have spawned your existence. Make a bar graph of the conceivable dates (see what I did there?) and their frequency, then average out the distance of these dates from the median by dividing this date by the total number of attempts at forming you into being. That is your Conception Day.
After you determine this momentous day, the first people who owe you gifts are your parents, if only because you will now never be able to look at them in the same light again. Undoubtedly, the first gift you will ask for is for a way to erase the memory of your Conception Day interview.
But this is a small price to pay for the privilege of suddenly being nine months older.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
What Happens When You Ask Too Many Hard Questions In Church
(A video play I wrote, to be aired on Sunday at my church--a place that, unlike many others, welcomes and thoughtfully engages with questions like Joe's).
Characters:
Joe: Curious,
intelligent newish Christian who doesn’t mean any harm but hasn’t yet had
church culture instilled in him.
Mary: Type A
brownnoser desperately trying to curry favor of religious leaders, but without
any depth to her beliefs. Peter's wife.
Peter: Lifelong
churchgoer who fancies himself an intellectual and would like to be a church
leader one day. Probably a white business man.
Steven: Christian without strong or original ideas. Just wants
to have his beliefs validated and try not to stir the pot.
Emily: Lifelong churchgoer whose never asked too
many questions or caused problems, but has a few creeping doubts.
Mr. Lawson: White
male who wears sweater vests and probably bears resemblance to Rick Santorum. Formal but pleasant to the group members who buy into his thought process,
but pious and condescending to “troublemakers,” and would prefer to get through
the lesson plan rather than debate anything thoroughly. Can be cold to group
and may seem disappointed, but never shows much emotion with group as he views
it as weakness).
------------
(Group in Progress, everyone has bibles open. A male leader
stands.)
Mr. Lawson: Ok, who wants to read Proverbs Chapter 3, verse 7?
Mary: (Overanxious) I’ll do it!
Mr. Lawson: Proceed.
Mary: “Be not wise in
your own eyes: fear the Lord and depart from evil.
Mr. Lawson: Ok, so who are we supposed to fear?
Steven: The Lord!
Mr. Lawson: Good. And as to evil, what
should we do?
Emily: Um, depart from it?
Mr. Lawson: Great. And why do you
think God wants us to depart from evil?
Mary: Because God is good!
Mr. Lawson: That’s exactly right. Now
who can be the first to find and read Mathew 6:19? (a fervent Bible-drill race
ensues)
Peter: (Stands) I got it! “Store not
for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and rust destroy and thieves
steal. But store up treasure in heaven where moths and rust do not destroy and
there are no thieves.
Mr. Lawson: So where should we store
our treasure?
Mary: Heaven!
Mr. Lawson: And why is that?
Steven: Because things on earth pass
away, but our treasures last forever in Heaven.
Peter: I’m living my life to do all
the right things and store up as much treasure in Heaven as possible! Like a
pirate for the Lord!
Mr. Lawson: That’s a great way of
putting it! I’m so proud of all of you! You’re demonstrating such great depth
in your faith today with these correct answers.
Steven: Well, that’s what I love about
this group. We can talk about our faith and discuss these hard questions. And
everyone accepts us as we are.
(A door opens. Joe walks in late.
Everyone stares. ) Joe: Sorry I’m late…
Mr. Lawson: (interrupting) Welcome,
Joe. I know you work on the other side of town, but please keep in mind that we
start at 6:30. I know you’re new to the group, but please try to keep in mind
how we do things here. We have a lot of material to cover.
Joe: Sorry. One of my co-workers
left their headlights on and I happened to have jumper cables on me…
Mr. Lawson: Oh, that’s ok. It’s time
that we move on to our question and answer session irregardless. Now remember everyone, now
is the time that you can ask any Bible question you have on your mind. But to get the
conversation started, I’ll ask an easy one we can discuss: why do bad things
happen to good people?
Peter: That’s easy. Free will. God
doesn’t prevent us from being hurt by other people’s sin. (everyone nods) (VIDEO GRAPHIC ON SCREEN:
REPEATING AN ANSWER YOU HEARD IN SUNDAY SCHOOL: 25 HEAVENLY TREASURE POINTS.)
Mr. Lawson: That’s exactly right…
Joe: But wait, what about things like earthquakes
and tornados? Why did God put us in a
world that seems to have all these natural booby traps? (Asking a Follow-Up Question IN CHURCH: 15
DEMERITS.)
(Reaction: stunned silence. Angry
stare from Mary and Peter. Dumbfounded look from Steven, who looks to leader to come to the
rescue. Confused and slightly annoyed look from Emily)
Mary: (self-satisfied) Well, I think
it’s like Jesus said, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” (Steven nods
heartily). (SUPPORTING AN ARGUMENT WITH A PLATITUDE: 5 POINTS.)
Joe: But some people do die in
natural disasters. And was that Jesus or Kelly Clarkson?
(Reactions slightly more fervent version
of last reactions).
Steven: Well, we all know God works in
mysterious ways. (everyone but Joe nods) (SUPPORTING AN ARGUMENT WITH A RELIGIOUS PLATITUDE: 15 POINTS).
Mr. Lawson: I think that’s the kind of
thing we’ll just have to ask God when we get to Heaven. (DEFLECTING HARD
QUESTIONS: 30 POINTS).
Emily: I have a friend who says that she
can’t be a believer because science has disproven the idea that the earth was
created in six days a few thousand years ago. What should I say to her?
Peter: This relates back to that
first passage we read about how we shouldn’t be wise in our own eyes.
(REFERENCING A BIBLE VERSE THAT DOESN’T ANSWER THE QUESTION: 50 POINTS)
Mary: Yeah, science is science, but
God is God. (Amens all around, except from Joe, and Emily, who seems slightly
unsatisfied).
Steven: Well, I have a question for
the group. I have a co-worker who’s not a Christian who says that Noah couldn’t
have possibly had a boat big enough to fit two of all the animals of the whole
world, and that it could have never rained enough to cover Mt. Everest. How do I convince him that he’s wrong?
Mary: You should tell him to read the
Bible. (ANSWERING QUESTION WITH: “THE
BIBLE”: 100 POINTS).
Joe: But if he doesn’t believe the
Bible is true, how will reading it convince him? (POINTING OUT CIRCULAR REASONG
IN CHURCH SETTING: 200 DEMERITS).
Mary: But maybe if he reads it
himself, a light will come on for him. It’s like the Bible says: "God helps
those who help themselves."
Steven: We just have to pray for him!
(folds hands and mouths a silent prayer).
Peter: People don’t understand that
the Bible is what our whole faith is based on. If you start questioning asking
questions, then your whole faith might just start to unravel.
Joe: But does the Bible even say that? And how do we really know we
can trust the Bible anyway?
(Reaction Shock: Mary almost hyperventilates.
Peter clenches fists and steams. Steven spit takes. Then panics and looks around for
someone to answer. Emily’s annoyance slowly turns to agitated thoughtfulness)
Emily: I don’t know about you Joe,
but I’ve always believed the Bible is true because my parents taught me that
from the very beginning, and it’s just been part of who I am. And Pastor Thomas
taught that too. Who am I to question?
Mary: Well, I believe it’s true.
Peter: Here’s what you’re missing,
Joe. We can rest assured that the Bible is the word of God, because it says that
it is.
Mr. Lawson: That’s exactly right. It
says right in 2nd Timothy 3:16, that all Scripture is God’s word. So
if you ever have doubts, you can just read that verse and believe it and know you’ll
be counted among the righteous. (REFERRING TO THE BIBLE AS PROOF OF THE BIBLE: POINTS JACKPOT!!!!!).
Joe: But what about all the books
that came after 2nd Timothy? And doesn’t every religion claim that
it’s right? If we were all born in India, wouldn’t we all be attending a Hindu
Bible study right now?
(Reactions: Mary: Holding chest,
breathing deeply. Peter: Anger rising, grinding teeth. Steven: Panic. Looking for someone
to answer. Emily: Fascinated.
Peter: No, because there IS no Hindu
Bible. And our Bible is the word of God. Jesus said so.
Mr. Lawson: Peter hit the nail on the
head. No other religion claims Jesus, and he said we should believe the Bible.
(satisfied nods from all but Joe). And if he said it, we can believe it.
Joe: But wasn’t the New Testament
written years after he ascended to Heaven? How could he have validated it before
it was written? So who decided that all these books written after Jesus left us
should be so important?
(Reactions: Mary breathes into paper
bag. Peter breaks pencil while staring angrily at Joe. Steven stares at Mr. Lawson,
motions for him to give an answer because he can’t think of anything. Emily
Perplexed.)
Emily: (suddenly) And how do we know
that the people quoting Jesus all that time later remembered everything right?
Mr. Lawson: Now Joe, we just have to
have faith that God guided the process. And when you’re stronger in your faith
in Jesus, he’ll removed all these doubts. And Emily, don’t let Satan put doubts
in your heart. (Mary, Peter and Steven satisfied with this answer, Emily still pondering.)
Joe: But how do we know Jesus really
was God and not just a great prophet?
(Reactions: Mary passes out. Peter
stands up and screams. Steven falls on knees and starts praying. Emily is perplexed,
broken, buries head in hands.)
Mr. Lawson: (Authoritatively) All right, everyone
calm down. Return to order. We know we can trust in Jesus because the Bible
says so. Joe, some of these questions are better left unasked right now. These
are the type of discussions that I like to have with people only after new
Christians become stronger in their faith.
Joe: But how do I become stronger
in my faith without thinking through these kinds of questions?
(Pause.)
Mr. Lawson: That’s something I
encourage you to pray about and maybe we can discuss next week, because our
time is up for now. Remember to have your five
Bibles verses ready to recite to complete this semester’s discipleship
training. Also, please everyone remember that group starts at 6:30, so please
be respectful of that if you are going to come. I’ll see everyone next week.
(Everyone disperses)
Emily: (Catches Joe, looking
discouraged, as he leaves.) You know, I’ve always wondered some of those things
too. Everyone else around here seems so sure they have it all figured out that,
it’s hard to even know who it’s even safe to ask.
Joe: (Gives a knowingly glance as they walk off together.)
Monday, August 31, 2015
Random Thoughts: Is the Trump Campaign a Practical Joke?
Why are there toll booths on freeways?
I sprained my neck a month ago, and then sprained my back
two weeks ago. God help me If the trend continues moving South.
Why do flight attendants come by to pick up trash roughly 30
seconds after serving your beverage, and then not again for an hour?
Life lesson number 243: when looking for a gas stop on the
interstate, pick an exit with signs advertising either three or four
options. Any less and you’re likely to
re-live a scene from Deliverance. Any more,
and you’re in for a traffic nightmare.
Why can be people be rejuvenated but never just juvenated?
Why do people wait in lines at airports to board? Assuming
you’re not fighting for a seat on Southwest, what’s the benefit of being the
first to sit in an uncomfortable seat the confines of which you’ll soon be
itching to escape?
Having lived in California for almost a year now, I just
don’t get the fuss about In-and-Out Burger. I’ll take Jack-in-the-Box, any day.
Why do I get the feeling that some day the entire Donald
Trump campaign will be revealed as a giant hidden camera show?
Why do “jeans” and “shorts” end in an “s” based on having two
sleeves, but “shirt” does not?
Seriously, I abhor every single thing about Donald Trump, an attention-seeking narcissist with no moral compass or coherent platform. So why do I keep finding myself rooting for his poll numbers to keep going higher?
A bad analogy is like a bad owl. Oh wait, I forgot where I
was going with that.
Why does “delighted” not mean the opposite of “lighted?”
People often ask me how the Bay Area culture is different
from Nashville. But having lived in the West, Midwest, South and Northeast, I’ve
found that people who live in urban areas are pretty much the same all over.
The bigger cultural differences are between people who live in the city and those
who live in the country. Having grown up somewhere in between, like Reese
Witherspoon in Sweet Home Alabama, I’ve enjoyed getting to experience the best
parts of both.
I’d also be willing to listen to an argument that St. Louis
goes in its own separate, third category.
The last half of August is to summer what those last few
guests who just won’t leave are to your party: in each case, it was fun, but the moment is over and it’s
time to move on.
Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.
Every time I see a
“drug free zone” sign, I have the same reaction as when someone says, “I’m not
racist, but.” In either case, if it was actually true, you wouldn’t need to say
it.
Happy Labor Day, everyone. Enjoy your last bit of summer. I
hope you come back from the break feeling juvenated.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Hit and Run
As I reached to change the channel on my car radio, I suddenly
heard a noise of another sort.
BOOOOOMMMM!
I thought it was an earthquake. I screamed. My car swerved into both adjacent
lanes.
But soon I realized my car was the only one shaking, swerving. The closeness of a car in my rearview mirror
revealed I’d somehow been rear-ended on the freeway, while driving the speed
limit.
I steadied my car, thankful to be safe, while my
fight-or-flight response pondered the appropriate move. I said a quick prayer of there we no cars
immediately beside me, and began to pull over to the shoulder to assess the
damage. The car that had hit me
initially slowed down as well, and I began to think of what I was going to say
to the jerk when we exchanged insurance information.
“Excuse me, dear sir. That pedal beside the accelerator is
known as a ‘break.’ You see, it has a
use in addition to keeping the accelerator company. You can push on it if you would like your car
to slow down, or even stop altogether. For instance, you can employ it to avoid
running into the moving vehicle in front of you.
“Please be a dear and put this knowledge to use in your
future endeavors.”
That’s basically what I was going to say. Some version of
that, at least.
But I never got the chance.
As I slowed down, the car whipped in front of me and took
off.
I sped up to catch it, but it whipped in and out of traffic
with a recklessness I feared to match. I
got a quick view of the license plate and tried to set it to memory.
As I gave up on catching up to the car, I began to consider
what had happened:
What kind of person leaves the scene of accident like this?
How can anyone think this is ok? How can they live with themselves after doing
something like this? I’m going to pull over, report this to the police and make
sure they get …. Oh, crap.
What was that plate number again? It started with 5nxa…
I can’t believe I
just forgot the number. Some completely
horrible person just did untold damage to the back of my car, and neck, and
whoever it was is about to get away with it completely unscathed. This can’t be happening.
Wait, way up ahead, I see the car getting off the freeway,
apparently in hopes of leaving the trail cold and ditching me for good. Maybe
this gives me a chance…
I speed up and pull off as well. The freeway gods smile upon
me. The car is stopped at a traffic light.
The driver, at long last, has figured out the vehicle’s
braking feature.
There’s a line of cars, so I can’t see the driver clearly,
but I’ve now got his license plate. I repeat it aloud continuously, learning
from my prior mistake. The driver sees me and again starts weaving through
traffic. I follow for a while, but I’m having trouble keeping up and I’m not
sure what else I can accomplish anyway.
I pull over and call the police. After a long wait a highway
patrol office arrives. He seems more concerned about examining my insurance
card, registration and driver’s license than he does about the car that just
battered me. He quickly hands me a card
and leaves. When I told him I didn’t need an ambulance, I got the sense that he
thought I was wasting his time. He said
he would go to the address to which the car was registered, and he would follow
up.
I never heard from him again. When I calmed down enough to
look at the card he gave me, I noticed that it didn’t have his contact
information, just instructions on how to order the police report. I hope the officer
was this hard on the criminal too.
Three things struck me at that moment as indisputably true:
(1) resolving this isn’t going to be as easy as it seems like it ought to be;
(2) Between my reckless, selfish assailant, and the indifferent police officer,
people kind of suck sometimes; and (3) when I tell my parents in Alabama about
this incident, they’re going to blame it on illegal immigrants.
I was right on all counts.
I’m making progress on the first point. The police report should be arriving soon,
and I’m hoping it will included the name and address of the vehicle that I can
forward to my insurance company. I’m
assuming my uninsured motorist coverage will have to swoop in and save the day
regardless, but it’s worth a shot. The car’s been fixed, and after two weeks of
a sprained neck, physical therapy has me on the mend and trending upward.
As for the other driver, I don’t know if he escaped whatever
he was running from. Maybe he was
driving on a suspended license or was drunk and didn’t want to cops to find
out. Maybe he knew there was already a warrant out for his arrest, or that
there would soon be if he were questioned, or maybe he was already fleeing for
some other criminal act, which was why he rammed me in the first place. I hope he gets what’s coming to him, somehow.
While I don’t know what the ultimate fate of the other driver
will be, it at least appears he will not get away completely unscathed. California
has a law that all parties must promptly report any serious accident, and
provide insurance information, driver’s license numbers and license plate
information to the DMV. If one party
reports and accident and the other doesn’t, the non-reporting party can’t renew
their license plates until they provide the information.
So unless Mr.
California 5NXA833 decides to
cooperate, his reign of terror on the road won’t last too much longer.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Growing Old: A Life Lesson from the Community Finale (Contains Spoilers)
This emotional climax of the series finale of my favorite show came last week, and went something like this:
Jeff: I don't want to be fine. I want to be 25 and heading out into the world. I want to be able to go sleep on the beach at night... I want to be able to stay up all night by accident. I want to be able to get out of bed in a white t-shirt and not look like I forgot to get dressed.
Annie: Well, I want to be able to live in the same home for more than a year. I want to order wine without feeling nervous, and have a resume full of crazy mistakes instead of crazy lies. I want stories, and wisdom--perspective. I want to have so much behind me, I'm not a slave to what's in front of me. ... There's pressures in front of me that you just don't have to live under--if you just accept that you're older and let the kid stuff go.
Here, as usual, Annie had a point.
Growing old, in some ways, isn't so bad.
Life is filled with so much pressure when you are young: Where to go college, and what to major in, and then, what about grad school? Who should you marry? What job should you have, and in what city should you start your life?
And once you do, it's a race to curry favor with the people who hold the power in your job or city, in hopes they give you a place at the table. Also, you might need to buy a table.
The most important decisions of life are often made in a span of just a few years, so every day feel magnified, marked with exaggerated importance, like the entire trajectory of your life might depend on what you choose to order for dinner Saturday night.
I don't miss that.
I don't miss feeling like everyone around me is constantly engaged in a never-ending measuring contest of life accomplishments. I'm glad I don't have to drag myself out to a loud party or to a networking happy hour, for fear that my future wife might happen to be there or that otherwise the partners at my firm won't like me. I am thankful to know enough about what I like and don't like so that I can usually avoid uncomfortable situations these days.
The foundations of my life no longer shake with the consequences of my decisions, and it's a refreshing change. Last weekend, my biggest choice was whether to go to the new movie with the Rock, or stay home and watch baseball. (I watched baseball, which might not have been the right call, but the consequences aren't exactly dire.)
Getting older is good that way. But Jeff was on to something nonetheless.
Those moments when life suddenly, unexpectedly feels like pure joy don't happen as often once the routine of professional life begins, even for those of us enough lucky to like our jobs. If work were always filled with such things, they wouldn't have to pay us.
It's easy to feel good when surrounded by close friends and life obligations haven't piled up to prevent good times. Once your friends marry, have kids and scatter across the country, those times don't happen as often. You can constantly seek out a new generation of younger friends to keep living it up, but the streams of life invariably flow the same direction, forcing the process to repeat. And one of the hidden secrets of growing up is that making new friends gets harder as you age, at least until you hit the retirement home party and shuffleboard circuit.
So I can relate when Jeff wishes he had more choices about his life circumstances and the freedom to do more stupid things without looking foolish. Or at least less foolish. And I can relate to Annie wishing she knew more about the world and had already had the chance to make enough mistakes to figure out who she was, because I used to be there too.
But I also like how the story ends (at least until the movie), with 24-year old Annie moving away to grow up, while heartsick 41-year-old Jeff takes Annie's advice and stays to find substance in the life he apparently decides he is finally ready to settle into.
Community was a show about a group of strangers who enroll at a community college to begin redeeming their previously wasted lives. Both the group's efforts at personal growth and the episodes themselves are notoriously hit-or-miss, but the finale absolutely nailed the final message:
The worst parts about growing old are counterbalanced by the opportunity to have lived long enough to figure out your passions and priorities, and by knowing these things well enough to at least have an idea how you can use them to go after your dreams effectively.
Whether it's family, a career path, or changing the world, you get to go to bed each night knowing that your day's efforts brought that vision at least a little bit closer. Or if not, at least you know where to start again the next day, when things might go more smoothly.
Life's possibilities are fewer in one sense, but its meaning is greater in another. In a roundabout way, that means life's possibilities are bigger after all, because the end goal, although harder to realize, is so much more impactful than the things we chase earlier in life.
Community ends with Jeff meeting his remaining friends, toasting the end of the school year, and celebrating having a safe place to blow off steam about their failures and petty annoyances and to recharge for whatever possibilities come next.
It's a nice ending, no matter what your age.
Jeff: I don't want to be fine. I want to be 25 and heading out into the world. I want to be able to go sleep on the beach at night... I want to be able to stay up all night by accident. I want to be able to get out of bed in a white t-shirt and not look like I forgot to get dressed.
Annie: Well, I want to be able to live in the same home for more than a year. I want to order wine without feeling nervous, and have a resume full of crazy mistakes instead of crazy lies. I want stories, and wisdom--perspective. I want to have so much behind me, I'm not a slave to what's in front of me. ... There's pressures in front of me that you just don't have to live under--if you just accept that you're older and let the kid stuff go.
Here, as usual, Annie had a point.
Growing old, in some ways, isn't so bad.
Life is filled with so much pressure when you are young: Where to go college, and what to major in, and then, what about grad school? Who should you marry? What job should you have, and in what city should you start your life?
And once you do, it's a race to curry favor with the people who hold the power in your job or city, in hopes they give you a place at the table. Also, you might need to buy a table.
The most important decisions of life are often made in a span of just a few years, so every day feel magnified, marked with exaggerated importance, like the entire trajectory of your life might depend on what you choose to order for dinner Saturday night.
I don't miss that.
I don't miss feeling like everyone around me is constantly engaged in a never-ending measuring contest of life accomplishments. I'm glad I don't have to drag myself out to a loud party or to a networking happy hour, for fear that my future wife might happen to be there or that otherwise the partners at my firm won't like me. I am thankful to know enough about what I like and don't like so that I can usually avoid uncomfortable situations these days.
The foundations of my life no longer shake with the consequences of my decisions, and it's a refreshing change. Last weekend, my biggest choice was whether to go to the new movie with the Rock, or stay home and watch baseball. (I watched baseball, which might not have been the right call, but the consequences aren't exactly dire.)
Getting older is good that way. But Jeff was on to something nonetheless.
Those moments when life suddenly, unexpectedly feels like pure joy don't happen as often once the routine of professional life begins, even for those of us enough lucky to like our jobs. If work were always filled with such things, they wouldn't have to pay us.
It's easy to feel good when surrounded by close friends and life obligations haven't piled up to prevent good times. Once your friends marry, have kids and scatter across the country, those times don't happen as often. You can constantly seek out a new generation of younger friends to keep living it up, but the streams of life invariably flow the same direction, forcing the process to repeat. And one of the hidden secrets of growing up is that making new friends gets harder as you age, at least until you hit the retirement home party and shuffleboard circuit.
So I can relate when Jeff wishes he had more choices about his life circumstances and the freedom to do more stupid things without looking foolish. Or at least less foolish. And I can relate to Annie wishing she knew more about the world and had already had the chance to make enough mistakes to figure out who she was, because I used to be there too.
But I also like how the story ends (at least until the movie), with 24-year old Annie moving away to grow up, while heartsick 41-year-old Jeff takes Annie's advice and stays to find substance in the life he apparently decides he is finally ready to settle into.
Community was a show about a group of strangers who enroll at a community college to begin redeeming their previously wasted lives. Both the group's efforts at personal growth and the episodes themselves are notoriously hit-or-miss, but the finale absolutely nailed the final message:
The worst parts about growing old are counterbalanced by the opportunity to have lived long enough to figure out your passions and priorities, and by knowing these things well enough to at least have an idea how you can use them to go after your dreams effectively.
Whether it's family, a career path, or changing the world, you get to go to bed each night knowing that your day's efforts brought that vision at least a little bit closer. Or if not, at least you know where to start again the next day, when things might go more smoothly.
Life's possibilities are fewer in one sense, but its meaning is greater in another. In a roundabout way, that means life's possibilities are bigger after all, because the end goal, although harder to realize, is so much more impactful than the things we chase earlier in life.
Community ends with Jeff meeting his remaining friends, toasting the end of the school year, and celebrating having a safe place to blow off steam about their failures and petty annoyances and to recharge for whatever possibilities come next.
It's a nice ending, no matter what your age.
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
What It's Like to Have a Colonoscopy (again)
I can't believe it's been three years already.
It seems like just yesterday that awoke in confused fog from my last colonoscopy and, in my incoherent haze, vowed to get a dragon tattoo on my face. Now it's three years later, my face is a blank slate, and so is my colon. In case you ever face a colonoscopy (or had one and have blocked out the details) here's what it looks like:
2 p.m. (the day before):
I'm not allowed to eat today, and am developing a hunger migraine and a heaping portion of dread and self-pity. As my concentration starts to fade and I count down the minutes until I can go home, I think about the people in olden times who fasted to get God's attention. I consider them all nuts. Ooohhh, nuts would be good right now.
I'm not among those who believe that God hands out extra favors for ceremonial self-sacrifice, but it hits me that I ought to say a few extra prayers today just in case.
3:30
I'm home from work early and run to the store for last minute essentials before the um, fun starts. I take my prescribed anti-nausea pill and buckle up, loosely, because I will need to unbuckle frequently. I call my mom, who advises me to buy adult diapers. I refuse. I might be blogging about my colon cleanse, but I still have a little bit of pride. A few minutes later, I say good bye.
"Don't forget the diapers," she says.
4 p.m.
A gallon jug of chalky, vaguely lemon flavored yellow mix sits on the counter, which represents the worst part of the colonoscopy experience: You have to empty your bowels out in advance so the camera can take pictures of your insides. This is how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo this year. I pick a festive green plastic glass. The first glass of the stuff actually doesn't taste so bad.
4:35
The third glass isn't good, but it's not the taste itself that bothers me. Sitting down and drinking an entire gallon of anything would be miserable.
5:00
The long night begins.
5:15
The worst part of the experience isn't going to the bathroom constantly. It's that you literally get 30 seconds warning, at most, for each trip. I change to sweatpants. It's still better than diapers.
6:00
I'm feeling drained. Literally. And this drink mix tastes like liquid limestone, and getting worse as I get to the, err, bottom of the container. "The mix is more palatable," the label says, "if consumed very cold." How comforting.
7:00
I feel empty inside. Which is a good thing.
8:00
Another awful part of a colonoscopy nobody adequately warns you about: even after your system is empty, the cleansing liquid takes its time to work its way through your system, in a million urgent but incremental doses. "It will all work its way out in the end," I think.
9:00
The good news is that I'm not remotely hungry anymore.
11:00
I'm ready for bed, but hang out for a few minutes to make sure it's safe to go to bed. The worst is over, but I don't want to go to bed too soon and prove my mom's advice to be correct.
6:00 a.m.
I slept through the night! But it's time for a bathroom break.
8:00
Liz drives to the doctor. I bring a change of clothes and a towel, just in case we hit traffic, but we get to the medical center just in time.
9:00
We arrive at the doctor's office:
"I'm here to check in," I say.
"Colonoscopy and endoscopy?"
"Colonoscopy? I thought I was getting a flu shot."
9:05
I'm more nervous about this than I had expected. Due to a family colon cancer history, I've done this once before, but in a new city with no support network, the stakes seem higher if something goes wrong.
9:10
As we wait in the waiting room, they call a fragile-looking elderly man to the back. He shuffles away, almost forgetting to hand his equally fragile-looking wife his glasses. If he can do this, so can I.
9:15
"You didn't shave," Liz says. "That's odd for you."
"I didn't feel like I needed to look good for this."
"Well, the good thing about this place is that they only care about what you look like on the inside,"
9:20
The elderly lady slowly hobbles out of the waiting room into the hall, shuffling forward only three-fourths upright.
"Where's she going?" Liz asks.
"Probably to the bathroom. Unless there's a party going on somewhere."
"I was just hoping for a cafeteria."
"They don't really encourage eating around here."
9:25
I keep going to the bathroom. I think it's nerves as much as the laxative.
9:30
They call me to the back. I have to put on the gown, which is nearly impossible to tie in the back. On the bright side, that doesn't really matter...
9:50
The nurses are really nice, obsessing about things like whether I like the radio channel or need a different pillow. But when someone is about to stick cameras into both ends of me until they meet in the middle, these matters seem somewhat trivial.
10:05
It's alarming that I'm chatting with my doctor in the operating room and am still wide awake, following instructions to roll onto my left side. I try not to freak out about the reality of what's about to happen to me, but this is alarming. They are NOT sticking anything into an orifice while I can tell the difference. They put a hose into my mouth to keep it (my mouth) open for the tube with the camera, and I finally start to feel woozy.
"Is the anesthesia starting yet. I think maybe I'm starting to feel it..." Finally, me and my anxieties drift off to sleep.
11:10
"Time to wake up, Andrew," says a female voice I don't recognize.
"Any polyps?"
"No, just a few issues with your endoscopy that your doctor will explain."
The voice disappears.
11:15
"Wake up," Liz says. Your heartbeat is really low."
"Yeah, it's always that way.
"No, it's 47. The alarm is going off. Your heart needs to beat."
"Oh, Ok," I mumble. "I'll try to think of something stressful. But, did you hear? No polyps this time."
We slowly walked to car and drove home, where I had the best tasting toast of all time.
But I still didn't get a dragon tattoo.
It seems like just yesterday that awoke in confused fog from my last colonoscopy and, in my incoherent haze, vowed to get a dragon tattoo on my face. Now it's three years later, my face is a blank slate, and so is my colon. In case you ever face a colonoscopy (or had one and have blocked out the details) here's what it looks like:
2 p.m. (the day before):
I'm not allowed to eat today, and am developing a hunger migraine and a heaping portion of dread and self-pity. As my concentration starts to fade and I count down the minutes until I can go home, I think about the people in olden times who fasted to get God's attention. I consider them all nuts. Ooohhh, nuts would be good right now.
I'm not among those who believe that God hands out extra favors for ceremonial self-sacrifice, but it hits me that I ought to say a few extra prayers today just in case.
3:30
I'm home from work early and run to the store for last minute essentials before the um, fun starts. I take my prescribed anti-nausea pill and buckle up, loosely, because I will need to unbuckle frequently. I call my mom, who advises me to buy adult diapers. I refuse. I might be blogging about my colon cleanse, but I still have a little bit of pride. A few minutes later, I say good bye.
"Don't forget the diapers," she says.
4 p.m.
A gallon jug of chalky, vaguely lemon flavored yellow mix sits on the counter, which represents the worst part of the colonoscopy experience: You have to empty your bowels out in advance so the camera can take pictures of your insides. This is how I will celebrate Cinco de Mayo this year. I pick a festive green plastic glass. The first glass of the stuff actually doesn't taste so bad.
4:35
The third glass isn't good, but it's not the taste itself that bothers me. Sitting down and drinking an entire gallon of anything would be miserable.
5:00
The long night begins.
5:15
The worst part of the experience isn't going to the bathroom constantly. It's that you literally get 30 seconds warning, at most, for each trip. I change to sweatpants. It's still better than diapers.
6:00
I'm feeling drained. Literally. And this drink mix tastes like liquid limestone, and getting worse as I get to the, err, bottom of the container. "The mix is more palatable," the label says, "if consumed very cold." How comforting.
7:00
I feel empty inside. Which is a good thing.
8:00
Another awful part of a colonoscopy nobody adequately warns you about: even after your system is empty, the cleansing liquid takes its time to work its way through your system, in a million urgent but incremental doses. "It will all work its way out in the end," I think.
9:00
The good news is that I'm not remotely hungry anymore.
11:00
I'm ready for bed, but hang out for a few minutes to make sure it's safe to go to bed. The worst is over, but I don't want to go to bed too soon and prove my mom's advice to be correct.
6:00 a.m.
I slept through the night! But it's time for a bathroom break.
8:00
Liz drives to the doctor. I bring a change of clothes and a towel, just in case we hit traffic, but we get to the medical center just in time.
9:00
We arrive at the doctor's office:
"I'm here to check in," I say.
"Colonoscopy and endoscopy?"
"Colonoscopy? I thought I was getting a flu shot."
9:05
I'm more nervous about this than I had expected. Due to a family colon cancer history, I've done this once before, but in a new city with no support network, the stakes seem higher if something goes wrong.
9:10
As we wait in the waiting room, they call a fragile-looking elderly man to the back. He shuffles away, almost forgetting to hand his equally fragile-looking wife his glasses. If he can do this, so can I.
9:15
"You didn't shave," Liz says. "That's odd for you."
"I didn't feel like I needed to look good for this."
"Well, the good thing about this place is that they only care about what you look like on the inside,"
9:20
The elderly lady slowly hobbles out of the waiting room into the hall, shuffling forward only three-fourths upright.
"Where's she going?" Liz asks.
"Probably to the bathroom. Unless there's a party going on somewhere."
"I was just hoping for a cafeteria."
"They don't really encourage eating around here."
9:25
I keep going to the bathroom. I think it's nerves as much as the laxative.
9:30
They call me to the back. I have to put on the gown, which is nearly impossible to tie in the back. On the bright side, that doesn't really matter...
9:50
The nurses are really nice, obsessing about things like whether I like the radio channel or need a different pillow. But when someone is about to stick cameras into both ends of me until they meet in the middle, these matters seem somewhat trivial.
10:05
It's alarming that I'm chatting with my doctor in the operating room and am still wide awake, following instructions to roll onto my left side. I try not to freak out about the reality of what's about to happen to me, but this is alarming. They are NOT sticking anything into an orifice while I can tell the difference. They put a hose into my mouth to keep it (my mouth) open for the tube with the camera, and I finally start to feel woozy.
"Is the anesthesia starting yet. I think maybe I'm starting to feel it..." Finally, me and my anxieties drift off to sleep.
11:10
"Time to wake up, Andrew," says a female voice I don't recognize.
"Any polyps?"
"No, just a few issues with your endoscopy that your doctor will explain."
The voice disappears.
11:15
"Wake up," Liz says. Your heartbeat is really low."
"Yeah, it's always that way.
"No, it's 47. The alarm is going off. Your heart needs to beat."
"Oh, Ok," I mumble. "I'll try to think of something stressful. But, did you hear? No polyps this time."
We slowly walked to car and drove home, where I had the best tasting toast of all time.
But I still didn't get a dragon tattoo.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Running Diary: I'm Getting Too Old For This
In 48 hours I'll be running a half marathon. A pessimist might say that it's a bad sign that I just pulled my hamstring. But I couldn't help it. You see, I was behind in my training from having hurt my back last month. My body is telling me that this might be my last race. Which also means it might be my last "running diary."
10:00 p.m. Friday Night
The race is in the morning, I'm registered, my race clothes, mp3 player, sun glasses, running watch and inspirational anti-cancer wristband are laid out. Now that I've idiot-proofed my race morning, I should probably get to bed and rest up for my 13.1 miles. If only there weren't a party going on across the hall of my apartment complex...
1:00 a.m. Saturday
That was a nice nap, rudely interrupted by the escalating party down the hall. As I try to sleep, the rudeness of the late-night endeavor claws at my brain: half of Livermore is there--how did I not get invited when I live two doors down? The noise isn't the best thing for my race preparation either.
On the bright side, at least there's a guy peeing in the bushes out front. With the drought and all, that will help.
2:30 a.m.
Hmm. If I pulled out my baseball bat and approached the party across the way like WCW wrestler Sting, would my neighbors be intimidated or call the police? Hmm. I should try this some other time, when I don't have a race the next day. Unless I get invited to the party next time, that is.
3:00
Finally, sleep...
6:30
The alarm just went off and the race is in 90 minutes. Usually I'm a nervous wreck at this point. Today, I just want to go back to bed. I drink some coffee, put on my race clothes and sea of accessories and get ready to walk over to the start line a few blocks away. I try to get some adrenaline flowing by trying to remind myself why I'm doing this. I just can't seem to remember.
7:52:
It's a beautiful day, and not just because that song is on my mp3 player. The race will start and finish in downtown Livermore, and the organizers are already setting up for the party to follow. I can walk to the start line from my place, which meant I got to avoid the hordes of motorists still fighting for parking spaces. On an even better note, it also meant that I had a built in bathroom nearby. And, unlike my neighbor, I don't mean the bushes.
7:55: I've found a quiet corner to stretch, say a prayer and pump myself up for what's to come. I try to remember why I'm voluntarily putting myself through this. Two years ago I ran my first half marathon with my brothers shortly after one of them got cancer. That one was a symbolic triumph over hard times, and fittingly, we ran it through a monsoon. I wear the wristband we wore for that race, and the triathlon we did before it. "Hope. Faith. Courage" it says. Today, I'm going to need a healthy share of each.
I survived that race just ahead of my 2-hour goal (9-minute miles), which felt triumphant at the time, but I didn't know much about running or how to train. I've wanted to hit the 1:45 mark (8 minute-per-mile pace) ever since, to feel like a real runner. Instead, I keep slowly increasing my time while feeling increasingly old. I keep getting hurt while training every subsequent race. I have a bad back; I'm getting old. I keep improving my race time through better techniques and training methods, but I'm just about the point where Father Time passes me on the home stretch.
I was actually on pace for my goal this time until I hurt my back and couldn't run for three weeks. My back has recovered, but my knees have been popping for weeks and I felt a tug in my hamstring when I pulled up at the end of my last training run. So, the moral of the story is that regardless of how fast I run this race, I'm almost 40 and it seems like my time is running out.
I ran my last race at an 8:28 pace, and my best training run for this one was 12 miles a 8:24, but I think I have a little bit more inside of me. And this might be my last shot at finishing a race 1:45. Or finishing at all.
7:58:
We're off! I coast to a 9-minute first mile, saving energy in accordance with my plan. But my ability to coast is hampered by the small kids running ahead of me and the slow-movers who for some reason needed to start at the front of the pack and are forcing me to jog around them. I try to stick to the plan and move slowly, but somehow the second mile was a minute faster than the first. I have the feeling I'm going to regret that...
8:15 (Mile 3):
This course is not well marked. The first mile marker came .92 miles into the race and it's gotten worse with each mile. The 3 mile-marker came 2.77 miles into the race. But on the bright side, if this keeps up, I might be done by in an hour.
8:23 (Mile 4):
The roadside spectators and their signs are always a highlight on these races. It's nice to feel supported. I wish I could hire these people to cheer me on at work, or when I need to clean the bathroom.
A little kid has a sign with a button painted on that says "Press here to run faster." I briefly wonder if it might work. My legs are already starting to hurt, and I need all the help I can get (I mean, in addition to the help from the person who mapped out the course. I pass the "4-mile" sign 3.8 miles into the course). But the kid is on the other side of the street, so I don't want to take the chance.
8:31 (Mile 5):
Sign: "Go Joseph. Don't poop your pants."
I wonder how Joseph feels about this sign: happy that a loved one came out to support him, or angry that someone is bringing public attention to an embarrassing personal problem?
8:39 (Mile 6):
Meanwhile, my time is great, but my energy is lagging and my hamstrings both are burning. On the bright side, the one I thought I pulled doesn't feel any worse than the other one. I pop my first energy gel packet.
8:50 (Mile 7.5):
I've past the halfway point (both by the course markings and actual mileage). That sounds nice but doesn't make my legs feel any better. I've run 8-minute miles since my purposefully slow mile 1, but I'm starting to fade. On a related note, I'm on a familiar street now, but have no idea how I got here. My mind has gone blank. Usually this doesn't happen until about mile 10.
9:13 (Mile 8.9):
Saving my strength for mile 9, the most uphill stretch of the course. A boy holds up a sign: "Run faster, my arms are getting tired." I reach for the energy gel. I'm going to need it.
9:21 (Mile 9.9):
The most beautiful stretch of the course is also the most painful. A 100-foot climb through the vineyards of Livermore wine country starts this segment through a running trail too narrow for spectators. I have enough energy for this mile, but the last three just might kill me. I take a look at my wristband. "Hope, Strength, Courage." I tell myself that if my brother can do 12 rounds of chemo, I can run three more miles. I just hope they don't tack that extra mileage the course has not accounted for on the back end of the race.
9:22 (Mile 10):
As we leave the wine trial and get back to the road, a spectator had an inspirational sign that boosted me fading energy and almost made me cry. I would tell you more, but I have no memory whatsoever of what the sign said, I just remember feeling the emotion of the moment. As the incoherence begins to take over, I find myself counting down every tenth of a mile. It's the only thought of which I'm capable.
9:35 (Mile 11.7):
Signs of my creeping running dementia: I'm back on a small trail and have no memory of ever turning off the main road. I spend two minutes listening to a painfully slow song on my mp3 before I realize I can skip it ahead at the touch of a button, something I hadn't thought to do the entire race. As I can barely hold my head upright, I see a sign related to the post-race festival: "Go Faster, some Kenyan is drinking your wine." I smile and nod, thankful for the five seconds of entertainment. Then, the pain returns. "I only have to run for 10 more minutes," I remember.
9:39 (Mile 12.):
My miles are getting slower now, but taking more energy. This is the cruel irony of the end of a half marathon: it takes more energy to run slower. I go as fast as I can, but I've once again failed to save a kick for the finish. I resign myself to the idea of unknown Kenyans enjoying the spoils of the post-race festival in my absence, and stare down at my wristband. I don't care about my time at this point, I just want to finish before my legs fall off. And I'm back on the main road again, somehow.
8:47 (Mile 13):
That looks like a finish line. It's only 13.05 miles in, but I'm certainly not complaining.
1:47:31.
I didn't meet my original goal, but it's a personal record by three minutes. I ran faster, for longer, than I thought I could have a few hours ago. I managed an 8:13 pace, tantalizingly close to my multi-year goal. As I stagger to a water booth, the attendant tells me that I look wobbly. I agree and almost fall down.
I collect my medal, stagger home to shower and amble back towards the festival. As my head begins to clear, it dawns on me that my back and legs--considering what I just put them through--feel fine. I have the expected soreness, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'm tired, but I don't need medical assistance. All things considered, I feel pretty good.
Most importantly, I finished soooooo close to my time goal, and I have at least one more race left in me to get there.
But first, it's on to the festival...
10:00 p.m. Friday Night
The race is in the morning, I'm registered, my race clothes, mp3 player, sun glasses, running watch and inspirational anti-cancer wristband are laid out. Now that I've idiot-proofed my race morning, I should probably get to bed and rest up for my 13.1 miles. If only there weren't a party going on across the hall of my apartment complex...
1:00 a.m. Saturday
That was a nice nap, rudely interrupted by the escalating party down the hall. As I try to sleep, the rudeness of the late-night endeavor claws at my brain: half of Livermore is there--how did I not get invited when I live two doors down? The noise isn't the best thing for my race preparation either.
On the bright side, at least there's a guy peeing in the bushes out front. With the drought and all, that will help.
2:30 a.m.
Hmm. If I pulled out my baseball bat and approached the party across the way like WCW wrestler Sting, would my neighbors be intimidated or call the police? Hmm. I should try this some other time, when I don't have a race the next day. Unless I get invited to the party next time, that is.
3:00
Finally, sleep...
6:30
The alarm just went off and the race is in 90 minutes. Usually I'm a nervous wreck at this point. Today, I just want to go back to bed. I drink some coffee, put on my race clothes and sea of accessories and get ready to walk over to the start line a few blocks away. I try to get some adrenaline flowing by trying to remind myself why I'm doing this. I just can't seem to remember.
7:52:
It's a beautiful day, and not just because that song is on my mp3 player. The race will start and finish in downtown Livermore, and the organizers are already setting up for the party to follow. I can walk to the start line from my place, which meant I got to avoid the hordes of motorists still fighting for parking spaces. On an even better note, it also meant that I had a built in bathroom nearby. And, unlike my neighbor, I don't mean the bushes.
7:55: I've found a quiet corner to stretch, say a prayer and pump myself up for what's to come. I try to remember why I'm voluntarily putting myself through this. Two years ago I ran my first half marathon with my brothers shortly after one of them got cancer. That one was a symbolic triumph over hard times, and fittingly, we ran it through a monsoon. I wear the wristband we wore for that race, and the triathlon we did before it. "Hope. Faith. Courage" it says. Today, I'm going to need a healthy share of each.
I survived that race just ahead of my 2-hour goal (9-minute miles), which felt triumphant at the time, but I didn't know much about running or how to train. I've wanted to hit the 1:45 mark (8 minute-per-mile pace) ever since, to feel like a real runner. Instead, I keep slowly increasing my time while feeling increasingly old. I keep getting hurt while training every subsequent race. I have a bad back; I'm getting old. I keep improving my race time through better techniques and training methods, but I'm just about the point where Father Time passes me on the home stretch.
I was actually on pace for my goal this time until I hurt my back and couldn't run for three weeks. My back has recovered, but my knees have been popping for weeks and I felt a tug in my hamstring when I pulled up at the end of my last training run. So, the moral of the story is that regardless of how fast I run this race, I'm almost 40 and it seems like my time is running out.
I ran my last race at an 8:28 pace, and my best training run for this one was 12 miles a 8:24, but I think I have a little bit more inside of me. And this might be my last shot at finishing a race 1:45. Or finishing at all.
7:58:
We're off! I coast to a 9-minute first mile, saving energy in accordance with my plan. But my ability to coast is hampered by the small kids running ahead of me and the slow-movers who for some reason needed to start at the front of the pack and are forcing me to jog around them. I try to stick to the plan and move slowly, but somehow the second mile was a minute faster than the first. I have the feeling I'm going to regret that...
8:15 (Mile 3):
This course is not well marked. The first mile marker came .92 miles into the race and it's gotten worse with each mile. The 3 mile-marker came 2.77 miles into the race. But on the bright side, if this keeps up, I might be done by in an hour.
8:23 (Mile 4):
The roadside spectators and their signs are always a highlight on these races. It's nice to feel supported. I wish I could hire these people to cheer me on at work, or when I need to clean the bathroom.
A little kid has a sign with a button painted on that says "Press here to run faster." I briefly wonder if it might work. My legs are already starting to hurt, and I need all the help I can get (I mean, in addition to the help from the person who mapped out the course. I pass the "4-mile" sign 3.8 miles into the course). But the kid is on the other side of the street, so I don't want to take the chance.
8:31 (Mile 5):
Sign: "Go Joseph. Don't poop your pants."
I wonder how Joseph feels about this sign: happy that a loved one came out to support him, or angry that someone is bringing public attention to an embarrassing personal problem?
8:39 (Mile 6):
Meanwhile, my time is great, but my energy is lagging and my hamstrings both are burning. On the bright side, the one I thought I pulled doesn't feel any worse than the other one. I pop my first energy gel packet.
8:50 (Mile 7.5):
I've past the halfway point (both by the course markings and actual mileage). That sounds nice but doesn't make my legs feel any better. I've run 8-minute miles since my purposefully slow mile 1, but I'm starting to fade. On a related note, I'm on a familiar street now, but have no idea how I got here. My mind has gone blank. Usually this doesn't happen until about mile 10.
9:13 (Mile 8.9):
Saving my strength for mile 9, the most uphill stretch of the course. A boy holds up a sign: "Run faster, my arms are getting tired." I reach for the energy gel. I'm going to need it.
9:21 (Mile 9.9):
The most beautiful stretch of the course is also the most painful. A 100-foot climb through the vineyards of Livermore wine country starts this segment through a running trail too narrow for spectators. I have enough energy for this mile, but the last three just might kill me. I take a look at my wristband. "Hope, Strength, Courage." I tell myself that if my brother can do 12 rounds of chemo, I can run three more miles. I just hope they don't tack that extra mileage the course has not accounted for on the back end of the race.
9:22 (Mile 10):
As we leave the wine trial and get back to the road, a spectator had an inspirational sign that boosted me fading energy and almost made me cry. I would tell you more, but I have no memory whatsoever of what the sign said, I just remember feeling the emotion of the moment. As the incoherence begins to take over, I find myself counting down every tenth of a mile. It's the only thought of which I'm capable.
9:35 (Mile 11.7):
Signs of my creeping running dementia: I'm back on a small trail and have no memory of ever turning off the main road. I spend two minutes listening to a painfully slow song on my mp3 before I realize I can skip it ahead at the touch of a button, something I hadn't thought to do the entire race. As I can barely hold my head upright, I see a sign related to the post-race festival: "Go Faster, some Kenyan is drinking your wine." I smile and nod, thankful for the five seconds of entertainment. Then, the pain returns. "I only have to run for 10 more minutes," I remember.
9:39 (Mile 12.):
My miles are getting slower now, but taking more energy. This is the cruel irony of the end of a half marathon: it takes more energy to run slower. I go as fast as I can, but I've once again failed to save a kick for the finish. I resign myself to the idea of unknown Kenyans enjoying the spoils of the post-race festival in my absence, and stare down at my wristband. I don't care about my time at this point, I just want to finish before my legs fall off. And I'm back on the main road again, somehow.
8:47 (Mile 13):
That looks like a finish line. It's only 13.05 miles in, but I'm certainly not complaining.
1:47:31.
I didn't meet my original goal, but it's a personal record by three minutes. I ran faster, for longer, than I thought I could have a few hours ago. I managed an 8:13 pace, tantalizingly close to my multi-year goal. As I stagger to a water booth, the attendant tells me that I look wobbly. I agree and almost fall down.
I collect my medal, stagger home to shower and amble back towards the festival. As my head begins to clear, it dawns on me that my back and legs--considering what I just put them through--feel fine. I have the expected soreness, but nothing out of the ordinary. I'm tired, but I don't need medical assistance. All things considered, I feel pretty good.
Most importantly, I finished soooooo close to my time goal, and I have at least one more race left in me to get there.
But first, it's on to the festival...
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