Crazy, perfect diamond

Some random, but related thoughts...  Read them here.

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death

The last in my series of posts inspired by Pink Floyd.

Read it over here, my new(ish) WordPress site.

Don't be afraid to care

You might be noticing my recent posts are lyrics.  Did I mention I really wish I had seen last month's Roger Water's show?!?

Here's the newest post over at my place in WordPress. 

Thoughts from a rainy day run...

image: http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com

• Interesting isn't it, the way "letting go" and "holding on" are continually swapping positions on the difficulty scale of life? Some days I just can't decide which is harder to do - or the right thing thing to do, for that matter. 

•  While I used to imagine my having less brains and more butt in my next life, I'm a bit surprised that the trade actually turned out to be an exchange of boobs for butt. Goodbye 36C, hello 32B. And that small almost curve in my tush? Thank you, hills of Albany Muni, for that.
  
• Exchanging today for tomorrow is not a good deal.  Nor is now for then, then being either in the past or in the future. Today is much more valuable. Even when it's raining.

Are you my mother? And who's my daddy?

image: http://blog.schoollibraryjournal.com

It's been a weird weekend...I kind of hit the wall on a number of levels, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, hit the wall  with numerous body parts.  Truth be told, I probably used my head the most.  I had so many options available to me; concerts, and old friends, and art and strawberries, yet I kind of shrugged it all off.  Unlike many decisions in life, I didn't get that immediate tingling sensation that confirms many of my choices.  I'm thinking maybe I'm a bit numb.  Summer vacation can't come soon enough.

Despite feeling less than great (I'm about to pop my 3rd Aleve in 2 days!) I've maintained my commitment to running 20 miles this week and it has been a struggle.  The music hasn't been quite right, and even if it were perfect, my right glute is screaming louder than any song playing.  Not tremendously fun or satisfying.

On my run Friday, I passed two elder(ly?) women walking.  They were on the opposite side of the street and I was wearing contacts, which don't do all they should to improve my vision.  I was taken aback by one of the women - she looked like my mother.  I think.  The last time I spoke to my mother in person was when she attempted a "scar-off" to prove that her heart surgery was way worse than my cancer surgery could have ever been.  Ok, you win and what have we proven?  That you have a heart and I can cut malignant things from my life and prosper? Fine.

Well, it is a little disconcerting to not be certain whether a person is, or is not, your parent. You'd think this would be a familiar sensation for me, growing up as I did wondering if every single man with a brogue was my father, but it was still weird.  I had a familiar train of thought ride through my head.  What will it be like when she's gone?  Will I stop seeing her everywhere the way I stopped imagining every Irishman to be my father once I knew he was gone?

I'm getting ready to be a stay at home mom for 10 weeks and I plan to slow down, enjoy my boys and try really hard to make sure that they always know who their parents are, two people who love them dearly.

Life's a bitch beach

image: beachfinder.org

Feeling my little guy's body shudder with sleep as he cuddles next to me, I consider something  said to me recently - that I make things look easy.  The manner in which I navigate through life somehow gave the impression that I don't struggle, that I don't sometimes feel the waves threaten to swamp me.  

When I think about my life, I try to remain cognizant of moderation and balance.  With my mind's eye, I see myself juggling.  Constantly.  There are three balls I continually find myself tossing and catching.  The first contains my boys, beloved friends and family.  I need to place them front and center because I love them and want them to be happy.  The second ball is the me ball.  It's about exercising and writing and reading and whatever else I might do to stay healthy and challenged.  The third ball is all about responsibilities; work and home and finances.  These are the things which, while lowest in my personal priorities list, intimidate me the most.  Probably because I don't have control over them. 

I was raised to be responsible.  Whether it was waking up and getting myself ready for school at the ripe old age of 6 or paying my rent from age 20 on, I knew if it was going to happen I had to take care of it myself.  Decades later, I have more responsibilities than ever - 3 boys who seem to look exclusively to me when they need sneakers or other clothing for their quickly growing bodies, a nearly 100 year-old house with an accompanying mortgage. And insurance. And utilities.  A professional career that garners little respect despite an advanced degree and 15 years of experience in the field...

There are days that completely, totally suck.   When I realize I have missed a due date or deadline I can feel my spine tighten and my forehead bead with perspiration.  Obviously, I don't enjoy these sensations and I try to avoid them, but, you know what?  I'm not perfect and, as I frequently explain to my children, I'm doing my best.

Sometimes we forget or romanticize what the beach is really like. It certainly can be scenic and pleasingly comfortable, but we may neglect to remember that it is also kind of messy. You know, everything ends up sticky from sunscreen and sand and sea salt, demanding a thorough rinse off. The drawbacks of the beach might be nearly completely negated by an outdoor shower, preferably starlit, but it would be naive to consider the beach, or one's life, as perfect. Nonetheless, grab your suit and don't forget to bring a towel.

Bridgeford Hardware

I will always remember the hardware store in my hometown, Greenwood Lake, N.Y. Despite the time of day, it always seemed like dusk inside and I can remember being fascinated by the uncountable bins filled with washers, nails, screws and other unnamed shiny metal things. On the hottest of summer days, the store emanated a mildly damp coolness that made walking the aisles a quiet treat and I don't remember ever complaining about it being my turn to run a hardware errand. 

That store is long gone, but in the DelSo we have Bridgeford Hardware, a throwback to those simpler times. Unlike the "big box" stores it is unnecessary to waste time searching for someone for assistance. Employees are readily available to help with practical suggestions and expert advice. Last week I finally decided to suck it up and replace the the screening in my sliding door to the deck. Now generally I'm not the worst person in the world in terms of home maintenance issues, but my hesitation was prompted by my experience the last time I replaced the screen a couple of years ago. On that particular day, the door was placed back on its slider and within an hour Cassidy Lilly (our family's sweet black lab) felt the need to open the door with her sharp claw creating a new puncture. A hole which naturally has been expanding ever since until it ultimately became an ad hoc doggie door. 

With the arrival of spring, and my desire to improve my homeowner maintenance capabilities, I called Bridgeford and asked what we could do to prevent another screen repair job from going awry. Was there plexiglass which could be screwed to the lower part of the door? Perhaps chicken wire (aesthetics are secondary to function in some instances) could be stapled over the screen to provide an extra layer of fortification from Cassidy's need to independently let herself out to the deck? It was explained that neither of these were an option as the plexiglass would crack when affixed by screws and chicken wire was not available. As an alternative, the patient man suggested using a flat sheet of metal, the type typically used when making covers for old school radiators. He did caution that they were expensive, probably close to $25, which would bring the cost of the repair up to about $50. I ended the call and considered my options. And then - I remembered that I already had one of those sheets of metal! I even knew where it was - bonus. I carried the door and the metal to my car and mere hours later, I was pleased to rehang the door that would let a breeze into my family room, yet keep the majority of pesky bugs out. 

Despite the additional labor and hardware involved with affixing the metal sheet, I wasn't charged anymore than the regular price for a screen repair of that size, $25. As for Cassidy, she hasn't even attempted to let herself out, so the solution has been a complete success. And my childhood love for hardware stores, like my sliding door's screen, remains intact.

Taking it apart

image: bluewaternc.com

Staying home this past week has done wonders for my inner peace. Truly.  I've eliminated a bunch of crap I no longer (ever?) needed and my house feels very peaceful.  And that's despite having a houseful of boys.  I'm ready to go back to work and dig in for the next couple of months and then, say goodbye to another academic year.  They go very fast, faster each year, picking up momentum along the way. 

At home, I've moved furniture and cable lines, shifted purposes and meanings of rooms. Things which I have planned to do eventually and someday have happened.  Accomplished.  I'm single, no longer with my soon-to-be-ex-husband-excuse for not moving forward.  It's time. Baby steps, but motion nonetheless.

Tasks sometimes appear as insurmountable because we're unwilling to live with the messiness of dismantling something.  Oh my God,  have you ever had home improvements done?  The ripping the kitchen apart, washing dishes in the bathtub and eating off the grill every night?  The dust and clutter and noise necessary to deconstruct and build are formidable.  There's that moment when you're untangling the wires for the umpteenth time and feeling overly confident about your ability to remember what plugs in where, when you wonder why you just couldn't have left well enough alone.  Why must you crave improvement?  

But, if you have a clear vision, maintain a gaze ahead at where you want to be, it happens. And it is satisfying and good and well worth the effort.  And the wait.  Putting it together, correctly and right, more than soothes the temporary devastation necessary for changes to be made. Not to mention the angst created by living a life always yearning for something better. 

The day I got divorced

The sun was shining, but the wind was chilly. I went to the gym and used heavy weights that I knew would leave me sore the next day. I picked up my completed tax returns (married, filed separately) and discovered I might be able do some home projects. I realized that just like the wedding is a minuscule part of the marriage, the divorce finalization is a blip on the Geiger counter of the relationship's ultimate decay.

It had been a long time coming. No, it wasn't the transgressions, it was truly the knowing that together we would go no farther. We were done. Not with the children and parenting them, but with each other. I was more exhausted than sad, shaking my head with bemusement, wondering why it was so easy to remember when the love started, not so easy (all right, impossible) to recall when it began to fade. Like childbirth, you simply forgot.

Being successfully married (insert your definition here) is always described as being "hard work," and you know I don't mind working hard. It's just that I ended up finding other things which I invested my time and effort in to provide better returns. I'm a romantic, but I'm also brutally practical. I wasn't getting enough and I couldn't give more. Period.

The word divorce comes from the Latin "divert, or change direction," an apt etymology that parallels my own path. I still don't have a map, but a change in direction is something one can choose to embrace or to shun. Life is too short to snub change.

The day I got divorced was today.

Secret-sharer

image from: msluffa.files.wordpress.com

You know how I put most everything out there, right?  I was thinking about that personality trait of mine during a recent "get back into it, dammit" (after a 4 day stomach bug hiatus), run, and realized that I think I spill so much because I believe secrets have far more power to hurt than the truth. Examples?  Oh, yes, I've got a couple...

The things that have most deeply driven a fatal wedge in my relationships were secrets.  As a preteen, I learned some big stuff about my family history.  Nothing really worth repeating here, and nothing maliciously scandalous, just information  I (over)heard from family friends rather than from the adult I deserved to hear it from.  And once I heard this history, this story of how I came to be, I didn't know what to do with it.  I couldn't imagine raising the topic with a woman I always found unapproachable, so I swallowed it and allowed it gurgle and bubble inside of me, occasionally feeling it escape in an episode of bad behavior or a rebellious act. Not good.  

Maybe I would have ultimately moved beyond, or around, the crevasse  in this primary relationship, but, unfortunately, that wasn't the last time that a previously unknown was unveiled in a such a way.   Each of these spikes nailed  the door between she and I that much more tightly closed, and, at this point in my life,  I am content to let it remain unopened. I guess it's true about the physical spaces between the known and the unknown being described as the Doors, huh?

In more recent years there have been other secrets kept from me, and perpetuated by me, and they've all prompted more pain than honesty ever would have caused.  The power of those secrets has torn down structures originally designed to provide shelter for a lifetime. Or two lifetimes, perhaps.

I don't want anyone to have the ability to rock my world by revealing secrets about me or those I care about.  When someone on the periphery owns knowledge that those who are most deeply involved are lacking, the exchange of power is irrefutable.  And potentially devastating.

I'll keep your secrets, my friends, but as for mine, I'm sharing.  

Domestic violence or how I got a black eye from cleaning the bathtub

After my recent week away, I felt compelled to accomplish some household chores over the weekend.  Now, you know I believe that nothing says welcome home like clean sheets, but you may not know that I have a fondness for taking baths.  In a clean bathtub, naturally.  

Seeing as how I'm the only person who has ever cleaned either of the two bathrooms in my house, I got right on that task Saturday morning.  I even utilized all of my favorite tools - scrubbing bubbles, abrasive cleanser, window cleaner...When I stepped into that shower a short while later it was clean.  Unfortunately, I stepped in with a little too much haste and immediately lost my footing, slamming my face on the top of a shampoo bottle to stop my fall.  Ouch - it really hurt!  And not just because it was the cheap inexpensive Suave brand stuff.  I've accepted that the Fekkai would have caused the same pain, right?

I'm not really good in medical situations, so I avoided looking at the damage(s) until I was safely out of the shower.  And dressed.  There was blood, but not too much and I didn't think there was a need for medical attention, or even ice.  (I hate the way ice feels - give me a heating pad any day.)  I posted a picture on Facebook in the hopes that I could immediately subtract 579 from the grand total of times I would need to tell the story of my injury, but it has led to an interesting week.

Some observations from having a black eye... I often forgot that I had a glaringly obvious injury, at least until I noticed someone awkwardly staring at my face.  Once that happened, I immediately launched into my story, tossing in a joke about "walking into a door" and how I "wasn't going to date Chris Brown ever again."  The situation usually was smoothed over after a giggle or two, but there definitely was a residual sense, call it a bruise if you'd like, of discomfort. The Rihanna/Chris Brown bad romance brings me to my next observation, but it's one you should be making about me.  

At the risk of protesting too much, do I strike (ha!) you as the kind of woman someone who would ever tolerate abuse*?  When have I ever permitted anyone - male or female, to take unfair advantage of me?  Please.  Just because I reveal my bruises doesn't mean I have more of them than anybody else. 

*When I was 19 I was involved with an asshole a guy who slapped me across my face. Once. I have friends who were physically abused by their partners and I am completely sympathetic to the realities of domestic violence. It isn't a joke to me, but I also know from experience that I did not, and would not, allow anyone to physically abuse me. I hope that those who are victims find the means to seek help. Here's a resource for those in NYS.

Personal Inventory

image: echrblog.blogspot.com

I recently admitted something to myself, which naturally means I need to share it with you... I've got a bit of a pre-running ritual. I won't divulge all the personal details, yet, but, basically it includes a lot of peeing, preparing my iProduct (music and running app) double knotting my laces, moisturizing... It is kind of involved. I am getting more efficient about it, though, and I've accepted that this what I really need to do to be in the best position to enjoy my run. I'm okay with it.

Once I finally get out there, the first mile of so of my run also involves an inventory of sorts. Typically this part of my run is what I would consider to be the most difficult piece. Or at least that is what I've always thought.* Something changed a bit recently, though,  and my perspective has shifted.  I now recognize that the first 8-10 minutes are when my body is simply saying hello. The twinges, aches, pains, sensations are all means of communication, and I'm learning to tune in and listen. Hips, quads, calves, feet, all checking in and informing me of their presence. My body is just waking up and wants some attention.  I'm working hard to respect and accept this process knowing full well that the hurt is temporary.  The ultimate reward, being fit and strong, and anything, please God, other than numb or unstimulated, is endless.

There was a moment recently when I considered an alternative to running and being physically active, wondering what it would be like if I opted to keep my body quiet instead. I'm sure there's something to be said for an existence of muted living, but that is not for me. Because, feeling alive is a prerequisite, in my mind, to being alive. When I place myself in a situation in which I am vulnerable or challenged, I do it with consciousness. Better to expose myself and risk feeling something, than to cloister myself and avoid the risk of exertion. I'm definitely more inclined to feel the pain knowing that my strength will only be stimulated by the threat to my comfort and, at this point in my life, I know one's strength, or lack thereof, becomes most evident when a situation demands it. That is when we truly show what we are made of, action by action, muscle by muscle.

*I've come to realize the worst part of any run would be not taking it..

Another verb...

To add to our conversation about action words, I offer LOVE, along with some adverbs.

Boldly
Freely
Sincerely
Sweetly
Honestly
Passionately
Bravely

How do you negotiate a mountain?

image gatetrails.com

Here.  You fill in the blank, as if you were me:  Today while I was _________ , I got to thinking about __________. Seriously, I'm getting predictable.  Anyway, this afternoon, I ran the back nine at Albany Muni Capital Hills, which has some monstrous hills, and I was mulling over how one gets to the top of the mountain - to the other side.  As I was making my way up the absolute biggest hill on my route, gasping and forcing my ever-so-heavy feeling legs up the hill, I took one peek at the top. Or at least what I perceived to be the top. Sometimes our minds play tricks on us, don't you think?  I locked in my goal mentally.

Once I knew where I was going, all I needed to do was focus on the next step. Again. Again. And again. My eyes carefully scanned the ground directly in front of me for obstacles, stumbling blocks. Sometimes it's like a regular steeple chase on the ungroomed trails, but it's never boring and my ultimate destination is motivation enough. My pace varied, the internal vision I have kept my drive strong.  Up I went.

But, I know there are other ways to scale a mountain. Some are devoted to a constant stare at the peak of that mountain. Gaze never wavering, a steady and consistent pace. Not eyeballing the ground immediately ahead, but visually projecting to some future place.  While I respect this other method of mountain climbing, it seems to me to lend itself to more frequent falters and falls. Because if you're not looking at what's next - if your focus is too distant, how do you leap the rocks in your path?  The piles of decaying leaves and the mud that sucks at your shoes?  How do you negotiate a mountain?

Doing new math

image from: www.valdosta.edu

I was working on homework with my youngest son the other night.  He's in first grade and we were doing math.  I encountered a problem that absolutely boggled me for at least 90 seconds. No, really.  It was a simple addition question, but the method my son is being taught is very different from the way I originally learned addition.  Students are being taught to make "tens" when they have problems in which the solution is more than ten.  Like this question: 8+5 would be figured out by adding 8+2 (=10) + 3(5-2) = 13. Now, I believe I've mentally being doing math this way for years, but it caused me to wonder are children being served by taking this eventually intuitive method of math away from them before they can fully grasp it?  And, like I asked when I was in geometry class, how do, we use this stuff when we grow up anyway?

Well, grown-up math is a bit different than algebra and geometry. (I can't speak of trigonometry or any other higher orders of math.  I never got there.) My favorite math class was algebra, probably  because it was word math.  Replacing variables in a sentence or problem, with definite numbers, and solving for a specific answer often expressed with words, flexed my brain and satisfied me.  As an adult, many of the word problems I encounter involve taking chances in life - accepting risk in the hopes of achieving an satisfying solution.   Counting on people to do what they promise and intend.  Weighing risks and odds and making the decision to try and solve for X. Will A + B - C = Happy?  Who knows?  Will it all add up?  

In life, (as in math) there are positives and negatives, and just because I've always been more a word girl than a numbers girl, please don't ever assume I'm not capable of doing the math.  I may not yet know the ultimate solution but I'm more than willing to show all my work.

We All Fall Down

image from: hachettebookgroup.com

I have a dark fascination with addiction. I don't understand it, but I know that it is real and accept that it is a part of our society. It's everywhere. Of course, for every drug addict there is an ever widening circle of the people impacted by the drug addict and their actions. I think it would be very difficult to find a person who has not been touched in some way by addiction. Despite my years in the restaurant business, I have had minimal exposure to hard drugs or the people who use them. Most of my knowledge comes from reading memoirs and the experiences I learn about when there is a drug related death in a friend's life. Unfortunately on this particular day in January, I've spent time reeling from both of those occurrences in a single day.

A couple of years ago I read two nonfiction works written individually by a father and son, David and Nic Sheff. The father's book, Beautiful Boy, shares the heartbreaking story of losing a beloved child to a life of drugs, prostitution and criminal activity. And that Beautiful Boy, of course, is Nic. His tale, Tweak, told matter-of-factly, with false bravado and a persistent tone of disbelief, taught me about a world where drugs repeatedly ruined, and sometimes ended, lives. Nic has a new book out, We All Fall Down, which I just read in record (for me these days) time. The repeated trips to rehab, the 12 Steps that never were taken, and the disappointment that constantly waged war with the hope for a happy ending, made this book a real page turner. Knowing that Nic had relapsed after the original success he experienced with Tweak was disheartening, but this was one of those books that can cause a reader to hold their breath. Powerful.

Which brings me to the other part of my day. Perfectly lovely parents are not guaranteed that their children will escape the allure of hard drugs. I've been to some wakes and funerals over the years and too often they have been for people younger than myself. To witness a parent bury a child is to witness one of the deepest sorrows imaginable, and as a parent, I think it is impossible to attend these funeral services without projecting how one survives such a tragedy. I don't want to ever know.

Addiction is an illness frequently accompanied by undiagnosed mental illness. Depression is common, as is a history of abuse, and self esteem issues. Closing the book on Nic Sheff's struggles only to learn about a friend's loss of their beloved child to addiction and depression, is nothing short of shockingly sobering. On Friday morning when I share books with students as part of their class' requested "booktalks," the Sheffs' books will be included. While I've never subscribed to Nancy Reagan's Just Say No policy, I will do my best to make sure that children Know the reality and perils of drug experimentation and addiction. And then, Friday night I will attend the wake of a friend's child and do my part to offer consolation from the ultimate loss. We all fall down. I suppose that being surrounded by family and friends willing to support us, through our struggles and sorrows, is what allows us to keep picking ourselves up.

The half life of neglect

According to Wikipedia Half Life is defined as the period of time it takes for the amount of a substance undergoing decay to decrease by half. It's radioactive decay. I'm not really a science girl - I appreciate the nurturing it takes for something to grow and I know that my health has been directly improved because of medicine (including radiation) and science, but, for the most part, I don't really get it. And, honestly, I'm not even that curious.

When I run, I exercise my mind. During last night's trot around the neighborhood, my thoughts were bouncing around - pausing on relationships that have inspired me. Inspired me to see things in a different way, to learn about myself and what makes me happy, to make changes in myself and my life. From out of nowhere, the concept of half lives flew into my mind and landed with a thud and I realized that I could apply that concept to two of my longest duration relationships quite neatly.

If you know me or possess the ability to read between the lines with perception, you've probably gathered that my mother and I don't share an easy relationship. It took me 30 years, a good friend's sage observations and a boatload of therapy to realize that, on many levels, I lived a childhood of neglectful. Understand, she was never, ever abusive but she just didn't have the capacity to address my emotional needs. No blame here, no anger (used that up as a teen), no judgment, just reality.

I guess I should consider it progress that it only took me half as long, til the age of 45, to wake up to the fact that my fundamental complaint about my marriage was a lack of emotional care giving. This isn't a criticism of my former spouse. I don't think either of us realized how much I yearned for someone to take care of me from the inside and I'm at least equally guilty of neglecting that part of myself. My own inability to recognize and ask for what I needed was radioactive poison causing decay, no doubt.

I know I can't decontaminate either of those prior relationships and I'm more than okay with that. I'd like to think that the part of me that has been becoming progressively smaller is the part that tolerates being neglected, by me, and by those whom I allow into my life. In the big picture, even a half life is far too much time to waste.

Giving up

Trying to maintain relationships with people who don't communicate with me. Done.

Reading blogs that subsist on recycled ideas and mean spirited observations. Living life on the edge ain't for me. Finished.

Paying more than my share in life. In a world of nickel and dimers, I've erred on the side of generousity. No more.

Not dealing directly with people and situations that are unacceptable. I'm no longer willing to have the discussion solely in my head. Over and done.

Avoiding wearing my reading glasses from the mistaken belief that I can't possibly be at an age when I really need reading glasses. Surrendered.

Built

who doesn't love a luminaria?

For the second year in a row, I volunteered to pour wine last night at the Historic Albany Foundation's annual event, Built.  This silent auction and art exhibit highlights the use of vacant buildings in Albany and is a wonderful fundraiser, as well as being a really fun night. Mark Brogna, from Capital Wine and Spirits who donates the evening's wine offerings,  originally roped me in last year and I enjoyed myself so much that I asked him this year if I could participate again.  The attendees are seriously the nicest group of people I've ever taken care of - "What, no more Pinot Noir?  Ok, I'll have Merlot!"  I'm talking mellow and happy and appreciative. And, did I mention artfully dressed?

This year's festivities were held at the Cathedral of All Saints. Despite my having spent my first 2 years living in Albany less than a block from this magnificent edifice (if I gush a little it's just to make up for neglecting to give this building its due respect previously), I am sheepishly confessing to never having been inside it prior to last night. The cathedral is absolutely stunning and I think it is the ideal location for this event - can't wait til next year! My awesome neighbors, Lori Hansen and Ken Ragsdale were honored (along with Mark Brogna and John McLennan) for their contributions to Built over the last 10 years, which made the night that much more special. Way to represent the DelSo! The food, rumored to have been catered by the Lily and the Rose (confirmation, anyone?)  looked terrific and the brownie I indulged in met my criteria, which is - it must be able to be stuck back together in chocolate gooeyness.

A highlight for me, in addition to having some fun taking these pictures for the Times Union's SEEN gallery and the generous number of compliments I received on my vintage dress, was finding myself within a circle (natch) of women described by Lori Hansen as being "powerful women." A year ago, I felt very much like an awed witness to the contributions made by fantastic local women like Lori, Laura and Elissa, among countless others.  I am kind of amazed that a year later, I have been included in the same sentence as these ladies.   Built?  Yeah, I'd say I'm very much enjoying this life under construction. 

Love muscle

image from dkimages

As an admitted exercise junkie, I've done some casual reading about physiology.  From what I understand, to build muscle one has to first sort of tear it apart a bit by straining the tissue. Maybe that's the "burn" thing Jane Fonda talked about so many years ago.  It seems that when the muscle fibers are ripped or torn they ultimately grow back together stronger than ever.  Do you think the same can be said of romantic relationships?

Now, you know I love to push myself physically and I know that some of my friends think I may be a tad too stringent about my exercise schedule.  I'll admit that there is a certain obsessive quality to my workout regimen, but ultimately I love the satisfaction of knowing that my body and my mind are working in concert to achieve something that may have once been unreachable.  I honestly like that feeling of having exhausted my muscles, the tenderness that comes as a  reminder of the previous day's exertions.  It feels good.

The emotional stretch, though?  The sensation of having been pulled apart and put back together?  That really hurts.  I won't ever say it isn't worth the efforts expended, and I certainly can accept the residual ache caused by a misunderstanding or disagreement, but I much prefer self inflicted physical discomfort to overwrought emotions.  Ultimately, though, I believe that our muscles are remarkably capable of being woven back together, thread by thread, to create something stronger than what we originally possessed.

I don't plan for any of my muscles to atrophy from lack of use.