That time you woke up heart bursting because you get to see the Game of Life played by your first-born who left you just 6 months ago to chase his dreams, have new experiences and get a college degree.
And you walk extra slow across the parking lot to make the getting of shampoo and toothpaste and beef jerky and sour patch kids and microwave popcorn at a smelly and run down Family Dollar take hours upon hours because you know the time is nigh to say good-bye (again)
And even though you know he is safe and happy and on a path you cannot pave for him, your heart quakes a bit because the velcro sandals and the band aids no longer need the curl of your knuckles to apply. Why oh why does time fly?
And don’t get me started on the pirate costume and swords made of sticks.
And you realize everyday is another day closer to another good-bye. Next time, it will be her, then her:
The best part is, if we are very, very lucky – there is also ‘hello’ right around the corner.
In gratitude for the 11 mile run I have today and the endless hours of Ironman Training coming up,
I have never been fast and I am okay with that. My best marathon time is 4:20.
In 2014 I added in swimming and biking and became an age-grouper triathlete with realistic expectations. I can hang on the slow side of the middle of the pack on a good day.
I do it for this:
And because she does:
And for her legacy:
I do this for fitness, to test myself, because I am fascinated by human endurance. Whatever the reason a person endeavors to travel 140.6 miles WITHOUT A MOTOR and IN ONE DAY, it’s a big F**king deal. I bet none of them expects to be last. DFL (dead f**king last)
I was. You can read about it here. The full truth. Full disclosure. 16:55:42. Barely BARELY Ironman cut off.
For the last 7 months (to the day TODAY!) I feel slight tug of embarrassment whenever anyone asks about my first full ironman distance tri.
I say things like:
‘It was something.’
‘I barely made it.’
I never say: ‘I was last.’ But I was. I came in just ahead of the sweeper who was tooling about on a basketed bike wearing a smile that seemed so out of reach for me.
But I found a smile:
I would come in last again for this. But I don’t want to. Not so much because I am embarrassed anymore but because I had to dig so deep for so many hours to make it.
I don’t want to have to go there for so long again.
So if you see me at Ironman Chattanooga in September, remind me I am one and done on being DFL.
2nd to DFL would be a PR.
I am working hard and plan to cut copious amounts of time from the race.
I will hug whomever is DFL. I know what it feels like.
It wasn’t for anything good. As a yoga teacher, I know it is disingenuous to rate the poses or practice as good, bad, or great. However I do not mind being told my down dog is the bomb or my camel, dancer, or pigeon pose is on point.
The middle little girl in me still likes a pat on the back, a nod, some attention that she is special. But not like this.
Last week I tried out a new yoga studio. It is posh, lovely, soothing, and smells good. It attracts the hipster millennials who live in its cool urban hood. When I noticed my teacher looked like Simone Biles, the gold medaling megastar gymnast and was about Simone’s age, I thought I’d be in for a real athletic and dynamic workout. I had already started thinking how my practice would certainly stun her stunning self (so not yogic).
As is customary in many studios there were no mirrors. By my calculations, on the inside I am about 27. On the outside I am actually 48. Apparently without the help of mirrors, I forgot what the outside said. Because the next thing happened.
In a new studio I never know how each teacher will incorporate the use of props in the sequence. I do not need them but I find them to be great tools to deepen a pose or provide spatial reference or just give my ASSana a soft place to land if I want to. So I gathered a few to have at-the-ready near my matspace. (I made that word up – like a millennial would)
After the usual centering activity Simone brought us up to (wait for it…) table top – to start our moving practice. I think she thought it might be too much for me.
Simone then explained while looking AT ME that if our knees hurt we could roll our mat up a few times to provide some cushioning. Or, we could use a blanket underneath to soften the blow to our knees. She didn’t say it but she implied – like those of us with more advanced body parts. She even came over to me (only me) with said soft blanket to offer her geriatric follower some relief. I giggled like the school girl I think I still am and told her I was fine.
Some might call it a sweet gesture, others might call it ageism or profiling. Most would might call me petty.
But I couldn’t help it. What I wanted to say is: Look b*tch, I have been holding tabletop and plank longer than you’ve been alive. Have you seen my tattoo?
I proceeded to put so much zest into a slow hatha yoga with meditation class that I made myself sore – serves me right.
I temporarily forgot that the face that chatted Simone up before class looked like this:
I had just had a number of skin cancers removed and am wearing new but healing scars. I can’t blame my yoga teacher that she may have thought that mostly happens to old people. Because it does. Compared to my waiting room compatriots for the procedure, I am millennial.
I am old. I am young. I am whatever. Age isn’t a thing – it’s me that made it so.
Maybe the gymnast in Simone look-alike saw the efforts my body made to be strong and vital and healthy and thought I could use a rest.
Maybe she felt a tug at her heartstrings that I may have been through something recently and could use some extra softness.
Whatever it was, it was just (what for it…) nice.
For the record, I would go back. Maybe my next teacher will be her:
At 2:21pm tomorrow I will have been married 19 years. I never tire of a good race, birth, or relationship story and I do wholeheartedly believe every single one of us has one or a few. Here’s my story and why I simply must drop the mic.
I met my husband 20 years ago tomorrow at a party my cousin threw to mark her move to a new neighborhood that would soon become mine. She thought I may like her new neighbor but probably didn’t bank on having her cuz, bestie, partner-in-crime literally living a hundred yards from her kitchen table one year later.
We met. We chatted. Three weeks later, he asked me out on a date. 9 weeks later my mother died suddenly.
Boom. Biggest ever.
Two weeks later at her gravesite he asked me to marry him. Seven months later, a year to the day we met, I said ‘I do’ forever. Six days later, I got pregnant.
We had him:
19 months later, we had her:
Then we had her:
Boom. Boom. Boom.
16 months later, my first love – my Dad – died of a heart attack in his car.
A number of years passed. Big stuff. Little stuff. All kinds of stuff happened on this amazing journey we call life. Two and half years ago, we were changed forever.
From the beginning we have been going through big booms.
Meeting and marrying my husband is a case study in serendipity. When my mother died I had a brand new, called-when-he-said-he-would boyfriend who made me a laugh at the ready to help heal my broken heart. His million good qualities are only matched by my immense hope that he knows how well loved he is. By many – especially me.
He is tenacious, kind, loyal, compassionate, an amazing listener, an athlete extraordinaire, shy by nature, award-winning salesman who puts his family above himself with every breath he takes.
(That’s 15 booms mic drops if you are counting.)
He a wants only the best for me, supports my crazy, is a good cook, a gardener, with a sense of humor that still makes me belly laugh 19 years later.
One day I’ll get him to take my Yoga class
(The seven half marathons we’ve run together just isn’t enough).
I have a bevy of beautiful girlfriends; smart, adventurous, fun, accomplished, driven queens of their kingdom who inspire me everyday. Of particular note, is my friend Jen who could and probably has been mistaken for Kelly Lynch or Michelle Pfieffer.
Not Jen but could be.
I was super excited when KellyMichelleJen came to a few of my yoga classes earlier this summer.
Jen gave me a book she thought I would enjoy, she was super-sized right.
Here’s the obsession
I want to attain a level of fitness as I approach 50 that is currently stunted by the untrue mantra, ‘sucks getting old’.
No it doesn’t. It means you are here drawing new, never-been-done before inhales every single second. Makes me giddy to think of it and to read this book.
Webb argues that exercise can improve our bodies at any age, hailing it as the most powerful tool we have to forestall aging and prevent and even treat just about every chronic disease that exists today. “If we had a drug that did what exercise did, it would be the biggest revolution ever and would be promoted all over the world. And all you have to do is go out for a run.”
I am staring at 50 with rose-colored glasses and this affirms my passion for exercise. I am not going down as age creeps up, unless it’s opposite day.
This book is filled to the brim with research-backed expert, nutritional advice and preaches from the Bible of Yoga and Cross Training – my own personal fitness scripture. Among other, I-love-you athletes and experts in their field, Webb went to see the world’s oldest yogi to glean sage advice for living with vitality to old age.
Tao Porchon-Lynch who turns 98 tomorrow.
Like the author:
I want to enter the second half of my life in the best shape of my life.
And I will get older, faster and stronger – a nice side bonus will be more energy, better quality, good moods, and a leaner frame. Good Lord, now I can’t wait to be fifty.
I bet this book is pretty good too:
I never said I wouldn’t have fun along the way. Margarita’s, anyone?? (only with fresh organic lime and Patron, please)
Soon, I am going to quit teaching Yoga. Given the name if my blog, it may seem a bit insane and it does feel super weird.
After all, teaching Yoga:
Makes me happy.
A part of the very core of me.
Albert Einstein is much smarter than me and he said insanity is:
doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results
I need change. As I stare at the exit sign of my 40’s I know there is so much to do – new paths to take and time won’t wait.
If you are like me and want to squeeze tons of life out of every single moment, go on travel adventures, make a difference every single day, you may need to free up some space in your mind and calendar for new gigs. You cannot take on new endeavors make any more $$ and set your sails with the wind at your back if you are too busy moving food around your plate. Even if you love everything you do, too much is just that too-the-hell-much. Nothing changes and you end up insane. I want to be insanely happy and the process isn’t for the faint of heart.
So I say good-bye for now to something I love (you should think about it too) Here’s why:
To get better at it and to practice more. I rarely make time to practice yoga. A good teacher has a consistent self practice. What I currently get is a few random poses around the house.
And the occasional Bikram Yoga treat.
2. To focus on new challenges. A new relatively new triathlete, I am racing my first (2) Ironmandistance races this year and Lord, the training is kicking my butt.
I want to be a student too. I am considering additional certifications in the yoga, health and wellness arena. Maybe I’ll just go away to college with him. No, please don’t go.
My first is leaving the nest and I am insane over it.
3. To give good attention to current endeavors that give back, can be financially rewarding (I have 2 more to send to college) and also bring me much joy.
Grow my direct sales Rodan + Fields (premium skincare brand) business. I love working with wonderful talented people who are helping others love the skin they’re. This will end up being what supports my dream journey…
To really living.
Yoga Teaching, we’ll get back together when that thing called Time, says it’s okay.
For now it’s okay to say good-bye. I will always love you.
I had every intention of practicing yoga on my recent trip to Nashville. I researched studios in a trendy ‘hood called the Gulch, a dynamic area of urban development and redevelopment located between Music Row and Downtown. The Gulch is an exciting combination of the old, the adapted, and the cutting edge. It pulsates with opportunities for the very best Nashville experience. I almost went here. Almost.
I was too busy having epiphanies and getting out of my comfort zone to bother.
They did not come as after-effects to shots of Tennessee Whiskey though I think one could argue that such a drink or song could cause hallelujah moments. Amen??
Whiskey in Tennessee is like coffee most places. Consumed with anticipation of its sweet and smooth effects.
I am not a whiskey drinker which I kept secret in its capital. I did, however, feel what I imagine to be similar ripple effects from shots of such. I felt more calm, more capable and happy with hope and anticipation for life’s next chapter(s) after shots of a different kind. All thrown back in Nashville, my new favorite city (for now).
A conversation with her:
There is nothing like a heart to heart conversation with an old friend to take the adhesive off a ‘stuck-feeling’ outlook. Thanks, Beth for a million years of friendship. I can see clearly now one should dream, prioritize, make a task list and act. Duh!! Thanks for not, saying ‘DUH’!!
I did my best to stick to my Ironman training plan by taking a ride on this:
Twice. For a total of 2.75 hours, 2 of which were in HR zone 4 and sometimes 5. The endorphins and sense of accomplishment is a hangover I welcome.
I did not have Justin Timberlake or Chris Stapleton (at least in the carnal sense) as they belted out the sweetness of strawberry wine. I did however spend the evening in the Country Music Hall of Fame for a business dinner and private concert (300 people) by him:
That’s Richie McDonald of Lonestar fame. Though they have many hits in their own right, I did not realize that he wrote Walking in Memphis, sung by Marc Cohn – which is one of my all time favorite songs. My maiden name is Handy, no relation to WT. I do however have a prayer in Memphis Nashville.
Here are some some after-effects of my 3 shots:
I bought boots.
I stayed out very, VERY late. (I did not drink Miller Lite – I am discerning.)
I opened my mind. I closed out the weekend with a beer. (I don’t like beer.)
That Fat Fire is for you, Beth. The actual epiphanies, that’s for a later post.
Do you practice yoga and train for long-ass races while on vacation?