This is Me in Grade Nine, Baby!

I am entering my twenty-first year as an educator, most years in high school, specifically in grade nine. Freshmen are my favorite group to teach. They have the perfect combination of silliness, dedication, and naivety. At the beginning of the year, they are overwhelmed by the size of the school and their classmates. By the end of the year, they have established themselves as hard-working, confident students. I love being a piece of this transformation, knowing that all of the blood, sweat, and tears I pour into these young adults is always worth it.

Michael and I on our first days of ninth grade.

Each year, as I hand out schedules and attempt to quiet nerves, I have always assured my freshmen that “by the end of next week, you will feel like you have been here forever.”

However, I need to offer a full apology and retract those statements. As a ninth-grade English teacher raising her ninth-grade son, I am becoming beyond aware of how hard the transition from middle to high school truly is on students.

I assumed there was no considerable difference between middle and high school. While students were no longer part of a middle school team, they were accustomed to changing classes and keeping track of assignments for various teachers. However, that is far from the case.

My son is well-adjusted and athletic, has great friends, and makes the honor roll. At the end of eighth grade, his teachers nominated him for a “Distinguished Student” award. My husband and I joke about this, wondering how two huge nerds produced effortlessly cool offspring. (I was editor of the school newspaper and performed in the Rocky Horror Picture Show. He played Dungeons and Dragons. The fact that the title of this post is a reference to a Barenaked Ladies song is a testament to my nerddome.) I naively assumed Michael would breeze into high school like it was no big deal. He has excellent academic and social skills and a mom who’s taught freshmen for over twenty years!

The night before the first day of school, Michael was fine. A few days prior, we had cleaned and filled his backpack with fresh school supplies. We’d attended the Chromebook swap, so he had a new computer. Most importantly, he had brand-new sneakers. He was ready!

When we arrived home after our first days, he insisted the day had been “fine” but didn’t elaborate. Little by little, tidbits came out: “When we were walking in, there were a lot of upperclassmen hanging around, kind of watching us with a ‘Get a load of these guys’ vibe. I’m lucky I’m tall. They assumed I was just a new kid.” The observations became more profound over the next few hours, revealing Michael’s overwhelming reaction to the first day. “Mom, my first period, I went to art. The teacher sat me next to a grown-ass man. Mom, this kid had a beard. They sat me next to a grown-ass man!” Even though I’d told him he’d have upperclassmen in his electives, it didn’t hit him until he shared a table with a student old enough to participate in the upcoming presidential election.

The observations came out in small bursts:

“I’m so tired, and we haven’t even started doing work yet.”

“I feel like I’m always forgetting something.”

“Now I know why Napoleon Dynamite wanted to go home.”

“I’m just trying not to look like a tourist walking around with my map.”

Over the next few weeks, Michael settled into the high school routine. We are halfway through quarter one. His lowest grade is 89 (in math). He loves his teachers, and they all told us how much they enjoyed having him in class at the open house. He has a routine for setting out clothes and ensuring his materials are ready so we can leave the house on time. He’s doing this while playing baseball three to five times a week.

After spending the last few weeks helping my child get acclimated to high school, I now know that I will be much gentler with my freshmen students, assuring them that the transition is challenging but they will come out just fine. My experiences at home helped me at school. Weeks into the school year, I check in with my freshmen. Many admit to still feeling overwhelmed and ill-prepared. Today, I commented to my students that they seem much more confident about the work than they did a few weeks ago. When I got home from school, Michael told me that he finally felt like he had high school figured out. Never again will I promise that “By the end of next week, you will feel like you’ve been here forever.:

The Best Week of the MLB Season

There are a few days that incite happiness for baseball fans. For some, it’s opening day. For others, it’s truck day or when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. This is my favorite week of baseball for two reasons: the Home-Run Derby and the MLB Draft.

To most, the MLB Draft is not newsworthy. For people who closely follow collegiate baseball, it’s huge! Every year, players we’ve watched grow during their college years get the call that will change their lives. Last year, Kolton Ledbetter, who coached Michael during camp sessions at the Newport Gulls, was drafted by the Rays. This week, the Oriels drafted Ethan Anderson, a player we watched during his first year of college. Collegiate players have changed Michael’s view of baseball. He interacts with and watches them intently, observing how they interact with each other and handle errors- their own and their teammates. He watches them eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the dugout, cheers for them as they play in holey baseball pants, and talks to them about their experiences, taking in any advice they offer him applicable to his journey. He brings them packages of cookies so they have treats before the game. Watching players we’ve known get the call that will change their lives forever is beyond exciting. The draft represents the opportunity to make your wildest dreams come true. It’s the reward for the years of practice, dedication, and sacrifice.

Honestly, the All-Star Game doesn’t matter to me. I’ll watch it, but I don’t follow it closely. For me, the magic happens the night before the All-Star Game in the Home Run Derby. Watching the Home Run Derby while the draft is still in progress makes it even better. These players swinging for the rafters were, not too long ago, players getting the call explaining they had the opportunity to achieve their wildest dreams. Being selected for the home run derby signifies reaching the highest performance level of the few people provided the opportunity to play in the MLB.

As much as I enjoy the first spring training games and the playoffs, this is my favorite week of the baseball season. I love hearing news of collegiate players earning an opportunity to make it to the show and watching our favorite MLB players show the height of their talents. This week represents everything we try to teach Michael about life: work hard, learn from mistakes, and strive to improve.

Peroneal Repair Surgery: Week Three

Observations:

This surgery was much easier than my Achilles. It was not nearly as painful. I had one rough day, but that was it.
However, this surgery, like the injury itself, delays the pain from too much movement until after the fact. I joked with my PT that it was like tequila, letting you know you’ve done too many hours later. I pay for it later if I move too much and jostle my foot in my cast.
Michael is a huge help. The surgery was on a Friday. On Tuesday, after helping with laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, Michael commented, “Mom does a lot.” He asks if I need help several times each day. I hate asking for help, but I’m getting better at it.
My kid is the most understanding teenager I’ve ever met. He didn’t complain when we canceled our vacation and gave up tickets to two new MLB stadiums and Green Day tickets. The kid is remarkably kind.
The timing of my last surgery was much easier for Michael. It was performed a week and a half before he went back to school. This time, surgery occurred the day after he got out for the summer. He’s stuck home with me.
Thank goodness I can drive this time.
The location of this surgery is different. The incision is on the outside of my foot. When it gets warm, which it has been, my foot sweats. When sweat hits the incision, it’s excruciating.
Mike has been a fucking rock star. He works an hour away from home. After working all day, he’s been taking Michael to the fields to practice baseball. Today, he got to work before 6:30 to leave early and take Michael to practice.
Getting outside each day is huge for my mental health.
Getting dressed in real clothes is also huge for my mental health.
There’s a lot of screen time, but I’m consciously staying on Apple News as much as possible rather than scrolling social media. I still manage to go days without opening Instagram.
Telling as few people as possible has been better for my mental health. I’m not concerned about who is or isn’t checking in. The people I know are in my closest circle, and they’re checking on me perfectly. I posted a story about my cast foot at the beach and deleted it twenty minutes later. I like being in my recovery bubble.
Kindles and Libby have made it overwhelming to select which book to read next.
We have almost every streaming service, but the TV stays on TBS most of the time. It’s easier than trying to pick out movies we will both want to watch. (While recovering from Achilles surgery, I watched every cheesy Rom-Com on Netflix.)
My backyard is beautiful. I’m so thankful that the previous owner created flowerbeds that we just need to maintain. And I’m sorry for anything we accidentally killed trying to figure out which plants were weeds and which were supposed to be there.
There’s a bone spur on the back of my left foot, almost as big as the one removed from my right (after it dug into and tore my Achilles). I know others have much worse problems, but I don’t want to do this a third time.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve gained five pounds since surgery. Add that to the five I’ve gained since my injury, and I’ve got my work ahead of me when I can start moving. I’m aware that the extra weight puts more stress on my body.
The AeroGarden I found at Savers for $6 last year has given me so much entertainment. I give poor Mike daily updates on my tomato babies. He’s the best and humors me with matched excitement.
I want to live my dog’s life. Banjo has it made and is always happy.
At this point, I’ve become an emotional houseplant; I move into and out of the sun and drink plenty of water.

Random Thoughts as I Prepare for (Another) Tendon Repair Surgery

Am I really postponing surgery for two weeks to take Michael to Fenway in hopes of meeting Bryce Harper? Hell, yeah, I am! And I hope it’s worth it!
Poor Mike will have to take care of everything for an entire summer (again).
Poor Michael will not have the summer we planned, even though we can have a few of our planned adventures.
How the hell did I get back here? I already recovered from this surgery, did all the PT, and worked to get back to normal. (insert pout here)
It’s my ankle. I will have pain for a few months, work through it, and move on with my life. It could be much worse. Remember how lucky I am.
After a few callbacks and biopsies, I’ve had three clear breast scans. Needing surgery on my ankle is the least scary outcome of this week’s doctor’s appointments and tests. I have no right to complain about having to have a tendon surgically repaired.
I’m going to watch so much television!
This time, while I’m recovering, I will read more books.
Even two and a half years post-surgery, my right leg is still skinnier than the left. At least the left will shrink while in a cast for six weeks.
I don’t want to start over again… I already did this work.
I’m almost positive this injury happened during a long run while training for NYC. Five miles into one of my best runs, I felt a pop and had to call Mike to get me. It was sore afterward, cramping if I pushed too far, making me scared to do more than a fast walk or slow jog so I could ensure I made it through the marathon.
My pain is real. Whenever I have such injuries, there is the fear of surgery and complications, but there is also the fear that there is nothing there and that this pain is something I’m exaggerating or imagining.
At least I already have the boot, so I don’t have to pay for another one.
Since I won’t be able to for the rest of the summer, I’m going to the beach as much as I can over the next three weeks.
Should I give up running? Do I want to go through surgery and rehabilitation and start over only to get hurt again?

How Much Lotion Does a Woman Need?

Alternatively: Wear the Damn Lipstick

First of all, I’m hoping people see the play of Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man.

Need?”

I recently discovered the term “de-influencing,” the idea of people encouraging others to live with less. In our materialistic society, this stuck with me. As much as I try not to get bogged down by “stuff,” especially in our tiny house, we are bogged down by stuff. Every few months, I sort through various sections of my house, looking for things we no longer use that I can donate. I love the feeling of dropping off bags of clothes or other various items at our local resale shops and donation centers.

De-influencing struck a chord. I buy things to try them, then refuse to get rid of them because I spent money on them. This is especially true with beauty products. Reels demonstrating the latest eye cream, wrinkle reducer, primer, or hair serum almost always convince me to purchase them eventually, especially if there’s a sale.

Over February break, I looked through the bathroom to inventory my stash. I had six different face lotions and five different eye creams. In the shower, I had four other face scrubs. Why do I need so many? The hoarding didn’t stop in the bathroom. I found a dozen water bottles in the pantry, demonstrating a time capsule of a decade of water bottle trends: Nalgene, Hydroflask, Yeti, and the Stanley Cup. (I am currently using the Owala and cannot oversell it!) We have squeeze-top water bottles that we bring to the gym or practice. We have water bottles designed to fit in the bike holder. I have dresses and skirts that I love but never wear because I’ve grown accustomed to wearing clothing with pockets and don’t want to wear these older pieces and worry all day that I’ve left my phone or my keys in a place where they will be misplaced. I sorted through my giant Caboodle, realizing that pairing down my products allows me to toss my beloved organizer.

While my house looks neat and orderly, we are full of stuff. I noticed this around Lent. So, even though I have not given up anything for Lent in four decades, I decided to give up superfluous spending for forty days just to see if I could. It started challenging- who knew how much your mind could focus on sales? I am a case study in marketing strategies. I unsubscribed from all promotional emails. When I went to CVS for a prescription, I skipped my usual detour up the cosmetics aisle to see if anything was on sale. I do not need to add to it when trying to lessen the abundance of lipsticks and eyeshadows cluttering my bathroom. I also went through my large Caboodle makeup organizer, discarding anything I hadn’t used in a year, even the expensive products I kept saving for a rare night out. I need to realize that, at this stage of life, I have no important events to save a fancy lipstick or perfume for; I just need to wear the four-year-old Urban Decay lipstick I just threw away.

I didn’t realize how much I was a marketer’s dream until I actively tried to reset my brain. One of my favorite old bands rereleased baseball t-shirts from their hit nineties album. I am a sucker for a baseball T-shirt! They were selling the shirts via Amazon, throwing free shipping into the deal! I quickly added a baseball shirt to my cart but caught myself while checking out. Did I need this? How much would I wear it? Was it different from the countless band T-shirts I try to rotate and wear enough to justify keeping?

Much like anything, the more you do it, the more it becomes a habit. I now delete and unsubscribe to marketing emails without opening them. As a result, I’m receiving fewer and fewer emails. On my last trip to Target, I did not spend extra time exploring the endcaps for clearance finds. When relaxing, I played word games on my phone rather than searching Amazon, Target, and other discount sites. It did seem weird not to have packages arrive almost daily, but I quickly adjusted.

This experience taught me that I am not only okay with less “stuff,” but the shift was more than I expected. I consider myself pretty good with money and was shocked by how much mindless spending I was guilty of. I appreciate not digging through my closet or drawers to get the items I love and wear most frequently. I like looking at our living room bookshelf, with fewer books and board games crammed into every space. These few weeks have helped me grow and understand the power “stuff” has over us. I’ve enjoyed the relief from removing items that no longer serve us.

How Our Favorite Musician Convinced Our Son to Aspire to Play Professional Baseball

A few weeks ago, we went to see Stephen Kellogg’s “Stand Up and Sit Down” show, in which he combines stand-up and musical performances. You are missing out if you have never attended a Stephen Kellogg show; his lyrics are profound, and he seems genuinely lovely. Michael put it best when he said, “He seems like someone you would invite to sit around the fire and drink White Claws with you and Dad.” (We are now White Claw people because our middle-aged stomachs no longer tolerate good craft beers.)
That night was our fifth Stephen Kellogg show. We made a night of it, visiting a local brewery for beer and BBQ before the show. When we arrived, we were overjoyed to see chairs; we would not need to stand all night! At the show’s beginning, SK assured us, “I’ll have you back on your couches, watching Netflix and scrolling your phones before you know it.” His shows begin with a montage of clips, one from a TED Talk he delivered years ago describing his desire to pursue music. During the talk, he quoted The Office: “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than at the top of a ladder you don’t.” I could see Michael, who referred to SK as the “lovesick guy with a guitar,” sitting up a little straighter and paying attention.

As always, the show was terrific. Mike and I noted that he played a few of our favorite songs, including “Thanksgiving,” harder than usual. On the ride home, we talked to Michael about the show. Michael, who had made fun of SK’s lyrics about love, is coming around. A few things have changed his mind, including an observation a few weeks earlier:
While driving home from Thanksgiving weekend in Maine, we stopped for gas. Two cars were clearly doing the split custody child hand-off in the corner of the parking lot. Michael has friends whose parents are divorced and is familiar with “at my dad’s” or “at my mom’s,” but this was the first time he witnessed the switch in real life. He sat, speechless. “Are you glad you have parents who still go to Smoochville?” I asked, referring to Michael’s teasing when Mike and I kissed. Michael was affected by witnessing this interaction, mentioning it a few times over the next few days.
This brings us back to the latest show we attended. SK talked about success and family at length. I could see Michael absorbing his words. SK’s words about success and following dreams struck a chord with Michael.
We’ve talked to Michael about high school for the past few months. His district offers several career paths. While Michael’s top dream is to replace Bryce Harper on the Phillies, he is also realistically interested in business. He’s currently taking a business elective and is enjoying every aspect of it. He talks about starting his own business or working in marketing or promotion for a company, preferably in a sports-related field.
I am a teacher. In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to spend my days surrounded by words. I (usually) love my job and cannot imagine doing anything else. I am also aware that if I did not marry an engineer, I would not have enough money to pay for the equipment and lessons that allow Michael to follow his aspirations. After twenty years of teaching, I know I make less money than an engineer fresh out of college.
Mike is an engineer. When he was unsure what he wanted to study, he spoke to a family friend, a bachelor who had all sorts of free time and “toys” (a plane, sports car, etc.). Mike decided on a major based on the projected earnings. He doesn’t dislike his job, but he is not always passionate about it.
While we chose our selected careers for different reasons, both offer stability and safety. We know what our days look like, when we will be working, what our days will look like, how much we will earn, etc. We have spreadsheets mapping out our retirement goals. We plan vacations based on visiting new baseball stadiums each summer. We selected fulfilling but safe pathways and are forever in awe of people who, like Stephen Kellogg, pursued his passions.
So here lies the dilemma as a parent: how much do we support an unrealistic dream? Yes, Michael is a talented player. He’s passionate, hardworking, and blessed with a build that supports hitting dingers. He studies stats and players, genuinely appreciating the art of playing baseball. He joined cross country to get faster, hoping he could progress from leading his team in doubles to leading his team in triples and home runs. At thirteen, he is hitting with the exit velocity of a sixteen-year-old. Do we encourage Michael to take the safe route and focus on business? Or do we encourage him to pursue his dream of being a homerun hitter for the Phillies, knowing the odds are not in his favor?
On the ride home from the show and throughout the rest of the evening, Michael continued to digest the words of the “lovesick guy with a guitar.”
“Did you hear what he said about the ladder?”
“Do you think I can play for a D1 school?”
“Do you think I could play for a collegiate team, even for a summer?”

He’s a talented player in a sea of gifted players. And right now, he’s a talented player who will give his all for the chance to make it to the show… while working on a degree in management or marketing. And, yes, Stephen Kellogg does appear to be someone we’d love to invite over to sit around the fire and drink White Claws; he’s also the person who convinced my son not to play it safe. He convinced Michael to pursue his dreams and climb the ladder he wants to climb. While we try to be realistic, we also entertain his conversations regarding selecting a walk-up song. He is completely confident about this, too. (His choice? Butter, by A Tribe Called Quest, a decision that also brings much pride.)

New York City Marathon Recap

Running a major marathon was something I never envisioned doing, but I have a medal to prove I did!

For years, I swore the universe would tell me when it was time to run the NYC Marathon. Each year, I would register for the lottery. Each year, I felt relief and disappointment when I was not selected.

I remembered about the selection this year when someone posted about it online. I checked my credit card throughout the day. Nothing. I was home with Covid and spent most of the day on the couch, idly surfing my phone. When I checked it one last time, there was a charge.

Holy crap! This was happening!

My first steps allowed me to shine where my strengths lie- certainly nothing involving running. Running the New York City Marathon requires so much planning. The race starts on Staten Island, so the first decision involves how to get there, either by bus or ferry. After reading blogs and learning that the ferry situation was a disaster the past few years, I decided to take the 6 am bus, even though it would get me there with hours to spare. I’d rather be early and find a spot to read a paperback than stress about being late.

My most challenging part of training was not the long runs, which is what you would expect to be difficult. My biggest struggle involved the short weekday runs. Michael is involved in cross country and baseball. He is also still attending physical therapy. So he had an activity every weekday. Although training was supposed to include multiple runs during the week, my training mainly consisted of long weekend runs.

My next situation involved where to stay. Since deciding to take the bus, staying near the New York Public Library bus pickup made sense. I found a small hotel and booked it immediately before prices increased due to demand.

I went into this marathon with one goal: to finish upright and uninjured.

The actual event exceeded all of my expectations. We arrived in the city Saturday around one and decided to divide and conquer. Mike and Michael went to the hotel to check in; I headed to the expo so that we were not lugging suitcases through the crowded expo. I refused to buy any finisher gear ahead of time and risk jinxing myself, so I purchased one T-shirt and headed out to look around. I refused to wait in the long lines; patience is not my strength. So, I did not get my picture taken with Elmo, in the NYRR props, or a few other cool opportunities. I did find my name on the wall. Like me, it was introverted and chose to hang out in the corner. My favorite moment was getting to meet Latoya Snell and Martinus Evans. I teared up a little.

I met up with the boys at the MLB Flagship Store. Seeing how Michael has grown since last visiting the city is funny. At our previous visit, he was all about the Nintendo Store. They spent over an hour scouring the jerseys, shirts, and hats. They found a hat representing the Salem Red Sox. Before heading to the city, the boys bought me a Mets hat to replace the Red Sox hat I usually wear while running. This hat, worn by my cousin’s son, seemed fitting. I was thankful they discovered it and hoped it would bring me good luck.

I had not made plans to eat anywhere in particular, so the next task was to find a good meal. Yelp directed us to Jackson Hole, which claimed to sell the best burgers in the city. (Cue the reference to How I Met Your Mother. “The best burger in New York comes from a place with a green booth and a picture of Regis Philbin.”) Jackson Hole did not disappoint! The burgers were huge. The fries were perfect. We ordered a deep cookie sundae for dessert. It was a perfect last dinner before the race.

I was terrified that I would not sleep, but sleep came easily. Daylight savings time ended that evening, which gave us an extra hour of sleep. It was interesting to hear people from other countries speak hesitantly about the time change as it is not recognized worldwide. It reminded me of high school seniors who attempt to sell first-year students rooftop pool passes. In all honestly, the concept does sound ridiculous.

New York, you well exceeded my expectations!

Being me, I made sure to be out of the house early. My bus was supposed to pick me up at 6, so I ensured I was there at 5:40. I was quickly yelled at to get in the correct line. The right line spanned three city blocks! When it started moving, the line also wrapped around a building. After waiting for over an hour, I was on a bus. My first instinct was to panic that I wouldn’t make it to the bus on time, but no one else seemed concerned.

My bus arrived on Staten Island around 8:00. The village was vast and confusing, so I stayed where I felt comfortable. I had heard they offered Dunkin coffee and bagels and set out to find caffeine. I’d also been told about the beanies Dunkin gives out and that they are a small, silly souvenir. I attached mine to the elastic strings that were supposed to hold gels.

The waiting was better than I hoped. I had three and a half hours to kill before I started running. I’d picked up a paperback, intending to donate it before entering the start. When I arrived, prime space was limited, but I could secure a spot by the ledge of a parking lot. I waited until the bathroom lines died down before attempting them. So, I had plenty of time to sit, eat a bagel, and read. After a while, I could even upgrade to a grassy spot leaning against a tree. Being me, I did not attempt small talk.

I was concerned about my old, cracked phone running out of battery, especially in the city, and had packed several portable batteries. I brought the paperback book to ensure I was not tempted to play on my phone for several hours and drain the battery. This was not an issue because there was so little service in the village that I put my phone on airplane mode. Just trying to send Mike a text would use several percentages of battery. I was able to call him to explain the situation quickly.

After several hours of waiting, I almost lost my motivation to run. By the time I was running, I’d been up for seven hours and out of the hotel for six! I also nearly had my steps in for the day- just over 9,000. I had already experienced a day’s worth of excitement! However, it was finally time to line up and get ready to run.

The bridge was everything I’d hoped it would be. It was fantastic and beautiful. I was fortunate enough to start on the top of the bridge. The views were spectacular! I do kind of wish I had bothered to place myself better in front of the cameras when passing the photographers. Seeing other peoples’ bridge photos makes me wish I had better ones and had shamelessly jumped in front of the camera and posed like the people around me did.

I’ve never experienced crowd support like I did at this race. It was overwhelming at times and made using headphones impossible and useless. Some people complained about spectators pulling down the blue tape and spilling onto the street, but I loved it. Seeing people treat you like a star was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It motivated me to run faster. By the time I went through Brooklyn, I had established myself as a back of the packer, so there weren’t too many of us trying to get through at once. When I see footage of faster waves, I can understand why people running with a particular time goal were frustrated.

The New York City Marathon requires running over five bridges; the bridges also allow quiet breaks to reflect before returning to the crowds, creating the perfect balance for reflection and excitement.

There was a November Project group at mile 14. I was emotional and drained, so seeing my friend Kerri at the moment was everything! I don’t know her very well, but I grabbed onto her and almost sobbed. As a fellow runner, she was pretty understanding. I saw my old friend Liz at mile 16 and a dear friend, Maria, right after. Knowing that they waited for me meant the world to me.

As always, the hardest part of the race came around mile 18, when you’re exhausted but still have many miles ahead of you. Surprisingly, they went by pretty quickly. Runners go through the Bronx and Queens at the end of the race. The energy was contagious and well-needed in the home stretch. Finally, I reached Central Park. I saw Michael and Mike at the last corner. By this point, I just focused on finishing the last bit of distance.

Crossing the finish line felt like everything I imagined. I’ve seen so many pictures of the area. I received my medal, then a cover-up jacket. As we wrapped up, my fellow finishers and I looked like a strange tribe of orange zombies. I wish I had the energy to take a picture; we were a sight!

My only hiccup came when trying to meet Michael and Mike. I knew the race sold spectator tickets but didn’t realize that the finisher’s area was closed, so they couldn’t get into Central Park. We tried to find each other, with Mike finally seeing my location from my phone and telling me to stay put. I leaned against a barrier. When I saw them, I stood up and passed out. Thankfully, Mike was there to make sure I was okay and get me back to my hotel.

I can now say that I have run a major marathon. I was not fast. I did not PR. But I set a goal and conquered it. Sometimes, getting through is the goal. And I reached my goal!

I’m Part of a Book Club, But The Other Members Have No Idea: An Anecdote about Social Anxiety

Putting myself out there has always been challenging for me. I hate unfamiliar social situations- and familiar ones as well. I constantly worry that I talk too much and hog the conversation or don’t talk enough and seem disinterested or snobby. I fear I will say the wrong thing, leading to me analyzing everything I said and every facial expression shared by everyone else in the group.

Realizing this anxiety should make me want to push myself to overcome this fear, but the exact opposite occurs. Over the years, I’ve retreated more than ever before. I keep a Keurig and a toaster in my classroom, so I never have to leave for lunch. I do not attempt to make plans with people. When the opportunity to make plans and be social arises, I usually back out at the last minute. I don’t think my social anxiety has always been this fierce. Covid didn’t help. Changes in social groups didn’t help. And here I am, focusing copiously on avoiding opportunities to make new friends.

Three years ago, friends were discussing books at a neighbor’s annual New Year’s Eve party. The idea for a book club was formed. I ordered and read the first books. When it was time for the meeting, I completely flaked out. What if I talked too much and came across as an overbearing know-it-all? What if I didn’t speak enough and seemed snobbish or disinterested? I continued to read the books, then chicken out when it was time to attend the meetings. I read Where the Crawdad Sings and other books agreed upon for each future meeting. But I never attended a single session.

Two years ago, an old friend from elementary school posted on Facebook that she was interested in starting a book club. We lost touch but go around the same fitness communities, and our boys are now attending the same middle school. It was an excellent way to meet people doing something I enjoy; I usually read a book a week- sometimes more. After mentioning that I was interested, she added me to a Book Club Facebook Group.

I started with the best intentions; I read every book, thinking of talking points as I read, reading books that generally would not get into my “Want to Read” pile, including the historical novel Lilac Girls. I noted the meetings and considered what I might want to bring to each event.

This is what social anxiety looks like. It’s a constant struggle to make myself show up to any sort of social event. Last month, I volunteered at the Boston Marathon. I didn’t sleep the night before, worrying about the fellow volunteers, familiar and unfamiliar with whom I would need to interact. What would my first impressions look like? Would I be awkward? Would I talk too much? Too little? What if I said something weird? I drove to the dropoff with a knot in my stomach. I was more than happy to spend the majority of the day filling thousands of cups of water, a job that, while very important, kept me away from the bulk of the action. I am happy I volunteered and look forward to signing up again next year, but I am also fully aware that doing so requires as much mental exertion as it does physical.

Now, I need to excuse myself so I can finish reading Lessons in Chemistry for the next meeting.

Kerri Runs a Marathon- Part Two

Every year, I register for the lottery to run the New York City Marathon. Even though 50,000 runners run through the boroughs on the first Sunday in November, only 2% of lottery applicants are accepted. So the odds are not in your favor that signing up for the lottery affords you acceptance. Each year, I look at my chances like fate; if I am meant to run another formal marathon, I will be selected. And each year, I check my credit card throughout the day, relieved and disappointed that the coveted charge from NYRR never appears. (NYRR tells people to do this as the confirmation emails are sent at the end of the day.)

This year, announcement day fell on a day I was home with Covid. This time, Covid hit me hard- fever, chills, low oxygen, the works. I had forgotten it was lottery day until someone posted about it. I checked my credit card statement. Nothing. I checked a few hours later. Nothing. I had begun to think I had again missed selection when I checked my card one more time. There was the pending charge, just two transactions above my $35 purchase at Crumbl Cookies.

Over the past few years, I have not been anything close to what I would consider a “real runner.” Will I ever really feel like one? Covid and injuries took their toll on my running mojo. However, I’ve had the running bug. My foot has healed completely; I need to find my motivation and run. I’ve had the itch to work towards another marathon and considered signing up for a virtual one. It’s not that I was against an in-person event. I was nervous about completing it alone, taking too long, and being swept.

Every year, when I sign up for the NYC Marathon lottery, I explain that fate tells me when to run a marathon. This is my year! My only goal for this year is to finish – preferably before the busses running the sweep come to offer me a ride to the finish line.

I am also aware that I am alone while training for this marathon. When I signed up for Philly, I signed up with a friend and promised we would tackle a lot of training together. No promises exist this time. I know that the mental portion of this round of training will be challenging, especially as I create a training schedule around Michael’s AAU baseball schedule.

The solo round will be different, But as I over plan for the weekend, book my hotel, and debate the important decision about getting to Staten Island via the very early bus or the ferry, I am nervously excited to embark on another round of marathon training!

Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life

Recently, I read Amy Krouse Rosenthal’s Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life. In the book, she writes her biography using the format of an Encyclopedia. It’s a fun format that made me think about things in my own life that I never considered noteworthy. I asked my creative writing students to produce their own versions and decided to write my own.

Cassette Liners

When I was younger, no moment held more possibility than unwrapping a new cassette tape. Would there be cool pictures of the artist? How would the artist(s) thank in their liner notes? (This would lead to me thinking about who I would thank in my future albums.) Would they write some funny anecdotes about the process of creating the album? Most importantly, would they include the lyrics? Before the internet, there were only two ways to solidify your favorite songs’ lyrics: memorizing them by ear or the artist kindly including them in the liner notes. Lyrics in the liner notes were the best surprise, even if it meant it was nearly impossible to refold the liner to fit neatly back into the case.

When cassettes did not include liner notes, I had to learn the lyrics by sitting in my room for hours, listening to the words. When rushing to learn the words, I would sit with a notebook and pencil, writing the lyrics. This is how I memorized the lyrics to REM’s It’s the End of the World as We Know It. It took me several days to get the lyrics down.

Additionally, because we could not Google any references, we didn’t know, ensuring the authenticity of deciphered lyrics posed another challenge.

Lenny Bruce is not afraid? Who even is Lenny Bruce?

Drummers

This weekend, I went to a live show. I noticed that the drummer did not have a clear plastic shield in front of the drum kit. One of my clearest childhood memories is watching a musical performance on tv and asking my mom why the drummer had a plastic shield in front of the kit. “Drummers spit a lot,” she said without hesitation. “It protects the other musicians.”

It wasn’t until I was 43 and attending a Mumford and Sons show that I suddenly realized that my mother had made it up. At every show I’ve attended since, I look for the shield over the drumkit and think of my mom. I cannot bring myself to look up the real reason, although I’m sure it has something to do with acoustics. I’ve also noticed the shield is more prevalent at larger venues. However, Foo Fighters never use one. I have no idea, but I want to let the mystery remain.