I am the brunt of a running joke in my house with this punch line: "Why don’t you write a letter?" This comment generally follows any incident or experience that leaves me feeling disappointed, disillusioned or downright disgusted. At face value, I suppose it is complimentary, as I have been known to write letters that get things done. My successful track record over the years includes coupons for free meals, free hotels and most recently, free chicken salad (the result of a complimentary letter). But there is a tone and taunting about this tag line that tinges on the sarcastic, with the unspoken part being why I should write a letter. Is it because I’m a principled person? Is it because a business might appreciate knowing what they are doing right or wrong? Or is it because I’m a raging lunatic who is never satisfied?
A few nights later I’m having dinner with friends when we order a round of drinks that sound delicious and look beautiful, but tasted like kerosene. "Beth, will you ask if we can get something different? You’re so good at that stuff." Hmm, what exactly is the ‘stuff’ I’m good at? Am I good at politely asking for help without being insulting? Am I good at speaking up for others when they are in an uncomfortable situation? Or am I just good at complaining?
Even in my volunteer life I am not immune from caustic compliments, as one generous supporter said he donated because I was ‘relentless’. Hmm, do you mean relentless as in passionate about the mission of the organization? Or relentless as in you donated so I would stop stalking you? His honest answer, delivered with smile, was "Perhaps a little bit of both."
Backhanded compliments are interesting as they can reveal something about both parties, intended or not. A good example of this is a co-worker who is half my age. Although he is very fit, he is not a runner. Still, he decided to run a half marathon with no training because, as he said, "If you can do, then I can do it". Hmm… as in, I’m a huge inspiration to you? Or as in, if I did it, then it can’t be that hard? The Monday morning after his hot and hilly run, he stopped by my office and dropped another backhanded bomb. "I was thinking of you during the race. I thought I was going to die, and I kept saying I can’t believe Beth ran a marathon!" Meaning you can’t believe I had the inner strength and endurance to accomplish such an impressive feat of athleticism? Or meaning you can’t believe a woman twice your age kicked your butt?
Women are particularly susceptible to these backhanded blunders. Because of our inherent insecurities, we’ve developed selective hearing that will zoom in on the one word that changes the intended compliment into an intentional assault. A young girl thought she was shooting me a compliment when she said "You dress cool for an older woman!" which my brain quickly shortened to "You…. old woman". In fact, any statement that begins by saying how beautiful, thin, fit, smart or stylish someone is, is immediately nullified when followed by the phrase "…for an older woman".
Thinking I’m getting too sensitive in my old age, I decide to stop reading so much into things, and be more accepting of compliments regardless of the form they come in. The litmus test comes as I’m playing with my friend’s granddaughter, who in between giggles tells me sincerely "You’re so pretty" followed by this kicker "…just like my grandma". And as my friend and I share a knowing look that feels both the pleasure and pain in that statement, I give her a big fat kiss and tell her that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Grasping for Words
Writing comes natural for me. Good, bad or mediocre, thoughts flood out of my brain like a stream overflowing its banks in a storm. Handwritten ‘chicken scratch’ notes full of to dos and not-to-forgets that only I can decipher are strewn all over my desk and car. People who know me know this about me, as I’ll often stop mid conversation to pull out a notepad and scribble down an idea.
Over the years, I’ve received not one, but three well intentioned gifts of mini voice recorders to make my life easier, two of them from the same person who forgot they already gave me one. The perfect gift for me, right? Wrong. Because while my thoughts travel from my brain to my writing hand in the express lane of the information highway, there seems to be a perpetual traffic jam on the route leading to my mouth.
I’m not talking about forgetfulness or a bad memory- that’s a topic for another article. This is the frustration when you absolutely, positively know the word you want to say, but can’t verbalize it. Perhaps it goes back to grammar school, where my stuttering required me to spend part of each day with a speech therapist, staring into a mirror sounding out my vowels. I eventually learned to speak slowly so my mouth could catch up with my brain, but lately the awkward pause between knowing what I want to say and saying it has become… excruciatingly… long. So long there could be three topic changes in the conversation before I finally say the word I was trying to say 20 minutes ago. So long you can now pull your short hair back into a ponytail. So long we now have a woman President.
Which pretty much rules me out for game shows like Jeopardy! where contestants ring in milliseconds after the phrase is read, confidently responding not just with the answer, but with the answer in the form of a question. And as Alex Trebek reads: "This poet took the road less traveled and that made all the difference" I change the station before they respond, but I know the answer. ‘Its what’s his name’ I think to myself, ‘that poet who wrote the other poem about woods and how tired he is or something like that. You know, the one who likes fences’. Finally, at 2 a.m. I awaken from a restless sleep and WHO IS ROBERT FROST? comes shooting out of my mouth in a tired triumph, seven hours too late for the bonus round.
This happens at the office also, as the staff participates in an impromptu brainstorming session when I innocently ask "Who was that guy who sold the sports directory a few years ago?" hoping to jog loose the name teetering on my memory shelf just out of reach. I quickly learn the danger of word association as a team sport, and pray no one at work ever forgets my name. "You mean that short guy who thought he was so cool?" "Wasn’t he the one who use to stink like onions?" "No, he she means that bald guy who use to fake call in sick every Monday." JOHN SMITH I finally scream emphatically as the name comes to me, mercifully putting a stop to this impromptu personality assassination.
As frustrating as this stalled speech pattern can be, when camouflaged as a well placed pregnant pause, it sometimes works to my benefit as people helpfully insert their thoughts which are often wittier than the words I was grasping for in the first place. In a way, I’ve become a walking Madlibs game, with my (adjective) friends inserting missing (plural noun) to complete my (adjective) thoughts. And when I say my friends know me so well they finish my sentences, I really mean it.
Over the years, I’ve received not one, but three well intentioned gifts of mini voice recorders to make my life easier, two of them from the same person who forgot they already gave me one. The perfect gift for me, right? Wrong. Because while my thoughts travel from my brain to my writing hand in the express lane of the information highway, there seems to be a perpetual traffic jam on the route leading to my mouth.
I’m not talking about forgetfulness or a bad memory- that’s a topic for another article. This is the frustration when you absolutely, positively know the word you want to say, but can’t verbalize it. Perhaps it goes back to grammar school, where my stuttering required me to spend part of each day with a speech therapist, staring into a mirror sounding out my vowels. I eventually learned to speak slowly so my mouth could catch up with my brain, but lately the awkward pause between knowing what I want to say and saying it has become… excruciatingly… long. So long there could be three topic changes in the conversation before I finally say the word I was trying to say 20 minutes ago. So long you can now pull your short hair back into a ponytail. So long we now have a woman President.
Which pretty much rules me out for game shows like Jeopardy! where contestants ring in milliseconds after the phrase is read, confidently responding not just with the answer, but with the answer in the form of a question. And as Alex Trebek reads: "This poet took the road less traveled and that made all the difference" I change the station before they respond, but I know the answer. ‘Its what’s his name’ I think to myself, ‘that poet who wrote the other poem about woods and how tired he is or something like that. You know, the one who likes fences’. Finally, at 2 a.m. I awaken from a restless sleep and WHO IS ROBERT FROST? comes shooting out of my mouth in a tired triumph, seven hours too late for the bonus round.
This happens at the office also, as the staff participates in an impromptu brainstorming session when I innocently ask "Who was that guy who sold the sports directory a few years ago?" hoping to jog loose the name teetering on my memory shelf just out of reach. I quickly learn the danger of word association as a team sport, and pray no one at work ever forgets my name. "You mean that short guy who thought he was so cool?" "Wasn’t he the one who use to stink like onions?" "No, he she means that bald guy who use to fake call in sick every Monday." JOHN SMITH I finally scream emphatically as the name comes to me, mercifully putting a stop to this impromptu personality assassination.
As frustrating as this stalled speech pattern can be, when camouflaged as a well placed pregnant pause, it sometimes works to my benefit as people helpfully insert their thoughts which are often wittier than the words I was grasping for in the first place. In a way, I’ve become a walking Madlibs game, with my (adjective) friends inserting missing (plural noun) to complete my (adjective) thoughts. And when I say my friends know me so well they finish my sentences, I really mean it.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Marathon Soundtrack
You see them every day; runners with little white buds stuck in their ears, the dangling cord bouncing merrily with their stride, leading to a box strapped to their arm or tucked into clothing. Inside that box are hundreds of songs, meticulously selected to make the miles go by faster. Not every runner needs a soundtrack, and many- like myself- would prefer to share the miles with friends. But as I stand on the starting line of the Eugene, Oregon marathon in early May with 26.2 miles in front of me, my only running companions are my goal of qualifying for Boston, and my ipod shuffle.
The starting gun goes off, the ipod goes on, and Whitney Houston reminds me I have just one moment in time, when I’m more than I thought I could be. Inspired, I start off a tad bit too fast, and spend the next few miles trying to reign in my enthusiasm so I don’t burn out too early.
At mile six I feel fantastic, as Eminem asks me if you had one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted- would you capture it or just let it slip? Capture it! I yell aloud to confused faces around me. At 13.1 miles, Bon Jovi belts out Ohh, we're half way there, woah livin' on a prayer…we'll make it - I swear and I take that as a positive sign that this day will go even better than expected. After 16 miles of tranquil green parks that wrap around the meandering Willamette River, I’m doing so well I envision the surprised face of Doug as I cross the finish line well under my goal time, waving victoriously to We Are The Champions by Queen.
But at mile 20, my energy wanes, and my pace slows. The cushion time I banked early on begins to fade away, as I question everything from my training, to my diet to whether there really is a God, because I could use a sign right about now. As I struggle to keep a positive attitude, a runner comes up from behind, gives me a half hug, and says "I’ve been watching you- you’re doing great". Not waiting for an answer, she continues on, as I notice the name on her bib is LAURA- my friend who passed away that same week. As if my ipod can read my mind, Train sings I need a sign to let me know you're here… I'm calling all you angels and I promise along with the lyrics that I won't give up if you don't give up, because if an angel made the effort to come down and lead me to the finish line, the least I can do is follow her.
And follow her I do. Over the final 6.2 miles I kept that angel in the green shirt in my line of vision. This despite a feeling of nausea I could not shake, calf cramps and Steven Tyler taunting me to Walk This Way. Wondering what I was thinking when I downloaded that song, I click forward only to hear I hope someday you’ll get the chance to live like you were dyin’. How appropriate, because I feel like I’m ready to keel over right about now. With three miles to go, my average time is dead on to what I need to maintain for the rest of the race, a task that seems increasingly impossible. I test my commitment by walking a few steps, until Nickelback reminds me every second counts cause there's no second try. Thankful for the reminder, the angel in the green shirt and I trot on.
At 26.1 miles, I pass through the gates of historic Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. There is no victory wave, just my stoic face fixed on the giant clock over the finish line that confirms I’ve arrived two minutes too late and ticking. I feel like a bride jilted at the altar, dragging a 26.2 mile train of disappointment behind me. How could my own body stand me up like this? I reach down to shut off my ipod, but not before Christina Aguilera whispers After all you put me through, you'd think I'd despise you, but in the end I wanna thank you 'cause you made that much stronger. Thanks for making me stronger, but I wish I was two minutes faster instead.
Although I’ve never had a baby, I imagine it is similar to running a marathon. Despite months of physical and mental preparation, the actual experience is so much harder than you imagine. And when your body is screaming ‘what did you make me do?!’ you swear you’ll never put yourself through that pain again. But when you see the positive outcome of your efforts, a spontaneous rush of joy comes over you, erases all your pain, and Stevie Wonder sings Isn’t She Lovely. For me, that moment came as I hobbled over to retrieve a printout of my net time (the actual time based on when you crossed the starting line), and through my salt caked, sweaty eyes, I see the magic number 4:05:50. That’s four hours, five minutes and 50 seconds- good enough to qualify for Boston with just 9 seconds to spare. A lovely sight indeed.
My marathon playlist:
Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now, McFadden & Whitehead
Ali In the Jungle, The Hours
All Star, Smashmouth
Amazing, Aerosmith
Authority Song, John Mellencamp
Bad, Michael Jackson
Calling All Angels, Train
Don't Rain On My Parade, Glee Cast
Don't Stop Me Now, Queen
Everyday, Bon Jovi
Fighter, Christina Aguilera
Fire Burnin, Sean Kingston
Gives You Hell, The All American Rejects
Going the Distance, Cake
Gotta Be Somebody, Nickelback
Have a Little Faith in Me, John Hiatt
I'll Be Missing You, Puff Daddy
I Got You Babe, Sonny & Cher
I Gotta Feeling, Black Eyed Peas
I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor
If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher
If Today Was Your Last Day, Nickelback
Independent Women Part 1, Destiny's Child
Its a Beautiful Day, U2
It's My Life, Bon Jovi
Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down
Live Like You Were Dying, Tim McGraw
Livin' On A Prayer, Bon Jovi
Lose Yourself, Eminem
Musta Got Lost, J. Geils Band
My Time, Fabolous
My Way, Frank Sinatra
One Moment In Time, Whitney Houston
Run This Town, Rihanna & Kanye West
Say Hey (I Love You), Michael Franti and Spearhead
Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It), Beyoncé
Survivor, Destiny's Child
That's Not My Name, The Ting Tings
Touch of Grey, Grateful Dead
Tubthumping, Chumbawamba
Viva la Vida, Coldplay
Walk This Way, Aerosmith
Wanna be Startin Something, Michael Jackson
We Are The Champions, Queen
Whoomp There It Is, Tag Team
Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd
Without Me, Eminem
100 Years, Five For Fighting
Have an inspiring running tune to share? Send it along to newsgirl01970@yahoo.com.
The starting gun goes off, the ipod goes on, and Whitney Houston reminds me I have just one moment in time, when I’m more than I thought I could be. Inspired, I start off a tad bit too fast, and spend the next few miles trying to reign in my enthusiasm so I don’t burn out too early.
At mile six I feel fantastic, as Eminem asks me if you had one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted- would you capture it or just let it slip? Capture it! I yell aloud to confused faces around me. At 13.1 miles, Bon Jovi belts out Ohh, we're half way there, woah livin' on a prayer…we'll make it - I swear and I take that as a positive sign that this day will go even better than expected. After 16 miles of tranquil green parks that wrap around the meandering Willamette River, I’m doing so well I envision the surprised face of Doug as I cross the finish line well under my goal time, waving victoriously to We Are The Champions by Queen.
But at mile 20, my energy wanes, and my pace slows. The cushion time I banked early on begins to fade away, as I question everything from my training, to my diet to whether there really is a God, because I could use a sign right about now. As I struggle to keep a positive attitude, a runner comes up from behind, gives me a half hug, and says "I’ve been watching you- you’re doing great". Not waiting for an answer, she continues on, as I notice the name on her bib is LAURA- my friend who passed away that same week. As if my ipod can read my mind, Train sings I need a sign to let me know you're here… I'm calling all you angels and I promise along with the lyrics that I won't give up if you don't give up, because if an angel made the effort to come down and lead me to the finish line, the least I can do is follow her.
And follow her I do. Over the final 6.2 miles I kept that angel in the green shirt in my line of vision. This despite a feeling of nausea I could not shake, calf cramps and Steven Tyler taunting me to Walk This Way. Wondering what I was thinking when I downloaded that song, I click forward only to hear I hope someday you’ll get the chance to live like you were dyin’. How appropriate, because I feel like I’m ready to keel over right about now. With three miles to go, my average time is dead on to what I need to maintain for the rest of the race, a task that seems increasingly impossible. I test my commitment by walking a few steps, until Nickelback reminds me every second counts cause there's no second try. Thankful for the reminder, the angel in the green shirt and I trot on.
At 26.1 miles, I pass through the gates of historic Hayward Field at the University of Oregon. There is no victory wave, just my stoic face fixed on the giant clock over the finish line that confirms I’ve arrived two minutes too late and ticking. I feel like a bride jilted at the altar, dragging a 26.2 mile train of disappointment behind me. How could my own body stand me up like this? I reach down to shut off my ipod, but not before Christina Aguilera whispers After all you put me through, you'd think I'd despise you, but in the end I wanna thank you 'cause you made that much stronger. Thanks for making me stronger, but I wish I was two minutes faster instead.
Although I’ve never had a baby, I imagine it is similar to running a marathon. Despite months of physical and mental preparation, the actual experience is so much harder than you imagine. And when your body is screaming ‘what did you make me do?!’ you swear you’ll never put yourself through that pain again. But when you see the positive outcome of your efforts, a spontaneous rush of joy comes over you, erases all your pain, and Stevie Wonder sings Isn’t She Lovely. For me, that moment came as I hobbled over to retrieve a printout of my net time (the actual time based on when you crossed the starting line), and through my salt caked, sweaty eyes, I see the magic number 4:05:50. That’s four hours, five minutes and 50 seconds- good enough to qualify for Boston with just 9 seconds to spare. A lovely sight indeed.
My marathon playlist:
Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now, McFadden & Whitehead
Ali In the Jungle, The Hours
All Star, Smashmouth
Amazing, Aerosmith
Authority Song, John Mellencamp
Bad, Michael Jackson
Calling All Angels, Train
Don't Rain On My Parade, Glee Cast
Don't Stop Me Now, Queen
Everyday, Bon Jovi
Fighter, Christina Aguilera
Fire Burnin, Sean Kingston
Gives You Hell, The All American Rejects
Going the Distance, Cake
Gotta Be Somebody, Nickelback
Have a Little Faith in Me, John Hiatt
I'll Be Missing You, Puff Daddy
I Got You Babe, Sonny & Cher
I Gotta Feeling, Black Eyed Peas
I Will Survive, Gloria Gaynor
If I Could Turn Back Time, Cher
If Today Was Your Last Day, Nickelback
Independent Women Part 1, Destiny's Child
Its a Beautiful Day, U2
It's My Life, Bon Jovi
Kryptonite, 3 Doors Down
Live Like You Were Dying, Tim McGraw
Livin' On A Prayer, Bon Jovi
Lose Yourself, Eminem
Musta Got Lost, J. Geils Band
My Time, Fabolous
My Way, Frank Sinatra
One Moment In Time, Whitney Houston
Run This Town, Rihanna & Kanye West
Say Hey (I Love You), Michael Franti and Spearhead
Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It), Beyoncé
Survivor, Destiny's Child
That's Not My Name, The Ting Tings
Touch of Grey, Grateful Dead
Tubthumping, Chumbawamba
Viva la Vida, Coldplay
Walk This Way, Aerosmith
Wanna be Startin Something, Michael Jackson
We Are The Champions, Queen
Whoomp There It Is, Tag Team
Wish You Were Here, Pink Floyd
Without Me, Eminem
100 Years, Five For Fighting
Have an inspiring running tune to share? Send it along to newsgirl01970@yahoo.com.
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