Smartly Chicago

Marriage?

September 3, 2010 By Newtritionista 5 Comments

So here are my thoughts about getting married at a young age…

Once you’re married, then what? Have kids? Screw that!

We are in our low to mid twenties! Who wants kids now? Heck, I can barley even take care of myself let alone a child. I can’t even get a pet fish for crying out loud!

Sometimes I wonder about all those people who choose to get engaged or married at a young age. I wonder if they ever think that they are missing out…not taking advantage of what this city has to offer…

So many young women say to me “I’m so ready to get married, I hate going out, I hate drinking, I just like to sit at home and cuddle.” Yeah, sitting at home and cuddling is great when it’s WINTER. Just because you just so happen to be ready to get married doesn’t mean you can’t have fun, and by fun I don’t mean going out and getting wasted with your single friends.

Fun meaning, trying new restaurants, going to concerts, getting away for a weekend, renting a boat or jet ski and riding around on the lake, having a BBQ or my personal favorite BeerBBQ (oh yes, I forget miss “I’m ready to get married” doesn’t drink anymore)

When did those twenty-something people stop having fun and start being lame?

Do people want to settle down and get married at a young age so they can say they were the first ones?!

I’m just sayin… you don’t want to look back on your life and feel like you missed out since you got married at a young age, because…well…that’s what people do when they have been dating for X amount of years.

Final thought: you should be married to yourself before you marry someone else. You don’t want to look back and think you don’t know who you are married to this person because you don’t even know yourself.

You can read more from Newtritionista at her personal site here.

Filed Under: Opinion

An enigma: American dating

September 2, 2010 By AuroreLabenheim 2 Comments

You are a foreigner.
You come to the US for the first time.
You are single.

So far, so good.

You are excited to land on the Promise Land because frankly who doesn’t want to add a nice Yankee – tall, tanned, lean, muscular, baseball obsessed and hormone-fed – to its list of conquests?!?

Note 1: the list of adjectives works for both sexes. This posting is very theoretical and therefore has to stay as general as possible for scientific purposes.
Note 2: ‘list of conquests’ would totally work in French as well but I would have more likely used tableau de chasse, hunting board – as if you were collecting your lovers heads as trophies. Like a Black Widow, if you will. Or a mad scientist. A serial dater? Kinda scary stuff, right?
Note 3: please don’t be offended by the use of ‘Yankee’ – it’s meant in a endearing way. ‘Cause I love y’all. I really do.

So once you have recovered from jet-lag, refreshed your pick up skills (and vocab), flossed (a MUST in the US but not really everywhere else, please don’t be grossed out and give us a chance anyway) and sharpened your best weapon (see the soundness of the ‘hunting board’ idea?!?) aka your accent, you go out.

If you are lucky it doesn’t take you toooooooooooooooooo long to meet someone nice, talk, maybe kiss at the end of the night and BAM!!!!!!!

You just entered the dating game.

But you have no clue about it. Because ‘dating’ as a concept doesn’t exist in your country. It sure doesn’t exist in France. We don’t even have a word for it, much less rules. Dammit.

What are you supposed to do? Just cry loudly and curse Cupid for screwing everything up? Well – if you watched enough movies and/or sitcoms all is not lost to you. You can rack your memory and think about what your favorite character did in the said situation. Or ask around. But don’t expect to be pleased by the responses you’ll get.

As far as I know things in French work in two different ways (at least they did 10 years ago):

You just want to get laid, go to a bar/club/_______ and are pretty blatant about it.
You are looking for love, romance, sparkles, butterflies and all that, and it might be a little more difficult and time-consuming to get the message across but – still – not impossible.

Of course since you have to start somewhere, you usually go on a first date. A rendez-vous. And of course things are not that different from what a first date in Chicago would be. You laugh, you talk, you try to seduce, you flutter your eyes and touch your hair, maybe brush a foot against a leg.

But usually – and again things might have changed since my old days – you don’t have to worry about the “Are we exclusive?” bit. I mean – what the heck is that?!?!? Isn’t it difficult enough already? finding someone interested in you, willing to take you out more than a couple times without getting upset if the big ta-da isn’t happening right away – now you have to wonder if you are the only one in the game?!?!? Is it some sort of fool-proof warranty? Do you need to go on a test drive before choosing which car you want to ride?

Flash news: it’s ok to dump someone after a couple of days, weeks or months if you don’t like it. Really, it is. You don’t have to keep ‘one’ handy, just in case. It’s just……….wrong.

Come on, dudes!

And what about the ‘label’?!? Why is it so wrong to call him or her your boyfriend/girlfriend? I cannot think of more non-committal than that…except maybe ‘the one I am currently going out with, laughing with, having dinner and stormy sex with but which I just started seeing a week/month ago so we are not engaged yet’. Relax. Save your breath and stay awake from the headache. Boyfriend/girlfriend is just FINE.

But I guess I am either too foreign or too stoopid (and too married) to play the game anyway. Good luck to all the others and let me know if you figure things out. I am all ears.

Filed Under: Uncategorized

A girl I know

September 1, 2010 By Lauren Navratil 5 Comments

There’s a girl I know. She’s like me. I’m talking eerily just. like. me.

Penelope and I became instant friends. Both new to the blog world, we found each other as 2009 was coming to an end. Reading each other’s blogs, we found so many similarities between us that we couldn’t help but start emailing, then instant messaging, then texting, then meeting in person, then missing each other.

I’ve known Penelope for less than a year. And actually, we haven’t communicated as much as either of us would like, but for no reason other than the fact that we are so much alike that we understand each other’s crazy busy schedule and almost feel more connected by the fact that we are connected despite the fact that we aren’t connected. Did I lose you there?

As I was saying… I’ve known Penelope for less than a year. But I’m certain I’ve made a lifelong friend in her. For your amusement, allow me to share some of our similarities:

♥ We are both young single moms of boys; mine four years old, hers five.

♥ We both married the wrong guy, figured it out when our boys were little, divorced amicably and have a peaceful co-parenting relationship with our exes.

♥ Neither of us could tell you where our debit card is. Wait. Yes we could. In fact, we could tell you where the other’s debit card is. It is in the back pocket of the jeans she wore last night, or in the purse she used yesterday, or in the pocket of the hoodie she left on her office chair. (You’re welcome, Pen. I know you were looking for it!)

♥ We both love cabernet sauvignon and micro brews.

♥ We both overbook our schedules and overload our to-do lists, then wonder why we can’t get everything done despite the fact that we’re busy all day long.

♥ We have very similar philosophies on life, love and parenting.

♥ And now for the weird stuff. Once we realized we had all these things in common, we started talking more, and learning more about each other. Here are some similarities we discovered:

♥ We are both HR managers for manufacturing companies.

♥ We are both Jesus freaks.

♥ Penelope switched to WordPress shortly after we “met.” When she launched her new blog, it was on the same theme as my blog was when I first switched to WordPress, before we knew of each other. She announced her launch, and I nearly spit my wine on my laptop when her new site came up on the screen.

♥ We have both been pulled over on more than one occasion for an expired license plate and used the “my husband used to handle that” excuse — it worked, and we charmed and befriended the police officer before getting off scot-free.

And here’s how we’re not alike:

♥ Penelope is shorter, younger, in way better shape, more fashionable and downright hotter than me.

♥ Penelope lives by the beach.

♥ Penelope has fallen in love with a wonderful man… WHO LIVES IN HER HOME TOWN! (No, I don’t envy her — that wouldn’t be very Christian of me. Lucky b*!%#!)

♥ Penelope likes to plan events and entertain; I like to go to events and be entertained.

♥ Penelope’s son doesn’t eat McDonald’s; Braden has every Marvel Hero that’s been released.

And here is what I love most about her:

♥ Penelope radiates.

I’ve been so pleasantly surprised by some of the unexpected connections I’ve made through my blogging experience, but my friendship with Penelope is certainly the most significant. If I never blogged another day, I’d be satisfied with having found her through the experience.

Love you, Pen. xoxo

Click here to learn more about Penelope.

Filed Under: Misc Tagged With: blogging, frienship

Narsty face

August 31, 2010 By Newtritionista 2 Comments

I overheard some ladies chatting on the el about how narsty looking their friend’s new boyfriend is… I couldn’t engage in this conversation clearly because they had no idea who I was and it would be weird having some random chick jump into their boyfriend bashing.

Anyhow… when I overheard this discussion about this guy three questions came to mind… does he treat her well? Does he make her happy? Does he make her laugh? All very important qualities of a “narsty” looking guy.

What exactly is a narsty looking guy?

It doesn’t matter if this guy is cute or not… if he doesn’t have a personality he’s screwed! Personality can really make or break someone- obviously.

I like to call men with no personality vanilla.

To be honest, I would rather date an okay looking guy that an awesome personality than a gorgeous dud.

I sure hope this narsty boyfriend is not vanilla… otherwise he really doesn’t have anything going for him.

Of course attraction is one of the most important aspects of a relationship but what if women are just in relationships with narsty looking guys just because they want a boyfriend SO bad?!

Are some women really that desperate enough to just take anyone because they don’t want to be stuck single and 30? Don’t get me wrong, single and 30 is the new hot thing. I’m just sayin…

My point, why rush? You only live once… you don’t want to look back and think to yourself “I never had enough,” because you decided to marry narsty face because that’s what twenty-something people do.

If you are single, embrace it… hopefully it will be only time in your life when you are.

You can read more from Newtritionista at her personal site here.

Filed Under: Misc

Reward or responsibility: Why do you do what you do?

August 30, 2010 By MelanieMyatt 5 Comments

We have just instituted a new “chores” policy at our house. Each of the kids have a set of craft sticks with their chores written on them. Each day that they complete all their chores, they receive a “golden” stick. Earn ten sticks and you can either pick out something at the dollar store or have a special time with mom or dad. Sounds good, right?

My friend takes issue with this policy because she thinks that a chores system should not be rewards-based. In her view, kids need to learn a sense of responsibility so they should not be rewarded for things that they have a duty to do.

I am torn. I was listening to the radio and heard an ad to donate blood. Those who donated would be eligible to win tickets to a local baseball game. I think it is great to reward people for good behavior or noble actions but have we reached a place where we will only do something if we are rewarded for it? Are people now unwilling to do something important like donating blood unless there is something in it for them?

I grew up in a household that firmly espoused a strong Protestant work ethic. If you factor in that we were Dutch Protestants than you know we really learned the value of hard work. My parents’ parents both emigrated from the Netherlands, arriving here with nothing but a passel of kids. Both families lived the pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps reality. Needless to say, my sister and I both grew up with the knowledge that hard work can (supposedly) take you anywhere.

Of course I want my children to learn the value of hard work. I want them to experience the satisfaction of a job well done, without feeling like they need something external in addition. I also see, however, that as adults, we are rewarded for hard work (usually) by a pay check. Hard work in college earns you a degree that (hopefully) will help you find gainful employment. Working to save one’s money means having the freedom to purchase fun “extras” and, eventually, a restful retirement.

Unfortunately, we live in a neighborhood where this scenario doesn’t always play out. People around here work hard just to barely scrape by. The needs are great around here and hard work is just plain necessary for survival. Rewards, if there are any, are rare and sometimes hard to recognize. Even in my description of adult life above I felt the need to add qualifiers. The truth is we don’t always receive the “rewards” of our dreams. If we reward our kids for their work, are we setting them up to believe in a system that may just let them down?

For now, we are sticking with the system. At this point we have decided that the reward is small enough not to set them up for a life of expectancy. Through our example and in other areas of life, we will try to promote the values of hard work as its own reward.

Hopefully at some point they will learn that there is not always someone standing by ready to hand out a golden craft stick.

photo by AComment

You can read more from Melanie on her personal site here.

Filed Under: Parenting, Uncategorized Tagged With: Melanie Myatt rewards responsibility

Let us forget restaurants, just for one night…

August 28, 2010 By AuroreLabenheim 2 Comments

“Dinner for Schmucks” is apparently the hit comedy this summer.
Surprised?!?
I am.

And a little bit angry.
I just don’t like remakes.
Especially when the original version is just fine, thank-you-very-much, I mean, merci beaucoup.

I didn’t think that Le diner de cons could have made it onto the American big screen. It is an essential French comedy, heavily based on dialogue and play on words, defined by a confined, huis clos like atmosphere much closer to filmed theater than real cinema. Très français.

In Le diner de cons the main event actually never happens. Watch the movie if you want to know why. I promise it is worth it, and yes, you can handle the subtitles. But still – dinner is at the center of things.

And this is what is interesting to me.

Dinner.

More specifically, dinner parties.

They are an endangered species. Dinner as a social activity is almost exclusively taken out, involves restaurant reservations, expensive drinks beforehand, the very limited intimacy of a public dining room, tax, tips and taxi fare.

Why?!?!?

I hosted my last real dinner – the one that involves hours of thinking, browsing, prepping, cooking and a serious dosage of stressing out, cuts and minor burns – last April for a few friends. Cheese soufflé, canard à l’orange with a twist and a velvety red wine sauce, gratin dauphinois, bundles of haricots verts and an Apple tarte tatin. French and elegant.

I had a blast, and everybody chimed in to say that we should definitely do this more often.

Meaning it, I believe.

I don’t know if the general disaffection for hosting dinner parties is an American phenomenon, or if it is a sign of our modern society obsessed with efficiency, time management and immediate satisfaction. In my early twenties, while I was still living in France I would go to friends’ houses on a regular basis for long nights of food, drinks, laughter, games and endless conversations. We were all broke, so we were not going out; restaurants were reserved for special occasions and were usually family affairs. Anyway – the world was ours. We would leave, exhausted and slightly inebriated in the wee morning hours. Sometimes even had breakfast together. I cherish these long-gone moments and fondly remember them as the best times of my life.

So allow me to be a little old-fashioned here. I truly think that we, as a society, could really do with a little more warmth, conviviality and generosity in our lives.

Let’s face it: we all need it.

These last ten years were filled with dinners as well, but of a total different kind. Potlucks and barbeques replaced the elaborate home-cooked meals I was previously used to. You still get together, have fun and a good time but in that new scenario, every single guest get involved in the process. The host is – literally – just hosting and therefore not slaving in the kitchen for hours. Quick, cheap, simple and efficient. In a word – modern.

This is all good and well. However there are few things I love more in life than getting everything ready for my guests. I get up early, make a mental list of the things that need to be done, and get busy. Chopping vegetables, rolling pastry dough, searing meat, reducing sauces and whisking vinaigrettes, whipping, baking, sautéing, tasting. A feast for the senses. The house comes alive.Your pets are begging for scraps and your partner digs his finger in the chocolate coulis, just to make sure. The music is on, you are singing along while checking the clock. The counter top is a mess, just like your face smudged with flour, fruit juice and pearls of sweat. You don’t even have to put on your best Julia Child’s apron and shoot for something fancy. Just make something yourself with your own hands. A lasagna. Your family ragout. Get involved. Be creative. Have fun. Forget just for once to ask your friends to bring dessert. Buy your wine. Leave the barbeque for next week and get behind the stove. Set up a nice table with napkins, a table centerpiece and a bouquet of fresh flowers.

Just give some lovin’.

It is so incredibly rewarding.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Nostalgia, Uncategorized

You are not Dave Matthews

August 27, 2010 By Faux Trixie 13 Comments

I was watching The Bachelor Pad last night, which, by the way, may be the most deplorable television show ever created. It’s like Survivor, without any surviving and way more making out and screwing around with people’s emotions. It’s like a train wreck; you don’t want to look but you can’t. turn. away.

But I digress. This is not a post about The Bachelor Pad. However, during last night’s episode, one of the ex-frat-boy contestants was serenading one of the model-waitress-hooker-actress contestants. She swooned, and in her voiceover, she explained how emotional and powerful the moment was.

Yeah, right.

For whatever reason, I have dated a lot of hipster guys. You know the type: listens to indie rock, wears vintage blazers and t-shirts, rocks a goatee, drinks red wine even though he’s a dude, and waxes poetic for hours on end about the genius of Bret Easton Ellis. You know what else these guys always did?

Played guitar.

You know what they always wanted to do?

Serenade me.

You know what?

It was never sexy. It was never emotional or powerful. Instead, it was always… incredibly…

Awkward.

Here’s how the typical serenade usually plays out:

You’re with the guitar player (hereinafer “GP”). You’ve been out, or maybe you stayed in, and you’ve hopefully been imbibing. You sat through the boring movie on the couch, with the flutter in your stomach, knowing a heavy make-out session will soon commence. You’re slightly buzzed, maybe even fully drunk.

You and GP start getting cozy, and you think he’s going to lean in and kiss you. Instead? He grabs his acoustic guitar.

If it’s your first time getting serenaded, you think, “how romantic!”

And then GP starts.

It’s usually a Dave Matthews song. That’s easiest and most cliche (don’t get me wrong. I love the Dave Matthews Band, but c’mon? Say Goodbye? How obvious is that?). GP clumsily plucks the strings of an out-of-tune guitar. He lacks coherent rhythm because he doesn’t realize how hard it is to actually play a song written by a professional guitar player, and the last time he checked, he’s not Slash.

You sit there, awkwardly taking it in, wondering how to react, particularly because, in part, you want it to end so you can start that much-anticipated make out session. The other part? Well, GP isn’t good. You smile coyly, looking lost in thought like you’re really into the music. He’ll never know you’re faking it, right? Maybe he’ll stop if you don’t talk or otherwise engage.

But no. He thinks you like it. So, he starts to SING.

GP clearly does this for a hobby, because not only is his guitar playing awkward, he sounds like a mix between a neutered cat and a babbling homeless man. Of course, he doesn’t know all the lyrics either, so he resorts to quietly babbling nonsense over those parts.

Oh Dear Lord, you start thinking. What do I do now? Do I continue to smile? Do I sing along?

If you’re like me, you stop GP and start passionately kissing him to make it stop. He thinks it’s because you’re so taken by his talent. Little does he know it’s because you desperately needed him to stop because, even though he thinks so, GP is no Dave Matthews.

This scenario has played out in my world at least five times. The last time? IT WAS AN ACOUSTIC VERSION OF HEY YA BY OUTCAST (I couldn’t make that up). So, I rest my case.

Moral of the story: being serenaded is never sexy and always awkward.

Unless, of course, you’re actually Dave Matthews.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion

Fundraise THIS

August 26, 2010 By Aunt Becky 7 Comments

It’s August now, and we’re coming up on my favorite part of the year: autumn. Summer has so few holidays that I adore, with the possible exception of my birthday, which I’m still petitioning for national holiday status. Not too sure why the holiday makers are ignoring me so thoroughly, but anyway.

Now, on the not too distant horizon all of my favorite holidays are looming. We’ll go to an actual pick-your-own-pumpkin patch which is about a million times better than the overcrowded, carnival-like one that we used to go to. Like anything else in the world, our old pumpkin patch was super-awesome until the rest of the world discovered it, and then the owners brought in a petting zoo, rides, a clown, a circus, a corn maze, a donkey show, llamas, an apple orchard and rocket rides. I’m only exaggerating slightly.

Afterward, if we’re all still alive, we’re going to carve pumpkins and decorate cupcakes. I’m completely excited by this because not only does this mean I might get to eat a cupcake, which, after weeks on a diet sounds totally delicious, but also, seeing the holidays through the eyes of your children is half of the reason for HAVING kids in the first place. Right?

(the other half is, of course, tax deductions. OBVIOUSLY)

In a orange and black induced haze, I had forgotten what ELSE fall brings to our house: fundraiser time. We live in a kid-infested neighborhood, the kind that you literally cannot walk through without tripping over someone’s bike, or someone’s toddler which is great. Mostly I like kids, especially if I don’t have to watch them and they’re not destroying my stuff.

I was a Brownie for a year until I dropped out when I realized what a waste of time and energy it was. Time I could have better spent sitting on my butt and watching grass grow. I dutifully sold cookies door to door as mandated by sadistic leaders everywhere and possibly one of the most traumatic experiences of my eight year old life.

I had doors slammed in my face. People screamed at me. I got stiffed and ripped off. I got blisters and ruined a perfectly good pair of Keds. And for all of my trouble? I got some stupid sad-eyed puppy charm for the zipper on my hoodie.

I didn’t even sell enough to get a stupid patch.

In a couple of months, I will be swimming in the very same stuff that I cannot eat (hel-lo diet!) my personal tithing to the Fundraising Gods. I am entirely sympathetic to these poor little tykes coming around, so much so that I try to buy something from all of them. PLUS, I am also trying to work up our Fundraising Karma for our children, so that by the time that I have to take them (shudder, shudder) door-to-door, maybe people will not spit at them.

Every time the doorbell rings, I grab my check book and say a silent prayer of thanks that my own door-to-door days are now over, and later as I’m swimming in a sea of butt-ugly wrapping paper or popcorn, I’ll try and remember that maybe, just maybe, I was the house that got that kid the patch that I never got.

Or maybe I just have SUCKER written on my forehead.

To read more by Aunt Becky, please visit her personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia Tagged With: fall, fundrasing, humor, nostalgia

On joy.

August 25, 2010 By PaigeWorthy 2 Comments

Change overpowers me lately. My life has consisted of two major components in the past couple of weeks: networking and drinking.
Or, more often, a combination of the two.
I’m not proud that drinking has again become a favorite pastime, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do: Get drunk.
(Right?)

Sleep has not been a priority.
Nor has eating healthy meals. Or eating much at all, really, except when I binge on party food. Like the soggy sushi and subpar Chicago-style pizza I inhaled last night, desperate for familiar flavors and a little satisfaction of the culinary sort.
As for exercise…well, I don’t even know what that is anymore. How I managed to do all my drinking and networking a couple of years ago and still kept in shape is beyond me. Absolutely beyond.

I keep telling myself that once this transition is over, I’ll continue in pursuit of those healthy habits, sleeping and eating and exercising. Things my therapist calls “self care.” I’ll be that work-from-home badass who gets it all done and makes it look goooooooooooooood. Yep. A girl can dream.

In truth, these things are never as easy to accomplish as it seems. Becoming a badass of the sane assortment will take more dedication and presence of mind than I’m capable of now.

But there’s one sanity I have left, one I’m unwilling to let go of in my haste to hurtle myself into this new professional realm of self-employment. And that is joy.
Joy in the smallest increments, in moments so tiny they’re imperceptible to anyone but me.

Alone in my little apartment with NPR in the morning; familiar voices as I step into the shower. The first of the day’s business news at 6:50 a.m. as I finish breakfast, switch off the A/C, slip into my shoes and lock up the apartment.
Knowing that won’t be the case for much longer.

Peering over the shoulder of a fellow Metra rider, conservatively clad in a blue polo and khaki pants, and noticing that he’s on his laptop updating his Adult Friend Finder profile. I wanted so badly to ask him about it. But he was jumpy, nearly got off at the wrong stop.
Your secret’s safe with me. Kind of.

Howling fighter jets over Lake Michigan, the oohs and ahhs of onlookers packed like sardines along the shore. Dragonflies hovered in droves over the searingly hot flat rocks near the water; darting in and out of one another’s flight paths, they blended seamlessly with the Blue Angels as the Air & Water Show screamed to a glorious finish.
Squealing with glee, not caring one bit that the show is barely disguised military propaganda. Where do I sign?

A penthouse apartment that stares out at the John Hancock building, the lake sparkling beyond it. Little white sailboats casting tiny shadows on the water as the sky turns orange, then pink, then violet and deepens to nighttime navy. The first chill in the air as fall stages a coup.

Buying vegetables for the first time in a week at a downtown grocery store, nearly colliding with a chef desperately seeking as many jars of marshmallow Fluff as he can gather. The restaurant is running low on supplies needed for Nutella crepes.
Suggesting aisle 5 and hearing a breathless thank-you behind me as I bagged my broccoli crowns and he rushed toward the registers with 15 white jars. He cleaned them out.

A small crowd of strangers perched on countertops and blue plastic coolers, red cups in hand. Nick Drake on vinyl at 2 a.m. An old velvet sofa in a foreign apartment in Lincoln Square. Girlish goosebumps as hands trace lines alone my neck and shoulders, genuine affection for the first time since, well. Since then.
Not knowing if I’m ready but easing out all the same.

Big, wet kisses from an oversized golden retriever puppy on a walk with his owner. Well worth the 30-second setback during my commute to stand there on the corner, stroking his soft yellow fur, feeling loved before the morning dew had even evaporated.
Retributions for the previous day’s frustrations, when all I wanted was “flowers and puppy kisses.”
Someone was listening.

The solid eight hours of rest, the balanced diet, the morning jogs and weekend yoga. They’re a ways off. But the joy won’t stop. It rushes at me, overwhelms me more than the stacks of business cards that litter my apartment, is more dizzying than the nights of free drinks and the next-day vertigo.
Change overpowers me. But somehow, this flood of joy keeps me grounded.

Previously posted on Paige’s personal site, where you can read even more of her writing, here.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Spirituality

From Turtle to Hare: Story of a Race

August 25, 2010 By AuroreLabenheim 5 Comments

Once upon a time I was a turtle – well, THE turtle of the story – and didn’t have any problem with it.
And why should I have?!? They may not be very stylish, sure (and that it is a major sin, I am French after all) but they are endangered, people love them, they make cute plush toys and delicious soups.
That you shouldn’t eat. They are endangered, remember?

Except that now I am species-confused.

See, I started running.
And to my (almost) shame, I really like it.

Now you have to know that people – normal, sane, clear-minded people – don’t run in France. Mayyyybe once a year to catch a bus. But really – if you are a gal – you are not very likely to sprint. Like, EVER. Running shoes?!? Whaaaaaa? We feel the deepest sympathy (embedded in many layers of stunned disbelief) for these NYC wonder women who half-jog from home to the subway to work to unsuccessful first dates in their tennis shoes.
Ze poor little zings.

Because we, French women, don’t get fat. Right?
So the benefits of running don’t really occur to us. To take care of our hearts we have red wine, thankyouverymuch. A glass a day keep the doctor and the sneakers away. Besides we have more lovely ways to pamper our feet – ask all the Carrie Bradshaws; high heels and red soles?!? Yeah…

I painfully remember the 3 most excruciating hours of the week back in school. Physical education – it was (so elegantly) called. My own special peeve: athleticism. Or rather: Dragging along, trailing behind, huffing and puffing. I am grateful that there is no video footage of these days – I would probably die on the spot out of embarrassment.
The worst of the worst? 20 minute-run on a track.
A. Nighmare.

I am laughing by myself as I am typing this. Last week I completed a 8 mile run in 1 hour and 20 something minutes. Not a great time, but geeze!!! 1 hour longer than my teenage-years ordeal. 60 long minutes. 3600 seconds.
What happened to me?

Frankly, I am not quite sure. Even when I started working out here in the US (because it’s what you have to do in order to : 1. be cool; 2. fit in your jeans) running was at the bottom of my list. I was making up excuses in order to avoid the treadmill. “It hurts my shins”, “I can’t run since I had strep” – which was partially true. After a bad case of strep and a treatment left unfinished I had developed painful nodules on my legs and almost died of heart failure. I know.

Dramatic pause.

I started training a little more than a year ago. Shyly first. Really not sure of what I was doing. Sounds simple enough, you put one leg in front of the other and you try to walk fast. Really fast. Right? I learned, on the belt, the asphalt, the dirt. I read on the screen and magazines. I signed up for my first race. 5K with a finish in Wringley Field, the heart of hearts of Chicago. Followed by another one to celebrate Bastille Day. Plans were made for a half-marathon.
I swore though that I would NEVER do a full one. Too demanding.
Damn, I am still French at heart!!!

But a year later I am still running, and enjoying it more than ever. It’s only a beautiful physical challenge – and for me, it’s the best therapy out there. I run and I forget. I get winded and I unwind. I pile up the miles and I get rid of my burdens.
That’s the real treasure, and what keeps me running.

Next stop: September 12. Chicago half-marathon. And a less than 2h30min objective.
I just do it.

Filed Under: Motivate, Uncategorized Tagged With: challenge, endurance, half-marathon, running, shoes

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