Summer Overscheduled

It seems like everyone is doing it.  Everything.  Go!  Go!  Go!  Visiting, seeing, doing, going, experiencing, documenting... LIVING. 

We're a family that requires and thrives on more structure and routine than most of our friends.  There are medical and personal quirk [not just mine] reasons for our adherence to a simpler schedule.  At times it's been necessary, other times it's been preferred, but moderate activity has prevented one or all of us from going apeshit.

The summer of 2010 we challenged our semi-rigid norm.  With older kids -- the youngest boy almost civilized -- we were ready to lighten up.  Bring on the fun, the excitement, the spontaneous memory making activities and the seductive busy that everyone else wedges into life!  We abandoned schedule and routine.  And it almost killed us.  Me.  Us.  We're pooped.

There were birthdays, day trips, weekend trips, week-long trips, music lessons, writing classes, projects, trail races, doctor appointments, speeding tickets, a traveling husband, parasites, junk food, organic food, new friends, old friends, laughs and a few tears.  We had slow-paced days, but not enough.

I've always admired life's mustangs.  I want to run with them, but I also want to sit on the porch and watch them run by.

 

Next summer, I'm going to do both... better.

[Photo courtesy of Google images.]

Ice In The Urinal And Family Traditions

I liked the Grapenuts in my cauliflower fondue at the Renegade Canteen.  Dinner with my parents, minus the kids was what Chris and I needed after a long 4th of July weekend in the Arizona desert.

**********

It's become a family tradition, the July pilgrimage to Scottsdale, Arizona.  We stay at Mom and Dad's for a week, swim, celebrate the 4th, visit family and friends, and try to relax.  There's usually a little drama.  A boy finds a scorpion in his room, runs into a jumping cholla, and someone gets a speeding ticket... or two.

[Chris and the boys - funky white.]

[This jumping cholla was stuck on the 4YO's ankle.]

[Dad sleeping, the boys watching TV.]

And every summer, I learn something new.

**********

Mom, Dad, Chris and I were enjoying food, drink and conversation at what has become another family tradition, the End-Of-Vacation-Adult-Dinner.  Poor Uncle Joe and Aunt Stephanie [my brother and his wife] were graciously babysitting the boys, foregoing the grown-up outing.  Unfortunately for them, this is part of the tradition.  [Joe, I love you, man.]

[Enjoying dinner... Mom and Dad.  Chris and me - braces off in October!]

Mom and I excused ourselves and went to the ladies' room.  When we returned to the table, Mom said to Dad, "Our bathroom was nice. How was yours?"  Because as most women know, it's all about the bathroom.

"It was fine.  There was ice in the urinal."

We all laughed.  Dad made a funny.

"Seriously.  There wasn't ice in the urinal, was there?" Mom asked as we both studied our husband's faces for signs of lying.

Dad nodded, yes.

Chris nodded, yes.

Dad and Chris explained that ice in men's rooms is common and nothing new.  Mom and I still weren't convinced.  How could she be married to my father for 47 years and not know about ice in the urinal?  I felt the same.

"Why haven't you told me about ice in the urinal?" I asked Chris.

"It's not a big deal."

"I think it's weird you've never mentioned it.  ...  And I still don't believe you."  It might have been the Chianti fueling my fire, but I wanted proof.

Chris and I walked to the men's room.  He wasn't thrilled, but he's a good husband and he knew his wife had had enough Chianti to do it by herself if he didn't cooperate.

"It's empty.  Have at it," he said as he opened the door for me.

And I'll be damned... 

We returned to the table and I showed Mom the pictures.  The guys were telling the truth.  But now we wanted to know why.  Why was there ice in the urinal?

Dad and Chris shrugged.  Not only had they kept it a secret all these years, they had never bothered to ask why the ice was used. 

We asked the waitress.  She had been a server for a decade and had never heard about ice in the urinal.  How did she not know about this?  We asked the busboy, but the slight language barrier resulted in smiling, scurrying and more ice in our drinks.

The waitress said she would talk to the manager and get back to us.  Dad left her his card and he recently received an email that said in part:

...here's the answer for your questions.  There is nothing special about it.  It was out of necessity.  They had issue with not enough flow of the water to flush urine at the time.  So they used ice to add water flow.

Regardless of the ice, or the reason for the ice, what I still can't get over is that I'm 44-years-old, my mother is... older, and neither one of us knew about this.

I wonder what I'll learn next summer.

Confidential To Supermodel

Dear Supermodel,

I miss you. 

Training isn't the same without you.  I've muddled through most of the workouts, but the solo 16- and 18-mile trail runs were tough.  You weren't there for me when I saw the snakes.  Two of them.  I miss how you let me scream, jump behind you and push you sacrificially towards danger.

I miss how you hold my hydration belt so I can go to the bathroom... and I miss holding yours.

I miss our conversations that go from light to intense and everywhere in between.  And when we end a long run with scribble marks over our heads and curt goodbyes, one of us always calls the other later that day to share a new recipe, borrow an ingredient, or to see how the other guy is feeling.

I try to meet new girls on the trail.  They're either too gritty or too pretty.  I know you know what I mean.  The gritty girls don't smile at me; it's all business.  They run solo, but I can tell they prefer it that way. 

The pretty girls run in elite packs.  I can smell them coming, all flowery and clean.  They have silky hair, spaghetti-strap cami tops, their boobs don't move, and I bet they shave their legs every day.  They smile and hop off the trail, yielding to me with gorgeous white grins.  I feel their pity.  They know I'm not a gritty girl, but they also know I can't hang with their pretty set.  It's obvious I don't shower before a run, and... the boobs.

I've seen a few trail runners like us -- in between gritty and pretty -- but they're already paired off.  They look at me sympathetically as if to say, Don't worry.  You'll find someone.  Like you.  Like us.

I get that you're tired of running.  I understand the desire to broaden your workout routines and connect with other friends, although it stings a little when I see your new training partner drive by my house with you in the car.  She's friendly, fit, pretty, speaks Portuguese and is good with hair.  I'm sure the Boot Camp you attend with her is very exciting!  I was sorry to hear about her misfortune on the hike the two of you enjoyed... with several other people.  I'm glad she's feeling better, but for the record, you've never had to call Search And Rescue for me.  Eleven rescuers?  Just sayin'.

My first race is this weekend.  It should be our race.  I'll drive to Park City, Saturday morning... alone.  I miss trying to convince you that we need to be there early, and stressing about your inability to get to bed at a reasonable hour.

I'll think of you, Supermodel.  I might have to "love the one I'm with" once in a while, but I'll never stop loving you.

Yours,

Chris