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No Problem!
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Are you going to the turkey dinner at the Grange?”
“Spending Thanksgiving on the mainland this year?’
Everyone wants to know what everyone else is up to. Some are hoping for an invite. Some are looking for folks to help them finish off a twenty pound Tom Turkey. Some are looking for someone who’ll pick up something from America. Some are just nosey people making conversation.
So, since you’ve all been asking and I’ve been dodging the question. Here it is. Officially, and for the record: I’m making TV dinners for Thanksgiving.
I know, it sounds pathetic. It is, however, part of our family heritage. Before we know it our sons will be leaving the nest, so it’s time to do it. It’s time to give homage to the first Thanksgiving My husband Marc and I spent together.
It was the early 90’s. Marc and I had just moved into an apartment at the Sandpiper. It was so tiny, but after living in a VW van, the apartment seemed huge to us. It seemed huge enough to host an orphans thanksgiving potluck feast. We were so thankful for our new home, we decided to share our goodwill, cook up a turkey and the trimmings. Tim, our neighbor two doors down decided to help us out. He brewed his own beer and agreed to open his apartment up so there’d be room for everyone to eat comfortably.
One of the things that I am so thankful for is that my husband does not worry. “No problem!” is his motto.
So when he invited someone for that orphans Thanksgiving dinner, and they’d say something like, “I have my three cousins visiting, mind if they come along?” He’d say, “No problem.”
“We have a half dozen whale researchers out at Dad’s, mind if they come along?”
“No problem.”
“I know it’s a potluck, but I can’t really cook much in my galley, can I just show up and not bring anything?”
“No problem.”
I was expecting ten people tops. The people kept coming and coming. 15...25...30. Not many brought food. One person brought a completely frozen rock solid turkey. Another person brought Wild Turkey...you know, the kind in a bottle. A lot of people brought beer. We were young and ran with the “beer goes with everything” crowd back then. Being good hosts, we made sure our guests had plenty to eat, thinning out the gravy, resorting to some instant mashed potatoes when the real ones ran out, opening up a few cans of green beans after the casserole was polished off.
No problem. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
We made sure our guests were fed. We enjoyed our neighbor’s home brew and our guests’ barley pop contributions, but we didn’t get in on the turkey or the tators. The last guest left and there were no leftovers. The fridge was bare; the cupboards empty, our bellies grumbling for food.
Marc called the Little Store. Hallelujah! They were open! We stumbled down and picked out a couple of Swanson turkey TV dinners. The guy behind the counter asked if we wanted a slice of pumpkin pie. He said people were feeling sorry that he had to work the holiday and kept bringing him plates of food.
“Hey man, thanks for the pie!” My husband said as we turned to walk out the door.
“No problem.”
Amy Wynn is thankful for island life and especially for the turkey dinner at the Grange. She’ll probably see you there for seconds when she’s done with her TV dinner!
Moving On
Isn’t that the way things go. I thought I was over it all. I’d healed. Moved on. Life is good again. Then, something happened that triggered a bad memory and the emotions started flowing. and whoops. There I was again. Hurt. Angry. Anxiety ridden. An emotional basketcase, a blubbering idiot stuck in the past, spouting tears like Aunt Jane making her Walla Walla Onion casserole.
All this just because my husband gave me a car for my birthday. I know. I should be crying tears of joy. I’ve been relying on my blue bike and the kindness of friends for transportation the past couple of years. I should be happy that two wheels have become four. Instead, my brain races with fear. Having a car in my life that fits into our budget means that I will have to develop a relationship with a mechanic. I just don’t think I’m ready to go there. The pain is too fresh in my mind.
It was a hot summer day. I picked up my Honda from the local mechanic and I was thrilled to be behind the wheel again. I was dreaming of all the places I would go -the beach. The other beach. That other other beach. I missed the beach. It was high noon. I parked in front of Kings to run in for a few things. I came out, put the groceries in the trunk, the key in the ignition. The car would not start. I had given the mechanic my entire $1100 income tax refund to fix my car. I had not even made it to the beach once.
I called the mechanic. The snooty lady at the car mechanic sent someone out right away. He hooked the little computer gizmo to it. There was not an answer for it’s woes. Only a, maybe it could be this other $500 thing. The $1100 thing that didn’t even fix the problem had originally been estimated at only $800. I feared the $500 thing would become an $750 thing. I feared that even after that additional repair, it would still leave me stranded in front of Kings at noon on a busy day.
The mechanic had performed one cash-ectomy on me. I wasn’t going to let him perform another one. His condescending tone and that of the office lady made me feel lower than slug slime. I wouldn’t give them another dime. I would show him.
That was when I became a bike commuter. That is when I became morally superior because, well, I was financially inferior. I was greener than thou. Fitter than thou. Smarter than thou. The price of gas soared and I survived the summer of 2008 unscathed because my transportation choice was fueled by peanut m & m’s. I started having savings in the bank. I could actually give to my church, to charities, to campaigns without feeling the pinch. I could breathe. No longer living paycheck to paycheck. I had some wiggle room and I loved to wiggle, and ride my bike.
At first I resented people in cars. I wondered how all these newly arrived immigrants could afford Escalades and fancy pick-up trucks and Marc and I were working five jobs between us and we didn’t even have a good-island-car. I was a crazy green-eyed jealous monster on two wheels. Resentful. Judgmental. Mental case.
Then one early morning a fox crossed my path, ran along the road beside me, crossed my path again, ran along beside me, crossed my path again. This continued all the way to work. I felt a connection to that critter, to all of nature. If I had been in a car I probably wouldn’t have had that encounter. Or the encounter could have ended with road kill. That’s when I started to think of commuting by bike as a blessing.
I made up a little bike prayer that I would say as I rode up Rose Lane. “I count this as a great blessing. That I have legs strong enough to peddle a bike and a bike strong enough for my fat butt. Lord keep me safe as I move through the world. Amen.” I found joy in the simple act of peddle-powered self-propulsion.
I became a member of the island’s unofficial bike commuter club and was awarded the coveted bike horn. I couldn’t help but smile as I tooted my horn at John or Richard and they’d toot their horn back at me. A little “way to go! atta-boy!” acknowledgment of our commitment to commuting by bike.
Now I have a car. I wear dark glasses and a hat as I drive it, hoping the bike commuter guys don’t recognize me and take away my horn. I worry about money again. The price of gas. Being able to continue to give to the things that are dear to my heart. Will I still have a savings account in a year or will I be a victim of another car mechanic cash-ectomy? Will I still have red hair after sitting in the passenger seat while my teen-age son is at the wheel?
Biking taught me the lesson of turning a burden into a blessing. Now it seems like the universe, or God, or maybe my husband, is trying to teach me something: how to trust enough to let go of fears from the past and move on. Even if that means being on four wheels instead of two.
(Amy Wynn lives, works and drives in Friday Harbor. She is looking for a kind, compassionate and affordable car mechanic who has a staff with good road-side manners. )
The Last Halloween, Again
I have a confession to make. I didn’t go to the county fair this year. And I lived to tell about it. Don’t get me wrong. I still love the fair and next year I’ll probably be the first one rushing through the gates, headed for the elephant ear booth. With my appetite satiated, I’ll probably smooze and meander and chit-chat with everyone. This past fair season found me exhausted from a trip, with a lot on my plate and even more on my mind. Three wise men (not those wise men, but I think they might be related) helped me see that sometimes we need to rest, be still, take a break from the “I have to-s.”
Now I am more careful with my time and talents, learning to say no to those things that don’t bring joy or fulfillment or nurture my spirit in some way. I feel better about the things I choose to do. I am learning to let go of things, trusting that if those things are to be, the right person will be there to see it through. It just doesn’t have to be me. The flip side of that is learning to let other people say “no.”
So, when my husband announced that he didn’t want to “do” Halloween I said, “No problem. I’ll do Halloween.” For two weeks he hounded me for details about what I was going to do for Halloween. I tried to reassure him that I had it all under control. I did.
I finally told him my plan. I called it “Dancing with the Halloween Stars.” It would be a spoof on that celebrity dance show. I thought I would decorate the driveway of our house like a disco -"colored lites, a mirrored disco ball, good music. I’d have friends dress up like Halloween stars: Dracula, Frankenstein and his Bride, zombies and they could lead the little trick-or-treaters in the “macherena” or “the monster mash.” A couple of judges would give a lot of candy to all the little kids and the big kids who made the effort to actually dress up. The judges could heckle the big kids with lame costumes. It would be original and fun. It wouldn’t scare the littlest trick-or-treaters, yet could be engaging for the older ones.
Clearly my husband was not impressed with my idea. Maybe he was panicking because I hadn’t drawn out a to-scale plan of the placement of Halloween décor and submitted a schematic for the sound system wiring. Or maybe he was having a hard time letting go.
He took Halloween back from me. He said he’s calling it “The Last Halloween.” He swears, like he does every year, that this is the last year for the big Halloween display. He swears all I have to do this year is get the candy.
Someone delivered 200 linear feet of 1 x 2’s and some huge tarps to my house. That makes me nervous. Big Halloween displays have a tendency to stick around my yard for a while. Seems like everything doesn’t get put away until we put up the Christmas lights in the middle of December. Even then, some stuff gets missed and come spring I’ll be hitting a skeleton bone with the mower, sending plastic shrapnel everywhere.
The lumber yard delivery has me asking him some questions. “Just what are you planning to build for Halloween?” “Are you sure it won’t blow away if the weather turns bad?” “Can you show me a drawing of what you’re planning to do?” “You’re not going to do anything that will scare the little cute trick-or-treaters, are you?”
Oh no. Now I’m having a hard time letting go.
“I just have to get the candy.”
“I just have to get the candy.”
“I just have to get the candy.”
That’s my new mantra.. Which is sort of like telling a recovering alcoholic he just needs to bring the beer. I have to buy the candy and then resist eating it until Halloween. I don’t like to give out sticky teeth rotting stuff and it can’t be chocolate made by exploited labor. So if it is chocolate, it has to be the expensive organic, free trade stuff.
Ah gee, I think I’ll just try to track down one of the food vendors from the County Fair.
“Happy Halloween!”
“Would you like an Elephant Ear?”
“No, not a real elephant ear. That’d be gross. The sweet cinnamon doughy elephant ear.”
“Yes you can have one, but first, let me see you dance the Monster Mash!”
Amy Wynn has two left feet. She will not have elephant ears at her house for Halloween. She will be giving out whatever candy happens to show up on her doorstep on October 30th. She is taking applications for a house sitter for October 31, 2010. She is glad that after 16 years of Marriage, Marc still isn’t able to let go of Halloween...or her.
The Big Gulp
It’s that time of year. The time of year I call “The big gulp.” We’ve spent the summer swimming at a fast clip to put away for winter, taking advantage of tourist dollars and long days to work hard and get ahead a little bit. September is always sweet. A little Indian summer, ripe fruit for the picking and canning, zucchini and tomatoes everywhere you turn around. The kids are back to school and oh the joy of routine. Three jobs become just two. Houseguests have gone home. We can finally relax and float on the peaceful surface of island life.
Then you see the two page spread ad in the local newspaper for the big anniversary case and can sale at the local market. It’s the beginning of the end all over again. It’s “the big gulp.” Time to lift our eyes to the heavens, open wide and try to suck in enough breath and energy and canned tuna to get us through until those hopeful days of spring when days grow too long again, daffodils pop through the soil and an income tax refund finds its way into the checking account just in time to catch up on winter Opalco bills.
Here are my tips for taking the big gulp:
Go to the case and can sale. Buy too much. Think emergency preparedness. Think power outage. Think heat some canned chili on the wood stove after a hard day. Give a bunch of it away over the course of the winter. Giving seems to give me a sense of abundance, a feeling I don’t always associate with winter in the San Juans. As holiday events occur, it seems like each one requests you bring a non-perishable for the local food bank. So go ahead, keep an extra case of beans in the trunk of your car for those occasions.
Winterize your wardrobe. Find the big black rubber boots, the rain pants. Match the mittens. Waterproof the rain gear. There’s nothing quite like the sight of beading water droplets on a favorite old jacket. Add some layers before you head out for work in the morning.
Get social. It is easy to just hibernate during the winter. Sleep too much, eat too much, get to feeling a little blue. Part of your big-gulp should be to plan a little social something to get you out of the house in the months to come. Join a bowling league. Start a book club (or if you have a short attention span like me, maybe a magazine club.) Host a potluck poker night; take a class at the college. I remember back in the days of the Royal Theater. They had $3 cheap movie night on Monday and everyone went. The lobby had that academy awards buzz to it as everyone meeted and greeted over popcorn and junior mints. I could handle the Monday workweek blues because I had movie night to look forward to.
Pay attention to people. It seems like winter takes its toll on a lot of people, especially our precious seniors. If there are older neighbors and folks you just know from around town, check in with them and if you can help in any way, do it. To those who are most vulnerable among us, deliver a little firewood, have them over for a meal, accompany them to a doctor visit, say hello. Ask how they’re doing -you may get an earful. That’s o.k. There will be some wise words and probably a few funny anecdotes in there somewhere. We all need some of that. You won’t want to see their picture on the drug store door and think, “I should have told ‘em how dear they were to me.” Tell them now.
Savor the sweetness. The very last thing you should do before taking the big gulp and submerging into the wet, darkness of the next few months is to take a good look around. Be thankful for the frenzied days of summer sunlight, the perfectness of floating on September’s buoyancy. Remember it all as you look beneath the surface of island life for what truly keeps us all afloat. Hope. Hard Work. Community. Compassion. Deep Breaths. Canned Chili.
Amy Wynn is a working, working-class mom who is holding her breath until spring like she does every year. She has never won a single Case and Can Sale door prize in the over seventeen years she’s lived on the island. But she’s still hoping. Gulp!
Styrofoam Story
I just want to say for the record. I do not need anyone in government to protect me from the evils of Styrofoam or plastic bags. I can hold my own on that one. I can bring along my own storage containers, my own reusable shopping bag. I can ask the waitress to wrap my leftovers in foil. Better yet, I can order only what I can eat, clean my plate or share with my hubby. I do not need government time and money wasted on drafting and debating and voting on legislation involving how I take out my take-out food.
I remember in the old days when I worked the counter at the Donut Shop. We had a college-aged environmental activist come in for breakfast. Things were backed up as they always were in the summer and he ended up wanting to take his food to-go. So, we did what we always did. We put his #3 breakfast over medium with whole wheat toast in a white Styrofoam container. He had this horrified look about him. I’m not a mind reader, but I’m pretty sure he was worried about the flack he was going to get from his fellow tree-hugging, Birkenstok-ed and Rag wool socked comrades when they saw him with the dreaded white Styrofoam container.
“Can you put this in some other kind of container?”
“I don’t have anything else.”
“It’s just that I don’t believe in Styrofoam.”
“I didn’t know you had to believe in Styrofoam to use it.”
“It’s just that its not good for the environment.”
“I guess we can wrap it in some foil, put it in a paper bag, but then we’d have to just throw away the Styrofoam container anyway and you’d be wasting foil and paper, too.”
“Okay, that’d be great.”
“Alrighty then. Makes sense to me. (insert rolling of my eyes here). Let me have this line of customers wait while I repackage your breakfast so you can stay on your environmental high horse a little while longer.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Just, next time say something before you order, not afterwards, that way we don’t waste so much Styrofoam and foil and paper bags and that most precious of commodities -"time.”
So everyone who wants to get rid of Styrofoam containers, could you please just say something nicely before you order? Kindly ask local businesses to consider changing their packaging, acknowledging they may need to use up their current inventory. Bring your own doggy-bag for leftovers. Be willing to pay a to-go charge to compensate for the increased cost of using green products. And let our town and county governments spend their time and our precious resources like tax money, paper, electricity, and labor on some more important big things that we can’t take care of on our own.
(Amy Wynn uses Styrofoam just to annoy people but makes it up to Mother Nature by riding her bike everywhere and living a car-free life. She secretly wishes she was an Island Marble Butterfly...”then everyone would be in love with me...”)
Berry Unique
It was an offer they couldn’t refuse. I’d do the dinner dishes if they went blackberry picking and then I’d transform their harvest into a berry crisp. So I was a little surprised when I looked out the kitchen window to see sparks flying. I went to the back door to investigate. There was our son Malcolm hunched over the bench grinder he’d set up on the patio, sharpening a machete’. The friction of the grinder against the metal blade made an impressive shower of mini fireworks that mildly terrified me.
Forty minutes later, younger son Nelson arrived with just enough berries for a crisp. Malcolm had a handful of berries and one impressively sharp and shiny machete. There was a newly blazed path through the blackberry brambles.
It was a good lesson for me. It reminded me that we are all human individuals, we all approach things differently; we have different experiences, talents and gifts.
You can tell a lot about a person by how they approach blackberry season.
I know one woman"she’s a classic type- A, energizer bunny, high metabolism, always seems like she’s had one too many espresso shots in her morning latte. She lassos her family members into marathon berry-picking followed byall-night jam-making, pie baking, crisp cooking. She works hard and has the fullest pantry on the island. Though I can’t quite imagine her slowing down long enough to toast a slice of bread or smother it with blackberry jelly, let alone slowly savor it. She’s a good woman to know. If disaster ever hits, she could keep a Red Cross shelter well supplied.
I have a dear friend who takes the scientific approach to berry picking. She calculates where the sun hits the berries and how wet their feet are to get the sweetest best berries. She knows how to read the “indicator” berries. That’s the first one to turn ripe. Pick that one and it signals to all the other berries to get their sweet black ripeness on.
I know a man who can only pick blackberries when fully equipped to do so. You won’t catch him grabbing the random berry along the road and popping it into his mouth. No way. He puts on his high top hiking boots, his long jeans, his Pendleton wool plaid shirt that protects him from the thorns. He has one of those buckets with a handle and a lid with a hole in the top so if he would happen to fall, he won’t spill his berries all over. He has a bee sting kit in his shirt pocket, SPF 45 on his face and he smells of bug spray. He is prepared. Prepared because he has learned that bad things happen to good people and anything he can do to be less vulnerable, he’ll do. He always washes his berries in bleach water. If only he could wash away the memory of the woman who broke his heart.
I like to watch the tourists walking up Argyle pick and eat the berries along the road. Some are stealth pickers. They’re not sure if they are allowed to pick and eat the berries. They feel a little guilty. They look to the left, look to the right. No one seems to be watching so they grab a berry and shove it in their mouth, swallowing without the full joy of the burst of black berry tartness on their tongue...but maybe there is a little “I hope I can get away with it” adrenaline flowing.
Other tourists I’ve noticed pick a berry, put it in their mouth and then get this look of bliss on their face, like Buddha in a Tasters Choice coffee commercial. Then, it hits them. There are more berries. They can repeat this delicious experience. And that tranquil “in the moment” feeling gives way to a frantic, “Honey, give me your hat so I have something to put some berries in.”
As for me, I am a hodge-podge berry picker. Some times I send out the troops to do my picking for me. Other times I’ll snag a few from the back yard and get this profound calm feeling of abundance. How can I worry about the future when I can eat such bounty for free?
My favorite berry picking happens on Sunday afternoons. That’s when my dear friend Kay takes me for a car ride"a treat for bicycle-bound me"and we’ll pick berries and solve the world’s problems and laugh at ourselves and our attempts to break free from tenacious vines, our clothes snagged from the thorns, our hands stained blackberry blue.
Isn’t it a wonderful life? Oh, to be surrounded and sustained by so many different people, each with their unique tartness and sweetness! Oh, to be tangled up in the vines of this community! So delicious!
Just thinking about it makes me hungry for a little blackberry pie.
“Malcolm, sharpen up your machete! Nelson, here’s a bowl for the berries! Guess what’s for dessert!
(Amy Wynn lives with three men, writes with two women and dreams of having just one job with health insurance benefits. She is an award winning flash fiction writer and has been a superintendent of the Written Word at the San Juan County Fair. She has a degree in political science from the University of Illinois at Springfield)
Priorities on Parade
There are certain times of the island year when your priorities are put to the test. The Fourth of July is one of them. What should be a joyous celebration becomes a dilemma.
If you have roots on this rock it is inevitable that you will be in the Fourth of July Parade. The problem is that, well, everyone wants you to be in the parade. You have to decide whether to play trumpet in the community band, walk your dog with the animal shelter folks, ride on the Rotary Club float, or let your inner child come out as a swash-buckling pirate with the Cut Throats Crew. It is the Fourth of July Parade that let’s the world know where your priorities lie -sort of.
How does one decide where to be in the parade?
Some people go with the first come-first serve method. Those people march with the first group to ask them to join them in the parade. It’s a pretty fair, safe way to decide. But, inevitably the group with the most challenging, physically demanding entry are the first to ask -you know the group that wants you to drag a 500 pound fire cart while wearing full fire gear will ask you before the group that wants you to sit in a trailered Bay Liner and toss out candy to the adoring crowd.
Some people do the odd year/even year thing. Odd years they’ll march with their group from work and the even year they’ll be with their service group. It’s always nice to be able to say, “I can’t be in the parade with you this year, but next year I will be.”
Other people go with the group they are the most involved with or the cause that has the biggest part of their heart. Still, its tough. Animal lovers inevitably have to choose between the Animal Shelter, the Whale Museum and Wolf Hollow. Even the political based groups are drawing from the same member base: let’s face it there’s a lot of Democrats who are also members of the ACLU, Amnesty International, Friends of the San Juans, and the list goes on and on.
Some people want to be swayed into joining the parade. They decide based on the best argument for why they should participate with a certain group. Some factors people consider:
Will I be with fun people I enjoy being around?
Is the float cool? sparkly? shiny? captivating? creative?
Do they have adequate candy supplies so we won’t run out before we hit the drug store corner?
Will I have to wear a costume that is too revealing? too itchy? too hot? too dorky?
Does this organization need me more than the others who want me?
Will they split the prize money?
Do I walk or sit? Toss candy or carry a banner?
Am I required to do any choreographed dance moves?
Will I be proud to see my parade picture posted all over the internet on Monday morning?
In the parade line-up, are they going to be before the horses? away from the fire truck sirens?
Some people can’t make up their mind and are in more than one parade entry. A few years back I marched with the Benefit Players Theatre Group and our entry was led by a dress-wearing, motorcycle-riding actress who part way through got out of line and magically changed into Rosie the Riveter to bring up the rear of the parade on the stunning American Legion float. It’s tricky, but an exciting option for people-pleasers who just can’t stand to tell anyone “no I can’t do it.”
I usually try to avoid people all of June so no one asks me to be in the parade. I prefer to watch the parade...near the beginning of the route. That’s where the crowds are thinnest and the candy is the most bountiful and you know I’m doing my civic duty diving in front of trucks and tractors for candy so the little slow kids don’t get hit. I share...most of the time. I guess that shows you where my priority is -candy and watching the island people I love stream by in all their patriotic glory.
(Amy Wynn spent the past few days wondering why everyone knew Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett died, but no one seems to realize that on that same day Spc. Joshua L. Hazlewood, 22, of Manvel, Texas, died in Arifjan, Kuwait. Time for a priority check!)
Training Journal
Enough already! I’m going to do it. I’m going to do next year’s Friday Harbor half marathon. I hope to run a lot of it, maybe walk some of it, and definitely finish all of it. Now everyone can get back to their lives and stop bugging me at the grocery store about it. How do you expect me to enjoy my pint of Ben and Jerry’s Crème Brulle’ ice cream if you all keep reminding me of hauling my darn big dairy-iere on that 13.1 mile course? How can I buy the chocolate bar that will keep me from snapping someone’s head off in a fit of anger if you keep distracting me by asking if I’m going to run the Firecracker 5000 as part of my training program? Move on people. This town is not so boring that all you can talk about is Amy Wynn training for a half marathon.
But, since you’ve been asking, I’ll tell you about my training regime so far. Oh wait, that should be regimen. Freudian slip.
DAY #1 Ran slowly around my block. Printed off a lot of stuff from the Internet about how to train for a half marathon.
DAY #2 Lifted weights with Satan -chest and back and shoulders, swam. Started the South Beach Diet.
DAY #3 Ran all the way to town. Arms still recovering from weight lifting with Satan, could barely raise my arms to shampoo my hair.
DAY #4 Swam, light leg workout in the weight room, saw pictures from this year’s marathon. Vowed that I would not have an ugly expression on my face when I run next year’s race. Must start practicing that now.
DAY #5 Practiced running with a nice expression on my face. Made it three doors down and realized it is too hard to smile and run at the same time, so I walked a two mile loop instead, smiling, remembering how I used to walk that everyday with a dear friend.
DAY #6 Just practiced smiling and having a nice expression while going on facebook, myspace, checking my e-mail, watching a movie. Everyone deserves a recovery day.
DAY #7 Stressed over kids last day of school stuff...their grades...the reality that I am the mom of two teenage sons who have friends who drive cars...that I don’t have a car to drive and check up on my children with driving friends...that my bike brakes are rubbing on the rim of my tires...and I still haven’t seen Rocky the cat in six months...I’m worried that enough kids sign up for swim lessons, that the cupcakes I made for my co-workers birthday were cooked all the way through, that my column won’t make the readers laugh, but the letter I’m writing to the Bishop will have her in stitches...that in some moment of weakness I agreed to play a kleptomaniac lifeguard spiritual advisor on my husband’s upcoming radio show...and wondering if the guy with the Jesus tattoo that my husband let plug the power cord from his giant R.V. into our outlet that I later made unplug the power cord from our house really IS Jesus and I am going to hell for not being nice to Jesus in his latest appearance...and why did I ever say I’d never dye my hair since it is now turning white in spots (can’t imagine why?)...and what the heck am I going to fix for dinner? Road my bike to Jackson’s beach, walked home, ate a can of Betty Crocker triple chocolate frosting.
DAY #8 Recuperated from a sugar hang-over. Felt guilty for not doing anything physical.
DAY #9 Broke my date with Satan in weight room. Still recovering from sugar hangover.
DAY #10 Walked two mile loop, smiling on the downhills. Still need to work on a nice expression on the inclines.
DAY #11 Walked the Turn Point Loop �"5 ish miles - with two friends. I’m back on the half-marathon training track. They were so encouraging. I think I had a nice photogenic expression the whole way. I can do this thing.
DAY #12 Cursing the so-called “friends” who made me walk Turn Point Loop. They were trying to kill me. Today my butt and thighs feel like someone has sliced the muscles with a grapefruit spoon and inserted fire ants into them. No way I’m going to do this thing.
DAY #13 Walked to town slowly, painfully, like I was John Wayne with hemorrhoids. Still sore from walking Turn Point. Ran into Sharon at the grocery store: “So I hear you’re going to run the marathon.” Ran into Ian and Laura at the drug store. “Are you going to run the Firecracker 5000 to train for that marathon?” Looked on-line. Editor still has my column about running the marathon posted. The longest he has ever had one of my columns up. Ever.
Oh man, I’m going to have to do this thing. I will, too. If I don’t have to work, or help in the church nursery that day, or bake cupcakes for someone’s birthday, or play a kleptomaniac lifeguard spiritual advisor on my husbands radio show or take Rocky the mystery cat to the vet, or find food and shelter for the man with the Jesus tattoo, or go to that hair coloring appointment... you get the picture... And hopefully I’m smiling in that picture and not looking like I’ve chugged a mixture of clamato juice and grape Robitussen cough syrup with a bite-the-salted-lime chaser. I do not like those unflattering runner face pictures...
(Amy Wynn splits her time between training for the half-marathon and stressing out about everything. She graduated from the University of Illinois at Springfield back in the day when it was known as Sangamon State University and it’s most famous alumni was Bobby Mc Farren�"you know, the guy who sang “Don’t Worry, Be Happy...” )
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