1. I am nothing if not a perfectionist.  I can find fault with nearly everything I have ever done.  But I spent some time tonight going back through what I have written on here since last August, and I discovered that I still love what I wrote.  My words brought back the sites and smells of Europe, the pain of losing my aunt, and the joys of raising an accident-prone puppy.  Yes, I found a few typos, but nothing that made me think twice about my (limited) success on this blog.

2. I worked all day today at another expo for a race.  This one was out in Frederick, Maryland, at the main pavilion of the Frederick Fairgrounds.  Just as the venue was miles away, both literally and figuratively, from the last one at the National Building Museum, so too were the participants incredibly different.  Obviously there  was some overlap as Frederick is only 40 minutes from DC, but the crowd just had a different feel.  There were more tattoos, fewer foreign languages, and probably a higher average weight.  Race expos are always great for people watching.

3. I spent most of this past week in Colorado for work.  Colorado runners are an entirely different breed from what we have here on the East Coast.  The men and women I met last week gave me a new definition of bad ass.  The image I left with is of strong men and women, easily turning out 8:00 minute miles in the thin air.  They talk about their next ascent up Mt. Evans or Pikes Peak while they run.  And when they’re finished, they down a bottle of water and move on to beer.  I was at three different running events over the course of four nights, and I saw this phenomenon each time.  I’m convinced there is something in the water out there.  Or maybe in the beer.

4. I’ve traveled quite a bit in the past two weeks.  I’m looking forward to hanging out at home some more.  I’ve got a practice 5K on Monday morning with my girls.  I have my May half marathon a week from tomorrow.  And most importantly, I can finally pick Sasha up from the vet tomorrow morning with no intention of bringing her back to board any time soon.

5. Colorado Springs is gorgeous:

Note the snow-capped mountain in the background.

Watching movies growing up, the 10-year high school reunion seemed like a distant event so out of reach that it didn’t merit a passing thought.  But last Thursday, I flew home to Nashville to celebrate the passing of a decade since my friends and I graduated from high school.

Unlike some members of my class, this was not my first trip back to the halls of USN.  I spent a semester working in the front office while I recovered from my eating disorder.  I often stopped in to say hello to my mom and visit with other teachers.  I found great success in high school and so there was never an issue of regret or the need to forget.

I wasn’t one of those kids who knew what they wanted to be when they grew up.  In fact, when I recently went through my “Book of Me,” filled in by a 4-year-old Nathalie, I discovered that I had wanted to be a dancer when I grew up.  Anyone who knows me and happened to be drinking when they read that line just shot water out their nose.  For that, I apologize.  Because, if you don’t know me, just imagine a dancer.  Now imagine the opposite and voila! me.

It was obvious this weekend that there were those types of kids in our class.  There are the doctors, the lawyers, the writer, the businesswomen, the ones still in school, and the teachers.  Some were missing from the festivities because they were too busy following their life goals.  And no one begrudged their absence too much.

So how did I fit in to the 10 year mish mash?  I added knowledge gained from wandering the streets of our nation’s capital for nearly six years.  I contributed trivial information about what it takes to run a marathon or two and a half marathon or twelve.  I conversed about the wonders one can find on a solo trip to Europe.  I talked with pride about my family members, including the ones on four paws.  And I brought insight on the world of love found and love lost.

And from it all I took  solid friendships carefully molded over the years with cross country trips and tearful phone calls.  I renewed acquaintances with peers I once napped next to in kindergarten.  I gained insight in to the world of living in Nashville as an adult.  I found that USN truly molds a special class of people.  A class that can happily disperse in 2000 can come back with unbridled enthusiasm for SATCO and Lava Monster, eager to reconnect in 2010.

We were known to teachers and administrators as the Class from Hell (CFH).  If anything, this weekend showed just how much we relished that moniker and just how far we have pushed past it.  And while I doubt that I’ll eat at SATCO between now and our next reunion, I imagine that it will still taste just as good in 2020.  See you then, CFH!

This coming Saturday, I will spend all day at the National Building Museum.  I’ll be there for a job, but not one in the museum field.  I will be manning the ZOOMA booth at the Cherry Blossom 10 miler expo.  Monday morning, I head back to work as an Event Coordinator at ZOOMA.

This welcome change came about earlier last month.  My former boss contacted me about needing someone for the summer.  There are two races, Annapolis and Colorado, that she needs help with, especially since she just welcomed a beautiful daughter (she’s adorable, I’ve met her).  I love the women’s running community.  Since I’ve been making an effort to run more races this year, I’ve come to understand just how special the ZOOMA runners are.

I did most of the corresponding with runners while I was at ZOOMA.  I answered the info box and got the general phone calls, so I talked with and emailed a lot of women.  Race week is always fun, but the highlights were always meeting these women when they came to pick up their packets.  We would put faces to names and, more often than not, I got thank you hugs.  It was an awesome feeling.

One of the coolest thing about ZOOMA races is the number of first time racers we get.  At the beginning of a race, the announcer would always ask how many women were running their first race and a sea of hands would go up.  It’s awesome to see these women after the race.  There’s a dazed look as they start to own their accomplishments.  The look of pride is just incredible.

There are also the kids and husbands and brothers and parents who come out to support the women in their lives.  The finish line and After-Party festival is always a sea of strollers and kids running around.  After the downpour at the start of last year’s Annapolis race, the giant puddles became wading pools for kids of all ages.  The shrieks and giggles were awesome.

I’m excited to have a chance to go back to ZOOMA.  I really enjoyed working with my boss and definitely view her as a mentor and role model.  Here’s to event coordination!

Last night I discovered MTV’s 16 and Pregnant.  I had read a favorable review of it when it first aired that spoke about the show’s unflinching candor concerning the realities of having a child as a teenager.  I don’t generally, or ever, watch MTV, so I forgot about the show after reading the review.

Sometime on Saturday our cable stopped working properly.  I ignored the problem until last night and then got on the phone with our cable provider to deal with the issue.  The gentleman who was helping me over the phone asked me to flip around channels once we got everything cleared up to make sure I wasn’t missing anything.  Randomly, I stopped on MTV and that’s how I got started watching “16 and Pregnant.”

I will openly admit that it took me a while to get over my smug attitude towards the girls.  Most of them come from small or rural towns.  Their boyfriends prefer cars to prenatal care.  They fight with their parents about who will take care of the baby and when they’ll go back to school.  I thought of my own high school experience and deemed myself superior in every way.

The last one I watched was the one that changed everything.  The girl is from a small town in Kentucky and she herself had been adopted, given up a teenage mother.  Her parents, devout Catholics, urge her to consider adoption.  They don’t necessarily have the resources to deal with a newborn and they realize that the baby’s father isn’t capable of providing, either.

The girl is torn about her decision.  The father really wants to keep his soon-to-be son, but when pressed about a concrete plan for life, he falters and bows out.  This girl, this 16-year-old, pages through portfolios of adoptive parents, trying to figure out who will be best able to raise her son.  It is clear that this decision is anything but easy; her tears are genuine and heart-wrenching.

She delivers a healthy boy and, just two days later, takes part in a ceremony at the hospital where she hands her son over to his new parents.  There isn’t a dry eye in the room, and I found myself tearing up, as well.  It astonished me to think just how much agony she went through in order to provide her son with a better, more stable life.  I can’t imagine what it feels like to be in her shoes and I’m thankful for that.  She made a sacrifice that many of us couldn’t even fathom.

The Today show recently did a segment on the show in an effort to bring attention to the fact that, for the first time in a decade, teenage pregnancies are on the rise.  2000 teenage girls get pregnant each day.  1 in 6 teen girls will be mothers.  These numbers blow my mind.

I went to a private school where this type of thing just didn’t happen, and, if it did, it wasn’t discussed.  The girls were athletes, scholars, young women devoted to achieving at a level beyond high school.  For us, having a baby in high school was for other people.  But the girl who gave her baby up for adoption attended a private, Catholic high school.  She isn’t so different from girls that I saw across the net on volleyball courts every game.

Dr. Drew Pinsky, one of the show’s experts, appeared with the girls on the Today show and talked about what their stories provide for high schoolers everywhere.  He noted that while sex education is useful and supplies raw facts, these girls give teenage pregnancy actual voices.  These are real teenagers who turn from thoughts of prom to diapers and viewers get to witness that transition.  Camera crews film the 2:30 am, 4:00 am, 5:30 am wake ups.  The girls are shown disheveled and groggy, wandering around warming bottles and washing onesies.  The world of so-called “reality” tv and documentary combine in a powerful way.

Over 3 million people watch the show weekly.  We probably won’t know if this show will directly impact the number of teenage pregnancies.  I know that it changed my mind about these girls and the struggles they go through every day.  It certainly took me down a peg and forced me to acknowledge that I’m lucky to be in a position where a pregnancy, when it occurs, would be planned and welcomed.  Kudos to MTV for programming that made me uncomfortable.

I won’t lie, I really like races the reward your hard work with a big, heavy, honkin’ medal.

Fortunately for me, the Marine Corps Marathon gives out really nice medals.  They are big, easily recognizable and you can certainly feel it hanging around your neck.  Just ask Suzanne.

Yesterday’s half marathon was the third one that I’ve run this year.  The first was just over 300 runners, the second was under 200 runners, and this one had over 10,000 runners split between the marathon, half marathon, and half marathon relay.

The first race did hand out medals at the end.  They were donated by a local trophy store so they were a little…cheap.  Don’t get me wrong, a medal is a medal and I am happy to have something to prove I ran through the snow that day.

The race in February was brutal, but I’ve mentioned that before.  I wanted a freaking trophy to carry around so everyone would know I made it up and down that mountain.  But it was a small race and the only swag at the finish line was a t-shirt.  And since I was at the end of the finishers, they didn’t even have my size.  But you can be damn sure that I will never give that large t-shirt away even if I never wear it.

Yesterday, I crossed the finish line and was handed this beauty:

Abe is looking lovely.

I know that this sounds superficial and it may be.   I run for stress relief and to think deep thoughts and to be at one with nature and all that jazz.  But here’s a secret, I also run for the medals.  They hang on a wall in my bedroom in a specific order based on how I felt about that particular race.  You can be sure that this medal will be front and center.  Just check out what they put on the back:

"I ran through history."

It’s like they made it just for me.

It’s the night before a race and, as usual, I’m picky about what I eat, what I do, and what I watch.  The week before my first (successful) marathon, I watched a new running movie every day.  I like a movie that motivates me or makes me think.  I never listen to music when I run races, so I need something to think about to pass the miles.

This evening I spent awhile going through various online lists of the best running movies.  I didn’t see anything that stood out or could even hold a candle to “Chariots of Fire,” so I started looking for something else.  I flipped over to netflix.com and started trolling around their direct-to-your-tv line up.  After a few categories, I got to children’s movies.  I’m a sucker for a good animated movie and after watching Wall-E for the second time last weekend, this seemed like a good idea.  After a few pages, I saw it.

So here I am watching “An American Tail.”  If you haven’t seen it, please try to rectify that as soon as possible.  I’m enjoying going back to movies I adored when I was little and getting all the adult parts of them.  For instance, I used to watch “Mary Poppins” anytime I got sick.  When I watched it again a couple of years ago, I was shocked to see how much social commentary there was about British society in the wake of WWI.  There was so much that I wasn’t meant to get as a little girl but that means so much to me now.

I’m finding it is the same thing with “An American Tail.”  It’s the history of a family that leaves Russia in the wake of a brutal Cossack attack.  They head to America via Hamburg and Fievel is separated from his family on the boat.  He travels through late 19th century New York in search of his family.  Along the way, he passes through as much history about immigrant life in New York as you would hope to see in a good live action film.  There’s the drunk politician who knows everyone’s business, there’s the rally (or “wowwy”) to protest social injustices, and there are countless ethnicities represented in mouse form.

Want to know what I’m talking about?  Here’s my favorite musical number:

Looking back on these movies and the impact they had on me, it’s really no surprise that I became a historian.

Everyone travels differently.  Some people love the thrill of flying over snow covered mountains or wide oceans on their way to a new city or country.  Others are more apprehensive about the whole airport experience and don’t exactly look forward to being crammed in between strangers fighting over 6 inches of legroom.

Saturday night I flew home from Miami.  I had a very smooth trip down there so I was hoping for an equally easy return trip.  It wasn’t meant to be.

I checked in online before we left for the airport.  The flight was supposed to take off at 6:35, but I discovered that it was delayed 40 minutes.  Fine, that’s just an extra magazine worth of wait.  I could handle that.

So I get through the magazine, my bottle of water and check my cell phone for the time.  It’s 7:00.  The plane hasn’t yet arrived.  So maybe we won’t leave when they thought we would.  I make a trip to the bathroom, wander around a bit, and when I return, the plane has finally come in and people are deplaning.  Now the board is telling us that we’ll leave around 7:50.  Ok, that’s not too bad.

Finally we start boarding at 7:45, making it unlikely that we’ll actually leave at 7:51 as previously predicted.  I board, shove my bag in the overhead compartment and take my middle seat.  I find myself sandwiched between a large Hispanic man and a spring breaker who clearly hasn’t showered in a couple of days.  This is all still ok, because I have a book and have made it to the point in the mystery when you want to keep turning pages to find out what happens next.

We push away from the gate and they start showing us the safety video.  Meanwhile, the flight attendants are opening and closing all the overhead bins, one by one.  They look annoyed and every so often mutter to each other.  Before long the plane stops.  The pilot comes over the intercom and explains that what the flight attendants had been looking for is a small grey bag that holds the oxygen masks and flotation devices for demonstration as well as the seat belt extensions and a few other miscellanea.  None of it is actually necessary to our flight, but we are required to have it on board.  So we have to go back to the gate.

Back at the gate, I can see that the bag is delivered not long after the door is reopened.  I have high hopes that this means we can move quickly back out to the runway and start on our way home.  I go back to my book.  A few more chapters and I look back up to see what’s going on.  They door is closed again but there’s no sign of movement.  Four more chapters later and people are getting edgy.  The pilot finally announces that we seem to have gotten stuck in the middle of a shift change and there was no ground crew around to push us back.  He assured us that he was “on the horn” and trying to make sure we could leave soon.

Finally, finally, the plane starts to move as we push back from the gate yet again.  As the flight attendants come around to make sure that everyone is ready for takeoff, they notice that my rowmate on the right (the large one), has taken out his hearing aid.  In order for them to tell him that his seatback needs to be in the upright and locked position, I have to wake him up.  I just love being the person who has to shake a stranger’s arm to wake him up when he’s sleeping soundly.

We make our way to the runway and sit in line for a bit.  By the time the jets started up for takeoff, we were supposed to have been landing in DC.  For the first half hour of the flight, it is obvious that the captain is desperately trying to make up lost time.  We’re hauling ass.  The kind of hauling ass that emphasizes even the slightest bump.  So fun.  When the drink service comes around, I shell out $3.50 for a giant, calorie-laden chocolate chip cookie in an effort to chill myself out.

As the plane begins the initial descent, I notice that the spring breaker with an odor problem to my left has fallen asleep with his feet in my space.  His head is lolling from side to side, coming dangerously close to landing on my shoulder.  On his head’s second pass toward my side I decided I’d had enough.  So I pretended to have a twitch and kicked his feet.  He jerked awake and apologized for what was obviously his fault.  I laughed it off and told him none of us have enough room.

After a safe landing (woo hoo!), the slow process of filing off the plane began.  I was in row 20, and in row 19, there was a middle-aged woman with a woman who was approximately 114 years old.  Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s awesome that she’s travelling and getting around.  But when her daughter decided that they didn’t want to wait for the last 8 rows to get off the plane and pulled her mother out in to the aisle, I thought I might lose what was left of my mind.  The two of them made their way down. the. aisle. very. very. very. slowly.  When they finally cleared the door, they discovered that her wheelchair wasn’t there, so she stood in the middle of the bridge until someone finally motioned for them to get out of the way.  I got by them, made my way out of the airport, and finally ended the evening of travel fun.

I realize that this doesn’t compare to folks left on the runway for hours at a time or some of the other obnoxious things that happen during air travel.  I’m thankful that we got home in one piece and I intend to fly again.  But this just made a really good story.  In fact, the only thought that kept my patience in check during the flight was, “I am totally blogging about this.”

Ask any runner with just one competitive bone in her body what her personal records are and you’re nearly guaranteed to get answers down to the seconds.  A lot of runners carry their personal records around with them to every race and through every training run.  Each step is a chance to beat your own previous time.

I’m not quite the same as these runners.  Yes, I have a vague sense of my best times for each race (ok, more than vague), but I long ago learned that running was something that I needed to enjoy on a level that went beyond self competition.  Running is my primary form of therapy, my time to decompress, and my chance to listen to ridiculous music without apology.

This past weekend I ran a race that resulted in the slowest time I’ve ever clocked for a half marathon.  It was actually 24 minutes off my best time.  But I am couldn’t be more proud of what I accomplished.

When I first booked my trip to San Francisco I started to look for a race to run.  I found a 10k that would be taking place in Golden Gate Park, but I really wanted a half marathon.  Finally I found the King’s Mountain Half Marathon.  According to the race website, this course would “humble” me.  Curious about why?  Here’s the elevation profile:

The race was 1,880 feet up over 6.55 miles and then 1,880 feet down over the second 6.55 miles.  This for a runner that doesn’t much care for hills.  Seemed like a good challenge.

Saturday morning Kate and I got up around 6:30 and headed down to Woodside, near Redwood City.  The drive was beautiful and we marveled at the estates nestled in Woodside.  I was nervous and happy to have Kate to distract me.  The 250 runners gathered together to listen to instructions and then we were off.

There were a lot of times going up the mountain that I wanted to stop and turn around.  It became a game of “pick your battles” as I tried to figure out which inclines were worth running and which weren’t.  I was over a mile away from the top when the first men and women started their race down the hill.  It looked like so much fun, but I just kept slogging my way up.  When I got to the aid station at the top I actually gave myself a pep talk, out loud, about getting back down the mountain.

On my way down the mountain, the heavens opened up and the rain started.  I was drenched in a matter of minutes and could wring the water out of my moisture wicking shirt.  I had nothing left to give on the uphills; the slightest incline slowed my pace to a trot.  But those 6.55 miles were some of the most exhilarating miles I’ve ever run.  I felt like I was flying down the mountain.  I could look up and see the water through beams of sunlight that shone through the redwoods.  I worked my way through muddy switchbacks, inches deep puddles, and small rivers running across the trails.

As I emerged from the path and headed toward the finish line, there was a small crowd cheering for me.  Kate had made some new friends and got them to cheer for me.  It felt awesome to stop running but it felt even better to know that I had made it up and down that mountain.  I was soaked, covered in mud, exhausted and grinning from ear to ear.

The shoes stayed behind in San Francisco.

A year ago I might have chided myself for my finishing time.  I might have believed that there were more places I could have run, more I could have done to prepare.  But this year I am happy to report that I’m a bad ass.  I conquered that mountain and I did it with my own two feet (and quads and hamstrings).  I talked myself out of quitting and I enjoyed coasting on that downhill like never before.

I don’t have a medal from this race, as they just gave away t-shirts at the end.  But you better believe that I have my race number tucked in a drawer with my sky diving pictures to remind myself that I did it and I’m awesome.

A couple years ago my mom took up oil painting as a way to understand the masters.  She had started teaching AP Art History and decided that having seen most of the works in the books just wasn’t enough.  So she found a teacher, started lessons and quickly got hooked.  She has a lot of talent and my father and I are only too happy to marvel at the canvases that now line the walls of her studio.

The one downside, if it can even be called that, is that her new hobby meant that I was now alone in a sea of artists.  My father has created mosaics since he was sidelined from middle school basketball.  One of his best works has pride of place in our apartment over the mantle.  My father-in-law is an accomplished oil painter who one day decided to pick up woodwork and created the spitting image of our puppy as a birthday present for my husband.  And my husband, well, there are very few times when he’s not actively creating something, be it computer programs or photographs.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the basic arts and crafts in lower school and summer camp art classes.  I brought home my fair share of  shrinky dinks and created plenty of macaroni necklaces.  But when it came to what I consider “real” art, my career was over well before it began.  Athletics filled that void starting in middle school and evolved from afternoon practices in high school to three-a-days in college to marathon training.

But today I got tired of trolling job websites and decided to give something else a try.  I found the painting kit I gave my husband for Christmas a couple of years ago and was “pleased” to find it untouched.  There was only one small canvas, but I set up shop at the kitchen table and started mixing colors.  I covered the canvas in an array of blues and found that I liked creating the brush strokes rather than analyzing them.

I also decided that I didn’t like painting things but I wanted to paint things.  So I searched the apartment and found a tea chest we received for our wedding (thanks, T!).  I pulled the tea bags out and got to work.  For over two hours I sat, listened to music, mixed paints, and covered the entire tea chest in blues, greens, and pinks (it looks better than it sounds).

It will surprise no one who knows me to hear that I painted within the lines of the chest and created lines if they weren’t there to begin with.  I have always worked better with structure and it seems that art is no exception.  Sit me in front of a blank canvas and I’ll freeze.  Give me a blank screen without a previously known idea and you get three weeks of blog inactivity.  Let me play by my own rules and go with my own strengths and you might just get colors and words.

So apparently all it takes to kill your creative mojo is declaring that you intend to keep writing.  Oops.

At the end of January I was pumped about writing, the words were flowing, and I even wrote a woman I highly admire to get advice on blogging and she was super helpful and nice.  And then, nothing from me.

There are nine drafts in my posts page of entries that I started and didn’t like enough to actually post.  I learned early in the blogging game that if I don’t post an entry right away, it’s never getting up.  Usually I do all the writing in my head days before my hands ever touch the keyboard.  I think through paragraphs and by the time my fingers start on the computer, the words just flow.  It’s been that way with everything good I’ve written, from academic papers and my wedding vows (written the morning of my wedding on the hotel computer).

I know what’s causing this writing block.  It’s emotional crap and joblessness crap and whatnot.  The details run through my head all day, every day, leaving little room or energy for the more creative words.  I hate it, there have been things that I want to write about but just haven’t been able to.

For instance, I ran a half marathon at the end of January.  The weather was a brisk 20 degrees at the start.  The snow started to fall around mile 3 and by the time I finished, there were a few inches on the ground.  It was my slowest half marathon time to date but it was one of the most spiritual running experiences I’ve ever had.  I ran on a trail between the Potomac River and the C & O Canal.  I cheered for the winners as the ran by me, the best part of an out and back course.  I took the first half slow and then picked off 25 people in the second half.  There were snowflakes stuck to my eyelashes and eyebrows and I loved every minute of it.

There was also the awesome long weekend I spent with my best friend as we weathered Snowpocalypse, aka Snowmageddon, SNOMG, etc.  We drank wine, cooked, played card games, watched movies and played with the snow puppy.  After she was finally able to fly out, I watched blizzard conditions and waded through snow drifts that reached my hips.

I have job leads and good books to read and a renewed appreciation of snow-free grassy areas.  I’m heading to San Francisco this weekend to visit an awesome woman I’ve known since we were 5.  We have plans to head south so I can attempt to run this and there’s a brunch in the works that may or may not include bottomless mimosas.

I’m excited about what’s to come and I’m working through the obstacles.  There are only so many times I can say that I’ll start writing, that I’ll throw myself in to the community, that I’ll even think about changing the header that wordpress.com gave me to work with at the beginning.  But here I go again.