A love story

It was a few weeks ago when my ex-husband popped up in a conversation with my sister. I don't even remember why, I just know that as I talked about him, I heard things coming out of my pie-hole that were unfamiliar and yet completely authentic. "I don't know if he's happy," I said, "but I hope he is."

To be honest, I've said the words before. Many, many times. The difference this time was that I meant them.

It was years ago - eight, in fact - during the holiday season when I began to notice things falling apart. Just in time for Christmas, I lost my job, and if I hadn't been consumed by that I probably would have realized before I lost the man that I was losing him. Loss was the theme that year, I suppose, and by February his heart gave up on mine; by July, he was well and truly gone. It would take a few years for the legalities to come together, but for me July was when it ended.

He moved on quickly. I took a bit more time.

I'm still taking time, in fact.

The most remarkable thing that came out of the tragedy that was the end of my marriage is the fact that I fell head over heels in love with someone I never expected to feel this way about. Someone without whom I truly could not live; it just so happens, I feel deeply and irrevocably in love with myself.

It's a journey that took about 41 years just to begin. Shortly before my 41st birthday, I walked into a gym, signed up, and began the physical transformation that healed my literal heart. At the time I am sure I was at my most unhealthy. I didn't go to the doc, because I didn't want to know, but I'm relatively certain my heart was actually broken. Walking up a flight of stairs terrified me, because my pulse went bananas. So what did I do? I rented a third-floor walkup. I created a home for myself. I built something, just for me.

And it all started with my heart. I began to eat better, and do physical things. I started sleeping - something that came all too rarely during the early stages of our breakup. I started smiling. I started making new friends, and really connecting with people in a way I hadn't allowed myself to do when I was married. It was as if I put on this suit of "wife armor," and there just wasn't room for anyone to get inside. As the armor wore down, my body began to change, too.

And I began to take risks. I allowed myself to do things I was pretty sure I'd suck at, because heck, I'd already failed at marriage. How bad could anything be at this point? It wasn't a self-flaggelation thing; it was honestly the idea that maybe I wouldn't fail, and that made it worth the risk.

Risk is now one of my fondest friends.

In the time since my marriage ended, I have created something out of the ashes. This life is totally different from the one I had when I was with him. Because as my heart healed, it also became more open. And while there is no "relationship" in my life or on my horizon, I have less fear of dying alone now than I did when I was married.

I have learned that "alone" is much more a state of mind than a state of being.

So to those who have been constant through all of this, I have to say "thank you." You caught me on my freefall. You made it safe for me to blow up my life and try again. And again. And again. Made up of both family and friends, you all found a way to cushion the blows and point me toward something greater. You knew what I was capable of, and you wouldn't let me settle for anything less. I owe you my life.

To those I met during the toughest times, I have to say "thank you." You saw something in a wounded girl that made you believe I wouldn't always be that way. You urged me forward. You trusted my instincts; you dared me to suck, knowing that I had at least a 50/50 shot at not. You thought I was worth it, and you let me prove you right.

And to an incredible group of folks who re-found me during this time, you guessed it - I have to say "thank you." You didn't know me married; you rarely if ever saw that version of me, which made you uniquely able to hold up a different mirror. You offered me a glimpse into my past, at an incarnation of myself who had long since been forgotten, and you assured me that I could reach back, grab onto the best parts of her, and bring them forward, into this new life.

Every one of you made my heart strong, and you helped to grow into someone I could love.

None of this is to say that the journey is over; no, not by any means. I suspect that over time, there will be more risks, more challenges, more reasons to scare the living crap out of myself. It seems every time I prove to myself what I'm capable of, another idea bubbles up on the horizon. We are well and truly in a constant state of transformation, and we can become so much more than we ever imagined if we just allow it to happen. And work hard at it.

Not just the physical, either. Sure, it's "easy" to train for a race, because you have a training plan. Follow the plan, and unless everything falls apart on race day, you'll be able to finish. It's harder to train for life, though. To really do that, you have to show up. You have to follow through on all the things you've been putting off for some ambiguous "someday."

You have to do it, whatever your "it" is. Reach. Grow. Then reach again. And just see how much you learn to love yourself in the process.

No Humbug

I accepted the Lululemon No Humbug Challenge for the holiday season. I'll track my progress here!

November 24: Make breakfast in bed for someone you're sweet on.
I am sans sweetie, but I went out to breakfast with three of my favorite people - my best friend Patrick, our friend Melissa, and her son Simon.

November 25: Share the #nohumbug challenge and spread the word.
Tweeted and Facebooked!

November 26: Find a new way to get sweaty.
Living a relatively (ridiculously) active lifestyle means this wasn't as simple as it sounded. Not much is "new" to me anymore! So I took a long, luxurious saunaaaaaahhhh.

November 27: Leave your favorite book for a stranger to discover.
I'm particularly proud of this one. I left my copy of The Princess Bride on a comfy chair in a sunny corner of campus. I hope whoever finds it is as delighted to read it as I am every time I hunker down with Westley, Buttercup and the gang.

My absolutely favorite book, somewhere on campus.

November 28: Give thanks to five favorite Twitter contributors.
I tweeted the love to my friends Donna, Gretchen, Eric and Mike, and sent a shout-out to Erick the Trainer, who never fails to inspire.

November 29: Give the person behind you your spot in line.
Technically, an epic failure. I didn't shop; there was nary a line in sight! So instead I jumped ahead to November 30 - Host a game night and spike the punch. Which I also didn't really do, but Pam, Jim and I hung out at Linda's while she and Lorna played "Get the decorations out of the attic" and we drank Rumchata Cocoa; it totally counts, and no humbug was seen for miles, yo.

And to all, a good night.

November 30: Host a game night and spike the punch.
I sorta did this one the night before, so today I suppose I should have enacted the previous day's charge and given someone my place in line. Hard to do when you're not a shopper, though! So instead, my cheer was extracted by making gravy and cranberry sauce for the Thanksgiving meal I shared with Pat after church Saturday night. (Spiked punch of a sort was enjoyed by way of an autumn cocktail made from prosecco, hard cider and cointreau. Delish!)

December 1: Decorate!
This one was a veritable piece o' cake. The decorations came upstairs last week, so we got the trees and garland up, and decorated the trees with Christmas music playing in the background. It's so pretty!

My collection of Hallmark rocking horsies.

December 2: Take care of someone who is always taking care of someone else.
This was another hard one for me, because I had made plans for dinner this evening long before the Challenge was issued. But honestly, this was time to take care of someone who always takes care of others, because that's my friend Dawn. We met for dinner and girl talk, and I think it was what we both needed. Plus, chocolate-pineapple-upside-down cake? Yes please.

December 3: Spend a little extra time with a four-legged friend.
December 4: Bring treats to work.
December 5: Reconnect with an old friend.
December 6: Write a letter to someone special and mail it.
December 7: Mix an eggnog cocktail.
December 8: Football; beer's on me.
December 9: Ditch work and hit the mat.
December 10: Leave a few coins behind for someone to discover.
December 11: Deliver cocoa to a neighbor.
December 12: Volunteer.
December 13: Turn off your phone and play Christmas music.
December 14: Carry someone's groceries to his/her car.
December 15: Share the love; leave someone an anonymous love note.
December 16: Surprise the person in line behind you with a free coffee.
December 17: Try something new.
December 18: Choose an adventure, like skating, sledding or snowshoeing.
December 19: Perform a random flower delivery.
December 20: Buy a round of cocktails.
December 21: Buy something that starts with A, B and C.
December 22: Form an airport cheer station and welcome people.
December 23: Call instead of text.
December 24: Take a family picture.

The Whole Ass

Back in the day, when I was in my first job out of college, I recall a conversation with my boss. We were talking about the value of doing everything with everything you have. Never doing anything half-assed. "Always," we joked, "approach a task with the whole ass."

It's a philosophy that both cracks me up and rings true, in everything I do. When I do something, I do it with my everything. When I run, I put everything I have out on the trail. I dance knowing people might be watching, but I really just don't care. I write and I edit and I re-write, putting the best creativity I can into each project, whether it's this blog post or a radio spot or a magazine story or a message to an old friend.

And don't even get me started about food. I eat with more gusto than one person should be able to muster.

If it has anything to do with any of my five senses - and let's face it, that leaves literally nothing out - I dive in. This leaves me with great potential for highs and lows. This is the roller coaster of my life.

Extreme highs, like celebrating engagements, meeting fascinating people, trying something new (and perhaps foolish).

Extreme lows, like acknowledging a friend's illness, being turned down for a promotion, and saying goodbye.

There are plenty of in-between moments, too, but my life is riddled with highs and lows. The anticipation of the uphill and the adrenaline of the down. I don't know any other way to be, honestly. Every time I've been hurt, I've vowed to just stop feeling. With the number of loved ones in my life, I stand to spend a lot of time at funerals when I grow old, and it sure would be easier if I could stop loving people

Easier.

Not better. And when is the last time you saw me deliberately choose the easy route?

The whole ass, as often as humanly possible. Arms outstretched, running with a laser-sharp focus into the unknown.

Music

Last night I was filling out one of those "things you don't know about me" lists, and one of the things I wrote about was my relationship to music. No big surprise, I'm still thinking about it today - the way music has been my touchstone throughout my life. The way certain songs will take me back to a time and a place from my past with such crystal clarity, I can smell it.

Music awakens all my senses.

So I thought, why not see where a trip down memory lane takes me? I think this may become a post that continues to be edited as new memories crop up, but for now I'm going to start with my first musical memory and just see where it takes me.

The song: unknown, but likely total nonsense
I was five years old when I went into the hospital to have my tonsils out. Back then, you stayed overnight, and I stayed alone. I remember feeling scared, and apparently even at that age I turned to music to comfort me. Which was okay, I suppose, except I was singing in the middle of the night and keeping other patients awake. My nurse, Odessa, came in and sang quietly to and/or with me for a little while, coaxing me to sleep. It's not the most vivid memory, but it stuck with me. Bonus detail: I wore a plaid cotton dress to the hospital. It was bright blue, pink and yellow. When I got home, our neighbor Toots brought me a Flatsy doll and a rose.

The song: Michael Martin Murphy, "Wildfire"
The 1970s brought a treasure trove of teenage death songs, but this song holds the clearest memory for me. I remember hearing it on a transistor radio in the lifeguard's cabin at Pilgrim Park campground. Jane Murphy, one of the lifeguards, became a family friend, and one night I was allowed an overnight with her. It was a treat to spend time with a more grown-up girl who wasn't one of my sisters! Jane had the first curling iron I ever saw, and she used it to turn my stick-straight hair into something quite different. She treated me like a real person, not just somebody's kid sister. As we played Beauty Parlor, this song came on, and I remember the lyrics making me feel just so sad! Bonus detail: "Seasons in the Sun" runs a close second for the best worst awful teenage death song.

The song: Debbie Boone, "You Light Up My Life"
Don't judge! I was in the sixth grade the first time I sang in public, at least as far as I remember. I may have sung in church, but this was the first time I recall. My Girl Scout troop was given a time slot to provide entertainment at a local mall, and I was chosen to sing this song. I'm sure it was awful, but I remember my mother absolutely beaming with pride. Bonus detail: I wore navy blue corduroy gauchos with a matching vest, and a red long-sleeve, button-up shirt.

The song: Paul Young, "Love of the Common People" (and the entire No Parlez album)
I didn't drive at the normal age of 16; it took me three extra years to master an automobile. So during my teenage years, I was most often chauffeured around in Patrick's two-door maroon Escort. Because he drove, he also got to DJ, and this song was one we (me, Patrick, Kelly and any of the extended assortment of miscreants I still call friends today) sang along to a LOT. Bonus detail: Another song of this time period was James Taylor's "Only One." Singing backup on the song are none other than Joni Mitchell and Don Henley, but this song I shared with Ivan. Perfect opportunity to harmonize.

The song: Bruce Springsteen, "Born to Run"
This was my angry anthem when I was a teenager. The louder I cranked the volume, the more it soothed my teenaged rage. I have always been an emotional person, but as a teen I had not tools to cope with it. It all just spilled out into the world, and in a lot of ways I was destructive. (Not 100 percent of the time, but if memory serves ... I was a real pill more often than I care to admit.) When I discovered this song, it was an emotional release the likes of which I had previously never experienced. Letting the melody soar, it took (some of) my anger with it. I would rewind the cassette and listen to this song over and over, until I didn't need it any more. Bonus detail: This song is on every single running playlist I have ever used.

The song: Elton John, "Someone Saved My Life Tonight"
My cousin Theresa got married when I was around 15. Back then, I rarely if ever felt pretty. My awkward stage lasted until I was about 29 years old. Anyway, I remember feeling pretty this day. At the reception, this song came on, and a family friend asked me to dance. It was the first time I ever danced with a guy, and while there was nothing remotely romantic about it, the song transported me somewhere new. It remains one of my favorite songs, with more reasons over the years, as people have popped up on occasion to "save my life" as it were. But still, it always takes me back to that night, on that dance floor. Bonus detail: I wore my sister Pat's brown cowl-neck sweater, my sister Kathie's wool plaid bias-cut skirt, and my sister Pat's cowboy boots. Don't judge.

The song: Jackson Brown, "Tender is the Night"
In the video for this song, Brown walks through rainy streets, perfectly in time to the music. One day when I was a senior in high school, my sister Jenn was driving me to school and the song came on the radio ... and as we drove, we saw a person walking down the sidewalk, in the rain, to the beat - as if he could hear it. Absolutely cracked me up. Bonus detail: Jenn was simultaneously exactly who I wanted and didn't want driving me to school. She occasionally took me Hardee's to get biscuits for breakfast, but she also embarrassed the hell out of me on a number of occasions. Good times ...

The song: John Cougar, "Ain't Even Done with the Night"
I had this on a cassette and listened to it (and the album it was on, "Nothin' Matters and What if it Did?") nonstop one day back in the fabulous 80s, when my sister Jenn had surgery. I sat in the waiting room, flipping the tape every time it came to the end, but this song I rewound and replayed time and time again. Nervous about what was happening to my sister, and alone save for a few strangers, the song provided a needed distraction. The surgery took longer than expected, but Jenn came through find. Bonus detail: My Patrick didn't come out quite so unscathed. That same night at rehearsal, over-tired from a long day of waiting, I lashed out at him over a girl. I was so in love with him at the time, and jealous of pretty much everyone else in his life. I think this was the worst, biggest fight we ever had. (To make matters worse, he didn't even like girls. Man, was I dumb.) So this song is a double-whammy, taking me to two distinctly different memories.

The song: Billy Joel, "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant"
It was the late 80s, and we had no business being in a bar, except the food was good (and cheap or free) and the sodas bottomless. Bill's served food, so it wasn't against the law, and my friends and I would sit in the back depositing quarter after quarter into the jukebox, to hear our favorites over and over. There were a lot of songs, but this one was a recurring theme. I remember sitting around the table with Eric, Violet, Tony, sometimes Kathleen, and heaven knows who else from the cast of Riverfront characters, and wishing the night would never end. In some ways, these were the moments when I got to know the first best version of myself. Bonus detail: Springsteen's "Thunder Road" was also played. Over and over and over ...

The song: Ryan Cabrera, "I Will Remember You"
It opens with, "Eight years later, time goes by fast. Got my memories, and the will last. I try to keep it simple 'cause I hate goodbyes, I try to keep it simple by telling myself that I will remember you." It was used to promote the series finale of Will & Grace, after eight years on the air. Unfortunately for me, that happened at the eight-year mark of my relationship with my now ex-husband ... right at the time we were coming to an ending. Every Will & Grace promotion reminded me of failure, partings, and sorrow. The song ends by saying, "When we're not together, I will remember you." I remember him, sure, but not with the gut-wrenching sadness this song used to invoke. It was really just recently that I heard myself saying that I wish him ... and I meant it. Weird. Bonus detail: In many ways, Will & Grace mirrors Maggie & Patrick, but I didn't marry Harry Connick. Damn.

The song: Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers, "Green and Dumb"
This isn't one I hear unless I play it for myself, because my favorite band doesn't really get much in the way of radio play. It's a gorgeous ballad written about a man trying to get back into his lady's good graces, and it has so much sweetness to it. There was a night back in 2007 when my friend Brian and I went to see the band play live. It was a rather tumultuous time in my life, in the midst of being left by the ex and trying to figure out my life. Toward the end of the show, the opening strains of this song came on, and I started to cry. Subtly - I can be subtle sometimes - and as soundlessly as possible, the tears fell. Brian looked over at me, wrapped one arm around me, and we began to sway to the music. A stranger approached me from the other side, draped an arm around me, and swayed along. The next thing I knew, our little group grew and snaked through the bar, all swaying and dancing together in what will, for me, always feel like the greatest comfort in the world. The tears faded and I drank in the song, and parts of my soul that had felt dead for a long time sprang back to life. This is what music can do. Bonus detail: After the show, Brian let me drive his Jeep home. With the top down. This was the first and only time I was allowed to drive Zoe. 

And that's what we have, for now. I reserve the right to edit and repost as more memories bubble to the surface.

Aging

I'm not doing it particularly well.

Lately, I've felt a little haunted by what's to come in the aging process. What goals will I not have time to reach? What's the next way my body will fail me? What the hell is that thing below my chin? And then ...

And then my friend Tony posts this gorgeous photo of Helen Mirren to his Facebook page:

And I'm reminded that age truly is relative. You can be gorgeous, badass and fabulous at any age. 

Wheels

Over the past 12 months, I have struggled with a Big Financial Decision. My car ("El Guapo," the Jeep) has been limping along, and in a year has cost me a pretty penny. (My mechanic, on the other hand, really loves me.) Add to that my gas consumption, and it was time to consider getting a different car.

Last week, it happened. I found the right car, and let go of the Jeep.

Farewell, old friend. I will miss you on sunny days.

It's not without regret, but it's as near to that as you can get. From Day One, El Guapo was a good car. Started when I asked it to, got me where I needed to go, and on warm, sunny days in the summer, there was no better way to move through the world than with the top down and the tunes cranked. When the Jeep started up, it was with a growl. This car could take on anything, and he did it loudly and proudly. (Not unlike its owner.)

In a lot of ways, this car represented my independence from my ex. It's the car I always wanted, even before I learned to drive. The husband, when there was one, didn't see the point. (Sure, pick cars as the one thing about which you'll be practical, right up until you decide you want a Geo Tracker soft top. Manipulative much?) At any rate, when it was time for me to trade my Cherokee in, I went Wrangler, and I never looked back. Every time I got in that car, save for the few times it gave me trouble, I drove joyously. In the four years El Guapo was mine, we made a lot of memories.

In a lot of ways, in that car, I became this version of Maggie.

A girl who drives a Jeep runs races. She scales walls. She bikes. She swims. She competes with herself to be better, stronger, more than she was the day before. Embrace the fear; do it anyway. In the Jeep, I became willing to fail. I become great at failing, because failing meant I was willing to try. Sure, I may have given myself a black eye in yoga (true story), but only because I was willing to try and balance my entire self on my hands. Sure, it took me over an hour to "run" my first 5K, but that first try kept me moving toward faster future runs, triathlons, and midnight bike rides. That car served as my wheels during a time of great transformation.

As I signed over the title, I cried. Wept like a child, because of the memories created while driving it (chilly Easter with my nephew in the driver's seat; chauffeuring the run club girls to race expos or snowy races; waving to other Jeep drivers.) But it was time, and as my friend Linda says, some great college kid will be driving it before too long.

And then, it was time to pick up this:

Hello, sweetie.

So new, she doesn't yet have a name, this is my great-gas-mileage sweet sweet ride - a 2013 Boston Red Hyundai Veloster. So quiet, I sit a stop signs and wonder if it's still running. This car purrs.

It has all the fanciness folks seem to relish in cars today - from bluetooth phone connectivity to tools that help maximize gas. And automatic windows and door locks (it's been awhile since I've had those!) And a sunroof; dear God, there's a sunroof.

Yes, I enjoy driving it, but in a different way. If cars were kids, I could honestly say I love them both, but differently. The Hyundai suits the person I am today - nothing to prove, but a little bit of an attention hog - while the Jeep fit with the Maggie of four years ago. It's the end of an era, and a new beginning.

I can only hope that the next iteration of me does not include a minivan. Or a sedan. I just can't see that.

Pretty

There was a time when I wanted to be an actress. Back in the day, I was relatively good, too. I held my own on stage among some  fantastic performers, and had great fun while (hopefully) entertaining our audiences.

There was a time when I wanted to be a marine biologist. I honestly can't explain why, except to say that I love dolphins. I think I may have been a dolphin in a past life. Oceans excite me; there is literally nothing (save for a healthy portion of dark chocolate, or a Friday-morning latte) that pleases me more than being in or near sea water.

There was also a time when I wanted to be a writer. Oh ... wait ... I am a writer. I guess that one worked out okay. I am making a living doing the thing I love to do, and only occasionally feeling the need to punch someone in the face.

But the one thing I have always, always, always wanted to be is pretty.

What a stupid word, pretty. What does it even mean? And why should that be a girl's fondest desire?

I'm not sure where I got the message that pretty is pretty important, but the point is, I got it. And I never believed I was. As a young girl, I was taunted for having bad teeth; the class bully punched me in the mouth more than a few times, telling me I was ugly, and she was helping. In my teens, I did everything I could to conform to the pretty norm, but always came up short.

Once in my 20s, the phone rang, and Mom told me it was for me. I picked up - hello? And I heard a voice say, "You are so ugly no one wants to be around you." Yes. It happened. And it broke my heart, even though I was so far beyond my teen years. (Sticks, stones and words hurt, no matter your age.)

In college, I met my friend Diane, and was sure beyond a doubt that we would never be friends; she was too pretty. In my mind, she was out of my league. Someone so perfectly put together just didn't seem to fit with the way I saw myself. (Thankfully, I got over it; she has been in my corner since 1996, and shows no signs of leaving.)

What's most troubling to me is that these are some of my most vivid memories. They've been locked away in my psyche for well over 20 years, and still I can replay the tape with crystal clarity. My laser-sharp focus has been on what I look like, ever since I was a young girl.

I'm not going to blame the media, or the cruelty of bullies, or cosmetic companies. I'm really not going to blame anyone. I'm simply trying to understand where the emphasis on looks is coming from. Why that singular facet of woman-kind? Why aren't we consumed by the pursuit of intelligence or talent? Instead, we're focused on the subjective - what is beauty, anway? What does it mean to be "pretty"? Because it can't be defined, looking pretty is a goal that really can't be reached.

What if, instead, we abandon the idea of looking pretty and instead decide that being beautiful is where it's at? It's a subtle difference, and it all boils down to semantics. Let me illustrate: I have a lot of friends. If you believe Facebook, they number well into the hundreds, and save for two of them, I have met them all in person. And they are all beautiful.

I say this because I know them. I have found each of them - men and women both - beautiful since the day I met them, and the more I know them ... the more we share and grow together on this roller coaster of life ... the more beautiful they become. Is that because we soften as we mature, growing into our faces and bodies? I think not. I think it's because when we know someone, the beauty of who they truly are becomes impossible to cover up. (The same is true of the ugly; that stuff becomes so obvious, you can't not see it ... and most of it comes to light not when you first meet, but when you get to know who someone truly is.)

So I have to conclude, after years of avoiding the woman in the mirror, that I've been pretty all along. As I grow older, I have observed my friends becoming more and more beautiful ... so I have to believe the same thing is happening within me. Sure, I would love to be that girl who makes heads turn when she walks into the room. I would love knowing that I fit the stereotypical definition of "pretty," but if I had to choose, I would take real beauty over surface pretty any day.

That being said, I think it's a pretty fair assumption that we can be both.

That time I went to Springfield for a wedding

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ― Maya Angelou

I’ve read the above quote countless times. It’s sweet and poetic, but it’s never struck me as undeniably true as it does right now, after spending a few days with people who choose me as their family. Returning to my “real life” has been a challenge, because of the unconditional love showered upon me by these people who choose me, again and again, to be their own. It’s an amazing feeling.

And so it was a few weekends back, when I drove to Springfield for the wedding of someone I am not related to, but who could not be described any other way than “family”. Johanna Jane – JJ, as we know her – is the stepsister of my “brother,” Mike Rice. He and I have been family since the day we met, back in the late 90s. It happened quite by accident (I cannot aim a Frisbee well enough to hit someone on purpose, thankyouverymuch) and proves to be the happiest error in aim I’ve ever made. 

The Illinois State Capitol; so pretty!

My arrival at the hotel was met almost immediately by gleeful shouts from my nieces, Kaylee, Isabel and Alice. Indeed, they were happy to see me; thus launched the parade of faux-bros, sisters and parents. So many hugs. So much love.

Folding into Mike and Rae’s arms is like going home. It doesn’t matter where we are; inside their hugs, I am exactly where I belong. Cindy and Charlie greeted me as only parents can (“Was your drive okay? Are you hungry? Here, have some pizza”) and then I got to see Ryan, my favorite Marine.

He and I became fast friends years ago on the first family vacation after Charlie married Cindy and Clan Rice/Carlson was born. And yes, I give him a lot of the credit for helping me become that runner I am today. Lamppost to lamppost; that’s how he taught me. That’s how the running started. Now my lampposts are miles apart, and I’m running the whole way.

And so, the weekend began. A solitary trip to Target ended with me picking up brother James at the train station and meeting brothers Chunk and Mike at a pub. Over onion rings and beer we laughed and joked and looked forward to what the weekend would bring. Returning to the hotel, I caught a good night’s sleep before the main event the next day.

My three "brothers", Mike, Chunk and James Rice

Saturday morning was run day for me, so I hit the treadmill. There were mirrors in the tiny gym inside the hotel. I don’t like watching myself run, so I concentrated on my music, and the fact that there were waffles available in the breakfast room. Soon enough, I was there.

And there was coffee. And it was good.

There was enough time to primp and prettify, and then it was time to head to the wedding, which was blissfully inside the hotel complex. Easiest commute ever. I met up with the Rice boys, who looked completely handsome and dapper. But that was nothing compared to the lady-folk; these are women who know how to dress up! For an afternoon, I was convinced I was among the Beautiful People; quite nice, yes? Yes.

Between the wedding and reception, I retired to the room to relax and have a glass of wine. Soon my room was full of family, and we had to get more wine. And Scotch. And shortly after that, it was reception time.  

Kaylee and Rae, relaxing between the wedding and reception.

The food was good. The company was better. There, among those people, I felt everything good, everything joyful and everything right. It was a perfect storm of awesome. These people, this love they share with me, just fills me up. I felt beautiful, intelligent, funny and fun, because of the version of me they reflect back at me. I felt lovely and alive.

Not ready to let go of the night after the reception closed down, I found myself having a nightcap with Ryan and his wife, Erinn, and doing a bit more catching up. It was one of those nights when the ability to stop time would have been truly handy; there wasn’t enough time to tell all the stories that begged to be told before sleepiness took hold and it was time to go back to my room and sleep.

Saying goodbye the next day was cleansing and awful. Sometimes I can leave them without so much as a tear, but on this weekend I just couldn’t hold them back. I didn’t want to; I just let them go, thanking my lucky stars I’d gone without mascara that morning. It is impossible to say goodbye to these people. They light my life; they magnify my joy. And the way they make me feel … it’s just beyond.

For someone like me, who plays with words for a living, it’s hard to not be able to describe something. But that’s where I’m at here – there is just no way to use something as simple as English to explain something that feels so otherworldly. These are the people who found me at age 30 and made me their own. They don’t take the place of my biological family; instead, they make up a tree of their own, and they’ve let this Maggie-shaped branch grow right into it. I’m not sure I deserve it. But I hope they never figure that out.

Lessons and moments

Last weekend - or as I call it, Birthday Weekend II - I was blissfully able to spend three days in Wisconsin. The original reason for the trip was to volunteer for Ironman Wisconsin, in which three friends were participating. However, the weekend wound up full of activities, and lessons came along for the ride.

I'm an actual grown-up. Sort of.
I had an automotive incident, and I didn't call my father for advice. I relied on my resources - roadside assistance through my auto insurance, and the recommendations of good friends. And my weekend carried on as planned.

Small towns do things differently.
In Lake Geneva, my hairdresser's mechanic checked out El Guapo (the Jeep) while I had my hair cut (and colored, fonder and blonder). And he didn't charge me for tightening and cleaning the battery cables. This is not how we do things in Chicagoland ... and it's rather refreshing.

Stay flexible. 
On Sunday, I was signed up to volunteer at IronMan Wisconsin, in Madison. I arrived in Madison at about 11:10 for a noon assignment, but no one could point me in the proper direction to find my post. When I was about ready to give up, I found a Starbuck's. Things were looking up! And as I was walking in, my friend Lisa found me. She was there to watch a friend of hers, so I took that as a sign that I wasn't meant to volunteer, but rather hang out with my friend. We stayed together and watched our friends finish the bike portion. It was great fun!

The beautiful Lisa, and me.

Watching a friend kick ass is awesome.

This woman, and two other friends, competed in the IronMan, and seeing them accomplish the incredible athletic feats (2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike, and a marathon - 26.2 mile run) was moving; I was unprepared for that.

The inimitable Carrie Mills,
roughly halfway through the marathon portion of Ironman Wisconsin.

I wasn't prepared for tears as I watched Carrie finish her bike ride. I wasn't prepared for them when she and Pat (on the left side of the photo, above) passed me twice on the run. I certainly wasn't prepared for the unbridled joy I felt as I watched them run toward the finish line. I don't think I've ever been more proud, or more resolved to continue working on my own fitness goals. I may never be an IronMan, but I will continue to make progress. 

Taking a day of rest is a good thing.

I took Monday off, because I knew Sunday night might be pretty late. (It was.) So that meant I would wake up in Lake Geneva, have breakfast, and relax for awhile. I spent a few hours on the front balcony, feeling more beautifully rested than I have in a long time. Pretty awesome.

In a hammock, reading a book. Perfect morning.

Food is good. Friends are better.

It's not a trip to Wisconsin without dropping by Dale's. And it's not a visit with Dale without eating delicious food. Seriously, the guy can cook. We chatted, sat outside on the deck (yes, it was hot, but it was pretty), surveyed the leftover stuff from his estate sale and listened to good music. And he cooked this:

Chile relleno en sauza oaxaca con camarones.

So completely delicious. But the best part, truly, was just being in that place, with friends stopping by and laughing until our sides hurt. I say all the time that I have good people, but sometimes it's smart to appreciate it in the moment.

The big lesson, I suppose, is in enjoying the moment when it's happening. This weekend was all about moments - whether they were big ones, like sitting with Carrie after she finished the race, or small ones, like eating an omelette with Jeremiah on Monday morning. I don't think I missed a single moment last weekend, and I am extremely grateful for that.

Birthday Month

At some point in time - circa 1986 or so - I stopped celebrating my birthday. One day, it seemed, simply wasn't enough, so I started having a birthday weekend. Over time, it grew and evolved and within a few years it became what it is today.

September: my birthday month.

You can thank my best friend Patrick for that. He introduced all of his nearest and dearest to the concept, and helped us celebrate in big and small ways. And so it began ...

Perhaps at some point, I should have grown up and relinquished my grip upon the idea of celebrating for not just a day. But as a girl who has always had to share her birthday (twin bro, ftw!), it's kinda fun to give yourself a reason to whoop it up all month long.

And so we begin Birthday Month 2013. It will include lots of celebrations that have nothing to do with me, including watching friends complete their second Ironman Triathlon in Wisconsin, and attending the wedding of friends who are truly more like family. It will also include a couple races, and maybe some hula pie.

What it always seems to include is a little introspection, too. My birthday always brings with it a sense of nostalgia, a longing for time that's escaped me. There are many things I wish I'd done differently in life, and sometimes it's emotional. Yeah, this year I've already been stuck in my head a fair amount, but I'll allow it ... as long as it doesn't keep me from celebrating. It's hard to forget that on my birthday in 2001, I got married ... and by the time our fifth anniversary rolled around, the prince of a guy I married had moved out and moved on. It is what it is, but I will probably always have a little bit of "what if" in me - what if I'd said "I don't" and all that? But my marriage was a learning experience, and I hope I let it change me for good.

I will be spending this month stretching myself - literally, by getting back to yoga, and figuratively, by asking a bit more of myself as I work toward my goals. It won't be easy (hell, I have big goals - from saving money to running a faster half marathon) but it will be worth it. I am not getting any younger, and that's pretty much crystal clear this year. This, my friends, is go time.

I can't think of a better time to continue getting started. Next year at this time, I hope to have some solid results. The time will pass, anyway ... go!

Wishes on a Saturday Night

Each year, in early August, a group of friends old and new gather at a house outside of Lake Geneva to stare up at the sky. The Perseid Meteor Shower is enough of a reason to have a party, no?

We munched on Mexican food, toasted to a newly built deck, and golf-carted our way up the hill to the darkest, highest spot we could find. Our venue for the evening was once a ski resort, the perfect spot for sky-watching.

A cacophony of treefrogs, bugs and birds filled the air as we settled in atop the hill to wait for the "show." I lost count after about the twentieth shooting star. We stayed for just a few hours, but in those moments ... it's hard not to feel something.

At one with the Universe. Holy. Alive. Grateful. You lay there, velvet sky shot through with glittering diamonds hanging low above you, the best of friends surrounding you, and somehow, you feel more like yourself than you've felt for a long time. A star shoots across the sky, leaving a tail behind it for a fraction of a fraction of a second.

You make a wish.

And another.

And another.

It seems endless, this stream of wishes streaking across the midnight sky.

Lessons from the footlights

It's been two years since I've stepped onto a stage. Two years since I warmed up the pipes to entertain a crowd. Two years since I gave myself over to that momentary magic of shared energy between performers and their audience.

Two years is a long time, and in that time a lot of nerves have the potential to rear their ugly head. And not without merit; I have my share of theater demons. By far my most humiliating moment on the stage happened in the spring of 1984, when I was playing Annie Oakley in "Annie Get Your Gun" at East Aurora High School. During one performance, I got completely lost in the song You Can't Get a Man With a Gun.

Completely. Lost. So lost, in fact, that when I looked down at the pit orchestra I saw my sister Pat (playing the piano) flipping furiously through the sheet music, desperate to find where I was. I saw the drummer just stop playing, and lower his head. See, the song is one of those repetitive ditties in which every verse sounds the same ... so if you don't follow yourself along, you're screwed. I was so completely gone, I just walked off the stage. There was no redeeming the song, so I gave up.

Those who know me will find this surprising, as I am not the "throw-in-the-towel" type, but at that moment, it couldn't be avoided.

And it has haunted me ever since.

Fast-forward to last Saturday. I arrived at our final rehearsal for the Summer Showcase in Libertyville, ready to run through all the songs. Everything was going along smoothly until it was time for my solo. I stepped up to the microphone, belted out the first line ... and immediately skipped ahead to the second verse. I tried again. Nothing. My cast mates waited patiently through a few more false starts, the band members tried their best to help me muddle through, and - God love him - my director assured me it was going to be okay. But I was having none of it. There just isn't an excuse or a reason; there is only an unprofessional performer, stuck in her head.

I told him I couldn't do it, and I took my seat. At the time, I wasn't sure what I meant; can I not do it now, or ever? I was freaking out and sad. I turned away from the cast in the sidelines and had myself a bit of a cry, and we got through the rest of rehearsal without a hitch. No one came at me with platitudes or bullshit; everyone (bless 'em) let me work through it on my own. It wasn't until we were in the car during break - me and my Patrick and our mutual gal pal, Dawn - that I even really talked about it. I told them that I didn't think I could do my song, and Patrick told me that would be okay.

And I immediately felt relief. I should not be surprised that the guy who has always known the right thing to say to me knew the right thing in that moment, too.

I did cheat a bit by writing line cues on my hand. I even looked at it once during the first show. But other than that, I rocked it, pure and simple. (With the possible exception of my eclectic lyrics to Master of the House during the first show.) I held it together, I did my best, and it all worked out okay.

There's a choice we all make when it comes time to do something we're not sure we're capable of. I do things all the time where I have the potential to make an ass out of myself; I even came in last in a 10K not too long ago. I was totally able to laugh it off, introducing myself to the police officer behind me desperately trying to close the course. So it's not a new idea for me, but it is different when there's a stage and a spotlight and a cast of characters behind you.

I think you have an agreement with your audience when you decide to do a show. You agree not to suck. You agree to entertain. That's hard to do if you can't remember your words. So I had a decision to make: let down my friends and give up, or try. It meant risking letting the audience and my fellow cast members and the production staff and the band down, but it was worth the risk.

And it all worked out for the best.

When I was asked how I was able to turn it around, the only answer that came to me was risk-reward analysis. Sure, it would have been easier to scrap the song. But then I would have always wondered, "what if?" This way, I was able to know I gave it all I had, and if it hadn't worked out, no one was going to die. It was just a song.

And yet, so much more. In one evening, I looked my demons straight in the eye. I faced my self-doubt and told it, no; not today; thank you very much. I'll escort you out now.

That's not to say it will never happen again. But if it does, I will have knowledge to fall back on. We have tremendous power to rise above ourselves when we know there are people behind us who believe in us, love us and want the best for us.

Ever forward, my friends.

Weekends

Well first of all, shit. I haven't blogged here in over a month! Shame.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way ... on we go. What a weekend I had!

Kicked it off early with some lap swimming at Centennial Beach in Naperville. They have a few 50-meter lanes that make it super easy to get into a nice swimming groove. Pam, Jim, Linda and Meg came down to enjoy a cool workout on a hot evening, and then the five of us headed to Potter's Place for a little nosh. Lately I just cannot get enough street tacos, so this was the perfect spot for me to land.

Friday started with a trip to Raging Waves - Illinois' largest water park. I soaked up some sun with my sister at my side, and it felt awesome. Truly relaxing, even on a hot hot day in Chicagoland. We are experiencing temps these days that rival hell, so a big pool is just what I needed!

I followed up the pool with a late lunch at Bien Trucha in Geneva, with my friend Kristen. An order of esquites later (oh, heavenly corn dish, how I love you!) and I was in my blissful happy place. (Not to mention some street tacos [addicted much?] and hibiscus iced tea.) That night, my sister Pat and I met up with my friends Patrick, Javier, Mike and Jerry for a concert at River Edge Park in Aurora. What an incredible evening! The heat loosened its grip as the sun went down, and the amazing Idina Menzel took the stage

Saturday started with an early swim (sheesh, lotsa water lately!) and weight training, after which Linda and I boarded a train for the city. We caught a cab to McCormick place for the Rock and Roll Half Marathon expo and packet pickup. We had a great time, bought a few souvenirs and headed back to the 'burbs to carbo load. (Not before we realized we'd forgotten to pick up our Chill Zone passes, which would allow us private bathrooms and bag check for the race, so we had to take another cab back to the expo, and then return to the train station. Yet another adventure, for sure!)

Sunday dawned dark and early, as we met our fellow runners at 4:45 a.m. to make the trek downtown. We arrived in the city as the sun was coming up, and spent the better part of the morning running/walking/sweating/praying for sweet sweet death. (Wanna know how I did? Clique vous, sil vous plait.) After which, we drove back to the 'burbs, took a quick shower, and drove to a different burb for comfort food/lunch. Heaven On Seven serves New Orleans-style food and drink, and delights all my senses. I had Parmesiano-Reggiano Grits with Shrimp, and a mint julep; yup, heaven! And so worth it.

I was grateful to be not too far from home, and had about an hour to spare once I arrived back at Camp Clovertree before we met Dad and the fam for a little celebratory dinner for my sister Pat's birthday. When the events of the weekend were over, I collapsed, exhausted, into bed. Seriously ... pooped. But I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

Disappointment

I was once told that 90 percent of all disappointment is the result of unrealistic expectation.

Think about that for a moment; it makes sense, doesn't it? Consider a recent disappointment. Was it one of the rare occurrences when something truly out of the ordinary happened? Or, were you hoping for something, envisioning some perfect scenario, and reality came swooping in to bitchslap you back to the everyday?

I can honestly say that for me, most of the time my disappointment is my own fault.

So it becomes a game of managing expectations. Hope for the best but prepare for the worst, as they say. I'm not one to adopt a defeatist attitude; no, never! But let's take a recent race as an example. In the sprint tri last weekend, I didn't have any hard and fast goals. I just wanted to finish happy, do my best, and perhaps do better than I did in the same race the previous year. I had followed my training plan at about 75 percent, so I knew there was an excellent chance I would reach my goals.

My expectations were realistic.

Now, if I'd said I wanted to come in under two hours - which I secretly did, but I knew I hadn't trained at that level - I would have been disappointed. But that's not the headspace I occupied. I kept myself rooted in reality.

Consider, too, when it isn't you who disappoints you, but someone else. When people disappoint us, it often hurts more, because we are completely unable to control what's happening around us. We can only manage our feelings, our expectations. So a friend fails to meet my expectations by being exactly who she is ... who she's always been. Sure, she's still an asshole (and - here's the hard lesson - probably not really a friend) but my disappointment has a lot more to do with my fervent hope that she'll behave in a way that's out of character than it does with who she is.

Who she is remains the same.

The trick is to love people where they are. I ask people to love me, train wreck and all. They can choose to do so, or not to, and that's really okay. (Unless you're my family; sorry, man, you're stuck.) If they choose to come along for the ride, they buy in to my occasional neediness, the short temper, the high expectations and the ... oh, what's the word? ... unrepentant quirkiness. (That's my nice way of saying "weird".) On the other hand, they also get unfailing support, real love straight from my heart, willingness to help out with just about anything (unless you need money or math tutoring) and acceptance. It's a pretty fair trade.

Sometimes, we're gonna disappoint people. Sometimes, we're gonna be disappointed. But if we can remember why we love people in the first place - if we're willing to love people as they are instead of how we wish they could be - I think we could go a long way toward tempering our disappointment.

And if not, my hope is that there's someone there to listen while we work through it.

Where the real damage comes from

It's hard for me to believe, from where I sit here in 2013, that we are still arguing about gay marriage.

I've been married. I didn't have a straight marriage; I just had a marriage. And that's all anyone wants - the opportunity to love and be loved, with all the rights afforded with the legal agreement that comes with marriage. But because there are men who want to enter into marriage with men, and women who wish to do so with women, society has decided their commitment isn't valid. Seems off to me, that we'd care so much.

Watching an interview the other day, one person asked the other if he thought Christ was pleased with gay couples. And I thought, if everything that displeased Christ was illegal, we'd need more cops. And the very first thing we'd have to make illegal is adultery, followed quickly by divorce.

Jesus had nothing to say on the subject of homosexuality. Nothing. The Bible says precious little about it; there is but one line in Leviticus that says "You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it is an abomination." That's it. (And don't get me started about how - if one must take one's Bible literally - then one must concede that God must be hunky-dory with lesbians.)

I'm no theologian, but I do know that there are substantially more Bible entries dealing with divorce, and even more about adultery. A quick search turned up 59 passages on divorce, and 109 on adultery, either of which is so much more than one. And the thing is, I think we get hung up on the sex part of homosexuality. We (and by "we" I don't meal all of us; I mean those who oppose the gay thing) find it icky (and a litany of other adjectives) so we rail against it. Which is our right, I suppose.

But stop saying that you're casting aside gay citizens' wishes to join into a recognized, committed relationship based on Christianity. Just admit that it has more to do with the fact that you think it's icky. Because I'm here to tell you, having my husband cheat on me and going through a divorce did more damage to me, to my soul, my spirit and my hope for my future than any gay marriage ever can.

The ultimate Fast Pass?

In the wake of stories like this, which detail how people are hiring handicapped people to gain faster access to rides at Disney World, I am just beyond words.

But that won't stop me from writing a few.

A few years ago, I noticed that Disney was renting wheelchairs to parents with children when they (Disney, not the parents) ran out of strollers. I understand why; they want to please their customers, and those customers need (or think they need; it's actually a want) a way to transport their kids on wheels through the parks. But what set my teeth on edge is that they were implying that a wheelchair is a viable choice as mode of transport. It isn't heinous, but it's a little icky. To me, at least.

So this latest bit of news - people actually hiring the handicapped for the specific purpose of using them, and handicapped folks allowing themselves to be used - has me wondering what the hell is wrong with people. Seriously.

I'm sure I've joked on a few occasions that the one "perk" of having a wheelchair-bound person in your family is that it helps you move faster through the lines at Disney. Joked about it. I certainly wasn't serious. The perks of being Mike's sister are that I get to be his sister; I get to learn joy from him. I get to watch him watch my least favorite movie, "The Wizard of Oz," with delicious glee. I get to hear him laugh, face red, eyes watering and arm swinging. I get to see him tucked into bed, hands curled under his chin, serene and sweet. Those are the fringe benefits - not the handicapped license plate, and certainly not the short lines at Disney World.

I'm not sure how Disney would handle it, but I hope they find an end to this sickening practice. In the meanwhile, I'll spend my time feeling grateful that my parents taught me how to live an ethical life.

They didn't teach it with the "do this" and "don't do that" approach; they simply lived in a way that had a positive impact on everyone around them - or they tried to do that, as often as possible. It taught us to be mindful of others, and I will always be grateful for that.

And as for the people hiring a handicapped guide for their Disney vacation ... well, I hope they get stuck on Space Mountain.

Summer for the senses

Summer is almost here. I can smell it.

Just as sure as I know winter's arrived when I smell the first snowfall, (it's distinct; it tickles the nose like an old friend) I know summer is around the corner. And it's not just my sense of smell that's delighted; no, summer gets to all of 'em. Which got me thinking ... what am I looking forward to, and which sense/s is/are most excited about it? Here's the preliminary list.

Drive-in movie/s (vision, taste)
Ravinia (hearing, vision, taste)
I want to go to each at least once! At the movies, the bright screen and film juxtaposed against an inky black sky is a treat, even if the film sucks. Ravinia, on the other hand, brings great music to your ears in the most beautiful park setting. But for me, each of these venues invites the best in food: a nighttime picnic. Rainier cherries, bread and oil, fresh peaches, homemade guac with real tortilla chips from the mercado ... that's the kind of stuff packed in my bag. And for Ravinia, we'll add a bottle of red. You in?

The beach (smell, vision, feel, taste, sound - yup, all of 'em)
Most of my beach time is spent on Geneva Lake in Lake Geneva, WI. While I know there are perfectly good beaches in Chicago, I love the resort atmosphere of Lake Geneva, and I also love that one of my besties lives up there; so I can get my beach on while curling up next to Amber and Jeremiah. And while I'm there, I will smell the Coppertone; I will see the waves crashing on the shore, the sailboats on on the water, the sun sinking into the horizon at the end of the day; I will feel the sun tickling my skin and the sand between my toes and - if I play my cards right - a little bit of seaweed slipping past my legs as I swim out to the deep water; I will taste lemonade with lavender or rosemary in it, and a perfect bratwurst; and I will listen to the water and the wind. This place is made for perfect days.

Other things in Wisconsin (taste)
My friend Dale lives there, too ... and really, all I can say is holy crap can he cook. So I hope (with 99.9 percent assurance) that this summer will bring at least one meal/bonfire combination. Also, there's a little cafe up there called Simple that has the best breakfast ever. I'm heading up there Memorial Day weekend, so I can see some - if not all - of this panning out for me very soon. Yes please.

Races (feel, sound)
I'll be running a few races this season (two of which are this weekend!) and they always bring a few distinct feelings: muscle fatigue and lungs-on-fire. There's also the feeling of complete euphoria when I cross the finish line, no matter how long it takes me. Also, I love the sounds out there - whether it's spectators or the rhythm of my feet mixed with other runners, or the occasional sound of nature that ekes through the din; there is a definite sound to races. But my favorite sound ever is the noise my friends make when I approach the finish line; that's what accomplishment sounds like!

Raging Waves (feel, taste)
Raging Waves is a huge water park out in Yorkville, and it is awesome. AWESOME. Sure, it smells like Coppertone, and it sounds good, too (great music piped in!) but nothing compares to the feeling of bobbing in waves for an afternoon, or lying back in your lounge chair and letting the day pass you by. The only thing that begins to compare with that is the taste of a Brain Freeze Float - icy blue raspberry goodness with a big ol' splurt of vanilla soft serve. Yes, please.

That's what I have so far, and I am beyond ready. What's on your list?

Dinner is served

I've been reading this book lately.

Now, please don't mistake this as a book review; it's not. I'm only on the fourth chapter. What this is, however, is a quick recap of a fantastic evening ... and an invitation to dinner.

But first, backstory. (Every good story starts with a backstory, right?) For Christmas last year, my sister Kathie gave each of us Bieritz girls (me, and sisters Pat and Jenn ... not nuns, actual sisters) a bottle of wine, and a book plate. The book plate was to be inserted in our copies of the above book, when it was finally released. The box from Amazon arrived a few weeks back, and I diligently inserted my book plate and settled in to read.

Yes, I'm still on chapter four. It takes me a long time to read, because I generally fall asleep after just a few pages. Stop judging.

My copy of the book. And my fingers. And evidence that I desperately need a mani.

It is a wonderful read. As the cover says, it is a love letter to life around the table; stories from gatherings and inspiration to strengthen relationships. It's gorgeous in word and feel. (Side note: while I love love love my Kindle, my favorite books are real books. Reading is a tactile experience. The paper feels nice!) Plus, recipes! So good. 

The author, Shauna Niequist, hosted a book release party in Deer Park, and Kathie was good enough to get our names on the guest list. The party was last night, and it was incredible. 

Author Shauna Niequist and me. I hate this photo of me, so I choose to believe it's just the angle.

The shindig was held at the new Lululemon Athletica in Deer Park. I love Lululemon; I wish they made pants big enough to accommodate my ample self, because their fabrics are just beyond. Anyway, Kath and I went to Chipotle (can you say "carnitas"? I knew you could!) for a quick bite and then made our way across the street to Lulu.

The store is gorgeous, filled with beautiful clothing for what? Working out. Running and yoga, specifically. Yes, please. (Note to self: set up a savings account for this particular addiction.) And tonight it was filled with beautiful cheeses, and fig spread and bread, and fruit. And chocolate. Good God, the chocolate.

And this; there was also this.

A bottle of red; my choice for the evening. One glass only; I'm driving.

Not to be outdone, there was this, too.

A bottle of white. Kathie absolutely adored this Sauvignon Blanc (which I am convinced means "white couch" in French.)

We mixed. We mingled. We shopped. (How often do you get to buy a new sports bra whilst drinking a glass of cab, I ask you?) And we listened to Shauna talk about writing this book, and what it means to build community. We prayed for a family wounded in the Boston bombing, and we took a few pictures.

I met Nina, the woman who wrote this blog post about the bombing and what it means to runners. I love it; it feels like she knew what I was thinking and wrote it for me. So wow, what a pleasure to meet her! I was in geeked-out-author-admiration-overload, meeting her and Shauna in the same night. Eep!

Drawing the evening to a close, Shauna read a snippet from the final chapter of Bread & Wine. It goes like this:

"This is what I want you to do: I want you to tell someone you love them, and dinner's at six. I want you to throw open your front door and welcome the people you love into the inevitable mess with hugs and laughter. I want you to light a burner on the stove, to chop and stir and season with love and abandon. Begin with an onion and a drizzle of olive oil, and go from there, anyone of a million different places, any one of a million different meals.

"Gather the people you love around your table and feed the with love and honesty and creativity. Feed them with your hands and the flavors and smells that remind you of home and beauty and the best stories yo've ever heard, the best stories you've ever lived."

So consider this your invitation. I may ask you to bring a dish to share, or to set the table, but I am poised to throw open the door and share stories. When are you free?

April Fool

This post has taken me a long time to write. Almost two weeks, in fact.

On April 1 - April Fool's Day - I came across this message on the Interwebs:

Okay, I get it; to some folks, pregnancy is no laughing matter. Okay, I'll acknowledge that you feel that way. I will also point out that lumping folks who are having trouble conceiving in with people who have buried an infant is ludicrous, in my opinion, but whatever. (In addition, how one-sided is this post? The artist refers to how awful this is for women, but she seems to forget that men are part of the equation. A woman rarely loses a child or has difficulty conceiving on her own; way to make it all about you.) (And another thing: the phrase "women who have recently experienced the death of their baby"; whaddup with that? It's either "a woman who has recently experienced the death of her baby" or "women who have recently experienced the death of their babies." Unless they all, collectively, lost one child.) But I digress. I get it; you don't want to see jokes or posts that bring to mind things that are painful. That's human nature.

It's a familiar thought to me. The first Mothers Day after Mom died brought little pings of pain every time I saw an ad or heard a commercial urging me to select the perfect present. It didn't feel insensitive on the part of everyone else in the known universe; it was simply the way the world kept turning. Over time, I (and I believe the rest of my family) found the humor in it. I particularly love the ads that state something along the lines of "It's not too late to find the perfect Mothers Day gift".

Um ... yeah, it is.

It may be human nature to not want to be confronted with those things, but it's pretty narcissistic, from where I sit.

So we should try not to offend. Okay. Let me suggest we remove the words "gay" and "retard" from our vernacular. Honestly, I think those words do more harm to a greater number of people than any April Fools joke. Maybe it's just me, but when you use the word "gay" to mean stupid or ridiculous or even funny, I'm offended. Gay people are offended. It's offensive. And don't even get me started on "retard". We use the term jokingly in my family, but even then, there's a sense of appropriateness to it. My twin brother has cerebral palsy, and in our lifetime the words we use to describe his condition have changed almost as often as I've switched my hairstyle. Handicapped, challenged, disabled, differently abled and yes ... retarded. Personally, I'm not a fan of labels, so I'm happy just to call my brother Michael. But the worlds demands a word, and if there's one thing I can guarantee, it's that whatever word you choose is going to offend someone.

A few days after April 1, I heard this commercial on the radio. It's a Jimmy John's spot (click to open a new window and play it on the YouTubes) where a homeowner calls for "freaky fast" sandwich delivery because he needs help putting out a house fire. He orders several sandwiches, and with each delivery asks the doorbell ringer to grab a bucket. Finally, the fire department arrives (not freaky fast) and asks why the homeowner didn't call them first. "I did," he says.

Well, I think if I were a firefighter (and I am a big fan of firefighters) I might be offended by this. But what really struck a chord with me is wondering if my friends Marsha and Gordon ever heard this commercial. See, years ago, their daughter's family was devastated by a house fire. The fire took the home, and most tragically killed their teenage granddaughter, Jamie. Jamie and her twin sister Jenny were my friends. Jamie had been cast as Liesl in the production of "The Sound of Music" we were rehearsing at the time. It was a horrible occurrence, and I can't imagine their pain at the time. I am certain it remains with them to this day. So, should Jimmy John et al refrain from this type of commercial, because it might offend or hurt someone?

Everything we experience occurs within our personal lens. What is funny to me might be incredibly offensive or even hurtful to you. Granted, I admit to having a truly twisted sense of humor (as evidenced by the blog I once started with my faux-bro, after both our mothers died; we chose to share it with no one for a reason) but even I get offended from time to time.

So what's the answer? I'll be honest; I have no earthly idea, and I'm not sure there is one. Sometimes, we're just going to be offended. To expect the world to revolve around us and consider our feelings is pretty one-sided; every person as an issue (or two, or five) that brings up difficult emotions. That shouldn't mean that we get to tell others what not to do.

All things Irish

My ex-husband was Irish.

Well, I suppose he still is.

Anyway, with St. Patrick's Day over the weekend, it gave me a wee opportunity to reflect (again?) on the past and where I am and why it's good.

This new me - Maggie 2.0 - is really who I am now. The me who was married to him was so long ago, she barely registers. Divorce was the price I paid to gain a life.

And so, surrounded by images of Guinness and shamrocks and pots o'gold, I gave a grateful thought to that guy. Grateful, you ask?

Yep. I'm grateful to that idiot for moving on to wife No. 3, and allowing me to grow into authentic Maggie. So much growth over the past seven years. Or is it six? Or eight? I don't even remember ... and it doesn't really matter.

I don't need to count, because the more time there is between me and my marriage, the less it counts. It's not that it didn't happen; it's just that it has no impact on my life now.

So, I guess the Irish luck is the one thing I got to keep in the divorce.

That ... and myself.

After the half, home

Well, I did it. I've completed my second half marathon.

And man, did it suck.

For the full report, you'll have to check my health and wellness blog, here. But for now, there are two things on my mind.

1. You have to get out of your own way. I can't tell you how many times over the past few months someone has mentioned that they think what I'm doing is extraordinary. And it is; I know that not everyone will have the gumption/moronic tendancies/commitment to run 13.1 miles. I also know that if I can do it, quite literally anyone can. You have to make up your mind, then you have to create a plan. Then comes the hard part. You have to get out of your own way and carry out the plan.

2. I am not obsessed. That's the second most common remark I hear from people when they hear about my fitness plans. "You really are obsessed, aren't you?" This often comes from people who are also obsessed, but their obsessions usually include the real housewives of somewhere, or some other "hobby" in which one can indulge in front of a television screen. So if, in their opinion, I am obsessed, here's all I have to say on the subject: mine is saving my life. Yours is killing you.

And now I'm home, getting ready to plan for my next big race, and another half marathon after that. I truly love my sport.

Valentine

On Valentine's Day, I find thoughts of love still swirling about my head. I'm remembering great love that has danced through my life. I'm remembering the pain of heartbreak. And I'm remembering - with an intense sense of gratitude - the abundance of love in my present life.

It isn't love of romantic notions. There are no hearts and flowers. And yet, there is more love, greater love, than has ever been part of my life when I've been distracted by romance.

Beyond grateful, that's me. For the love of family and friends. For my health, my sense of joy. For Irish cheese and cold water. For air and wonder and coffee and music and dance.

For life.

It wasn't always this way. When I was married, Valentine's Day came and went like any other day, and after we split up (which happened for me on Valentine's Day, oddly enough) it was even worse. The constant reminders of happy couples made me want to poke myself in the eye. Repeatedly. With a dirty red-hot poker.

But that was 2006. As the years passed, a new Maggie began to emerge. So distinctly different from any of the other versions, because this one was truly content with being alone. Oh, no ... scratch that. Not alone; rather, willing to live without romantic entanglements in order to establish herself. And holy shit, have I ever done that.

I have (as the graphic above attests) followed my heart wherever it's been willing to take me. Most of the time, it begs me to quicken its cadence, so I take to the gym or the pool or the trail. I have literally transformed my heart (and my body) through taking care of it. I am more youthful now than I was seven years ago, at almost-40. Today, I'm careening toward 50 with a younger attitude than ever, because I have followed my heart.

I've followed it to a new job. I've followed it to a new (temporary) home with my sister, Pat. I've followed it toward new friendships that feel like family.

And so, love. In my single-ness, I'm better able to accept love, it seems. But I don't think it's my single-ness that gets the credit. No, I think my single-ness has allowed me to know, accept and fall madly in love with myself, and that has made me better able to love others.

I think that's a lovely thing.