Sometimes it’s as simple as changing shirts

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’m still nursing some injuries and working from home when I can (and this morning, I can). Last night I was chilled, so I put on a men’s long-sleeved t-shirt as a pajama top. It worked out great for sleeping, but as I went about my morning routine, I found that the too-long sleeves were getting in the way. I tried pushing them up, and then I tried rolling them up, but the end result was that no matter how I pushed and rolled, the sleeves kept creeping back down over my hands and getting in the way.

The solution was simple – change shirts. It’s warmer this morning, so I put on a short-sleeved shirt. When I finally changed shirts, I wondered why I had tolerated the pushing and rolling for so long. Now I can type without annoyance. I can staple papers without pushing my cuff out of the way. I can pet the dog without the fabric getting in the way. It took about 15 seconds to locate and change the shirt.

I’ve spent a lot of my life pushing back metaphorical “sleeves.” I keep doing the same things that aren’t working over and over, thinking if I roll the sleeve instead of pushing it up, it will be different this time. It seldom is. In truth, if it works out, it’s probably because the shirt shrunk in the wash.

Changing your life isn’t as easy as changing your shirt.

My family is “changing shirts” right now. I’m continuing to practice law, and my husband is going to continue to practice his professions, too, but the model is changing. It’s a much bigger deal than changing shirts. It’s a lot like replacing your wardrobe with a new look and giving the old stuff to charity. We could go back to the way we used to do things, but why would we really want to? We’d have to go back to pushing up our sleeves every 15 minutes.

When you don’t have to spend a lot of time pushing up your sleeves anymore, you have time to do other things, like crochet washcloths and go to Cedar Point. You may have time to branch out into another business or to write blogs. You may find time to find new interests and new friends. Who’d have thought that simply changing a shirt could be such a big deal?

Just write what you know…

~Be~

Winning in Last Place

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’m registered for the Run Disney Princess Half Marathon in February 2016. I went last year and didn’t get to finish (Read more here: https://justwritewhatyouknow.com/2015/02/27/the-bus-of-shame-or-the-saddest-ride-at-walt-disney-world/).

I’ve been training for the event, and my pace has increased. Although the minimum pace is a slow 16 minutes/mile, that’s been a real challenge for me. Recently, I completed training runs at 15 – 16 minutes/mile. I did a 10K in September with a slow 17 min/mile pace, but that was mostly in the dark.

Submitting a proof of time of finishing a race of at least 10K with an “acceptable” time helps one to get placed in a corral nearer the front of the pack at the Princess. The goal is 3 hrs 15 min or less for a good corral. Proof of time must be submitted by November 17, so I didn’t have much time. I chose a race in Michigan based on the fact that it is near one of my “invisible” (not imaginary) online friends, and she invited me to stay with her.

As the weekend approached, I began to dread the race. I hadn’t gotten in as much training as I hoped. It’s a long (2.5 hours) drive each way. I’m swamped at work, have been busy most weekends and evenings…and about a dozen other excuses. Add that all to the fact that I was staying in someone else’s home, and my social anxiety kicked in. I almost chickened out. I made up my mind to honor my commitments, and I packed my bag Saturday morning, stopped at a local shop for a hostess gift

As I hit travelled west to Toledo and turned north to make my way into that state where “a rose never grows” (Once a Buckeye…) it began to rain just a little. The sun was shining, but tiny droplets were hitting my windshield. As I looked toward the east I saw a beautiful, vivid rainbow. A rainbow is a promise. The rain soon stopped. I drove farther and the showers began anew, with a brand new rainbow.

I was treated to three rainbows along the way. I took them as a sign that I was going to have a fabulous weekend.

I arrived at my friend’s home and met her new puppy. She nearly peed on my foot (the puppy, not my friend), which was a sure sign we were going to be best friends. I had fun chatting with the grandkids and showing them videos of my own silly dog. My friend and I ducked out for dinner, then came back, got into pajamas and stayed up late talking. what a special lady she is.

I went to sleep in her very comfortable guest bed and woke in time to have a cup of coffee and some fruit to fuel up before my race. My friend had planned to drive me to the race site and cheer me on, but when I realized it was going to be near freezing and that one of the grandchildren had an ear infection, I told her to stay home and I’d be back. I dressed in my favorite yellow long-sleeved tech shirt with my hippie runner headband that says “I’m so far behind I think I’m in first place.” I topped off the ensemble with my kaleidoscope tights, my favorite running skirt and bright orange shoes. My friend’s son asked me if this was a “color run.” I explained that this was the “Big Bird Run,” and by golly, I was doing my best to look the part.

I made it to the race site with plenty of time to spare. I found a parking spot right in front of the building. Things were definitely going my way. I felt great. I felt fast. This was MY day. I picked up my packet, looked at the race shirt, and grabbed the information sheet to read more details about the 10K. It said, “timing will stop at the 80 minute mark.” My heart sunk. I knew I would probably come in about 95 – 100 minutes. My last race had been 105 minutes. The one before that 115.

Although the sun shone brightly, I felt as if a dark cloud covered the sky. I felt inadequate. I pinned my race bib on, and contemplated what I should do. I thought about trading the 10K bib for a 4K bib and just having a “fun run.” A 10K is a lot of work for me. I decided to try the 10K and just have fun – I would run it as a “fun run” and bring some sunshine to the back of the pack.

At the last race that I ran, although I was slow, I was not last. There were quite a few runners who were even slower than I am. As I have improved, I have stopped worrying about finishing last.

I looked around the parking lot. These were serious runners. Although it was less than 40 degrees out, there were guys in short shorts foam rolling on the freezing concrete. I was the only “fat girl” (or guy) running the race. My confidence started leaking out.

I gave myself a pep talk. I looked at the sky and thanked God for a beautiful day to run. I gave thanks that I was in no pain. I sang happy songs to myself. I cheered as the 1 mile and 4K races started, but I really wanted to cry.

The blue sheet that told me they would stop timing before I finished had asked slower runners to start int he back, so I made my way to the very end of the pack. The starting gun cracked, and I watched EVERYONE move away from me. It was like I was moving in slow motion.

I hadn’t gone a full block when the police car pulled behind me with its lights going. It was going to be a long 6.2 miles. This was an extraordinarily well staffed and marked race course. There were multiple police officers or volunteers at every single intersection. I decided to thank every single one as I went by. Each one I thanked said, “No, thank YOU, and you’re doing GREAT!” I didn’t believe them, but I appreciated the encouragement.

My police escort would slow down then catch up with me again. I passed the 1 mile marker and volunteers with stop watches were giving out splits. I could barely believe them when they said, “13:49.” That was my fastest mile ever. I was still in the very back, but I had the boost I needed. My running watch was set to chirp every 45 seconds. I would run as hard as I could until I tired and then cut back to a jog until the next chirp.

At mile 2 I was just under 30 minutes. At mile 3 I realized I would break my personal record for a 5K. By mile 4 I was tiring, but I caught up with the two women I had been following. We would trade off places for the next mile. At mile 5 the timekeepers asked if I knew if I was the last one, and when I answered “yes,” a young lady asked if she could run the last mile with me. “I’ve never run a mile before,” she said.

Together we ran that last mile. I was tired, but she kept telling me I could do it. I told her I hadn’t voluntarily quit a race yet, and I wasn’t about to start. As we ran, I told her that I had lost over 100 pounds since I began running in March 2014. “Look at you now,” she said.

We rounded a corner together with the finish just ahead. The timing clock was still going. I came in at just 91 minutes – by far my personal best. I asked the time keeper if they were still submitting times although 80 minutes was past, and he said “yes.” I thought “I’m going to Disney World,” and I recovered a tiny bit of spring to my step.

I collected my free banana and my bottle of water. I thought back to the rainbows that decorated my journey the night before. Everything about the race conditions Sunday was perfect for me. I love to run in the cold. The pavement was dry and mostly flat (except for the highway overpass). I had my own police escort – I alternated between joking with volunteers about being chased by the police and telling them that I was a very important dignitary who needed personal protection.

I finished dead last, but I finished. Finishing wasn’t the difficult part – starting was the real problem. Once I convinced myself that a time was just a number and decided to have fun and show thanks to all of the people who volunteered to stand in the cold on a Sunday morning, I had a wonderful time. I won. I felt honored to finish in last place.

The good people of Roseville, Michigan made me feel like a winner. Nobody made me feel like I was inconveniencing him by being slow. The elite runners didn’t look at me as if I was somewhere I did not belong. I was a runner. I was part of a community, and I was doing something I could not do for many years.

We runners have a saying: “Dead Last Finish > Did Not Finish > Did not Start.” I won in last place. I won big.

I returned to my friends’ house for a shower and a hot bowl of chili. We visited some more and said our goodbyes and I began the long drive back home. What had started as a day full of anxiety and self-doubt became one of my proudest moments. Later I would review my Facebook feed and be reminded that five years ago that day, I had been sworn in as a lawyer, another achievement I never believed was within my ability.

I gained a real sense of accomplishment this weekend. I submitted my proof of time. RunDisney says I will finish the half marathon in 3 hours and 22 minutes. I know I can do better than that. Those balloon ladies aren’t catching me this year, but if they do, I’ll smile and thank them for volunteering their time on a cold, dark morning.

Everyone’s Faster in Canada

Posted by BecomingBetty

I could hardly wait to get to the track last night. My husband bought me an early birthday gift – a “real” (purple) running watch. I spent a few minutes selecting the functions that I wanted to display on the watch face, then I put on my bright coral and red shoes, a wild orange shirt and my black headband emblazoned in bright yellow with “Suck it Up Buttercup.” I was ready to tear up the pavement.

My husband was heading that direction anyway, so he dropped me off at the high school track a half mile from my house. I carefully propped my neon blue water bottle where I could get to it, then I adjusted my teal and black headphones, started my music, and adjusted my hot pink phone band (yes, I was a very colorful sight).

I did my warm-up lap around the track, and then I pushed the RUN button on my new toy. As I began my first “fast” interval, I was amazed – my colorful watch and new shoes had enabled me to shave a lot of time off of my previous record. I was puzzled. Was the Nike app that inaccurate? Was MapMyRun telling me I was a turtle when I am really a (very fluffy) cheetah?

The laps and miles flew by. I got faster and faster. Woo Hoo! I’m flying, I’m flyyyyying. My hour ended and I ran home, feeling victorious. I downed a big glass of water and plugged my watch into the computer cradle, ready to review the full set of stats for my miraculous run.

I synced the watch with the app and pulled up the session, only to see that I had run it at my typical pace, after all. It only felt fast. I scratched my head – why did it tell me that I could run like the wind while I was on the track, only to tell me that I’m still only slightly faster than a turtle wading through peanut butter at home.

I looked at my shiny toy again, and realized that my results were displayed in metric. Maybe I should move to Canada. I like the way my stats read in metric. I’m “faster” in metric. My weight is a smaller number in metric. Oh – and there’s that free healthcare thing.

I’d miss my dog, though. He’d be faster in Canada too, though, eh?

The Destructive Power of Anger

Posted by BecomingBetty

I try very hard not to hold a grudge. I know how much energy it wastes. Worse yet, while I’m wasting energy and feeling miserable, the person on the other end of the grudge is blissfully unaware of it. Someone dear to me once told me, “don’t let someone take up space in your head without paying the rent.” I’ve remembered that and try to live by it.

Last year, someone who I had to deal with on a regular basis did some things that made me angry, then they said some things that hurt my feelings. The result wasn’t pretty. To his great credit, he has extended an olive branch and tried to mend fences on several occasions. Although I said the words, “I accept your apology,” the truth is that I never really let go of the incident.

I went to the gym this morning to run a couple of miles on the indoor track. I set my app to remind me to run for two minutes then walk for 60 seconds. My favorite playlist was playing, I felt “fast” (for me), and I was having a great run. The first half of the 2 mile run was great. I thought about what I would do when I finished my workout. I thought about the fun I had over the weekend. I could feel the grin on my face. People were smiling and waving.

Then, at 1.27 miles in (I happened to look at my running app), last year’s “incident” popped into my head. As soon as I thought about that person and what had happened, I got frustrated. I mentally told myself, “you must forgive him.” I tried to just say the words, “I forgive,” and I couldn’t do it. I felt I wasn’t ready to forgive him. I somehow NEEDED to continue to be angry with this person. I felt my mood continue to darken, and realized that I had begun to scowl instead of smiling.

I continued to argue mentally with myself for a few more minutes, and grudgingly thought, “I forgive you.” I continued to run/walk and soon I began to think of possible ways to not mend fences with this person (fences keep people out), but instead to build bridges. I felt the bounce return to my step and the smile come back to my face.

I finished my run, got back home, and I got curious. I pulled up the chart of today’s run and scrolled the bar to 1.27 miles. While I was filled with anger, I was slower. You can see it clearly. I went from “green” peaks to only “yellow” peaks as soon as I began harboring resentment. Stewing on old hurts slowed me down. I was 37 second slower on mile 2 than on mile 1.

I couldn’t ask for a clearer demonstration of the power that negativity / anger has over me. It kills our joy, saps our strength and robs us what we are working to achieve.

Thankfully, I feel much better. It’s my turn to extend the olive branch. I will never again underestimate the destructive power of internalized anger.

All Stuffed Up [Learning to Let Go]

Posted by BecomingBetty

I have a huge job ahead of me. I’m loving and hating every minute of it. I have too much stuff. Some of the “stuff” I have hasn’t seen the light of day in years.

My husband lived in this house when he met me. He had stuff already when I moved here, and when I added my stuff to his “stuff,” the house was stuffed and we both had to give things up. The years passed, and we each tossed some stuff and bought some more stuff to take its place. Before long, he lamented to me, “we have too much stuff.”

I did my best to pare down the stuff. I went through the boxes and tossed some stuff, but there were things that held too many memories. I couldn’t bear to give up some stuff, so I stuffed it back into (fewer) boxes.

Some years later, my mom and dad moved from their four bedroom home into a two bedroom apartment. They had to get rid of stuff, but they let me go through their stuff before they sold their stuff at auction. I loaded up a car or four with more stuff. I was opening my professional office, so some of the stuff went there, which made room for more stuff at the house.

More years passed, and the ‘rents moved into an even smaller place with less room for stuff. Once again, I carted boxes of stuff to my house. I couldn’t bear to let them get rid of the stuff that I had grown up with. The stuff has sat, stuffed into boxes and untouched since I stuffed it into the garage, basement and attic.

Mom got sick, then Dad got sick and died, and Mom got sick again. I was so stuffed full of feelings that I couldn’t bear to go through the boxes that stuffed the corners of my life.

I [re]discovered thrift shopping (thank you, Macklemore!) and brought home even more stuff. Recently I needed to get something from the basement, but the floor was so stuffed full of boxes stuffed full of stuff that I couldn’t find the stuff I wanted. I realized I had a stuff problem.

My darling, patient husband understands. The stuff is stuffed full of memories.

When I hold my grandma’s old root beer mug, it ceases to be just stuff. It takes me back to Grandma’s kitchen. I can see the Hires root beer bottle (the glass kind that you have to open with a bottle opener). I can taste the vanilla ice cream that has crystallized root beer on the edges. I feel the long-handled spoon she gave me with my root beer float.

The caddy of red-striped glasses stuffed with newspaper take me to the dinner parties my parents would host. Mom’s fancy glasses would come out only on special occasions. I felt like a grown up when I could drink my iced tea or lemonade from those glasses instead of the jelly jar glasses or the plastic cups we used for every day.

There is the birch bark tee pee and the Indian chief doll that my Dad bought on a trip out west before I was born. I hold them and hear Dad tell about the steak dinner he bought in Texas for 10 cents with a steak that was bigger than the plate that held it.

It’s all stuff. The real value is in the memories that are stuffed in this head of mine. The older I get, the more my house looks like my parents’ home circa 1975. I have my parents’ coffee table, my Dad’s desk lamp, and the piano that Dad taught dozens of kids to play on. I almost brought home the church organ that he had… but there was no room. The place was stuffed.

My head is stuffed full of memories. They are sweet and bitter. Each doo dad and knick knack triggers a mental movie. Dear husband brings the boxes for me one at a time. It’s like Christmas when I unwrap the stuff that was carefully stuffed in newspaper years ago.

I have to let go. There is so much old stuff – mine, my parents’ and my children’s that there is no room for new stuff to make new memories. I have to part with my stuff. I’ll keep the treasures that hold extra-special meaning. The other stuff stays only if I would buy it if I saw it in a store. As I send the other stuff on to other people who will appreciate it, I will savor the memories that I unwrap. Perhaps I will photograph the items that have the best stories. As I stuff boxes full of stuff that has no place to be displayed, I should save those memories somehow.

Perhaps one day my children will receive an album stuffed full of photographs and words from their mother recalling moments from the years she spent collecting the stuff.

So far, all but one item has been unpacked intact. The lone casualty is a painted cookie jar. I’ll admit I nearly cried when I saw it lying in piece. I asked my husband to glue it. He said he would… but I’m not sure it’s necessary. As “stuff,” it’s not worth much. There’s nothing special about it. I have the cream pitcher, tea pot and sugar bowl that match. Any one of those things would evoke the same memories. I’ll never use it as a cookie jar. Now that it’s broken, nobody else would want it. Instead of repairing it, I think it’s time to (reverently) stuff it in the trash.

When it comes right down to it, it is, after all, just stuff. The memories are inside me, waiting to be shared.

Not My Circus, Not My Monkeys

Posted by BecomingBetty

I once read a popular book on relationships by John Gray, PhD. It was titled Men are From Mars, Woman are From Venus. The general concept that I gleaned from the pages was that men and women think differently. When someone presents a problem, a man’s tendency is to try to solve the problem rather than responding with empathy or sympathy. Women share their problems hoping for emotional support, rather than a problem-solving session. The failure of the woman to appreciate the solutions offers is unsatisfying to the man, and the woman feels slighted because the man hasn’t given her the emotional response she had hoped for. Chaos ensues.

By birth, I am a woman. By vocation, I am a lawyer. While I am still a woman (and happy that I am), my law school education changed how I respond to other people’s problems. I have developed a tendency to listen, identify the problem, and offer a solution. Sometimes I put hours of (unpaid) time into figuring out a legal solution to a problem that has been shared with me. Imagine my shock and horror when, instead of thanking me for doing free legal research and offering a tangible solution, the person with the problem got ANGRY with me.

While it is not uncommon for lawyers to be maligned, most of us are pretty nice people. We charge money for our time because it’s all we have to sell, but many of us provide pro bono services to indigent clients, help family members and volunteer our time for other good causes. Forget everything you learned about lawyers from reading lawyer jokes (please).

This week I had a conversation with a friend who was frustrated. Her frustration stemmed from problems in an area that I have training and experience with. As she shared her pain and frustration, my mental wheels started spinning. I had solutions to those problems! Just as I took a breath to deliver my well-thought-out plan, I heard a little voice in my head say, “Not your circus, not your monkeys.” I swallowed my words and said nothing. I listened. I realized that not only did my friend probably already know the legal solutions to the problems, but she was also not the person who needed to act. The situation was largely beyond her control. She was telling her problem to her friend – not her lawyer. Instead of giving in to the urge to fix the problem, I needed to offer emotional support to my friend. She just needed to vent.

I’ve been a worrier since I was young. If I’m not worrying about my troubles, I’ll worry about yours. I finally understand what Mom meant when she warned me, “don’t borrow trouble.”

I posted earlier about wearing many hats. Sometimes those many hats lead to confusion. I am learning that when I am wearing the “friend” hat, I need to put the “lawyer” hat in the closet. The lawyer hat tends to make me look like I’m from Mars, anyway.