Of Sound Mind and Body

In the University of Colorado fieldhouse before my race, with Patrick and Phil,  Don's co-worker.

I started running again more than three years ago, when it became obvious that my weight was creeping up, despite an active lifestyle that includes walking, yoga, hiking and skiing. Not to mention recreational eating. Plus, I was entering into the Perimenopausal Zone (no offense, gentlemen, but the PZ is not a place where fools march in, so perhaps you'd rather not read this post). At first it was kind of a secret pastime, because I wasn't at all sure I was going to like it enough to continue. I vaguely remembered that running hurt, or was uncomfortable, or something, and in the immortal words of Daffy Duck, "I'm not like other people. I don't like pain. It hurts me." Or as secret as any pastime that requires running around my neighborhood, where I've lived for a decade and I suppose I'm as well-known as any other long-term denizen.

Sure enough, running was as uncomfortable as I remembered it, if not exactly painful. My right knee was particularly rebellious. It squeaked and groaned like an old house wondering if it could stay on its foundations. But beyond a slight twinge and some strange creaking sounds, my knee didn't hurt. I was still running a month or two later when I noticed that it was no longer protesting. I can't say I loved the experience, especially during it, but there was no quitting now, especially since nothing really hurt. Besides, I felt great afterward, endorphins soaring, and the weight already slowly dropping off.

This was good enough to keep at, I decided. I started entering local 5- and 10K races and delighted in their carnival atmosphere. I wasn't in it to win it. I just didn't want to embarrass myself. I researched training programs and starting running hills and intervals to increase my stamina and speed. These strategies worked. I became a faster, if not award-winning runner. That was, and still is, good enough for me.

The trouble is, I still live in American society, where progress is a foregone conclusion. The next logical step would be for me to run a half-marathon, or even start training for a marathon. Don't get me wrong--I revere anyone who trains for and competes in a marathon. Just ask my family--I'm one of those dorks who sits around on a Saturday afternoon watching NBC Universal repeats of the running portions of triathlons. I love to watch how people run. Each person's style is as unique as their face. A running fingerprint of sorts.

But why in the hell would a big gal like me, 5'10" and who weighs, well, a lot more than I'm ever going to confess publicly, ever run a marathon? Marathon runners are thin and wiry, not strong and bulky like me. And besides, I'm perfectly content running 10K. It's a great distance for me. I've lost twenty pounds running consistently, if not breaking any records for speed and distance. A couple of running buddies have pointed out that the weight would come off if I stepped up my training. But I'm not in this to lose any more weight. I like to think of myself as kind of a throwback to actresses of the 1950s, like Jane Russell or Ava Gardner or Marilyn Monroe. I actually don't mind having breasts and hips. Running off my belly fat and thunder thighs was one thing. Why would I want to run off the good jiggly parts?

So what AM i in it for? Given my disposition, which alternates between biliousness and anxiety with occasional, very occasional bonhomie, I might well be a lifetime candidate for Prozac. But I'm also into yoga and alternative medicine. Running is my alternative to Prozac. In the process of pursuing a sounder body, I've also stumbled onto my key to a sounder mind. Certainly the yoga asana and meditation play a huge part in cultivating peace of mind, besides being excellent physical and emotional exercise. For one thing, I've stopped giving the people around me so many pieces of my mind since I added running to my routine. Yes, I still write letters to the editor in response to some blowhard who really needs another blowhard to put him in his place. But I'm kinder and gentler about it.

At the two-mile mark at Saturday's race

                                          

This is what works for me. I'll just keep plodding along. If the weight starts creeping up again, or Don starts telling me my Bitchiness Quotient has increased to intolerable levels, then I'll consider my next steps. By that time I'll be over 50. Call me a fuddy-duddy, but I just don't think it's a good for me to start running marathons after 50. I'm more likely to bungee jump.

My Kind of Veteran's Aid

Don, the boys and I were walking on Main Street in Bozeman, Montana on a snowy June evening. Yes, folks, it snows in Montana in June. And every other month, too. But that's another story. We were taking in a little after-dinner window shopping, when a man walking in front of us careened around and fell backwards smack on his head. Our first thought was that he was having a seizure. But almost immediately, he bounced back up.

One whiff of his breath made it clear his fall was alcohol-induced. He didn't seem to know where he was or what had just happened, but he was walking and talking. We offered to call the paramedics, but he waved us off. We kept walking with him, because we were pretty sure he wasn't in any condition to cross streets safely. He was coherent enough to mention he'd been in Iraq. But the conversation quickly devolved into him insulting us for judging him for his drunkenness and not appreciating his service. He was clearly looking for a fight.

I didn't think our boys needed to witness any more of this, so Don and I quickly agreed I'd take them back to the hotel and he'd deliver him to the VFW, which was another block and a half up the street. We were hoping the other vets would know better how to handle him than we did.

It probably wasn't the first time this young soldier had picked a fight with someone. And he may have landed in jail for it more than once.

In a small way, Judge Ronald Croder has begun to address the issue of veterans with post traumatic stress disorder who run into trouble with the law, often for alcohol-related offenses. The retired two-star general has started a Veteran Trauma Court that is more interested in helping traumatized vets deal with life than in punishing them.

Bravo, Judge Crowder, for using your expertise and life experience to help other people. The judge, a prosecutor and a public defender are actually working together instead of being adversarial. Let's hope their good work becomes a model for other courts in Colorado and across the country to emulate.

Elbow Grease

My Grandma Finnegan swore that her wringer washer got clothes cleaner than agitator washing machines. In 1986 the one she'd bought in the sixties died, and she went to the trouble of special ordering one from Sears. I'd have liked to have been a fly on the wall when that transaction took place. The sales clerk likely showed her the latest models, and I'm sure she politely looked. But in the end the wringer washer was the only machine for her.

Grandma was a great believer in the power of elbow grease. The wringer washer experience epitomizes this ethic. When my parents used to take my sisters and me to Montana every July, I spent many happy hours helping Grandma send all our clothing from the washing tub through the wringer into the rinse tub, and through the wringer again. Did the clothes really get cleaner this way? Maybe it was one of Grandma's illusions. At least every article of clothing was touched four times in the process.

Anyone who uses a wringer washer is going to forgo the dryer and use a clothesline. That's fine in July, when the daytime temperature is in the eighties. Fast forward to when I lived with Grandma in the 1980s. She wasn't going to let a little thing like minus 20 degree January temperatures stop her from hanging out our clothes to dry. Freeze dry. The wind could be blowing like crazy, and our clothes would not flap. They waved. And they took three or more days to fully dry. After that first experience hanging clothes in  bone-numbing cold, I was a lot more careful to wear my clothing as many times as I could get away with. I was just learning to drive in the snow, for Pete's sake. My thin Californian's blood was no match. Grandma would be out there before dawn shoveling snow, wearing nothing more than a windbreaker over her pajamas.

I'm not suggesting that we go back to the days of using wringer washing machines. I am thinking we could all stand to use a little more elbow grease in our daily living. A little inconvenience is good for a person. If it doesn't build character, it might just build some patience, a virtue all Americans are going to need in abundance in the coming years.

Pat THIS Down

Tuesday night I went to the salon, and we were talking about Thanksgiving plans. What we were all most thankful for was that none of us were flying anywhere for the holiday.

"What do you think of the body scanners?" my stylist Teryl asked me.

"TSA can kiss my ass," I said over the drone of the hair dryer. "If I thought body scanners were making us safe from terrorists, then it would be different."

"Then you'll have to go for a pat down," she pointed out.

True enough. But after a lifetime of conditioning about not allowing any stranger to touch my privates, any pat down is going to be on MY terms. Especially state-sanctioned fondling that offers only a vague promise of safety from terrorism. Like I said in the salon, TSA can kiss my ass. My dimpled ass, that is. Though I'm a reasonably fit 49-year-old woman, my weight has fluctuated over the years, not just due to two pregnancies, but mainly because I like to eat and drink. It'll be just like my high school job at Winchell's Donuts in Hermosa Beach--I used to wear my bathing suit underneath my uniform so I could to the beach after work. Now I'll wear it underneath my street clothes. I'm all about making life easier for the people around me.

I've been thinking about something Mr. Walter Douthwright frequently talked about in government class my senior year. He spoke of how the politics in this country are driven by crisis. As in no decisions are made until the big one strikes.

And strike it did, several times in this decade, beginning with 9/11. Our government's response--two wars that still don't have a clear outcome. Many Americans are more patient with the lack of well-defined outcomes on two wars that have spanned the decade than they are with a recession that has lasted three years. Doesn't taking your shoes off at the airport make you feel safer already?

The same people who have linked shoe removal and color alerts with national security have now brought us virtual strip searches and patdowns, as if everyone boarding a plane is a potential underwear bomber.

My friends tell me I have a knack for stating the obvious, so here I go again. What's next? Everybody has at least one body cavity. The next terrorist wannabe is going to tuck explosives where the sun don't shine. Where the hell is that going to leave airline travelers? Are we going to be treated to strip searches? I pay Lynn Walker, M.D. good money to examine me once a year. No amateurs allowed.

When my mom was out to lunch with her singing group last week, body scanners were a main topic of conversation. A middle-aged guy sitting at the table next to them interrupted.

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation," he said. "I'm here to tell you, if I'm going through a scanner, I plan on being at full attention." Lucky for him this is a salty bunch of septugenarians.

My neighbor's father is Israeli. I asked her what the Israelis do int heir airports.

"Profiling. And it works. Oh, yeah, Israel's a smaller country with fewer airports. But it works well enough. The problem is, it will never happen in this country."

It's enough to make a girl go all Forrest Gump. Hello, running shoes. The next time I go to California to visit my parents, I'm seriously considering running there.

Race Day

On Saturday my family and I ran in our local Turkey Trot. Yes, folks, even Don, who hasn't willingly run, well, ever, ran the two-mile course. One of his Facebook friends quipped, "Was the liquor store closing soon and the car wouldn't start?" Our 12-year-old Patrick and I ran the 10K. I ran mine in 1:01.13, and Patrick ran his in 45 minutes. Patrick's ass-whooping of me is only going to get worse, as his legs and his cardiovascular system grow. That's OK. I'm happy for him. As long as I'm still running races at age 79, like someone I met on the course, I figure I'm doing well.

As I was running toward the three-mile marker, I saw a thin elderly man running along. As I passed him, I asked how long he'd been running.

"Thirty-five years."

"Hope I'm still running in thirty-five years."

For the next mile and a half, we took turns passing each other. I was doing what I call my inchworm intervals, running as hard as I can for a minute, then pacing myself for another two minutes. Damned if he didn't pass me for good right before the five-mile marker. I saw him at the finish line, where we shook hands. I congratulated him for his strong finish.

"You helped me out there," he said.

I couldn't imagine how. By encouraging him? By providing a target for him? I was too high on endorphins to care one way or t'other. "Thank you" seemed the best thing to say.

Anyone who knows me well knows I'm a big-time eavesdropper, and that usually leads to some butt-inskey comment. I usually can't resist the temptation to comment on what I've just so audaciously overheard. Here's the best one of the day: "Did you hear about that guy with one leg who ran a marathon in like, two hours?"

"Hell," I offered, "I can't run that on two legs. Not even on three."

Let Them Eat Negative Ads

I don't know any voters, Republican, Democrat or Independent, who thinks the harvest of negative campaign advertising was worth the estimated $4 billion spent. Thanks to the Supreme Court's Citizens United decision, we don't even know who funded many of the ads. This is a travesty. I frequently write letters to the editor, and I am required to sign my name to them. Signing your name is part of the deal in free speech. Apparently it's OK with a majority of Supreme Court justices to allow corporations and labor unions, in the name of free speech, to anonymously donate to national and local political campaigns.

When Don and I lived in Vermont, we went to a candidates' night where then-Rep. Bernie Sanders (now a senator) said something I'll never forget. In terms of the federal budget, expenditures in the millions of dollars are chump change. It's only when they cross over into the billions that it matters.

All righty, then. So much for investors not having major money to spend on investing in businesses. The 2008 campaigns, which included the costliest presidential campaign in history, cost around $2 billion. Four billion dollars could have gone a long way toward investing in new and established businesses and industries in every congressional district. I'm sure there are rules about how campaign funds can be spent, and they surely don't include investing in businesses (unless you're in the advertising biz). Governor-elect John Hickenlooper is a notable exception of a candidate who didn't go negative in his ads. Then again, when you have Larry and Curly as your opponents, who needs advertising at all?

This is a great country. I'm sure there are ways for candidates, whether incumbent or challenger, to show  voters what they can do to create jobs in their districts. In my congressional district, there are worthwhile alternative energy concerns that could have used the more than $32 million that was spent statewide on campaigning. Whatever's left over could be used to pay for ads explaining to voters what candidates have done to strengthen the job base in their districts.

Karl Rove has famously said that negative ads work. For whom? Voters can't drink enough Pepto-Bismol to make it through the next round of toxic waste he and his cronies are already planning. 

In the meantime, this voter would love to see an ad from any candidate that talks specifically how they worked with industry to create jobs.

Can We Talk?

In sports, I'm a natural defender. I would have liked to have been the kind of player, like Linda Appio on my eighth-grade basketball team, who made magic happen almost every time she took it to the hoop. Instead I was someone who kept track of the ball and made my move when my opponent was being sloppy with it. And then I gave it to Appio, who was much more sure to score than I ever was. When I played basketball, I frequently put my hand on the small of my opponents' back, just to let her know I was still there. At the very least I irritated them. Sometimes that was enough to knock them off their game.

During this election cycle, I've been doing a political version of playing defense. The U.S. representative of my district, Betsy Markey, asks volunteers to phone and canvass Republicans and unaffiliated voters. The first time I volunteered, I can't say I was excited about this. Very few mere mortals enjoy getting in the faces of people who oppose them. (The title of this blog post comes from Joan Rivers, one of my favorite comedians, who has made her career on getting in people's faces. She's another Appio.) But I get what Markey's doing. Rep. Markey, unlike her predecessor Marilyn Musgrave, is trying to represent her entire district, not just a slim slice of fawning admirers. Musgrave believed that the Defense of Marriage Act was the most important issue facing our country. Not. She was wrong then, and the economic and political crises we face in our country only make her grandstanding even more unconscionable now.

Many of the Republicans I've contacted are having none of Markey's approach. Then again, phoning them or coming to their door is a way of gently putting my hand on the small of their back, just to remind them I'm here. Most have been gracious, even if my call didn't change their minds. A few have sincerely thanked me for calling or coming by. Two have told me they have no idea what Betsy's opponent, Cory Gardner, stands for, and that they'll vote for Markey--again. Far fewer have been downright rude, like the man who said, "Longmont Area Democrats?" before blasting his FAX machine in my ear. Some others have treated me like I was an invading army, and therefore an enemy, instead of someone who simply has a world view that is different from theirs. I believe the official Republican party position on repealing the health care law (even though many of them agree with most of its provisions) is misguided. This does not mean I believe Republicans are unpatriotic and therefore my enemy. Yesterday's Doonesbury strip pretty much sums up the Republican party's lack of concrete solutions and the misdiagnosis of the problems in our country.


When I canvassed a neighborhood in northeast Longmont yesterday, the last two houses I visited were those of elderly Republicans. When I asked the one gentleman if he's joining me in supporting Betsy Markey and Michael Bennet, he sneered, "Absolutely not," as if the very idea of voting for these two incumbents were an affront to his honor and morality. 


The woman next door said, "You've come to the wrong house," and laughed kind of maniacally as I walked away. 


No, honey, I've come to the right house. Betsy Markey was elected this district's representative in 2008, making her your representative. The Democratic party and the people who support Democratic candidates are no more the enemy than Republican candidates and the people who support them. Colorado's 4th district is inherently ungovernable. It covers a huge and varied geographical area of the state, from cosmopolitan Ft. Collins to teeny little towns on the northeastern prairielands where cattle outnumber voters. Markey has made some of her liberal supporters mad with some of her votes, such as her vote against the stimulus package and the first iteration of the health care initiative. Not to mention her A+ endorsement by the National Rifle Association. One of my neighbors calls her "the Republican Betsy Markey." I confess I haven't liked all her stands and votes, but again, I get what she's doing. She's doing her best to balance the interests of those diverse and often cranky voters who are her constituents. That's a rare and admirable thing in today's politics, where the personal opinion and emotional state of the representative take precedence far too often.

By the way, Cory Gardner has not attempted to contact me by phone or mail, and his campaign has certainly never darkened my door. Nor has Michael Bennet's opponent, Ken Buck. Does that mean they don't consider me to be one of their constituents?


This is exactly what is wrong in public life these days. This enemy-making mentality is eroding our ability to acknowledge difference and to trust in one another. Just because we disagree about the nature of the solutions to our country's problems does not make us enemies. It makes us people who disagree. Some have become so cynical they believe there's no remedy, and they simply give up and retreat into a state of hostility and resentment against those who oppose their world view. 


So what do people do when they have conflicts within their families? Do they brand them irredeemable enemies and throw up metaphorical, or even literal, walls? We know from our own bitter history that Americans cannot live in a house divided. Nor is conflict resolution a matter of getting the other guy to see things your way. 


Conflict resolution does involve the art of compromise, an art that has received some very bad press from the far-right Tea Party as well as the far left. My understanding of compromise is that you sit down with your opponents and have open discussions about the nature of the dispute. You both commit to doing everything in your power to defuse it. Together you identify what each side can give up, and what they absolutely cannot give up. No fair telling the other side they're simply wrong.


If we continue going down this path of perpetual discord, we're heading for a divorce. Our country can't afford a divorce. It's absolutely critical that we work out our problems, and yes, for the sake of the children. Because all this hostility is unhealthy. It resolves nothing.


So let's roll up our sleeves and do some really good work we can all be proud of, the work of finding agreement where there previously was none, of acknowledging disagreement as respectfully as we can, while making a sincere effort to understand where our opponents are coming from. Maybe by accident we'll even be able to respect each other. And maybe, just maybe, out of this synthesis, we can begin to find creative solutions to our problems.