Like Father…
So guys. For those of you who are not faithfully checking the training blog, shame on you. It’s the most important thing happening in my life right now – and god knows my life should be in the upper echelons of your priority list. AND. All three riders are holding to their commitment and program schedule – which is awesome.
My bike is technically borrowed from my parents ( mom’s schwinn ). This means that the bike lives at their house and is, for the time being, a hostage. See, Dad has some concerns about anything requiring me to exercise coordination or agility. These concerns are exponentially aggravated by the fact that I’m not training for a 20 mile charity ride, but a century. Yesterday, he helped me attach a speedometer/odometer/distance/calorie counter gadget thing to the bike. I really appreciated the help because I would have put the damn thing on backwards and because he gave up the CBS evening news to do it.
Gadget attachment was followed by a short course on gear shifting. I would have found this useful too except that I was told that for my purposes, I should just stay within “these” (pointing to a narrow area of my right gear shifter) and “this one” (a single gear on the left). Stupidly, I tried out the other gears right in front of him, dropped the chain from the bike and fell on the ground. Dad picked up the bike, readjusted the gears and took it for a “test ride.” Yes, that’s right: at twenty-six I still get test rides. When the bike was deemed safe, it was handed back over with a repeat gear lecture. As I rode away, he called instructions from the driveway.
The whole sequence reminded me of another moment in the not so distant past. Four years ago on Christmas Eve my acceptance letter to LSU law arrived in the mail. My dad’s face was so proud and so deeply troubled. I know he would pick an easier life for me – something that left no possibility for failure, but I wouldn’t be his kid if I settled for it.
The new “me”
In a few short minutes the new “me” will arrive and I will be expected to train him. It occurs to me that I am a very poor teacher and that perhaps I should be glad (or the school board should be glad) that my teaching aspirations fell through. I’ve been sitting here trying to think of where to start and what to say. I got stuck around here:
Hi new guy. Your job is basically simple. You act like me. You laugh at jokes (but only the boss’) – whether they are funny is irrelevant. You can try to retain a semblance of self-respect, but I don’t recommend it. It will only make things harder. Don’t mention the following: protein deficiencies, the President, classical guitar, dog training, the Bible or wood carving. It’s best if you accept now that you know nothing about these subjects and surrender to the superior intellect of your supervisor. Don’t expect any praise. Do expect for everything that goes wrong in this office to be your fault. Whether it is or not is irrelevant. Anticipate many, many lunches where conversation revolves around physical therapy practices or late ’60’s trends. You are not expected to contribute anything thoughtful to these talks. Although, knowing a bit about Peter, Paul and Mary is a plus. Always dress “sharp” for court. If you don’t the boss will be embarrassed by your existence and you really don’t want that.
That’s as far as I get- and obviously I can’t actually articulate any of that. The actual practice of clerking is pretty straightforward and the parts that aren’t, the parts that make you a good clerk, can’t be taught. I’m all jammed up.
To make matters worse, the new me is nothing like me. He is a boy for one. He is ex-military for another. He is married. He invested in Palm stock. He thinks that beating your dog constitutes good discipline.
Step one: smile.
Step two: smile.
Step three: smile.
Obstacle Course
Kathryn posted our first ride location : St. Francisville. My brain posted the first reality check. The last time Bennett and I trekked out on our bikes, he spent a full twenty minutes outlining the grueling St. Francisville trail. I had been silently hoping that St. Francisville would be one of our last rides – after we had you know, built up.
The real challenge of this first ride is all in my head. After all, I am the person who inflates the difficult into the impossible on a nearly daily basis. That’s one of the reasons that I’ve signed on to do this. I need to prove something to myself. It’s not about finishing for once. Two goes at the bar exam have humbled me – and changed my perspectives on success. I will have succeeded in this training process if I put my full faith and energy into getting there. No self doubt. No self sabotage.
That’s why reading “St. Francisville” was huge. That instinctive pull kicked in. I felt the get out reflex. The run before you fail fear. But I’m forging ahead. As Olive taught me – there are no losers when you give it your all.
Take heart, faithful readers. I’m sure one week and two whole hours on an elliptical trainer have prepared the writer for an hour – two hour bike. If not, I can entertain all of you for endless hours with hospital convalescence tales.
Wish me luck! I’m bringing the camera (of course.)
*Sob* (Please don’t read if you are the one person reading Harry Potter more slowly than I)
I just finished reading Harry Potter and I’ve been weeping like a blubbering fool for the last hour – behind my desk at work. Thank god there’s no one here.
Finest emotional (personal) moment – the redemption of Snape. It really wouldn’t have been the series that I loved if Snape didn’t turn up on team Harry in the end.
Finest moment for J.K. (why she’s twice the writer critics claim) – taking down the big V in one small sentence. Hooray for letting the moment resonate for itself. The fact that Voldemort’s death did not take up an entire chapter is a testament to seven volumes of excellent storytelling. She did herself proud.
As an aside, I didn’t really like the inclusion of the last chapter. Maybe for strictly personal reasons it sort of bugged me to think of my characters all conventional and parental. But. But. It was the right thing I think. It gave me the necessary few minutes to stop crying, let go of these well-loved characters and close the book.
Recruited.
Kathryn’s done it again. Somehow, I never see obstacles in K’s suggestions, only possibility. This is like the time when she casually suggested over chai soy lattes that we band together to reform/create public interest law at LSU. I blindly signed on as she created a scheme, which obligated every spare minute of the rest of my law school career. And you know what? I don’t regret it. I think fondly of what we at least in theory tried to accomplish.
So I guess it’s not surprising that when Kathryn emailed me to suggest training for a century I jumped right in. Never mind that the last time I was on a bike was in October and the time before that…when I was eleven?? For those of you (like me three days ago) who don’t know what a century is, it’s: 100 miles. In one day. On a bike. My dad scoffed, my mom expressed genuine concern for my mental and physical health and my boyfriend (typical) acted like I had suggested training for a 1 mile fun run. None of these folks have signed on. So far it’s the Sheely women and me. There’s room for plenty more recruits. Interested? Check out our shiny new blog devoted entirely to this event. There’s a flickr group too – which simply means the rebirth of the fanny pack so that I can photo blog every second.
The Year of the Rat
I feel like writing about my rats.
When we were kids (not that much has changed) Dad would purchase our good behavior at mass with a dinner at our favorite Chinese dive. I remember Saturday feasts at Chung King where we poured over the Chinese zodiac place mats. You could read those red and white circular charts a thousand times and still find something new under your egg drop soup.
Jon was born in the year of the rat. The rat is the most industrious and hardest working of the signs. Rats are loyal, loving, and sometimes chatty. They exhibit high energy and ceaseless organizational talent. They are often described as charming, social, and quick witted. They find safety in numbers.
I was born in the year of the cock. Roosters are called loyal and trustworthy as well. They are also stubborn, moody, analytical and shy. We owned many roosters growing up (bad little bantams at that)- so it was easy to see why those traits were associated with that particular animal. Our roosters were the know-it-alls of the coop. They could be brash and unpredictable, but they would often form singular bonds over which they remained very protective.
I never knew why special traits belonged to the rat. Like most kids, I wondered why the rat belonged on the calendar at all. Why not some more esteemed animal? I was glad I wasn’t born in the year of the rat.
A decade or so later, I’m experiencing my very own year of the rat(s). I remember the first moment I held Pippy rat. It wasn’t like holding any other rodent (we’ve loved ferrets, hedgehogs, hamsters and guinea pigs.) It was like holding a tiny dog. Like dogs, rats are quick to bond – so quick in fact that holding one in a pet store is as good as buying her. Like a puppy, they immediately radiate a positive response to any affection.
Rats are smarties. Pippy knew her name after a few days. Ash and Pinky come when called. Recently I’ve let Ash have free range of the apartment during the evening. Mostly she follows me or Monet around, but sometimes I loose sight of her. If call her name and make kissy noises, she comes romping out.
Last night was cage cleaning night. This is an unpleasant experience for the rats. Although they loathe dirty spaces, they can’t stand to have things rearranged. As I was cleaning out the cage, Ash was scuffling about under my feet. I would throw an old toy in a trash-bag and unbeknown to me, she would scurry in, retrieve the toy and run off to hide it. When I tried to call her later, she delayed. After a few minutes, I saw her lumbering out from under the entertainment center lugging her precious things. I decided that she could decide when they were no good.
As I placed the three little rats in their freshly cleaned space, they set about organizing. In a half hour’s time, it looked like someone had taken the cage and shaken it. Things were moved from upstairs to down, food was ferreted away and even the water bottle was carefully tilted. It looked a mess, but it was meticulously arranged.
I peered into the cage and three little ratties sniffed from their hammock. Upon the sight of me, the tired little girls stretched and jumped up, never too exhausted for social interaction.
So you see, the Chinese Zodiac was right – rats are full of energy, industrious and affectionate. The same cannot be said about hamsters.
On second glance, the rat is in very good company. Besides the rooster, he resides with the ox, tiger, rabbit, snake, sheep, horse, monkey, dog and pig. Tremendous work animals or the biggest smarties. I should have known rats were special.
No Offense…
but I really don’t care about you right now. I don’t care about work either. I just want to read Harry Potter.
I’m currently commuting to “The Stranger” on audiobook and this morning I caught myself thinking, “Camus, you are so lame. Where’s your imagination? Anyone can write a great existential novel, but only J.K. can think of the deluminator. Lame – o.” It’s time to put all other things aside and give myself over to the dark art of obsessive reading.
To recap the Harry Potter weekend:
Jon and Ryan accompanied me to the Barnes & Noble premiere party. After a frantic call from Jordan, I was rushed into arriving at 10 – ish. There were already a zillion people in line. Ryan was naturally more interested in the news crews and journalists. He regaled Jon with his version of how the Harry Potter premiere story gets written. According to him, it goes something like this: Intrepid young reporter arrives at miserable local interest event. He becomes aggravated with the crowds, the mania, and the general disorder. He spends a few minutes exchanging cynicisms with other reporters and then heads to the liquor store. With a fifth in hand, the story practically writes itself : “Muggles Invade Local Bookseller. .”
Jon was bombarded by a blast from the past and Ryan’s headache was in full swing. My party would mutiny if I insisted on staying until my pre-ordered book was in hand. It was time to call on my lawyer training. I ferreted out the only person in the store without a wristband and manipulated them into waiting in line for my book. I almost felt guilty.
The only drawback to my slytherin worthy plan was the delay in reading. I was tucked into bed sans book when Jordan called to tell me that he was holding his book in his hands. He wasn’t breathing so well. I subdued the urge to drive over to his house, wrestle the book from his hands, and hide in an undisclosed location until I had finished the last page. This surge of ill-will towards friends is a phenomenon, which is afflicting others as well.
The next morning I was texting my poor stand-in at 8am. After picking up my very own copy, a strange thing happened. I didn’t want to read. This continued for the rest of the afternoon. I carried the book around with me, thumbed through the first few pages and put it aside. Starting meant finishing and finishing could only happen once. I didn’t start reading until late Saturday night. 250 pages in and I’m completely without the ability to turn back. The Deathly Hallows is pure entertainment. I love this series for the escapism it offers. I dreamed in Harry Potter vision last night. It was great, albeit not very pleasant.
Dainty Decorum
Shopping in Victoria’s Secret is like stepping into a women’s locker room. The discussions are private but public. Privates are private but public. Men are unwelcome. I don’t find the shopping experience any more pleasant than the steaming experience. Like Sex and the City’s Charlotte, I am plagued by discomfort and confusion when it comes to baring it all.
While shopping yesterday for decidedly practical undergarments, I had to navigate the sea of clearance bins. Those bins bother me because they destroy the fiction of lingerie purchasing – that you are the only person to handle the dainties you later buy. It’s super gross to watch a bunch of dudes thumbing through panties. Some skeezy boys were giggling and throwing thongs at each other. I wanted to throw them through the PINK display panel. In this shopper’s opinion, it would be perfectly acceptable to arm the ladies in black with tape measures, headsets, and cattle prods.
As I slipped into the dressing room, a girl was standing half protected behind her dressing room door, asking a sales person for advice. “I just think that I probably need a 34DD. This 34D feels too small. ” In true Jessica Rabbit style, the girl stepped out from behind the door – breasts first. I looked. I didn’t mean to it’s just that 34DDs are sort of mythically outrageous. The woman was about 5′2″ and weighed no more than 110 lbs. Her DDs were double silicone. I felt my inner Charlotte coming out. What was the appropriate response? I felt that I was an intruder in an intimate moment between customer and consultant.
I finished my rush for my room and started to swing closed the door. Before going any further, let me point out that when it comes to dressing room etiquette, Emily Post’s wisdom is in desperately short demand. We are left to navigate the waters for ourselves, and occasionally, we respond to foolishness with foolishness. What happened next is not my fault. I was practically bullied into rudeness.
Just as my door clicked shut and I prepared to tackle the problem of how to fill out any bra at all, the mostly naked woman beckoned. “Miss. Yes, you! Do you think this bra is too small?” I re-opened the door, confronted by the Takashi Murakami size implants. She grinned widely and threw her body into beauty pagent stance. Before thinking, I replied, “No. I think those boobs are just too big.” I didn’t mean to be unkind. I didn’t mean to say anything at all. It’s just that once in a while, a girl can’t abide. In the dressing room, there isn’t any room for compliment fishing.
Check out my new eyeglasses – first metal frames! My pair is purple though, and on my face, and there is a little hole in the end of each arm where I could cleverly thread a string for librarian charm. They are making their debut at the Harry Potter release party at Barnes and Noble. Jordan promised to draw a lightening bolt on my forehead and I’m holding him to it.
The Ballad of a Pair of Pink Shoes
I canceled my remaining interviews today. It was cathartic to snip those last ribbons and officially let go of this job search. Looking for a job has been the great time eater of the last two years. Starting the fall semester of my third year in law school, I was in full blown resume mode. For a few months in the summer and fall of 2006, I took a breather to study for the bar. As soon as the bar(s) had passed, it was back to mailing resumes.
I remember when Jason went through his year of job hunting. He looked absolutely drained all the time. Worse, he was terribly depressed. At the time, I couldn’t understand and I was a poor friend at best. What’s so stressful about pounding the pavement for a job? I just didn’t get it. I was that girl who had never even applied for a job that she didn’t get. Whatever stress I associated with college job interviews was a drop in Jason’s ocean. As he tried to hang on to his long hair and love of bright blazers, he struggled to fit somewhere in corporate life.
Finally, I get it. I’m the girl who’s walking out of a courthouse wearing converses. My pink tennis symbolize something to me. They mark a part of me that I’m not willing to give up in the great transition to adulthood. Fun and pink were coming too. I bought the shoes with Gretchen and they help me cling to the kid inside – she called them my punk rock grunge princess shoes. And god knows – they’ve protected me from bar vomit and bench vomit equally well.
Part of the reason that this hunt has been so long, so tiring and so trying is because the shoes were a condition of hire. I’ve been in the past politely encouraged to “grow up,” and I’ve politely returned – suit on top and pink converses on bottom. I won’t be told what’s professional or what’s appropriate by people who think beige is brave. I’ve got to say, it feels good to look down, see pink, and step forward. Onward and upward little shoes.
