saving my life: yoga.

{photo by Sunshel}

A couple of weeks ago, I started doing yoga. 

It's all in the privacy of my own home -- I don't do gyms or studios or anything else, on principle, ever -- and I am sure I look utterly ridiculous doing it, but I needed a fitness goal for April, and I've been feeling all kinds of stressed and overwhelmed, so... yoga it was. 

I try to do the stretches as soon as I get up in the mornings, but occasionally, I pop in the DVD right before bed. And the host is cheesy, and the moves seem silly, but then, all of a sudden, about halfway through: It doesn't feel silly at all. It feels like exactly what I need to be doing. 

Life is overwhelming right now, and I actually think that's okay. Our lives are made up of seasons, and this just happens to be an overwhelming one. Jordan and I have decisions to make on almost every front: job, home, church, friends. In fact, I lamented this week to a friend that I was tired of experiencing major life changes every year. Her response? "Welcome to your 20s."

I've been absent from writing because I don't know where to start. 

So I stretch, because that seems as good a place as any. And I read, and lo and behold, as I'm reading, I discover the meaning of the yoga term "namaste": "The divine in me greets the divine in you."

And I know the word has its roots in Hinduism and Buddhism, but I think I might start saying it in church, just to myself, as I look people in the eye and practice forgiveness over bitterness, because I need to be reminded that God exists in them, too. And maybe if we began to recognize that holiness in each other, we wouldn't keep hurting each other. Wouldn't church be a lovely place to be? 

I do yoga because I am stressed and my back hurts and I am on my feet all day, every day. I do it because these days, I need to remember to breathe, and I need to remember to laugh, and yoga helps with all of that. I need to start and end my days well.

The yoga DVD I practice doesn't really implement the cultural aspects of yoga. Nothing about breathing or namaste-ing. Basically, I'm just learning to touch my toes. 

But the lesson to look for the holy in people is still there, and it's helping. Just like all the other hard things and daily practices, it's making a difference. In its own way, it's saving my life.

resolution tools.

We have almost an entire month behind us already in 2013. At the risk of sounding like your grandmother, where has the time gone?

I've done a pretty good job thus far of maintaining my resolutions; the only one I seem to be struggling with is the one I thought would be easiest: sending a list of three things I'm grateful for each day to my cousin. Is there any app or something that can remind me to contact her at the same time every day? I'm grateful for things each day; I simply forget to send the text.

Anyway, I've otherwise been successful, and I've found a couple of useful tools in resolution-keeping I thought I'd share with you.

- Pedometer app: I use this every day when I do my morning walk to make sure I complete the full mile. I read somewhere I should be walking 10,000 steps a day. Days I work the store I'm nowhere close, but weekend errand running puts me near the top. The app keeps track of how many calories you burn (it asks for your weight and height) and counts your steps until you've been still for two hours; then it automatically shuts off. I think it's perfect for my needs, and it's free, so that helps too.

- good workout clothes: Jules posted a while ago on the importance of looking good/feeling good while you exercise. Whether we like it or not, a large part of how we feel is dependent on how we look, the clothes we wear, etc. Exercising in oversized sweatpants just wasn't working for me, and while I don't think I'll be able to justify a Lululemon purchase ever, I did buy a couple of GapFit and Old Navy Active pieces. All have been well-worth their cost and go a long way in making me feel athletic... even if I don't really have an athlete's bone in my body. (Also, Jordan and I made a deal: If I stick to my monthly fitness goals -- this month's was to walk or jog a mile every day -- I'll get to reward myself with one new piece of workout clothing a month. By the end of the year, I should have amassed a nice little quality wardrobe. Huzzah!)

- lunch sack: I think it's easier to work out when you have cute, comfortable workout clothes, and I think it's easier to pack my lunch now that I have a fun sack to carry it in. Jordan got me this one for Christmas; it doesn't hold much, but I don't need room for much. I've been packing cheese, crackers, some fruit, celery, ranch, and a couple of dark chocolate squares, and combined, they make the perfect lunch.

- water bottle: Okay, it doesn't make me drink more water. That's a habit I think I'm just going to have to develop on my own. But, it is cute, and it's nice to not have to tote around a plastic bottle every day. 

- Anthropologie candle: For Christmas, Jordan's parents bought me the famous Capri Blue candle, which I've wanted for forever but could never justify purchasing for myself. Now, though, anytime I'm feeling down about doing laundry or cleaning up the house, I light the candle to get me in the mood for some sprucing. It works wonders, and it's lovely to light on a winter night.

These are what have been inspiring me to keep my resolutions. What about you?

on walking.

{photo by Caroline Fontenot}

My new year's resolution was to walk or jog a mile every day until my birthday, and I know we're only 11 days in, so this is probably a little premature, but it's going so well. The intention behind the goal was for my physical health, to get me out of the house, doing something active. I planned to begin the month walking, then eventually build up to jogging. 

It's early in the month, so it's difficult to tell, but I kind of like just walking. And I'm not saying that to get out of exercise, not saying that to avoid pushing myself to do more and be more. I'm saying it because I don't know the last time I faced silence. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed nature without outside noises serving as distractions. When I walk, I breathe a little slower. I may not burn very many calories or build a ton of muscle, but I think. I pray. I listen to the birds. I feel the rain on my face. I look at the colors. I say hello to neighbors. I glance inside lighted windows and observe progress on remodeled homes. 

Basically, I pay attention. 

I think maybe I'll miss these things if I start to jog. Of course, I could be completely wrong. It's been a while since I last jogged, so who knows how much attention I really pay when my pace is a little faster and I run out of breath more quickly. But walking feels more... intentional.

Each morning, those 20 minutes kind of help me decompress from the day before. They help center me for the day ahead. I use a pedometer to keep track of my steps, to make sure I'm really walking a mile, but mostly, I just walk.

This love affair with my new morning ritual began slowly. January 1 felt no different than the day before, and I was irritable over trying to find my headphones in the post-Christmas disaster area that is our house. (Said headphones are still missing in action.) I had to walk in silence, and it felt... weird. Then mid-walk on January 2, the heavens opened, and a misty, cold rain began to steadily fall, and all I could do was stand there and laugh. I had no umbrella, no raincoat, just an old Georgetown sweatshirt and five-tenths of a mile to go. I arrived home soaking wet, but happy. And January 3? It rained too. But I had fun. I liked whispering prayers and listening to nature. And the headphones? I don't miss them. 

My life moves at such a fast pace. Maybe the reason I love walking is because it's one of the few things I do that's slow. 

Last week, I read a Relevant magazine article about how to slow down in 2013. Number one on the list? Go for a walk. The author said the act of walking had become spiritual for him, and I get that. Even when I'm not thoughtfully praying (which I find myself doing a lot on my walks), I feel like God is walking beside me, like these moments are our time to start the day right, to check out what He's got going on, what He's been up to in my neighborhood. 

I've got a while to go before walking becomes a habit, becomes something I jump out of bed to do every morning. But I'm tired of believing that everything I do outside of work is supposed to be fun all the time. It's not fun to get up earlier every morning, not fun to freeze outside in the gloomy morning weather. But things worth doing don't always have to be fun. Maybe walking is a little bit of work. But the reward, I'm discovering, is great. 

We sing this old hymn at church sometimes, a song about meeting Him in the garden, and how He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own. And I think He does that all the time, even in the loud places, even in the places where you don't think He could possibly be. But I admit: Outside, without headphones, in the morning before things are too bright, I hear Him a little bit better, and I think He might like that best.

the color run.

Jordan and I are headed to Atlanta this weekend to be with friends and compete (I'm fairly certain that's the wrong word) in The Color Run. Have you heard of it? It sounds fantastic, completely weird and different and sure to take me out of my element in the best kinds of ways.

I'm hoping I'll have some fun pictures and a recap next week, but until then, I'd love it if you'd share with me your ideas for things to see in Atlanta. We've been there a couple of times, and I've had friends send me some great restaurant recommendations, but I thought I'd see if you guys had any recommendations for fun places to see and explore. (We're also trying to decide between Passion City Church and Northpoint Community Church for our Sunday morning... Decisions, decisions.) 

Anyway, if you have any suggestions for Atlanta (or advice on running while paint is being pelted at your face), leave them in the comments. I'd really appreciate it!

photo from The Color Run website

on athleticism.

I have written many, many times on my attempts to become athletic, or, at the very least, to get in shape.

There was that time I was cut from the basketball team. My attempts at the Couch to 5k program. The all-too-brief gym membership.

I feel like I've kind of tried it all.

So this year, something new: a goal to exercise every day for 28 days.

You know what? I didn't finish that either.

But — and I think this is an important but — all of a sudden I have a desire to exercise. And since I honestly don't know the last time that's happened, I'm considering it a success. 

I'm walking or jogging or doing my Bar Method DVD nearly every day. Sometimes I walk with a friend and her baby (it's a great way to catch up, and I think it's fun for her because it gets them both out of the house); other times I put on the iPod and jog by myself or with Jordan.

A couple of friends and I were talking last week about the push and pull of exercise, this desire to be athletic, to be one of those women who gets up every morning filled with joy at the thought of hitting the pavement in their Lululemon workout clothes, the glow of the sun reflected off each perfectly toned leg muscle. And then there is the reality, which is me, with my mix-and-match workout attire, running with my iPhone hidden in the side of my underwear, stopping every five minutes or so to make sure it doesn't fall out the bottom of my shorts. The reality is that as I run — apparently very much resembling a chicken — I'm trying to figure out how best to pace myself so I can make it home without passing out. Once home, the pride that has sprung up in awe of my newly found athletic ability disappears when I look in the mirror and realize I look like an absolute crazy person... and I'm standing still. Who knows what I look like when I'm actually jogging?

Here's the thing, though: I don't think I care all that much. So I look a little ridiculous. The point is, I'm moving, right? I'm up off the couch, and no, I'm not a marathon runner, and I don't particularly enjoy myself when I'm out and about in the doing, but is that really the point? Isn't the point that I'm taking care of myself and I'm trying?

 

I'm exercising pretty regularly, and I've got new tennis shoes and a bright orange water bottle and This American Life on my iPhone as motivation.

Oh, and yes, I've signed up for a 5k.

The Color Run in Atlanta, to be exact.

And I love it because it looks fun and doable and not at all concerned with finish times or trophy winners.

Maybe I'll walk most of the way. Maybe I'll jog the whole thing.

I don't really know.

But I do know that last week, on the way home from work, I thought: I can't wait to get home and get outside.

And that, my friends, is a pretty big step.

28 days. (the importance of self-care.)

On Saturday, I was supposed to begin the 28 Day Challenge: 28 days straight of at least 30 minutes of exercise.

I missed the first two days.

This is kind of how the new year has been, by the way. Full of ups and downs, goals both kept and unmet. Intentions overshadowed by life: by hospice visits and broken hot water heaters, by canceled plans and late nights. I waver between moments of gratitude and moments of exhaustion. My brain and my body simply cannot decide: celebrate and press on, or resign and curl into the fetal position?

Yesterday, I didn’t have much of a choice.

My first night of BSF was starting, and I had tutoring to do. There was a hair appointment on the calendar and a phone call to be made. Reality sometimes must be faced, and last night, when I got home, I remembered that stupid 28 day challenge.

Every day of exercise you miss, a dollar must be paid. (I currently owe $3.)

So I got off the couch and plugged in Just Dance 3. As a rule, I never dance anywhere that is not my car, perhaps not for lack of desire, but for lack of rhythm and grace. It is not something my body does well. But it was raining, and I refuse to enter the doors of the gym. So Just Dance 3 it was. You know what? I bet I looked absolutely ridiculous. But it didn’t matter. I was laughing and exercising and working up a disgusting sweat.

I had fun.

This is a breakthrough for me, this idea that exercise (because I am convinced it was exercise) can be fun.

And while Ke$ha blared in the background and my arms and limbs flailed separate from my body, I also remembered: This is important. Self-care is important. In the midst of grief and exhaustion and frustration, I cannot forget me. That’s not selfish; that’s smart. Every part of me — body, soul, and mind — needs care and attention so that I can conquer the days ahead.

Yesterday, that meant a haircut. A showing of The Bachelor. Bible study with fellow believers. The latest episode of Parenthood. Exercise. A hot shower.

Sometimes, yes, we curl ourselves into a ball and cry on the couch. (For all I know, I may do that today.) 

But sometimes we have to press on. We have to keep moving so that when the phone call comes, when the routine falls apart, when life is replaced with a new normal... We will be okay.

getting off the couch, part ii.

 Yes, this is how I run.

So, yesterday, I mentioned that Jordan and I started jogging together in college.

Long before we were the Annie and Jordan who dated for five years and got married, we were the Annie and Jordan who were “just friends.” And as my friend, Jordan loaned me some book he had about different body types and what form of exercise worked for each one. I can’t remember if I really read any of it, but I do remember Jordan convincing me that jogging was a good idea.

I think I have the body of a runner. I am short and thin, with long, gangling legs and even longer, more gangling arms. You would think that long, gangling limbs would a decent runner make, but really? They just make for a funny looking one.

On more than one occasion, I have been told I run like Phoebe. During another bout with jogging, a guy  informed me that I looked like a chicken.

I try very hard to be one of those people who doesn’t care what most people think about them, but those words stuck with me for a long time. Why would I engage in an activity that made me look like, at best, TV’s most lovable spaz, and, at worst, the world’s most obnoxious barnyard animal?

So I refrained from jogging, until Jordan convinced me it was a good idea.

And I liked it… kind of. (Mostly I think I did it to prove to Jordan that I could.)

But, as with every other athletic activity I have tried, my affair with jogging was brief, and now here I am, 25 years old with muscle-less arms and legs and a rather strong aversion to the gym.

Enter Couch to 5k, a supposedly miraculous program that could have me out of my house and onto the pavement (or grass, or trail) in nine weeks.

I started researching the program last year, and now, I think I might be ready to do this thing.

And even though Jordan was a great jogging buddy, I might have to do this alone. I have discovered that I cannot run and talk at the same time. It’s impossible. I get out of breath and begin walking almost immediately. Nope, I don’t think I was meant to run with a partner. Just like Phoebe was better off running around Central Park without Rachel, I’m better off running alone.

This, though, is where you come in.

How do I make this work? How do I make this athletic commitment stick? Should I run with my iPod? How do I keep it from jostling around everywhere? What shoes should I wear? Should I carry a water bottle? What about my cell phone? How do you run with all of this stuff? Is there a certain type of music that will make this painless?

Seriously, I need to know your tricks for this trade. I’m thinking about starting in a couple of weeks (days?), before the Florida heat becomes so sweltering that I give up and head to the pool.*

What are your running recommendations?


* Swimming I can do, and actually, fairly well. Amazing, I know.

getting off the couch, part i.

 {3rd grade champs. Can you spot yours truly?}

I was in the seventh grade, and I had just been cut from the junior high girls’ basketball team. I wasn’t devastated; I was angry. I had gone to the girls’ locker room with my friends, and when I made a quick scan of the list and couldn’t find my name, I marched myself down to the coach’s office to ask why. (I was stubborn and a little bit gutsy, even back then.) I’ll never forget what that coach said:

“Annie, I’m sorry, but if I put you out there, you’re going to get killed. You’re just too small — too short and too skinny.”

I was seething. How dare he, this man — who I promise you was probably 5’6”, tops — call me too short and too skinny? I had endured hours of conditioning; I never missed a session. I had been named a camp all-star at the school's summer program just a few months previous. And now I was being cut from a team of my friends and classmates not for lack of skill, but for lack of size?

Clearly, I’m still a little bitter about it, mostly because, come on. I was 13. What is the point of even cutting people from a team of something at 13? It’s not like this is serious competition. We weren’t even in high school yet! Just give me a jersey and stick me on a bench with the rest of the scrawny, freckle-faced girls who will never touch a basketball post-high school. I’ll be fine.

But I digress.

My pride recovered fairly quickly. I’ve never been one to be disappointed for too long, so I developed a solution. I’d just join a team practically begging for short and skinny people: track and field.

I didn’t really like it as much as basketball (I distinctly remember failing to understand the purpose behind running in a constant circle), but I never missed a practice. And the day of my first meet, when I participated in the 800-meter and the 4x400, I felt such a sense of accomplishment. I was a teammate, a contender. I, short and skinny basketball team reject, was an athlete.

Then I promptly arrived at home, where I ran into our kitchen wall and broke a toe, thus ending my very brief track and field career.

What I’m saying is this: I have always wanted to be athletic. Even in high school, when I finally realized that I just wasn’t good enough and resigned myself to the world of academia, there was a part of me that wanted to be on the team. I wanted my skinny legs to take me across finish lines and earn me trophies.

In college, I played intramural sports as consolation — not terribly, but not terribly well, either. I worked out at my university’s gym. I started jogging with Jordan, and I finally felt like maybe, just maybe, I was giving my body what it deserved.

Fast forward a few years to me sitting on the couch with a good book and the remote control.

Because today, I am a reject of all things athletic.

I tried yoga, and couldn’t get through a session without bursting into a fit of giggles. That, and the fact that I couldn’t touch my toes, proved to be a bit of a problem.

I joined a gym (which you can read about here) but hated the sweaty equipment, the imaginary stares from fellow gym users, and the Arnold Schwarzenegger wannabes.

I’ve bicycled and jogged and walked. I’ve tried getting up early and going as soon as I get home from a work.

So far, nothing has stuck.

But this year, I’m thinking about trying something new. A check-this-off-your-list regimen, readymade for a list-lover like me.

Come back tomorrow to a) find out what it is, and b) tell me I’m crazy. 

(P.S.~ Do you have any funny sports stories from when you were younger? Junior high basketball rejects like me want to know.)

what charlie sheen and i have in common: winning.

{what winning looks like: a new shirt + new shoes}

Let the record show that for the first time in seven years, my bracket has defeated my husband’s in our annual March Madness competition.

If you have no clue what I’m talking about, perhaps this will help.

This is one of my favorite times of the year, and it has been made all the sweeter by the fact that I have come out the champion.

For those of you keeping up, my husband and I have regularly bet two days worth of fruit and vegetables on whose bracket comes out the loser. I introduced Jordan to the art of the bracket in 2005, and each year, I have come this close to beating him. It always boils down to the final game, but it always turns out in his favor.

Not so this year.

Thanks to a stellar first round and too many upsets to count, the competition at home has ended -- before the final four even play! -- and I have prevailed.

And this year, my husband changed the rules: no more fruits and vegetables. Instead, $100 goes to the winner, for the item(s) of their choice.

Yes, you could say I am one happy, happy girl.

My efforts have finally paid off. My bracket has won.

And I am satisfied.

(New readers: I’m also including last year’s ode to March Madness. Because I liked it, and it’s still true today.)

--

 {the fsu men's basketball team, circa 1972... the year they went to the championship, with the padre as their manager}

There are so many things my parents have passed down to me. A love for the beach, a need for breakfast each morning, a desire for higher education, an appreciation for local foods… and an understanding of the thing we call sports.

Please do not confuse my understanding with ability.

I am no athlete.

But here is what happens when a hippie and a jock meet, fall in love, and procreate:

Me.

A nerd who reads four books a month and also happens to enjoy a good game of basketball.

Wives, I don’t offer much marriage advice. (Mostly because I don’t have any.)

But I will say that being able to sit through an athletic event without complaining — and, what’s more, while calling the occasional play — has only improved our already-blessed marriage.

I like going to football games with Jordan.

I like eating hot dogs as the player rounds third.

I like staying up until the wee hours watching a no. five seed come this close to unprecedented victory.

I like watching SportsCenter on occasion.

I like the fact that I bet with my husband each March (even though I consistently lose).

I like that my husband doesn’t have to go hang out with the guys to enjoy the game — although he most certainly can if he so wishes.

The point is, my hippie mother knows next to nothing about sports. (But not, I will say, for a lack of trying.)

My jock father, though, made sure that ignorance didn’t make it to the next generation.

And I am grateful.

Because last night, as I watched “One Shining Moment,” I couldn’t help but think of him and all the late nights Chet and I would were permitted to sit, curled up on the couch, far past our bedtimes, just to watch the white nets be cut down from their perch 10 feet above the court. I remembered how those first few notes of the tournament's anthem would begin to play, and my dad would (and I bet still did) turn up the volume until I thought our eardrums would burst, informing us, “This is what the tournament is all about.”

So, thanks, Dad.

It’s true, neither of your children really became athletes (though, again, not for lack of trying).

But we sure do love the game.

And as we both know, that might be what’s most important anyway.

dancing dreams.

As a child with a petite frame, I assumed I would be a natural gymnast. I begged my parents for lessons at the local gym, certain that with a little practice, I could become a member of the Magnificent Seven. Of course, my parents saw what I couldn’t see: a little girl without a bit of muscle or the ability to touch her toes.

Instead of gymnastics, I took piano lessons and studied, which to be honest, was fine by me. I cheered for the Magnificent Seven from my imaginary balance beam at home, and after the team won gold, my infatuation dissipated.

This temporary obsession with gymnastics was the closest I ever got to being interested in dance. Growing up, my best friend was a dancer — a talented one — but at 13, all that meant to me was a friend who was off dancing more than she was spending the night at my house. I was unimpressed.

Years later, in a moment of maturity, I attended that same friend's dance recital, and my indifference turned to fascination. My quiet, studious friend completely transformed on stage. Her movement and grace astounded me (so did the tons of make-up, but that's not the point of this post). The caterpillar to butterfly metaphor developed before my very eyes.

Still, I knew, perhaps more than ever, that dance just wasn't for me. The costumes, the rhythm, the flexibility: I wasn't interested, neither was I capable. Even girls with high self-esteems know their limits.

Now, though, looking at these pictures, I regret my ambivalence just a little bit. These girls can move, bend, stretch. They are grace defined.

The one comfort in my inadequacy, I suppose, is that I know every dancer's dirty little secret: their feet. Battered and bruised and tortured, a dancer's feet are permanently scarred from the movements we all admire from the sidelines.

It's funny, isn't it? How even the most graceful and the most beautiful have something to hide?

These photographs astound me, amaze me. They make me wish I could dance and twist and turn and move.

But I am okay with the fact that I dance and twist and turn and move in other ways, ways that are not as photogenic, but are certainly just as beautiful.

And I happen to really like my feet.

* all photos from The Ballerina Project, here.

pruning.

{via here}

My list of the things to do is extensive, and fairly important.

Financial aid to apply for, blogs to be designed, notes to write, friends to call. 

But this afternoon, as I sat in a white plastic chair and let the scorching Florida heat dry my dripping wet body, I didn't care. 

I swam and jumped and played for hours, until my back became burned, and my lips cracked from the heat. 

My fingers and toes turned to prunes. My book remained unread. My eyes were cloudy with chlorine.

And it was good. 

Because at 24, there is no more summer vacation. 

My husband is working and studying. I am preparing for graduate school, trying to maintain our home. I have design jobs to complete and meals to cook. I have feelings to conquer and doubts to squelch. 

In short, I am becoming an adult, and I could let summer just become another season. Brief, warm, and passing.

But there are some days, some moments, when I still remember. 

To jump off the diving board. 

To scream at the top of my lungs. 

To let my hair air dry and my makeup wear off. 

And those moments? 

There should be more of them. 

Because there is still a summer. 

And I want to relish in it. 

Today, I played in the pool. 

I didn't lounge. 

I didn't read. 

I didn't tan. 

I played. 

I wore goggles and got water up my nose and developed a synchronized swimming routine and did handstands.

And at the end of the day, I am tired. 

Not from Twitter or Facebook or email or blogs or computer usage or TV or books or drama. 

From fun. 

From wearing myself out. 

From being a kid.

And it feels good.

one shining moment.

 {the fsu men's basketball team, circa 1972... the year they went to the championship, with the padre as their manager}

There are so many things my parents have passed down to me. A love for the beach, a need for breakfast each morning, a desire for higher education, an appreciation for local foods… and an understanding of the thing we call sports.

Please do not confuse my understanding with ability.

I am no athlete.

But here is what happens when a hippie and a jock meet, fall in love, and procreate:

Me.

A nerd who reads four books a month and also happens to enjoy a good game of basketball.

Wives, I don’t offer much marriage advice. (Mostly because I don’t have any.)

But I will say that being able to sit through an athletic event without complaining — and, what’s more, while calling the occasional play — has only improved our already-blessed marriage.

I like going to football games with Jordan.

I like eating hot dogs as the player rounds third.

I like staying up until the wee hours watching a no. five seed come this close to unprecedented victory.

I like watching SportsCenter on occasion.

I like the fact that I bet with my husband each March (even though I consistently lose).

I like that my husband doesn’t have to go hang out with the guys to enjoy the game — although he most certainly can if he so wishes.

The point is, my hippie mother knows next to nothing about sports. (But not, I will say, for a lack of trying.)

My jock father, though, made sure that ignorance didn’t make it to the next generation.

And I am grateful.

Because last night, as I watched “One Shining Moment,” I couldn’t help but think of him and all the late nights Chet and I would were permitted to sit, curled up on the couch, far past our bedtimes, just to watch the white nets be cut down from their perch 10 feet above the court. I remembered how those first few notes of the tournament's anthem would begin to play, and my dad would (and I bet still did) turn up the volume until I thought our eardrums would burst, informing us, “This is what the tournament is all about.”

So, thanks, Dad.

It’s true, neither of your children really became athletes (though, again, not for lack of trying).

But we sure do love the game.

And as we both know, that might be what’s most important anyway.

the madness begins.

{barack's bracket}

Each year, I call my father to go over our bracket picks. (I have high hopes of beating Jordan this year; enough is enough.) An excerpt of tonight's conversation is being published here, for posterity's sake. 

Father, incredulously: You have St. Mary's beating Richmond? 

Daughter, sheepishly: Yes. I needed an upset!

Father: Is there a particular reason you chose this one? Richmond is pretty good.

Daughter: Barack Obama picked them!

Father: He also smokes.

Thanks, Dad, for that much needed perspective. I went ahead with St. Mary's, despite the fact that our President smokes, and since Jordan has Richmond going to the Sweet Sixteen (he wanted to root for the Spiders!), you can bet I'll be rooting for that particular underdog.

Don't know what I'm talking about? For shame. 

It's March Madness! If you read this early enough, you can fill out your own bracket here. Choose wisely. Or, if you're like me, you'll wind up eating vegetables every year.*

*May the record show that despite my failings each year, I personally introduced W. Jordan Jones to the world of the college basketball bracket in 2005. He'd never filled one out before he met me. I literally changed his life.

church league basketball.

Remember in Remember the Titans, when the little girl gets all fired-up while watching her daddy's team play football?

Yes.

That girl is me.

Except, there are no championships at stake. Nor are racial barriers trying to be broken.

Nope.

This is just church league basketball.

And every time I watch a game, my heart beats faster and my chest tightens.

Seriously.

It reminds me of when Chet played high school basketball. I would go to the games and get so mad. Fouls? Missed shots? That's my brother, for crying out loud! With each missed three (or made three!), my blood pressure would spike. I was secretly relieved when Chet chose to pursue other interests. Watching him play wasn't good for my overall mental--or physical--well-being.

Fast forward to this winter, when Jordan began playing church league basketball. Chet plays too, and the padre coaches, so I am invested in this. Probably even more than they are.

And, boy, do I yell.

So I get some funny looks.

Much like Hayden did back in the day.

That's good company, right? I mean, she's pretty successful these days.

And look how cute she was during Remember the Titans. You didn't find her obnoxious, did you? I mean, she was adorable, right?

I hope I come across as adorable.

And not creepy.

Though I'm beginning to wonder...

{Side note: How come when guys get all intense on the court or on the field, it's called athleticism, but when a girl gets intense it's weird and over-the-top? Please, someone tell me. I'd like to know. Also, do you think my sideline reactions could be some kind of subconscious response to the fact that I CAN'T PLAY SPORTS? Again, analyses are welcome. And one more thing: I do kind of know what I'm talking about. I mean, I have basketball in my genes. So I don't think my comments are uncalled for... Mostly.}

the gym.

My biggest fear (aside from the doctor) might be becoming a gym rat.

You know.

Really buff. Walking with my arms far apart from my body, as if I’m an underused action figure stuck in the upright position. Towel in hand. iPod attached to my tricep. Protein shakes in the refrigerator.

Gag.

At my ill-fated doctor’s visit last week, the nurse asked me how many times a week I exercised.

When I finished laughing so hard my chest hurt, she gave me a top-to-bottom stare, and wrote something on my chart.

Jordan signed us up for a gym membership the next day.

I’ve never had a gym membership before. I’ve never wanted one. Bench-pressing 30 pounds as a 7th grade basketball star gave me all the bragging rights I needed.

Until Faulkner. When Jordan dragged me to the trailer (yes, a real trailer. Another Alabama surprise) to work out each week. And I liked it. I giggled my way through most of it, but by the end of freshman year, I had some definition. I wouldn’t say I was hooked, but our routine continued until thesis-writing consumed my life.

Then came the real world and eight hour days that leave me craving my cool sheets and the TV remote. Muscle definition? Bragging rights? Overall health and well-being?

Meh. Who needs it?

Of course, one day, I woke up and realized I won’t be 23 all my life, and I should probably start taking care of the body I’ve been given. (A nurse giving you the death stare can really have an impact.)

So, we got a gym membership.

First, let me say that I absolutely intend to continue this routine. I am committed.

Now, know this: I do not belong in a gym.

My gangly legs and long arms barely fit on any machine. My height-- apparently shorter than 90% of the gym's population-- is a dilemma at each contraption I sit on. I tire after 15 minutes on a treadmill.

I don’t have the proper attire. My clothes are too long and too loose.

I’d rather have a chocolate milkshake than a powder-rich smoothie.

My iPod (affectionately named Nina the Nano) is so small I couldn’t tie it on my arm if I wanted to.

I don’t get sweaty enough, so even after an hour in the gym, I look like I haven’t been trying.

My hair is too short for a cute ponytail that bounces as I walk/faint for .75 miles on the treadmill.

Water gives me cramps.

I find myself laughing at my husband’s red face and unusual breathing patterns, which I quickly discovered he does not find funny.

To make matters worse, every time I lift my arms to work those triceps (or is it biceps?), I imagine I’m being tickled, and break down in a fit of giggles.

I am probably a distraction to most of Gold’s Gym.

But I will prevail.

I am nothing if not dedicated (also: stubborn).


(P.S.- A huge thank you to everyone who commented on my last post. I actually felt like a real blogger, and I got some great advice to boot! I'll be sure to keep you informed of my progress. This growing up stuff is not for the faint of heart, is it?)

a little bit of bracketology.

Okay, so maybe I’ve spent the first hour or so at work rushing to complete my bracket. Maybe in an office full of football (and Gator!) fans, I’m trying to sneakily secure FSU’s rightful place in this year’s Sweet Sixteen—you know, since the powers that be are going to take away Bobby’s wins anyway. Might as well turn our attention to the court, right?

For those of you a little lost, March Madness has begun. We’ve reached the time of year that has men and women across the U.S. glued to the television at all hours of the day to determine who will get to cut down the nets at college basketball season’s end. The best men’s teams in the country will spend the next four weeks fighting their way through a little thing we call the bracket. (See below.)


I’ve filled out a bracket for several years—it comes with having a brother and a dad who are big fans of the sport. And, every year since Jordan and I met, we've been competing (individually, of course) against a couple of our good friends. This year we’re both also signed up on Facebook (I haven’t broken my fast, don’t you worry) to compete with others in our church young professionals’ group.

The real competition, though, is at home.
 
Since 2005, Jordan and I have had a [mostly] friendly competition with each other. Whoever loses in March Madness—that is, whoever has the lamest bracket—is required to eat only fruit and vegetables for two days straight.

I’ve lost every year.

I blame March Madness for my lack of weight gain.

And I’m determined that this year will be different.

This year, I didn’t pick a ton of underdogs.

Georgetown (my personal favorite team, aside from FSU) didn’t make it in this year, so I couldn’t unrealistically place them in my Elite Eight.

I didn’t even read too many online opinions.

I just went with my gut.

So, Pitt, I’m counting on you.

Make me proud.

Make me win.

Make me eat meat.

Oh, Olympiad...

I am in love. With the Olympics.

I have been for quite some time. In 1996, I raced around my house, jumping on beds, pretending I was Dominique Moceanu. I read the biography of the Magnificent Seven after they won gold. I watched Ian Thorpe conquer the pool in 2000. In 2004, I joined my fellow Faulkner freshmen in the girls' dorm lobby between classes, hoping to catch a glimpse of an American on the medal stand.

In 2008, I'm still in awe. Michael Phelps by one-hundredth of a second. Dana Torres at 41. Usain Bolt and his long legs. Nastia's grace. Shawn's power. I love it all. Just ask my boss, who I'm sure is wondering why there are bags under my eyes and my productivity is dwindling.

I've even begun to think of my life in terms of the Olympiad. Every four years my life is totally different. In '96, I was enjoying the carefree life of a ten year old, thinking that despite my lack of talent, I might actually be capable of a gold on the balance beam. In 2000, I was starting high school, looking up facts about the Thorpedo on my high school computer. In 2004, I was starting college, and in 2008, I'm engaged and planning a wedding.

So where will I be in 2012? I'll tell you where I'd like to be. In London, experiencing the Olympics live. I'll keep my fingers crossed.