Hurricane Floyd

I’ve always had an obsession with thunderstorms.  Ever since I was a little girl, I remember the butterflies that would instantly inhabit my stomach the minute the weatherman predicted a summer downpour.  I’d spend the entire day outside with my neck craned up, just waiting for the first drops to fall.  The minute they did, all the neighborhood kids would book it inside while I headed for the cul-de-sac in front of my house.  With my arms spread out to either side, I’d spin in the hot summer rain until I couldn’t stand anymore.  Then I’d lie on the pavement and watch the rain come shooting down on me.  Looking back, lying in the street probably wasn’t the safest idea I ever had.  

           

The weather was always hot and sticky growing up near the Maryland Seaboard, creating a pressure system that always invited thunderstorms to venture down towards us.  The best part was, I never knew where they’d come from.  The pilot side of my dad taught me how to watch for fronts and different kinds of clouds.  I was the only six-year-old who knew how storms traveled from west to east and that different clouds sat at different elevations.  I didn’t know which Power Rangers had which powers, but I knew that a cumulus cloud’s base hovered around 6,500 feet.  I knew that the jet streams would bring the storm clouds over our house from the backyard to the front. 

But living close enough to the coast meant that hurricanes could whirl in from the east and catch me off guard.  I loved that surprise.  Whenever my neighbors started boarding up their windows and charging extra batteries, I’d sit and stare out our screen door, waiting for the dark clouds to roll in.  Every so often glance at the floor at my retriever, Bailey.  She hated storms, so whenever one would get close, she’d start getting nervous and I’d start getting excited.

"Here's why this one is hard"

"There aren't that many good men around. Statistics prove it, articles and books have been written to verify it, and women would be happy to testify under oath about it. And here's another one: There are more good women out there than good men. I bet you've heard or said that one before. Oh, wait, there's this one as well: A lot of men want to date much younger women, so as you get older, there are even fewer men that want to date you. ... So yes, it seems logical, reasonable, and down right savvy for all the fantastic , smart, healthy, funny, kind women out there to start thinking about lowering their expectations. ... I hate being single. ... I hate people asking me why I'm still single. ... There are many shades of Mr. Wrong. And there guys that we're talking about? They're not just assholes. They can be nice sometimes, too. And there are many days when I personally think it's better to be with someone who your friends might hate but will help you carry the groceries, than be alone."

Wow. I don't know where to begin with this one.

I have slowly been making my way through the many chapters of "He's just not that into you." I left it at work and only read it when there was down time. Plus, as right on the money as I think it is, the book can get a little depressing from time to time so I can only handle it in small doses. But I pressed on in the name of research.

I still think there is a great book somewhere surrounding the idea that women set themselves up to be disappointed by guys, guys have given up trying to impress us and, at the end of the day, we are just horrible to each other. But the above comment by one of the co-authors, Liz Tuccillo, really left me confused.

Words that wreck women

"You make me wanna buy a rose/ You make me wanna shine my shoes/ Baby, you make me wanna dance/ Better than I do/ You make me wanna be a man/ Who makes ya laugh and makes ya cry/ Wanna be everything you need/ You make me wanna make you love me"

"'Cause I wanna wrap you up/ Wanna kiss your lips/ I wanna make you feel wanted/ And I wanna call you mine/ Wanna hold your hand forever/ Never let you forget it/ Yeah, I wanna make you feel wanted"

"Light me up inside of this room/ I just wanna be close to you/ I cant take it anymore/ Baby I want you so much/ I wanna feel your breath on my skin/ Find that place we've never been/ I wanna spend all night/ Tangled up/ In your love"

These words, and millions like them, have wrecked women. Music has ruined women. While I am using country as an example — because I am a country girl first and foremost — it really happens in all music. Bono sang about waiting, with or without her. Don Henley sang about forgiveness even if she doesn't love him anymore. Liam Gallagher sang about flying away with his dream girl. But did any of them ever really mean it? Do they really believe a look or a touch can be enough? Or are they just trying to make a woman swoon enough to get into her pants?

A little trickery couldn't hurt

"Buzz, buzz, buzz."

She rolled over, hit the snooze button on her alarm, looked at her clock and did the math.
Ninety days, eight hours, twenty nine minutes and a few seconds later and she still felt the pain as much that morning as she did the night he broke her heart. She rolled back over and hid her face under her comforter.

"Not again," she thought. Not another day of missing him, hating him and the sad gloom that hung around a broken heart. She couldn't take another day like that. But after 90 days of no escape, she had no idea how to not feel this way. She had no idea how to make it stop.

She had never been a "girlfriend" girl. She was not the girl a guy wanted to bring home to mom. She wasn't rude, violent, deceitful or harsh, but she still wasn't the kind of girl guys dated. Yes, she had been out on plenty of dates, but she learned early on she wasn't meant for monogamous relationships. She didn't know if it was all guys, or just the guys she attracted, but the guys in her world lied. They cheated. They disappeared without an explanation. And they used her to help them cheat on their girlfriends. She always walked into a first date with an open mind and a willingness to wipe the slate clean, but she couldn't escape this image the male species had of her, no matter how hard she tried. She didn't know how she earned that image but she couldn't hide it.

One mile to go — can I make it?

Why is it goals always seem so much easier to reach when you are setting them and further out of reach when you actually try to beat them?

Ever since I ran my first 5K race two years ago and didn't keel over and die, I wanted to see what other distances and races I could try. This year, I set a goal to run the Fifth Third Riverbank 10K on May 12. While I am still aiming for that finish line, building my endurance to handle 6.2 miles is a little more painful than I originally thought it would be.

As of this week, I have five consistent miles under my belt, but my body seems to hate me when I'm done. Ever since high school swimming and water polo beat me up a little more than it should have, pain has become a constant for me when I work out or am active. But I seemed to build up my strength and core muscles to decrease the aches and swelling. But new distances bring new pain. Two days after my long run, my knees and hips are still mad at me and some serious stiffness sets in if I sit too long. Stretching be damned!

Earlier in my training, I was having trouble with dehydration and getting sick after my runs. I bought a water bottle belt and have slowed down my pace, which seems to be helping those issues. But the post-run body rebellion is a whole other battle. Although I am stubborn enough to keep training -- I already signed up for the race so I can't back out now, right? -- I really hope I don't fall apart somewhere around mile 5.