Am I just jumping the gun?

Have you ever had a bad day that made you regret the decisions that put you in the situation that lead to that bad day?

I used to think a bad day was just that — a bad day. Maybe it was the universe telling me I needed to be knocked down a peg, my biweekly karma cleanse, or just the falling dominoes from running into one too many idiots that day. Whatever it was, I'd eventually get over it or it would work itself out. But ever since moving to Florida a month ago, every time I've had a bad day — three for those who are keeping track — I have ended up in tears wondering if I made the wrong decision to move. Does that ever go away?

That one hurt

I definitely paid for it during and after, but I ran my first 10K last week. It was my first Fifth Third River Bank Run, but I still haven't decided if it will be my last.

That run really hurt.

I know ... I whine a lot. But I was limping that afternoon. It didn't help that I had to work that night so after running 6.2 miles and walking another 3, I sat at a desk for 8 hours. Talk about tight legs.

26:45

One race done, one more week and one more to go.

My quest to try out a few new races, push myself and drop my times took its first step today when I ran in my first Tulip Time 5K. It was fun because for the first time, my mother and friend Angie came out to cheer me on. My other races were always out of town so I haven't had a cheering section before.


The good I hit a great stride early on, found a pace runner to keep up with and felt like I did a good job maintaining my pace. The end hurt but isn't it supposed to when you push yourself?

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.

So messy this can't not be awesome

I know everyone will be shocked by this, but leave it to me to make my own goals more complicated. I've written two posts so far about crossing a 10K run off this year's bucket list and how I was aiming at running the 5/3 River Bank Run this summer.

The minute I told the world I was going to start training for a 10K, my body said "Oh, no you're not." Since December, I have battled two colds in six weeks and pulled a muscle in my side that knocked me down to only 5 minutes of running before I collapsed in pain.

It took two months, but I finally kicked the stubborn cold symptoms (knock on wood) and my side is finally starting to feel better. I don't know about anybody else, but the minute I stop running, my stamina regresses and pretty much have to start from scratch in building back my endurance. I'm back up to 20-25 minutes. Yay me!

There has to be a story here somewhere

Besides catching up on the latest news and complaining about the male species, my best bud Katie and I like to laugh at all things crazy, ironic and wrong with the world. More often then not when we talk, we are convinced we have stumbled upon some great truth about life and that it could become the next best seller.

Katie and I toy around with book ideas about life, surviving singledom (more my problem now than hers), dating dumbasses, trying to unearth the truth behind male stereotypes and trying to prove we don't fall victim to the stereotypes of our own crazy gender.

While Katie has called dibs on the book proving romantic comedies have poisoned female minds and ruined relationships before they have even started, we both think there is a book idea in the vicious circle of bad relationship behavior.

Two sides of the same beast

Some cliche somewhere once said there is a fine line between love and hate — that they are two sides of the same emotion.

While I can definitely agree the people that you love are often the very same people who can hurt you, get under your skin and drive you absolutely crazy, I am not so sure how similar love and hate really are. One allows people to enjoy an amazing endorphin high and can potentially make them mushy. The other can eat someone alive and become crippling. But while hatred can drive people to do bad things and act without thinking — punching a wall or a jerk comes to mind — I am starting to believe that anger can be a good thing.

New year, new challenges

The rule for New Year's Day is everybody is supposed to set goals and make grand resolutions to better themselves. People vow to forgive old grudges, take the stairs to work and volunteer to spend time with underprivileged children.

A few years ago, my friend Liz and I made a bucket list for the new year; a to-do list of new things to try before the year kicked the bucket. It worked, too. I got a tattoo, donated blood, chose a college and a major and read more books. When I went back to school, I lost my bucket list somewhere in the move and I haven't picked it up since. I think this is the year to write a new list. And I think blogging about it will help me cross everything off said list. So here goes nothing:

1. Read at least two books a month. I love to read but time isn't always on my side. And since my job consists of reading, I don't always jump at the chance to read during my free time. I want to change that.

Fighting the winter blues

Today, the first snow flakes fell on Holland. And with it, so did my spirits.

While I love the summers in Michigan spent outside in the beautiful weather and post card pretty beaches, I am not a fan of the other five to six months of the year. The time of year when the temperature plummets, the skies turn gloomy grey and the snow starts to fall. It's almost like Mother Nature punishes us — if we want perfect summers, we have to pay for it by suffering half the year. While some residents might get excited for a winter full of hunting, cross country skiing and snow blowing the driveway, all I want to do is stay in bed in my sweats.

I know I shouldn't whine so much — it's Michigan, it snows, I should be used to it by now. But I'm not. I'm stubborn that way.

But what I really don't like about the cold season is I lose my motivation to exercise. When my spirits drop, so does that peppy spirit to jump out of bed and hit the gym. My gloomy, Eeyore persona bleeds over into other aspects of my life — I get down on myself for what I eat and how I look in that bulky sweater.

Believing in ghosts

Ghosts -- they come in all shapes and sizes and, yes, I do believe in them. I have felt the sadness and the heaviness at Gettysburg and Arlington Cemetery and a cold chill go down my back when I took that final walk into my gramps’ house to pack up his life. I even feel the presence of the ghost living in my dishwasher; I named his Terrance. But the strongest ghost I ever felt was the ghost of my former self.

The summer before my freshman year of high school, I packed up my room and moved from my Baltimore suburb to Michigan. That was my first move, but it wouldn’t be my last. Of all the times since then that I have packed up and changed zip codes, the first one has stuck with me the most. 

Maybe it was because I had to grow up and say goodbye to my childhood home or maybe because it was the furthest distance. I’m not sure. But whatever the reason, that life changing moment has stuck with me to this day.

Hurricane Floyd

I have 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 would spend the entire day outside with my neck craned up, 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 would spin in the hot summer rain until I couldn’t stand anymore. Then I would lie on the pavement and watch the rain come shooting down on me. Looking back, lying in the middle of 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 would 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 a cumulus cloud’s base hovered around 6,500 feet. I knew 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 would sit and stare out our screen door, waiting for the dark clouds to roll in. Every so often I would glance at the floor at my retriever, Bailey. She hated storms, so whenever one would get close, she would start getting nervous and I would start getting excited.

           

Hiking in Cunningham Falls

To this day, I still am not one hundred percent sure how I got blamed for what happened. I usually am the one who ends up with the accusing finger pointed in her face, and I long ago accepted that as one of my many character flaws. But I still can’t quite figure out how the girl with the broken foot got blamed for hitchhiking on the highway.


A tradition at Wilde Lake Middle School was the class trip to Summit Lake every June. We were middle schoolers so we had graduated to the next level of field trip, a three-day excursion without our parents. I don’t remember a single kid who wasn’t excited about that. 


Just like everyone else, I was looking forward to the trip. Three days of hiking, s’mores and scary stories sounded like heaven. But I was even more excited that my mother agreed to let me go. Two weeks before the trip, I had an unfortunate accident with a flight of stairs and a student who had revenge in his eye during a fire drill. He hadn’t been a fan of mine since I mildly embarrassed him during a softball game. Could I help it that he pitched one right down the center? Or the fact that my bat made perfect contact with the ball, sending it back the way it came? No, not anymore than I could help it that the ball hit him square in the groin, or the fact that he fell to the ground crying while I rounded the bases.

The pyro field

“So, when was the last time you stripped a wire successfully?”

That was all he wrote.  Not a “hi” or a “how are classes going?” Instead, an 11-word text message reminder to keep my skill sharp during the offseason.  That’s my dad.

While my dad and I are close, we’ve never had a typical relationship.  Raising daughters is never easy for any guy, but he did the best he could.  At an early age, my sister and I could outhit and out spit any boy on the baseball field, and we had to be able to flip open a pocket knife one-handed.  If not, we weren’t allowed to walk to kindergarten without him.  He tried his best to come to every one of my swim meets and would whistle so loud I could hear him under water.      

As I got older and I started getting interested in things he couldn’t understand--like Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and Spanish — the unspoken rule was he was not the “go-to” guy for homework help.  When it came to boys, if we didn’t talk about it then the problem didn’t exist.  As long as they didn’t call the house or come over, he wouldn’t have to give the “dad speech” or pace the house waiting for me to get home.  We both preferred it that way.

While this may sound a tad odd, the best way my dad and I related to each other, and still do, is on the pyro field.  Since the 1980s, my dad has been a volunteer performer for an airshow act called The Tora Bomb Squad.  He travels the country shooting off carpet bombs and walls of fire while Japanese Zeros, B-2 Bombers, and A-10s zoom overhead. 

My recurring dream

“Oh crap.  Stephen, can you go see who’s at the counter?  I have to get make these changes before the pages gets sent off to the printers,” I bellow from my desk. I know customers always come first, but if I don’t meet this deadline, my publisher is going to kill me.

It’s another humid day in Baltimore, so I have the windows open to keep them from fogging up.  It helps regulate the room but it does nothing to help my already messy office. The breeze off the Chesapeake has sent a few rough drafts on the floor and a post-it note out into the lobby. I can see it dancing its way towards the bookshelves housing a collection of local authors that I’ve published.

I can hear Stephen greet the customer in the lobby. I try desperately to tune out his conversation and focus on the page in front of me, but four words from the stranger grab my attention instantly. “Is my Hannah here?”

“Uh, just a sec,” Stephen says hesitantly. “Hannah, I think you’re gonna want to come out here.  She’s looking for you.” My curiosity instantly piques. I know those words, but I don’t know that voice.