I Hope to Be a Runner Until I Need a Walker

            Several years ago, soon after my 60th birthday, I was at a routine doctor’s appointment.  The young woman updating my chart before my examination asked me the usual litany of health-related questions, one of which was how many days a week I exercised.  I replied, seven days a week.  In a practiced, well-bless-your-heart tone, she congratulated me and then asked, “do you walk?”  I gritted my teeth and asserted that I was more of a runner than a walker.  She met my steady and somewhat defiant gaze with silence.

             It’s not that walking is not good exercise; it can be a great workout especially if you move vigorously and add some hills.  It was the assumption that someone my age necessarily walks for exercise instead of runs, bikes, swims, hikes, or rows that irritated me. 

             The 40-something-year-old physician entered the exam room, glanced through my chart, noted my age, and inquired if I was still working, to which I cheerfully replied yes, that I was the managing partner of my law firm.  He asked me whether I was in the process of “winding it down.”  Winding it down?  Like what, a timepiece that’s approaching its useful life?  An automobile with a 200,000-mile odometer?  I wondered briefly whether he would ask the same question of a man my age.  I suspect not.

             There’s an unspoken alliance and camaraderie among runners that transcends age or gender.  We appreciate and acknowledge the effort and the drive it takes to hustle around outdoors in the name of fitness regardless of the weather.  At races, I see twelve-year-old girls running with their mothers, their faces fixed with determination and fatigue.  I follow thirty-year-old couples chattering away about their weekend plans, oblivious to any noticeable exertion.  I watch the lead woman runner approaching me on the backside of an out-and-back, and I whoop it up as loudly as I can while she kicks some male butt.  I run briefly with middle-aged folk, and we nod at each other, physical effort eclipsing our ability to talk.  As I pass a gentleman older than I am, our glances to each other herald the grateful truth that it is genetic fortuity, as well as discipline, that allows us to be here, leaving it all out there.   

             As I leave my doctor’s appointment, I casually mention that I’m training for a half-marathon.  The physician pauses at the comment, suppresses his obvious surprise, and then smiles and replies he’s run one recently, as well. 

             Maybe I’ll encounter him at the bagel and banana table, post-race, one day.  With any luck, I’ll be done with my after-run sustenance and on my way back to the car by the time he gets there. 

Presents of Presence

            It’s a recent Sunday night, and I’ve managed to assemble the family for dinner at a local restaurant.  The conversation centers briefly on professional and college sports and then takes an inevitable turn.  As the dialog veers into the technology realm, it leaves me further and further behind until I can barely decipher individual words, much less comprehend obscure concepts.

             I grasp a futile opportunity to contribute to the conversation by cheerfully asking my offspring, “is anyone going to work tomorrow?”  My oldest son, Eric, momentarily takes his eyes off his cell phone and says, “no,” firmly.  My middle son, Andy, is slightly more kind; he looks at me briefly, pauses, and replies, “nah.”  My youngest son, Evan, sighs and explains in the patient tone and cadence of a parent talking to a five-year-old, “Mom, we don’t go to work.”

             My sons all have technology jobs: analytics, DevOps, and cloud computing.  I presume they all have a good work ethic; however, dressing in business casual and driving to a brick and motor structure is not part of their job description.  In fact, employment applications actively involve discussing and negotiating how many in-office days are required every week.  My adult children are convinced that they are most efficient and focused while working on a couch wearing sweatpants.

             When I was a young associate attorney, working at home would have been the death knell of my career.  Senior partners of the law firm would invariably walk around the office every morning at about 8:00 to see who was there – the daylight equivalent of a bed check.  I was always present and dressed for court in case a senior attorney threw motion pleadings on my desk and exhorted me to appear in court within the hour.  But showing up at the office was more than being available for last-minute court appearances; it was a chance to be seen and to demonstrate dedication to the practice of law. 

             These days, I drive my own employment bus.  The dress code is different, but I’m still showing up at the office, every single day.  Collaboration, collegiality, and commitment have no real technological substitute.  Face time is inherently more effective and gratifying than FaceTime when a young associate needs mentoring or deserves congratulations.  Rushing into a co-worker’s office to complain about a last-minute discovery motion or an irksome opposing counsel has no electronic equivalent. 

             That said, when it comes to exercise, I’m probably not going to show up at a gym.  It’s not just that I dislike exercising indoors; it’s because I resent the structure of having to be somewhere at a particular time dressed in a certain way.  I view gym time chitchat as a distraction from the focused effort of working out.  I’m more immersed in independent activity than group endeavors. 

             So, I guess in some ways, I have more in common with my adult children than I thought.  We all agree that our best efforts are most often achieved by solitary pursuits. 

             We also all agree that Mom and Dad will be picking up the restaurant dinner tab.  And electronic payments by credit card work just fine.

Powder Poise

            On a wintery Saturday morning in the early 1980’s, I wake up, dress quickly, and drive to the local gas station/Mini-Mart.  I fill the tank of my trusty Opel Manta and grab coffee and a donut.  I’m back on the road before 7:30, and I head for the slopes.  My destination is the same as virtually every other winter Saturday morning:  Stevens Pass.  I was not an accomplished skier, but I loved the chilly and exhilarating sport. 

             It was not a robust social time in my life.  I was living in Seattle, far away from my college hometown.  I had a few friends from work, as well as a handful of buddies whose wintertime social life centered around drinking at a Belltown bar and scurrying home when the first snowflakes appeared.  If I wanted to ski, I needed to go alone.

             I skied that day with the luxury that only solitude affords.  Choices of runs, routes, speed, and places to pause and catch my breath were mine -- and mine alone – to select.  Traversing the mountain in long and lazy switchbacks or heading directly downhill with turns as tight as I could muster was dictated by thoughtful decision making or instantaneous impulse.

             Towards the end of the day, a light, powdery snowfall began, delightful in its delicate texture and sound muffling.  The snow grew heavier, and with it, concern began pricking my consciousness.  I hurried down the last ski run, released my bindings, tossed my skis onto my shoulder, and clumped my way to the parking lot as fast as I could.

             It wasn’t fast enough.  By the time I coaxed the cold engine of my car back to life, the snow was falling fast and furious, approaching a white-out.  I knew my rear-wheel-drive auto didn’t stand a chance without chains, so I laid them out in the quickly deepening snow and installed them.  With the reassuring thud of the thickly cabled chains in the background, I crept out of the parking lot and began a cautious descent.

             By now the heavy snowfall was covering the earth as quickly as it was blanketing my composure.  I gripped the steering wheel and inched along, joining the cavalcade of cars crawling down the mountain.  The number of cars sidelined off the road, either by intention or by catastrophe, grew.  My options were limited; in the pre-cell-phone era, there was no way to call for help.  I was afraid to pull over and wait out the storm, worried that I would run out of gas and succumb to the cold.

             I was keenly aware that I had to rely on myself as I began the final downhill descent of the day.  My Manta and I slipped and slid down the icy road.  We pivoted on the turns with the timidity of a neophyte skier on a bunny slope. On the steep stretches, I coaxed the car into the automotive equivalent of a snowplow. The trip that usually took two hours extended to six hours,  but I arrived home oddly triumphant.

             Skiing imparted enduring gifts to me: the cleansing clarity of outdoor exercise and the peaceful simplicity of solitary activity. But I owe the sport, and that old Opel Manta, for bestowing the ultimate gift:  the comforting awareness of self-capability.   

The Jealousy - Envy Differential

            When I was in high school, there was a clear female social hierarchy, and I was not anywhere near the tier I wanted to be.  The young women in the uppermost echelon were mostly pretty, wealthy, and/or athletic (which in those days, meant they were cheerleaders).  And for whatever reason, they all had a remarkable ability to attract members of the opposite sex. 

             To say I was desperate to attain that social status is perhaps an over-statement – but not by much.  It would have facilitated Friday-night social events (if I could have ditched my job at the Golden Arches), benefitted lunchroom interactions, improved my self-esteem, and enhanced the possibility that the football quarterback would look my way.  Heck, I would have been content if those girls’ dating castoffs had been thrown my way.  What I coveted most was the group members’ indelible self-confidence.  I never saw a moment of social doubt, body-image dismay, or worthiness insecurity.  I was consumed with jealousy.

             Jealousy is the apogee of the human comparison scale, followed by envy, and then, lastly, pure joy.  I’ve changed a lot since high school, but I’d be dishonest to say that I regard everyone’s good fortune with absolute pleasure in the absence of insecurity.  I can’t help but judge myself, for example, against runners whose abilities eclipse mine, family members’ business success, law partners’ legal intellect, or influential leaders’ charisma.   

             But in my joyful maturity, I realize I wouldn’t trade my life for anyone else’s.  The sorrow I’ve experienced has filled me with compassion, the stress has infused me with resilience, and the disappointments have imbued me with persistence.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m still a bit envious of those with financial bounty, athletic abundance, and adorable grandchildren, but I’m not jealous.  

             I have read that comparison is the killer of joy, but I don’t see it that way.  I use the vestiges of envy as motivation to work hard and as a reminder that it stems from lack of self-worth.  I forgive myself for feeling envy at others’ good fortune because I understand that I am human, and envy is part of a complex emotional construct.  Though I self-judge, I don’t compare myself favorably against anyone else.  My life is replete with gratitude and pleasure more than anything else.

             I am happy to report that resentment is not part of my emotional equation these days -- well, except for my husband’s ability to sleep through the night without interruption regardless of what else is going on. I’ll never achieve that status, and I’m never getting over it!

Unexpected Anticipations

            It’s 7:10 in the morning, and my running group is just getting started.  The temperature is about 45 degrees, and it’s overcast without the premonition of rain; in other words, it’s perfect running weather.  I’ve had a good night’s sleep and a quick cup of coffee.  I’m happily anticipating a pretty solid run; my training is on-schedule for a half marathon in December.  I’m pretty sure I’m going to tackle the hills with enthusiasm and feel strong on the flats.

             Except that my run turns out lousy.  I feel decent but not spritely for the first three miles and capable but not robust on the hilly, woodsy portion at miles four and five.  Then I feel like poop, and I still have another five miles to go.  I have that moody, low-carbohydrate, all-over-body drain thing going on.  My legs feel increasingly tight, and my stride shortens.  I start to plod. 

             I’m dispirited.  I had a formula that predicted an inspiring and energetic outing.  My week was full of easy runs with a track workout on Wednesday.  I was well-rested and motivated.  But the actuality of my run didn’t nearly meet the anticipation of it. 

             Which, come to think of it, is the way life is.

             I wish I had a nickel for every event that didn’t live up to my expectations.  I’ve hosted family dinners where I fantasized about sitting with my guests and having absorbing conversations – only to spend the entire time in the kitchen.  I’ve planned stunning vacations with a young family – only to have them eclipsed by offspring discontent and fighting.  I’ve had court appearances where I was well-prepared and confident – only for the judge to see my case completely differently.  I spent a small fortune on a gorgeous home remodel – only to have it leave me completely cold when I was done.

             But the reverse has been true as well.  I’ve attended business social events that I approached with more than a little annoyance and met wonderfully engaging people.  I’ve viewed weekend chore lists with resentment only to find the tasks energizing and uplifting.  I’ve had deeply engrossing conversations with my husband that had somewhat grumpy and resentful origins.  I once had an adult child unexpectedly confide in me while running routine errands.

             I’ve started runs in the rain and cold, feeling stiff and aggravated.  But somewhere along the way, my stride became strong and fluid, my mind was transformed by energy and promise, and my heart unfolded with joy and gladness.  Running, like living, is not ever really knowing what is just around the corner.  The challenge is enjoying the anticipation without it becoming a yardstick that measures the outcome.  Expectations set us up for disappointment, and they diminish the delight in the unforeseen.

             So, I’m planning a ten-mile run for next weekend.  I’ll start while it is cold, dark, and windy after a poor night’s sleep.  I’ll probably be nursing a tweak in my shoulder and maybe the hint of a sore throat.  Voila!  The law of averages will catch up to me, and it will be fabulous!

Gratitude Program

            It’s Sunday morning, and I’ve had a hard week.  No singular event was traumatizing or devastating, but disappointment and frustration seem to occur with exponential enthusiasm.  The culmination is that I am grumpy and eager for the law of averages to catch up with me – you know, a week where everything goes my way and unexpected little snippets of joy get tossed in my path. 

             I open a cell phone app and serendipitously, an article by author Scott Mautz crops up about developing a daily gratitude habit[1].  I’m a positive lifestyle-habit junkie, so I’m intrigued.  Mr. Mautz credits a 60-second, early-morning thankfulness routine to displace his all-too-frequent moodiness.  The essence of his life hack is simply spending a minute or two choosing what mood you are going to be in.  Deciding to be grateful involves a simple sequence of considering what and who you are thankful for that day, and then identifying and focusing on one daily positive theme.

             Easy enough!  I am an upbeat person by nature, I suspect, and certainly by intention.  I’m a little concerned about adopting yet-another lifestyle regime since research clearly shows that trying to establish too many positive habits at one time dooms you to failure.    I mentally scroll through my routinized procedures to see if any of them are too fragile to undertake something new, but I think I’m good.  (Dog walking, teeth flossing, bed making, Sunday laundry, daily work timesheets, and Duolingo app for Portuguese are all entrenched, among other things.  I’m at nine + years of working out every day – I’m not worried about displacing my exercise habit!) 

             So here it goes.  I’m grateful for my adult children – smart, educated, interesting, and completely off the dole!  They are utterly independent, and their lives are unfolding in a way that is uniquely theirs, which is how it should be.  My husband is patient, kind, loyal, and his personality lacks even an ounce of drama.  My job is interesting, engaging, and provides a solid income.  (We drive our own bus, as one of my law partners describes it.)  I’m living in a cozy little house in the community I adore.  I was raised by intellectual, active, and devoted parents.  I have friends and loving family members who are there at a moment’s notice if I need them.

             I’m grateful that I can move through the world with physical ease.  Yeah, my knees feel a tad grumpy after a long run, and I have a sore little crack in my left heel that hurts.  I’m aware that getting up and down off the floor seems a little more complex that it used to, but mostly I feel strong, fit, and healthy.

             Today I’m going to focus on thanking the people in my life that I love and trust and who add comfort, meaning, and inspiration.  I’m going to start by appreciating the readers of my weekly newsletter.    You’ve allowed me to process and reflect on my life in a way that I never dreamed possible. You are a loyal little band, and I thank you.

[1] http://www.inc.com/scott-mautz/this-60-second-habit-has-helped-put-me-me-in-a-better-more-productive-mood-each-morning.html

Emotionally Exacting

            It’s 6:45 on a recent weekday morning, and I’m at the local middle school track.  It’s dimly lit and somewhat dark.  The only other person present is a middle-aged guy that I see there all the time.  He is always oddly dressed for running, with long casual-wear pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and a jacket on top.  His clothing always makes me suspicious, as does the fact that he is invariably talking when I pass him.  He’s either very upset with his drive-through coffee drink or else he is conducting a high-level business phone call that involves millions of dollars.  I never linger around him long enough to ascertain which.

             The almost-iridescent white lines on the track beckon me, but I’m reluctant to plunge forward.  I’m running quarters today, a series of loops around the track.  I know that charging around as fast as I can builds strength and increases VO2 – the volume of oxygen consumed during aerobic exercise, but it’s physically uncomfortable.  But I’m competitive, and I’m willing to suffer a bit to incrementally improve my running.

             I no longer time my quarter splits; I don’t need concrete evidence that I am getting older and slower.  But I run hard.  During the first third of the track circumference I feel like a 10-year-old girl -- I can run forever. I breathe more deeply in the second third of my route, and I start to feel the creeping discomfort that will soon consume me.  The last third is flat-out miserable – the effort mandates my total concentration.  I focus on my form and the ever-diminishing distance to the endpoint.  I collapse gratefully at the finish, and I begin a slow recovery jog. 

             As taxing as running can be, it can’t compare with the challenge of emotional stress or uncertainty.  I’ve experienced plenty of that stuff:  unpleasant client communications, disquieting business concerns, periodic family relationship worries, and occasional health afflictions.  The periodic backdrop of worry and disappointment ranges from barely perceptible to, occasionally, abundantly present.  It is the unpredictable terrain of life that unsettles me; I know I cannot anticipate the next stressful hurdle that might crop up. 

             But the beauty of physical effort is that you define its parameters.  Though you may not be able to absolutely control the level of discomfort, you have the power to plan, anticipate, adjust, experience, and end aerobic exertion on your own terms.  Runners and other fitness folk benefit from the predictability of physical labor.

             My ninety-second jog is over, and I reluctantly view the rapidly approaching start of my next quarter sprint.  The good news is that each heart-pounding step brings me closer to the end of my workout and begins the blissfully relaxing recovery period.  On top of that, the spooky hoodie guy is leaving, walking away slowly while mumbling under his breath.  Evidently, the pre-IPO transformation phase of his business is going poorly, or else he is plotting to hack the into the coffee rewards software to guaranty free coffee for life.  I’m not sure which.

             I reach the start and charge forward, eager to begin so I can have the absolute delight of finishing.

Monotonous Numerosity

            It’s Friday night, and I haven’t spent much time thinking about content for this week’s newsletter.  I have a lengthy fallback topic list, but I want to leave those ideas for days when absolutely nothing appeals to me.  On impulse I pull up a day counter app, and I plug in the dates March 5, 2010 and October 4, 2019.  Lo and behold, it’s exactly 3500 days!  It seems coincidental that it is such a nice, round number, although statistically it is no more significant than any other number.  But still…

             On March 5, 2010, I pledged to exercise thirty minutes a day for fifty days in a row.  I was almost intoxicated with excitement at the challenge, and the first three or four days flew by.  Then it became really tough -- difficult to excruciating, almost.  I had days when I would procrastinate and delay working out until after dinner or later.  One night during the first fifty-day period, I came home from work very late, about 11:00 p.m.  I was at a crossroads:  either persist and honor the commitment or revert to my erratic, chaotic, I’ll-work-out-more-often-next-week lifestyle.  I took a deep breath, cursed the circumstances that required me to work late, grabbed a coat, and took a chilly but ultimately inspiring thirty-minute walk.

             I remember a lot of my workouts in those first fifty days, mostly because of how challenging it was to get myself out the door.  I once bribed myself with an issue of People magazine to pass the time on an exercise bike.  Another time when I had a 6:00 a.m. flight, I walked the airport concourse and repetitively lifted my carry-on bag over my head to replicate a weightlifting session.  Later that same trip, I ran circular paths around my hotel so I wouldn’t get lost.  On another occasion, I ran to my book club gathering and once or twice I ran to a board meeting.  I was delighted and proud when I logged fifty consecutive workout days.

             On day 51, I woke up, looked outside, and thought, why stop now?

             So here I am at Day 3500.  I hardly recall any of my workouts after the first fifty.  For sure, I remember the occasional half marathon or Turkey Trot.  Biking with friends in exotic locales is an adventure you never forget.  Every so often, I swap out a normal workout for a strenuous household chore, some of which are memorable.  (I once spent two hours bending over and scraping between the wooden slats on our deck with a putty knife; that was like a CrossFit-on- steroids workout!) 

             But now running or walking every morning is just about as exciting as making my bed.  The beauty of a habit is that emotional responses are overridden by the comforting monotony of routine.  I’m not filled with exercise anticipation, but I’m not burdened with reluctance, either.  I just know that I am going to wake up, put on running clothes, and get outdoors.  Exercise is the comforting backdrop to a life that can be uncertain, joyful, stressful, exhilarating, and unpredictable.

             Welcome Exercise Day 3501, here I come!  I feel neutral about you at the start, I’ll be inspired by you during my run, and I’ll be happy and tired when I’m done.

Heightened Sensitivity

            It’s an early weekday morning, and I’m getting ready to go to work.  I have a court appearance today, and I mention to my husband that I am meeting a client for the first time.  As a casual aside, I remark that clients often express surprise at my height when they first meet me.  One male client told me that I was so cute, he’d like to pick me up and put me in his pocket. 

             I arrive at the courthouse and greet my client.  I give him a firm handshake, and he smiles and says, “Laurin, for some reason I thought you’d be taller.”  I hear concern in his voice about my courtroom effectiveness.  I return his comment with the quip that “it’s not the size of the dog in the fight.”  The hearing goes well, and his confidence in my representation skills survives intact.  But such comments take a toll on me.

             Historically, height bias, or heightism, served an evolutionary purpose.  Size, particularly in males, indicated dominance because such individuals were perceived as healthier and better fed due to greater access to resources.  Research confirms that the human brain perceives height as a measurement of social status, fitness, intelligence, and leadership.  Greater stature is positively correlated with higher income and business success due to subtle cultural preferences.

             I’ve heard and tolerated height comments my entire adult life.  In the recent past, I’ve been barraged with not-so-tall comments:  a friend teased me that she wants to stand next to me because I make her look tall; I witnessed a presidential candidate’s joke about the “man behind the curtain being -- really small’; and I heard a lawyer in my office refer to an arrogant attorney as having a Napoleon complex.  Last weekend, a family friend triumphantly reported that her son’s new girlfriend is smart, career-minded, and tall!  Someone else lamented to me that his son is not as tall as he is because his son’s mother is short.  The list goes on and on. 

             When we articulate comments about any aspect of physical appearance, we, unintentionally or not, ascribe value to them.  Touting the “accomplishment” of size or height necessarily diminishes the value of someone who is lesser than that.  It is no more appropriate to herald someone’s stature than it is to commend them for the whiteness of their skin.  We should be more evolved than that.

             I’m reluctant to challenge people who make height remarks for a variety of reasons.  It feels unbecoming to complain about heightism while rampant systematic discrimination exists against racial, ethnic, religious, sexual orientation, physical abilities, age, and gender groups.  In addition, I don’t want to offend or embarrass anyone by addressing statements they may have meant no harm by.  I also want people to like me, which makes confrontation very uncomfortable. 

             But I’m pretty much done with all that.  I’m not going to allow others to dictate what I am entitled to care about.  So, let me be clear (cue the anthem music):  I don’t care.  I’m not interested in any physical aspect of your child, partner, spouse, sibling, parent, employer, or friend.  I don’t regard physical endowments established by genetics as praiseworthy or worthwhile.  I’m only impressed and enamored by characteristics that are acquired by hard work, perseverance, compassion, character, or resilience.

             If you think I’m strident or defensive, so be it.  I’m not going to sit at the back of the bus, especially if not-so-short people are sitting up front.

Bad-Ass Buddies

            I got a cheery email from a good friend a couple of days ago with the news that he and his friends had to turn back during their Mount St. Helens climb because of inclement weather.  Climbing permits sell out quickly for the season, and there will be no chance to try again this year.  My friend was philosophical about it.  “We’ll try again next year,” was his final optimistic comment.  This was the same guy who just finished Cycle Oregon, a scenic but grueling seven-day bike ride with mileage varying from 55 to 95 miles per day.  Last year he organized a twelve-person Hood to Coast team, which completed a 200-mile relay race.  Most team members run three legs but due to someone’s injury, my friend ran four.

             These are impressive and rigorous adventures for anyone, but this guy is 71 years old.

             I’m fortunate to have friends, cohorts, and mentors who are athletic, disciplined, and persistent. They are also mature, at least chronologically.  Their antics include distance road races (marathons and “half’s”), long and hilly bike rides, grueling running relay events, crazy downhill ski runs, and tough triathlons.  Someone in my running group celebrated his 60th year by climbing Mt. Rainier.  Heck, there’s even a fearless 60-something who recently ran with the bulls in Pamplona, Spain.

              Whether I’ve surrounded myself with fitness bad-asses consciously or through fortuity, I don’t know.  But either way, I’m benefitting from it.  Research shows that we emulate those around us – for better or worse.  We pick up lifestyle behaviors from people we live with, work with, and socialize with.  What you eat, how much you drink, and whether you exercise or not is influenced by those you spend the most time with. 

             Maybe it is a subtle form of peer pressure or a desire to fit in.  Or maybe we’re just awed by the accomplishments of others, and they inspire us.  At their core, my die-hard athletic friends embrace life’s infinite possibilities while no doubt acknowledging its finite length. I can’t think of better role models.

             I’m privileged to surround myself with active and athletic male and female friends.  Now if I could just find friends who own dogs that obediently heel when walking, whose garages are always tidy, and who file their income tax returns before the absolute deadline.   Those are folks I’d swap out my bad-ass fitness buddies for in a heartbeat!

Currency of a Different Kind

It’s Wednesday afternoon, and I’m at work, editing a complaint that will start a lawsuit.  My computer monitor faces a wall, and I can’t see out my second-story office window unless I turn around. 

             One of my law partners drops by to discuss a case, causing me to swivel my chair and face him.  Shortly into the conversation, I glance out the window, and I see a middle-aged man walking down the street.  He stops at the intersection.  As he waits for the light to change, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his cell phone.  Two pieces of paper drop out of his pocket, unnoticed by him while he is talking on the phone.  The pedestrian light changes to “Walk,” and he moves through the intersection.

             I am certain that I know what those little pieces of paper are:  likely a meaningless receipt from a coffee shop or maybe a short grocery list.  I know that it is a waste of time to run out to the street to retrieve them for him; I also know I’m going to do it anyhow.  I sprint down the building stairs and run over to the intersection.

             The little pieces of paper are blowing around in the breeze.  I grab them right before they make a break for freedom into the busy street beyond.  In an instantaneous flash of movement and recognition, I see that the random paperwork is, in fact, two small wads of bills.  It’s not a huge amount of money – maybe $40 or $50—but enough that its absence will be missed by the owner.  The middle-aged man is nowhere to be found; he has disappeared into one of the buildings in our commercial/industrial neighborhood. 

             I take a chance and run into the gas station food mart across the street, and there he is, telling the cashier that he ran out of gas two blocks away.  As he reaches into his pocket, I smile and tell him that he dropped his money on the street.  He hesitates, gives me a hug, and says, “that’s all the money I had.”  The gratitude in his eyes makes me pause; my inconsequential effort has probably made his somewhat lousy day significantly less so. 

             The event made me think about kindness in a new light.  I am good at opening doors for people with their hands full, and I robotically thank folks I interact with.  But intentional kindness is something I had not considered before -- viewing the world with an eye towards opportunities to exercise concern and thoughtfulness.  Both givers and recipients of goodwill are probably more inclined to see goodness in others, and a single good deed might create a snowball of benevolence.

             The world can be annoying and frustrating, as well as scary and sad, at times.  Let’s take care of each other in basic ways that can set goodness in motion.  The simple truth is that humanity is its own reward.   

Border Lines

            It’s the wee hours of the morning on a weekday – maybe 3:00 or 4:00 a.m.--in early 2003.   I can’t sleep, so I throw in the somnolence towel and decide to take down the wallpaper border in my oldest son’s bedroom.  Years ago, he had chosen a Mariner logo-themed border, and I remember when I installed it that I knew the day would come when I would take it down and repaint the room a respectable neutral color.  With college on the horizon, that day had come.

             My sleeplessness resulted from a law practice decision I was faced with.  I had recently started my own law firm as a sole practitioner after years of major law firm partnership.  Just when I was launching my shaky little solo practice, I was courted by another firm to join them as a partner.  It was the perfect match:  our practices aligned, the firm’s reputation was impeccable, and the potential compensation far exceeded anything I was likely to achieve on my own.

             It’s odd how insignificant physical activity provides the backdrop for weighty thinking.  I soaked, peeled, and scraped the wallpaper border while simultaneously struggling with my law-practice dilemma as well as the bittersweet knowledge that my little boy had grown up.  By the time I was done, and the border was removed, I had decided.  I drove to my office and typed out a thoughtful and grateful letter to the law firm’s managing partner declining to engage in further discussions.  I had crossed the boundary line of my law practice’s uncertain future and committed myself to it.

             Today I’m more likely to grapple with momentous decisions, or even trivial ones for that matter, by lacing up a pair of running shoes and maybe grabbing an enthusiastic pup for company.  I don’t consciously search for solutions to problems; pounding footsteps and rhythmic breathing simply quiet my mind and allow free-floating solutions and ideas to crop up.  My heart may be getting a beneficial workout, but my emotional brain is receiving a therapeutic session.

             All my kids still love the Seattle Mariners; removing the wallpaper perimeter didn’t change that.  You can dismantle the baseball logos from the bedroom and release its young male inhabitants into college and the adult world, but you can’t take the baseball out of ardent fans.

             Hope still springs eternal.  Maybe next year!  If so, perhaps I’ll paint the taupe-colored guest bedroom turquoise again.

Road Rolling and Running

It’s late afternoon on the Friday before Labor Day weekend.  The office is quietening down with that particular hush that reminds you that this is not an ordinary weekend. This is a weekend when people leave town, fire up grills, gather with friends and family, and embrace the dwindling days of summer.

             The road construction crew outside my second-story office window catches my eye.  They are finishing up a waterline project.  There’s a large dump truck filled with asphalt, orange-vested workers with rakes and shovels, and a road roller.  The road roller operator skillfully tamps down the asphalt into a clean and smooth surface. 

             I remember a road roller that could have tragically bent my life in a far different direction.  It was the summer of 1986, and I had recently graduated law school.  I was studying for the Bar exam, a process that was complicated by the arrival earlier that year of our adorable, but complicated and colicky, first-born son.  Eric was six months old.  He was not a disciplined or consistent napper, and I was inexperienced in regulating his sleep schedule. 

             On that summer day, when he should have been tucked into his little crib in the nursery for a morning nap, I was placating him on the couch while I was trying to study.  I heard a crash that sounded like a freight train exploding into our house.  Without thinking, I grabbed Eric and ran outside, where I was horrified to see that a road roller from a road construction project had crashed into our house, coming through a large picture window and into the nursery.  The operator had bailed out shortly before smashing into our house, and the road roller had hit Eric’s crib dead-on, demolishing it.

             I was devastated and traumatized by what could have happened.  The potential loss of a child is too wrenching to contemplate by itself but knowing that the hand of fate is often capricious adds to the terror.  Over time, I tucked that near-miss into the recesses of my subconscious, and life returned to normal.  But I understand that life is a delicate mixture of paths chosen and tenuous fortuity, which combine for a journey filled to the brim with unexpected joy and beauty as well as uncertainty and happenstance.

             We are vulnerable to events we can’t control but we can mitigate their impacts by conscious decisions about healthy lifestyle, emotional engagement, and a commitment to living in the present.  I’m grateful for my conscious decision years ago to exercise every day but there was an element of fortuity in it as well.  Why did I decide on March 5, 2010 to see if I could exercise every single day?  I don’t remember.  It was probably just an early-morning, caffeine-infused crazy idea that stuck.

             I pound an awful lot of pavement these days on asphalt carefully and thoroughly flattened by road rollers, most of which have never taken an unfettered foray on their own.

Pearls of Perception

            On a recent workday morning, I pulled open a little-used drawer in my bathroom vanity.  It was full of tiny boxes, jewelry bags, and miniature totes.  I had only a vague recollection of what was in those containers.  With some hesitation, I opened a small box that contained four or five pairs of earrings and selected a pair of dangly black pearls.  I put them on and tilted my head back and forth a bit to view my adorned earlobes.  It was an oddly transformative moment.  You see, I’m not a jewelry person.  I don’t “wear” jewelry.

             This is not to say that I don’t place small diamond studs into my earlobes every morning.  I do, but it’s mostly to cover up the holes that are there.  And I usually throw on the obligatory pearl necklace when I go to court or attend an important client meeting.  But putting on jewelry is not something I consider significant or even relevant.  It’s mostly because I have distilled my early morning routine to the essentials.  I don’t consider the sixty seconds it takes to choose jewelry a high priority. 

             But there’s more to it, of course. I think of myself as straightforward and unpretentious.  I sometimes fantasize about developing a black and khaki wardrobe, which would virtually eliminate clothing decision making.  An efficient and uncomplicated lifestyle is my cup of tea.  It’s easy to throw little luxuries under the bus in the interest of reaffirming my no-nonsense self-image.

             I can easily sacrifice little indulgences like jewelry, but I won’t sacrifice my morning workout.  I have streamlined my home environment and routine.  When I wake up, I grab my running clothes hanging on hooks right inside my walk-in closet.  My waist pouch resides next to the basket that holds my running shoes.  I’m out the door in a heartbeat in the morning.    

             There are those who would say, and rightfully so, that taking the time to put on jewelry is nothing about efficiency – getting to the office sixty seconds earlier does not make the workday any more productive.  Maybe I’m denying myself a little indulgence in the hope that austerity foments accomplishment and creativity.  But that’s just plain silly, right?

             So maybe, just maybe, I’ll add a dash of jewelry to my morning routine.  I have a great little topaz necklace that looks just right with a somewhat faded black Nike running shirt.

Real Estate Regret

It’s the middle of May, and our six-month-long home remodel is finally winding down.  The punch list is extensive, but at least it’s a defined universe.  It was a miserable process, as most remodels are, but it had its hilarious moments, as well.  My husband and I were essentially confined to our master suite, with occasional nighttime forays to the garage to microwave frozen dinners. 

             My vision for this home, and my commitment to it, was inextricably tied to the remodel:  opening up the main floor, creating an expansive new kitchen, adding new windows, and installing warm and inviting oak hardwood floors.  We relished the thought of heated tile floors in the gorgeous new bathroom, a tankless hot water system, a new furnace, and a laundry room that was lovely enough to host a tea party in.

             As the weeks wound down towards project culmination, I wandered through the kitchen, tracing designs in the natural stone island, gawking at the voluminous shelving and drawers, and marveling at how perfectly the white kitchen cabinetry enhanced our art pieces.  Arriving home after a week-long bike trip in June, I caught my breath as I walked into my house.  It was simply stunning:  light-filled, spacious, and welcoming.

             And it left me completely cold.  I viewed it objectively as gorgeous, but from a distance, much like a visitor or a real estate agent might when ascertaining a listing price.  I didn’t feel connected to it.  I didn’t anticipate hosting parties there.  I couldn’t envision holiday gatherings around the massive and congenial kitchen island. 

             I knew I was in trouble.  After a few soul-searching days, I realized that it was not the remodel; it was a culmination of feelings that I had harbored for months.  The commute to Seattle was brutal, and I had lost the sense of community that I had loved about my former home.  I burst into tears and confessed to my husband that I didn’t want to live here anymore.  To his credit, he assured me that if we needed to make a change, we should.  I felt embarrassed, ashamed, and perplexed.  I loved the peaceful beauty of my surroundings, and I was taken with the warmth and kindness of our neighbors.  And yet, it was not enough.

              It was emotionally unstable terrain for me:  a directional course correction that I never saw coming.  But exercise, especially running, stabilized me.  The uncertainty ahead of me and the complexity behind me coalesced into the comforting awareness of my capability.  I didn’t need to worry whether I could master the hill ahead of me.  All that was required was that I take one more step, breathe one more deep breath, and allow effort to eclipse uncertainty.

             The way forward on a bumpy, shifting path is always the same:  keep your eye on the distant finish line, and move in as straight a line as possible.  Each step is a goal unto itself. 

The Habit of Happiness

            It’s Sunday morning, and I’m just so happy.  I haven’t won the lottery, and I’m never content with my personal financial balance sheet. I have not eliminated work stress, and there are piles of impatient client files around me.  The world feels increasingly chaotic, angry, and dangerous.  And yet, I feel content and gratified.

             I’ve felt happy for a long time.  I remember the moment when I acknowledged that optimism was central to my personality.  It was about 15 years ago, and I had to develop a security phrase for a financial website.  The phrase I immediately came up with was, “the sun is shining.”  But it was not a sunny day; it was cloudy.  I had a moment of clarity when I realized that the sunshine was coming from within.

             It hasn’t always been that way.  I endured adolescent angst and young-adult full-blown depression.  My 30’s were full of incessant demands and an over-arching belief that I wasn’t good enough at anything.  Raising rambunctious boys, maintaining a household, volunteering, and climbing the professional lawyer ladder obviated the ability to reflect on whether I was happy.  Joyful moments abounded, for sure, but the busyness of my life eclipsed my capacity to reflect on it.

             That changed when I started exercising regularly.  Not only did exercise elevate my mood and stimulate feel-good endorphins, it mandated that I break away from the perpetual agenda of things I thought I wasn’t doing well enough.  Physical activity proved to be the ultimate form of self-care.  Pounding footsteps abolished uncertainty, deep breathing eliminated anxiety, and a heightened awareness of the outdoors fomented a belief that I was strong and capable.  Forgiveness for my perceived inadequacies was always just a sweaty half-hour away.

             I often tout the virtue of a daily exercise habit as it eliminates workout planning and internal cajoling and shaming.  But today I’m wondering if happiness isn’t a habit as well.  I believe that comforting routines combine to create contentment:  waking up, petting an enthusiastic pup, hugging my patient husband, working out, enjoying a hot shower, and eating a delicious but healthy breakfast.  The happiness formula is simple but reliable.  Who needs anything else? 

             Now, if I could just accumulate a fortune, ditch unrealistic clients, and solve the dog hair problem in my car, I would be euphoric, not merely happy!

The Great Divide

            There’s a lot of discussion lately about divisiveness in our country.  In my calmer moments, I try to think about commonalities instead of differences.  But I admit, there are some significant distinctions within our population.  For example, there are dog people and then there are people who can watch a movie on television and have the entire couch to themselves. I understand that there are tidy housekeeping folks who can remove their couch cushions and not recoil at what is underneath them.  I’ve heard that a select group of individuals take their cars in for service as soon as the electronic notification appears. 

             I suspect that with a lot of thoughtful conversation, these disparate groups could find common ground or at least some level of understanding.  But humans are also divided in ways that are difficult to reconcile; for example, some of us have storage units and others do not.  I used to belong to the latter group, and I was incredulous that people would pay a monthly fee, for years, to store belongings they didn’t even remember they had.  Of course, I used to have a large house with endless storage.  Now I have a medium-sized house, and my ability to throw things out seems to have diminished. 

             My storage unit has holiday decorations, old family photographs, and travel memorabilia.  I’ve become the family keeper of all things difficult to part with, from children’s baseball jerseys to delightful school essays, and award certificates of various kinds.  I’m not willing to part with my kids’ Legos, for example.  (In hindsight, I wish I had put that investment into Bitcoin, instead.) 

            We’re a sentimental bunch, us storage unit aficionados.  We’re bound together by a complex mixture of emotion, attachment, nostalgia, and probably a healthy dose of procrastination, as well.  Boxing, labelling, and storing items allows us to avoid the discomfort of making decisions about them.  We suffer no cognitive regret about keeping our collections because we promise ourselves that we will, in the future, sort and make rational decisions about them.

             This mental sleight of hand reminds me of my past relationship with exercise.  I would tell myself that I would start exercising regularly next Monday or after my vacation or after the holidays, thereby giving myself permission to not exercise today.  Promising myself that I would start exercising regularly confirmed my belief that I cared deeply about getting fit.  But it also gave me license to loll around for days on end.

             The only way to break out of that disingenuous cycle was to develop a daily exercise habit.  It allowed me to get fit and stay fit without internal dialogue.  It eliminated exercise dilemmas and decision making, and I’m eternally grateful for that.

             So, perhaps I need to exercise some tough love and clean out my storage unit starting tomorrow.  At least I could break the cycle of pretending I was going to do it “someday.” 

             Anybody need a macramé belt made by a 10-year-old? 

Serendipity by Design

            I’m not a great believer in serendipity, but some people believe that the right people, opportunities, and events show up precisely when needed. Once in my young adult days, when I was floundering around educationally and vocationally, I opened the mail to find a $20.00 refund check for an item I had returned.  There was nothing extraordinary about receiving $20.00 on any particular day except that for reasons of poor planning and unexpected automobile repairs, I was completely broke.  Payday was still several days away. 

             There was something almost magical and intoxicating about receiving that refund check when I needed it the most.  I wondered if the law of serendipity played a role; that is, did the Universe somehow bend in my direction to provide precisely what I needed at that moment?  Or was it just a mathematically predictable event that coincided with a financial low point?

             My husband might be disappointed to read that I consider the $20.00 refund check the epitome of coincidental good fortune.  After all, he and I met randomly in a stairwell in an office building.  We worked for the same large engineering firm, but on different floors.  Though our paths might have crossed before, this time my husband was talking to someone who knew me, and apparently told that dashing young civil engineer, “I think she’s single.”  Without that momentary intersection in the stairwell, with the alignment of a third party who could somewhat vouch for my dating status, we might never have begun dating.

             I’ve heard from people that they fell into the perfect exercise by a fluke.  For example, one friend of mine randomly met someone that invited her to a rowing class, and someone I used to work with moved into an apartment next to a public tennis court.  Lifelong sports passions began.  The husband of a friend of mine was advised by his doctor to swim to aid his recovery from an accident, and he fell in love with the calming and rhythmic coolness of water.  Without that accident, his decades-long habit of swimming every day might not have happened. 

             I believe that if you move around enough, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and physically, that you’ll find exactly what you need when you need it.  It’s certainly true for me when it comes to exercise.  Throughout my life I tried all kinds of exercise from calisthenics, to aerobics, to swimming, to hitting tennis balls, to Yoga.  Running was the only thing that drew me in, repeatedly.

             Becoming a runner was less happy happenstance than it was serendipity by the process of elimination.  As the old proverb says, the dog that trots about finds the bone!

Perfectly Mediocre

It’s 6:30 a.m. on Sunday.  I have a massive personal project that is obliterating my weekend.  I don’t have time to write a blog post.  My plan was to write it earlier in the week and schedule it for release in advance.  That didn’t happen.

             Now my choice is to skip the blog post this week or do a half-hearted job.  The former conflicts with my streak of posting every single week since the first the year; the latter is completely incompatible with my perfectionist zeal.  As much as it pains me, I chose the latter. 

             Perfectionism makes it hard to get stuff done.  (Note to self:  find a more articulate and eloquent word than “stuff” on re-write.)  Worse than that, it makes it hard to even start.  In his recent The New York Times article, Tim Herrera writes about his desire to have every article “just right” and falling into an “editing and re-editing spiral.”  I get that.  I often spend more than an hour refining a blog post even though it took me far less than 60 minutes to write it.  Mr. Herrera makes the point that obsession with perfection, in writing and no doubt in all endeavors, prevents us from achieving the goal of task completion.  He references Dr. Alex Lickerman’s point that writers need to understand and recognize the point of diminishing returns while refining and editing their work.

             I’m not proud of being a perfectionist, but I’m not ashamed of it, either.  It’s just one of my intrinsic characteristics, and it drives me in positive directions in many aspects of my life.  But I recognize that it is central to procrastination, as well, because I worry about being dissatisfied or even embarrassed about the finished product.  So, while I’m not a reformed perfectionist, or even a recovering one, at least I am an aware one.

             Oddly enough, I credit daily exercise as my most effective tool for battling perfectionism.  I have many days where my self-imposed thirty minutes of exercise is, well, lame:  days when all I can muster is sauntering around outdoors with coffee or slogging slowly in circular paths.  I often fail to lift weights or do core body exercises on scheduled days.  But I’m a big fan of Voltaire’s idea that perfect shouldn’t be the enemy of good, and I assuage my exercise guilt with the knowledge that I’m moving around somewhat vigorously every single day of my life.  So, good for me!

             It’s 7:15 a.m. on Sunday.  I promised myself that I would write this blog post, edit it, and set up my Mailchimp delivery in less than an hour.  Here it goes!  Do me a favor:  don’t email me and tell me this week’s effort fell short.  If you do, I will tell you that you’re wrong; it’s absolutely, positively, perfectly mediocre.

Dispositional Difference

            For my husband and I, the Fourth of July is not about family BBQ’s, patriotic sentiments, or viewing pyrotechnics.  Don’t get me wrong; I adore getting together with my young adult kids, I love my country, and I think fireworks are spectacular.  But if you are a dog owner, chances are the Fourth of July is not your favorite holiday.

             We adopted our rescue dog, Boomer, last January, so we weren’t sure how he’d feel about loud noises.  We knew what the day would involve for Bailey, our canine family member who joined us five years ago, and it was not going to be good.    

             We took the dogs out for their usual dinnertime walk on July 4th.  At least we tried to.  Bailey heard a distant blast as she left the house, and she went into lockdown mode.  There was no way she was going to risk life and limb with the possibility that a 10-year-old kid might light a sparkler down the street.  Boomer, on the other hand, was completely oblivious to any noise, obsessed as he was with the prospect of seeing a squirrel or a rabbit during his walk. 

             We tried several times to walk Bailey before bedtime, but she was having none of it.  We had a big problem; you just can’t go to bed with a dog that hasn’t had a bathroom break in eight hours.  We finally decided to drive her to a quiet location to see if we could convince her that peeing outdoors did not put her life in peril.  My husband had to carry the 65-pound lovable mutt into the car, as she refused to leave the house on a leash. 

             We found a peaceful spot, and it was every dog-owners dream: Bailey did her business (and I mean both kinds!) in 60 seconds flat, and then bolted back into the car.  When we got home, we closed all the windows and turned on the fan to muffle the sounds of fireworks.  Mission accomplished!  (At least until next 4th of July.)

             I don’t want to offend my husband by comparing him to a dog, but he’s a lot like Boomer: calm, relaxed, and mostly content with whatever the day brings.  I’m Bailey on steroids: anxious, hyper, and always waiting for the next shoe to drop. 

             My husband and I approach exercise differently, as well.  He enjoys working out three or four days a week at the gym, and he thoughtfully mixes strength, flexibility, and aerobic components.  I lose my mind if I spend any time in a gym, and if I don’t run or walk outdoors every day, I can’t face the personal and business stress in my life.  Our workouts reflect our personalities. 

             At day’s end, Boomer likes to sleep on the floor next to my husband’s side of the bed, while Bailey is vigilant about protecting me near my side.  The dogs are as different as night and day, and my husband and I similarly agree that they’re perfect.  That is, until we need to cajole a reluctant Bailey to go outside come next Independence Day.