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sesl2020 · 4 years ago

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The Details: are they God’s or the Devil’s?

I don’t care; I just love them.

Pick Stitching

Suit Linings

Interior Pockets

Flat Piping

Contrast Collars

and OMG the feel of the fabric.

In 2007 while working at Harry Rosen as Visual Coordinator for Alberta, the new spring season of Etro arrived. I almost cried. The jackets were so beautiful. Colourful mix-matched tweeds, luscious paisley satin linings and contrast lapels to die for. The guys thought I was crazy and not for the first time. (I had recently lost almost 100 lbs with Jenny Craig and was not quite sane) But…

Please excuse me while I rip off my shirt. I’m having a Chinook. This talk of menswear is making me hot. Yes ZZTop, there really is nothing sexier than a well-dressed man. Not necessarily expensive, just well. In the late 70’s/ early 80’s young men made a point of being grubby. Not even cool, like grunge, just grubby and unkempt with the absence of style. It was supposed to be Macho. Or Poetic. Hmmmm. Yes, this is the way I tell a story. Bare with me. He-Heh.

…But, the fresh new offerings reaffirmed my love of all aspects menswear. Back in the day, the mid 80’s, I remember the guys at Jack Fraser Menswear in Winnipeg where I was the Regional Display person (or Displaced Person as the called me) teasing me at my excitement over a new box of ties. Not just any ties. New Bosa silk paisley ties. Yes, it’s supposed to sound like Boss. I got so sick of polyester neats and stripes. It was like Christmas when something new came in to go with all the pink dress shirts. Oh the 80’s.

And then again yesterday evening…. André, my hunnybunny, had gotten paid in Brooks Brothers Gift Cards. $1800 worth. Go figure. Very sadly, during the apocalypse our local Brooks Brothers closed their doors and, as far as we know, permanently. So, unable to order online in Canadian Dollars, as usual I ended up calling them in the States where they manually entered my order and Gift Cards. Very Helpful, Thanks Michael!

Less than a week later and after paying $150 in taxes and duty Fed Ex delivered an oddly small box containing 5 pairs of dress pants, a windowpane suit jacket, and a $100 belt. I says to André: ‘why did you order another black belt?’ He says: ‘I’ve never owned a $100 belt before.’ Fair Enough.

Eeek! forgot to do my 500 steps this hour. Back in 3.

Pant! Pant!

As he modeled them, he has a very cute butt and he knows how to strut, I was carefully taking all the tags and labels off, the feel of the fabric and the precision of the stitching brought me back to my happiest career hours picking out coordinates for the windows and dressing bust forms. One of my weirder skills is being able to unpackage a dress shirt with all its itty bits put neatly in the shirt bag with my eyes closed in less than 5 seconds. If only there were Retail Olympics…

Anyhoo, it was the Grey Windowpane Jacket that really made me smile. The contrast red felt collar lining, the one red threaded button, the red flat piping along the interior lining and pocket. It even has a strip of lining to hold the double vents from flapping. Classic design well-executed is Nirvana. And makes me drool.

But, don’t forget to undo the Vent stitching. It makes you look…..inexperienced.

Subtlety and Restraint are two excellent ways to describe menswear in general. Well, British and North American menswear. The Europeans are much more outgoing. As I possess neither subtlety nor restraint these are things I admire and covet. Nothing makes me happier than a faint blue, red, or bronze stripe hidden in charcoal flannel. Pick it out with a blue or oxblood tie, cognac shoes and belt and it’s sublime. Step back (5 foot rule) to see if it works. If the suit is striped add a plaid Windsor Collar shirt or if it’s plaid add a yarn-dye stripe. And a pocket square if you’re feeling impish.

Ah the fabrics, and the ties, and the patterns and styles all with their unique lingo. Mmmm Lingo.

Whisper with me:

Bespoke

Epaulet

Haberdashery

Collar Roll

Sartorial

Pinstripe

Sprezzatura…..

Definitely the Devil.

I’ve bought a lot of menswear over the years. For myself. My former partner would have nothing to do with anything that wasn’t an old dirty fedora and a dusty ripped trenchcoat. God, he sounds like a Flasher. It was kind of the same thing as buying myself a present on Father Day because on Mother’s Day even after 3 children I still heard ‘you’re not my mother’. Not that I’m bitter. I gave the man Twins. What more can I do.

Having never been petite of stature or nature, sometimes menswear was my only option. 5’8, size 11 feet, and superbly curved I did not fit the skinny, big haired lollipop girl ideal of the times. Not only did they not offer any kind of fashion in a size 14-16, but all the pants were too short and all the sleeves were ¾. Ok, I had to take in all the waists in men’s stuff, but, as if being one of the only women working in menswear wasn’t enough, wearing it was my own personal rebellion against the female stereotype. That, and I loved the Jackets. Shoulder Pads reigned supreme at that time and they who had the shoulder pads had the power.

And, in any case, it was suicide to wear anything sexy or revealing. Sexual Harassment was rampant. And expected. And a man’s right. I almost stabbed a store manager to death with my wire cutters one day when he grabbed my ass and I automatically back handed him. Any job you applied for you had to have a professional answer ready for ‘How badly do you want this job?’ The things that were said to me on a daily basis even from my bosses would make your hair curl.

‘Do you know what would look good on you? Me.’

I remember a guy at the St. Vital store that kept trying to get me to go to his place for a quicky at lunch. One day I got so tired of it that I finally grabbed my tape measure and told him to whip it out ‘cause I wasn’t going to waste my time for less than 9”. He declined. And left me alone from then on.

I digress, it’s so nice to be older and wiser and not care about being taken seriously. And people go to jail now for being…. impolite. I dress like a sexy bamf on a daily basis, embrace my curves and still have more balls than most men I’ve known. And I still love menswear.

Omg! Chinooking again. Why? Why do I wear lycra pants? Oh ya, they make my butt look almost as cute as André’s, but so hoooot. And not in a good way. Excuse me as I take them off also. That’s better.

Despite the handicap of his father, I managed to raise my son to be a well-dressed individual. I think a lot of it was my Father’s influence as well. My Father came of age in the 50’s wearing khaki’s, Dack’s, golf jackets on the weekends and suits to work every day. And, of course, he taught me how to tie a tie. He was left-handed, but forced to be right-handed in school so he batted and tied his tie from the left. Which was awesome because I was right-handed so it all worked out when he showed me.

This is also the man who refused to by a new pair of jeans for the entire 70’s. He wouldn’t wear flares. He had a pair of twill demin pants in narrow white, yellow, and brown stripes that were so recognizable that my Great Aunt Vera recognized him from her moving vehicle as he was filling up at a gas station. It must have been the ’69 Biscayne*. She had just arrived in town from Winnipeg and hadn’t seen him for a few years. Those were some pants. But they weren’t flares.

The ‘80’s on were a big relief for him. He spent the rest of his life, we lost him to Cancer in 2005, in khakis and neat plaid short sleeved shirts and polo shirts. I kept his Grey Flannel Pants and Navy Blazer for years.

We also called him Sir…

And Again! Forgot to do my 500 steps this hour. Back in 3.

….When we would call him at the office, (in Grade 2, an avid reader, I called him every time I finished a chapter in Alice in Wonderland) you couldn’t just ask for Dad. Everybody was a Dad. So we asked to speak to George. When he came on the line he would say ‘That’s Sir to you, kid.’ And it stuck. Even our friends called him Sir. My sister’s kids called him Papa Sir. Kinda like Papa Smurf only more respectful. My youngest niece, Courtney, called him Papa Sewer, but that was just the way she spoke as a toddler. We found it very amuuuuusing. As did he.

Aaaaand, back to my son. I actually enlisted him to work part time at Rosen’s when he was 16. He wanted (or did he?) a part-time job and we needed a Saturday merchandiser. I’d already taught him and his twin sisters how to fold their clothes properly, iron a shirt, and do their laundry. I also taught them that when they look at clothing in a store they need to put it back exactly they way they found it. Respect for Retail. It was sooo fun to dress him and see him get measured for his first suit. Staff Discounts Rock! We never actually worked together at the same time, but it was cool to work at the same place.

I also told him, it being his first job, that ‘If you’re late, screw up, or make me look bad I will let them fire you.’ I also told him ‘Don’t forget we work this lifestyle, we don’t live it.’ Entitled is not a good look on anybody. He chose his Boss suit for Grad, slim fit with pointy shoes and put his long blonde hair in pony tail for the occasion. This was way before man-buns which he would have scoffed at anyway.

I was so proud of him at the first Christmas Party and and at the 2nd he wore his made to measure Tilford purple velvet peak lapel Jacket. As he danced with his girlfriend on the dancefloor I couldn’t help shouting ‘Shake what your mama gave you!’ He got me back when we did a company paintball tournament. The pic of us two in our guns an gear hung in the staff room for ages. But, kept he shooting me. It hurt.

‘William, we’re on the same team. Stop shooting me!’

‘Then stop being a pylon.’

If anyone has pics or memories of the things I’m describing, please feel free to share with rest of us!

*more on Dad’s Vehicles. ’64 Pontiac Stratochief ’71 Chevrolet Impala Custom and the Volaré Station Wagon Woh-oh. Volaré! Woh-oh-oh-no! Not a GM product. ‘Nuff Said. Stay Tuned.

#welldressedmen #menswear #devilinthedetails #metoo #haberdashery #merchandising #display

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mindfulrunner · 7 years ago

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#54: daring greatly: mississauga race report

the seed: rebellious child

I have a sassy, rebellious, high-energy toddler and I am still at heart a sassy, rebellious, high-strung child. I signed up for the Mississauga full as an act of rebellion. He was sick, and I was covered in snot and tired out of my gourd, but I did it anyway.

I thought: f*** it. I tempted fate.

Even though I have a rebellious streak, I fear and respect the marathon, and situations and circumstances I fear and respect tend to bring out the best in me. So that f*** it was also a tiny prayer: may I dig, dig, dig. May I get the most out of myself. Inspired by the openness of Shalane Flanagan and Gwen Jorgensen, I also put out my ambitious, challenging, yet within reach goal: to PB and break 3:07.

training: the limiting factor

Training this cycle went well overall, except for a major limiting factor: illness. Elliot picked up virus after virus at daycare, and I seemed to get every single one, except they lasted twice as long for me, and instead of taking off sick days to rest and take care of myself, I took them off to take care of him. Between January and May, I was sick with three upper respiratory tract infections (URTI) the flu (first time getting this in many years), and 3 GI viruses (at least one of the GI bugs was food poisoning, I think). In previous cycles, I got URTIs a couple of times that lingered, I assume because I chose to train through them, as long as I didn’t have a fever and my energy levels were OK. This year, the first of these infections struck just one week after seeing my naturopathic doctor at the end of January and telling her my immunity was great. Figures.

I was sick, or caring for Elliot, pretty much all of February, and I was intensely frustrated. At the same time, I was wrapping up a huge 5-month project at work that was overdue, and trying to maintain some fitness, mostly by running easy. Typically, I would feel OK after easy runs, but then the day after a harder effort like a long run or workout, I’d feel worse, and ease off again. On two occasions I took longer stretches off – 3 or 4 days— but had a hard time taking a full week off, which is what I probably should’ve done. My issue was I have zero faith in my immune system, and didn’t quite believe I’d get totally better with that amount of time off, since even when I’m not training colds and infections often last well over a week. In February, I averaged just 60k a week, ran only one proper long run of 28k, and 3 workouts total. In my last marathon cycle, I averaged 100+, hit all my long runs and workouts.

I raced the Chilly half sick at the beginning of March, another questionable life choice, and somehow ran a PB. It felt very hard from 6k on, which was early for me to push, and it was the first time in a long time I questioned my ability to complete a race. I coughed for a good five minutes straight at the end uncontrollably. In that moment, I really regretted what I had just done and had no joy in the PB, assuming I would get pneumonia or something, and screw over my work and family even more. Going into it, I wasn’t even sure I was going to race, but when I began to pick up the pace, I got competitive, wanted the PB, and somehow performed beyond my fitness and circumstances. Getting 100% out of myself on race day, despite only having 70-80% in my training, became my focus going into the marathon. I also figured if I could run 90 minutes on pretty bad training, the equivalent of a 3:09 marathon, I had a very good shot of PBing and, on a good day, maybe even running in the low 3s.

I got lucky and oddly enough actually felt better after racing Chilly. In March I averaged 94k per week, and in April I averaged 94k again. However, I only ran 7 weeks over 80k, and 6 of those were over 90k. In the last marathon cycle, I ran 12 weeks over 90k. So my overall build was not, for me, high-mileage. Workouts went OK. I ran marathon pace tempos between 4:21 and 4:25 pace. 4:21 felt too hard and 4:23 began to feel like the sweet spot. I had some craptacular long runs and workouts, and I noticed that these were occurring during the high-hormone, mid-luteal phase of my menstrual cycle. That started to psych me out, as the marathon fell on the same day. For more info, check this out:

pre-race: zero chill workin’ mom

The week before the marathon, a colleague abruptly went on vacation, which added an unexpected amount of stress to my workweek. Jeff was on days, which meant I was responsible for both pick-ups and drop-offs to daycare, which was also a little challenging, since Elliot seemed to be going through a period of separation anxiety again: he literally wouldn’t let go of my hand at daycare, and it broke my heart to pry his little fingers off one by one. Major mom guilt.

Taking over my colleague’s duties meant I was responsible for a project with a noon deadline the Monday after the race. F*** THAT, I thought. I worked my butt off to get it finished up as best as I could by Friday, putting in a 13-hour day, and dealing with Elliot, who was still not doing great: really fussy and clingy. I did not even have the time or presence of mind to properly track my carbs that day, although I think I got in around 500g.

After an awful night in terms of sleep, stress, and— OK I’ll admit it— a piss-poor attitude on Friday, I was super grumpy and lazed around all day Saturday. Jeff brought Elliot in to the walk-in and it turned out he had a nasty ear infection, poor dude, so I was concerned about him as well and cancelled the post-race party at our house. We called in reinforcements, and my mom agreed to come in the morning to watch him, so Jeff could still come to the race.

It was only at 5pm that I properly started getting my head into the race. I realized all my gels and nutrition contained caffeine, so I zipped to the Runner’s Shop for some non-caffeinated ones and also picked up a sweet pair of Goodr sunglasses since I wasn’t totally sure where my normal running ones were. Then I returned home and got my bag and clothes ready with Elliot. Instead of being in bed by 9 as I should’ve, I made a pace cheat sheet with my goal 5, 10, 15, half, 25, and 30k times, as well as directions for the final really tricky with a bunch of twists and turns. I wrote out the directions moreso to ease my anxiety about the course, which I practiced running the previous week. I don’t think I fell asleep until late, maybe midnight, and was up at 4:40 to scarf down my oats.

execute: PB or bust

My goal was to PB. I didn’t care if I blew up. And I was a bit greedy. I wanted to run 3:03-3:04. I wanted to be well within striking distance of a fall sub-3. I wanted to prove this was my distance, this is where I shine. No plan B.

the race: hello glycogen depletion my old friend

Morning of, the temperatures were looking a bit warmer than expected, so I got a little nervous. And as with the Ottawa Marathon, I couldn’t properly go to the bathroom which was so weird. I wonder if carb loading messes up my digestion?

My teammate picked me up and we drove the short 30 minutes to the finish line to take the shuttle to the start. We missed our exit, and I ended up not really listening to my pre-race visualization and jams properly. At the start, I changed and immediately lined up for the bathroom and again tried to go but couldn’t. I very briefly warmed up, just 1k with a few strides, before searching for my teammates, Jake and Gar, who were going to run a similar pace. The plan was to start out at 4:23, but Gar was quicker after a few kms, so Jake and I let him go. Neither Jake or I felt great from the outset. We both had a shin issue that migrated into a hip issue, and I my calf started to cramp at 5k. However, I stayed calm, if not positive, knowing that marathons are long and these things can majorly shift. I especially tried to take the downhills in a controlled way to avoid slapping and aggravating my shin again.

As usual, the GPS watch just provided a guesstimate. This guesswork does tend to add some mystery and suspense into the effort, as I’m never totally sure if I’m hitting my goal, even if the numbers say I am, and I usually try a bit harder just in case. However, feeling that Gar was a very controlled pacer, and wondering why he’d gone ahead when he’d only wanted 3:05, I grew concerned we were running too slow. Between 8-14 k there were a few faster kilometres: 4:15, 4:17, etc. At 14k, I pulled out my sheet with the split times and some older women spectating chirped, “You don’t need a map, honey”, but the sheet told me that we were running well under our goal pace, that Gar was fast, and not to worry about him and just do our own thing.

From that point on, Jake and I took turns leading until about 24-25k when I was officially slowing and starting to feel pretty crappy and let him go.

I don’t fully remember why I was slowing, if it was just overall discomfort or a negative mindset, or if my calf or hip were bothering me more. But I remember consciously letting him go, yet wanting to keep him in sight, and beginning to feel like the race was slipping from my control. I remember too, trying to quiet the needling thought: this is too early to feel so bad. I must’ve quieted most of my thoughts successfully, because I don’t really remember much about the next hour of the race. Maybe I lost focus? Or maybe I was incredibly focused on just hanging on. I don’t remember.

Something I struggled with that I could have controlled, maybe because I was distracted by what my teammates were doing and not running my own race, was fueling. I didn’t have a written plan, didn’t take the little baby bottles (literally baby bottles, ha ha!) of Maurten Jeff handed me, and didn’t take Gatorade at every station as I did at Ottawa. I think I took 4 gels total. I began to bonk around 34, 35k pretty hard. My watch was mostly in the low 4:30s, whereas I had wanted it in the low 4:20s. Around 35k, my heart rate also dropped according to Garmin? I’m still wondering if this was a fluke.

It was suit of armor hard, like in my first marathon. But I was reassured by the fact I was breathing pretty well, which to me signified it was still a manageable, if intense, effort. Not dead yet. I don’t think I took in any fuel after 37k, which again was silly, but I finally took one of the little bottles Jeff handed to me just prior to that. After 37, the effort to take Gatorade or a gel at that point seemed overwhelming. I need to learn to mentally prepare to work with this feeling and override it.

Luckily, during this period of bonking and serious effort, I did focus mentally, since I had women around me I was competing with. One woman in blue was wearing headphones and had very strong surges; we ran alongside each other for parts beginning at about 34k. We eventually caught up to a woman in black, who looked strong and was being paced by 2 male runners. I took their encouragement to her as my own “You’re doing great” and “Now’s the time to push if you have anything left” and we played cat and mouse a bit. I took the tangents straight, a bit aggressively, elbows a little out.

Because the course was so twisty, I did not have the finish line in sight until the last 100m or so, although I could hear the crowds. Finally, with about 20m-50m to go, my competitor in black, who I later learned was named Karoline, had a huge kick but I somehow responded (despite apparently not using my arms at all!) and caught her at the line and came 4th woman by 1/10 of a second. My teammates were pleased I put on a funny show at the end.

I had snuck under my PB of 3:07:36 by 50 seconds, running 3:06:46. It was a satisfying result, looking back, but I still somehow felt I’d messed up the race and felt a bit deflated, if not disappointed. Immediately after I felt terrible and needed my puffer in my bag, so I just focused on getting that instead of soaking in the accomplishment as much.

Next time, I will be more grateful. PBs are PBs, and they don’t come forever.

But there are things to improve: higher mileage. Immunity. Fuelling. Form.

after: and when it was bad it was horrid

After the race: I. Was. Trashed. Possibly worse than after my first full. My calves and quads were dead, my lips were blue for a good hour despite wearing multiple layers, my cough was bad, and my old groin injury had somehow resurfaced. I was a GD mess. I was in pain standing and walking, but afraid to sit and cramp up.

Nothing looked more appealing than a woman, probably late 50s, laying on the grass with her legs up and feet on the trash can. I laid next to her and we chatted and both had the sillies and shared some jokes and stories. She asked my time and I asked hers. She was late to running, and expressed joy at discovering it later in life. She asked me “how’s your mind”? And I said, “Fine. I think. But you know. I shouldn’t drive” and we both cracked up laughing. She had a beautiful laugh. It was probably my favourite moment in the race besides…

BESDIES MY TEAMMATES ABSOLUTELY CRUSHING IT. Jake, Heidi, Martina, and others had absolutely mind-blowing races. I was elated for them.

Walking to the truck wasn’t possible, so after I picked up my age category prize (4th overall, 1st in age group), we walked a little until Jeff got the truck and drove back to get me. Congratulatory texts and posts started streaming in. The satisfaction of the accomplishment moreso came to me secondhand.

gone gone beyond gone.

During the race, the heart sutra surfaced. Gate (pronounced: gah-eh), gate, paragate para sam gate, bodhi svaha!

I first learned it after I listened to Michael Stone’s podcast during a cold, wintery sidewalk run in the suburbs at my parents’ house. In the podcast, Michael said it’s a very good sutra to say after someone has died; for me it comes up in the blank part of a run that’s just effort, where I’m struggling to settle back into it and just accept. Instead I cling to it for distraction, for something to hold on to. One last clinging thing. I also just like the rhythm of it. It’s like counting to eight again and again in a run, but better.

We chanted it at Spirit Loft and at Downward Dog after Michael died in his memory.

Sometimes it arises out of nowhere, which was what happened in the race. Michael translated it as: gone, gone, beyond gone, across the other shores (the tone of “across to the other shores” is a bit celebratory because of the “svaha!” like a bit of a hooray thrown in).

After the result on the car ride home, I squirmed and fished around, looking to find what was gone, struggling to settle in my accomplishment, in the extreme effort of crossing to the other shore.

I texted my brother, and Jeff previously texted my mom. Fourth woman sounds kinda cool, and it’s the type of thing non-runners usually find more interesting than running a certain time. Maybe what I needed was the validation. I scrolled through the congratulatory messages I received, searching there too. Trying to find the hooray on the other shore, the bit of joy. But I couldn’t.

The truth is I always feel a peach pit in my throat and ache in my chest after a race since my dad died. A text was never sufficient for the depth and breadth of his enthusiasm for my running. He would want a phone call with a detailed play-by-play. He would’ve looked up the result. He probably would’ve been there, cheering, telling me to kick butt. He would have gasped with amazement and interest that I’d outkicked someone at the line with an “Em-chen! You’re kiddin’!” and a big WOW, and would’ve called me “fast twitch” in the next few emails or texts he sent me.

I didn’t make the mistake of trying to search for my dad in my mom. They are different. I am growing. I didn’t begrudge her for not being him. The night before the race, she told Jeff that after my dad ran his first marathon, she let him know she wouldn’t support him running them anymore. I asked her about it when we got home from the race, curious but also already knowing why. She said, “It’s too extreme, the training takes too much time, you get too thin. My friends were asking what was wrong with him, he got to 145 lbs. 10ks, those are fine. But I said, with three little kids, we wouldn’t come to your races. You could do it on your own time. But we won’t support it.”

At one time I would’ve seen a jab in these words, a pin to deflate my victory balloons, which were already pretty sad and deflated. But now I frame it as touching: a mother’s concern, her sharp attention, even though I am grown up now, noticing and worrying about the lines in my face, the cough that won’t go away, the apparent lack of rest and pleasure in my life, the strange seriousness and intensity of my hobbies.

I sent her a text thanking her again for her help with Elliot and explaining, “I know running isn’t the most pleasant/healthiest hobby but for me it is very exciting to discovery athleticism, teammates, and a sport I have some skill at. Really really appreciative of your help.” She responded, “You are welcome. Glad you were happy with results. My bias will always be for optimal health. Which everyone perceives differently.”

My dad perceived optimal health differently than her, too. He sprinted the last part of his easy runs with his running mates, racing for fun. He always beat Rob, and mostly beat Sean. He ate the burger and the chips. He sometimes had the extra drink. He got chippy in the corners at hockey and didn’t control his emotions very well at all when fishing or playing golf. From the outside, his leisure time sometimes looked stressful. He had a rebellious streak, too. And he savoured the juices of life.

shore up

I am my father and my mother. I am the rebellious, intense child, but also the patient, steadfast mother. I don’t want to run reckless. I try and do things that impact Elliot the least: lunch runs, run commutes, 5:00am runs while he is sleeping. I don’t want to compromise my long-term health in a serious way, or my connections with Jeff and Elliot. I don’t think I am.

But I can’t deny I’m curious. I’m hungry. I’m keenly interested in limits. I want to be a student of limits. There is a spark here, there is a flame. I’m protective of it. I want to tend to it.

As a teenager and in my twenties, I shrank myself to accommodate my parents’ expectations. Risk-taking was out of sight, never in the open. The dark parts of my personality were hidden away the best that I could and came out in sulking and silence. My seriousness and intensity came out in academics, the secret crushes I had, and maybe our political and philosophical arguments around the dinner table, but I didn’t express it openly in my hobbies. I wrote but always in secret. I wrote with expletives, experimentally, raw and weird and my mom came across my blog once, the F bombs and all, and was shocked and disturbed, and never again followed any of us on social media. I published a poem but later requested it be removed from a website, ashamed of my rawness. I hemmed up all my raw edges.

But my goal this year is to neither puff myself up, press on foolishly headlong into bad decisions, stubborn and imagining myself so alone, nor shrink into the background resentfully, obediently, and only do-- on the surface-- what’s normal or expected or desired from others.

Neither puff up nor shrink. But also ask: why not me?

I see no reason I can’t achieve big goals.

I see no reason I can’t go sub-3.

I say this neither puffed up with ego, or shriveled with shame about the intensity of my own interests, the extremeness of my personality that befuddles and perhaps annoys others, even those I love the most.

So many of the skills I have as a runner– equanimity, understanding and maintaining boundaries, mental toughness, a desire to research, detachment, a deeper spiritual faith or purpose underlying my actions, the deeply joyful appreciation of nature on the trails and recreational paths– all of these things come from my mother.

But some skills come from my dad, too: taking corners aggressively with elbows out, the cycling between anxiety and excitement, the runner’s high, the chicken-leg calves, the competitive show-boat streak, the hacking cough, the imagination running wild late at night or at work with fantasies of fast finishes and faster times and unimaginable improvement.

The fascination with something like the heart sutra appearing unannounced at the end of a hard effort? Well, that one is the best. And that one is both of them.

I am a blend of the two, one measured and questioning, one seeking and a little recklessly enthusiastic.

And I am so much more: a mother, a partner, a sister, a teammate, a spiritual seeker.

Why not me?

#mississauga marathon #mother runner #race report

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