"My Daily Run"

I don't love my daily run. Well, actually, it's more of a jog.  But "run" just seems more impressive and energetic.  And "daily" has the appearance of discipline and fortitude. So when I write "my daily run" just know I'm truly misleading you. However, I have come to discover my daily run mirrors my daily life. Some parts of it are great, some are indifferent, and other parts simply suck.

I get up at 6:45 am and wake up 30 minutes later.  No. Not a typo. If you can't relate, God bless you. You're one in a million!

 I'm sauting salami and onions for my son's omelette before my right eye is entirely open. The gentle, splatter of hot olive oil on my hand is a rude attempt at a wake-up call, just as a 35-degree morning is for my daily run.

Despite the sizzling oil attack, I continue in a blur. "Lizzy," I yell at my daughter. "Get up." I make her breakfast. Yell some more. I kiss my husband good-bye. Yell again. I make her lunch for school as I yell. My son brushes his teeth (he says), puts in his contacts, and leaves. "Bye Mom. Bye Liz." I manuver Lizzy into an upright position and hope for the best. She manages to leave at some point.

First thought: An empty, quiet home. Yahoo! Second thought: Did I screw up my work schedule? Was I suppose to be at work two hours ago? Third thought: Running clothes or jeans? Guilt attacks me as a reach for my jeans. To kill it, I grab the spandex and snap it on. I have three questions to answer before I run.

1. Do I have to move my car to avoid a ticket? Oh lord, what street am I parked on? If I take the car to the garage, I run from 70th street to the Intrepid Museum docked on the Hudson at 43rd street and back home. 
2. Do I have a coffee date? If so, I run up Riverside Park along the Hudson to meet my girlfriend on 110th street at our favorite Hungarian pastry shop. After coffee, I then walk, run, or subway home. Yes, I cheat on those coffee date days and I'm not ashamed of it!
3. Why didn't I schedule a coffee date?  On these days, I'm out the apartment, up around the Central Park Resevoir and back. After a forty-five second hamstring stretch, I'm out the door.

Just like the first several minutes of my morning are spotty, the first few blocks of my run are the most questionable.  "You're doing this shit again?" my Brain says to my Body. "Didn't we just do this yesterday or was it last week? You know, if you really did this exercise crap every day, it would be easier on both of us." The dialogue slows down as I enter the park on 81st street.  I start counting dogs not on their leash.  I listen for birds. I see an 80-year-old jogger and try to pass.  The first incline assaults me.  It's akin to getting Lizzy erect in the morning.  "I can do this. I can do this," I chant. If I can get Lizzy up, I can get up this hill. I manage to get to the resevoir. Now I just have to make it around and then back home--without stopping--preferably.

But I've learned my Brain can take over and drown out my previous cheerleading chant with a catchy melody from the '60's.

Slow down, you're movin' too fast,
You've got to make the mornin' last,
Just a-kickin' down the cobblestones,
Lookin' for fun, feelin' groovy.
Ba, da, da, da, da feelin' groovy!
(thank you Paul Simon for that respite)

I pretty much come to a leisurely stroll in order to halt the "feelin' groovy" repeating itself over and over in my head like a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk.  Luckily, Paul only serenades me once every few months, so I manage my run at a somewhat even pace.  I actually run on the bridle path around the resevoir because it's wider than the path by the water and is surrounded by trees casting shadows. When running on those balmy 90-degree days, I tell myself, "Run for gawd sakes. Get to the shade."  Obviously in the winter, I berate myself to get to the next patch of sun, an illusion of warmth.  I pick out runners I don't like and try to pass them.  I don't like safety orange running outfits, older people that are faster than me, private school kids during gym class.  "Just because you're richer than me, doesn't mean you're faster than me!"  (Unfortunately, they are richer and faster 90% of the time.) When I spot the private school girls, I feel like I'm at Bloomingdales for my bi-yearly trek to that Institution of Higher Spending. I get off on the second floor, while the more coiffed, toned women continue up the escalator to the designer floor, leaving me in the wake of their expensive, flowerly perfume. These are their daughters gliding by me, effortlessly, up the path.

In the spring, my path becomes a pink, soft carpet of fallen petals from blossoming cherry trees.  In the fall, I feel like God has allowed me a little peek at Heaven. As I run by the baseball fields, I smell freshly cut grass that make me feel like a 10-year-old again. I see more breeds of dogs on my daily run than a vet sees in a week.

Like my life outside of spandex and running shoes, I get the good, bad, and indifferent. I love being home when the kids open that door at 4 pm.  They want to share their day and I long to hear it.  As the evening progresses, my husband comes home. Hopefully, to be greeted with a kiss.  I make dinner, lie to my daughter about the importance of polynomials in one's life, promise my son his eyeballs won't pop out if he reads more than four pages at a time, talk to India about my computer, and wonder if I'm scheduled to work the next day. I think back to my daily run at the 2.75 mile mark (but who's counting).  The hill exiting the park at Central Park West and 77nd street is a bitch. Why must it be at the end of my run?  Well, I attack it because it's gotta be done if I want to get home and get on with my day. Just like I gotta weed through the dirty dishes, homework, and teen-age squabbles in order to get to bed before midnight. 

"Mom," Lizzy yells, from her tiny loft bedroom. "Bake some cookies. I have a bake sale tomorrow. Please."

And so my day tumbles into evening that slides into night and continues to unfold.

Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake

"I want my birthday cake to look like the one on the box!" I stamped my foot for emphasis. My mother was my audience for this yearly scene. I didn't want a homemade upside down pineapple cake, carrot cake, angel, pound or sponge cake. I didn't even want a chocolate snickers cake. I wanted the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Layer Cake with White Wispy Frosting that looked like minature ski jumps. Picture perfect. That unattainable pink and white slice of heaven was denied me year after year after year.

My 12th birthday arrived. On the kitchen counter was an empty Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake box. "Mom, where is it?" I hopped from foot to foot in anticipation. She had baked it in a scratched up 13" x 9" olive green aluminum cake pan. The cream colored homemade frosting was as smooth as my cotton sheets. "Oh," I squeaked, as my eyes welled up.

Perfection: The state of being without fault or defect.

I realized my life was the antithesis of this word.

If my Mom couldn't make a cake taller than two inches, how was my life ever going to be perfect? I studied my Teen magazine. I used a Maybelline Professional Eyelash Curler, but only the lashes on the right eye accomplished that wide-eyed, modelesque-look. The lashes on my left eye looked like they'd been torched with a Bic lighter. Fashion was bandanas of varying sizes and colors wrapped around my body and hair. (fyi: I'm from Kansas). My hair: Dishwater Blond. Never, ever in the history of Breck Shampoo did a model have Dishwater Blond hair.

I had Teen to aspire to. My mother had House Beautiful magazine. However, the interior of our house was the equivalant of my exterior. Remember: cinched eyelashes, hair the color of leftover sink water, and a large red bandana tied around my chest for fashion.

I tried to envision House Beautiful photographers in our home. First, they'd bring in an industrial strength giant vacuum to suck up all the dirty tissues, week-old pb&js,and cat hair balls. One look at me and they'd suck me up and my dishwater hair. In the photos, Teen magazine would be tastefully displayed on the coffee table next to the perfect Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake they'd brought in.

How am I to secure the perfect man, perfect career, and perfect life if I can't figure out how to have modelesque eyelashes, a six-inch tall birthday cake, and hair color that doesn't make you think of last nights' dishes?!

Time bumps, jumps, and slithers along. Its taken me several decades to come to terms with all of the above catastrophes. I can now say (and believe), "I'm okay, you're okay." Well, truthfully sometimes its, "I'm great and you're not". Other times, "I suck and yes, you are fabulous. So watch your back."

Clearly, perfection still alludes me. But now I see life as a balancing act. Remember teeter totters? You know, the playground item that doesn't exist anymore because too many kids got crushed feet or simply toppled or got pushed off. I metaphorically have one. In fact I live on it. I stand on the center, feet parted. The seven deadly sins and my ill-fated eyelashes are on the left side. Sainthood, virtues, and the Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake are on the right. I spend most waking hours (and some sleeping ones) trying get that plank I am perched on balanced, perfectly balanced.

It happened one time. I was Lady Justice. I was Moses parting the Red Sea. I got up before the alarm. I ate my oatmeal, flax, and blueberries. I gently woke my children with a smile. "Time for school, Darlings." Kissed my husband good-bye on the lips and promised a home cooked dinner, lingerie, and other sundry items on his return. I attended yoga-- became one with my space. I drank water, the elixir of Mother Nature. I inhaled deeply and exuded good thoughts to the world. I did worthy deeds for my family and strangers. (Well, I returned some month old phone calls and didn't make up crap when Nielson Ratings called). You do remember how often Moses parted the Red Sea?

My teeter totter lists to the left. . . always. You know, gluttony, lust, greed, envy, pride, anger, and sloth. I shuffle to the right a few steps. Often nothing happens. To get my plank back on an even keel, I must volunteer at church, school, and microwave duty clean-up all in one day to get the slightest movement.

Lounging on the left can be bitterly beautiful. My blanket of comfort is salami and oreos(doubled-stuffed), tortilla chips and salsa. A beer or two might enter the equation. I watch enough Law and Order on USA channel that I should be deputized. "Just call me Detective--Detective TJ." I read my latest porn novel(Fifty Shades of Grey, volume II for those curious), take care of business, and refuse to abandon my pajamas. My one goal of the day is to make dinner for the family in six hours.

For some reason though, the next day I get back on that teeter totter and start wobbling around--wobbling around to try to find that perfect balance and that Duncan Hines Strawberry Supreme Cake with Fluffy White Frosting.