My Other Birthday

I don't have an exact date, but sometime in April is my other birthday. It's the time of year that I celebrate surviving the worst of two bouts of viral meningitis.

Sometimes I look back and am surprised I survived at all. I often get angry at the doctors who discounted me and acted like this illness that nearly killed me was all in my head. It's hard to believe after telling the first doctor I saw that I don't usually go running to doctors and knew something was wrong, she brushed me off and told me it was probably hormonal. At least the ER doctor acknowledged that I was sick and said so, even though he couldn't find anything major off in my blood work.

It was a long, difficult road back. Sometimes you don't realize how challenging things are until your life is running more smoothly. Looking back, I can see that it actually took years for me to get back on my feet.

One thing I have noticed is that most people, when I mention the meningitis, are quick to say, "At least it wasn't bacterial meningitis!" Well, true. I'm "lucky" I guess, but that's like getting breast cancer and being told, "At least is wasn't lung cancer!" Um, OK... three cheers? And the fact that it wasn't cancer is another lucky point for me. Yes, viral meningitis is considered the milder form of the illness and it's not cancer, but that doesn't mean that it's like getting a touch of the flu, especially when you get it as an adult.

Where my true luck plays out is in surviving an illness that kills up to 20 percent of the people who get it and doing so without any long-term complications like deafness or brain damage.

It's fine if people think viral meningitis is no big deal. I'm going to use this time to be grateful for coming out the other end, even though there were times I didn't think I would and one time in particular I actually thought I wouldn't. The truth is that I'm both amazed and happy that I pulled through.

Mike Stanley - Feb 22 1945 - March 5th 2015

Michael Stanley Feb 22 1945 - March 5th 2015

It's always difficult to put thoughts together after shocking and upsetting news. Even though much time has passed since I first heard that Mike Stanley, a retired teacher and wrestling coach in Boulder, didn't survive a heart attack while riding mountain bikes with his son in Alaska, I'm still having trouble putting down words. When I first got the news, I was in shock that soon gave way to tremendous sadness. I didn't want to believe it was true. News this heavy seemed unreal.

Mike's memorial was held at my former high school on April 11th. At that same school is where I first met him and also where he taught science. I never had him as a teacher, but he became an unofficial assistant cross country coach, at least in my eyes. Mostly I remember Mike heading to the higher mountains with a small group of us during the summer in which I was training for the Pikes Peak ascent. He was busy climbing to the top of as many Colorado 14ers as he could and would eventually summit them all.

One of the first people I saw when I was about to enter the auditorium for the memorial service was my former track and cross country coach. He was also one of the speakers. I was deeply moved when he mentioned that he had heard the interview I did on KGNU with Diane Israel and Carmen Cool. He gave me a warm hug and told me that he was proud of me. Of course, this made me want to bawl. I was in tears before the memorial even started, but so were many others.

There were many stories, mostly confirming how positive Mike always was. Some stories made us laugh, most brought more tears. Susan, Mike's wife, spoke, and I wished so badly that I could take away her pain. I wished the same for his children.  It seemed everyone in the audience knew how lucky we all were to have known such a kind and generous man.

On the day I set the record at Pikes, Mike was there at the finish line. I can't figure out how he found the time to support so many people from all walks of life, but he was continually there for students, athletes, his peers, his colleagues, friends, family and anyone else who needed. The last few miles of the race were tough for me. At one point with at least 10 more minutes to go, I could no longer feel my lower body. Even my arms were tired, but through sheer willpower, I forced myself across the finish line where I promptly collapsed. Before I hit the ground, I felt someone at my side, his arm around my waist holding me upright. Someone else rushed to my other side. Mike and Fairview's head track coach at the time, Terry Altenborg, helped me get to the medical tent for a dose of oxygen and a warm blanket. Looking back, I can say that's just how Mike was, always willing to help in any situation. He witnessed one of my greatest achievements in life. I will never forget that moment.

My last conversation with Mike was when I ran into him and his wife at the store. The three of us were discussing a mutual friend who had been struggling badly with an eating disorder. In his usual form, he was trying to figure out ways in witch to help. Once again, he was always ready to offer guidance, encouragement, love and support.

When a person like Mike steps off the planet, it's impossible to not feel a terrible sense of loss. You want the world to stop spinning for a moment and for everyone to acknowledge his absence. You want to fill the emptiness and stop the pain, but more than anything, you just want him back. The world doesn't have enough genuinely good people, so losing someone as kind as Mike hits hard.

In moving forward, I know that everyone Mike taught, mentored, inspired and loved will carry his memory forever in his or her heart. There hasn't been a day since I got the news that I haven't thought about him. I can only hope to use him as a role model and aim to do good in the world.

Mike, on the left, was always willing to offer a hand.

Because it's one of the few things that offers me any comfort in times of great sorrow and loss, I will share Carl Sagan's quote, a dedication to his wife when she passed away:

“In the vastness of space and the immensity of time, it is my joy to share a planet and an epoch with Annie."

TOE3- Interview with Kevin Beck

Interview with Kevin Beck:

TOE 3 - Interview with Kevin Beck by Lizefb on Mixcloud

For more information about Kevin, please visit his website at www.kemibe.com

Kevin Beck

TOE 2 - A Brief History

Lize talks about her past and how she developed anorexia and then overcame it.

TOE 2 - A Brief History by Lizefb on Mixcloud

For more information about Carolyn Rothstein, please visit her website at:
http://www.carolinerothstein.com/


For more information about Diane Israel, please visit her website at:
www.beautymarkmovie.com

TMI

There's a fine line between sharing and sharing too much. One thing I am in the process of learning is that there are safe places to share intimate details and not so safe places. This applies to people as well. A problem arises when you think you are sharing in a safe setting, and it turns out not to be. This happens both online and in real life.

A good example is sharing in a group or forum online. In general, a forum with guidelines that specifically promote ideas about recovery from an eating disorder usually ends up being a safe setting, but that's not always the case. I recently left a group that had all kinds of declarations about stopping pro-ana sentiment, yet every chance the moderator got, he posted triggering content. When other group members called him out on it, his response was something along the lines of, "Get a tougher skin."

What concerns me more is sharing with someone you feel you can trust and finding out later that you shouldn't have opened yourself up for potential wounding. I guess the lesson here is once bitten, twice shy. In other words, find out quickly who has your back, and if someone uses something you shared in confidence against you, avoid giving that person intimate details again. Same thing when someone can't be honest with you. While I generally forgive pretty easily, I'm careful about trusting.

That said, when you find people you can trust, keep them close.

I haven't been writing lately, and it shows. Sometimes when there's a lot going on in life, I isolate and focus more on distractions.

In the last few weeks, I have been working on creating a radio show/podcast that addresses eating disorders, recovery, body image, athletics, health and women's issues. The shows will air locally on Sunday nights from 6:30 - 8 p.m. MST. I've done two test shows, one on Bulimia posted just before this post, and one my own history, just a quick rehash of where I have been and where I'm headed. When I did that one, it was unplanned and very unstructured.

I still can't quite put my finger on all the reasons why, but I felt funny after we wrapped things up with the second recording. It felt like a lot of me, me, me. Maybe I shared too much. My co-host was very kind and assured me that it was not unlike what goes on during AA meetings, where people share their story in an effort to inspire others. Still, sometimes it's hard to know where the line of too much and not enough is when it comes to spilling your guts. Hopefully I will find a happy medium. Mostly, though, these recordings are going to be about other people and recovery in general.

I've got a few interviews lined up, but if you or anyone you know has a recovery story to share, please contact me at ggirl.kglr@gmail.com

TOE - Episode 1: Recovery from Bulimia

TOE-1 by Lizefb on Mixcloud

Running and Other Things

Since I have been doing more podcasts, I have let my writing slide.

It has been forever since I even mentioned running. I basically limped my way through the last few years, but I'm finally getting to the bottom of things. Thanks to the help of some good doctors, physical therapists and friends, I can do some jogging without too much pain. Well, that's relative, but it hurts less. It doesn't feel perfect, but I'm glad I can get outside again. Of the three surgeries I am a good candidate for, I'm only considering one at the moment, and that's only if other measures don't work. I've ruled out a hysterectomy, hip surgery and am putting off minor foot surgery for now. I feel good about my decisions, mostly because I think surgery isn't something to rush into, even if doctors "strongly suggest" getting it done as soon as possible, at least not with these kinds of things. Going for a third opinion for my hip issue made things much more clear in my mind, so I'm glad I didn't jump onto the cutting board.

On an unrelated note...

Sometimes when life gets weird, it's hard to know how to address certain issues, if at all. My tendency is to want to ignore others when they act in unscrupulous ways, but sometimes ignoring incidents leaves me with the sense that justice isn't being served. If I try to write out one particular situation, the whole thing seems trivial and downright silly, very junior high, but because it involves someone who appears to be unstable or at least incredibly inconsistent, it leaves me slightly on edge. I won't go into detail and apologize for being vague, but I don't want to give this series of events much attention or energy. It's not worth it. Sometimes when a person has a history of lying, manipulating and meddling, even in the lives of people she or he barely knows, it's best to shut that door hard and quickly back away. Give someone enough rope...well, you know the rest.

It's odd that just after someone in my life came to me about an issue going on with his online stalker, a different friend of mine was accused by a recent ex of doing things he never did. The former situation is the silly one that nobody really cares about, except that it's slightly annoying when you know the truth behind certain events and see someone determined to try to convince others that something far from real is going on, but in the latter situation, my friend has been forced to give up a lot because of one person's false accusations. I remember another incident that happened a few years ago. In a fit of anger and rage, one of my friend's ex girlfriends egged his house and keyed his car. I'm not sure what this accomplished. She claimed she still loved him at the time.

One of the worst stories I know about relating to sheer spite happened years ago to a lady I know. Her abusive ex almost cost her a job, her license, her reputation and a lot of money when he tried to convince the people she worked for that she had done things she never did. Fortunately, nobody believed him and knew he had pulled stunts like this in the past. My friend found a lawyer to represent her. It's good to have friends or family members who are lawyers. I sat in on the trial, and the ex showed his true colors by interrupting the judge more than a few times to blurt out defamatory and irrelevant comments. The judge was not impressed and quickly put him in his place. My friend was fine in the end, but people like her ex are scary.

While I understand hurt, anger and regret, I don't get the desire for revenge or public shaming, especially if it's aimed at someone who tried to help you or you were supposedly in love with. The exception is when revenge simply means doing as well as you can in life, the "success is the best revenge" type thing. That I get, except if you try to rub people's nose in it, which isn't nice. In general, I can't quite figure out why people waste so much time plotting, stalking and spending time and energy on "getting back" at someone for simple rejection.

I have found that the best approach with people who thrive on spreading lies, poking the bees and flinging crap is to take the high road and keep coming back to yourself. As much as you can, ignore anyone who is dead set on filling the world with toxicity. Take steps to protect yourself, especially if the person lives near you. Mostly, remind yourself that you know who you are, and your friends and family know what kind of person you are. Anyone who is spending loads of time indirectly or directly ripping on you in public or in private isn't worth your time. That's gotta be a sad, sad life to lead, full of resentment, anger and hate. 

As for my friend who was recently forced to give up his charity work because of one woman's lies, he has all the support he needs to deal with this unhinged individual and the awful situation she created. I'm sure he will get through this just fine no matter what his ex does next, but it's unfair that people who are in the wrong and know it often temporarily come out on top. My feeling is that the truth will eventually surface, and even if it doesn't in any satisfactory way, he will be able to move forward without any trouble. Honesty goes a long way. If you contradict yourself every time you open your mouth or put words out in the world, nobody will be able to trust you. 

My last piece of advice is stating the obvious, but be careful when meeting people online. 

May 23 2015 published actual date.

Book of Short Stories

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Update

It looks like I have let this blog go. I'm hoping to breathe some new energy into it at some point soon. Much of my free time is being used to work on existing projects and start new ones. If all goes well, I will be adding an audio portion to this blog, but this is an idea that's still in the works.

One of the other projects I was working on recently has come to a close. It's called the Luscious Legacy Project, run by Sue Ann Gleason, founder of the blog Chocolate for Breakfast, whom I have mentioned before. It was good for me to take part in this event, and I was very happy to be involved with a supportive and kind group. I went into the program expecting to work on my writing skills. While that did occur, most of us also uncovered a lot of emotions and memories through the process. While at times it was challenging, it also ended up being a healing and enjoyable experience. I am happy to report that this was one of the best things I could have done for myself, and it's a lot cheaper than therapy!

In the last few months, I was hit pretty hard with a bout of depression. When I get like this, I tend to sit back and think, maybe a little too deeply, about the ways of the world. The darkness seems to be lifting. Lately, though, I'm in shock at how cruel, messed up and strange people can be. This is especially true when it comes to how people behave online. It seems the more we remove the human element, the more people feel justified in the horrible things they do and say. More and more, I feel the need to step away from the computer screen, just to get a dose of normalcy. Of course people are not always nice in real life, and, as I pointed out above, people can be full of kindness online too. Still, I find comfort in dealing with people face to face. It's upsetting and very strange to me how some people thrive on callous and underhanded online behavior: stalking, starting rumors, writing cruel comments, calling people names and more. Don't they have better things to do?

A friend of mine and I got to talking about a recent incident involving a chocolate shop that quickly presented a personal matter online in a blog post that was not exactly fact checked. In the post, the author called out another company, claiming this big corporation was trying to step on the little one when, in fact, the big company was merely following standard procedure in protecting its business.

I admit that I was looking at the situation from an emotional standpoint. I also assumed that the little company may have misinterpreted and misrepresented what the larger company was doing, because it didn't make sense to me that this larger company would suddenly threaten and lash out at a shop that carries its chocolate. Anyone not following the story closely was bound to jump to some inaccurate conclusions and immediately take the side of the small company. It was all right there in an open letter, after all. This did not sit well with me. I knew there was more to the story.

My friend looked at the situation as something businesses simply do. It's a shady but effective way to get attention and support, because nobody will pay much attention to any retraction or corrections down the road. This is exactly what happened. A retraction was was presented in a blog post the very next day. "Oopsie, I made a mistake!" People will focus on and remember the first claim, even if it's proven wrong later. So a big buzz was created, and nobody really responded to the correction and admission of the oops moment. Success.

The unfortunate thing is that many people responded with a lot of hatred toward the larger company the day the first open letter was posted. The owner of the big company posted a thoughtful and kind response on facebook, explaining what was really going on, but this didn't stop people. Most of the comments on the facebook post were atrocious, even though it was clear that the small shop owner had misrepresented what was happening. People should be ashamed, but they aren't. Any how many of them do you think apologized after the correction? I can't imagine how messed up the people who toss out such hurtful and cruel comments must be. I don't even want to know.

My choice is to support the larger company by continuing to buy their products as I always have. I had already stopped  being a customer of the smaller one for various reasons, but I really hate to see this kind of thing happen.

On to better things.

Stay tuned for upcoming posts. If all goes well, I will be presenting some audio segments that deal with eating disorders, recovery, women's issues, running and training in the next few weeks.

National Eating Disorder Awareness Week

Monday, Feb 23rd, I will be on KGNU interviewing Diane Israel and Carmen Cool to help promote Eating Disorder Awareness Week. The interview is at 3 p.m. MST. 

National Eating Disorder Awareness Week is the 22nd to the 28th of Februrary. Please note that my book, Training on Empty, is always available for free now. Readers can set their own price at the link below.

I have also posted a link to NEDA for anyone who needs more information about eating disorders and how to get help.

Please help spread the word that eating disorders are not ego based. The illness is complicated with many contributing factors leading to the disordered behaviors. If you know anyone struggling, encourage him or her to get help.

Training on Empty:   https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/243502

NEDA:  http://nedawareness.org/

The recorded interview can be heard by clicking on this link: Eating Disorder Awareness Week.

Writing Project

“A table!” my mother would yell from the front door. Her voice with the perfect Parisian accent carried to us no matter whose yard we were playing in, and everyone knew that it was time for my sister and me to go eat dinner. Torn between wanting to stay and play with our friends or leaving to go home for a home-cooked meal, Annie and I would hesitate before scampering home to the dinner table.

Meals were rarely anything fancy, unless my parents were entertaining, in which case out came Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking, and either my mom or my dad would fearlessly dive into the complicated recipe book. My mom never worried about simplifying things, whereas my dad, a theoretical physicist, had a way of making the complicated even more so. I fell somewhere between the two, a little bit messy as a chef but elegant and clean in the final presentation.

My dad’s version of everything was over the top and sloppy. He cooked army-style, in big pots with enough servings to feed an entire continent. The one Christmas he made a stollen, it was so long it didn’t fit on the table! My mom, on the other hand, cooked less extravagantly, but I’m convinced there was magic in her meals. Even her easy-to-make vinaigrette tasted like the best salad dressing ever made. Her recipe? Oil, vinegar, garlic and salt. When she showed me exactly how she made this delicious dressing, mine did not came out as good as hers. No, it had to be magic she put in there.

Everything she made was like that -- simple yet delectable. Her french fries were nothing but cut potatoes cooked in hot oil with a little bit of salt sprinkled on top, but I could never replicate the perfect texture: crispy on the outside but moist on the inside. I liked mine with large amounts of catsup.

When a birthday would roll around, my mom cooked whatever the birthday child wanted, usually shrimp tempura with rice. Sometimes she would make a birthday cake too. At other times, one of us would request a chocolate torte or some other kind of store-bought creation. On one special occasion, she made a coffee-flavored tiger cake for me. She cut pieces of the cooked cake and rearranged them to look like a tiger before frosting it in all the right colors, stripes and all.

Because my mother was born in France, my siblings and I were introduced to unusual foods at a very young age. I never found it odd that I liked the taste of Brie while my friends preferred packaged American singles. Little did I know that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Years later, I would stick my nose into some potent Pont L’eveque while traveling in France, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I became a chocolate snob early. How could I not when my grandmother, who still lived in France, sent extraordinary chocolates every holiday season?

Despite our early introduction to gourmet and imported foods, we all still loved whatever was being served at our friends’ houses. Oddly enough, my sister and I were guilty of buying these obnoxious green frosted cakes made to look like frogs available at our local supermarket’s bakery. The overly sweet, bright-green frosting sat atop a small round of chocolate cake. It was piled high into a pyramid with white and black frosting piped on for the eyes and a red gel for its tongue. This was about as far from gourmet as one could get.

Another strange thing was that my mother actually didn’t like to cook. She often cooked hamburgers, pizza or stuffed peppers, because these dishes were easy to make and didn’t require a lot of time in the kitchen. Years later, my mother would write and illustrate a funny cartoon book called Divorcing the Kitchen, a tale of kitchen woes.

Part of the reason my mother didn’t like cooking was that it brought up bad memories of her childhood. Her father, whom I never met, was a perfectionist, especially in the kitchen. If every green bean wasn’t perfectly prepared and arranged, the entire pot would end up on the floor. You see, my grandfather had also been in a factory accident that left him partially deaf and possibly with other problems related to brain trauma.

The worst part about all of this was that my grandfather became an increasingly violent man and took his frustration and anger out on my mom and my grandmother, brutalizing them both to the point where he nearly beat them to death. In fact, as an infant and youngster, my mother often stayed with my great-grandmother, because everyone was afraid her father would kill her when she cried. It was there that she enjoyed life in the country, eating cottage cheese in cabbage leaves and hearty breads, breathing in the fresh air, and helping my great-grandmother wash clothing in the river.

Eventually, when my mother was older and back living in Paris, she and my grandmother devised a plan to escape my grandfather that involved a good friend of my mother’s offering an extra bag of rationed potatoes to him in an effort to get him away from their home. This way, my mom and grandmother could quickly pack their belongings and flee while he was off getting the much-needed food. This was all right before World War II. Needless to say, my mom’s life was not easy. She went hungry a lot during the war and even ate an occasional raw egg when her hunger overcame her, but she is a survivor. To see one of her children struggle to eat due to an eating disorder later in life was perplexing, frustrating and heartbreaking for her.

My mother was resolute about not inflicting her traumatic past on her own children. As a result, we all grew up with many wonderful food-related memories, none of which ended up with food angrily thrown on the floor.

One of my favorite food-related memories is of my sister and me waiting with our plates held out as my mom made crepe. She would flip one onto my plate, and I would first sprinkle it with sugar and then fold it into a triangle. My sister would do the same when she got hers, and we would continue eating until the batter was gone. When we were finished, my mom would make a second batch to be used for making blintzes. Those were filled with a ricotta filling and served at breakfast with either blueberry compote or maple syrup.

On holidays, my mom became terribly stressed out, but everything always ended up just fine. Our entire family would sit down to dinner, and we are a talkative, opinionated, headstrong bunch. My older half-brothers would arrive early. My dad would start drinking early, and by the dessert round, which for us was often the main event, everyone would be comfortably full and relieved that any previous tension had dissipated, at least to some extent and for a little while.

My mom and I are still creating memories. We sample cheeses and chocolates together, eat an occasional lunch together and discuss modern cuisine, GMOs and the environment. As she approaches her 90th birthday, I know my search for the perfect birthday gift will likely include something imported from France. Maybe this year it will be some Poilane bread, pain d’epices or pate des fruits.

Missing the Point

Writer's block has struck hard. In an effort to break on through to the creative side, I'm going to spit a bunch of letters onto the computer screen, stream of consciousness style, sort of.

The other day I read an article about ultra runners and eating disorders. I don't remember who the author is, but in the piece, there were quite a few quotes from people I greatly admire. As always, Diane Israel had some worthwhile things to say. Diane has a way of conveying to others the main issues that contribute to eating disorders and compulsive behaviors in a way that nobody else can. It might be, in part, because she struggled with anorexia herself, or it could be that she understand more thoroughly than most what leads to disordered eating and compulsive exercise. In any case, she did a great job of describing why some people and athletes in particular can easily fall into a pattern of unhealthy eating.

I was surprised that one of the other ladies quoted in this article mentioned something about not winning a medal for being thin but winning them for being the best. The idea is that if you want to win, your goal can't be to be the thinnest, which makes sense. There are a few problems I have with statements like this, though. This one rubs me the wrong way just like statements about how people should realize that being anorexic thin isn't attractive to potential partners does.

In talking about winning medals, not everyone is destined to be number one, and it's a sad state of affairs if that's the main goal in running. Of course, this overly simplistic approach to dealing with potentially life-threatening and complex illnesses makes it seem like getting over an eating disorder comes down to a quick choice. Either I continue starving, or I go out and win races. Either I continue throwing up, or I get dressed up all fancy and find a date. It's not that simple. In fact, I would guess that at least some people fall more deeply into the illness when they realize that they are not going to win any medals or can no longer win them.

I'm sure that kind of statement isn't meant to come off as discounting those who suffer, but, when it comes to eating disorders and addiction, I think words should be chosen wisely. Just like I would never assume that telling an alcoholic he can only find success in a job if he stops drinking would actually help him recover, I doubt that telling someone with an eating disorder that dropping the unhealthy behaviors is the way to win medals will accomplish much. The issues are just too deep for that, and I'm pretty sure that anyone in the throes of the disorder is aware that unhealthy behaviors take their toll, emotionally, physically and even spiritually.

Besides, there's no guarantee that giving up the illness will lead to winning medals or success. What are the chances? What if that's not your true calling or passion and is just a symptom of the illness? I get the point, but telling that to a group that tends to err on the side of perfectionism probably isn't the best idea. When medals are lost, can you still love yourself and remember who you are, running aside? The focus in recovery should be more on inner peace than medals, job success or outer appearance. Sure, cute sayings like that are the norm, but I fail to see how they help.

Rant over.

In other news, I've decided to let my hair go gray. When I look around, I see how unnatural dyed hair looks on older people, especially when it's combined with other attempts to look younger, like using fillers, getting plastic surgery and applying excessive makeup, all of which apparently lead to having a strong urge to post a million playful selfies on facebook. I also realized how much I admire and like the look of natural hair on those who accept the aging process. A few people have said I'm brave to do it, like it takes some balls to not buy into the beauty standards other people set, but I don't see it that way. In addition to being lazy, it came down to a few simple reasons:

1. I was tired of looking at the environmental impact my insecurity was causing. Plastic bottles, boxes and dyes are not good for the planet, no matter how anyone rationalizes it.

2. I'm giving less of a fuck about what people think these days. The world has become a difficult place to live in, and the more I stay away from people and their judgments, the better.

3. The dyes were ruining my hair. Call me crazy, but I would rather have gray hair that no hair.

4. I don't have to worry about my roots showing, and I don't have to take all that time I was wasting to cover them anymore. It's a fucking relief. Now I can waste time doing or not doing other things.

Of course, I'm in that awkward in-between stage right now, so it's not as easy as it sounds to be 100 percent OK with this change. And I look older, which is hard to face. On the other hand, I think I will be happy once my hair has grown out a bit.

In still other news, the weather sucks elephant balls, my birthday is creeping closer and I am getting a third opinion about hip surgery in May. No, I haven't really been running much, but I am working with some of the best people in Boulder. They may not be able to fix me with PT, but they are doing some amazing things and incredibly kind and understanding.

Maybe now I can get back into blogging about cheese, something that usually brings me happiness but has been a struggle lately.

Writing exercise over.

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Expecting the Worst

Recently, I read an article about the seven habits of chronically unhappy people. Most of these kinds of articles tend to be written for middle to upper-class white citizens living in the United States, but there were some very good points in this particular article. It definitely generated quite a stir with hundreds of people commenting on it.

A lot of the advice given on how to address these unhealthy habits was common sense, but simply pointing out the habits was enough to get me thinking. The article clearly stated that most people go from being happy to unhappy fairly regularly, and that's normal. Unfortunately, some people live in a constant state of worry and unrest. Many of the people commenting missed the part about some ups and downs being fine as long as you can figure out ways to avoid getting sucked under. What was more important to me was addressing the thinking around the habits and how important it is to be aware of why some of us tend to slip into these unhealthy habits in the first place. If nothing more, it's always good to take a look at our core beliefs and how they affect us.

On a side note, I can't stand the word victim. When people talk about playing the victim, it implies that pain and hurt are not real, and feelings are being denied. Yes, there are people who do see themselves as the victim, but it's important to consider why that happens. It seems victim is a word that's overused, misunderstood and misused.

A lady once told me that every woman, even those living in third-world countries, should stop playing the victim, because everyone has the ability to change his or her circumstances. She went on to claim that she hated feminists. Sure circumstances can change, but I have a feeling she would be singing a slightly different tune if she had no money, no transportation, no way of attending school and no support from her family or the community. It's weird how we become so complacent in this country but expect others to just change, buck the system and go against fixed and ingrained laws that are punishable by death or, at minimum, a dose of burning acid to the face.

What I'm finding more and more, whether it's people discussing feminism, Ferguson or heath care, is that the human element seems to be missing. We get so caught up talking in abstract terms, we forget there are real people involved in the issues. I am sure the internet has a lot to do with this. Human connection seems to be slipping away, even as we electronically network with more and more individuals.

I'm jumping around a bit, but hang with me here.

The other day, I got into a facebook debate. It had to do with a video in which a woman walked down the streets of New York receiving catcalls over many hours of filming. One person in the debate believes that it's the responsibility of the person receiving the mostly negative, sometimes threatening attention to suck it up and not be affected. Words are, after all, merely sounds that can't actually hurt anyone. As you can imagine, I am not of this opinion. It ended up being quite the debate.

What bothered me most about the whole thing was the bullshit Boulder spiritual woo this guy spouted. I think he was trying to sound smart, because he kept insisting that everyone was stupid while he demonstrated that he had no real understanding of anything science related. Go for the low blow when you have nothing of substance to say, I guess. It's upsetting that people like this are in a position to act as mentors to others. Apparently, he works as a life coach.

I'm all for positive thinking, but people here take it to an absurd level. There's a lot of talk about manifesting and "no negative energy in my sacred space" while the very people who spout these beliefs inflict their judgment and negativity on others. Hey, as long as you're happy, it's all good, right? Yeah, yoga-apparel-wearing, snotty lady, when you glare at me for simply walking by, snub me when I smile and say hello or make nasty comments about my appearance, you're not exactly being positive or nice. In fact, you're being pretty awful. Same goes when you call me stupid, oh so spiritual guy.

My concern is that people buy this shit. If you present anything in a pretty enough package and toss out enough new age rhetoric, people seem gullible enough to believe it. I have a friend who's smart, together and grounded, yet she goes to these charlatans who talk about quantum physics, even though they have no science background. They tell her that if she used the power of her mind, she really could put her hand through a wall, because, you know, there's so much space between atoms. That sounds really exciting, but it's just not accurate. Maybe if electrons sat still and all forces between atoms were eliminated, you could walk through a wall, but the world as we know it would also probably fall apart. But people take a teeny bit of truth and skew it in order to control others...and get money, of course. And people lap this shit up. It's sad. I'm sure some of the people who preach believe what they are saying, but my guess is the majority of them know more about the right terms to use to get people to cough up some dough.

In terms of being happy, finding the perfect pill, the next big self-help breakthrough or the best fad diet probably won't make you happy. If we constantly search for happiness outside ourselves, in a partner or shopping sprees, we probably won't find it. Things may seem different on the surface, but ultimately happiness comes from within.

But I'm not so sure we have to constantly assess our state of being in order to be happy. Sometimes I think it's better to be living and feeling than to be happy. Sometimes choices that are right don't lead to happiness at all. Sometimes achieving great things doesn't lead to happiness, and that's OK. I think we would all be better off if we focused more on how to be a part of the world and dropped the Hollywood idea that we have to be happy. Life isn't always fun. My goal in life is to be a better person, not to always have a smile on my face.

Short Story

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Here is an excerpt from one of the stories, Missing the Big Lebowski.

His roommates called him crazy. They didn’t understand why Brent ran long distances. Even his fellow runner friends didn’t understand why he was drawn to ultramarathons -- races exceeding 26.2 miles and typically held over challenging off-road terrain. To them, it was a sport only people who weren’t right in the head did, but Brent felt driven to run. He wasn’t crazy.

Unlike some professional athletes -- Brent had won the prestigious Alamosa 50-Miler three years in a row, twice setting a course record -- he found balance in his life. He was on his way to a master’s degree in physical therapy, worked part-time at the Boulder Bookstore and raced ultras well enough to be sponsored by Pearl Izumi along with a number of nutritional-supplement companies. He had his shit together, even if he occasionally slid toward the extreme side of things -- an occupational hazard for an ultra type.

With his curly blond hair, his enchanting, almost otherworldly light-blue eyes, and a body that had not a trace of fat yet wasn’t runner-emaciated, Brent had undeniably great looks to complement his sharp wit and compassionate nature. Nevertheless, he didn’t have a girlfriend. He occasionally went on dates, but he was more interested in achieving his athletic goals than in committing to a relationship. A lack of time and a fear of being restricted kept Brent perpetually single, and while his friends urged him to try online dating or otherwise meet someone new, or explore his options with the ladies he’d already met, he never thought it strange that he had no desire to be overly involved with someone of the opposite sex. Even though Brent was very open-minded and had once come close to having a drunken sexual experience with a guy in his Tuesday night running group, he never questioned his sexuality and wasn’t interested in a relationship with a man either.

Brent put his energies into running, work and school. He was no hermit, though, and enjoyed going out for a few beers with his friends now and then. He also wasn’t completely uninterested in sex, but he rarely brought anyone home with him. When he did, it was usually his friend Tracy, who understood that a relationship with him wasn’t in the cards. She was just as busy as Brent with her job as the vice president of operations at the local animal shelter, her volunteer position at Every Pet Veterinary Clinic and training for triathlons. Tracy appreciated whatever time she and Brent could spend together. When she occasionally had twinges of desire for something more, she reminded herself that a more substantial bond wasn’t possible. Brent was in the same boat with his feelings. He liked Tracy, but generally ignored entertaining any thoughts of a committed relationship.

On most Saturday mornings, Brent liked to get up early and head to the high country, where he would spend hours running on the mountain trails. He would fill his hand-held water bottle with a mixture of CarboPro and water, and pack a cooler with energy bars, apples, juice, extra water and pretzels. His two roommates, Greg and Travis, were usually asleep when he left, often crashed out in the living room where they spent many hours smoking, drinking and slipping into deep conversations. Those two liked to party, but they did so in a level-headed way, never letting their fun interfere with school or work. Greg was an undergrad studying English literature and Travis was in graduate school studying applied math. It didn’t bother Brent that the house usually reeked of pot. Greg and Travis respected their roommate and made sure to keep the windows open, so the smoke didn’t waft his way, even if the smell of herb lingered.

This Saturday was a little different, because Brent had stayed out late the night before, drinking a few beers with friends after dinner at Perry’s Bar on the mall downtown. He didn’t fret about getting up late and enjoyed a rare leisurely breakfast of pancakes instead of his usual quick power breakfast of yogurt, fruit and toast.

While Brent ate, he thought about where he would do his long run. The higher mountains seemed like a good option since he had the day off from work.

Springtime meant unpredictable weather, especially in the high country where electrical storms could appear out of nowhere, but the forecast showed a string of warm, mild days and clear nights for the next three days. It was unlikely that an unexpected disturbance would roll through the area. There would be snow on the ground up high, but that wasn’t a deterrent for a mountain runner like Brent. He was used to running in all conditions and didn’t mind being active in cooler temperatures.  

Two years earlier, Brent was training in the mountains one afternoon with Maddie, the third-place woman in the Leadville 100 in 2001, and Josh, one of Brent’s occasional training partners. The trio made it to Rogers Pass in the Indian Peaks Wilderness Area just as some dark clouds were sneaking over the top of the mountain. The small group didn't linger at the highest point along the route, doing a quick about-face once they reached the halfway point of their run. Brent usually liked to take his descents nice and easy, a slow jog down the trail to recover from the tough ascent, but on this day all three runners knew they were racing the approaching storm. Brent noticed their pace quicken as thunder rumbled in the distance and the sky went from piercing blue to black.

Nobody said anything after Josh mentioned that they needed to hurry down. As they departed the apex of their journey, they turned their attention to their footing on the rocky trail. Josh led the way and Maddie followed, with Brent bringing up the rear. Just as the timberline came into view, the first big clap of thunder sounded right near them. Brent jumped and instinctively flinched, ducking his head as if that would do anything against the wild elements of nature. As soon as he had regained his composure, he continued running, keeping Maddie and Josh in sight.

Shortly after the three of them reached the nominal safety of the trees, lightning burst in the sky, seeming to surround them in a violent flash. Brent felt goosebumps erupt over his skin. He admitted later that he had been scared. They continued their mad dash down the mountain as the angry sky unleashed all its fury, first dumping buckets of water, then releasing pellets of hail. The lightning and thunder continued until the threesome finally reached the parking lot, wet and cold but safe from the storm.

Brent dove into the car after Josh and Maddie and immediately turned on the heater, which seemed an odd thing to do in the middle of July. It was still dark all around. Brent and his running buddies let out some nervous laughter and talked about how crazy their experience had been. This would stick in Brent’s mind as one of his most memorable runs.

The short drive to Boulder brought them through the darkness and back into sunny weather. Brent, who hadn’t grown up in the mountains, was amazed at how quickly the weather could change at high altitude. He was always prepared, though, and would never think of testing fate by heading into a storm or running alone in unfamiliar territory.

Brent’s plan was to head North to Lyons and then up to Longs Peak. He figured he would run up from the Longs Peak Trailhead and head toward Chasm Lake. In the summer, when the trails were clear, he could head up the back side from the YMCA campground for a longer run. From the Ranger Station, it wouldn’t be too long of a journey for an ultra guy -- about nine miles round trip if he made it that far -- but with the snowpack on the trails, the incline and the altitude, it would be a solid workout. He could usually complete the run in less than two hours. If he felt up to it, he could wander down from the lake and up toward the peak if conditions allowed and he felt up to it. If he stopped on his way back to Boulder for a bite to eat at his favorite little Nepalese restaurant in Lyons, he could make it back home before 8 p.m, in time to shower and get ready to meet his buddies. Greg had mentioned that he and a few friends from school were going to see the cult classic, The Big Lebowski, which was playing at the Boulder Theater at 9 p.m. Brent had said that he would be there, barring any unforeseen delays.

Brent wasn’t worried about doing his run alone. He had made this trip countless times before, though only a few times this late in the day. Still, he looked forward to getting his body moving, whether it was a morning, afternoon or an occasional night run. As an ultrarunner, he rarely did double daily workouts and amassed the bulk of his weekly mileage in two long runs each weekend.

At 11:45 a.m., Brent changed into running shorts and a T-shirt and shoved a wind jacket, hat, gloves, a long-sleeved T-shirt, running pants, flip-flops and one extra pair of running shoes into a backpack. He slipped into his running shoes and tied the laces loosely, grabbed the backpack and scribbled a note to his roommates that read: Went for a mountain run. See you tonight. B.

After taking a moment to mentally review a short checklist of items he might need for the day, Brent tossed his cooler full of food and drink and his backpack full of clothing onto the back seat of his dark gray Honda Civic and headed out, stopping at Vic’s for a cup of coffee to go and then continuing north on Broadway until he reached the edge of town.

The drive was easy, a straight jaunt to Lyons and then west to Rocky Mountain National Park.   There were few cars on the road once Brent left Boulder. During the summer, the road to Lyons would be busy with tourists driving up to Estes Park and locals getting in their long weekend bike rides.

“Shit,” Brent said out loud. He realized that he had forgotten his cell phone. He sighed and assured himself he probably wouldn’t need it. It was something that he preferred having on him, especially when running solo in the mountains, but it wasn’t a necessity. Brent smiled as the pavement spooled away beneath him, reflecting on how people had gotten along just fine without cell phones in the past. He was all too aware of how addicted to electronics everyone was these days. Sometimes he took a break and completely unplugged, but having a cell phone on a solo run was a safety precaution, not a luxury or an obsession, a precaution he would have to do without on this day.  

As he neared the fourteener -- a colloquialism for any of Colorado’s remarkable fifty-three peaks rising more than 14,000 feet above sea level -- he could see large patches of snow scattered on the mountain itself as well as on the expanses of land leading up to the peak. The snowfields near the very top of Longs would shrink as they melted but linger even through the summer.

The Ranger Station parking lot was almost empty when Brent arrived about an hour after he left Boulder. Taking in the spectacular scenery, he mused that the house he shared with Greg and Travis on 12th Street, while not even half an afternoon’s drive away, might as well have been in Newark or Beverly Hills or in a Bangkok slum; so compelling were the vistas here that they effectively reduced practically all others to the same degree of mundanity.

A couple was attempting to herd their three small children, who seemed more interested in continuing their game of “I Spy” than in what their parents were saying, into the car. Only three other cars were in the lot. Brent assumed that the tan Jeep near the station belonged to whoever was on duty at the Ranger Station. Rangers were on duty until 5 p.m. most days. The other two vehicles probably belonged to people who were out on the trails.

It was late to be starting a run up this high, Brent admitted, but he reassured himself that he could turn back any time and put in a few extra miles the next day if he felt uncomfortable.

Easing himself out of the car, Brent noticed how stiff his body felt. He was sure this would dissipate with some light stretching and by limiting the first 10 minutes of his run to easy jogging. The air’s noticeably lower oxygen content as compared to Boulder, itself already at 5,300 feet above sea level, seemed to make any aches and pains more noticeable.

The cool, crisp air struck Brent and made him feel more awake. It wasn’t cold enough to cause condensation, but just because he couldn’t see his breath didn’t mean that it was warm. He guessed that it was about 45 degrees. It would be noticeably colder the higher he climbed, and Brent was aiming for an elevation gain of over 2,000 feet. The sky was extraordinarily blue and clear, not a cloud in sight. He dug into his backpack and pulled out his long-sleeved T-shirt to wrap around his waist and slipped on his hat and gloves. His legs would be fine in shorts once he got moving. He untied and tightened his laces, making sure they didn’t bind his feet as he retied them.

Brent put his car key in the pocket of his shorts and walked over to the bathroom of the Ranger Station to relieve himself. It was nice to be able to use a real bathroom before a run, though he had no problem finding places to go in nature. After walking back to the car, he took a few sips of water from the extra water container in the cooler, grabbed his hand-held water bottle, stretched and jogged to the trailhead. Brent knew the trail well, but he took a moment to look at the map at the trailhead out of habit. With a push of the start button on his stopwatch, he started his journey up the well-groomed path.

Short sections of the lower trail were damp, almost mushy, but Brent was agile on his feet, darting left and right as needed to avoid stepping in any puddles or running water from the melting snow rolling down the path. The trees cast shadows on the trail. He noticed a young couple on their way back to the parking lot, both wearing backpacks and casual hiking attire. The woman, a pretty blonde, was leading the way, laughing and occasionally stopping to wait for her partner to catch up. It looked like they were having fun, and Brent felt a twinge of loneliness, wishing he had invited Tracy to run with him. She was tough and held her own in triathlons, even though she wasn't quite at Brent’s speed when it came to running. Still, she was good company on an easy run.

Before long, the trail dried out for stretches at a time. The higher he climbed, though, the shorter the stretches of dirt got. As he approached 10,000 feet, the trail became solid snowpack.

Despite the snow on the ground, the weather was mild enough so that Brent kept his long-sleeved T-shirt around his waist. His pace was comfortable but steady. It was early in the season, and he had plenty of time to get fit for a summer of racing. This run was just a step in the process of altitude acclimation. By the end of July, he hoped to be used to the altitude and would be running up some of the highest mountains in the state.

About a mile before the junction of the Chasm Lake Trail and the Longs Peak Trail, Brent saw what he assumed were the last two people on the trails that day, two older gentlemen dressed in hiking boots, cargo pants, and heavy jackets and both using walking poles. Moving to the side of the trail as Brent approached, they smiled and nodded. One of them, though jovial, threw out some words of caution, something about how Brent should be heading down the mountain, not up, at this time of day. Brent returned the smile and gave a quick nod and responded with a short, “Yup, I’ll be quick about it!” acknowledging the advisory.

Brent continued toward the lake. All was quiet around him; the only sound he could hear was that of his own breathing. While it wasn’t quite the runner’s high that people talk about, he was certainly in the zone, unaware of time and experiencing life in the moment, not thinking about anything but his surroundings and how his body was moving in his environment.  

Running, especially hill running, was all about rhythm. Brent took shorter, quicker strides on the ascents. Spectators watching him race in hill climbs often compared him to a deer or a mountain goat. His stride, while short, was still graceful, and he often surprised his competitors with his quick turnover on the hills, pulling away early and stretching his lead throughout the race. He had no fear when it came to leading a race. He didn’t mind pushing the pace and being a target for other runners who tried -- and usually failed -- to match his pace. There was no doubt that Brent was an extraordinary runner, and he loved it. He truly loved to run.

Having found his stride, Brent began to work harder, his breath quickening as he picked up the pace. He felt good. The harder he worked, the more he became internally focused. It was going to be a good workout for him. After passing the junction where the trail split but before reaching Columbine Falls, however, he encountered a large, steeply pitched snowfield. Though it looked challenging to traverse, he felt confident that he could get across it without any trouble. He glanced at his watch. He was making good time.

As he was about halfway across the wide, sharply sloping expanse of snow, one of Brent’s feet skidded toward the lower edge of the uneven trail, and he almost went down, staying upright thanks mainly to the chance flailing of his arms. The melting and hardening of the snowpack combined with an overlying layer of new snow had created some very uneven patches on the trail, and Brent -- deciding that his near-fall was a warning he’d be foolish not to heed -- resolved to slow his pace and exercise caution on this sketchy section. Being careful didn’t help when a few strides later, the snow gave way, and Brent was suddenly on his back and feeling himself tumbling down the steep snowfield, sliding and spinning helplessly until he slammed into a group of snow-covered rocks 50 feet below the trail.

For a few minutes, Brent lay still on his left side. His breathing was labored, but he didn’t know if it was because he was in shock or because he was badly injured. His entire right side was sore, and -- he saw as he pulled up his shirt on that side -- scraped and already bruising. When he got over the initial jolt, he took stock of where he hurt the most: his right ankle, hip and shoulder. He slowly rolled over onto his back, looking up into the cloudless sky. Knowing that sunset wouldn’t come for a long time comforted Brent in a small way, but he was no fool and knew the dangers of being injured alone on a mountain. As he sat up, he realized that his hat was nowhere to be found.

Attempting to stand caused tremendous pain in Brent’s ankle. He cried out, a sound that seemed to get lost in the immense mountainside. Realizing how tragic this situation could become, he became almost frantic and started yelling for help. His desperate pleas for assistance were met with silence, an overwhelming silence that made him feel immeasurably small and helpless. Suddenly the peaceful quiet he had enjoyed on his ascent seemed ominous, almost evil.

Brent knew that he had to get back to the trail. Because he was no longer running, he started to get cold. Fortunately, he still had his long-sleeved T-shirt tied around his waist, so he quickly untied it and, careful not to aggravate his already injured shoulder, slipped it on over the shirt he was wearing. Then he began to climb.

To find how how the story ends, purchase the book on Smashwords.