What? No, everything here is Fine. Just Fine.

Moments of insecurity and doubt? Wherever did you get that idea?

No. Certainly not. Everything is Just Perfectly Fine.

I have a social theory. I think we may possibly be setting our daughters up for a spot of misery. And let me tell you why…

Have you noticed how many women are described as “formidable” these days? Like… ALL of them? So many that it is now really kind of NORMAL to be this astonishing paragon of professional productivity/community activism/domestic engineer extraordinaire?

And as we formidable women form, and step into our roles as wife-mother-worker-volunteer-king-queen-boss-of-all, where are our MEN? Why, they are on the couch! Or at the bar, or the ball field, or the cabin, or wherever they can be to just stay the hell our of our way because we’ve got shit to do, dammit, and they’re really just in the way. They are fading, right out of the picture.

So I ask you, Formidable Women = Fading Men?

Well, the hell with that, I say. Going to focus some of my formidable on making THAT little dynamic different, and it starts right now…

I recently learned that sometimes, if I want someone (*cough* my husband *cough*) to do something, to participate in our lives, then I need to get the hell out of the way first.

Wow, Dear Reader, long time no type!

I’ve entered an interesting new phase in my life: graduate student. Now, I know, I’ve been here before, and that didn’t turn out so well. But this time is  different!

I have started the coursework to acquire my Masters of Library and Information Sciences, at Wayne State University. It is an all online program, and we have just completed our second week of classes.

I can effectively say I am getting my ass handed to me.

I’m not struggling conceptually (yet) (give it time), but the sheer amount of TIME required to read through all the materials is at first blush a little daunting. I have a theory, given my cursory review of the third week’s lecture materials, that they are making an effort to cull the herd while the faint of heart can still get a %100 tuition refund.

So far? I. LOVE. IT. LLLUUUUUUUVVVVV.

If you had told me 20 years ago to be a librarian, I would have grimaced involuntarily, tepidly acknowledged your suggestion, and dismissed the idea out of hand. Some things have to ripen in their own time. I am exactly where I want to be, at exactly the right time in my life. Professionally speaking.

Personally? Well, greedy Reader, that will have to wait for another episode of Injudicious Blogging propelled by Too Much Tequila.

So. Long time no type! I’ve had a drink or three. And a bad day.

As a rule, I avoid drinking. It peels away the armour I use to protect me from the slings and arrows of outrageous fate, leaves me vulnerable to any damn thing that comes down the pike.  But what the hell. Things are unlikely to get worse.

Finally, FINALLY, I have a chance to Blame My Parents! At long last, after a life-time of decidedly un-hip ill-disguised adoration of my parents, I can lay a little piece of misery right on their doorstep. I give you their song, “The Impossible Dream” from Man of La Mancha:

The Impossible Dream

“To reach the unreachable star, this is my quest, to follow that star, no matter how hopeless, no matter how far…”

I was reared on show tunes, born and raised on the belief that I was destined to find that kind of love. The crime was compounded with this, and THIS.

So what happened?

Sometimes the simple things are too much to ask, and you have one more broken romantic heart.

I started running a little over three years ago, in my late thirties. I’ve been pretty active most of my life, sort of a workout serial monogamist. Taebo, inline skating, walking the dog - I’ve remained more or less in motion, but running has led me to places I never even knew existed.

It started because I was angry. Mike and I had purchased a treadmill for our anniversary in January, because we both were at the point where it was do SOMETHING or buy all new clothes. One afternoon I went down to do my brisk three mile walk, and I was just PISSED at someone I can’t name here, and the walking, it wasn’t ENOUGH. So I ran for a bit. And thought, “Hmmm….” So the next day I ran farther, and so an obsession began.

I love to run. Maybe because the last five years of my professional life have been such an uncertain struggle, I like doing something where you get measurable results from the work you put in. And though it is not really considered a total body workout, something about running puts me in touch with every inch of my body, and I guess I really like that, seeing as we’ve been together all these years, my body and I, and we’ve got a few more to get through before I shuffle off this mortal coil.

I am a pretty crappy runner. That is not false modesty, it is really true. I am slow, and built for power, not speed. My only true athletic gift for running is pure stubbornness - I refuse to quit.

Most recently, I’ve become an enthusiastic convert to the world of triathlons. I did one last summer and vowed NEVER AGAIN, largely because my relationship with the bike ended badly. The particular bike I was using (borrowed, and worth more than my truck) did NOT NOT NOT suit me, and the pain of riding it eclipsed everything else about the tri for me. I hurt in places I could not even talk to my mother about.

So this year, I bought a bike off craigslist, just to noodle around with the kids with, and to have in case I fell on my head and decided to do another tri… And then I did! And I LOVE MY BIKE! It is a hybrid, a cross between a mountain bike and a street bike, and I could not be happier with it.

I am still really slow on the bike, and at least three people have said, “You know, if you’re going to take these triathlons seriously…” and that is where they lose me. I’m not. I am not trying to qualify for the Olympics here, folks. I just want to stay in touch with my toes, and my abs, and my calves, and… well, you get the picture.

If riding my hybrid bike means the end of my tri bling, so be it. I’ve embarked on a new obsession - and nothing about my past track record says I have to be any GOOD at it.

I snuck out for a swim at the neighborhood pool today, because I am still on the fence about doing that tri in a couple of weeks, and want to keep comfortable with the swim, just in case.

I am never sure how long I am there, when I swim. My goggles fog up about half-way through my laps, and yes, I know the trick with the spit, and it never works for the duration of my swim. I know I always wind up doing at least 2 or 3 extras because I lose count. Sound is muffled, under my swim cap.

I am almost always one of only two people in the pool, so I can only hear my own breath, feel only my own disturbances in the cool water. The late afternoon sun shines on the east half of the pool, while the west is in shadow. I feel like I could go on, endlessly, effortlessly. Just me and my breath, and the easy rhythm of my strokes, time away from time.

I’ve always loved the water - nothing makes me more serene than being in or on it. I think about where that water might have been, and when… under a barge carrying Cleopatra up the Nile? In a snowflake falling on Christmas Eve in Scotland? Rushing over Niagara Falls? In the tears of an old man in Moscow? Few things more eloquently illustrate the Oneness of All like good old H2O.

I walked yesterday, though traditionally I like to run on Thursdays, to try and give my sore, sore legs a chance to recover. It didn’t seem to help!

I ran around 7, I think, though I took off on a new route that I haven’t clocked yet, so it might be more or less. I know it took me about 64 minutes, and every aching step was a struggle. I am going to take tomorrow off for sure, and then see how things feel Sunday. Something is not right, and I’m pretty sure it is my lousy eating.