Bookworm

When I was a little girl, I devoured books. My favorite places were the local library and Waldenbooks. I liked nothing better than settling into my Dad's big (enormous at the time, given my size) recliner with a book and staying there until I was done. I remember crying my eyes out after finishing Charlotte's Web, and a few years later, The Bluest Eye. I loved reading so much that I majored in English in college. When college ended and I was faced with working rather than reading, I did the obvious thing: I went to grad school.

For the larger part of the last three years, I have been a member of the workforce. In that time, reading has become a sporadic and at times nonexistent hobby. Spending anywhere from eight to ten hours a day staring at a computer screen has come to mean that even though I want to read at night, I can't bring myself to open a book. I gravitate toward passive, mind-numbing television shows and trashy celebrity gossip magazines replete with more glossy photos than actual words. I wonder where the unadulterated joy that used to accompany my reading has gone, and how I can get it back. It would be nice if the key was a nice, cushy recliner, but it's probably not that simple. I don't think I'll give up though. I suspect this just a hiatus, albeit a longer one than I'd like.

the slowest week in history

Some weeks, I just cannot see the weekend. I woke up this morning convinced that today was Thursday, only to realize within minutes that it was only Wednesday. The time until the weekend seemed infinite. I moved slower through my morning routine, trudging over to the bathroom, then ambling back to the bureau for perfume and deodorant. Then, I struggled to attach the coffee mug top, spilling hot coffee all over my hand. This took me an extra 5-10 minutes to clean up, before I finally left the apartment. I had no spring in my step on the way to the subway, and all day I've been absent enthusiasm and energy. It's a mystery to me why some weeks pass in a flash, and others meander along aimlessly until they're finally put out of their misery by the arrival of 7 p.m. on Friday night.

It seems like it's been 2:22 pm. all day long. I may as well be Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
Tonight I am going to take the bull by the horns, put on my pj's, get into bed and pass out, thereby ending one neverending day in this endless week.

Dr. McDreamy

I have an irrational girl crush on Patrick Dempsey. This crush did not start with his turn as Grey's Anatomy's McDreamy. Rather, it began with Can't Buy Me Love, continued with With Honors, resurfaced with Sweet Home Alabama and has reached new heights of silliness with Grey's Anatomy. Pitifully, I can't seem to look away from the television on Sunday nights from 10 p.m. until 11 p.m. JB, the boyfriend, mercifully indulges my crush by being silent for that hour and letting me giggle and swoon over Mr. Dempsey.

If I were 13, I'd probably have his picture, clipped from the pages of Teen Beat, adorning the wall of my bedroom. At 27, I settle for the weekly episodes of his show, that is, until this week. Senor Dempsey has been featured on the Barbara Walters special AND they're running Sweet Home Alabama on the same network tonight. How did the 13 year old trapped in my 27 year old body ever get so lucky? More importantly, how will I simultaneously watch the movie and the American Idol results show?

I need help, lots of help. Damn it McDreamy.

Rituals

I've always liked the phrase "creatures of habit." I suspect I'm not alone in my affinity for comforting daily routines. Every morning, I leave my apartment at 8:00 a.m., taking the same route to the subway station. I then get the same free newspaper from the guy who stands in exactly the same spot Monday through Friday. I take the expess train (always, as long as it's running) to Grand Central station, where I muscle my way up the stairs, fighting passed the throngs of commuters coming into the city. I proceed to the newstand, where I drop a whole quarter on the New York Post (not being a morning person means I cannot read a New York Times caliber paper without 8-10 hours of sleep).

With two largely gossip-driven papers under my arm, I get on my train. Most days, I wind up in the same car on the train (which is mostly subconscious, human-experiment type stuff - I don't actually pay attention to where I'm going, but after a while you notice these things). I definitely make an effort to get the same seat within the train car. All the commuters seem to have their favorite seats, and we reserve the right to mumble irritably under our breath if some non-daily traveler has the nerve to get their first and swipe our seats.

After settling into my seat, I read my papers, then put my IPod headphones in my ear and crank up the volume for the walk from the train station to the office. If you've found this post boring, you're not alone. I was bored just writing it. The monotonous life of the train commuter is mind-numbing. This, of course, explains why so many of us read trashy celebrity gossip magazines or flock to the bar car/beer stand to make the whole thing more interesting.

Longing for Spring

A little madness in the Spring is wholesome even for the King.
-Emily Dickinson

Well, I've got the madness part down, so where is Spring? Historically, I have never been one of those people who longs for the next season. I don't suffer from seasonal depression, and I barely notice the change of seasons, save for the change in clothes I put on in the morning.

This year is different. I am actually longing for Spring. My body has not been warm in weeks. I spend all day thawing out from the walk to the office, only to refreeze on the way home. I've been sick for two full months this Winter. I used to love sweaters and pretty coats, and now all I want are sundresses and skirts. I daydream of running outside in sixty degree weather, with the sun shining. Every time I pass a restaurant, I envision the outdoor seating that comes with Spring.

When did everything shift, such that I began counting the days until Spring? It could be that my pitiful excuse for an immune system needs a break from fighting against the elements. Maybe my taste in fashion has changed, yielding a new preference for pastels and linens. No, after careful consideration, I think the big shift has more to do with my stage in life. I'm 27 years old, unmarried and entirely unsure what I want to do with my career. If I could just press fast-forward a little bit, I might find the clarity that eludes me. Wiser people will caution me that every moment in life is meant to be embraced, not passed by on the way to a more definite existence. I know I can't (and wouldn't if given the option) fast-forward life, but embracing every moment is so much easier to do when the sun's shining and the Spring breeze is blowing every so lightly.

To err is human, right?

Why is it that some people are so unforgiving of basic human error? Yesterday, I made a mistake at work, and realized it about 30 minutes later. I immediately took full responsiblity, explained my mistake and corrected it. Nevertheless, I spent part of this morning getting yelled at, accused and belittled.

Mistakes have consequences. They have to, otherwise people wouldn't be dissuaded from making the same ones twice. Some of those consequences are self-inflicted. Upon realizing my error, I felt embarrassed, stupid and inadequate. I beat myself up about it the whole commute home. I paid the price, which was clear in my apology, the verbal equivalent of falling on my sword.

Why was further verbal abuse necessary? Maybe, this person thought I was not properly educated on the importance of not repeating my mistake. Maybe, this person thinks I don't take my responsiblities seriously. Maybe, this person just likes making others feel bad. I don't have the answers, but I can tell you that for the rest of today, I was less productive and less efficient as a result of the A.M. tirade. Often, it dominated my thoughts, which I think even this person would agree, would have been better off dominated by the day's assignments.

Morning People

I envy morning people. Every so often, I dabble in mornings. Morning people have so much more time in the day and they are probably worlds more efficient than I am. I've tried to wake up early, usually in an effort to get a run in before work. These little phases typically last a couple of weeks, before I am back to resetting my alarm to get more zzz's. I sincerely hope morning people are born that way, because if they're not, then I really am just that lazy.

The last time I woke up at dawn and went to the gym, I was dizzy and didn't actually wake up until the walk back home. It kind of defeats the point of waking up to have more time, when you can barely put one foot in front of the other until your normal waking time. It's not just working out either.

Throughout my life, I've forced myself to get up at ungodly hours of the morning to study, to work and even to shop. In all cases, I'm a big, fat failure. I don't accomplish anything worthwhile or really enjoy myself until at least 9 or 10 a.m. So, all you morning risers, I salute you, and tomorrow when my alarm goes off at 6 a.m. and I try to get to the gym, send me some empowering morning energy thoughts please!

Return to the living

What is the most logical follow-up to my return to weekly 10+ mile runs? Of course -- a ridiculously nasty sinus and ear infection. I spent the last week downing 4 bottles of seltzer and one box of tissues per day, along with sleeping every few hours. I also missed three days of work, much to the disappointment of my employers.

A phenomenon I will never understand is the expectation held by many employers that their employees will show up to work unless their so sick that they're about to be hospitalized. I have no doubt in my mind that I got sick, because day after day I am surrounded by co-workers who cough, sneeze and spray germs in all directions. Being a committed, hard-working employee can't possibly mean you come to work when you're pale, feverish and contagious, can it? There remains the distinct possibility that I am just paranoid and that my employer and others in fact don't want me coming to work when I am legitimately ill. Nevertheless, in nearly every job I've held, I've heard co-workers express fear that they will make a bad impression on the boss if they stay home for more than a single day, if at all, while under the weather. From whence does this twisted perception come? I resent it, and I want answers.

Thankfully, my body has rebounded, responded to the wonder-drugs and I am inching toward 100%. Time to play catch-up at the office in earnest.

Hearts, stars and delirium

I am incapable of a purely romantic moment on Valentine's Day. One year, I actually got dumped on V-Day. For years, I actually wore black in protest of the Hallmark holiday, all the while secretly hoping for those schmoopy Valentine's moments.

This year, I am with JB again, and since last year's day was so perfect, I thought, "Hey, two in a row! My luck is finally turning around." These thoughts came too soon, as today I came down with a world-class head cold. I'm totally congested, have glands the size of golf balls, and my throat is flaming. I look like hell, and for some reason I can't hear anything JB says. "Huh?" has been my phrase of choice, which does not bode well for our dinner out tomorrow at a crowded, uber-popular Mexican restaurant where I made reservations a month ago. At this point, I'm just hoping that I won't be running a fever by tomorrow, or suffering from laryngitis. Ah, Valentine's -- too bad Cupid's not carrying flu shots in those arrows.

Living with a writer

One of the most interesting and infuriating facets of my current living situation is my boyfriend JB's behavior while he's writing. More and more, I find myself studying him like he's a foreign species who will soon have his own Discovery channel documentary. We live in a small studio apartment, and if I am ever home while he's working on his first novel, heaven help me.

Envision, if you will, the following scenario: I come home after a long, intense day at the office to find JB at his laptop - scrolling incessantly with his optical mouse, as he looks for passages that need editing. "Pspsppspspssssspspspsps," I hear as I try to watch television, surf the internet on my laptop, or just sit and relax. He's testing out dialogue, and he gets so darn irritable if I poke fun or, horror of horrors, try to engage him in conversation. I try to ease my way into his world slyly with, "JB, if you're talking to yourself, can't you talk to me, too?" "YOU GET FRIDAYS AND SATURDAYS! Let me work!"

Ordinarily, I would escape to another room and sulk, but lacking one of those, I turn back to my laptop and begin a blog post. If you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em. One of these days/weeks/years, JB and I are going to have similar schedules, where when we're both home, we can and want to spend time together like a normal couple. This will inevitably coincide with a time in our lives when we have multiple rooms. It just figures.

Secrets and Sparks

"A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets." - Rose, in Titanic
Despite the fact that this was a seriously cheesy movie, I still remember seeing this movie in college, hearing that line and honestly believing that it wasn't really true. I also remember a few years later, when I discovered it was entirely true.

I was dating this guy. Let's call him the "medical student." Anyway, we'd been together for nearly a year, and I was bored. He was the nicest guy. He never argued with me. He always let me have whatever I wanted. There was no challenge -- or even the slightest difference of opinion. He treated me like gold, and I figured that was the best a girl could hope for. One day, we were on our way to get some lunch (I can recall exactly what street we were on and even the details of his car's interior -- '90's Ford Explorer - gray interior), and I was staring out the window thinking, "Wow, is this really it? You find a nice guy, who will always do right by you and that's it. No moron would throw that away, right? I wish there was a spark. Can I live a life without any spark?"

A few months later, I got my answer. The medical student and I were studying at my law school library one evening when I got up to check my email over at the computer lab. I was tired, still getting over walking pneumonia, trying not to panic over upcoming exams and looking absolutely wretched. After briefly checking my email, I made my way out of the lab. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed one of my teaching assistant walking behind me. Let's call him "the TA." This was a guy who was really smart, but not someone I'd ever noticed as being particularly attractive, until, of course, I looked like hell and had no time to talk. He stopped me to ask how I was feeling and how my studies were going, and as we chatted I swear that sparks like lightning bugs on a summer night were everywhere.

Long story short (too late), I eventually got the courage to realize I could have a different, spark-filled life, and I broke up with the medical student. I could never fully explain to him why things weren't working out, except to say that it was complicated and I just needed more. Telling him I needed sparks like the ones I felt with the TA would have been cruel, and it was, until this post, one of my heart's ocean of secrets. Since then, my heart has accumulated many secrets, and they always remind me that I can dare to have a different life - one with lots of lightning bugs and one where someone treats me like gold.

My NYC

Today, while reading on my train ride to work, I came across the most wonderful description of my walks home from the subway station in the evenings:
"The soft rush of taxis...and laughter, laughter hoarse as a crow's, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath - and over all, the revolutions of light, the growings and recedings of light - light dividing like pearls - forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly against the sky."
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and Damned

My coworkers often ask how I can stand the commute, why I don't just move to Connecticut, and why I think it's worth it to pay more to live in the polluted, loud, dirty city. The main reason, I think, is that in all of its awful imperfection, it is simultaneously comforting and reassuring. I come home after a day slaving away in the 'burbs, and I am immediately calmer as I listen to the city sounds. Manhattan has a uniquely romantic and hopeful quality to it. Naysayers will tell me to smell the gross city odors and pay closer attention to the crime and pestilence, but when I think of my NYC, I prefer a You've Got Mail sensibility, where daisies, the friendliest flowers, are just around the corner.

Getting old

I'm twenty-seven, and not exactly over-the-hill. Still, when Friday night hits I have the following dominant thoughts: I can't wait to go home and sit in front of the television. Then I can sleep. That will be nice.

I realize how pitiful and sad that sounds. I also occasionally feel pitiful and sad for indulging my Friday night laziness. Last night, for example, I decided to meet some friends from school at a bar downtown after work. On the train ride back to the city, I started to feel the lazy creep in, but I resisted valiantly. I was determined to be young and fun. I got off the train and quickly made my way to the downtown express subway platform. I waited with what was a rapidly increasing number of other commuters. Five minutes went by...then fifteen...then twenty. At twenty-five minutes, I cracked. All the stress and frustration of my work week barreled down on me at warp speed, and I had one of those moments where I just could not be in a crowded place. I was hot, tired, bitter and feeling slightly claustrophobic.

Turning abruptly, I bobbed and weaved through the crowd like George Costanza playing Frogger. I crossed over to the uptown platform to go home, when (of course) the downtown train came roaring toward the station. The fates took pity on me and the uptown train followed a few moments later. I rode the train to 59th Street, and went to the only place that I knew could calm me down after a long, poorly-ended week: Bloomingdales. My usual sitting in front of the t.v. with takeout leftovers was followed by beautiful, sweet, perfect sleep. Ahhhhhh.

a shirt and boobs

Last night, I went to an annual firm dinner. Everyone was wearing a suit, and most of those suits were pants suits. Granted, all the men wore pants suits and there were more men there than women. Still, the women rallied behind the pants suit, with only limited exceptions. One partner recalled the first female partner who wore pants suits to the office some thirty years ago, and the upheaval it caused at the time. I'm sure this same upheaval was occurring at offices nationwide. Employers didn't know what to do with the changing identity of women in the workforce. Without the skirt, what was to distinguish them from their male counterparts?
As Ann Taylor and even Brooks Brothers began to tailor pants suits and collared shirts for women, there remained one difference from the men's version. Aside from that random 90's trend perpetuated by Madonna urging us to Vogue, women do not wear ties.
Without the tie running down the center of our chests, is the female uniform "a shirt and boobs," instead of a shirt and tie?

I don't have a clue how fashion evolved this way. I'm happy that the proverbial noose does not have to hang around my neck all day. I hear it's uncomfortable and often stifling, and that is where it all makes sense. Women's breasts have been uncomfortable and often stifling since the beginning of time. Sure, you can jazz them up with the right undergarments or a really cute top., just like ties come in fun paisley prints, and even with little animals embroidered on them. Dress it up and make it pretty. We're all just showing the world what we're working with (thank you Mystikal for the reference).

Everybody's workin' for the weekend.

It's not at all a new revelation that most of the working population craves weekends. What do most of us do when the weekends come? Abso-freakin'-lutely nothing. We sit around bemoaning the fact that the next work day is only days or hours away. Last weekend, I tried to break out of my working person's weekend rut. I set out to please myself all weekend-long. And, no dirty little children, I don't mean that sexually - at least not entirely.

My battle was uphill from the start. I had to work until almost 9 p.m. Friday night. By the time I got home, I was ready to blow off some serious steam. From my previous post, you know that I did do my grocery shopping, and yes, like the little OCD girl I am, I cleaned my apartment. Instead of spending time moping, however, I indulged. I watched an old Audrey Hepburn movie that I'd Netflixed weeks ago, but had spent too much time wallowing to watch. I caught a preview screening of a quality chick flick. I bought cute socks and underwear, just because I felt like it. I ordered a cute new bag online. I slept until at least 10:30 a.m. both days. I ate seriously tasty Thai food. I ran, long and hard until all the week's jitters and stress were a distant memory. By Sunday night, I was eating the meal I cooked for fun and watching Grey's Anatomy, one of the best shows on television. It was perfect, but in all its perfection came the stark contrast of the week to come. So, like every other Sunday night, insomnia set in and I listened to the clock tick tock away the remaining moments of the luscious weekend.

I still think there's something to this whole enjoy every moment business. I also think a therapist could retire on my case alone.

Nesting

This weekend, I discovered the true test of a serious relationship: grocery shopping together. My boyfriend works weekends, so I typically do our grocery shopping for the week by myself. I find it weirdly relaxing. Even in a cramped city grocery store, jammed with other weekend shoppers, a sense of calm overtakes me. I don't even notice the screaming children, irritated shoppers and bitter employees. I am consumed with getting the most for my money and achieving my goal of not having to return to the store for another week.

While at dinner last night, JB (the boyfriend) volunteered to shop with me after dinner, so that he could help carry the heavy bags. Doesn't that sound like a kind, sensitive offer? I thought so at first, so I consented. Within minutes of entering the grocery store, however, I learned my lesson -- NEVER let him shop with me again. I got agitated at the overzealous way in which he noticed every single product on every single shelf. As he pointed out the disgusting looking potato salad in the deli aisle, I took off at top speed, pushing the cart into the next aisle. I rounded the corner so quickly, I probably burned cart wheel rubber. If I could keep him focused on keeping up with me, maybe he wouldn't pick up the jumbo jar of pickles, or the additional bag of chips. This worked for the most part, until he got way too concerned that the creamsicles might melt, as we entered the last aisle to pick up bread before going to check out. "Are you sure bread is all you need? We can't wait too long, or the creamsicles won't be as good. Are you sure?" I let out a primal yell, as I unleashed the last half hour's worth of frustration at him. Ok, perhaps primal yell is overstating, but I did let loose a tirade about JB ruining my zen shopping experience.

To be fair, JB is a boyfriend of the highest order. He is an enthusiastic, happy guy, and it makes perfect sense that he would grocery shop that way, too. I'd never want to change him.

Memoirs of a life story.

With all of the recent controversy surrounding the veracity of memoirs, I have started to wonder whether blogs professing to share true anecdotes about the authors' lives are properly deemed memoirs. A memoir is not necessarily an autobiography, as my astute cousin pointed out today. So, might you ask, what exactly is a memoir?

Well, Webster's definitions are: 1 : an official note or report : MEMORANDUM; 2 a : a narrative composed from personal experience b :AUTOBIOGRAPHY -- usually used in plural c : BIOGRAPHY;and 3 a : an account of something noteworthy : REPORT b plural : the record of the proceedings of a learned society.

So, a memoir could be an autobiography, but I think the more commonly accepted usage of the word indicates an understanding that it is more an account of something noteworthy. What Oprah didn't quite understand when she was berating him on national television, is that the account of something noteworthy that Frey sought fit to put in book form, were largely events that took place in his mind. They were absolutely noteworthy events -- they just didn't necessarily happen in the physical realm. It's like those jokers who try to tell me Santa isn't real. Well, if I were to pen a memoir, I'd include my experiences with Santa. Why? Easy -- because I've encountered him dozens of times, and it will forever remain my secret whether that was in the physical world, or the world that exists only in the mind.

I'm so tired, I can't sleep.

It's a cruel truth of my existence that when I am absolutely stressed out and wiped out, I have the hardest time getting any sleep. I've been known, during these miserable bouts of insomnia, to yell at nobody in particular (a phenomenon my boyfriend finds particularly disturbing), to get up pace and get back in bed at least a half dozen times and to think of anything, everything and nothing in the attempt to distract myself into falling asleep. Eventually, either some external force takes pity on me and allows me to become unconscious, or I just wait in bed for the alarm to go off hoping that the mere fact I am horizontal is providing me with some form of rest. I'm not the sort who will take prescription medication or perform any weird rituals to get sleep. Friends and family have suggested warm milk, reading, tylenol PM, and other relatively benign home remedies for insomnia. Nothing seems to work, and in an utterly bizarre twist, Tylenol PM actually makes my heart race and keeps me awake even longer.

So for now, I count my blessings on the nights when sleep comes easily, and refuse to believe that you can't just catch up on the weekends by sleeping until 11 a.m. I'd like to tell you this post is actually going somewhere, but it's not really. I didn't sleep much last night. Coupled with having to take a 7 a.m. train out of the city this morning to be on time for an all-day work seminar (where I was not allowed to sleep, despite the fact that work-related seminars appear to be the one sleep remedy that works on me), my mind has turned to mush. With that, I bid you goodnight. I'm hoping for one myself.

To those whom much is given, much is expected.

Giving to charity is a great thing. If you're lucky enough to have a little extra money around, it's honorable and downright nice to give it those less fortunate than yourself. The problem is: how on earth do you decide where to send your dollars? There are zillions upon zillions of charities, foundations, 501(c)(3)'s, nonprofits, and hippie save-the-world types (There are also a zillion ways for them for classify themselves).

Today, I got a call from one such nonprofit organization. This one is a musical organization that got my information because I bought tickets to a holiday concert back in December. The concert was wonderful, but with all those struggling in the world, do they really need my money more than say, AIDS victims, for instance? Still, I've been musically inclined since I was little, and I have a soft spot for such groups. So, I caved under the pressure to get back to my already too stressful work day and agreed to have $15 charged to my credit card each month. Suckers - there's one born every minute.

Now that I've begun my 2006 charitable giving (which will in no way be impressive because I remain financially crippled by student loans), I am racked with indecision over how to pick other worthy causes. On the one hand, the answer seems clear. Cancer has hit my family like the hurricanes battered the Lousiana coast. I definitely want to contribute most of my available monies to a cancer research charity. There are tons of hospitals, foundations and think tanks, all more than worthy of my money. I picked the one that's worked directly with my family, but it seems like nothing I give will be enough. The nagging voice in my head utters the following guilt trip, "Perhaps, PAF, if you laid off the obsessive compulsive shopping, you could do a better job at saving the world." Of course, its devilish counterpart invariably follows with, "What are the odds of that? You've had a terrible day -- won't some nice new shoes make it all better?"

Going the distance. Going for speed.

My Dad, and several of my lawyer friends, have commented on my running: "I only run if I'm being chased. You're crazy." Today, I started thinking about why I run. It started as a way to lose weight. I read that it burned calories efficiently, and I wanted those pesky little suckers burned off as quickly as possible. Really, though, I got into running because my boyfriend at the time (his days were numbered for many reasons) told me I couldn't.

I remember the moment so vividly - like a mental home movie. It was about 4:00 in the afternoon one weekend in a town outside of Hartford, Connecticut. It had been a sunny, seasonably warm day, but the sun was beginning to set. "M" and I went to the local park for a jog. I was not in good shape at the time, but I figured two miles didn't sound like much, and I would be fine if we took it slow. I huffed and puffed, and probably could have blown down a house with all that exertion, but I barely made it a quarter mile before I had to stop. My chest hurt and my body had completely rebelled against me. M said, "PAF, I knew you would never make it. You're just not athletic. Some people can run, and some people can't." Hah! Nobody, but NOBODY tells me I can't do something. Call it the remnants of childish stubborn antics. To this day, I will try like hell the second someone tells me I can't or won't do something.
A testament to my stubborn nature: the time my law school alma mater put me on the waitlist. Before that, I could have cared less if I went to law school. I just didn't want to get a job. Still, from the moment I got the letter telling me I had been "wait-listed," I vowed to show those people they were wrong. I got in, excelled, racked up about 100K in debt, and now I'm a lawyer. Query who actually showed whom on that one.

Anyhow, when M told me I would never be a runner, I knew then and there that I would be. It took a long time and a truckload of pain and suffering, but running is one of my favorite ways to relax and blow off steam. I ran through law school; I continue to run through being a lawyer; I ran through both my parents' major illnesses; I ran through several romantic break-ups; and I have pushed through several running related injuries. There's a Melissa Etheridge song that sums it up better than I ever could: "I Run for Life." Each time I lace up my sneakers, I do just that.