My Christmas Card Conundrum

 

For the past two years, my Christmas cards, which I used to have addressed, stamped, and mailed, well before Christmas, have been pushed so far back that they have morphed into New Year’s cards. As I sat today addressing and stuffing this year’s cards into envelopes, I began to ask myself why I even bother with cards anymore, considering their late timing, ultimate fate, and communication avenues such as Facebook.

                It seems that each year, the number of Christmas/New Year’s cards that arrive in my own mailbox dwindle considerably. In past years, my mailbox would be overflowing each day with greetings from afar from Thanksgiving until after the New Year. The wall where I hang them ran out of space, forcing me to stuff three or four cards a piece under each clothespin fastening the cards to the wall. However, the past two or three years have seen my clothespins become increasingly light and the time in which cards arrive become increasingly shorter. Today, I have only one or two clothespins that hold more than one card, a significant change from years past.  It seems that, like me, others have also started to question their motivation for sending cards.

                It is not surprising, in some respects, that friends and family have stopped the annual ritual of sending out Christmas/New Year’s cards. It is not only an expensive endeavor, with the cost of postage added onto the cost of the cards themselves, but also a time consuming endeavor, especially if personalized messages or letters are attached. It can be difficult to justify this cost when the end result of most cards is the recycling bin, even if hung or hoarded for several weeks before tossing them in said bin. Furthermore, Facebook, Facetime, Twitter and the like, allow daily long distance contact and communication with friends and family. Technology that has become so popular, you are archaic should you not utilize it. Today, I receive daily updates on my friends lives, however brief, and have the opportunity to not only watch their children grow, but share all those “first” events that I would miss being 3000 miles away from a good chunk of them, and ten hours away from the other chunk. I have already seen most of the Christmas card pictures before I receive them. In fact, the picture I am sending this year will have been seen by the majority of my family and friends due to Facebook.

                Why then do I continue to send cards out each year? The answer is surprisingly simple. I not only enjoy sending out cards and find it important to reach out to friends and family in a much more personalized manner than the internet, but I also enjoy receiving them. 

                Last year, I began my Christmas/New Year’s card by explaining the excitement that surrounds capturing the perfect Christmas card picture. I outlined in detail the craziness that ensues, as well as my family’s reaction to my somewhat obsessive behavior. Though I drive myself, and them, crazy, it has become somewhat of a fun and funny ritual in my house; me trying to capture the girls, and sometimes my very pessimistic husband, at the perfect moment, in the perfect pose, while they do everything in their power to photo bomb and sabotage my efforts. When I finally do capture that perfect photo, I feel somewhat triumphant and excessively pleased.  I enjoy the hours of searching online for the perfect template in which to place my perfect photo, and smile with delight when the two mesh into a piece of harmonious color and form. I further get excited at the thought of friends and family opening my masterpiece and delighted when I think of the “ooohhhing” and “aaaahhhing” that must surely result.

                I do a considerable amount of “ooohhhing” and “aaahhhing” myself, upon the receipt of cards from afar. Each Thanksgiving, I anxiously await the arrival of the first Christmas card. Trudging through the snow to our mailbox, I look forward to a stack of envelopes heavy with cards, instead of bills or junk mail. Opening cards is more than a daily task. It is a ritual. I first examine the return address. Who the card is coming from, or where the card is coming from, should it be void of a name.  Then with care and joy, I crack open each envelope waiting to find a surprise inside. Whether a picture, letter, or simply a signed card, I find holding those pieces of paper in my hand highly personal. I can imagine my friends or family members checking their lists, finding my name, and wondering how I am doing, as I do them, each time I address a card.  Unlike interactions across the internet, they, like me, have held that very card in their hand and taken the time and energy to send it. They have put time, thought, and love into the cards they send.

                The arrival of the New Year, instead of bringing an exciting new beginning, often enters my life with a sense of disappointment, as the cards become less frequent, the Christmas decorations come down, and life returns to its pre-Christmas routine. Personalized mail is almost non-existent, the bills and junk return and I am once again forced to communicate through Facebook. I realize that I not only miss those cards, those small tokens of love, but also miss daily face to face interactions with my friends living elsewhere. I wake up realizing that another year must pass before the cards start flooding my mailbox again and before I can occupy my time obsessing over something as simple as a Christmas/New Year’s card.

Another New Year; Another Broken Resolution

Each Year I, like a large majority of Americans, make a list of resolutions…in my case these resolutions consist of things I love, but have little time to accomplish, that enhance my mental, physical, and spiritual well-being. Every New Year, I have the best intentions of beginning and following through on my plans; again a very common trait among humanity. However, it always seems that life gets in the way. Managing the household, while giving two girls and a husband the necessary attention, not only occupies the majority of my day, but also zaps my energy, leaving me exhausted and drained in the very time slot (the evening) that I have to take care of my own wants and needs. 

 My resolutions have varied over the years. Some are very common; get into better shape, eat healthier, cut out the SUGAR. Others are somewhat specific to myself; write more often, read more ferociously, finally get around to learning all the idiosyncrasies of my camera. However varied, each resolution is born of the same intentions and each resolution dies of the same malady. Each year, I feel a considerable disappointment in myself for my inability to balance my own needs with others, negating the positive effect resolutions are intended to have.

Therefore, this year, I am resolving to make, and break, my resolutions regularly. In doing so, I hope to eliminate the guilt that accompanies breaking a resolution, which often feels more like an obligation. Instead, I hope to pick up my pen and a book when life allows, and to feel inspired by the words I write and read, instead of frustrated by writers block and a feeling of apathy towards books in general. I vow to run when I can, walk when I don’t feel like running, and relax when walking feels as if it is a burden.  Most of all, I resolve to try and be human; wonderfully flawed and highly imperfect.

That Warm Fuzzy Feeling (AKA Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas)

     Each year, come November, I indulge in a guilty pleasure; one that my husband despises, and my eldest daughter does not understand. It is a pleasure that begins to excite me months before it airs. A pleasure that never ceases to make me cry, laugh, and smile from ear to ear. Indulging in this pleasure, creates a warm fuzzy feeling deep in my gut, which ultimately grows and spreads, resulting in a radiating warmth that negates the dark chill of winter. It is Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas.
     Hallmark Christmas Movies are completely formulaic. The characters often lack depth and personality. The acting is less than stellar. The men are very often far better looking than the women they fall in love with (yes, periodically the women are far better looking than the men). The conflicts created are simplistic and could be easily solved by a simple conversation amongst its characters. However, pride and fear keep communication from occurring immediately, creating the perfect formula for a two hour special. Despite these factors, Hallmark Christmas Movies never cease to move me. To surround me in the magic of  Christmas. Whether it is the guarantee of a happy ending, one that embraces the magical spirit of Christmas, or a human desire to believe in hope and love, I am unsure, but Hallmark Christmas specials caress me like the warm summer sun.
     For all of these reasons, and I am sure some unspoken reasons, my husband dreads the Countdown to Christmas. He not only considers Hallmark movies unwatchable tripe, but refuses to occupy a room in which a Hallmark movie is airing. My daughter looks at me like I have four heads for not believing that Disney Junior not only has the best shows on TV, but also the most fun and hilarious characters in existence.
     Thus each November and December I find myself in the most rare and unfortunate of circumstances, alone and undisturbed in a room watching a show that only I want to watch.

My Blog (and running career) Revisited

In May of last year, both my blog and my "career" as a runner came to a screeching halt. Although several of my previous blogs regarded running, the two, in general were unrelated; or so I thought.

Over the past year, a plethora of life changing events have occurred, providing me with an overflowing chalise of writing material. However, despite endless thoughts and intentions of cracking open my computer and composing "masterpieces", I felt neither motivated nor inspired. I have, for quite some time, attributed my lack of fire to stress, exhaustion, and an endless schedule filled with appointments and extra-curricular activities; though these factors cannot be discounted, the past month has taught me a lesson I have learned many times in the past, but seem to have difficulty grasping and applying practically each day despite life's bumps and bruises.

The lack of motivation and passion I felt for writing throughout the year carried over into running. After healing from my injury and being given the "go ahead" from my physical therapist, I simply had no desire to run.  Frustrated with my inability to bounce back quickly, I once again attributed my lack of fire to external factors, traveling throughout most of the summer, the craziness of a new school year, a new child in the house and the onset of winter. The only activity I found myself able to perform with regularity was walking; and oh did I walk, even in below freezing temperatures. I walked to maintain sanity during, what turned out to be, a never ending winter. I told myself that with the onset of warmer spring temperatures, time settling into a new routine with two children, and a less hectic schedule as the school year came to an end, I would find myself ready and willing to once again lace up my running shoes and hit the pavement. Neither my schedule, nor the weather cooperated. 

After several months of endlessly wet days, Vermont finally received the gift of sunshine (Though it was not to stay. The days continue to be a mix of rain, clouds, and sunshine) igniting two small sparks, one in my brain and one in my body, a pulsing desire to both write and run. 

Which came first, the chicken or the egg, remains unclear. However, as soon as I hit the pavement a plethora of coherent blog postings inundated my brain, driving my feet faster and pushing me through the physical pain inevitable after a year without running. 

Last night, as I contemplated these words, I was reminded of several past blog postings regarding the link between my running and my writing. Despite my past assertiveness that my writing and running were independent entities, this past year has reminded me that both are essential to my physical and mental health. And though my writing is not, and does not have to be exclusively about running, it is their relationship to each other that allows me to maintain some semblance of sanity, clarity, and intellect.

I am, therefore making a promise to myself, to maintain both, despite life's craziness, because running my feet over the ground and my fingers over the key board are those actions that allow me to cope with life's everyday stresses and exhaustion.

It is A Love/Hate, Hate/Love Kind of Thing

For the past two years, I have limited myself to running one long race a year, in the fall. I generally have used the warmer spring months to ease back into running, after a winter of hibernating (or cross training, as the case may be). The summer months, I have spent training for a longer half marathon. I have been content with this routine, until this year.

            This winter provided me little opportunity (and little motivation) to either run or cross train, leaving me out of shape and extremely antsy. Vacationing in Florida, two weeks ago, provided me the opportunity to run twice in the sunshine and warmth, and served as a disturbing reminder of how out of running shape I truly am. A week of sunshine, combined with the first hints of spring upon returning home to Vermont, convinced me that one race in the fall was going to neither whip my buttocks back into shape, nor appease the ants in my pants. Therefore, I decided to sign up for a spring half marathon.

            Vermont hosts maybe ten marathon races throughout the year. One of the half marathons (The Dandelion Run) begins not ten minutes from my house. I have avoided this race in the past because it takes place the second week of May. Depending on the severity of the winter, training can be challenging during the spring months in Vermont due to an abundance of lingering heavy wet snow, unpredictable temperature changes, and mud… lots of mud. This year, however, I vowed to ignore these factors and, with exactly ten weeks until race day, registered for the Dandelion Run.

            Yesterday, my first official day of training, dawned with gorgeous blue skies, and temperatures climbing to sixty degrees. Upon returning home from work, I immediately grabbed a bite to eat and rushed to change into my running clothes, anxious to participate in an endorphin-producing, vitamin D stimulating activity. After stretching and warming up, I turned up my iPod and hit the pavement with enthusiasm, only to be quickly reminded of why running and I have a love/hate, or hate/love, relationship.

           

            Because I run, people automatically assume that I love to run, or if not love it, like it. When the truth is, I despise the act of running. I cannot stand that no matter how hard I train, no matter how often or far I run, the act of running never gets easier. Every run is difficult, labor intensive.

I cannot stand the fact that every run hurts. I always feel out of shape when running. If my shoulders are not bothering me, then my lower back is. If my shins are not pinching with pain, then my knees are. 

I cannot stand the fact that no matter how hard I try to silence them; the voices in my head will not shut the hell up! My mind focuses on every painful twang, making pin pricks feel like dismemberments. The stresses of life, relationships, work, and motherhood buzz frantically in my head throughout my runs. Voices of self-doubt regarding my body’s ability to reach goals, or even complete a training run, scream in chaotic cacophony during my runs.

I cannot stand battling the elements; sloshing through rain and mud; feeling my lungs seize as they struggle to inhale thick humid air; transitioning from freezing cold at the beginning of a run, to unbearably hot and sweaty in the middle of a run, to feeling the sweat freeze on my body at the conclusion of a race.

All these things I hate and more!

I have to laugh at the looks of disbelief, confusion, and bafflement that cross people’s faces when I tell them I despise running. “And yet you run half marathons?” they ask in amazement. “Why?” The answer is simple: Though I hate to run, I love the results I get from running.

I have yet to find another activity that burns as many calories as quickly. It would take me an hour of walking to burn the same number of calories I burn in a twenty-minute run.  Furthermore, running builds muscle while also providing an excellent cardio workout. It kills two birds with one stone. Being a mother, and now a working mother, I need exceptional results in a short amount of time.

Running clears my head and relieves stress and anxiety. I inevitably begin and end every run with negative thoughts. However, within thirty minutes to an hour after a run, I feel my mind and body heave a sigh of relief. The stresses that life creates on a daily basis drain from both mind and body leaving me more at peace, more logical, and less emotionally charged.

Running gives me alone time. Mother, wife, daughter, sister, teacher, friend…fulfilling all these duties and more allows me very little time to connect with myself. Often times, they require more giving than receiving. Running allows me time to take care of those little parts of myself that need nurturing and attention.

Running allows me the opportunity to commune with nature. I am not an indoor person. Having been raised in sunny California, I spent the majority of my childhood outside, running, jumping, skipping, riding my bike, or playing sports with my brother. I am an outdoor person. However, the demands of the household, work, and a seemingly endless Vermont winter, often force me indoors and out of my element. Running allows me to get in touch with that piece of me that loves the outdoors.

            Running allows me to feel strong, beautiful, accomplished and confident. Like many women, I struggle with self-confidence. Images of perfection pervade our culture; images of too thin women with perfect hair, skin, abs, butts, thighs, and facial features. Though I know these images are often doctored and are not what they seem, I am not immune to the cultural ideal. When I run, I feel healthy, proud of my body and beautiful. I fall into bed after a long race feeling triumphant because though I have hated every minute of the journey, the struggle is always worth the destination.

            As I curse my way through my training runs for my upcoming half marathon, I will fight to remember all those things I love about running. And as I look around at those running the race next to me, I will wonder, “Do they love this, or hate it?” I ask you, “Do you love or hate running? Why?”

First Steps

WORK

            One month ago, I did something I have not done in four years. I went back to work, tutoring five mornings a week, two hours a day. I was understandably nervous on my first day; not only have I not formally taught in four years, but I would also be teaching a student who had missed an extraordinary amount of school due to his lack of desire to attend. His seeming apathy made me nervous. My nerves were compounded by the fact that this was the first time in my career that I would not only have to struggle to get myself up, dressed, and ready for the day, but also be responsible for getting my daughter Lucy up, dressed, and to school two more days than she had previously been attending, and thirty minutes earlier than she had previously been arriving (feats, which on the best of days were difficult, due to her inquisitive nature and lack of urgency on her part).

            On my first day of work, I rose early with butterflies in my belly. However, these were soon tamed, though not eliminated, by frantic morning preparations. Lu excited about the prospect of attending school five days a week, as opposed to her normal three, was blessedly up early and eager to walk out the door, helping me by getting herself dressed and brushing her hair and teeth. Before I had to ask the customary three times, she had donned her boots, slipped into her coat, and grabbed her hat and mittens. Picking up her lunch box and slipping on her backpack, the two of us walked out the door in record time.

            After situating Lu at school, I kissed her goodbye, jumped into the car, and looked at my clock, happy to see that I was five minutes early; allowing me time enough to grab a soul-soothing coffee on the work.

            The craziness of the morning left my brain little time to mule over the anxiety simmering below the surface of my calm exterior. However, as I drove toward work the butterflies once again began fluttering wildly. They worked themselves into an incredible frenzy when my boss ushered me into a back closet, which was designated as my workspace, its location picked specifically due to the resistance I was told I would most likely encounter from my student. After arranging my materials, I walked to the front lobby in order to await my student, armed and ready for battle.

RUN

            I am not a winter runner. When the temperature dips below forty and snow starts to cover the ground, I move indoors and make the painful adjustment from terrain to treadmill. Even with access to a treadmill, my mileage drops of dramatically during winter, while my cross training and lifting increase. I simply do not have the mental capacity to run unmoving on a treadmill for more than thirty minutes or more than one to two times a week. My boredom gets the better of me. My brain begins to focus on every painful twinge; every second creeps by excruciatingly slow. Sometimes, I make it through my treadmill runs, feeling triumphant. Other times, I slam down on the stop button, unable to bear the mind numbing “thump, thump, thump” of each step a moment longer.

            Winter in Vermont is normally harsh. Moreover, long. Meaning my time indoors tends to drag like my treadmill runs. This year, however, has been an exceptionally warm winter. Unfortunately, the constant fluctuation in temperatures, combined with snow and rain, has left a thick layer of ice on the grass, sidewalks and roadways preventing my normal cross training on snowshoes. This combined with my new work schedule and winter full of constant sickness, has zapped my motivation leaving me little time and less desire to spend time in a sweat and germ filled gym.

            However, two weeks ago I was given a gift that allowed me to do something I have not been able to do in four months, run outside. It just so happened that the weather, which rarely cooperates with my schedule, awarded me a day of sun and temperature in the low forties on the one day of the week that Lu spends the entire day at school, as opposed to the half days she attends the other four days of the week.

            Upon leaving work, I immediately high-tailed it home with every intention of spending some time out of doors. After eating lunch, I quickly changed into my running clothes and strapped on my running shoes. Stepping into the delightfully blinding sunshine, I could not resist the desire to run. However, I had barely run at all in the last four months and did not know whether I could make it a mile, much less the 3.1 miles that comprised my normal village route.

            My nerves began to twang as I adjusted my iPod and fidgeted with my earphones. This feeling was familiar. I was having prerace jitters. I was worrying about my condition, whether my mind and body would carry me through to the end of the mileage. Pushing play on my iPod, I stepped off the curb and into the road, preparing to battle through a very long and painful 3.1 miles.

 

STEP

 

            The battles I prepared to fight on my first day of work and on that first out door run proved unnecessary. My student proved polite, amicable, and bright, working diligently throughout our two hour tutoring session. My run also proved less painful than I expected. Though buffeted by a near constant wind, I finished the 3.1 miles in just over twenty eight minutes; slower that my normal twenty six to twenty seven minute pace, but surprisingly quick considering my lack of foot time.

            It was taking those first steps that proved the hardest part of both events. It was taking a deep breath and conquering the nerves that threatened to consume and defeat me that proved the most difficult task; those nerves that could have kept me from taking those first steps. Had I not conquered those nerves and taken those first steps, I would not have experienced the rewards of engaging a student who was loath to be engaged, nor would I have experienced the lasting joy of a sunshine filled run.

            I continue to tutor the same student; it is not always as pleasant as that first tutoring session. There have been bumps in the road. Nevertheless, it feels good to have something of my own. It feels good to delve into the texts of Edgar Allen Poe and Shirley Jackson, authors that stimulate my intellect and reawaken my inner English geek. I have not had the opportunity to run outside since that beautiful day two weeks ago, which makes that rare moment even more memorable and enjoyable. When the opportunity to trek out of doors presents itself again (hopefully sooner rather than later), I know those first steps will be the hardest to take, but also the most crucial. I will step off the curb knowing that the end result is worth the initial nervous struggle.

An Ugly Duckling or A Mother’s Love

            It did not dawn on me until I was sixteen or seventeen years old that I was, at thirteen, extremely funny looking. When I approached my mother with this realization, she audibly gasped, and very defensively declared, “No you were not, you were, and always have been pretty…and smart, too!” I should have expected this response from my mother. I had grown up hearing, “You are pretty…and smart, too.”  By the time I was sixteen, the saying had become somewhat of a joke between my parents and I. Whenever I suffered from those frequent bouts of teenage anguish over my physical appearance, I could count on my parents to assure me of my stunning beauty, while simultaneously reminding me that my intelligence was equally important to, if not more important than, my physical appearance.

            On any given day, I would have smiled, nodded, and accepted my mother’s compliment without argument, only half believing her statement. However, on this day, I was unwilling to accept the blind delusion my mother had been living with for years. Pulling my sixth grade school picture from a photo box labeled This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill, I presented my mother with the damaging evidence.

There I sat, staring directly into the camera with a shy, or possibly forced, smile upon my face. My teeth were horribly crooked. Despite the fact that I had already suffered through one set of braces in an attempt to make room for my “big girl” teeth, the orthodontist simply could not change the size of my bone structure, resulting in too many teeth in too small of a space. I donned a chunky turquoise turtleneck, that could have held my head in place had it not been attached to my body, the collar was that thick and restrictive. My obsession with Madonna was apparent from my crimped hair to my blue eyeliner. Styles, that over the course of the summer, I had worked hard to perfect.  I spent every moment indoors in front of the bathroom mirror with my mother’s array of eye shadows, liners, and lipstick, applying them with care as I waited for my curling iron and crimper to reach the perfect temperature. After dousing my hair in Aqua Net, I listened with glee as it sizzled on contact with the crimper. All moisture now sucked from my tresses, and the perfect kink achieved, I once again applied pressure to the Aqua Net sprayer, and delighted in the stiff perfection of my style.

            Holding the picture inches from her nose, I declared, “Mom, how can you say I was pretty? Look at my crimped hair and blue eye liner!”

My mother smiled and replied, “That was the style!”

Remembering that I had only recently convinced my mother to forgo her Farrah Fawcett feathers, I realized that I was going to have to try another tactic. My mother had entered into the fashion and beauty trends of the nineteen seventies only to emerge from them in the nineties.

 Looking closely at the picture, it soon struck me that though the crimped hair and blue eyeliner accentuated my adolescent ugliness, they were not the cause of it. My ugliness was a result of something much less easy to identify. Something subtle, yet vital. Proportion. My face, my facial features to be exact, was out of proportion. My nose, eyes, and particularly my lips, were those of an adult (an adult with very large defined features), yet my face was still that of a child. My cheeks were still subtle and soft, without definition. My nose against this subtleness appeared large, and extraordinarily bony. My eyebrows were unplucked and appeared to crawl across my forehead in caterpillar fashion. My eyes also bore the dark bags of a woman, not a girl, with too little sleep and too much stress.

 However, nothing was more prominent than my lips. Today women go to extraordinary measures to achieve such full, plump lips. Mine were naturally luscious, and, at the time, excruciatingly embarrassing. They were the first feature my peers noticed, the first feature my peers ridiculed. Adults would often call them “stunning” and “incredibly attractive”, but these comments, just like my mother’s statement that I was pretty…and smart, too, were lost. At thirteen, what did adults know? It was not until Julia Roberts rose to fame, and I had “grown into” my lips that they, and I, began to receive compliments from my peers; ironically, around the same time I began arguing with my mother regarding my thirteen-year-old ugliness.

I pointed these facts out to my mother with little success. She was determined to believe that I was as pretty at thirteen as I was at sixteen. I sat staring at my thirteen-year-old self, teeth elbowing each other out of the way, lips staging a coup against my other features, and nose rising like a newly formed mountain. I had presented my evidence and lost. I had no other choice but to close my case, and accept that in my mother’s eyes I was pretty at thirteen…and smart, too.

Years later, my mother began scrapbooking our lives. I entered her house one day to bits and pieces of This Is Your Life Alyssa Jill scattered across her scrapbooking desk. Holding my sixth grade picture in her hand, my mother looked up from her desk and with apologetic eyes declared, “So, I have been looking at these pictures of you in junior high. You were right, you were kind of funny looking.”

I could not resist smiling, laughing, and in good humor declaring, “I told you so!”