In the last week alone, I have...
...confronted teenagers about sticking to their commitments and showing up to participate, even when it's not the fun stuff.
...talked to a girl about grades and strategized about how to get her passing classes so that she can play sports again.
...driven carpool and made sure that the students got to school on time, frustrated with them for being late to class after they wouldn't get their act together that morning.
...hugged and talked with a girl who broke up with her boyfriend.
...disciplined middle school boys for throwing stuff off the balcony.
...talked about sex with a teenager who has some hard questions and deep hurts from too much first-hand experience.
...encouraged an anorexic student who is now counting calories in a healthy way.
...prayed for a family who is waiting on answers.
...listened to a senior who was rejected from her top choice college.
...talked to some girls about gossip and how it hurts.
...oohed and ahhed over prom dresses.
...giggled with someone who was asked to the dance.
...celebrated college admissions.
...planned spring break.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
1997
Graduating from York Community High School, I would have described myself not so much as popular...but I knew everyone and everyone knew me, so it seemed OK to be a nerd. I dabbled in this and participated in that. I had a few niche areas where I spend chunks of time - tennis, orchestra and newspaper - but there was nothing about which I was so passionate that it consumed my life. Well, maybe newspaper?
I spent weekends with friends, never confident that these people actually liked me. Football games were stressful because conversations were short, even though I've never been shy with words. If I exited first, then I wasn't the reject being left behind. My close friends were Ruth, Suzanne, April, Allison, Steve and Elisa - I think - but I only keep in touch with one of those closely anymore. I guess we just went in different directions. I went to homecoming and prom with friends I invited from other schools my senior year and was disappointed not to have been asked...but it was in groups of over a dozen, so that was cool, and we had a really good time. I interviewed people for the newspaper and decided what editorials were going on page 2. Voted captain of the tennis team, I got to give a 30-second speech at Homecoming. All I remember is a blur of people and being scared to death. Why couldn't the popular girl with whom I shared this leadership role be up there with me? I worried about orchestra auditions...not caring as much as I did the previous year because of not caring all that much about our new director. I liked high school. I was outgoing and had a good time. I would have never confessed being concerned so much about what other people thought or how I hoped to be seen in the right places at the right time, but that never seemed to bother me as I went about doing whatever I wanted to whenever I wanted to.
My community, the people around whom I let down my guard, even if only slightly as a self-conscious, insecure teenager could, didn't walk the halls of York. They went to the schools I could only dream of attending - not for any academic reasons, but because that's where my friends were. Downers Grove South. Hindsdale Central. Maybe LT or DGN...but not really. Youth group was where I laughed the most and from where the faces came that are still hanging on the bulletin board in my bedroom at my parents' house in Elmhurst. It still looks almost exactly as it did when I left for college over a decade ago.
My job today is to interact with teenagers. I spend significantly more time thinking about high school and talking about teachers, AP exams, college admissions and football games than the average person my age. It isn't in the "stuck in the past" sort of way at all, but when I sit with the senior girls and gush over prom dresses, I can't help but think of that night, how it was my first time in a limo and wondering if the boy I thought was so cute would ask me to dance. He didn't, but my date was a blast!
Having connected with many of my former peers on Facebook, it's been interesting to see where people landed in life. The shy, quiet, nerdy one is now bubbly, married and has a thriving career that requires her to be confident and assertive. She would have won the "most changed' award, in my book, had there been one given at our 10-year reunion. Then there was the guy that night who I remembered being quiet, a little mysterious, super popular, pretty much a jerk...but totally hot. He seems to be doing well and genuinely a kind, out-going person. In high school, we would do math homework together, but that was the extent of our interaction; he ran in a different crowd on Friday nights. I think we might be friends now if life were to have us in the same place. Then there was the girl who I thought would probably end up failing out of college because of drinking and partying and being such a ditz. Now she's a suburban stay-at-home mom who juggles more responsibility than most. Oh, and I was the one who ended up in a sorority. And the girl with whom I shared a "Juicy Gossip Book" (yes, it was as horrible as it sounds)...well, I have no idea where she is anymore and am not sure if our friendship went any deeper than keeping tabs on who liked who and what happened at lunch.
The more interesting thing, to me, is realizing that most people never change. The girl who did so well in French class is a French teacher. The logical, driven and focused friend of mine is in hospital administration, kickin' butt and taking names. The science nerd is a chemical engineer. The girl who always soloed with the choir is a professional singer, just like the concert mistress of our orchestra is playing for a symphony. And the guy whose comments in English class were always a little confusing and too deep to about which to care...well, last I heard, he's getting his PhD.
I spent weekends with friends, never confident that these people actually liked me. Football games were stressful because conversations were short, even though I've never been shy with words. If I exited first, then I wasn't the reject being left behind. My close friends were Ruth, Suzanne, April, Allison, Steve and Elisa - I think - but I only keep in touch with one of those closely anymore. I guess we just went in different directions. I went to homecoming and prom with friends I invited from other schools my senior year and was disappointed not to have been asked...but it was in groups of over a dozen, so that was cool, and we had a really good time. I interviewed people for the newspaper and decided what editorials were going on page 2. Voted captain of the tennis team, I got to give a 30-second speech at Homecoming. All I remember is a blur of people and being scared to death. Why couldn't the popular girl with whom I shared this leadership role be up there with me? I worried about orchestra auditions...not caring as much as I did the previous year because of not caring all that much about our new director. I liked high school. I was outgoing and had a good time. I would have never confessed being concerned so much about what other people thought or how I hoped to be seen in the right places at the right time, but that never seemed to bother me as I went about doing whatever I wanted to whenever I wanted to.
My community, the people around whom I let down my guard, even if only slightly as a self-conscious, insecure teenager could, didn't walk the halls of York. They went to the schools I could only dream of attending - not for any academic reasons, but because that's where my friends were. Downers Grove South. Hindsdale Central. Maybe LT or DGN...but not really. Youth group was where I laughed the most and from where the faces came that are still hanging on the bulletin board in my bedroom at my parents' house in Elmhurst. It still looks almost exactly as it did when I left for college over a decade ago.
My job today is to interact with teenagers. I spend significantly more time thinking about high school and talking about teachers, AP exams, college admissions and football games than the average person my age. It isn't in the "stuck in the past" sort of way at all, but when I sit with the senior girls and gush over prom dresses, I can't help but think of that night, how it was my first time in a limo and wondering if the boy I thought was so cute would ask me to dance. He didn't, but my date was a blast!
Having connected with many of my former peers on Facebook, it's been interesting to see where people landed in life. The shy, quiet, nerdy one is now bubbly, married and has a thriving career that requires her to be confident and assertive. She would have won the "most changed' award, in my book, had there been one given at our 10-year reunion. Then there was the guy that night who I remembered being quiet, a little mysterious, super popular, pretty much a jerk...but totally hot. He seems to be doing well and genuinely a kind, out-going person. In high school, we would do math homework together, but that was the extent of our interaction; he ran in a different crowd on Friday nights. I think we might be friends now if life were to have us in the same place. Then there was the girl who I thought would probably end up failing out of college because of drinking and partying and being such a ditz. Now she's a suburban stay-at-home mom who juggles more responsibility than most. Oh, and I was the one who ended up in a sorority. And the girl with whom I shared a "Juicy Gossip Book" (yes, it was as horrible as it sounds)...well, I have no idea where she is anymore and am not sure if our friendship went any deeper than keeping tabs on who liked who and what happened at lunch.
The more interesting thing, to me, is realizing that most people never change. The girl who did so well in French class is a French teacher. The logical, driven and focused friend of mine is in hospital administration, kickin' butt and taking names. The science nerd is a chemical engineer. The girl who always soloed with the choir is a professional singer, just like the concert mistress of our orchestra is playing for a symphony. And the guy whose comments in English class were always a little confusing and too deep to about which to care...well, last I heard, he's getting his PhD.
I can't help but wonder with the tiniest bit of curiosity and laughing relief that it doesn't really matter anymore...am I who you'd thought I'd be?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Re-entry
Life after vacation is tough. As my plane landed in the Austin Bergstrom International Airport last Tuesday, I found my self nauseous. I love my job, and my life in Austin ain't bad, but there's something about life on vacation when you the biggest decision in a day is trying to decide bumming around drinking coffee and then going to walk around downtown Breckenridge or walking around downtown Breckenridge and coming back to the house to be lazy later...yeah, it's a nice change of pace from the long hours at work and more meetings than should be legally allowed in one's life.
I miss the 10-hours of sleep each night and the hours of life-giving conversations with Julia, Julie and Jessica. I miss waking up on the top bunk in Bri's room and hanging out with Amy. I miss meeting up with college friends for dinner at brewery's in the mountains and hanging out at Wash Park. I miss driving in the snow and wearing big coats. I miss how warm the sun feels right when the clouds break from a fluffy snow storm. And I miss sitting on the couch with Anneke and John - doing nothing - for hours. Yeah, that was nice.
Re-entry is hard. I started Tuesday of last week in the mountains. I woke up to moon-lit domes shining bright white with snow. It was cold outside. There was ice on some of the roads. The world was quiet. People were just beginning to emerge...to days filled of winter adventures. The roads were curvy and skinny. Everyone was wearing hats and gloves and big coats. And the coffee acquired at a coffee shop on the way down the mountain was appreciated so much more because of how warm it felt. I drove down - physically - for an hour and a half. The sun was rising, piercing the horizon and making it hard to drive, but that's OK. It was worth it. And then I hit Denver. Home Sweet Home...Denver. It was, for me, for a time. But it still feels that way a little. OK...a lot when I'm back to visit.
Being in Austin, like I said, isn't bad. But it's different. It is a great place to live. I love that. But I wonder sometimes if it's home forever. I'm not looking to leave, and when opportunities have come my way, I've not wanted and have chosen not to leave. Go figure? It's home, for now.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Enchanted Castle
It was a lot like Chuck E. Cheese, the pizza and game place that's set up like a mini-Disney of entertainment. Tickets are earned and prizes collected. They're popular for birthday parties and company events focused on pleasing an audience of children.
Suburban Chicago was home to Enchanted Castle. There may be dozens of them these days, or it might be out of business entirely. I have no idea. But to me, out in what I think was Lombard, was a magical place where there were few rules, an unending supply of games and more flashing lights than at Christmas. It was a special place. Once or twice a year - maybe three times, if I was lucky - there was a birthday party to which I was invited that allowed me entrance to an elementary child's dream. Part of its specialness came from the fact that it wasn't a place we went every day or every weekend. It was a big deal.
Until I was about 10-years-old.
I remember walking down the hallway past the eating area into the game room and it seemed a little disappointing to me. It was probably the fifth or sixth birthday party I had recently attended, or something like that, and it was a little disappointing. The magic was gone. I knew where to find all of my favorite games and even figured out which ski ball machine was likely to pay off. The magic was one. It wasn't special anymore because it had become an normal part of my fifth-grade life.
Growing up, Colorado was a magical place. In Colorado, I got to ski. Each summer in middle school, we went to camp in Gunnison. And in high school, we even went backpacking. Family vacations throughout college brought us back to the mountains, and when I was looking at graduate programs, the state's allure won me over and I relocated to Denver. Upon completing my degree, I couldn't get myself to leave. Dream jobs were offered...but out of state. And so I stayed. For over four years total, I called this magical place my home. I got used to climbing in Rocky Mountain National Park on the weekends and skiing almost weekly in Summit County. What used to be vacation became every day life.
Now that I've been officially a resident of Texas for almost two years, coming back to visit is even more special. The hill country where I live is gorgeous, but it's nothing compared to the magnificent mountains that hug the western side of Denver. The hugeness and vastness of these rocky structures is overwhelming. The sunset is picturesque.
I miss it. A lot. I miss driving to work with the reflection of the sun lighting up Long's Peak and the Flatirons. I miss the snow. I miss the skiing. I miss the people. But there's something about moving away and only coming back about four times a year that makes it even more magical, like Enchanted Castle each and every time I find myself lucky enough to visit.
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Remember that feeling?!
20 years or so ago.
Christmas Eve.
Maybe elementary school?
Remember that feeling? You were so excited you could hardly sit still! The house started to fill with people. It was snowing outside. Your mom told you to tuck in your shirt or straighten your dress. Everyone around you was laughing and wishing each other Merry Christmas. The fanciest plates in the house were filled with food and long-stemmed glasses for the grown-ups were being passed out. Your mom got out the good candy, and you were allowed to eat some before dinner. Church was coming later, and there you'd get to see the live nativity, see your friends and sing Christmas carols. You run around and try to find the other children. You have way more energy than normal. You get to stay up past your bedtime. It's Christmas...tomorrow.
That's how I feel right now. I am physically having a hard time sitting still. My heart is probably beating faster than it's normal resting pace. And I have to consciously force my face to stop smiling. No one else is here. I'm at my house all alone...smiling. I want to jump up and down and hug someone. And I will...in a few hours.
Because in a few hours...I'll BE in Colorado.
YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Confessions of a Slacker Blogger
I've managed to get back into writing blogs lately, but I must confess: I am a bad, blog-reading friend. I have failed to keep up to date with the blogs listed on the right of this page. I'm a Slacker Blogger, I confess.
If I could figure out how to get this RSS thing to work so it goes to my email and or iPhone, that would help a lot. If you want to set that up for me, you would be officially nominated to be my favorite person of the day. Probably of the week. Maybe of the month. It's a highly respected award. Any takers?
Fax Machines Are Creepy
Clicking on the little paper clip icon in an email to attach a document in an email is normal to me. I do this several times each day, never wondering what will happen when I hit "send." But fax machines are different. They buzz and beep and have special procedures for buttons and inserting paper. You need cover sheets and look for confirmation sheets. They just don't make sense. Once you put the paper through the mini-printer-looking thing...it goes off into Never, Never Land through a phone line and pops out in some office somewhere else in the world. It just doesn't make sense.
I consider myself rather technologically competent. I'm not a tech junkie and don't have the latest and greatest gadgets all the time, but I do consider myself at least slightly tech savvy. Nonetheless, as I fill out medical reimbursement forms for physical therapy, I find myself hand-writing the blank spaces on the paper, finding envelops and looking for a stamp. I can't bring myself to fax them. It seems crazy to put my personal information on a form like that and send it off into Never, Never Land. What if it gets sent to the wrong office? How do I know who's picking it up when it spits out the other end? What if it never makes it there? I realize that these are completely ridiculous questions, and that fax machines have been tried and tested throughout the past couple of decades, but I don't care. They're creepy
I consider myself rather technologically competent. I'm not a tech junkie and don't have the latest and greatest gadgets all the time, but I do consider myself at least slightly tech savvy. Nonetheless, as I fill out medical reimbursement forms for physical therapy, I find myself hand-writing the blank spaces on the paper, finding envelops and looking for a stamp. I can't bring myself to fax them. It seems crazy to put my personal information on a form like that and send it off into Never, Never Land. What if it gets sent to the wrong office? How do I know who's picking it up when it spits out the other end? What if it never makes it there? I realize that these are completely ridiculous questions, and that fax machines have been tried and tested throughout the past couple of decades, but I don't care. They're creepy
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Return to Running: Training Wheels On!
I was grounded on July 17, 2008. The cartilage was smashed and the bone, cracked and bruise. It was not pretty. My knee was busted. It was the "best" kind of knee injury to have, according to the orthopedic surgeon, because there was no surgery required...but recovery would take a while.
Runners taunted me. Everywhere. They wern't nice about it. On cooler, sunny days, they'd mock me on the sides of road, coming close to my car, almost to intentionally point out that they were running and I was not. It was like I was dumped, and my ex kept showing up wherever I went with a new special someone, just to remind me that I was no longer with him.
March 1 was my goal. I counted the days at one point: 101 long days of nothing faster than walking.
But yesterday, I was happily surprised. I went to my normal physical therapy appointment, and Kate was waiting with a follow-up evaluation. It was scheduled months ago, but I forgot. I thought it would be the familiar variety of strengthening and cardio, mostly on a bike, of course, and nothing more.
A little caught off guard, I was happy. She pinched my knee cap in a place that used to make my whole leg jerk with pain. Then the little gadget testing balance came out of the black box. She tried to knock me over - and did - but it took a little more force than in previous months. Next was the squats. Only weeks ago, I wobbled so much that it was clear my right side was weaker than the left. The jump test that followed was new. 69 cm on one leg, my left leg. Could I jump as far on my right? That would indicate that it was back to normal. I jumped. And fumbled the landing. The marker telling me how far I went on the left side got in the way. So I tried again. This time, I had a tiny extra hop at the end. The judges wanted to lower my score. But I asked for one more attempt: 68 inches. Success! And so, finally, it was on to the treadmill. I was used to this, but typically only for walking or with the harness that lifted me up by a crane, removing weight-baring pressure from my knee. This time it was different: she had me run at FWB, Full Body Weight. It didn't hurt. We both expected it to, and so I ran a few more minutes. Eight total, and it never hurt.
As we both wondered if this was a fluke, Kate, my phenomenal PT, handed me the Return to Running plan anyway, with words of caution not to push it too hard. An appointment next week to set up an Independent Training Program - or ITP - was scheduled, as well as a follow up in March.
It's like running with training wheels. This week, 2-3 three times, I'm allowed to start with running two minutes and walking for three - repeat four times. It slowly progresses over the next 12 weeks, and eventually, I'll be up to 20 minutes of running and 2 minutes of walking - repeat twice. And in a few, short months, running and I will be back together again. Oh, how I miss thee...
Runners taunted me. Everywhere. They wern't nice about it. On cooler, sunny days, they'd mock me on the sides of road, coming close to my car, almost to intentionally point out that they were running and I was not. It was like I was dumped, and my ex kept showing up wherever I went with a new special someone, just to remind me that I was no longer with him.
March 1 was my goal. I counted the days at one point: 101 long days of nothing faster than walking.
But yesterday, I was happily surprised. I went to my normal physical therapy appointment, and Kate was waiting with a follow-up evaluation. It was scheduled months ago, but I forgot. I thought it would be the familiar variety of strengthening and cardio, mostly on a bike, of course, and nothing more.
A little caught off guard, I was happy. She pinched my knee cap in a place that used to make my whole leg jerk with pain. Then the little gadget testing balance came out of the black box. She tried to knock me over - and did - but it took a little more force than in previous months. Next was the squats. Only weeks ago, I wobbled so much that it was clear my right side was weaker than the left. The jump test that followed was new. 69 cm on one leg, my left leg. Could I jump as far on my right? That would indicate that it was back to normal. I jumped. And fumbled the landing. The marker telling me how far I went on the left side got in the way. So I tried again. This time, I had a tiny extra hop at the end. The judges wanted to lower my score. But I asked for one more attempt: 68 inches. Success! And so, finally, it was on to the treadmill. I was used to this, but typically only for walking or with the harness that lifted me up by a crane, removing weight-baring pressure from my knee. This time it was different: she had me run at FWB, Full Body Weight. It didn't hurt. We both expected it to, and so I ran a few more minutes. Eight total, and it never hurt.
As we both wondered if this was a fluke, Kate, my phenomenal PT, handed me the Return to Running plan anyway, with words of caution not to push it too hard. An appointment next week to set up an Independent Training Program - or ITP - was scheduled, as well as a follow up in March.
It's like running with training wheels. This week, 2-3 three times, I'm allowed to start with running two minutes and walking for three - repeat four times. It slowly progresses over the next 12 weeks, and eventually, I'll be up to 20 minutes of running and 2 minutes of walking - repeat twice. And in a few, short months, running and I will be back together again. Oh, how I miss thee...
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