With the burn of a new year upon us, many of us will be entering the unknown — the inside of a bike/ski/fitness shop. Most of you dread the thought of entering the entrails of a shop built of muscle, sweat and testosterone. We'll admit it; the intimidation factor is high.
But we encourage you to brave it. And here's how it'll go down:
The first thing to admit is that it's mostly men who will greet you when you walk in the door. They are fit, lean, often ruggedly handsome men. They are nothing like you or the man you keep on your couch. You feel fat, slovenly and slightly uncoordinated in their presence, their beauty.
To this, we say, rejoice.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
The perfect glass of milk
I poured the children identical, I mean identical, glasses of milk this morning.
I did this without thinking, upending a jug of milk, emptying it, easily and swiftly in two glasses, half and half. I looked down to see how precisely I had done this and a little pride ran through me.
I knew, given that it was milk, I would take a dressing down for giving one more than the other, a dollop of calcium extra was a fate too heavy for any child to bear. If I'd been pouring pop, a scuffle upending the table might come to the child walking about with Sprite teetering a 1/16th of an inch higher in his glass.
How had this happened? This miracle of being able to decipher a glass' precise volume, its joy, its punishment, while simultaneously buttering toast (again, the precision like that of a surgeon's blade)?
I did this without thinking, upending a jug of milk, emptying it, easily and swiftly in two glasses, half and half. I looked down to see how precisely I had done this and a little pride ran through me.
I knew, given that it was milk, I would take a dressing down for giving one more than the other, a dollop of calcium extra was a fate too heavy for any child to bear. If I'd been pouring pop, a scuffle upending the table might come to the child walking about with Sprite teetering a 1/16th of an inch higher in his glass.
How had this happened? This miracle of being able to decipher a glass' precise volume, its joy, its punishment, while simultaneously buttering toast (again, the precision like that of a surgeon's blade)?
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Letter to my boys about Grandma
I wrote this May 20, 2010 to my boys, and just came across it again. I'll share it here.....
Dear Kendall and Nelson,
Today it was pouring rain, 46 degrees out and bitter. It had rained all morning and yesterday we had Great Grandma Vera’s funeral service/burial. It’s terrible to say burial and I hope you are very old and very gray before you ever have to face the permanence and sadness of saying goodbye to someone it seems impossible to live without.
It was a gorgeous day for her service yesterday, but today the outside matched my insides. The sad, emptiness of the day. I wanted to ride as hard as I could, as long as I could and let some of it out. Just be a body in motion, doing, not feeling.
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