Carbon copies

When you're young, you don't think about the grand scheme of things, the bigger picture of life, or generally anything that matters beyond whatever semester of high school you're plowing through. My world at age 17 was certainly that type of world. Little mattered beyond swimming, grades, and deciding which college I planned to attend. Swimming was at the forefront of all that, since it would be the major deciding factor in my college choice, and it was absolutely my passion. I was good at it. Swimming, as you obviously know by now after reading this blog for a number of years, was my life.

Some of you know the story of my senior year of high school, and the corresponding high school swimming season. In Arizona, high school swimming is highly competitive—many swimmers achieve national standards at the championship meet, although many of the fastest swimmers opt to train with their year-round club teams, while other swimmers work out with the high school team exclusively. I was one of the former, training every day at the University of Arizona with my club team, one of the top 10 nationally at the time. I was working my way toward the most incredible season I'd ever had. I was in the best shape of my life, and I was shocking myself every day in practice with the times I was putting on the board. I couldn't wait for the state championships, and knew I had it in me to become an Arizona state champion, and hopefully win a team championship in the process.

On the way to States was Regionals, the local swim meet pitting area high schools of a similar size against each other, and the meet where we'd swim fast enough to qualify well for States, but weren't completely rested. My senior year at regionals, everything seemed to be going as planned. I swam fast, my teammates swam fast, and we dominated the meet.

Until the 200 medley relay. An official made a call from an outside lane, four lanes away from the lane my team was swimming in, that one of the girls jumped the gun on a relay exchange. We were disqualified. Immediately, we ended up losing points that would have helped us secure a victory at States, and we were devastated. I couldn't understand how the call was legal, and Mr. Ward, our high school team coach, couldn't, either. He argued the call and tried to get it reversed, but in the end, we ended up having to take the disqualification of one of our three relays, which easily would have placed in the top three at States.

A couple weeks later, we took our show on the road to Phoenix, where we competed in the state championship meet. I placed second in my individual events and helped my other two relay teams to top-three finishes, in the process earning several NISCA High School All-American honors and personal best times. During the meet, there was a problem with the bulkhead, the artificial wall used to create the 25-yard pool that we swam in at Arizona State University. The meet director decided that the women's 50 yard freestyle would be scored differently due to the bulkhead breaking during a race, and as a result, our rival team gained several points that they wouldn't have, had the scoring remained the same. The meet, and the championship title, then came down to the last relay of the meet.

We were edged out of a state title in both the event, and as a team, by four points.

Later that fall, at our team banquet, Mr. Ward allowed each of the seniors to speak. I don't remember much of what I said, and I don't remember much of what anyone said, actually, but I do remember this: After the banquet was over, Mr. Ward handed me a piece of paper, three sheets of carbon paper still bound together that would have entered the 200 medley relay into the state championship, had we not been disqualified. It was the piece of paper that would have secured enough points to win that championship, and Mr. Ward must have known how much that meant to me. I knew it meant a lot to him, since we were the most competitive girls' team that Rincon/UHS had ever fielded, and we all expected to come home to Tucson as champions. This championship would have, and should have, belonged to all of us.

Four years later, my college swim team at Tulane would meet a similar fate, where the last event of the meet would decide a championship, but things turned out differently in that case. Even still, I've come across the relay entry from November 2001 while cleaning things out at home and have thought about how much that championship would have meant to every girl on that team. In many ways, it would have meant more than my college conference championship title. 

This afternoon, I received news that Mr. Ward had passed away. Immediately I thought of this story and how I've wanted to share it for some time. I think when we lose someone, whether it's permanently or through a more temporary disconnect in life, the memories that first come to mind are the best things we remember about that person.

I'll remember Mr. Ward as an incredibly kind man, the father of my longtime friend Stacey, a longtime friend of my own father, and the coach who was so supportive of me, especially through that final season. How he gave me that piece of paper, however, is something I'll never forget.

A transformation

Of all the things on my 30-day list, this is perhaps the one that will yield the greatest transformation. My living room accent wall was repainted today, several days earlier than I was told it could be done, and I'm so happy with my choice. I went with brown, since it's the most neutral and therefore the easiest to work with.

I'm not the best photographer in the world, what with my 2005 camera and all, but this should give you a pretty good idea of the living room as it is now. I like that you can see the Christmas lights on my balcony, too. 

And actually, the color change was prompted by new furniture, not by my list. The item that was on this list was to hang curtains in the living room. These curtains were previously in my bedroom, but I think they are a better fit out here. It bugs me that they're just a little too short, since they are hanging over blinds (that I can't remove). I won't dwell on it, though. Maybe I'll hand-stitch some fabric to the bottom.

There are many more changes and additions to be made to this room, but I knew you'd like to see the start of the transformation. It's already feeling much more like home in here.

One more thing I thought of today: I want to add a nineteenth item to my list. I came across a scarf I began knitting sometime in 2008 or 2009—it may have been as far back as 2007, actually—that remains unfinished. So I'd like to either finish that scarf or knit an entirely new one. File that one under finishing what I started. 

Thirty days and a list of eighteen things

Alternate title: December to Remember (but this is not a sales event, contrary to what all the car commercials say).

Since I graduated from college four years ago, few aspects of my life have truly felt concrete. Adulthood has never carried a sense of permanence, and as a result, I’ve never truly been comfortable in my surroundings. For example, I’ve never fully invested myself in any apartment I’ve lived in and have purchased cookbooks that I’ve never cooked from. It’s as though I’ve been waiting for a signal that yes, this is all real, and yes, my life is my own to create.

So the putting-off and never-doing ends with this challenge, a 30-day bucket list inspired by my friend Rivers and many others who plan to take on this personal challenge. It begins today and ends December 31, at least for me.

You’ll notice that many items on the list below have to do with my apartment, which I hope to make feel like a home. I desire a cozy, happy place with details that are my own—a place that gives me a sense of purpose and permanence. For a long time I’ve neglected the little things that I know will bring me joy.

I can’t wait to start and to share my progress with you.

The list:

1. Take photos (difficult to quantify, but I want to be better about this)
2. Prepare one of the flagged (never-tried, but want-to-cook) recipes from my cookbooks each week
3. Paint an accent wall in my bedroom
4. Hang curtains in my living room
5. Acquire more indoor plants
6. Work out before work once a week
7. Cook the dried beans in my pantry
8. Take a trip somewhere by myself
9. Have friends over for dinner
10. Call a friend I haven’t spoken to in a long time
11. Make something homemade for Christmas for my friends
12. Frame my diploma from Tulane and hang it in my office
13. Buy flowers for myself to add warmth to my home
14. Stain and finish my chairs from Ikea
15. Get a new dining room table and stain it to match the chairs
16. Bake a loaf of bread
17. Go to mass every Sunday during Advent
18. Read a book from start to finish

This time of year

The weather in New Orleans has just begun to turn cold, and I couldn't be happier about losing myself in the little joys of the season.

This time of year is for curling up with Pearl, watching old movies and sipping a mug of tea or a glass of red wine. My nails are painted a dark color, something something raisin, and I'm happily decked out in sleeves. Once again, it's the season for running in capris and tights (my favorite). I'm loving the feeling of crisp air on my face when I go outside. Streetcars are decorated with garlands and bows, and my favorite houses Uptown are beautifully framed by sparkling strands of lights. My own little balcony is lit up, too, and my cacti and citrus tree are basking in the glow.

Mostly, though, I'm thinking of Arizona and how excited I am to be traveling home for a week around Christmas. I haven't seen my youngest brother in two years, so that will be a highlight of my trip. I'm looking forward to Christmas Eve with my family, which will include the overflow mass in the gym at church (it's always the better mass), a cheese crisp at Casa Molina, a movie in our living room, and almost certainly an hour or so of wrapping presents while I'm full of Mexican food and so tired that I can barely keep my eyes open. Then there will be Christmas morning with cinnamon rolls and something from Starbucks for everyone. Smiles, surprises, and shy Misty making her way through piles of gifts and wrapping paper.

Right now, nothing sounds better than that. Home.

Houston

Last week, I traveled to Houston for work for a couple days. Without going into detail, my visits to Houston are bittersweet. A couple years ago, I'd planned to move there, imagined myself there, and mentally prepared myself to leave New Orleans for what seemed like an incredible twist of happiness in my life. Needless to say, things didn't go as planned.

Visiting Houston this time was no different. That familiar feeling swelled in me again, the comfortable warmth of a place that seems somewhat like home (Arizona is similar to Texas, in ways) combined with the stinging reminder of a future that never was.

Last Wednesday, for the first time in my life, I sat down to dinner alone. Over some excellent chips and salsa and so-so fajitas, I pondered what my life would be like if I lived in Houston today. Of course, I could spend a lot of time thinking about the what-ifs and the way things could have been, but I try not to let my thoughts roam in that direction.

And that night, they didn't. Instead, I found myself thinking about why things never seem to work out the way we think they will. And isn't that true? I don't think any aspect of my adult life fits into the neatly-built puzzle I'd imagined when I was younger. Things that seemed certain have been taken away from me, good friendships fizzled, and life has generally proven rockier than I knew to expect at sixteen. Instead, though, I've been blessed with the presence of wonderful people and the satisfaction of happiness as a result of turbulence. I've been extremely fortunate.

I should know well by now that life can't be planned, that expectations often lead to disappointment, and that I have to accept that things will happen as they're meant to. Those are difficult lessons, and all I can do to master them is to continue to see the good in life. I'm working on that.

Déjà vu

Alternate title: Three Streps and You're Out.

I'm in a weird, unfamiliar place right now—one I've been fortunate enough to avoid as an adult until recently. I'm sick. Again. Again.

Four weeks ago, I endured some of the worst pain I've experienced in my life, thanks to a severe case of strep that attacked me with a vengeance. When the antibiotics that the urgent care doctor had prescribed failed to keep the infection at bay a week later, I went to what I now call an actual doctor (since the urgent care doctor didn't do a strep test) and confirmed that I still had strep. And yesterday, my lymph nodes began to flare up again, those trusty little beacons signaling the start of yet another round of illness. Today my doctor told me that he's baffled as to why the antibiotics aren't working, and that yes, it's still strep. I'm not sure at what point I can distinguish having strep again and still having strep. Grey area, so I'll go with the latter.

There is truly nothing worse than being sick as an adult and having to take care of yourself. Dishes, good intentions, workouts, and, to an extent, your membership in society fall by the wayside, as everything is sacrificed in the name of rest and getting healthy. It's exceptionally frustrating for me to be in this place, not just because Pearl isn't that great of a caretaker when it comes to things like making me tea and bringing me ibuprofen, but because I have so much to look forward to this fall.

If you've been following my training on Claim Your Journey, Twitter, or Dailymile, you know that I sort of impulsively signed up for the Jazz Half Marathon in New Orleans on October 29. I have a couple weeks to build base mileage up to 11 miles. In fact, it's now the beginning of a new week, so there's a 10-mile run waiting for me in a number of days. Beyond October 29, there are races, holidays, get-togethers, and other events I'm looking forward to. I don't want to be held back.

The good news is, that despite having antibiotic-resistant strep (which, upon lab testing, will be reported to the CDC like I'm a patient in a biological warfare film, says my doctor), I can still run. I can still be active.

On Saturday, I ran what was undoubtedly the easiest, smoothest, happiest nine miles of my life. Everything clicked. My fueling worked. My mind was in the right place. My legs happily made it through, with minimal soreness afterward. And as I was running, I thought to myself about how glad I was to be out there, how good it felt to be outside with the wind and sun on my face.

Lesson learned, and oh how I've learned this lesson before: never, ever, ever take your health for granted.

Where I'm from

I am from the rusted-out red wagon tipped on its side in the backyard, from a Speedo racerback with metallic lightning emblazoned across the fabric, and notes from my best friend that ended with LYLAS.

I am from the corner house on the east side of Tucson, the one whose front is obscured by oleanders and guarded by a cholla cactus near the bend of the sidewalk. The backyard is still mine; I can remember the smell of wet mud from playing waterslide on our swingset, just as I recall the strong smell of chlorine on my skin following an afternoon in our pool.

I am from the saguaros, the summer marigolds, the nature walks and treasure hunts, the cactus candy that I love to this day. I am from the mesquite tree in my backyard, specifically the branch up high where a dove sings her song as the sun rises over the Rincons. I am from the Ranch Style Beans and yellow corn that accompany each and every Sunday night barbeque.

I am from Casa Molina on Christmas Eve and teasing my mom about how she pronounces things, from Katherine and Cynthia and the one and only Brigid.

I am from the push to achieve and the sensitivity to understand when pressure becomes too much.

From being anything—anything and anyone I wanted—when I grew up, and the reassurance that life beyond high school would offer so much more.

I am from the discipline, order, expectations, and steadfastness of tradition. And I am equal parts breaking with it. 

I am from Ireland to France to Canada to New York to the American West. I am snow-covered mountains of Utah and moss-covered oaks in New Orleans. I am my Grandpa Bob's Irish stew and my Grandma McCoy's jello salad. There is a written recipe for neither.

From the time I jumped out of a parked van as a child and landed face-first because I thought I could fly, the time we got stuck in a severe thunderstorm at the Grand Canyon, and continuing to race the 100 back despite slamming my heels on the gutter.

I am from the photo album on the built-in shelves in my parents' living room. I am from the file folder that holds drafts of childhood plays and stories. I am from the proud moment of my graduation from Tulane, standing next to my dad and not yet knowing at the time what the next few years would bring.

[Where I'm From, via DubyaWife]

Are these really the dog days?

Usually when I think of August, I think of the doldrums—those seemingly endless days of late summer where there's not much going on. There's something I've never liked about this month. Besides the fact that it drags on and on, especially in Louisiana, August generally makes me feel as if I'm in a holding pattern waiting for the newness and cooler temperatures of fall.

Thankfully, we've been spared so far this year when it comes to unbearable summer heat, and it seems as if this August is flying by. This week especially seems to have escaped me. What gives?
Before we know it, our colleagues will all have returned to the workplace, tanned zombies unable to cope with the fact that the real world just isn't quite as fun as a day at the beach. Soon we'll realize the days are shorter and the mornings will have a hint of crisp coolness to them. Kids will be packed in school buses, their backpacks filled with empty notebooks and sharpened pencils, the promise of a new start and seeing old friends filling them with excitement.

Last year I recognized something new in myself in that I was actually really excited for a new season to roll around. My fond memories of childhood summers and my love of the season typically meant that fall was to be dreaded. This year, however, I'm in that same place where I want to fast-forward through life. September and October for me mean travel, friends coming to visit, wearing pants again, and best of all, running in long-sleeved shirts. Getting back down to business in many ways. Right now I simply can't wait for all of it.

The song of summer

I am seven, sitting on a semi-soaked beach towel, cap and goggles on my head, unwrapping Starburst and enjoying the tartness of each overly sweet chew. I give out the reds, of course, or throw them away, because I hate the fake cherry flavor. It’s early July, and the heat of the Arizona afternoon bears down on everyone at the pool, especially the parents trying to keep their kids entertained between swims. I want so badly to jump in the water, but the butterflies in my stomach tell me that my next race will come soon enough. And it does. I swim hard, swim fast, and am exhausted by the meet’s end, when we all go upstairs and stuff our bellies with pizza until we’re content.

Oh, how I miss my carefree childhood summer days of swim team practice, hanging out with friends, imagining my future via make-believe, and swimming for many more hours in my backyard pool, pictured above.

As an adult, however, my summertime activities are limited by office hours and general life obligations that limit the freedom of my days. Just because my summers aren’t quite the same doesn’t mean that they aren’t valued in the same way as summers past. Nor are they full of melancholy longing for the way things were, though it’s easy to feel that way sometimes. 

Longer days mean more time to run outside beneath the oaks of Audubon Park or City Park, and the sweat brought on by the oppressive southern summertime heat makes me feel like I’ve really accomplished something. More light also means more time for longer walks with Pearl, most of which are spent marveling at her intelligence or laughing at her childlike reactions to things like turtles and muddy puddles. There’s time to read, write, hang out on the balcony, or even to take a catnap before sundown.

At home, I’ll enjoy a glass of my new favorite wine, chilled just to perfection, along with some cherries or nectarine slices. My balcony garden overflows with basil, and I spend a good amount of time in the kitchen crafting pizzas, pastas, and salads with the bounty of summertime produce. My slow cooker takes over the rest of the time. I delight in my open weekends and dream of the beach, and perhaps this weekend I’ll go again. Sand and sun are the source of my renewal. And so are the afternoon thunderstorms that cool the streets, darken the skies, and bring life in New Orleans to a halt.

What I think I’ve learned is that no matter how old I am, summertime needs to feel like an escape. With a little planning and some appreciation for the joys of summer, an escape (even at home) is certainly possible.

Hello, Pearl

The key to change... is to let go of fear.

– Roseanne Cash

Those closest to me know that the past couple weeks haven't been easy, and there's been a good amount of change in my life. Change is one of the most difficult things for me to deal with, other than uncertainty, so it's been quite a ride. There's so much good that comes with major changes in life, though, and I'm in a place where I feel like I'm wearing rose-colored glasses because things just seem good.

Given everything going on, one thing I didn't expect this week was to adopt a dog. Yes, I adopted a dog! You know how they say that dogs rescue you as much as you rescue them? I think that saying holds true in my experience.

Meet Pearl.

She was rescued from a shelter after her previous owner dumped her on I-10 near the Superdome in New Orleans. She has a sweet disposition, yet is quite active and loves to play. I suspect she's a maltipoo (maltese and poodle mix), and she fits well into the top tier of dogs I like—little, white, happy, fluffy ones.

Pearl was matted and in pretty bad shape when they captured her, darting among stopped vehicles on the interstate. She'll be fluffier and whiter as time goes on. Surprisingly, she sustained no injuries from her cruel abandonment, and is an incredibly loving pup.

Ever since my parents/brother got a dog while I was in college, I've missed having a pet around when I've returned to New Orleans. I've wanted to adopt or get a puppy for a long time, but it never seemed like a good time to take the plunge. Further complicating matters is the fact that I'm allergic to dander and would have to find a breed compatible with my allergies.

Well, now seemed as good a time as ever, and I'm grateful for the joy Pearl has brought into my life.