Don't "George Lucas" your blog!!

I'm on this whole don't overthink things kick.  Trying, anyway.  So, my blog postings are usually written all at once and then, pretty hastily, published.  Just get it done!  While I sit around (aka run myself ragged with my odd working shifts and the kids) and wait for something else to write about, sometimes I think about prior postings.

Oh, man.  I really should have used this picture instead of that one.  

You know, that was a weird phrase.  It never seemed right, let's try again.

Should I add a follow-up to that one about the thing I wrote about that one time?

Most times I do sneak back and edit.  Hey, why not?  It's my weird little world and I build and destroy as I see fit. 

My husband caught me tinkering and shook his head.  "You don't want to 'George Lucas' it," he said, "people don't like that."  Actually, I think he said that people hate it.  Hate it?!  Hmm...

I asked him for an explanation of 'George Lucasing', so here you go:

<<<<<<<<<<<<zzzztttttttttt>>>>>>>>>>>>

We now interrupt this broadcast…

Greetings fellow readers of this blog.  A recent blog post by my lovely wife was nearly altered after the fact until I told her not to George Lucas it.  As she is not the lifelong Star Wars aficionado that I am, she was not as familiar with that concept as say the folks in The People v. George Lucas (as an example).   Twenty years ago, George Lucas re-released the OG Star Wars Trilogy.  As Randall says in Clerks 2, “there is only one return of and it’s of the Jedi, not the king.”  The fanfare surrounding the Special Editions as they came to be known was that it would be the first since 1983 that these flicks would be seen in theaters.  The other big news was that a scene filmed with a human stand-in aka a proxy for Jabba the Hutt would be re-inserted and a CG Jabba would be used.  It was big news and we were all excited for it.  And then we weren’t.

It became apparent that George had decided to change things up that weren’t needed.  The two most egregious issues were Greedo shooting first and missing at point blank range and the dance sequence in Jedi.  Han Solo is a drug smuggler when we meet in A New Hope.  Greedo is a low level bounty hunter and not a successful one at that sent to bring Solo alive or dead to Jabba.  Shenanigans ensue and Han walks away.  George wanted to soften Han, hence him shooting Greedo was now a response.

I won’t even discuss that shitty dance sequence in Jabba’s palace.  Or the “NOOOoooooo” that Vader now shouts as he tosses Emperor Palpatine down the reactor shaft in Jedi…

There were some good changes, Cloud City was altered and opened to show it as more spacious and open to the air.  The X-Wings leaving Yavin and flying to the Death Star.  Hell, even the inclusion of Hayden Christiansen as a force ghost at the end of Jedi was a nice touch.  But then there were things that weren't changed or fixed, like when Han comes out of carbonite still looks cheap and the computer graphics in the first flick.  Ugh.

So long story short, George Lucasing is when you change something creative after the fact and regardless of how many good changes, all it takes is two egregious bad decisions to ruin it all.

"No one is even going to notice," I waved him off, "nobody is going to read them twice, anyway."

As I write this to you, I am sitting on a photo I plan to add to my last blog post because I found it, and it's better than the one I used.  What's the harm in that?

I'm just going to think of these digital ramblings as living documents.  If I wait for perfection, nothing will ever happen.  Like now, I'm going to hit "publish" and be done with it.  Unless I think of something...

In the end, whether I edit or I don't, I think we all know:  Han shot first.

I cried at work

I'm not someone who cries much.  I'm too empathetic.  I know that doesn't make any sense, but being an empath can be a nightmare.  I had to learn how to handle it a long time ago.  Feeling your own feelings and then feeling everyone else's is just too much.  You can't function.

All the feelings.  Trying hard not to cry.  I am not sure why this picture exists.  Class play, grade two.  I was told I was not going to be in the play just before it began.  They gave my part away.  My little girl heart is crashing through the floor.  I am holding the programs they asked me to hand out.  Small consolation.

If I'm offering you full disclosure, I think it's very possible that I went too far in the other direction.  I can be cold and withdrawn.  I find it hard to cry tears of joy.  I sense the importance of the situation.  I do appreciate its magnitude.  Sometimes I just can't express that.

My husband, on the other hand, cries during The Empire Strikes Back when Han & Leia confess their love for one another.  Every.  Single.  Time.

I walk through many things observing, to save myself from becoming overwhelmed by emotion.  Many times I feel broken.  I have three children whom I desperately love and appreciate and worry over.  But when they were born I never cried.  I felt defective.  I worried so much I printed out a checklist for postpartum depression and asked my husband to check once a week.  I didn't have it (though PPD is a common issue affecting as many as 1 in 8 mothers--get screened so you can get the help you deserve), but I did have Anxiety with a capital A.  Every car trip was a door-clutching ride from hell because I was afraid of losing them in an accident.

My husband also has anxiety, but his manifests in ways that don't affect him on a day-to-day basis.  His fears are most similar to a hyperactive imagination.  He refuses many amusement park rides, wondering if the bolts and supports will snap, leaving him victim to the indiscriminate cruelty of physics.  It's not less, it's just different.

Five

Anxiety has been with me forever.  I didn't know what it was called back then, but I would lie awake as a child worrying that the house might catch fire.  I let my family sleep because I loved them, but I stayed awake watching over them like it was a job every five or six or seven year old should take on.  I knew that if I could catch the fire early, I could save them.  Sometimes I would sneak downstairs to check that the doors were locked.  When I would have nightmares, I would cry myself back to sleep because I didn't want to upset anyone else.  The feelings I had were palpable.  I can feel them again, when I remember.  Fear, that would chill me straight to my bones and the love.  Deep love.

By all measurements I had an average to above average childhood.  The joy of sharing a house with my grandparents for so many years meant that I could know them well and I remain deeply grateful for this.  The fact that that neighborhood was FILLED with children who were all within 4 years of my own age meant that every single day I had someone to play with and many many many adventures.  But I remember anxiety as well.  I remember a throng of kids playing a game in the street in front of my house (back then the kids on foot or on bike would spill into the roads at all times).  I wanted to play but I didn't understand the rules.  I crouched down, peering out the window.  I studied their movements and their words for what felt like an hour.  I tried to teach myself the game and when I was still confused, I slumped down and cried.  I was too afraid to ask.  When they knocked on my door I was already overwrought so I hid.  And these were my every-day friends!

Always outside

Directly next door were two brothers and a pool.  I played with the oldest boy regularly and had been inside their house many times.  I was told that I was welcome to swim I just had to ask first.  My voice and legs gave out every time.  The Big A was torturing me.  I would crouch between the trees that formed the borders of the two yards and hope to be seen.  I wanted to be noticed so badly.  Oh, the fun they were having!  I can still hear the splashing and laughter as I write this.  Sometimes I sat for hours.

To this day I cannot hear the ubiquitous music of an ice cream truck without sudden dread.  I saved my money for the ice cream truck and had it ready in my room, right near the door.  Oh, but what if I run for it an I am too late?  What if I don't have enough money after all?  What if I stand outside but it never comes down my street?

Music is serious business!

My family decided I was shy.  Though if you know me, shy is not really the word.  I have no problem speaking my mind.  I love talking to complete strangers and I have never ever backed away from being on stage.  I'm not a great singer, but I belted out solos in sixth grade chorus.  I'm happy to board a bus of complete strangers to cover a large political march many states away.  I frequently stood up at the city council microphone to defended a non-profit youth organization for whom I worked.  I taught for years.  Party filled with strangers?  Sounds great!  Shy just doesn't fit.

Anxiety is weird.

Let's talk about phones (but not on them).  I could hop a plane to a conference and make fast friends with strangers, having made all the arrangements entirely by phone.  Calling a dear friend made (still makes!) me sweaty.  When I started dating, if it was my turn to call I would make them promise to be at the phone at a specific time so I minimized my chances of sounding foolish to their families.  I had to know it was going to be them picking up and I was still clenching my hands and pacing nervously.

One of my senior pics.  Just casually lying in a tick field.  It is giving me hair envy, though.

I've never been particularly wealthy so my employment has always been very necessary, even if evil.  The Big A is on red alert every time a supervisor passes by.  They look upset.  Did I make a mistake?  I enjoy interviews, but once I have the job my anxiety creeps in.  I'm a hard worker.  I take extra shifts.  I stay late.  I work from home.  I learn quickly.  My reviews are all excellent.  I hardly ever call out sick and I am never late.  When I assume my boss is going to be unhappy with me it makes no sense.

It had to have started in high school, the move to stifle my emotions.  I became more keenly aware of all the ways I was too.  Too direct.  Too emotional.  Too outspoken.  There were good toos, but I wasn't interested in the ways I was already functioning well.  I've always tried to improve myself.  For some strange reason it has been the driving force just underneath the surface.

I'm certain that I was in the full throes of this experiment while in college.  I successfully subverted my feelings, only to begin a two-year battle with depression.  While there were certainly mitigating factors contributing to this bought--my grandfather, who raised be like a second father, died a horrible death from brain cancer for one--I don't think turning inward and building so many walls helped in any way.

This week, I cried at work.

I had been called to a floor where an emergency procedure was being conducted.  While the nurses were around, the wife seemed nervous, but had on a brave face.  Once he was wheeled back, I turned to her to ask if she wanted any water or coffee to drink.  She was crying.  I said something about how difficult it must be to wait and that the surgical team is really wonderful.  And then I cried.  Maybe it's not so unusual to cry with someone, but it is for me.  I felt her concern for their family.  I felt her sadness over things unsaid should he not wake up.  There it all was.

As I turned and gave her privacy, it occurred to me that my wall must finally be coming down.  Feelings can become overwhelming when you take on everything that surrounds you, but it's better than not feeling anything at all.  Worse, when you don't show your feelings you risk others thinking you don't care.  I'll not have that for my loved ones.

And he was fine, by the way.  I nodded to her when I heard him wake for the nurses, and we shared a huge smile when he was finally brought out to her.

I'm definitely healing.

And the anxiety?  That's always going to be there.  It's a genetic gift.  I've found a low dose of medication that works very well for me.  And of course there are exercise and yoga and good foods, but those were never enough to help me on their own.

I feel blessed.

I might even call someone sometime, just for kicks.

The Entropy Filter

This is where you learn that I am a contradiction.  I do meticulous research.  I am incredibly impulsive.  I also just shaved my head.*

*This is a follow-up to an earlier post but it's not necessary to read that one to follow this one.  Wait, read that one.  It's funny.

I don't think I can do this justice without photographic evidence, but be warned that the photos are annoying selfies because I am enjoying unusual alone time.  Holy cats! this place is quiet.  Plus, my husband takes horrible pictures.

These gratuitous selfies will all contain a blurry area about halfway down and towards the left.  My toddler dropped my phone.  Then I dropped it the other twenty-seven times.  Apart from the absolutely obliterated screen, my phone works fine, so I'm not getting a new one.  I prefer to call this unintended photographic effect "the entropy filter."

Since you've now caught up by reading the previous blog, I'll jump in.  Nothing worked.  NOTHING.

Just how a person gets from long hair to bald is a matter of circumstance.  I couldn't find any other way out (meticulous research) so I grabbed the scissors (impulsivity).

Let's take a walk.

I had to work in one hour.  Time to get this show on the road...

Before.  I'm was excited as I appear.

I found that the cord for the clippers made it almost all the way to the tub so I almost had a super easy time cleaning up.  Instead I made a huge mess but at least I had someplace to sit.

The scissor bit.  Guess I'm really doing this!

Cutting the hair was pretty okay.  I totally get why little kids sneak off with their safety scissors and go hog-wild on their hair.  The power is intoxicating.

I thought I would waste a bunch of time cutting different wild styles but I wasn't anywhere near a mirror and typing that out loud just now makes me realize how ridiculous it was.

Hack job mess.  And I am now holding clippers!

This is not a drill!!!

Buzzing your hair is liberating.  It's almost too quick and easy.

Somewhat nauseated.

I was going to stop with "pixie" short, but it didn't look right to me.  When I go in, I go ALL in.  I swapped the guard to a cool number two.

Deep breaths.

It grows.  It grows.  And so will I.

Buzzed.  What do you think of my new 'do?

The response has been interesting.

My kids love it.  I now have the least hair of anyone living in my home, human or feline.  

I've always wanted to do this.  Do it at least once.  I keep a list and I've been trying to fulfill those "someday things."  Really, why not?  Next on the list are: snowshoe racing, playing ragtime piano (which means improving my level of proficiency from "she plays piano by ear" to "she actually knows what she is doing and can really tear it up") and hang gliding.  And painting my kitchen.

People keep asking me if I donated to a cancer charity.  I'm sad to say I did not.  Could not.  It disappoints them.  I get it.  Even if there was no issue within, my hair had sustained too much damage to be shared.  Last year I wanted to join in an event where people fundraise then shave their heads for cancer research.  I was too nervous but not for the hair-cutting, but of having to ask lots of people for money.  It's something I find challenging.  Maybe next year.  

Others think I did it in some kind of self-actualizing celebration of personal liberty, throwing off the shackles of the imposed feminine ideal.  That sounds pretty awesome.  

I don't usually share the true impetus of the cut.  It's too long, somewhat personal, and they are just curious because it's an unusual choice.  Nobody wants to stand there for the unabridged version.  It's boring.  

Usually, I just smile and say: "Hey, it worked for Sigourney Weaver!" 

Image by Lewis Cozzi

Takes them a minute...

The accidental dog: life, love, and loss

The story of sweet Denali spans some of the most dynamic years of my life.  Through my early twenties and half of my thirties, an eyebrow piercing, one semi-customized bird tattoo, three apartments, two houses, three or four relationships (depending how you count those), a marriage, and two children, she was there.

I wasn't supposed to even have a dog.  My apartment was strictly "no pets" and I was still a bit of a nomad at that point so I was fine with it.  I never had pets as a kid, and if anything I wanted a cat, not a dog.  Dogs are too much work.  I was checking the adoptable pet listings to find a puppy for my boyfriend's mother's birthday.  I saw her listing and headed down.  I didn't know anything about adopting animals but I knew my boyfriend's mother would give her a phenomenal home.  They had a nice large house, a yard, and a friendly older dog for companionship.  It said that she had lived with dogs, cats, and young children, and was already housebroken which, to me, made her a better gift than a regular puppy which would mean his mother would be up all hours of the night potty-training.

I didn't feel too much guilt as my then-boyfriend's friend posed as our landlord on the telephone, saying dogs were okay.  There was less than a week until her birthday and the dog wasn't actually staying with us past then.  I knew it was the only way to keep the surprise.

I think it took two days for me to fall in love with her.  And one more day to locate a free puppy from an accidental litter, one state over.  The day of the party, we drove up to choose a puppy from that litter for his mother, and I was left with a dog I wasn't even allowed to have.  It made sense to my heart and back then, I always followed my heart.

Fortunately, by the grace of the universe, because I don't know how I'd have made it this far without said grace, the real landlord was forgiving and let her stay.  I now had a dog.  I had a dog I didn't want or plan for, but a dog I loved and sorely needed.

She was half Alaskan Malamute and half Golden Retriever so I changed her name from the feline-sounding Sadie, to Denali.  She loved to run away.  She would make her way to the train tracks and then just keep following them for as long as she could run--which was far.  Eventually I convinced my boyfriend that she wasn't the sort of dog that you could keep off-leash.

Then we broke up.

My next significant other was 90 percent less hippy.  He tolerated Denali but you better believe I heard about how much harder everything was with a dog.  (Thank goodness he didn't want children!)  It was hard to find an apartment--very true.  It was hard to stay out late on Friday and Saturday nights because someone had to head home to the dog.  I was quite willing to always be sober and drive home for her, but it became a constant source of conflict.  He accused me of putting a dog before a person.  Dirty pool.  Instead of leaving, I stayed and sent my beloved Denali to spend the weekend with my mother.  It became a week.  Then two years.  Yes, the same mother that never wanted dogs or cats.  She fell in love with Denali, too.

Denali came back to me when I met my husband.  Oh, how I had missed her!  I found the same dog that would comfort me as I cried tears of anguish or youthful confusion was even more wonderful to have around when times were good.  She gave us all sorts of humorous stories including the time this sneaky pup ate two full batches of double-chocolate cookies.  We tried to induce vomiting with hydrogen peroxide but she seemed completely unaffected by either dose.  She seemed to like it, actually.  One huge emergency vet bill later and she was released as completely fine.  She never tried to steal another cookie, though.

We moved her into our tiny apartment and brought her to the house we bought.  She loved to go hiking.  I still remember having her up to camp one weekend and watching her chase the sparks from the campfire.  She never got tired.

She was there for our first two children.  Our oldest son loved her so much that she was the theme of his first birthday party.  No, really.  Here is the cake my husband made for him:

They were great friends.

Shortly after our second child arrived, it became clear that Denali was failing.  She seemed to be having trouble seeing, she didn't want to do much more than sleep, and she wanted to be left alone most of the time.  She had accidents in the house and her whole personality was shifting.  Endless hours of research brought us to something akin to canine dementia.

Denali's timeline was drawing shorter.  I was going to have to make some heart-wrenching decisions.  The dog I was never supposed to have was going to leave us, leave me, and his time it was forever.

I knew what I was going to have to do, but first, I spoke to friends and family who had been through this sort of thing before.  The only question I still had was: How do you know when it is time?  And it turned out to be the only question no one could answer.  She was still eating and drinking.   I was unsure if she was in pain.  If she was, it wasn't obvious to me.  She had snapped at people.  What if she bit someone?  She didn't seem happy anymore but she was still functioning.  I was so confused.  I couldn't sleep.  I called the veterinarian's office.  I asked them the same question.  They told me, with the gentle certainty of experience: if you are calling us, then you know it is time.

Her last day was filled with soft treats, hamburgers, cheese, basically whatever she wanted.  She was so excited that my heart broke yet again.  It was one of her good days.  The days that make you doubt your decision.  Why hadn't we made all of her days this good?  In retrospect, I'm glad her last day was so good for her, but it didn't make it easy for me.

She rode all the way to the vet on my lap.  The biggest dogs always think they can fit in the smallest places.  I was pretty sure she knew.  We said goodbye, my husband, my mother, and I.  It was peaceful for her and she had almost all of her favorite people with her.  We stroked her fur and told her what a good girl she was, how she was the best dog in the whole world.  She really was.

My oldest son asked for her for weeks.  Nothing I could do would prevent the tears that would immediately well up in my eyes and nothing I said made any sense to him.  She simply disappeared from his life.

Time has softened the sting of it.  We have three children now and our oldest doesn't ask about her anymore.  We keep her old collar on top of the fridge.  Sometimes I pick it up and turn it over and over in my hands.  When I think of her now it is with fondness and seldom tears.  But I'll be forever grateful for my accidental dog.

True love is head lice, and other realizations

I spent last night on the couch, waking every forty minutes or so to again try not to scratch my head and neck.  You're just imagining it, I would tell myself.  Then I would flip over, readjust my pillow and blanket, pretend I wasn't too cold to sleep, and try not to think about the possibility that right then, dozens of head lice were feeding and breeding on my defenseless scalp.

I'd been itchy for a week or so.  I noticed it most during shifts at work when I was running around a lot busy and a little sweaty.  Well, it is hard work.  Must be some major winter dryness, I remember thinking.  Once, I checked my six-year-old's head to see if *I* might have lice.  Nah, he was clean so I was, too.  Everyone knows that if your household gets hit by lice, it was brought home by the kid who is in school.  

Yesterday morning I woke without an alarm clock for the first time in forever.  I was supposed to be relaxing, and I had big plans to paint and meditate and read and NAP, but I couldn't shake a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I was filled with dread.  I told my lapsed-Catholic Irish-Italian husband about my premonition which only stirred up his superstitious side.  I considered telling him he couldn't take the kids with him to visit family but the worry began to wane, and off they all went. 

After they left, I decided to take a shower.  I shampooed my (presumably winter-dry) hair and then looked down.  What is that?!!  I washed it again.  Two, three...is that a fourth?  I squinted at the dark spots on my hands.  I turned off the shower and dried my hands.  I pulled up the internet and did a search: "Bugs in hair not lice?" It brought me pictures of head lice.  No matter how I worded my desperate pleas of denial, the universe sighed, heavily, and fed me the truth in photo form.  

[expletive deleted]  Dude, you have head lice.

Dude.

My husband and kids were off visiting his family and this was supposed to be a relaxing morning to myself before work which rapidly deteriorated into mild queasiness, a mental tally of all the laundry we would need to wash, and a warning call to my MIL when I couldn't get ahold of the spouse, who was still on a long bike ride.  I followed him on Garmin LiveTrack and cursed him when he didn't stop to call me back.

I called out of work and rushed to the drug store.  When the cashier asked how I was, I told her I'd been better.  Then she looked down at my items--two generic lice solution kits and a fancy package of combs and magnifying glass with a light.  Truthfully, I had no idea what I needed, I just felt better buying something.  She nodded in commiseration.  "I've been there," she said, "I had little kids, too."

To that point, I assumed the whole family was likewise infested and that we were going to have a battle when they returned.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  Everyone had a good wash with the kit to be safe, but it appeared that in my home I was Patient Zero, which makes sense because I've always been lucky.

I tossed and turned all night on the couch, then decided I must have those super lice I've heard about.  Working in a medical facility, you better believe anything you catch there is going to be hardy.  Pure luck.

Embarrassed (but not too embarrassed to admit it now), I had my husband call urgent care and ask if it was possible for me to be seen--or, better, just to have pity and write me a prescription for the demons on my scalp.  Yeah, I went in.

They assigned me the coolest nurse with the most beautiful, long and free-flowing gray hair.  This seemed like a mistake.  It would take hours to comb out all of her hair with that little plastic lice comb.  And these were lice on steroids!  Undeterred, she assured me that 1. she had previously been deloused on an international medical aid trip to Africa and 2. I wouldn't have to shave my head.

I returned home with my prescriptions (one was a mercy filling of an anti-itch med that also helps you sleep), a little bit of hope, and a note for missing work which always makes me feel like a little kid.

After showering with the new stuff, I sat on the edge of the tub while my husband spend the next hour trying to snip out anything even faintly resembling an egg.  I felt great love for him as he meticulously searched my entire head.  I reminded him that he was only supposed to sip the single strand of hair that had the egg on it.  "Hmm...oops," he muttered to himself.  I sat, helplessly, as he cut thick sections out of my hair.  I said nothing as he repeated this ruthless but well-intentioned butchering side-to-side and front-to-back and then around again for good measure.  I'm still not sure what it looks like, because I thanked him, with genuine gratitude, and then headed downstairs without looking in the mirror.

I might just skip the mirror for a while.  

Cyclocross: "make sure your sneakers are double knotted"--a friendly enabler responds to my cx questions

Not long ago--really, like a few days ago--I dipped my quill into ink made from crushed winterberries hand-gathered into a basket woven from locally-sourced swamp ash collected with my obedient children in tow.  I penned all my cyclocross wonderings onto parchment and sent it out into the universe by way of electronic journaling.  Hi.  I have three kids.  I work a full-time night job.  I'm tired.  It's quick or it does not happen!

To recap: adventurous spirit meets motherhood x3 and menial household tasks and physically-taxing job and inertia.  Adventurous spirit, undeterred, splashes some cold water on my face and reminds me that 1. I'm not dead and 2. I'm still alive.  Let's make something happen, shall we?

The spouse is a rabid cyclist, a roadie, who loves big hills and long rides.  I'm not sure he's sane.  I wasn't sure I wanted to tag along for 100 milers so I pretty much let him do his own thing.  Does that mean I am NOT a real cyclist?  Not a REAL cyclist?  Not a REEL cyclist (see below)?  Am I meant to drive the SAG wagon only, or is there more for me?

Deep questions.

Enter Jen Murphy, Master Enabler.  While shoveling piles of mislaid toys back into the toy box, I noticed a cyclocross photo she posted.  And another.  And then I was on local race pages noting registration deadlines and searching for sale bikes (thrifty=me, see previous two blog postings).  Hmm...cyclocross...I was feeling...excitement?  She seemed hooked on this crazy sport.

But, first, I had a few questions.  How do I know I've got the right stuff?

Friend Jen is a good sport.  She baited her hook and promptly posted this response.  Will she lure me in?  Is there something fishy about someone who overdoes metaphors?

Stay tuned.

How to know what you don't know: Am I truly meant to be a cyclocross diva?

I'm a trail runner.  It doesn't matter that I haven't run in over a year, does it?  I'm a self-identified awesome athlete with no particularly convincing evidence to back this up.  Ice climber?  Yes, that's me!  Oh, well I haven't actually gotten around to it.  But I've joined all the forums and I have my equipment carefully researched and selected.  And I even get updates on sales, you know, for when I have the time and money.

Mostly time.

My husband, the Irish Italian (you're welcome, dear), is an AVID cyclist.  He is usually in training for something.  He always has big plans and tends to follow through.  (Show-off...)  To him, 100 miles in a day is actually possible.  It's the equivalent of taking the stairs instead of the elevator.  It's upping your incline on the treadmill (I'd call it a dreadmill, but I kinda like them.  I'm weird).  It's like no sugar all week.  Another thing he manages with great success.  While some people look at his data and feel sympathetically winded and vaguely nauseated, HE is looking at the people who do more, and who do it faster.  He has mad goals.

Since he has always been one with the bicycle, you'd think I would have been swept away in a sea of spandex ages ago.  Togetherness and all that.  Well, I did have a road bike for a hot minute.  I was super excited.  Okay, it was poorly-fitted and the brakes were only 70 percent effective, but it was me who quit.  I could have persevered.  I could have found a different bike.  I took that disappointment and put all that energy right into avoidance.  Maybe I'm meant to run...

While I pretended to be completely over cycling, I would still think about it.  Did I want to go for long, unforgiving hauls like my bonkers spouse?  Meh.  Did I want to launch my body all the way down steep twisty-turny sneaky-rooted mountain trails?  Not on a bike. You know, bones breaking and all that.  Besides, that's what my feet are for!  You know how the joke goes that the mom in the house is the only one that still has to keep going when she is sick?  Well, I have three itty-bitty ones.  I'm not dragging broken bones up and down three flights of stairs in pursuit of exercise and thrills.  Plus, work would like me functional.  But...I still want this thrill.  I'm almost 40 but don't tell me the thrill is gone.  I won't have it!

Enter cyclocross.  Really.  Like I want to enter cyclocross events.  It's perfect.  The fun of charging toward deliberate obstacles smacks of the reckless joys of my childhood when I was never without my bike.  Let's devise wild and wicked courses to test our bravery!  Yes, let's!  Let's push ourselves to the point of giddy, well-earned exhaustion.  Let's race towards the mud like mad geniuses of physics.  Wait--people still do this?  I'll admit to being nervous about running, er--riding, with a field of fitter, fearless wonders, but I'm game.  So how do I get started?

That's exactly what I asked superbrain and wildly weird cyclocross maven (and complete enabler) Jen Murphy.  (You must go read her blog, but not before you finish mine, because I eked it out while sick and kids were shouting at me for more gummie snacks)  Per usual, I've joined forums and peeked at gear and prices.  But I want more.  I need the dirty details.  How much is it going to cost to feed my soul?  So here we go...

I need a bike.  How much should I have set aside for a decent starter bike?  What type of frame?  Any components I'll want to change out sooner rather than later?  I'm also between sizes--my problem with bike number one--so do I want to size down for control?  Give up and buy new trail-running shoes?

Let's say I have this bike, see, and I want to know how to maintain it.  When I rode horses, it was a source of pride how well-kept your horse was.  I did everything.  I'm not so mechanically-inclined.  Actually, I have no idea.  I actually think I could be.  So how do I learn everything I need to know from flats to bar tape and when to call the shop?  I'd ask my husband, but he's already 100 miles up the road...

I like to shop, but my husband always jokes that I can't shop outside of clearance sections.  He's right (don't tell him), so how will I know which equipment is okay to bargain-shop and on which gear I need to spend spend spend?  Is my husband lying when he says the expensive Sidi's in his online shopping cart are better than the brand that was on sale and that he has to pay more for the helmet that matches his kit?  I need to know.

Do I need a license to be this cool?  Are there some events that are just for kicks and some that are for points?  Where should a gal start?  I'm a big joiner!  Just check out the "clubs and activities" section of my old yearbooks.  It would be embarrassing if I wasn't proud.  Oh, and what is the "season?"

I'm...a bit..less fit than I was prior to gestating all my perfect children, so how fit is fit enough?  Is there a routine that's more beneficial than another?  An area to target? (Please don't say core...please don't say core...please don't say core...)  You are going to say core.  I sensed a disturbance in the force.  Okay, so core and what else?  Pilates is the devil so I'm sure I need to do even more of it.  Yoga is like candy, so please tell me I can have more of that.  That's strength and flexibility, what about endurance?  I'm sure you've done well when you feel like your lungs are exiting through your mouth because you were really really pushing yourself, but I want to have enough stamina to make it through the entire race before collapsing, triumphant that I survived.  Smiling, even, because this is wicked amounts of fun.  So what do you suggest?  I'll start right away.

What is the culture like?  Every activity has it's own culture.  I used to ride horses cross-country (alternate universe cyclocross for horses?  Also, how you know I am brave as heck--go watch some videos on YouTube) and there were spoken and unspoken rules and traditions and even ways of showing your individuality within the cultural mores.  So tell me what you know.  These could be my people.

Finally, what is the one thing you wish you knew before you started?  Yeah, I want the secret stuff.

Awaiting your wisdom,

Me.