the pieces of my life

And that’s me. I turned 36 last week. And that means I’m closer to 50 than 20. How did this happen?

I am running. It’s tough going, but I’m doing it.

I’ve joined a marathon training group, Boston Fit, which is part of USA Fit. The program is fabulous. It’s a four-day a week running schedule, with the during-the-week runs by minutes, not by miles. Our long runs are done on Saturdays as a group, and let me tell you, running with a group makes a huge difference. I won’t say the miles melt away, but they certainly pass faster. So far, our long run is eight miles (nine this coming Saturday) and it feels pretty good. I run a lot faster with the group (especially since I’m not pushing Doodles in the Baby Jogger).

Of course, my individual runs have improved significantly as Adam got me a Garmin Forerunner 201 as a present. I haven’t had any problems yet with losing the GPS signal and I do a lot of running on a heavily treed trail (the Minuteman Trail). So far I’ve actually found it really motivational because knowing my pace and distance pushes me to go just that much faster or farther. I haven’t figured out half the features, but the ones I’ve used have been great. I used to wear a heart rate monitor, but I’ve read a lot lately that says the old working out in “zone” is a bunch of bunk and I never found it useful because I’ve never been able to run in my range.

Way back when, before I was a blogger, I used to bike ride. My buddy Eugene conned me into doing the single-day Seattle to Portland bike ride four years ago (only when we did it, it wasn’t the “Group Health STP”; it was simply to STP). I did it as a challenge to myself, to see how far I could push myself. And, truth be told, I did it because the boys were doing it and hell if I was going to let the boys do something without me (I’m a big believer in “anything you can do, I can do better”). But Eugene was an amazing coach. Every week he sent out a coaching newsletter chock full of information. Some was motivating talk. Some was training tips (I’ll never forget his advice to “imagine that there’s a rubber band on the top of a hill pulling you up”; I actually frequently think of this as I’m running up a hill). Some was encouragement of what we did (“and on Saturday, we rode 72 miles, and we all made it up the 65th street hill” [these are not exact quotes]). He gave suggestions for new training rides. It was such a treat.

Now, Eugene is going to run the NYC marathon with me (and when I say “with me,” I mean it in the same way that we rode the STP “together.” We started at the same time and managed to stay at the same pace for the first five minutes at which point he took off). So, Weegie, I need some encouragement. Where’s my newsletter?

Okay, so Papa wasn’t a rolling stone (he wasn’t even a Papa; he was a Peter), but Mama definitely was a hippie, or at least a hippie-wanna-be (hard to be a hippie with two kids, a mortgage, and a Mercury Cougar). She did her best to instill all those good old fashioned liberal ideas, using that good old fashioned tool of the liberals–song–into me and the Tweedle Twirp. It began with Peter, Paul, and Mary. It continued when we went to camp, where we sang songs such as “If I Had a Hammer.” And what liberal childhood is complete without Free To Be … You And Me?

So now, I fight the evilness that lurks in our house (aka Adam’s politics) using the powers my mother passed on to me. Adam, as he was influenced by his hippie-bashing father, doesn’t understand the potency of song (when I called Tweedles tonight to confer with her on the words of “If I Had a Hammer,” Adam said at one point, “She’s singing to you, isn’t she?” which is something he finds alien. As he said, “You know, I grew up in a household where not every statement inspired someone to break out into song.” Welcome to the Brown Family. I’m sure, right now this second, that sentence led my mother to think of some song that she’s now singing).

So, every morning, in my subversive suburban way, I play “Free to Be… You and Me” for Doodles. I skip over the spoken word parts–don’t get me wrong; these are still some of my favorite parts (how can you not love, “Hi, I’m a baby.” “What do you think I am, a loaf of bread?” “You could be, what do I know? I was just born five minutes ago!” but at ten months, Doodles doesn’t appreciate my spoken word, never mind a CD’s spoken word). He rolls around on the diaper changing table to “Every girl in this land, grows to be her own woman.” He pulls himself up on his toy to “When I grow up, will I be pretty? Will you be big and tall?” He yanks all the books off the shelf to “Some mommies are ranchers or poetry makers.” He wails and we call it a morning at “A doll said, William, is what I need, to wash and clean, and dress and feed.” (I consider this proof for the “he’s straight” side; other proof: he pulls off bibs and hats; the kid despises accessories. Evidence on the “he’s gay” side: he flirts more with boys than girls. Either’s okay with me; I just hate not being in the know.)

Adam doesn’t understand the power of the music. Oh, but he’ll learn. In five years, Adam’s not going to know what hit him when Doodles demands universal health care and day care and a complete overhaul of the welfare system. And I’ll credit it all to Marlo Thomas.