Not All Women are Excited About Having a Baby

Newflash! Not every pregnant woman you see is overjoyed that she's soon going to be caring for a snot-nosed, poop-infused newborn.

Some of us decided to have children because we like the long-term idea of having a family. We are looking forward to trips to Williamsburg and the Grand Canyon, we don't mind the thought of selling Girl Scout cookies again, and look forward to buying another American Girl doll. We hope to one day have Christmases that are filled with a full table of well-adjusted adult offspring. But, it'll be a few years until all of that comes to fruition. The immediate path ahead seems bleak and trepidatious.

I feel like a lot of parents out there see a pregnant woman and feel like it is their duty to prepare her in some way. Usually this consists of breaking down any type of illusions of "how joyous" or "how wonderful" parenting will be. I have none of those illusions, and I know I'm not the only ambivalent pregnant woman out there. Instead, I feel an encroaching terror as the date creeps closer and I prepare to relinquish a job that I am good at to do one that I know virtually nothing about.

I do not like babies. I've never found them cute or intriguing. I doubt any of that is going to change in the next month. So, while my pregnancy has been relatively smooth from a physical health standpoint, my mental state has oscillated tremendously over the past nine months. There are days when I am angry, when I regret everything about this pregnancy. Other times I just cry, and cry, and cry. There are days and nights when I honestly feel like I'm not looking forward to the rest of my life.

Most of these low points are preceded by conversations with other parents - usually parents who are still in the midst of it all. I've heard a lot of things, few of which help me to gain confidence or have a positive outlook on the future. I've heard that my whole life is going to change. My whole identity is going to change. My life is going to be chaos. A baby will put stress on my marriage. My husband will be less important to me. I'll never have time for any hobbies ever again. I'll be too busy to walk my dogs. I'm never going to sleep well, ever (as if I'm sleeping well now). My house will be a mess. I won't have time to listen to my favorite NPR shows because I'll be trying to put a baby to sleep. (did it ever occur to anyone that NPR might actually help get a kid to sleep?) Children are going to make us poor. And my personal favorite: we'll never go on vacation again because our kid will be on so many sports teams that we won't have time to get away. (This person clearly did not have a very good sense of what kind of genes are involved here.)

Ok, to be honest, not all of these are coming from external sources. About half of these fears are ones that I harbor internally. However, if people think they are helping to prepare me for the realities of parenting a newborn, I assure you, I am well aware of the stark realities. So if that's all you can say about parenting, then please, just shut up.

Here's the best thing I've heard from a rare friend with a uniquely reasonable approach to parenting: "Infants are boring. You'll need to have something else to do other than stare at your infant all day."

That is exactly what I needed to hear. I don't mind a boring infant. I'd prefer a boring infant. And don't get me wrong, not all well-wishers have been as dire as those above. The ones who've given me the most confidence are generally older. They come from a different generation with a different set of views on parenting. They are the parents whose children were sleeping through the night at 3 months. Parents who successfully employed the cry-it-out method to promote a well-rested family life. Parents who developed a schedule and stuck to it. Parents whose kid had no more than a laundry-basket full of toys. Parents who put their children in a playpen while they cleaned the house.

These parents DO exist. I have talked to them personally and I have read their books. They are the ones that I desperately need to hear more from. I don't need to hear about how hard life is with an infant. I know that it is challenging! I'm not afraid of challenge, I'm afraid of chaos. So, instead of a dire warnings about life being chaos, how about providing us ambivalent mothers with useful tips on how to make it a little less chaotic? How about practical, concrete suggestions? How about sharing ways you maintained your sanity, your identity, and your marriage? How about telling a mother that not everything has to change?

The Table

Last night I began a novel writing course at the local community college. For our first in-class writing exercise we were told to imagine that we were a piece of furniture that had just been moved to a new location in the home. Our assignment was to write from the point of view of the furniture. Below is my attempt to anthropomorphize a beloved piece of furniture: 

For thirty years I was the focal point, the epicenter of my family's home. I was the place for holidays, for birthday parties, for pumpkin carvings and cookie decorating. All around me there was humor and tears and glasses of spilled milk. They brought me home when the eldest child was small. As the family grew I faithfully held steaming plates of spaghetti, meatloaf, and occasionally some good old Chef Boyardee. Underneath my broad expanse there was nearly always a Labrador or two, eagerly awaiting the scraps that would fall, sometimes by chance, though usually on purpose. Most weeknights held family suppers; Saturday mornings brought eggs and bacon. For many years I played a key role in Sunday afternoon dinners, boasting items both savory and sweet, surrounded by three, and sometimes four generations sharing meals and memories. But time marched on. The grandparents came to me more slowly with each passing year, and soon Sunday dinners waned. Weeknight dinners were replaced with quick bites between school plays, band concerts, and track meets. The childhood agonies wrought by forced consumption of vegetables were replaced by far more agonizing math problems. And then there were fights. There was drama. There were debates of every sort. But there was joy too. The excited squeals of children were replaced by the raucous laughter of teenagers. On those Friday nights I was loaded high with pizza, popcorn, brownies, hopes, and dreams. A few boyfriends came and went, but always enjoyed the food. One day, college letters arrived and stacks of glossy brochures lay strewn about, with acceptance letters soon to follow. Gradually the house became quieter as the girls and their friends left. For a few years they came back at holidays and gathered around once more. They planned their lives and laughed at one another's foibles. Wedding invitations were addressed and hubbub ensued. Yet time marched on and change crept in. They all grew up and they moved away for good.

I wait in the garage today, ready to move on as well. I'll go to another home, a place full of new hopes and dreams. Laughter will be shared, tears will be shed. There will be more spilled milk and a new dog below. Because time marches on.

Pondering the Butterflies - Thoughts on 'Flight Behavior' by Barbara Kingsolver

One of my best childhood memories involves monarch butterflies. I believe I was in kindergarten when I first learned about the monarchs' life cycle: the caterpillar weaving himself a cocoon, taking a long nap, and waking up as a striking orange and black butterfly. I remember walking in the fields near our house to find milkweed for our classroom caterpillars. I vaguely remember harboring a few cocoons in mason jars and watching the life-cycle work its magic. Today, there are houses where those fields once attracted their brilliant summertime residents. The milkweed is gone, and sadly, so are the monarch butterflies.

I was blessed to grow up when I did, to have those afternoons tromping through milkweed-laden fields. In the years that followed, the demolition of the ecosystem behind my house became a harbinger of much graver destruction. Those breeding grounds and many others like it would be bulldozed or sprayed with pesticides, killing the caterpillars' lifeline and stymieing population growth. I saw this happen before my very eyes; what I did not see was the other half of the decimation. In recent years, monarch wintering grounds in Mexico have been subjected to landslides due to extensive logging. Additionally, climate change has affected the migratory patterns of butterflies, hindering their ability to survive the winters and reducing their chances of reproduction. And even if they do reproduce, their children will most likely starve in a world saturated with chemicals but devoid of sustenance.

Now, twenty-five years after my first monarch experience, I learn that 2015 may be the year when the dazzling monarch finds its way onto the endangered species list. In the past several days I've seen numerous articles predicting such a fate. Ironically, these articles showed up in the news only a few days after I'd finished reading Barbara Kingsolver's book Flight Behavior. The recent findings brought reality to a sad plot that first appeared in a work of fiction. The world is changing, and the treasures of my childhood will not be available to the generations that follow.

Kingsolver's story of the butterflies was woven into the story of Dellarobia, a young woman trapped in a life that was too small for her. When butterflies appeared by the millions on her in-law's farm in Tennessee, her world was expanded and transformed. Global warming and environmental degradation had led to the loss of the butterflies' winter habitat in Mexico, so they chose a mountainside in Tennessee, which was far too cold to sustain life until spring. The researchers that migrated with the butterflies opened up Dellarobia's eyes, not only to possibilities that lay beyond the four walls of her small home, but also to the fallacies of the conservative right. She was challenged to think, to dialogue, and she realized that life's questions do not always have neatly-packaged answers - at least, not the answers we want to hear. Her tight-knit, conservative community centered around a revered pastor named Bobby Ogle. Her husband's family, and most of her friends followed him blindly. When he wasn't around to tell them what to think, they tuned in to the conservative media outlets. Thus, when the butterflies landed in the mountains nearby, they believed it was a miraculous act of God, not a perilous consequence of global warming.

What I love about Barbara Kingsolver is that she's able to deconstruct this mentality without totally dismissing the people that she's criticizing. As a native of Appalachia herself, one could ascertain that these characters are indeed her own friends and neighbors. I too grew up in a poor, rural community, and fell prey to the teachings that put Scripture at odds with science. Those who espouse this anti-science mentality often surround themselves with speakers and pundits who echo the views they've heard from the pulpit. Yet one of the reasons why Kingsolver has become my own literary role model, is because she recognizes that people are a product of their environment. She understands complexity. In areas where good schools are not available it is difficult to break the chains. In communities where education is lacking, such things as science are deemed "the enemy" and intellectuals are often viewed with suspicion.  Dellarobia is the only member of the community to bridge the gap between the locals and the research team that comes to study the butterflies. Even she struggles to trust them, and understands that they too are products of their environment. They are products of homes that could afford computers. The graduate students she befriends grew up in neighborhoods with good schools and access to universities.  They did not grow up in homes where parents had to struggle to provide basic necessities, where books were a luxury, often coming second-hand and out-of-date. As Dellarobia grapples with the close-minded nature of her community, she astutely perceives that all sides have a tendency to hover near their own kind, at one point realizing that, "Nobody truly decided for themselves. There was too much information. What they actually did was scope around, decide who was looking out for their clan, and sign on for the memos on a wide array of topics." I read this and immediately chuckled, feeling keenly guilty of the same tendency. (I regularly joke about the fact that the NPR reporters are my best friends. They come with me in the car, they talk to me while I'm making dinner; I laugh at all their lame puns, and download the podcasts whenever I miss a show. They are indeed "my clan.")

As Dellarobia begins to step outside the mold she is often ostracized by her own community and her own family. But for her, the truth of the butterflies was far more important. What was once a thing of beauty has now become a dire warning. Knowing the truth causes her to question her faith, her marriage, and her path in life.

Like most good books, these questions are left unresolved. In fact, I've written my own little "happy-ending" in my head (my apologies to Barabara Kingsolver). I too have considered the gap between science and religion, but come to find that it is not very difficult to bridge. I've never been content with the "God works in mysterious ways" explanation that seemed to quell Bobby Ogle's congregation. God works rationally, scientifically, and purposefully. And He's given us a brain. I think He intends for us to use it.

So whether you're a fundamentalist Christian or a atheistic hippie - or a little bit of both - please understand, science is not our enemy. It is not morally good or bad. Sometimes it's messy, sometimes experiments are done poorly, and sometimes the wrong conclusions are drawn. However, more often than not, science gives us answers. What we do with those answers determines the morality of our lives and our societies. Science has allowed child mortality rates to decrease exponentially and it has allowed us to live longer, more productive lives (vaccines rock!). Unfortunately, science has also allowed us to ravage the earth in ways that God never intended. Instead of being stewards of the plants and animals He created, we all too often dominate the earth abusively. Yes, science has allowed us to grow bigger, tastier crops with less natural predators, but at the expense of some of God's most beautiful artwork (i.e. monarch butterflies). God has given us dominance over the plants and the animals, but does that mean chickens should live in cages with no room to turn around or stretch their limbs? (props to California for getting this question right!) God has given us this earth and the responsibility to care for it. Unfortunately, we have replaced this God-ordained responsibility with one of our own design: the quest for profit. This is yet another reason why I believe Christ would not condone modern capitalism.

No, we're not all farmers, but we all eat and we all consume electricity. Perhaps we could drive less, and use our gas savings to pay a little more for free-range eggs. Perhaps we could frequent farmer's markets and seek out pesticide-free produce. If everyone were to adjust just a few elements of their daily routine, perhaps the monarchs will survive to be studied by another generation of eager schoolchildren.

Sabbath as Resistance: Saying No to the Culture of Now

Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God. On it you shall not do any work, neither you, nor your son or daughter, nor your male or female servant, nor your animals, nor any foreigner residing in your towns. For in six days the Lord made the Heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy.

- Exodus 20: 8-11

Clearly, this is not a commandment that we follow. I don't know anyone who does. What self-respecting American would admit to resting on Sunday? We busy ourselves running errands, doing chores, working from home, and accomplishing a plethora of other "meaningful" tasks. We may make it to church, but all too often it's just another thing on the to-do list.

I don't know any other commandment that Christians break so blatantly, so proudly. In thirty years of going to church I don't think I've ever heard a sermon the fourth commandment. In fact, my only real consideration of this commandment is generally relegated to a mild feeling of annoyance over the closure of Chik-fil-a on Sunday.

That was the case until I read Sabbath as Resistance. Walter Brueggemann's book is truly counter-cultural. No, it is not a loud rallying cry for the socialist rabble-rouser, but rather a quiet, scholarly treatise for the thinking Christian. Brueggemann, a veteran Old Testament professor, dissects this familiar text in a way that I had never before considered. He outlines the contrast between Pharaoh's system and God's system. Under Pharaoh, the Israelites were held in slavery to the Egyptians, a system that demanded an ever-increasing output. They had no day of rest, no dedicated time of worship. But God's system demands otherwise. God does not request, He demands one day out of seven. On this day the Israelites were to lay down their tools, set aside their striving, and merely rest. Rather than cultivating the land they were to cultivate a spirit of worship; they were to trust in a Provider who does not depend on ceaseless human effort. The fourth commandment sets the stage for the entire ethic of the Israelite economy. Later, Leviticus 25 commands one year of rest out of every seven. Every fiftieth year, the Year of Jubilee, required the return of property and the reunification of families, along with necessary rest for the land. That, my friends is counter-cultural. We Americans have a holiday called Thanksgiving. And we can't even manage that. We hit the stores at 7 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, ready to acquire everything we don't have. Clearly, living by the Sabbath ethic is perhaps the most striking form of resistance we could muster today.

Brueggemann posits that Sunday should be an intentional day that eschews work and consumption in favor of neighborliness. Rather than being task-oriented, the Sabbath should be people-oriented. Admittedly, I really wish he'd just left off that last part. I can give up my tasks, but use Sundays to cultivate relationships? To serve my community? Unfortunately for me, that seems quite biblical. In fact, based a thorough perusal of Leviticus 25, I believe that the whole point of the Sabbath year and the Year of Jubilee is to ensure a community that supports and provides for one another while relying on God to sustain in the absence of work. You would be hard-pressed to find any passage of the Bible that speaks too highly of personal gain. Enjoying God's blessings? Certainly! But striving seven days a week for my own profit? It's just not there.

I don't think Brueggemann is advocating a radical socialist overthrow, however, I think you could easily conclude that modern capitalism is not completely biblical. Brueggemann is encouraging us toward resistance, but resistance of the best kind. Not the blocking-off-traffic-to-stage-a-protest resistance, but a resistance to the culture of independence, to the constant striving for status, for wealth, for things. It's a resistance that gives back rather than takes away. It's a resistance that serves rather than inconveniences.  It is a meaningful effort to make the world a better place by shifting our priorities. It is a resistance that requires one day a week - one day to think about what is truly of value. And maybe - just maybe - the attitude shift that occurs in that one day will filter into the other six. Brueggemann even goes as far as suggesting that if we take one day to restore our priorities, we'll be able to more easily follow the other nine commandments. He asserts that so many of the sins outlined in the Ten Commandments are committed out of a desire for personal gain. We lie, cheat, murder, commit adultery, etcetera, because we want something that we have placed above God. We worship an idol. The fourth commandment gives us one day to remember our true God. If we use that one day well - if we are pulled back in, away from our corrupted priorities - maybe then we will be empowered through the grace of God to avoid some of the lying, cheating, and coveting on all the other days of the week.  It's an interesting theory, and one that is not totally unique. In Mere Christianity C.S. Lewis states,

"We have to be continually reminded of what we believe. Neither this belief [faith in God] nor any other will automatically remain alive in the mind. It must be fed."

What if, one day a week, we intentionally readjusted our routine to remind ourselves that there are no other gods but the One True God? What would happen to society if we as a Christian community made a commitment that one day a week we would stop envying the haves and give to the have-nots? Perhaps, if we replace our own endeavors with a commitment to charity, we may see a glimmer of hope, an ounce of restoration brought to this broken, selfish, world.  

"Fever" by Mary Beth Keane

"There is nothing new under the sun."

A good look at history will tell you that. The recent Ebola outbreak led to soaring sales of The Hot Zone, quarantines established - and fought - throughout America, and a widespread media-induced panic. Since I'd already read The Hot Zone I turned to another medical story, a novel called Fever which traced the path of Mary Mallon, the infamous "Typhoid Mary" of turn-of-the-century America.

Rewind about 110 years and a similar - though I'd argue far more frightening - disease was overtaking cities, creeping into the homes of the rich and poor, and often taking its victims among the youngest members of society. Typhoid was not so contagious that it required hazmat suits and disinfection chambers, but rather, good hand-washing and basic hygiene was all that was required to prevent the spread of this deadly illness.

It says a lot about America as the time that the disease spread so rapidly. We were not a clean society. At the turn of the century cities had grown at breakneck speed in the headlong rush of laissez-faire capitalism. Urban sanitation systems simply could not keep up with the exponential rise in population. Additionally, Americans, historically a rural agricultural people, lacked experience in effective city planning and management. Early 20th century America looked quite a bit like cities in the developing world today where typhoid and a host of other preventable diseases still threaten the world's poorest populations.

Into this context came Mary Mallon, an Irish immigrant who made her way to America on a 19th century famine ship. Through her own stubbornness, hard work and persistence she became a renowned cook in the homes of New York City's elite. Yet, she brought disease along with her delicacies. Mary was an asymptomatic carrier of Typhoid. She infected a confirmed total of 53 people over the course of her career, and was dubbed "Typhoid Mary" in the papers. She fought the NYC Health Department at every turn. After Mary was forcibly quarantined for three years, she was released after signing an agreement to never cook for hire again. However, she worked her way back into the profession, first in a bakery and then in a hospital kitchen, working under the pseudonym Mary Brown. When an outbreak of Typhoid wracked the hospital Mary was once again caught and sent to live out the rest of her life in quarantine.

Mary Beth Keane's book Fever humanized Mary Mallon's story. Perhaps Mary Mallon should be vilified for going back to work as a cook (in a hospital kitchen no less!) but throughout the story, the author gave us a glimpse through Mary's eyes. She simply could not understand how she could be a carrier of such a deadly disease. In this era, medical knowledge of bacteria was still very new. Most ordinary citizens did not understand how bacteria was carried from the bathroom to the kitchen. It's hard to imagine this today, in our society of obsessive attachment to antibacterial soaps, disinfecting cleaners, and hand-sanitizers marketed in every size, shape, and scent. All Mary knew was that she'd never been sick a day in her life. She had trouble believing the doctors' claims that she was carrying invisible microbes of death. Additionally, this was well before the era of worker's compensation, minimum wage, or effective unions. When Mary was told she could no longer cook she was relegated to one of the lowest-paying jobs in the city - working as a laundress seven days a week. Mary felt compelled, out of necessity and out of pride, to once again seek work in her chosen field. She could not accept the evidence that was presented to her, that she was a sick woman actively infecting others with her cooking.

Mary's delusions did not end there. The author introduced an ill-fated love story between Mary and a shiftless alcoholic named Albert. Ironically, I think I had less patience for Mary in her romantic life than in her lethal professional life. One can understand why she ached to return to cooking, but I could not fathom why such a strong and independent woman kept trying so hard to have a relationship with such an undeserving creature - especially when another, far better, prospect presented himself! I have not been able to confirm rather the relationship was real or made up for dramatic effect, but it served to further emphasize Mary's persistent personality. She would not give up on her career, just as she would not give up on Albert. She should have given up on both. In the end, Mary's stubbornness was endearing, but was also her greatest flaw - at fatal flaw that did not kill her, but ended the lives of many others.

Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking

It is Friday night and I am sitting in my reading loft with two dogs, one cup of tea, a Nook, a Kindle, and a plethora of old fashioned books. This is my favorite place to be on a Friday night - or any night for that matter.  On Saturday morning I will awake and spend an hour or two running and walking my dogs. And then, and only then, will I be fully ready to re-enter society.

One third to one half of us are introverts. Susan Cain's book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can't Stop Talking is written for us. It is for those of us who find respite in the bathroom in the midst of a crowded party. It's for those those of us who feel nervous and out of place at school pep rallies or football games. It is a book written for those of us who were miserable at summer camp, who cringed when the teacher said "get into groups and complete this assignment," who still shudder at the proposal of "game night" and awkardly sit in a corner and knit in the midst of a cocktail party.

Yep, that's me. I'm thirty years old, and I'm not gonna change who I am.

Charles Darwin, Eleanor Roosevelt, Bill Gates, and Al Gore, were/are all introverts too. Being an introvert does not mean that one fades into the background. Eleanor Roosevelt married one of the most gregarious extroverts the world has ever known, but it was her thoughtful intellectualism and her keen sense of observation that allowed her to be the moral compass of the New Deal. It was her conviction, her quiet sense of purpose, and her firm belief in racial equality that led her to pen her famous letter to the Daughters of the American Revolution, renouncing her membership in the organization after they refused to allow Marian Anderson to perform at Constitution Hall. Months later a multiracial throng gathered at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to see Marian Anderson perform. That concert drew thousands, many more than could have fit into Constitution Hall. That my friends, is the mark of an assertive introvert.

Introverted does not mean shy. I am not shy, but I do not bother with small talk. You'll never find me talking about clothes, babies, or sports, but bring up sweatshop workers in developing countries, homeless pets, factory farming, or the corruption in the football industry and watch as the fireworks erupt. Introverts enjoy depth, not breadth in conversation. We don't strive to talk to as many people as we can, we strive to really truly have a meaningful, purposeful conversation. I feel like Eleanor Roosevelt and I would get along swimmingly.

In addition to initiating a parade of great minds, this book presented the reader with a few forays into the realm of neuroscience. In chapter four, the author describes experiments conducted on infants. A group of infants who reacted intensely to new stimuli (loud noises, bright lights, etc) tended to grow up to be introverts. Those highly reactive babies that had increased heart rate and heightened cortisol (stress) levels also had a lot of activity in their amygdala. The amygdala basically controls emotion and responds to threat. In short, babies who got stressed at any change in their environment tended to grow up to be more introverted. Which makes sense doesn't it? I for one crave stability and routine. I hate surprises. Unexpected social situations are my worst nightmare. (So if you see me in the grocery store, yes, I'm probably avoiding you. I had not planned on having a conversation with you right then and there. Don't take it personally, my amygdala is freaking out.)

This book also helped me to understand an essential difference between my husband and I. You see, while I read books, he plays video games. I like to put my money away in a secure, admittedly low-interest savings account; he would rather maximize our returns by investing in tech companies. He thinks that family time should involve board games, I don't see why we can't all just sit around read books. Apparently it all comes down to brain chemistry. He has highly active dopamine pathways. This neurotransmitter triggers the brain's reward network and gives competitive risk-takers like my husband a rush when someone proposes a competitive game of backyard volleyball. I, on the other hand, will run and hide behind my knitting needles. Apparently, this is typical of introverts. We tend to have very low reward sensitivity. It is not an absolute, but there is a strong correlation. Brain studies have even shown that the orbifrontal cortex, which is a major part of body's reward system, is larger in extroverts. Thus, high reward sensitivity tends to correlate with extroversion.

See what I did there, I just implied that my husband's brain is larger than mine. But don't worry, I'm not done. I am a little competitive. The orbifrontal cortex is the primitive part of the human brain - the part that is most similar to animal brains. Introverts and those with low reward sensitivity tend to have a more developed neocortex. This is the part of the brain that is unique to humans. It is the part that moderates our primal impulses and allows for complex processing, specifically risk analysis. This is why introverts tend to prefer smaller, more intimate social groupings. Larger groups contain more risk. Introverts have heightened ability to assess that risk, and as a result experience greater stress levels in large social contexts. We also tend to mull over decisions and consider all the alternatives. No, we're not the charismatic, quick-thinkers. We're the intellectual tortoises that beat the hares and win the race.

Lastly, I loved how Cain referenced the "Orchid Hypothesis" toward the end of chapter four. This theory, named by Atlantic writer, David Dobbs, posits that some children are like dandelions; they can flourish anywhere. Others - those who are highly reactive and introverted - are more like orchids, "they wilt easily, but under the right conditions can grow strong and magnificent."

Why I've Run My Last Half Marathon

Last Saturday I ran my second and final half-marathon. I crossed the finish line knowing it would be the last time in my life I experienced the pure exhileration of finishing a 13.1 mile run. And I was ok with that. In those post-race moments my feelings of joy, relief, and utter exhaustion were so overwhelming that I felt like I was floating through the medal tent and food station (maybe I was, I couldn't really feel my legs). I'm glad I did it.  I proved to myself that I can run, that I'm no longer that girl coming up last on the gym class miler, that I have the self-discipline to master a painful and often tedious activity. However, over the past year I've decided that it's not exactly healthy. Not for me, anyway. There are those that love to run for hours and those that don't. I've finally accepted the fact that I'm in the latter category, and no matter how fit I am, I will never love running for more than six miles.

I came to this realization on top of a mountain in Ireland. Climbing upward, I found myself truly enjoying not only the view, but also the the sweat, the pumping heart,and  the burning legs. Even in the second and third hour of the hike I was still enjoying it in a way I never enjoy the second hour of a long run. I realized that THIS was what I wanted to be able to do for the rest of my life. Hiking through Ireland gave us a free pass to some of the most beautiful vistas along with many untrodden nooks and crannies. We did our best to avoid anyplace with a parking lot full of tour buses. This "off-the-beaten-path" tourism required a good deal of sweat, some well-worn hiking shoes, and a bit of hard pedaling up dirt roads. We bypassed the Blarney Stone for the Wicklow Mountains and skipped Bunratty Castle so that we could hike 11 miles on the Ring of Kerry.  We purposefully avoided the more touristy sites on the Aran Islands in favor of biking around Kilronin on our own, exploring ancient ruins in out-of-the-way places and quietly enjoying the magnificant cliffs in the company of birds and dairy cows.

Through it all, I realized that THIS is the purpose of staying in shape. I stay in shape so that I don't have to see the world from the windows of a tour bus. I stay in shape so that I can walk my dogs without getting dragged down the street in hot pursuit of a passing squirrel. (If you've ever walked multiple dogs, or just one big dog you know what I mean.)  I stay in shape so that I can fit comfortably into an airplane seat and buy clothes at normal stores. I stay in shape so that I don't have to take lots of pills or have joints replaced when I'm old. And yet, none of these things require me to get up at 6:30 every Saturday morning and run for two hours. Basically, I enjoy being active, I enjoy being healthy, I DO NOT enjoy running for half the morning.

I also realized this summer that long-distance running is actually increasing my chances of knee problems in old age. If running a half-marathon, something I don't love to do, is getting the way of climbing mountains, something I do love, then it's completely illogical for me to keep running half marathons. I do enjoy running in moderation, and I will continue to run 5 and 10Ks, but it's rather silly for me to spend a significant portion of my free time doing something monotonous and potentially detrimental.

Tomorrow is Saturday, the first Saturday in a long time that I will not wake up to an alarm. When I do wake up I will go for a bike ride while listening to my audio books. I will walk my dogs and I may even go apple picking. I will not be icing my knees, sliding down the stairs on my butt, or popping blisters on my toes. Hopefully when I'm 70 and standing on top of a Himalaya, I'll be able to say that I still have all my original parts. Regardless, I'm sure I won't be saying that I regretted all those Saturday mornings I spent enjoying myelf, rather than proving myself.