momzonroof

… she's not coming down 'til it all makes sense again…


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The Runner

ran beside hubs on our matching treadmills today at the gym, until strange issuances didst issue forth from my visage (my nose ran, and sweat poured off my head and into my eyes)… it was weirdly romantic… we were in it together. we didn’t talk much, but we shared a water bottle (he never remembers his), and he offered me his sweat towel when he saw me dabbing with a paper towel (I politely declined…)

and it never would’ve happened, I wouldn’t even be ON a treadmill, but that a SERIES of PEOPLE kept hogging my favorite machine (the stepmill on the end), and the remaining three stepmills were out of commission, broken down… I stalked that machine for a half hour, I worked out nearby, I rowed, I pressed, I curled… watching, waiting, glaring… a lady was using it, she was hunched over leaning on the handles, cheating really, lifting half her weight off the steps, which is totally cheating, it’s lying, really, it’s lying to yourself and to the machine and boy does it make me stew… I wish I had a little tablet and could issue people TICKETS for this sort of thing… gym police. That’s me…Helpful. Vigilant. Jerk. I’m the Barney Fife of Planet Fitness. Or at least of the stepmill area. That is my domain.

So even though I secretly willed her to give up, to fail, to quit…she kept plodding on… her face drooped, her eyes glazed over, she clung desperately to the handles and she just kept climbing those darn stairs… she kept surprising me, I would look up, assuming she’d be gone, and there she was, looking like she wanted to keel over, but still climbing… it was kinda heroic.. but I got tired of the rowing and glaring and the sending of waves of stress and bile and acid to my stomach, and feeling the veins on my neck bulging, Barney Fifing, I call it.. so I went to the locker room, to chill, and well, to pee… which took 3 minutes, and when I returned, don’t you know, THAT lady was gone, and ANOTHER lady had jumped on that machine! And this one was wayyyy worse, she was fit and ferocious, and was gonna be on there for friggin’ EVER…

so sometimes I’m feeling like the LEAST ZEN, most UNGRATEFUL, most narcissistic, most self-absorbed, most LEAST WHATEVER, I’m in a GYM, with my HUSBAND, I have COMFORTABLE SHOES, a WATER BOTTLE with unlimited supply of clean, clear, cold, running water… and the best I can do with all that is complain about not getting my favorite little machine to climb on… I know all this. But I really do like that machine…

So I sighed…and resigned myself to walking on a treadmill beside my man, him jogging, me fuming… He runs and sweats gets in some sort of weird ZONE, and I’m so jealous… so afraid to run.. what if I can’t do it? what if I fall? what if I can only make it about 3 minutes and my lungs burn? what if I look stooped? what do I do with my hands? what if I run like a girl? what if my ankles do that cracky thing? what if I can’t do it? what if I find out the truth about me.. that I SUCK… what if it’s been the truth all along?

I could feel Hubs’ surprise next to me, when I first cranked the speed up, and took my first tentative little baby jogging steps… he didn’t say anything… just ran… there was no turning back for me, I let go of my precious little 2.8 mph… went up to 5.0 and then I HAD to run,  you can’t speedwalk at 5.0…

After 3 minutes I was convinced I was gonna die. Or fall on my face. I was all over the place, stepping on the right side of the treadmill, overcompensating and almost falling off the left, I didn’t know what to do with my hands, they pumped up and down limply, weirdly, non-committally…  I was running like a GIRL, which I am, I’m a girl… so I balled them into fists… but should I put my thumb IN or OUT of the fist… I finally settled on OUT,  because my husband told me a long time ago if you punch someone with your thumb IN, you can break your thumb, that’s why, not that I’m punching anyone on the treadmill, but you just never know, so thumbs OUT… and we run…

I made it my goal to go 5 minutes. I have this little voice in my head that says “You can do ANYTHING for 2 minutes” so that kicked in and got me from the 3 minute-I’mgonnadie mark to 5 minutes. After that I reset to a 10 minute goal. Then 12 minutes. At 12 minutes I looked up, I looked around. I was jogging!!! and I wasn’t dying!! My lungs felt… just fine. They weren’t burning, my heart rate felt good, nothing scary going on, my ankles felt fine, no cracking or spraining… it was my AHA moment, and I may have been grinning like a GOON at the time, and I wanted to yell in a huge way “I’M RUNNING!!!”

Hubs stole a glance over at my read-out, and said with a bemused little smile, “what’re you doin’?” I said “Hon, I’m RUNNING!!! ME!!” It was his turn to say “Don’t over-do it” and it was my turn to be a tiny bit annoyed… So he said it, and I was a tiny bit annoyed. But I remembered how he had overdone it that first couple weeks, and how much he paid for it.. So I settled on a 20 minute goal.. by the time I reached that, my legs were tired. My heart was still fine and my lungs felt like I could’ve run for hours! But I walked some, then ran another 8 minutes, and then did a long cool down. I was high as a kite after that.

So I run. I’m a runner.. I’m a runner who runs. Run is a weird word when you say it a bunch of times… 50 years old, and I find out I can run. Ahhhh, cliche’… never too late, right… never too late…

 

 


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Mr Furious

Spent half of Thursday night (instead of sleeping), and most of Friday morning (instead of enjoying the yardsails), seething with a quiet rage against my Hubs… a fury that boiled my blood and sent poison darts of pain into my stomach…  Meanwhile, Hubs was downstairs,  sleeping the sleep of the innocent… and the damned. Only he didn’t know it yet. Here’s what I looked like:

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mr_furious_super

That’s Ben Stiller in “Mystery Men”. You see that vein pulsing in his forehead? That is not something to mess with, I had that one going, plus both temples, plus I could feel my heart beating in my stomach, and the churning, churning, ever churning of the vile acid…

Meanwhile, here’s what Hubs looked like:

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Anne_Geddes_pea_in_a_pod(pic borrowed from Anne Geddes)

What could he possibly have done? Oh what? He’s great, isn’t he, everyone loves this guy, he’s just a kind soul, easy goin’… all-around nice guy. The kinda guy who plays Yahtzee with your grandmother…takes your Great Aunt Shirley to her first Steelers game… babysits your niece and nephew on his day off, so you can go out gallivantin’ with your sister…

It involved something that looked like this:

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broken-bottle

That night he was sleeping down in our bedroom, I was still upstairs on the couch with the dogs where I had passed out… I hear him get up in the middle of the night, probably about 2am, and he goes into the laundry room. Why? I don’t know. He could be peeing in the utility sink for all I know… too tired to walk upstairs?  I hope not. But will be investigating later…

I hear a big jangling shattering glassy crash, and then I hear him moofing and ooomphing about, and I’m waiting to hear him clean it up, but instead he goes right back to bed!! And I lay there… and I lay there… waiting to hear that broom come out, or a piece of cardboard, or a bag… ANYTHING. Any form of effort will do here. I’ll take anything. But nothing.. crickets…

It’s 2am. The kids get up at 6am. They sometimes floomp heavily down the stairs and into the laundry room in search of the clean clothes they should’ve put away yesterday… floomp floomp floomp, in the dark, and they’re gonna slice their foot off at the ankle… I just knew it. I didn’t know what he broke, but it sounded awful. I lay there and projected and worried and fumed… someone was gonna get a sliver, and then an infection, and then hospitalized. He’ s never spent the night in the hospital with a sick kid hooked to an IV… I have, several times. So I projected them all the way into the hospital, and I got angrier and angrier…

I finally went down and saw the broken glass. It was stemware I had set near the laundry room door, ready to go in the goodwill box… I KNOW I should’ve put it in the box, but it just hadn’t made it yet. I know it’s my fault too that the glass broke. But who breaks a glass and goes back to bed with the jagged shards laying on the floor?!!! My husband??? Seriously??? WHO is this man?! All these years I thought he loved our children…

Here’s the tiny little part where I’m a tiny bit proud of myself. I breathed it out. I really put my mindfulness skillz into play. Especially when I walked in the room and saw him there in his little pea pod, already snoring blissfully… I said, Ummmm, June? Did you break this glass? You gonna clean it up?:??? He mumbled something about “Yeah, I’ll get it later” and turned over and slept again.  Oh great lord creator, give me strength…

I went in the garage and found the broom and dustpan and gritted and grinded my teeth nearly up into my CRANIUM as I cleaned it up. I couldn’t believe that this MAN, this FATHER, of CHILDREN would knowingly and with total disregard or concern let shards of jagged glass lay surely in their paths.

Just then the nice angels visited and protected my husband from the black storm of unholy WRATH that brewed up from the depths of my soul. The angels carried me back up the stairs and told me to lie on the couch and watch youtoobs of Dr. Sapolsky and his baboons… learn a little something, since I was awake anyways…

And I did learn some stuff. I didn’t sleep much. The rage came and went and came and went and came back and stayed.  I got the kids off to school with their peanut butter sandwiches, juice boxes, and apple wedges…

As soon as they shut the door as they headed to the bus, I could feel my spleen kick into high gear, churning out a fresh batch of vile poison… I could hear him snoring downstairs, snoring, snoring, ever snoring… as I seethed…

I decided to go yardsailing, and hopefully not return until he left for afternoon-shift… that was my master plan of mindfulness. Avoidance.  You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to…

When he finally arose from his surely dream-filled slumber, he called me to see how my day was going, like he DOES… and ohhhh I gave him the cold freezing arctic shoulder phone convo.. single syllable answers, 3 second lag-times, and full minutes of dead air… I have the mother of all cold shoulders.  And he starts to get worried. And his stomach starts to churn. (he tells me this later) He can’t figure out what’s up, but he knows I’m furious. I won’t say anything. I wait. I expect him to come up with some explanation for last night, but I can’t formulate even a possibility of what it might be. How could you let glass lay for your kids. I couldn’t entertain any explanation. it didn’t make sense. Who was this person.

Finally, I got groceries and had melty freezer stuff in the car, so I had to go home. He sat on the couch as I unloaded the groceries and hauled them through both garages and upstairs. He waited until I had ALL SIX bags up two flights of stairs before he got up and said, Oh? You got groceries? Why didn’t you say so, I would’ve helped.

Sigh. We have a split-entry, ya’ll. You can see and hear EVERYTHING that goes on in the entire house FROM THE COUCH. The couch is the EPICENTER of the house, literally. The SOLAR PLEXUS.  The sound of a person hefting 980 lbs of groceries up the steps is DEAFENING from the couch. At this point I thought the body snatchers must’ve taken my real husband away. I was breathing like a freight train, but I was breathing. I was workin’ my practice, baby, workin’ it. The vein in my forehead throbbed.. but I breathed…

I put away the groceries and went outside. And waited. What was I waiting for? I was waiting for it all to make sense again, just like the little tagline at the top of this page. Sometimes we have to breathe and wait. And hope…

He cracked the door open and peered out. He stuck one toe out, to see if I’d bite. I sat on the stoop and just … I don’t know, I was furious, but somehow at peace. It was an icy black peace though… I think I was shutting down so as not to enter the red zone..  The rest of the story is extremely disappointing and anti-climactic. He slithers out through a 4 inch crack in the door, he walks the longest walk down the longest sidewalk of eminent doom, he sits beside me, and he says, Hon, WHAT is going on. I say, you don’t know? How about last night? With the glass? He says, what glass? Are you serious?! Yeah, what glass? You don’t remember? NO!! What happened?

So we talked. He had no recall of any glass or the laundry room, or the furious little dustpanning wife. He was sleepwalking. He was mortified when I told him about the glass. And I spend 12 hours of my life, synthesizing poisonous stress hormones, and pumping them through my veins. Or whatever, my ARTERIES, whatever… “Veins” sounds better.

So I document. And I learn. Hopefully.