Last October, I ran the Chicago Marathon. It was my first (and likely only) marathon, and sometimes, when I think back on it, I get overwhelmed. The memories come back to me like scenes from a movie — seeing my cheering squad run out to me on the street, calling my name, my cousin holding a sign that said, “Run like a gazippo!” and me literally skipping up to him and my daughter when I saw them. Running past Lincoln Park Zoo and thinking, “I am all the way up by Lincoln Park Zoo!” Seeing my sister-in-law at about the halfway point and accidentally knocking her phone out of her hand when I ran up to her. Seeing the pace car pass me in slow motion and the realization I would be losing my course support. Seeing one of the aid stations being torn down as I approached it, watching in almost horror as an entire table of filled Gatorade cups was flipped over onto the street. The taste of warm Gatorade Endurance. Turning the corner and entering Chinatown, which seemed deserted. The taste of ice cold Coke. The angst I felt when I realized I still had a right turn to make before I could head north in the direction of the finish line. The actual physical feeling of exhaustion falling away from my body as I approached the finish line and the burst of energy I had as I sprinted across the finish line and collapsed, crying, into the arms of my friends waiting there for me. I can remember all of these moments clearly like they happened yesterday.
While I am proud of my accomplishment, sometimes I have these nagging doubts about it. I crossed the finish line 8 hours, 7 minutes, and 21 seconds after I crossed the start line. Here is a picture that haunts me:
This is taken on “Mount Roosevelt” — a small incline literally right before you make the turn to the finish line. It is at like mile 26, so you are so close to the finish line you can taste it. I am walking here. When I turned the corner and saw the finish line, though, I ran. Sprinted, actually. And that action is what haunts me. Every time I think if the marathon, I question myself — could I have run this race faster if I had just pushed myself harder, if I had run more and walked less in the last half of that race? I felt so good the first half of the race, but the second half, I was so tired physically and mentally and emotionally, and I was so hot, and I hurt so much, I spent a lot of time walking. I feel like I remember not being in that much pain or in a state of that much exhaustion. I remember so many things so clearly, but why can’t I remember the pain and fatigue?
Sometimes I am so haunted by the questions, the feelings of doubt that I really did need to walk that I feel like my accomplishment is somewhat dubious, or that the marathon ran me instead of me running the marathon. I hate that anything mars the memory of that momentous event in my life.
I wonder if I will always question myself on this.
Political discussions that get hot are nothing new. There’s an old mantra that the three things you should never discuss at cocktail parties are sex, religion, and politics. And if your family is like mine, there have probably been plenty of family fights over politics. If you know my family, then you are likely familiar with the infamous “go to war” fight my parents had (my dad is a pretty conservative guy; my mom is a liberal lady).
My post for the letter O is my sneaky way of sharing a relatively new musical love of mine, Rag ‘n’ Bone Man. I happened to be flipping through my Sirius XM Radio stations one day when I heard a voice that immediately caught my attention. it was this song, “Odetta” by Rag ‘n’ Bone Man. All it took was hearing this one song to be immediately hooked on his music.
Writing is my first and most passionate love. If I could do anything in this world, I would write. I have dreamed for years of writing a book. I’d love to write a novel more than anything. In April 2014, I started writing my first novel, and it is still in progress. Honestly, the last time I worked on it was on 2016. I just don’t have the time to devote to it like I want to be able to do.
If you know my mom, then you know she is pretty much an extraordinary human being. I love her. Just that simple. I’m not going to use any flowery words or superlatives to try to explain how much she means to me because words pale in comparison to the reality, so it is best to just state it simply and bluntly.
In some ways, I guess it’s a little ironic that I saw Hamilton at the point in life I did — which was just recently — because I have been thinking a lot about my own legacy. 
I am cheating big time here today! I have struggled for the past few days to find something to write for the letter K and I just keep coming back to this one topic: Key West. 
I admit it, I’m a Parrothead. Have been for probably a good 20 years since my friends Sarah and Eric introduced me to this “way of life”. But as time has gone on, I have become a bit of a Jimmy Buffett snob. I’m sorry to say that I don’t necessarily want to spend big bucks to go to a concert and hear any of the following songs:
I have a pretty unorthodox and unpopular view of infidelity. I think my husband feels similarly, at least based on discussions we have had.
For Valentine’s Day, my husband got me tickets to go see Hamilton. My life has been forever changed by seeing that musical. I know that sounds completely silly, but I really like words, hence I appreciate things like novels, essays, short stories, poetry, and song lyrics. And Hamilton is filled with a lot of words that are masterfully put together to tell a richly detailed story.
The View from the Cheap Seats 