Transitions

Here we sit on the single day in the year when I am probably my most reflective ... December 31st. This may be my favorite day of the year. I don't like it for the standard reasons, like I have a great party to go to, or a cute dress to wear, or even someone special to kiss at midnight. None of these things, really, as I sit here in my office, in comfy jeans, wearing slippers, with varied evening options that are still undecided. In a couple hours I am heading to watch the time honored December 31 tradition here in Boulder - the Beer Mile. (Oye!)

Check out last year on this day:
http://carolesharpless.blogspot.com/2010/01/boulder-beer-mile.html

The Beer Mile crazy spectacle aside, I love this day because I have a fascination with transition.

And if December 31st is not a transition day I don't know what is. I have a ritual on this day, maybe because I'm a writer and most writers seem to have rituals for everything important. On the last day of the year, I take stock and look forward, all at once.

I began my morning with some quiet time in pajamas and Ugg boots by the fire pit at my condo. The chill of the outdoors was leveled by the fire ... surrounded by the glorious mountains in the background, and my steaming mug of coffee in hand - I was content. As I inhaled the morning's crisp air, I began making my gratitude list - all the things I am grateful for in 2010. I can't seem to travel into a new year until I have paid proper homage to the one I am leaving behind. My gratitude list is long and detailed. I particularly like to say thank you for the things that normally go unnoticed, or for the things that normally elicit grumbling rather than gratitude. These things all made my list.

It's too overwhelming to me to look a brand new year square in the face. I need to break it down into bite-sized portions. I used to do the same thing with an Ironman; I simply could not fathom the distance intellectually, so I made mile markers in my mind to make the race more attainable (instead of one looming finish line, I need several more moderate ones).

I have to make mile markers in my life for the same reason.

So what began with gratitude then moved to a sneak peek at what I'd like to be grateful for on this day next year. Many of the things were the same, so it appears endurance continues to be an ongoing theme. But there were other things, things that stretch me and possibly require more than I am equipped for right now. I continue to challenge myself not to shrink from fear but to head straight into it, fighting and clawing until I somehow reach the other side.

It was an interesting assessment. My list ranged from shoulds like mammograms and the way I want to be a friend, to edging outside my comfort zone (says the woman who likes flannel jammies with Ugg boots by the fire) and trying things that are clearly marked 'too hard for me.' I remember when I was a woman who worked in a cube. At a management-mandated self-improvement class they said that when you write something down, it has 90% greater likelihood of coming true. This philosophy apparently did not apply in high school when I mindlessly doodled my initials plus the cute guy that I'd met, but I remain optimistic. I am writing it all down. Especially the things that I would rather leave blank.

And then I went running along my favorite trail in Boulder. The New Year has to start clean, and we all know that a good sweat is essential for cleanliness. I took a long and winding route nestled in the canyons. While I ran, I tried to free my thoughts to match my stride, like a big tangled ball of yarn was unraveling inside me.

I hope you have a chance to soak in this precious transition day, whether it's actually today or sometime before the new year gets any serious traction. I hope you make time for a New Year's run, the kind that flushes out your legs and lungs, and clears your head to meet the year with hopeful anticipation. I wish you the finest blessings and a voice to carry the quiet desires of your heart.

Thank you for running the proverbial miles with me.

Carole :)

Reloaded: Yoga.......some like it hot, hot, hot!

Another blast from the past........

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As a birthday treat, my dear friend and life/work mentor, Susan Edwards, exclaimed she wanted to "take me to Bikram (hot) yoga".
In keeping with my theme of trying new things this summer, being brave, facing fears, accepting new challenges without shrinking, I decided it was time for Bikram.

En route to Susan's place that morning I lamented with my best friend Doreen over the phone... "Dude, she wants to take me to hot yoga! Is she serious? Couldn't she take me to BREAKFAST? Nooooo, she wants to take me to BIKRAM YOGA!"

Doreen giggled at my usual histrionics.

Anything new is a big deal for me. To put it more plainly: I have a sports-ego and always have. I don't have to be the best at something, but I have to be able to do it adequately enough to do it. This ego makes the development of new skills extremely tough. I also worry that someday I’ll be on Youtube as entertainment for thousands.
I seem to have two problems: concentration and coordination.
Think Yoga requires these things??

As Susan and I drove over, she counseled me that I may have various reactions, that "stuff" may come out of me during class.
Carole: "Stuff? Like what? gas?"
"NO!", she laughed... stuff like issues. It was a pretty intense experience.
Phew... if it's not triathlon I certainly don't want to be releasing gas on people!

We walked into the studio and I felt myself gasp involuntarily. Here I had spent my entire summer escaping the brutality of Atlanta temperatures yet I was now paying to relive them. The heat hit me in the face like opening the oven door to check on cookies. That, and there was this odor -- kind of like old Chinese food mixed with that smell of the dirty gym bag you open a day too late.

Like many women, I immediately calculated the comparative fat levels in the room: I was by far the fattest person. The female instructor came in and 90 hellish minutes began.

“If you’re here for the first time, remember if you’re going to pass out, just stop. Drink water at any time. Don’t start wandering around in a stupor, stay on your mat. Then I know you’re safe ... Don’t worry, you probably won’t be able to do everything and that's ok. You are your own person so don't compare yourself with anyone else in the room.”

Whatever, chick. Get these people to a pool and I am kicking everyone's ASS!

We stood, feet planted 6-inches apart, and stretched our arms up. OK, I'm a bit dizzy but I can handle this. She instructed us to breathe. On cue the whole class began a frightening, loud, gutteral panting series that sounded like Darth Vader practicing Lamaze. My eyes popped open, I had to see this. I bit my lip HARD to help keep me from bursting into laughter.

As the class progressed, my hair was soaking wet and sticking straight out like a clown. Eventually I barely noticed the 103 degree room heat. I just concentrated on doing the poses correctly.

“Look in the mirror”, our instructor called out.

“I’d rather not,” I thought to myself.

The part about not being able to do everything was an understatement. I listened hard to the constant instructions. We went into one pose after another. I was sweating and dripping all over my yoga mat. While some of the poses were extremely hard, others were impossible. Our instructor would explain a move and I was shaking with the effort of just the preamble to the move. Sometimes to deepen a stretch we were instructed to wrap our fingers around our toes for resistance, upon which my fingers would slip and snap loose because my sweaty hands and feet were as slippery as a hooked fish flopping on the floor of a boat. Ugh. I was exhausted.

Finally, class was over. I collapsed on my raft and waited for rescue.

Susan was right. It’s a great experience. I may even keep it up. You do feel great when it’s over. You are all stretched out, soaking wet, and you have taken a total break from your life. In those 90 minutes your biggest worry was getting your chin up or not falling over when you were standing on one leg.

In the crowded class of about 25 women and 10 men, I got what I came for. Calm, pain, clarity, sweat, even-ness, respite.

I also got an absolutely killer leg workout.

More than anything, I appreciated the way that hot yoga is "quiet". Not in the aural sense, but in the experiential sense. It is so different than any other physical activity I do. Slow and intentional. Reflective in its agony. Relentless in its insistence that you stop rushing and start paying attention.

And amid the searing pain of holding, holding, holding (those bastards make it look so easy!) I solidified and finalized my thoughts around what I want for myself this year, and how I’m going to make it real.

Whoever said you have to be good at everything? :)

Bad Influences...

Like most all of us, my friends sort of get broken into categories:

1) The people we know and like, who we definitely stop to say hello to and might even schedule an occasional meal with, but these aren't necessarily folks we'd call upon if we ever needed something beyond a surface requirement. These are probably the bulk of the people we know.

2) The people who are a little closer to us. We've shared personal, deeper moments. We put significant time and care into preserving these relationships.

3) The people who we feel are our FAMILY. These are typically the closest of the close - usually the people who do not total more than 10 (if even that). These people know you (and get you)...you love them dearly and have got their backs - and they've got yours. Loyalty is implied and demonstrated. Mutually.

A couple days ago I was thrilled to get a visit from two of the people in my #3 category. My dear friends from Atlanta, Lee and Amy Amlicke.

Here is Amy and me taken at the rooftop pool of my condo complex:












Wooooooooooooooooo - it is windy!













One of the things that's always so meaningful about spending time with people (anyone) in my #3 category is the complete ease of the relationship; despite time or distance that has separated us, we can always resume right where we left off as if no time has lapsed. I love that.

It's always like that with Lee and Amy, and I even commented about it to them. At some point while we were driving around Boulder I said, "It totally doesn't feel like you guys are just visiting. It feels like you live here and called me to go hang out!" They agreed. Man, I just love that....

So - let me set the stage for you. I was really craving a burger. We all agreed that we'd go have one (1!!!) margarita for Happy Hour at one of my favorite places in Boulder, and then we'd head to dinner. Yup. Right.

Typical of us, the conversation(s) got deep, hilarious, philosophical, interesting and completely fantastic... we three were having such a great time - not to mention the bartender loved us (ok... he loved me!) - and time absolutely flew by.

What do I mean? Remember, we headed there for 1 drink.

Here I am at hour two (2):













And if you think this is bad (or good?) - we were just getting started.
The laughs and the tequila kept flowing...

How about hour four (4)!:













The bartender kept bringing us rounds... we were there for almost 5 hours getting I don't even know how many free drinks (I can work it when needed) - our total tab to include snacks was $44.00. (Lee, back me up on this!)
By the end, I completely outdrank both of them - not that this was my goal, mind you, but we all acknowledged my feat. Lee teased me the following day, "Not that you outdrinking a guy who is 230lbs is a GOOD thing. The next step in that situation is something called INTERVENTION!"
*laugh*..... funny....

Cheers to a hilarious night (who doesn't need more of those in their world?) with my dear friends... and it's good to know I am donating my organs when I die - I'll have a liver that's HUGE for someone to use.

:)

The Mountain and The Molehill

I didn’t have bad skin as a teenager. By some genetic fluke, I remained nearly blemish free throughout nature’s most awkward years. On the flip side of that coin was a penchant for fly away wings, tapered leg jeans and a rapid teenage weight gain. The universe made sure to punish me.

For over a year I've been making jokes about being premenopausal. The night sweats, hot flashes, thinning hair, cravings for sweets, wacked out monthly cycles and erratic hormonal shifts - they all point to the same thing: the dawn is coming!

I'll joke with my beloved boss, Charlie. The teasing between us initiated years ago, I've grown to love our relationship full of laughter. Most of the jokes are at my expense - but I'm the one normally leading the charge. It’s funny stuff and if you can’t laugh at yourself, hmmm, well I guess laugh at someone else. :) But I usually laugh at myself.

Carole: "Dude, I am on a freight train to menopause! I can't stop crying and I woke up sweating this morning in my 30 degree room...."

Charlie: *laughing*

Carole: "…my periods are now 2 days of nothing and then a day of Niagara Falls!"

Charlie: "Maybe you're just a freak?"

Carole: "No way, I'm menopausal!"

Charlie: "Probably so. You're old!"

Ha! :)
Most of the women in my family encountered perimenopause in their late 30's, so I've been more than ready for this. Bring it on!

Oh yea? Bring it ON, Carole? Crazy hormonal shifts, indeed....

This brings us to nearly two weeks ago, when I woke up with a little malfunction at the junction of Skin and Pore Streets. Or as I say, at the corner of Holy and Shit. I wouldn’t have paid it much attention, but it was the day before I was to leave for Portland to attend some important meetings for work. My to-do list had said nothing about an angry adult zit, so I was wholly unprepared. I did a little internet scouring about homeopathic remedies and came to the conclusion that putting toothpaste on my face was just a poor decision.

I needed to do whatever necessary to stop the spreading of this sucker. By now my one huge zit had turned to three!                   **PANIC**

Were zits contagious? Were they like plantar warts that spread if you touched them? I had little experience with this.

I bolted to the store to pick up a tube of goop. In the skin cream aisle I was confronted with a whole list of products that had previously never crossed my radar. Wrinkle cream, exfoliants, face masks that promised to devoid you of puffy eyes, the whole lot. I bypassed them all, looking for something, anything, to scoop out the byproduct of my geritol-needing hormones. I grabbed the tube promising to do the trick (plus it would help with vaginal itching? BONUS!).

That night I put a lump of the goop on my face, right over the huge red mountain. Then I attacked the other two molehills. I kind of smeared it around everywhere, thinking that if one pore had instigated a riot, it was possible that others might join in the fray. I brushed my teeth and put my suitcase beside the door. I laid out my airplane clothes and packed my purse with essential reading material. Then I crawled into bed and turned out the light.

At 3:27am I woke up from a dream where someone was dropping lighter fluid on my face while I tried to light an outdoor grill. It took me a minute to realize that the lighter fluid was code for HOLY BALLS MY FACE IS ON FIRE. I jumped out of bed! In the bathroom I grabbed a hand towel, shoved it under the cold faucet and pressed it against the side of my face, only to watch perfectly circular swatches of skin be wiped away with blood welling up in the wake of the hand towel.

It took me nearly half an hour to get my face to stop bleeding and another fifteen minutes before I had calmed down enough to go back to bed. The scene wasn’t any better in the morning, either. The nickel-sized ulcerations had spent the rest of my slumber scabbing over, something near impossible to cover without industrial strength makeup and a healthy dose of Photoshop.

Without enough time to drive to MAC Cosmetics, I resigned myself to dabbing thick layers of loose powder over my face. I figured one of the airports I would be in that day would surely have some liquid heavy duty makeup.

Not so much. So that day I got to introduce myself to everyone with a plague on my face that looked like someone had put out cigars on me. It looked like I had leprosy. With every new introduction I wanted to explain that the scabby looking monstrosities were not an indication of my usual appearance and to please forgive me for looking like I just took up a meth habit.

Cheers to my social career-defining day… and, of course, the journey to Menopause!

Running the goal...

I've always longed to be a runner. I can be mesmerized for significant bouts of time just watching a 'real' runner run. It's beautiful. Their gait always seems so smooth and effortless. I envy they way they can bound across land without seeming to even think about their body. It's athletic poetry to me. Every body part just flows perfectly. They move so powerfully with that slight roll of their shoulders; they lean into every stride. Beautiful.

In contrast, I can never move a muscle during a run without intense concentration. Every single thing I am doing I am having to think about. Everything is deliberate. My arm swing(s), the direction in which my elbow moves (forward and not across), relaxing my shoulders and not holding them like a swimmer, how my hips are angled, the pull of my knee, exactly where and how my foot lands (all directly proportional to my body), pushing off my foot, breathing not like a swimmer but like a runner.....the constant download of things I am trying to keep track of can seem overwhelming.

I have never, ever looked like a runner. I look like a Donkey. I watch myself in the mirror when I am on a treadmill, or I watch my shadow in reflection on a sunny day -- I am always horrified. "That is just NOT what I am supposed to look like!", and I turn away, disgusted.

In the last couple months since I've gotten the cast off, I have started to run more. I am not certain I will ever get my head space right enough to ever get on a bike again, really bike again with confidence and intent, but I'm not thinking about that right now. (This last crash only sealed the deal, I think!) For now, I am fantasizing about becoming a runner. I have always wanted to be this, but always fell short.

Over the last 10+ weeks, I've started to lean out a little bit. I'm not feeling like the sloth I was 3 months ago.

Boulder, Colorado is renowned for its running culture; in particular, the varied trails to run.

For years I have heard of the run up Flagstaff. It has always intimidated me.... errrr, scratch that!...it has always scared the ever-lovin crap out of me. Recently, I've found myself thinking more and more about it - that thing is on my radar! Two days ago during a significant low point of a run, I tried to get myself going again with some internal bravado, "I'm coming for you, Flagstaff!" The Flagstaff run could utterly crush me if ill prepared. All self esteem would be thrown to the waste side, leaving in its wake a shocking display of mediocrity. But it's on my radar: I want to work towards being able to do this run.

I have hid from it for more than 5 years now. Even during my visits to Colorado (before I moved), I hid in shame and fear. No more. I'm preparing........

The Flagstaff run goes something like this: you begin your run from Balch Gym on the CU Campus and head to Chautauqua Park. You then climb a single-track trail towards the summit of Flagstaff Mountain....










....From the time you leave Balch Gym until you approach the trail's apex, roughly 4 miles in length, there is not a single step of flat land. In the 4-mile climb to the point of the apex, the run cruelly ascends at a slightly increasing grade to over 1,400 feet. The beginning of the climb is not too strenuous but once you set foot on the trail itself, you launch into switchbacks up the mountain that have reduced grown men to weak, sniveling babies. The rapid ascent almost puts a runner in oxygen debt. But the worst is yet to come.

As the summit approaches, the trail steeps so much that you'll need to grasp hold of your self discipline to keep going, or if your will is broken, walk over increasingly high steps that will tax your lungs and make your quads burn. Such is the notoriety of the Flagstaff run; it is known to transform and break even the strongest of minds.

Once the summit of Flagstaff is reached, the run levels out for a short bit which allows the runner to stabilize a bit before launching into the grand descent on a fire road that winds around the other side of the mountain. All in all, the run is said to be roughly 13-miles in length....and once you're able to do this run - simply DO IT - your opinion of yourself, and what you're capable of, is forever altered.

Most people in Boulder downplay the severity of the runs around here - but no one discredits Flagstaff.

I may not be ready to attempt this sucker until the Spring...or even the Summer.... but I will not hide from it any longer.

It's time to get going, Miss Sharpless.

Reloaded: Unanswered Questions

If Oprah thinks it's a good idea to rebroadcast one of her better shows from the past, I can follow suit. Here is one of my favorite posts from 2 years ago.

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Saturday night I attended a company holiday party with my friend from Atlanta, Mike Thompson, VP of an IT company HQ'd in Denver. Several of the VP's live out-of-state and flew in for this big event and Mike invited me to join the evening. The party was at some ritzy house in Castle Rock; one of those places where you wondered if you were in the home of an heir to the Vanderbilt fortune? It was a gorgeous place decorated in modern art deco; a design aesthetic that embraced clean lines and classic principles. Party "staff" refilled my wine glass and took away my used plate as a pianist played lovely classical melodies in the background. I continued to tease Mike that I would no doubt embarrass him at some point in the evening. "You can't bring a girl from the ghetto to a place like this!", I would whisper to him as he laughed.

At some point during the evening, I discreetly made my way to the bathroom. Upon arrival I stood stone-faced, horrified by the sight before me. There it was. Next to the toilet.

A bidet.



Oh Lord... what to do?... To bidet or not to bidet? Now that is the question. It was a holiday party but this had nothing to do with the holidays and it's not a question that spreads good will and cheer, but it’s one that lingers and burns. I stood there motionless, staring with an intense and curious gaze similar to when one first sees a platypus. WHAT is THAT?

Like an airplane phobic who doesn't fly, I have never used the thing. I disliked even looking at it. I have no idea why. It's not as if I'd suffered bidet trauma. It's just so foreign to me. So... French (no offense to the baguette, brie and Givenchy). But I'm Italian. We eat meatballs. We bury money. We kill people. That's what we do. We don't clean our asses by way of a spicket. (Perhaps we should!)

I thought I would have my hands full with the evening itself. I can typically handle myself in just about any situation; the social elite usually don't throw my game beyond recovery, but these were important work colleagues to Mike. I wanted to make a good impression on his behalf.... But bidet boot camp seemed like more than I could handle. How would I do it? What would I tell them? I didn't know the first thing about bidet usage.

For starters, did you straddle it, ride sidesaddle, or — in the delightful words of rapper Juvenile — "Back that ass up?" ??
Does one plant oneself in the bowl or simply hover? Did men use it differently than women? And at what age does one start bideting?

I was at a total loss. I grabbed my phone from my purse and made an effort for guidance. My personal 911 for any situation. I attempted to call JZ and Mark for the step-by-step playbook for this situation. They would get me through it. Aaakkkkkkkk!!! There was no cell coverage from the mansion-on-the-mountain bathroom. I panicked, ashamed at my ignorance and bolted out of there like I stole something.

Oh wait, this story gets better.

I quickly scanned rooms in an effort to find Mike to tell him of my ordeal. Most women (with class) would have probably kept that private anxiety attack to themselves, but I am not such a woman. I like to reveal my inadequacies. :) Unfortunately the party hostess located me first. She noticed my anxiety and, unfortunately for me, misunderstood its root cause.

"I'm so sorry", she anguished apologetically. "I ran out of towels earlier".

"Excuse me?", I asked, confused. There had been plenty of toilet paper.

This poor woman was genuinely upset. She looked at me with regret to say, "I'm sorry I didn't have bidet towels."

Bidet towels?????

"Oh, that's ok", I tried to comfort her, "I didn't need them". ?? What else do you say??

Not only did I have no intention of using the contraption, WHAT were bidet towels???? Was there some type of new-age sanitary concept about which I had not been made aware? I mean, I realize I now live in BOULDER where everything is organic and green and environment-conscious. But you used TOWELS for the thing?? Where would you put the towels after use?? I was not used to discussing toilets and wiping and compost, or anything else related to the ass, when visiting a mansion but apparently tonight was my night. (Note the disclaimer: I don't discuss these things "when in a mansion"...)

I didn't know what the towels were but more to the point, the fact that she "ran out" alerted me that people had been bidet'ing all evening! This was even more frightening. No wonder people were having such a good time - the party started in the bathroom - LITERALLY!

I was marginally freaked out. What were the rules? More importantly, what was the appropriate thread count for a human genitalia towel? These were vital questions. Perhaps I will never know.

Here's hoping your holidays were happy, and hygienic.

Portland Bound.....

Coming to you live from Portland, Oregon.

This city is AMAZING. It's my first time here and I could not be more drawn to a place.

My feelings about the city and its occupants leave me thrilled to know Rev3 is adding to their race calendar - and this may be my favorite one yet!

July 10, 2011.

http://www.rev3tri.com/!/portland/index.htm

SO EXCITING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!