blind insight

I am not even interesting enough to come up with a title for this post.

How rude am I? I come back from Costa Rica, post a few bits, then promptly abandon the ol' blog again. I'm still waiting for the computer replacement to arrive, which will make blogging somewhat more convenient (Steve's keyboard is garbage, and also sits too high for me to type for long without risking carpal tunnel unpleasantness). Meanwhile, my brain is aswim with random, disconnected, semi-lucid thoughts and I've been at a loss for anything coherent to share with you.

Truth be told, we have become boring. I go to work, struggle with marginal success to make my way through The Record From Hell, perhaps take a lunch break to catch up with a girlfriend, read my book on the homeward commute, and then spend the evening climbing, attending some meeting or another, or snuggling on the couch with Steve and Shasta. The drama in my life extends only so far as the occasional dispute over whether we will watch Law & Order, SVU reruns or bad action movies, with detente usually reached in time for SportsCenter. We've made some great, easy meals, started (and in some cases even finished) some minor house projects, and progressed nicely in our training for the Birkebeiner, but we're not exactly saving the world these days.

Boring, yes. And I love it.

A not-exactly life-threatening dilemma.

This weekend, I discovered a sizeable hole in my coffee pot. I have no idea as to its cause, or when it appeared. I don't make coffee at home during the week, because I leave the house early and get my coffee hot and fresh from the Evil Coffee Empire outlet in my office building. And we've been away so many recent weekends that I don't think I've brewed a pot at home since the beginning of November.

It was an unusual hole. Not a crack, and not the type of damage that might come from hitting the pot against the counter or sink in the course of normal use or cleaning. Rather, it was a relatively neat oval-shaped hole the size of two quarters, located in the side of the pot about two inches above the bottom. Its genesis will remain an eternal mystery.

All the way to the neighborhood coffee spot, I mourned the loss of my trusty Black & Decker, provider of caffeinated goodness for nearly a decade. Later, after my grief subsided a little, I realized that its demise creates a minor dilemma: do we buy a new coffee maker, or do we cross our fingers and hope that someone buys the really nice one for which we've registered?

As I mentioned above, I only make coffee at home once or twice a week. I also own a small French press. Plus, there's that coffee place a mere 5 minutes walk from home. But on a wintry Sunday morning, it's lovely to come downstairs to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, and to sit at the table in our sunny dining room reading the paper. And I have a freezer full of high-quality beans, just waiting to be ground and brewed. The press is fine and makes a nice, smooth brew. But it's too small to serve both of us at once, and with the lower temperature at which water boils at altitude, my coffee is nearly cold by the time it finishes percolating.

But we can't really afford the pot we want right now. And I'd counted on getting another 9 months or so out of the B&D, in the hopes that some generous friend or relative would select the one on our registry list. Buying a cheap model seems a waste of money, particularly when we're trying to eliminate clutter and have a large pile of rarely-used or duplicate appliances, clothes, and other items we hope to sell or donate.

What to do? What to do? And aren't we fortunate to have the luxury of worrying about such an inconsequential problem?

Captured on the carousel of time, but with goose down.

Yesterday evening, I drafted a ranty, whiny, cranky post about not much of anything. For whatever reason, the specter of turning 34 loomed large and unpleasant before me, and I approached my own birthday with little of the gleeful anticipation I'd had for Steve's just a few days before. Dinner at my parents' house helped a bit, particularly when my mom broke out the traditional pumpkin birthday pie (which is what you get when your birthday abuts Thanksgiving and you don't like chocolate). But still, I went to sleep feeling angsty and old.

When my alarm clock vibrated me awake much too early this morning, it felt like any other weekday. Then Steve pulled me closer, waited for me to put my hearing aids in, and jogged my brain into alertness with a throaty rendition of "Happy Birthday." By the time I was showered and dressed, he'd whipped up a delicious birthday smoothie for me and was ready to roll with his very first effort at the Great Birthday Treasure Hunt.

Whatever doubts I may have harbored about Steve's willingness or ability to fulfill this important family obligation (which landed on his shoulders the moment he proposed) were quickly erased. Even his initial "warm-up" clue was clever, and the clues got progressively more creative and challenging as I made my way through the house. Literary references, word plays, and in-jokes figured prominently, as they should, and by the end of the hunt, with my long-coveted puffy coat resting cozily on my shoulders, I was grinning from ear to ear and feeling full of youthful energy.

I'm not sure why the impending birthday weighed so heavily on my shoulders. Now that it's here, 34 doesn't seem terribly different from 33, which felt a lot like 32. The clock keeps ticking, the pages on the calendar turn over, time marches on, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it (short of Botox, boob jobs, and the like). So I stand to face the new year head on, knowing it will bring all sorts of new adventures, both known and unexpected. Whatever comes my way, at least I'll be warm.

Transition.

Like Sherry, I am all too aware of the shortening days and the diminishing daylight. The sky is nighttime-dark when I wake, faintly grey when I leave the house, and nightime-dark when I return. I have a bit of daylight between the bus station and my office on the front end, and some days a bit more at lunch.

This is the time of year when I don't get much outdoor exercise during the week, because I no longer run or bike in the dark (not since an unfortunate incident back when I lived in Seattle, involving my nose and a rather large and solid lightpost) and I hate running in downtown Denver, especially during the lunch rush. So my weekday workouts remain indoors.

As a result, since we moved I've had a hard time fitting in exercise. I'm trying to keep my lunch hours free for yoga or spinning, but already this week it seems I have only a single lunch slot open to sweat. I'd hoped I could work out at the end of the day on occasion, but I have meetings and other obligations several days this week. I've been an early-morning exerciser for over a decade now, and I'm finding it a huge challenge both to go cold-turkey on the pre-dawn workouts and to try to find a suitable regular alternative. It's really only been a week and I doubt I've actually gained weight or lost much fitness, but I feel restless and out-of-sorts and heavy-limbed and ungainly. Coupled with the effects of shrinking daylight and disappearing sunshine, I can feel the swing of my mood begin a downward arc.

Excuses, excuses.

I'd like to take a quick moment to apologize for just how boring this blog has become. Two-thirds of my brain seems to be entirely consumed with wedding planning, real-estate transactions, cohabitation, and home decor. That leaves some left over for work, which needs to nudge its way into at least part of a second third because boy-oh-boy do I have work to do these days. Part of the preoccupied portion is handed over at night to tormented dreams about the state of the Union after November 2 if John Kerry does not win the presidency. But not a whole lot is left for clever phrase-turning, razor-sharp observation, or even random musing.

On the other hand, I anticipate that living with a BOY for the first time in years (living with anyone for the first time in years, actually) will open all sorts of new opportunities for bloggity merriment. And after Friday, the Love Shack will be outfitted with wireless 'net access, dramatically expanding my available blogging time. So bear with me during this temporary zombie stage - I'll make it up to you as soon as I snap out of it.

Untitled.

We are heading to the mountains this weekend for a wedding. We will be staying very near where we got engaged a few weeks ago, and the main event will take place at one of our favorite spots, where dear friends of ours wed last fall in a joyous and memorable celebration. I am very much looking forward to this excursion, which takes us to beautiful places filled with happy memories.

The weekend promises to be ideal for mountain-going. The weather is suddenly glorious and the foliage heartbreakingly vivid. The bride and groom will be treated to sunshine and warmth on a day they were fully prepared to see blanketed with snow.

In my newly-affianced state, I am particularly looking forward to this wedding. I always love such events, and while I often conclude that my own wedding would be very different from the ones I attend, for years I have filed away details and ideas and special touches for possible future reference. Suddenly, the reference is actual and immediate, and I expect I will view this wedding through an entirely different lens than I might have several months ago.

Also, despite the madness of recent days, I am in an oddly peaceful and introspective place at the moment. I'm not entirely sure what has precipitated this letting-go and turning-inward, but I became aware of it just as I emerged from the fog surrounding the brief I filed earlier today. The past few weeks have found me distracted, scattered, and alternately glowing with the excitement of good things to come and panicking over the details and dollars that must precede them. But somehow or another, many of the biggest and scariest pieces have slipped into place, leaving me with a growing sense of peace, a feeling of right-ness, and a certainty that whatever lies ahead, it will (as Steve keeps telling me) be OK.

This old house.

The nostalgia pangs have attacked. With ten days left in The Carriage House, they have started tickling my skin, whispering into my ears, and poking at my heart. On Saturday, we made our last late-night shopping run to the Queen Soopers (you locals know the reference), and shared a little sigh of regret that we will not see quite so many Goths and drag queens and what-the-hell-is-he-wearing/muttering/doing types in our Boulder grocery. Then, on Sunday, we walked through the beautiful Country Club mansion district to Cherry Creek North, gaping at the enormous homes and crunching the leaves beneath our feet. On the way home, as the light was fading, I realized it was the last time I would walk this walk, and a little cloud dropped over my mood.

Yesterday morning, waiting for the bus at 5:30 a.m. with the nice white-haired gentleman who always stands aside to let me board first, I realized that I'll only wait at this bus stop at this ungodly hour perhaps another six or seven times. At the gym, I stood back for a minute and thought about how many mornings I've spent dressing, putting on my makeup, and chit-chatting with this same group of women over the past seven years. I will miss them, though I hope the change to comfy, professional-laden commuter busses and lunch-time workouts will be for the better.

This morning, I woke groggy and decided to skip spinning in favor of doing yoga at lunch. I lay in bed for a litle while, staring at the emerging shadows through the skylight over my bed. Soon, there will be only ceiling above me, and I won't be able to gauge weather, watch lightning storms, enjoy the pattering of the rain on glass, or gaze at the stars without leaving the cozy warmth of my covers. More than anything about this house, I will miss the skylights.

At the same time, I am also counting down the last few days of true single-girlhood. Though we will not marry for nearly a year, in ten days we will merge our lives and our households in a far more practical sense. I am bubbling over with excitement about this, and truly can't wait until Steve and I and Shasta and all our gear and clothes and STUFF live under the same roof. Still, I'm savoring these last few days of sleeping diagonally (at least a few nights a week), making weird pseudo-meals of leftover brie and a microwaved sweet potato, and watching train-wreck TV dramas to which I am secretly addicted (oh, fine - Nip/Tuck, if you must know).

I've grown up, in many ways, in this house. It is a symbol of my independence, the home I bought when I realized that waiting for a man to sweep me off my feet was a losing proposition. It has sheltered me through three job changes, two bouts of the flu, assorted sports injuries, and too damn many breakups. Steve kissed me for the first time in front of the french doors downstairs, and much of our relationship has unfolded within these walls.

Now, would somebody please buy the place already?!

Time out.

Ah, the lazy days of ennui. It seems only a blink-of-an-eye ago, I was whining about rut-stuckedness, yearning for drama and adventure, and bemoaning the familiarity of my sameoldsamey routine. What's that thing they say about being careful what you wish for? Whoever they are, those self-righteous wish-cautioners, they're right.

So we are no longer under contract on the Boulder manse. This is no great tragedy, because we've got other prospects and have yet to sell my place, but we're sad to have to walk away from such a unique and promising house. And the decision was far from lightly made. The past week has been a whirl of discussion and investigation and further discussion and further investigation, by and between Steve and me, with our parents, our wonderful realtor, assorted other professionals, government officials of varying degrees of knowledge and patience, and anyone else who would listen. Ultimately, we discovered insurmountably deal-breaking issues and concluded that this would not be our first home together. There's far, far more to the story, of course, but this is neither the time nor the place to recount it.

The house drama alone has been enough to rip my schedule to shreds and send my blood pressure into the stratosphere. But throw in a new appeal, the receipt of not one, but two long-awaited and truly voluminous case records, assorted client mini-crises, and some non-work-related organizational politics drama, and you've got one exhausted, stressed, and stretched-thin me.

You might think that my impending vacation would offer respite from the madness. And it damn well better, once I'm actually vacating happily in a sea kayak off the Dodecanese Islands. But right this moment, the thought of being gone for two weeks in the middle of so many decisions and obligations feels terrifying and overwhelming. As does the knowledge that at some point very, very soon, I need to find time to organize my gear and pack my bags even while keeping my house in showroom-ready condition.

I suppose I have only myself to blame for the insanity. When things once again return to humdrum normalcy (as they must, they simply must, because I'm truly on the edge here), I need to learn a new way of looking at the day-to-day. Somehow, I'll have to redefine the routine, undramatic sameness of life as comfortable and familiar, and to find in it a zone of contentment.

And so, before you, great Internet, I hereby vow (as soon as I possibly can) to slow down, kick back, and chill out. I will take time to smell the roses, to feel the wind in my hair, to sit quietly in a cafe with a book, to snuggle in front of bad late night movies with my sweetie, to go for long, mellow bike rides, and to take leisurely lunches with my girlfriends. I will work undistracted and patiently on complex legal issues. I will conduct organized meetings that begin with an agenda and finish on time. And I will get more than 6 hours of sleep on a regular basis.

Really, I will. I just have to.

Odds and ends.

I'm feeling much better, thanks. Seems the combination of (nasty) sinus rinse, (nastier) sinus herbs, a stint in the eucalyptus-infused steam room, and vigorous blowing have eradicated whatever evil spirits have been colonizing my mucus membranes. I'm particularly pleased because I'll be spending the rest of the afternoon at a wedding and it will be nice not to have to stuff my tiny black purse full of Puffs and not to spend the entire event attempting to oh-so-daintily blow wads out of my schnozzle.

What's the deal with these weekday weddings, by the way? My parents are going to a wedding this afternoon, too, and not the one we're attending. I suppose you can save a bundle by not getting married on a weekend day or evening, but it's rather an inconvenience for the guests. It's not quite as rude as including the places you've registered in the invitation (a move that simply screams "buy me presents! buy me presents!) or adding a notation requesting cash in lieu of gifts (seeing the "buy me presents!" and raising it to "just hand over your wallet"). Still, it seems a bit of an imposition to ask people not only to put on heels and makeup and pantyhose in the middle of summer and shell out for a Nambe platter or a snazzy Chip'n'Dip from Pottery Barn, but also to give up a precious, sacred vacation day just to watch you get hitched. They're not even my friends, for crying out loud - I'm just the designated date.

In truth, though, I'm not all that annoyed about taking the afternoon off. I sauntered into court this morning and managed to lose a case before my coffee even kicked in, and I'd just as soon get out of Dodge early and enjoy some fresh, head-clearing mountain air. Must be nice to be the Gubbermint and win cases just by showing up and saying your name. Ah, well. You lose some and you . . . lose some more.

Tomorrow morning, we'll head straight to Boulder for packet pick-up and assorted other pre-race activities. And by the time I crash tomorrow night I expect to have received the all-important, successful-race-ensuring sloppy kiss from His Adorableness, my nephew Nathan, who arrives tomorrow in honor of his grandfather's birthday. I don't anticipate setting any PRs on Sunday, but I'm feeling tan, rested, and ready and I can't wait to hit the Res. Race report to follow - sure to be cheerier than the Danskin recap.

I'm getting pretty sick of this.

In case anyone (other than my mother) was wondering, I'm still battling this $#@&%*! cold. For weeks now, it has ebbed and flowed, ranging from fever and dizziness to "mere" horrendous congestion to sore throat, wracking coughs and assorted points in between. I'm pretty sure it's not allergies, as the allergy index hasn't been terrible these days and my symptoms have responded to Nyquil but not to Claritin.

Really, I've had enough of this being sick garbage. Boulder Peak is coming up on Sunday, and I kind of have my heart set on doing at least little bit better than last year's 3:15 finish. But at this rate, I'll be lucky to survive, let alone to shave a few minutes off my already bottom-bracket times.

Have I gone to a doctor? Well. Um..... not exactly. But I have been popping ColdSnap like candy, guzzling tea, getting extra sleep, taking pretty much the whole week off from exercising (let's call that "tapering" so I don't feel like a total slug), avoiding booze, and eating various vitamin-rich foodstuffs. Assuming this is the bad cold it feels like, what more could my doctor possibly tell me to do? And on the off chance it's something for which medicine potentially could be prescribed, I'm not about to go on funkiness-inducing antibiotics four days before my "A" race. So what if it's an ear infection (not that it feels like one, but the possibility has been floated)? Do you really think I'm going to follow a doctor's orders to stop swimming and skip the race at this point? Not so much.

Really, though, I think my poor immune system is just worn out from training, sleep deprivation, considerable emotional stress from unbloggable sources, and too much exposure to commercial air conditioning. To the best of my knowledge, they don't make drugs for that (yet). In any event, the doctor will be just as in on Monday as he is right now. If I still feel like crapola then, p'raps I'll pay him a visit.