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Opening My Eyes to the Good

Santa Monica recently implemented pedestrian-exclusive traffic lights throughout the downtown area. That means that both directions have red lights for vehicles, while pedestrians are given the green light to cross diagonally or otherwise, totally free from traffic. It was done with the intention of strengthening pedestrian safety and to relieve traffic congestion—the logic being that if cars turning right and left don’t have to wait for pedestrians to cross on a green light, they will move through the intersection quicker and traffic will back-up less. The logic makes sense and it works, but only if everyone participates. If just one person ignores the signs that say “Cross on WALK signal ONLY,” then the cars have to wait anyway and traffic is now actually going to be worse because they are back to waiting for pedestrians on their light and they still have to wait through the thirty-second pedestrian signal where no cars can move. It only works if we all participate.

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I don’t understand people who don’t get this. The truth is, I think they get it; the problem is they just don’t care. Their needs as an individual to get to their destination literally thirty seconds earlier, outweigh the needs of their community, which is trying to make walking safer and driving easier. Awesome. Well done, asshats. This seemingly trivial instance makes me burn with a shocking rage. Shocking. Red hot.

Since I’ve worked in Santa Monica this has enraged me daily, because it happens with regularity. Pedestrians ignore the signs, ignore the rules, and the system fails. Then one day I decided to look at things differently, mostly for my own sanity but also sort of as a test. I stood at the intersection, waiting for the pedestrian green light, watching a numbskull cross on the traffic light, making the oncoming cars wait, and instead of cursing that person, I looked around me. There was one person breaking the rule, but there were thirty people following it.

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At all four corners of the intersection of Broadway and 2nd, at least thirty to forty people did not cross on the green traffic light; they waited for the walk signal. Even when the dipstick outlier broke the law, most did not follow. They made the choice that was better for everyone. They did the right thing.

This shift in perspective—choosing how I look at a situation—brought me immeasurable relief. It is a mundane example of a larger truth. Most people are good. Most people do the right thing, and if I only focus on those who don’t then I let those jerks win. Most people care about their neighbor, their community, and the greater good. Becky, you have been so focused on the one negative individual that you failed to see the dozens who actually do care about walking more safely and helping alleviate traffic congestion for their neighbor. Or even if they don’t think about those things as much as you do, they know how to follow the frickin’ law and that’s something. There are more of us than there are selfish nutwipes halting progress.

There will always be that one clown walking into the intersection. We’ll always see that one bastard who cares more about himself no matter the cost to everyone else. Sometimes that intersection is a big one—a national stage. But there are more of us.

Open your eyes, look around, and say hello. So many good ones. Thank God.

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Day of the Cubs

Exactly one month ago, on October 2, Brad and I wandered into the Marion Davies beach house in Santa Monica. One of my favorite things about L.A. is how often one can stumble upon a historic gem without even trying; like reading a book that has those peek-a-boo windows that each reveal a surprise.

The Marion Davies beach house was built by William Randolph Hearst for his lady love, Ms. Davies, and is watched over by a team of volunteers who lure passersby in to the house for tours. As Brad and I peeked through the windows, we were greeted by a lovely retiree who offered to show us around the house and tell us about its history. Reluctantly (we like to do things on our own time), we agreed.

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But this is not a story about the Marion Davies beach house.

I can’t remember our tour guide’s name so let’s call her Cathy. Cathy, a blonde-haired woman of about 65, started out with niceties about where we were from.

“We live just up the beach in Venice, but I’m from Sacramento originally.”

“Yeah, and I’m from Chicago,” said Brad.

“Oh! I’m from Chicago too,” Cathy smiled, her eyes twinkling with that Chicago friendliness.

“Nice,” Brad returned the twinkly smile.

Then Cathy sighed.

“The Cubs . . .”

“They’re looking pretty good this year. Maybe they’ll finally go all the way,” I chimed in.

“Oh, I know.”

Cathy’s face washed over with a melancholy resolve.

“My dad passed away three months ago. He spent his entire life waiting for the Cubs to win the World Series. I know he would’ve liked to see them this year.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Brad said as we walked into an art-deco bathroom on the second floor.

“Yeah, he loved the Cubs.”

We finished the tour and made our way back to our bikes outside, peddling toward Venice. I never stopped thinking about Cathy and her father this entire postseason, and hoped I would be able to write down this story with a sweet ending.

Cathy, I bet last night was bittersweet. The Cubs won the World Series, and I know you were thinking about your father, gone so close to seeing his team win. With 108 years of loss, your story is not unique. Generations of devoted Cubs fans have passed through this world, waiting to see victory for their team and the soil they called home.

November 2 is Dia de los Muertos—a day to honor the dead. Through our remembrances and devotion we bring the spirits of our loved ones back to earth for a visit. The Cubs won the World Series on Dia de los Muertos, and let this give you comfort, Cathy. Fate lends a hand. Thank you Cubbies, for bringing home victory on the day of the year when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest. You have generations of Cubs fans, including Cathy’s father, hovering in the ether over Wrigley Field, cheering for their team.

What a ballgame.

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Lunch Break

I wait in line at the Mongolian BBQ in the food court of the mall across the street from my office. The line makes a crowded curve through the cafe, rendering the possibility of escape impossible when patience runs out and hunger turns to hanger. All I can do is wait. In the middle of the queue, I stand cramped between strangers like the noodles squished into the bottom of my bowl, waiting to be sizzled on the grill.

I glare at the chefs grilling an assembly line of vegetables and meats on a scorching metal surface just a few feet from my face. If they work at a Mongolian BBQ in the mall are they chefs or cooks? I’m sure they are chefs but I am grumpy so today they are cooks. They move slowly and it drives me insane. Don’t they care about anyone but themselves? Don’t they see the line spilling out into the food court? We are stuffed into this kiosk like corralled hogs. Cook faster.

A family has reached the front of the line. The cooks take their bowls of raw meat, vegetables, and noodles, and spill them onto the grill. There is nothing interesting about the sight of broccoli cooking, or the sizzle of beef fat melting. This is mundane, and at this point tedious—yet here is a girl of ten standing between her brother and her mother, and she cannot conceal a smile.

She grins from ear to ear, moving her hand to her face periodically in an attempt to conceal her glee. She is old enough to know that it’s no longer acceptable to find wonder in something as commonplace as standing close to a live kitchen, but she can’t help it. She is amazed. She glances up to her mom as if to say, “Isn’t this amazing? He’s cooking my food,” but only says so with her eyes. No words. She does not speak. She stares transfixed at the cooks and the grill and her broccoli.

She irritates me. I am wasting my entire lunch break standing in line at a Mongolian BBQ in a mall so that I can scarf down mediocre noodles and rush back to work, and this child has the audacity to find this situation valuable? What are you smiling at, girl? What could possibly be so interesting about a stranger cooking your lunch? Stop smiling. This is not special. I can’t wait until life takes hold of you and makes you realize that there is nothing significant about this. One day soon, you’ll rush back to work. Why are you smiling?

My thoughts steam. Everything around me and inside me is cooking. The girl has never seen anything as entertaining as the sight of this mall cook stir-frying her chicken. Oh to be a child, with time and luxuries like wonder. He swoops her food back into her bowl with a paltry flourish, and places it on her red plastic tray. Mom pays for their lunch. The wonder on her face fades into a general childish perk. They walk away to find an open table.

The cook grills my food. I do not smile or watch my broccoli darken. I stare at my phone to pass the time. I pay with a credit card. I find a table and eat as quickly as possible. I return to work.

Six o’clock arrives and I lock up my office. I am no longer angry, or hungry. I am content, and average.

Riding my bicycle home, I take a new route down Main Street. I have never taken this route before. I peddle over the freeway overpass and fix my eyes on the intersection a quarter of a mile down the road. The light is green and I think I can make it through without having to stop or slow down. I peddle as fast as possible until I can stop peddling and let gravity do the work.

I ride my bicycle downhill. The wind sweeps through my hair. The wheels tick tick tick, like they are screaming. My stomach floats up into my chest. My skin tingles as if touched by a lover.

I go fast. So fast.

Faster than ever before. There is no seat belt for this ride. No harness. Just me, my bicycle, and gravity. A moment ago and a moment from now evaporate, leaving only this. Something, a feeling, sneaks into my head through my mouth, eyes, and skin. It grabs the corners of my mouth and pulls them up into a smile. I cannot help it. I am flying.

I grin from ear to ear.

I whiz through the intersection like a falling star, and the ground levels. My bicycle slows, but I smile with abandon. I look around to see if anyone has noticed. I am a little embarrassed for smiling. I may have giggled too.

Another cyclist approaches. A commuter. His face is stoic. He has done this many times. He doesn’t care about the hill, or flying. He is late to get home. Late to bathe the kids, eat dinner, and send out the reports he didn’t get to at work. He turns to me as he passes, and I know what he is thinking. Why is she smiling?

Oh, I think. That’s why.

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A Familiar Beast

I have questions about rejection. I do hope you’ll bite and share your thoughts in the comments. As a student of the arts, I met rejection at a young age. I’ll never forget silently weeping in the back seat of our car when I found out that I wasn’t cast as a Von Trapp child in The Sound of Music when I was 12 years old. I was relegated to the chorus of nuns—or, rather, novices. Not even a full-fledged nun. The dealer of rejection in that instance was the director, aka my mom. I don’t blame her. She was my director and she made the best casting decision for the show. In hindsight that was a very important lesson for me to learn as an artist; nothing has ever been handed to me. But yeah, rejection was personal from early on.

We’re told repeatedly that rejection is an unavoidable element of our artistic lives, like a smelly beast with whom we must learn to live. I get it, but man, some days that beast is smellier than others. On those days I stop and ask myself in earnest, why? Why am I doing this? Will the glimmers of success or artistic satisfaction make the years of rejection bearable? I mean really, this is haaaarrrd. Will it be worth it? I don’t know the answer, but I theorize that even with “success” the beast will not leave me alone. I imagine it will change shape, change color, change smells, but the rejection will continue at every level in different forms, won’t it? In the form of bad reviews, higher stakes losses, chronic self-doubt, disappointing second novels, etc. So why? Why the torment?

Then I started asking more questions. Is this beast unique to the arts? Is there something about artistic fields that lend themselves to more rejection? Or does rejection exist equally elsewhere? Do my friends in STEM fields, or law, academia, business, entrepreneurs—do you experience the same frequency of rejection as my friends in theatre, film, TV, visual art, music, publishing? Are you as well-acquainted with the beast? Maybe you’re just better at keeping him on a leash. I’m genuinely curious because I’ve been so entrenched in the arts for so long that I fear my field of vision has become quite narrow. I also want to feel less alone. I want affirmation that I should not abandon my art for another path because a new beast will in fact be waiting for me on the “easier” roads. Is that true? Or is there a less painful but equally gratifying way to walk through life other than that of a perpetually rejected artist? My non-artist friends, enlighten me.

He shouts and hogs the bed. He never bathes. His claws are sharp. No I’m not talking about Brad! Brad is an angel and takes very good care of his nails. It’s the beast. My invisible housemate. On the other side of my horrible beast is a tiny promise of glory. Is it real? A trick? If it’s not a trick, is it worth it? I don’t know, but beasty and I know each other so well at this point, even without the taste of glory . . . I’d probably miss him. And that, my friends, is the true madness of the arts.

 

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Long Live the Goblin King

David Bowie died this week. I read the news on Facebook, as I strangely discover most major headlines these days. Checking my feed before bed I read the words “No, no, no,” then “RIP,” then saw a picture of Ziggy Stardust. Didn’t take long to put the story together.

I’ll admit this one knocked the wind out of my sails. Legends die. We all do in fact. The death of Robin Williams last year was intensely tragic. Natalie Cole’s passing a couple of weeks ago had me waxing nostalgic about the times my best friend and I would drive around Sacramento belting Orange-Colored Sky at the top of our lungs. They were both taken too soon. But Bowie. Damn. A world without David Bowie is just WAY less bright, right?

David Bowie is many things to many people—which perhaps is the mark of a truly great artist. The ability to get in deep under the skin of your audience in a personal and individual way, all the while reaching across the globe. (Let’s be real, Bowie reached to the stars). Because of Bowie I finally felt cool at age sixteen, driving around in my orange BMW 2002 blasting Hunky Dory and Space Oddity. He had me thinking early on about what it meant to transform, adapt, and recreate as an artist. He made me want to do just that.

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But I won’t lie to you. More than the rock n roll, the performance art, the gender bending, the rule defying, the musician. More than any of those things, David Bowie was The Goblin King. David Bowie was my sexual awakening.

Don’t lie! I’m not alone! There are memes about this people. It’s a common joke that his character in Labyrinth was responsible for the turning on of millions of adolescents everywhere. But it wasn’t until he passed yesterday that I stopped to think critically about that movie and the role it played in my life. Those tight pants were no accident.

The mark of a great fable is a message masked so well in metaphor that the audience may not even realize the message exists without further intellectual excavation. This is especially true in children’s stories. Children hear stories on the first available frequency. Metaphors make their way into children’s heads, but are filed in a cabinet that remains locked until needed. The emotional impact a great story has on a child is the key that allows them to unlock that cabinet later in life and discover the complex layers of their favorite stories. Whereas an adult may read Alice in Wonderland and be able to pick out the commentary on Victorian society that Carroll was making while having his protagonist confront chaos, at the same time as simply enjoying the story, a child just jumps all the way into Wonderland. So it’s not my fault that I didn’t realize Labyrinth was a metaphor for the sexual awakening of young people. I simply watched the story feeling confused and interested in my attraction to this magical man at the heart of it.

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I thought about Labyrinth a lot yesterday. With my love and nostalgia for the movie I finally unlocked the cabinet of metaphors after 20 years. The first file I uncovered contained my complicated feelings toward David Bowie’s Goblin King . All at once I realized—this story was bold.

Labyrinth is about sex. You could take the safer umbrella approach and say it’s about “growing up,” but no, no no. It is quite specifically about the discovery and development of a young lady’s sexuality. In our culture we don’t like to talk openly about burgeoning sexuality in young women (or men, for that matter), which is probably why we end up fetishizing it. We really should allow ourselves to address the sexuality of young people in a more honest way. Unlike literary metaphors, sexual development is not a thing that should be locked in a cabinet until adults feel more comfortable. But I digress. Here’s the deal with Labyrinth:

The baby Toby is not just a baby, he’s Sarah’s innocence and childhood. The Goblin King is sex embodied. The Labyrinth is puberty. That’s the framework. Just as The Goblin King’s castle lies at the heart of the Labyrinth, sex and all its mysteries lie at the heart of puberty. If you lay those metaphors over the devices in this film it plays out beautifully.

Sarah feels the tedium of childhood dragging down her blossoming independence. In an adolescent fit she wishes it away completely. Enter sex. Sexuality, aka Jareth, steals her childish innocence, aka the baby, and hides it deep in a maze filled with temptations and tricks which she must navigate successfully before it’s lost forever.

You remember how the movie goes. Helping hands, talking worms, oubliette. Lets skip to the next act.

Just when she almost gets to the heart of the maze she is tempted by two things. She bites into a peach (not an apple by the way, a peach, think on it) and hallucinates her most romantic fantasy. She is the queen and paramour of a seriously sexy hero in a mask. If she just gives in she can live forever entrapped in this fairytale of dancing and swooning.

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This is the ultimate trap of our burgeoning sexuality isn’t it? We are drawn helplessly to the romances that play out in our heads—peppered more and more with adult content with each passing day of puberty. How many of you were pissed at Sarah for not staying trapped in that crystal ball with Jareth?

*Raises hand*

I wanted what I saw on the screen. But I also felt shame that I wanted it. I knew it was wrong to have romantic feelings toward this character because, well, he was a grown man, but also because he was the villain of the story. Through Sarah’s hesitation I discovered the shame that lingers so dangerously close to sex. I knew I shouldn’t want what I saw but I did. I wanted the movie to end there and stay lost in the reverie of princess gowns and mystery men and palace love-making. I VERY reluctantly followed Sarah out of the fantasy.

Our hero is strong. She knows something is missing from the masquerade and breaks free of the hallucination. So The Goblin King tries another tactic of the opposite ilk. He drops her back into her childhood room—filled with teddy bears, toys, blankets, and all the comforts of innocence. If she doesn’t want to be a slave to her fantasies then perhaps he can get her to regress into her childhood and control her that way.

Jareth’s second attempt at entrapping our hero fails. She is drawn to the comfort of her own innocence but she knows almost immediately that something is wrong. You can never go back. She bursts through the artifice that is a preserved childhood and journeys on to the heart of her sexuality. Brilliant.

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And what happens when she gets there? She plays a cat and mouse game with The Goblin King as he serenades her seductively. She sees the baby, her elusive childhood, always just out of reach. No matter. The baby was bait for her to confront what was really going on. And what’s really going on? I’ll tell you what’s really going on. David Bowie in Freudian bulge pants is what is going on.

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At the heart of the maze and the top of the castle there’s nowhere else to go. It’s just our hero and sex. And what does sex say?

“I ask for so little. Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave.”

Bold words for a grown man in bulge pants to utter to a 15 year old girl, right? Let me control you, he says. Despite his offer our hero discovers the only truth that could at once save her childhood and free her from the madness of puberty.

“You have no power over me.”

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It’s so good, right? I especially love Jareth’s face when she says it. He’s not angry and screechy, Wicked Witch of the West style, like Oh no! You won! What a world! He just looks disappointed, yet knowing. Like he hasn’t been conquered, but relegated to a supporting role in Sarah’s story, to appear at a later date.

I watched this movie when I was younger than Jennifer Connelly, so from my childish perspective she was older and thus an adult, so she and Bowie seemed about the same age to me. It wasn’t until I revisited Labyrinth as an adult myself that my jaw dropped as I discovered, holy crap she was a child!

This story titillated 14 year old feelings toward a 39 year old man. Bold! It allowed us to explore that complexity, then showed us the way out. Important. It went there, you guys. You can’t deny it. It went there. It showed us that puberty is a thing that happens to you, it’s not a thing that defines you. It’s messy, and it’s tricky, but you drive. This movie held our hand and said it’s okay to feel sexual feelings in the same season of life that you might still be clinging to your teddy bear. We know it’s confusing. It’s okay.

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How creepy and perfect is this picture?

Her proclamation of control frees Sarah from the Labyrinth and she’s instantly dropped back in her room. Her baby brother, released from his metaphorical duties, is safe in his crib. She is now confident enough in her own growing up that she can let go of her teddy bear and pass it along to the next generation.

Back in her room she finds her Labyrinth friends, remnants of her journey, in the mirror. The aids we discover in the maze of growing up are always there in our reflection… should we need them.

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(especially for dance parties)

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I love this movie. I mean. I LOVE. This. Movie. Of the Legends, The Dark Crystals, the NeverEnding Stories, I choose Labyrinth every time. I mean don’t get me wrong I loved and continue to love all the epic childhood fantasies the 1980s produced, but Labyrinth stood out among the rest. My devotion is 25% Jim Henson’s puppetry, 10% Sir Didimus, 5% “I’m just a worm,” and at least 60% David Bowie. At least.

And so, dear David Bowie, Jareth, Goblin King, God of Sex, you really did a lot for me. Listening to bad-ass rock n roll while my peers were hooked on Britney Spears was great. (Who am I kidding? I also listened to Britney Spears). But that wasn’t your greatest contribution to my life. To me, you will always be the mystery at the heart of sexuality. The tempter, the hero, the villain, the prince. All of it.

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Rest in peace, my Goblin King.

 

 

 

The Lights: Year One

A year in marriage. The first year. Year one. Thousands upon thousands of little marriage-isms discovered that make me fall in love, make me quizzical, make me grateful, frustrated, challenged. Marriage-isms that better me. That’s what happens.

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A year of hearing “my wife” used in conversation and getting butterflies in my heart.

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A year of staring at the two rings on my left hand and wondering how any married lady ends up only wearing one or the other after awhile. A year of resolving to the fact that one day I too will probably wear just the band at times because the engagement ring is quite heavy and valuable and yes the band alone is more comfortable. One day. But for this year, I can’t imagine taking either off.

A year of wearing those rings in the ocean, hiking, camping, traveling, running. Because I will. Not. Take. Them. Off. See above.

A year of glancing at the ring on my husband’s finger and feeling pride and humility at what that simple gold band represents on his hand. That’s my promise. Right there on his hand. And he wears it with pride.

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A year of reprieve from regret because ever single thing I’ve done, right or wrong, has brought me here to you.

A year of replaying the ceremony in my mind. Letting the raindrops and the faces of our friends and our families and the music and the vows drift in and out of my brain theatre. The ritual was so powerful. Was it a dream? It was real, and it was perfect.

A year of discovering that rings and ceremonies and pieces of paper absolutely do matter. Those who say they don’t are kind of right but mostly totally wrong. See above.

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A year of dealing with the Social Security Administration and the DMV and the Passport agency and my banks because yes I am changing my name. I’d always wondered what women meant when they said changing your name was a pain in the ass. A year of understanding what they meant.

A year of becoming Mrs. Light. Like Laurie always knew he should be part of the March family I knew since I met him that I was born to be a Light. How can a name be so perfect?

A year of firsts. For the first time strangers reply to me after telling them my new last name “Oh, that’s a really cool name.” I’m a Sigl and always will be a Sigl. It will always be a part of my name, and sometimes I mourn it in my signature. I do not mourn the standard responses from strangers:

Stranger: S – I – G – E -…

Me: No no no, no E. Just S-I-G-L

Stranger: S-I-G-A-…

Me: Nope. Just four letters. S-I-G-L.

Stranger: S-I-G-L. Are you sure?

Me: Yep, I’m pretty sure.

Stranger: Okay. (writes on paper: “Sigal”).

Or this struggle:

Stranger: How do you say your name?

Me: Well the correct Austrian pronunciation is Siggle (like wiggle) but most of my friends and family pronounce it Seeegl like the bird.

Stranger: So which is it?

Me: I have no idea.

*quietly whimpers and suppresses ongoing identity crisis*

I won’t miss those. I was born to be a Light.

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I am the Seagull. No, that’s not it.

A year of trying to create a new signature which is a strange thing to do intentionally as my previous signature evolved organically over time.

A year of discovering that Light and Sigl share a lot of the same letters and so in rapid cursive don’t actually look very different. I can’t decide if this makes things easier, or if it disappoints me.

More firsts. Filing taxes with another person for the first time. (Who are we kidding we filed an extension and still haven’t done our taxes. Let’s get on that.)

Running a marathon for the first time.

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Climbing my first mountain.

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Finishing my first manuscript.

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Firsts, brought to you by the power and strength of life partnership. Brought to you by the magic of marriage which when done right, makes you superhuman in your zest for life and ambition to do better.

A year of talking about “my husband” in conversation and feeling the words in my mouth go from something foreign and new to something warm and comfortable. My husband. Have you met my husband? This is my husband. I’m meeting my husband in an hour. Before I decide I’ll have to discuss it with my husband. My husband and I. Husband. What a delightful word.

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A year of arguments. Yes there are arguments. Each argument teaching us things we need to know in order to navigate this new marriage. Each argument hard, painful, but necessary. Arguing with respect. Arguing with the safe feeling in my gut that knows we’ll be okay. Even though we’re mad, even though we’re disagreeing, even though we’re frustrated, there’s a way out and we’ll find it. We always do. We always have. In marriage our skill at arguing constructively is that much more necessary. We now stand on a common foundation and the wrong kind of fight can crack it. The right kind of fight can make it stronger. Let’s keep fighting right. But only every once in a while. Not fighting is in fact more fun.

A year of getting to Tahiti. A year of planning a honeymoon to Tahiti. What is more epic than a honeymoon? That’s what this is. A year of throwing up my hands because it’s too overwhelming. The flights from L.A. to Tahiti then the boat to Moorea and the inter-island airfare lined up with hotel stays and weather and the best time to take off work. It’s too much! I’m done! But the next day I wake up and I make it all work and I book our epic adventure in Tahiti. Because I’m good at planning things. You’re good at cooking, setting up campsites, taking care of our cats, and I’m good at travel planning. We bring things to the table.

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A year of pondering children. Weighing our trepidation against our desires. Weighing logistics and risk and societal pressure and personal goals and biological clocks. Still pondering.

A year of people asking when we’re going to have kids.

A year of fear. Fear of losing you, fear of not being able to have children, fear of losing our cats, fear of not having enough money, fear of not accomplishing my dreams, fear you won’t accomplish yours, fear of fear. Marriage, to me, is the highest form of love. It’s not given. It’s not born. You must choose it every day. I choose it. I devote myself to this love every day. The depth of my love for you, for our marriage… hot dog there’s a lot at stake. With high stakes comes fear. Breathe it in, breathe it out. Get back into love. Always facing and overcoming fear.

A year of pet challenges. We both know that Sharky is a genius and these past few months I can’t help but wonder if he’s testing us to see if we could handle a child. He’s smart. He knows what he’s doing. Our golden boy has become our problem child but I have to confess that every time I see you care for him my heart swoons. And Wizard is still Mr. Wizard. Sweeter and fatter every day.

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A year of newlywed bliss. They told us the first year would be the hardest but we must have gotten that hard part out of the way a long time ago because the first year was the best.

A year of faith, not in God, but in us. No givens in life. No givens in marriage. This train runs on a track of faith. Faith in each other, faith in ourselves. Train Tracks of Faith. I should have definitely been a country singer.

A year of laughter. We crack each other up in that special way that no one else would find funny, and that’s how I know it’s a special language written for us. We’re the only ones fluent.

A year of tears. The drama that creeps its way into my life again and again. Your shoulder is always there. Your arms always hold me.

A year of encouragement. Yes I had a breakdown getting into the ocean to snorkel. All that equipment! Yes I didn’t think I could climb up that mountain. Yes I didn’t know I could finish a marathon. I couldn’t have, not without you.

Here’s what I have to say about marriage to anyone who has found their favorite life partner but is on the fence about the piece of paper. Do it.

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Life is a field trip to a theme park with really crazy roller coasters. You want to go on those roller coasters. You don’t want to just ride the carousel all day. You know they’ll be fun but they’ll also be scary and some of them might make you sick. Will you be able to handle it? Yes you will, but you sure would like to have a buddy for the day. So you look around and you find someone who you like a whole lot and you want to sit as close as possible to that person on these big scary roller coasters. You ask that person:

“Will you be my roller coaster buddy for the WHOLE day? Like, not just the first one, but let’s stick together so we know we have a buddy all day.” And that person says:

“Yeah! I like you a lot and I definitely want to ride these roller coasters with you. And in between maybe we can sneak off behind the ferris wheel and make out.”

“Sure.”

“Awesome.”

And so you go over to your teacher and you announce to her and the whole class, “Hey everyone, we’re buddies for today, just so you know.” Your class respects the buddy code. And your teacher writes it down in her notebook. If she needs to speak to you she should just look for your buddy and she’ll find you, and vice versa. It’s in the book.

Maybe you’re on a field trip where you feel like riding coasters all by yourself. That’s totally fine. Or maybe you’re on that field trip where you definitely want a different buddy for every different ride. That’s cool too. But if you have found that person who you know you’d rather go on all the rides with, but you’re afraid of what it will be like to go on roller coasters with one person for the rest of your day at the theme park, I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s awesome. The rides are way more fun. You share common memories of each scary roller coaster and you learn how to encourage each other to keep riding in a way that is so much more valuable than the thrill of riding with a new person every time.

You have to decide what you want your day at the park to be like, but if you’re like me and you feel instinctively that you would benefit from one single special buddy, say yes. Ask, and say yes.

And so here we are, Mr. and Mrs. Light, still hand in hand in our little theme park. We’ve only scratched the surface of all there is to do and see. Walking into year two together, what should our next ride be?

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Happy anniversary my love.

You ask me if there’ll come a time
When I grow tired of you,
Never my love,
Never my love.

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Dear Tinker Bell, I’m Just Not Feeling It

Last month I ran the Tinker Bell Half Marathon to kick off the 2014 race schedule. I pretty much had a terrible time. I mean it’s Disneyland and Neverland and family fun times so all of the elements of fun were there but when it comes to the running, I had a terrible time. Due to circumstances sort of beyond my control I got a total of 6 hours of sleep in the two nights leading up to the race. That’s 3 hours of sleep the night before a half marathon. I don’t recommend it.

I love waking up with Brad on a race day. While making coffee, Brad makes jokes about how painfully early it is and I flit around the hotel room like a demented fairy, getting nervous for the impending 13 miles ahead. But this morning I just felt tired. SO tired. Deliriously tired. It was difficult to flit around. Pixie dust meter on empty. The thing about waking up at 3:30 am to run a half marathon is that no matter what time you went to bed the night before, you’re always going to be tired. Looking at your alarm clock at 3:30 am will always make you very very sleepy. So on this particular morning I didn’t register that I was more tired than usual. I just felt a malaise. The thought that entered my head was “I’m not really feeling it.” That thought is kryptonite to someone who’s about to run a half marathon. You have to, at the very least, feel it.

We got dressed. I decked out as Smee and Brad my Crocodile (the hat for the Croc being the culprit for my staying up until midnight. Stupid Krazy Glue!)

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Stumbling out of our hotel room at approximately 4:15 we make our way to the starting line. The energy surrounding me is as per usual for a runDisney event. Electric. Thousands of runners surround me, many seemingly first time half marathoners. I’m excited. I am. A detached sort of excited. I register my detachment and try to brush it off. This is exciting! It is! Next to us I see a runner dressed as Rufio from Hook. How awesome is that?

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The coolest!

5:00 am approaches. The national anthem is sung. The singing of the national anthem usually brings a tear to my eye. This morning it does not. Fireworks ignite the air. The announcers inspire. All of the elements of a fantastic runDisney morning are there and all I can do is continue to suppress the little minion in my head repeating the mantra “I’m just not feeling it.”

Ever feel like you’re in a fog? Like you’re going through the motions of your life, surrounded by things that should make you happy yet they fall upon numbness? Like you have a front row seat to observe your life from the outside? Inside you feel, just, nothing? I’m fortunate that I’ve never been seriously or clinically depressed, but I’m told the sensation is similar. If that is in fact the case then I can tell you that running 13 miles through Disneyland at 5:00 in the morning on 3 hours of sleep is much the same as being clinically depressed. Add to the mix some guilt. Guilt for not being happy at a runDisney race (it feels like sacrilege). Guilt that I paid so much money to run an event that “I’m just not feeling.” Guilt that I coerced Brad into running the same event. Though luckily Brad looks pretty happy. Brad appears to be having a good run. Phew!

Around mile 6, about the time when I’m just wishing the whole damn thing would be over, I start to panic. Am I falling out of love with running? Am I falling out of love with Disney? Are runDisney and I going to have to break up??? No!! Sheer panic. Why do I feel so terrible? Why isn’t Tinker Bell making me happy? What is this malaise? Why am I not feeling it? I still had not put 2 and 2 together that 3 hours of sleep the night before miiiiight contribute to my lack of excitement.

Brad runs with gusto. He is, as I said, having a great race and clips along at a good pace. I can’t hold him back in my fog. He takes off around mile 9 and continues on to have a fantastic final 4 miles. I just try to make it through.

There is one characteristic emotion of mine that can’t seem to be anesthetized, no matter my state of exhaustion or malaise, and that is my lovely stubbornness. Even though I’m tired and struggling and should really just take it easy if I ever want to enjoy running again, for some reason I decide that I want to finish in under 3 hours. I push it hard the last few miles to ensure that will happen and I cross the finish line feeling, for the first time, pretty damn good. What I soon discover is that since I hadn’t really been feeling anything the entire race, not excitement or joy or determination, I mistook these final emotions (extreme pain) as “pretty damn good.” I suppose I was just relieved to be feeling anything. Since a popular runner’s motto is “my sport is your sport’s punishment” let’s just say it’s not uncommon for a runner to mistake pain for pleasure.

I cross the finish line, find Brad, take our picture, get some water, and feel relieved the race is done. About 10 minutes later I feel everything a runner dreads. Nausea, extreme exhaustion, dizziness, chills, irritability. Damnit. My stubbornness caught up with me. Lactic acid comes rushing in.

Somehow I make it through to the other side of this episode. We find Mom and Dennis and head to Denny’s for breakfast. The thought of food makes me feel like I want to die whilst vomiting, but Mom insists that it will make me feel better. I suspect she’s right so I go with them to Denny’s even though all I really want to do is collapse. Mom orders me a chocolate milkshake and you know what, it was like magic. That magic guilt-free chocolate milkshake I downed at 8:00 in the morning perked me up and settled my tummy. Ice Cream really is the answer to everything. Best chocolate milkshake ever.

After breakfast we walk back to the hotel for a much needed nap, and now that my brain feels a bit more attached to my head I can start to think clearly again. I start to ask questions. Why does this happen to me? Why is it that sometimes I have a great race and sometimes I feel like shit? It can’t just be training. I’m actually pretty well trained for this race. Why does lactic acid seem to attack me only on some runs, and takes pity on me others?

By this point I’d gotten smart and realized that sleep deprivation no doubt played a major role in my malaise. After the milkshake cleared my head I had a light bulb moment and said “Ooohhh. THAT’S why I wasn’t feeling it.” Amazing it took me that long to figure out. I took this as a comfort, knowing that it’s something I can control. Next time I’ll just get more sleep. But this lactic acid question lingered and bothered me. I don’t feel as though I have control over its presence in my running. It seems to rear its ugly head when it wants to, other times a sleeping dragon. After our nap I set out to do some research on this evil foe. I want to understand how lactic acid really works in the body. Why in the world does our body produce anything that would make us feel so terrible right at the time when we need our body to work FOR us, not against us? The answers I found astounded me.

I discovered that lactic acid is actually meant to work for you, you just have to know how to use it. Mind blown. Suddenly I feel like if I can understand this villain of mine, perhaps we can be allies. It’s just as Honest Abe Lincoln once said, “Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” Lactic acid and I are about to become bffs.

I’ll impart my research on lactic acid at a later date. Before you roll your eyes, I promise that it’s interesting! I’ve got more studying to do however before I can write a worthy article. As far as Tinker Bell Half Marathon 2014 goes, I found myself in a foggy runner’s malaise and turned it into a teachable moment. And that’s why I run. Because although I briefly panicked that running and I were falling out of love, the great thing about a healthy relationship is that you can always work it out. Running and I, we’re working it out. We’re learning about each other.

Sunday afternoon I went for a breathtaking 5 mile run on the beach. I pushed myself. I philosophized. I worked through some mental cobwebs that had been bugging me. I felt centered. I felt grateful for my feet.

Running and I. We’re rekindling the flame.

Happy moments on the course

Happy moments on the course. A couple of people thought Brad was a dinosaur or an alien shark. This amused me.

If 14,000 excited runners can't get you in the mood, you're in for a long run.

If 14,000 excited runners can’t get you in the mood, you’re in for a long run.

rekindling the romance

a long walk run on the beach is just the ticket for rekindling the romance