Boston Marathon: BB (Part 1:B)

Sunday arrived and so did a sense of calm. Well, kind of. I had reached a new normal. It felt kind of like the best milestone parenting books never tell you about: the first time your kid can make it to the toilet to puke. It is a fantastic moment, them hugging the toilet while you simply watch from the sidelines knowing the only real cleanup can happen with a quick flush. On the other hand, it still kind of sucks that they are so sick.

It was that kind of milestone for me, being able to talk myself down from the approach anxiety and simply move through the motions of the day before the race, keeping the craziness all to myself as I silently counted down the hours: 24 hours from now I will be in the starting corral, 22 hours from now I should be over half done, 20 hours from now I will be finished, and so on. But it still kind of stunk not to freely enjoy the moment. Yet, I was determined not to disturb Kurt's relaxing vacation.

The day went something like this:
*Late breakfast
*2 mile shake out run (I didn't die, a big plus in the anxiety relieving department.)
*Coffee and reading at the Red Barn Coffee Roasters
*Lunch at Harry's (where we had been eating breakfast most mornings but man, those sweet potato fries were so worth doing lunch there....I even had them the next morning with my omelet!)
*Pick up dessert at the little Italian Bakery (or was that the day before....hmmmm)
*Watch TV and decide on dinner
*Dinner at Ted's Steakhouse (for the second time because MMMMM! Best Bison Burger ever! Yum!)

You may notice that the majority of the day focused on eating.....whenever I wonder why I run so much, it all comes back to a love of fries. At least, that's how I justify it.

And then it was time for bed. After telling Kurt I was really sorry if I died the next day because a marathon was really not worth it, and after he assured me I would be fine, I did not sleep. one. wink. Seriously. I tried. I got still. I didn't toss and turn. I just focused on my breathing and then watched TV and then read my book, went to the bathroom, read marathon tips and course overviews online, and then did it all over again. Maybe, maybe I fell asleep around 5 a.m. Wake up call was before 6!

And then it was showtime. The very familiarity of race day morning was terrifically calming. All my stuff was laid out and ready. We grabbed bagels and bananas downstairs, a couple espresso shots from a local Starbucks and then Kurt dropped me off on the outskirts of Hopkinton where I caught a school bus to Athletes Village. We were so early I was the only runner on the bus. It was awesome, you know, in a hyper-punctual nerdy kind of way.

I wasn't alone on arrival though! Here I am, drinking some coffee after my massage and looking rather manly with my running shorts bunched up under my pants.....hee hee hee, seriously, that is disturbing....and yet very funny that I just made you look....

And then, after failing to meet up with one of my blog reader friends who was also running this year, it was time to get to the starting corrals, 3/4 a mile away. Yes, we walked almost a mile to get to the starting line (I know right? What's with that, Boston?!). And I timed it perfectly because as soon as I entered my second wave corral, the gun went off and we started moving.....you know, 2 minutes later. 

26.2 miles is a long way. So here is my mile by mile account:

Mile 1: JUST KIDDING! I am not going to bore you with each and every mile! However, I will say that the first mile of Boston descends 130 feet. The difficulty lies in not going too fast. People often think running downhill should make it super easy but in actuality, downhill is really hard on your legs, especially quads and knees. My fear was that going out too fast would aggravate my injury on the downhills. For the first couple of miles, I tried to hold back. In retrospect, I probably didn't need to hold back so much but I wanted to play it safe so as to make it all the way through. 

By Mile 11, it felt like someone had taken daggers and stripped my quads into shreds. This is a daunting feeling when you haven't even reached the half way mark or the four major hills of a rolling course. I tried distracting myself by talking to other runners (runners just LOVE a jibber jabberer next to them....). But eventually, I had to be quiet. My thoughts turned to Kurt, he was going to be waiting at mile 16.5, right after the first big hill, the only time I would see him, so I focused on getting there so that I could tag him "it". And then I got lost in my head, as I usually do eventually. 

I pray a lot during a marathon. For this course, I made it a point to thank all the military along the way and to say a prayer for peace in the world and safety for our troops overseas every time I passed them. I tried to thank the police presence whenever I saw them as well. I said prayers for the handicapped runners and running teams pushing wheelchairs and adult jogging strollers. I teared up every time I passed an assisted runner, usually runners with down syndrome or autism. It is remarkable what humans are capable of even under the most difficult of circumstances, as we would see again later in the day. 

And I was brutally aware of every descent as my quads screamed bloody murder anytime the road dipped. And the relief I felt as we would start up a hill was so welcoming that by the time I hit Heartbreak Hill (a half mile incline starting around mile 20 or so), I was smack talking the course. I got to the top where everyone was screaming and congratulating runners for making it up and all I could think was, "THAT was the hill everyone dreads? Really? That's all you got Boston?" Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a cakewalk but it wasn't any worse than the last few hills so I wasn't sure what all the fear mongering was about. And my legs felt GREAT (read: the adrenaline was going strong). So much so that I let myself go on the way down and even ran over to the crowds and started slapping hands as I went by. (Sorry little girl who took a diamond in her palm!) I regretted it a little bit later as I hit the final 5k and wanted to take off and realized my legs felt more like molten lead than bones and muscles and such. At that point I drew upon all the people I knew who were cheering me on and holding me up in prayer from a distance: family, friends, church, kids' teachers, Liam's speech therapist, so many of the staff at my PT's office and on and on.....and I started chanting Dory's chant, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, whatcha gonna do, you're gonna swim, swim, swim" and started concentrating on my arms and willing them to move as quickly as possible so that my legs would have to follow suit. It worked....or maybe the last Sports Gu kicked in, whichever.  

As I rounded the corner onto Boylston street and could see the end, that "the finish is near" lump came up into my throat. I get this every time. It's as if all the pent up emotion, anxiety and relief just lodges there and I start half laughing in that maniacal sort of way, sweat and tears mixing making me look like a wild woman during my final sprint. And then there was the finish line and it was over. Three hours twenty-four minutes and fifty-nine seconds of pure adrenaline. A new personal best.

The post-race walk is surreal. Everyone just staggers along gathering post-race stuff: water, bag of goodies, foil blanket, recovery bar, medal; and then there are all those smiling faces, herding you on, reminding you to keep moving, congratulating you. At one point a fellow runner dropped his bag of goodies. Everyone in a ten foot circle just stopped and stared, laughing in horror: who was going to pick that up?! The poor guy was over 6 feet tall and we all cringed as he slowly stooped down to get it. 

Finally we got to the bag busses. Each school bus (think dozens upon dozens upon dozens of busses) was assigned a grouping of bib numbers. Bib numbers are given based on qualifying times so the majority of people with bags on any given bus all arrive there to collect their stuff at the exact same time. As luck would have it, the woman on our bus trying to find numbers was horribly overwhelmed with the crowd of runners outside and became totally incapacitated, at least it seemed so. Fifteen brutal minutes later they shuffled us out onto the streets of Boston where I fumbled to find my phone while trying to find my way back to the family meeting area.

After about half an hour, I reunited with Kurt and we headed inside the Back Bay Hotel lobby to meet up with friends, discuss the race, rejoice together and simply sit still. And then I paused just long enough to realize that I hadn't quite met my goal time.....and started contemplating doing it all over again next year....because um, I love french fries....and because clearly I have a problem.

And then there were bombs.....

Boston Marathon: BB (Part 1:A)

Some people like to classify runners into two categories: professionals (or the elites, as we like to call all the freakishly fast people whether they get paid for it or not) and recreational runners (where the majority of us fall). I, however, think there is a better way to categorize runners: people who run, crazy runners, and crazy people who run. (If you run only when your life depends on it, best of luck to you but we aren't talking about you here.) Don't get me wrong, you can find yourself treading the fine lines between these categories, but if you run at all, you are sure to fit in there somewhere.

In case you weren't sure, I fall into that third category. I wasn't 100% certain until this marathon but now.....well....(Stop shaking your head as if you already knew this....) You see, the average person who runs doesn't do a whole lot of marathons, but when they do, they really look forward to the pre-race taper. They enjoy the taper experience as if they were sitting on the beach with a cold drink in one hand, the soothing ocean breeze in their face and the tranquil tide whispering sweet nothings in their ears. It's as if everything they have done until this point is completely satisfied by simply tapering. Race? What race?

The crazy runners do far more racing and set bigger running goals. They often think about running, plan much of their lives around training and when they get to the end of their training cycle, they frequently suffer what is known as Taper Madness. They become irritable and a little very jumpy. They are not typically fun to be around during this period but most often they are able to channel that energy into other things, get through it okay and then forget about it entirely when going into the next training cycle. (Kind of like how women often forget the pain of labor and delivery....kind of.)

Then there are those of us who are complete nut jobs. Those of us who are just plain crazy (running or not) get anxious about the taper before it even begins. The very idea of Taper Madness begins to haunt us as we look ahead in our training schedule and see the miles winding down in the near future. We recall the jitters of the preceding tapers, conjure up feelings of desperation, swear off running races ever again and oh, the nightmares! And the taper is still a month away!

Enter Boston.

Kurt and I had decided to leave our kids behind and make it a relaxing get-away weekend. (Yeah, yeah, hindsight is 20/20, I would laugh, too.) Anyway, we were scheduled to fly out on the Thursday before the race. Early that week, Liam came down with a cold and cough which is when I graciously welcomed back my dear friend Anxiety Ann and began to drown myself in EmergenC, the vitamin C supplement drink that supposedly helps ward off illness. The box says to take one pack a day, but determined to make it through Marathon Monday healthy, I was drinking four. Looking back, I am surprised I didn't pull out a disposable respirator or surgical mask as well....(note to self....)

By Thursday, a snowstorm came pummeling through Minnesota: my chest began to tighten and I began to draw inward, unable to control the spiraling thoughts, doubts and fear in which I was frantically swimming. Not even a glass of wine AFTER BREAKFAST eased my discomfort. The combination of leaving all my kids, flying out in a snowstorm, a race looming before me, an unresolved injury that forced me to start my taper a week early (heaven forbid!) and having overdosed on vitamin C was nearly disastrous. By the time we got to Boston, got our rental car and made it to the hotel, 40 minutes outside the city, I wanted nothing more than to hide in a closet until it was all over.

Thus began our "get-away" weekend. Now, before I forget to mention it, Kurt was trying desperately to make this a great weekend. He upgraded us to first class where we could stretch our legs and enjoy a nice hot meal and superb in-air service. I must admit, a girl could get used to that pretty easily! For a brief two hours, I was able to settle down, breath easy and maintain some sanity.

But, once we arrived at the hotel (did I mention it was 40 minutes outside of the city?! Oh. But did I mention my panic about the fact that it was 40 minutes outside the city?) the real insanity began. I went into my personal version of radio silence. No really, I was very quiet....you know, for me. I began to dig deep, trying to produce positive self-talk and when I tried deep breathing to calm my nerves I noticed the left side of my chest was burning....like, on fire burning, like, HOLY BUCKETS, I'M FRICKIN' HAVING A CARDIAC EPISODE OR A PULMONARY EMBOLISM OR BOTH burning. Hello Anxiety's twin sisters, Loopy Lilah and Batty Babs. Thank you for joining the party!

I did my best to quiet the voices inside screaming at me that I was going to die if I tried to run this marathon and I ignored the party in my head while we visited the Expo on Friday, picked up my cool race gear, purchased a few things (like a hat and jacket) to ensure that my ego would force me to the starting line and then made our way BACK OUT TO THE LOONY BOONIES!

By that night, with Kurt sound asleep, I looked up the local hospital, certain that I was running to my death if I did not get my heart and lungs checked out. The burning was now on both lung tips (I am sure that is a technical medical term, like, sirloin tips or wing tips.....) but somehow it was reassuring that it was not isolated to my left side anymore. And that is how I convinced myself to put my neurosis on hold and go to sleep.

After spending a slow day Saturday visiting our new favorite diner (Harry's), drinking coffee at the Red Barn Coffee Roasters, lounging around reading and then eating a fairly huge dinner at a nice steakhouse, I recalled that my physician father was in NYC visiting my sister and her new baby. (Originally, we had planned to go see them that Saturday but after spending 40 MINUTES IN THE CAR TO GET TO THE HOTEL my legs ached and we decided it was too much before a marathon to drive 4 hours to NYC and 4 hours back in one day.) So, I opted to get ahold of him and see what he had to say about my impending doom.

The text conversation late that night and into the wee hours of Sunday morning went something like this:

Me: Dad I think I'm dying, should I go to the hospital before running this marathon?
Dad (after asking many doctor-ish questions): You are an idiot anxious hypochondriac who took too much Vitamin C and has disrupted the lining of your esophagus. Go to sleep.
Me: Ok, but if you're wrong, I want you to know I'll be looking down on you saying, "I told you so!" from the other side!

Ok, well, that is the shortened version of the hour long conversation where he talked me down off the ledge of my panic attack. Call me crazy (like 100%+) but I'm beginning to wonder here if this marathon thing is worth it!

(This ends Part 1 (a) of the Marathon experience [BB]......sooooo, I lied when I said I had to break it into two parts, more like three, or more......)

About Boston

Over the last week I have thought long and hard, contemplating the right words to describe my experience with this year's Boston Marathon and the only two words I have come up with that seem the least bit adequate are: Holy. Shit.

My apologies up front for this kind of language but really, I don't know how else to tell the story without starting there because my story was certainly filled with an experience of the holy. And yet it ended like the story of so many others, with a knee jerk reaction: Holy Shit!

There were over 27,000 people running this year in the Boston Marathon which means there are over 27,000 personal stories and experiences out there which will, for all intents and purposes, be completely overshadowed by the weight of what took place. No one was asking you, "How did you do?" followed by mutual rejoicing or wallowing, depending on your answer. The questions everyone asked were, "Did you finish?" and/or "Where were you when it happened?"

But as one of my good running friends out in CA said recently: Screw it. By which I believe she meant: Screw you, terror! We won't let you defeat us by going silent about our marathon experience and accomplishments. There are so many stories out there and many, if not most of them, mine included, were quite frankly very, very positive ..... at least until the bombs.

All this is to say, I will be posting my experience as it unfolded. In order to do my part of the story justice, I need to break it up into two sections: BB (Before Bombs) and AB (After Bombs).  I will do my best to be respectful of the few who died, the hundreds who were injured and the thousands of disappointed and traumatized individuals affected by this. I will try not to sound callous or insensitive, but, I also think it is right to celebrate the exhilarating moments and joy that were laid before me. And quite honestly, some of it was pretty darn funny in retrospect. Why shouldn't we embrace those moments, too? They are every bit a part of the story. And it is a story worth telling, no matter where you were, or whether or not you crossed the finish line.

Ok, fasten your seat belt because the ride's about to begin!

How You Know When Your Kid is Obsessed....

I don't know about you, but with everything that has happened this week, I could use a little levity right  about now. But before I do that, I want to let you know that I am still processing our Boston experience and will try to get to writing about it this coming week. Thanks for your patience.

So,  in attempt to lighten our mood and hearts, I thought I would share with you some recent conversations with Liam that have made me fully understand just how obsessed with hockey he has become:

Liam (coming down the stairs one morning): Mom, can I have eggs and toast for breakfast?
Me: Yes.
Liam: Will you make me the egg right now?
Me: Yes.
Liam: Is the toast cooking?
Me: Yes.
Liam: Will you butter the toast?
Me: Yes.
Liam: Can I watch hockey?
Me: Ye....what? No!

He almost had me....almost.

****

Then there was this one, as we were walking to our car in the gym parking lot.

Me: Liam, don't stand behind that car. They can't see you and if they back over you, you will die.
Liam: Oh.
Me: Do you know what that means?
Liam: No, what?
Me: It means you wouldn't be alive anymore. No more eating or breathing or talking. No more Mommy and Daddy or sisters and brothers. No more school and friends.
Liam: Well, could I watch hockey?

Hey, priorities folks....he obviously knows his!

****

Liam (speaking to Kurt): Daddy, is hockey on tonight?
Kurt: Yes.
Liam: Do we win?
Kurt: I don't know. We'll have to watch it and see.
Liam: Is there a fight?

(Apparently he still hasn't gotten the concept of watching something in real time.)

****

And then there is the story that Kurt told me that I have to retell here. (While I don't like to retell someone else's story, this one is worth sharing!)

Liam recently asked Kurt, "Daddy, do you want to watch me play hockey?"
Kurt replied, "Sure!"

So, Liam grabbed the hockey stick, got into face-off position and then immediately threw the stick down, pretended to shake off his gloves and started punching at the air.

I have to admit, I am beginning to wonder if it is the hockey he likes or the fighting.....I kind of have to question the parenting here too, I mean, who lets their five year old watch a bunch of grown men hit and push each other? (Apparently we do, thank you very much!)

Killing the Inner-Pack-Rat: Step 5

In Which We Admitted to God, to Ourselves, and to Another Human Being the Exact Nature of Our Wrongs

Ha. Ha ha ha. Seriously? Y'all got about a year? You might want to sit yourself right down for this. Actually, I am pretty sure that my last few Pack-Rat posts cover this one. (Thank God!) It' a good thing too because I'm about 36 hours out from Marathon Monday and there's only one thing I can think about right now: "What am I going to eat next?" 

No, I am just kidding (kind of). The real question is: Why the heck am I doing this again?

Seriously. Before we left for Boston, I spent 30 days clearing out our house. I doubled up on days so that in 30 days I finished 40 days worth of purging 21 items a day, if that makes sense. And I am not done. Actually, I don't think one should ever be done clearing out the excess. The truth is, most of us here in the U.S. have excess. Most of us can readily admit to that. And in order to prevent it from taking over our space, our time, our energy, our very lives, we have to be vigilant. We have to constantly scrutinize every thing we bring into our home. We have to ask ourselves what actually adds value and get rid of the rest. (Anyone want a fish?) And along those lines, we have to be honest about the things we do too and decide if those things add value or if it is just more.

Kurt and I went to the Boston Marathon convention yesterday and about mid way through there was a poster hanging on the wall which asked: Why do you run?

I laughed and said, "Shoot! That's a good question! Why the heck DO I run?"

And after thinking about it I could only come up with this: because that is what I do. I run. And unlike many of the other runners I see out there, ear buds securely in place as they cruise along to their tunes, I run in silence. You see, while I do enjoy a good race, running is not just an exercise or sport for me. I run to process life. Have a worry or concern? Go out on a run. Have questions to mull over? Go run. Been in an argument? Frazzled with kids, spouse, people, life? Not sure what's even bothering you? Run. Ate too many french fries, again? Run.

Running clears my mind. It offers me a safe place to think fresh thoughts, feel new feelings, notice subtleties of life I may have overlooked. Running dares me to push myself, to be vulnerable, to be brave, to seek out my limits, to try harder, to move beyond. Running gently nudges me to pay attention. To let things go. To allow my thoughts and opinions to drift away so that there is room for filling up again. And often, it reminds me to slow down. To watch for others along the path and extend a simple hello.

But running does not offer all the answers. Running only offers a safe place to process, a place to be fully free: free to roam through the tougher questions and free to cohabitate with the unknown. And when I am done, I am rejuvenated. I may not have everything figured out or every problem solved but I do have a great sense of peace and purpose and a fresh spirit to take with me on the journey.

It's a little like church actually. Only, without the hot coffee. And boy do I love that coffee. (So much so that I actually tried drinking it on a run a few weeks back....as it turns out, coffee is much better when sitting!)

So, while I think I am a crazy lunatic for partaking in this marathoning business, and this is never as apparent as when I am at the end of my taper and feeling like I need to check myself into some mental facility where I believe they should also run a complete heart, lung and brain workup to make sure everything is working correctly because good golly I am quite sure it is not (please, someone take away the caffeine!), running (usually) adds value. Granted, I could tweak some of my mileage so that it makes more sense in my already busy life and I would do well to cut out the marathons COMPLETELY but running, in and of itself, is good for both me and my family because it keeps me healthy and makes me better able to do my job. You know, the really important one that requires me to raise five kids. 

And isn't that what this is all about? Becoming the best 'us' so that we can do our jobs to the best of our ability? If admitting to you that I have made idols of my stuff and held onto things well past their value-expiration date and then doing something about it doesn't help free me to be the best me, then why bother? 

I am not sure what the value is in running a marathon. I can only hope that God can use even the marathon for good so that all of this craziness is not in vain. See you at the finish line!

Letter to Boston

Dear Boston,

It has been a little over a year since you first caught my eye. In those secret, wishful moments, life was filled with excitement and energy. You were good to me then, beckoning me, encouraging me to push forward and stretch my wings while continually keeping you in my sight. You were tender and nurturing as you embraced my yearnings, held my hand and led me closer to you, enticing me with your prestige and stature. The promise was full of hope and sweet dreams....

And then.....And then the secret was out. I had been lured in, captivated by your reputation and innocently seduced into qualifying myself for minion-hood. I became your slave, one of your thousands. After the cheers and hollers and the congratulations went silent, after I came down off that adrenaline geyser, only then did I realize what had happened. But it was too late; I was trapped.

Your true nature had come out and the real work began. For ten long months of pain, torture, anxiety and fear, I became a guinea pig; all the poking and prodding, and the bruises....oh, the bruises! I was like a trendsetter, if abuse is trendy, with those dark stripes continually dotting the sides of my legs. When the physical therapist's plunger stopped working, they bought a new cupping set. When that failed, they began the ancient eastern folk medicine of Gua Sha. My IT bands purred, like rubbing a scalpel down corrugated cardboard, over and over and over again. Still, my knees ached and stabbed and shot nervous searing energy through me. And for what?

A week from finally meeting you in person, I now know the truth: you take no prisoners. You gather your lackeys and vassals and lead us into your lair where God only knows what might take place. We can only hope to come out the other side unscathed. And I can hardly stand the excitement! Because apparently I am a crazy lunatic. Just. Like. You.

So dear, dear Boston, I beg of you: go easy on this here gal. I have done everything you asked. And so much more. And I would really like to come back well enough to walk into the PT's office again unaided. Because what am I without their pleasant torture? And who am I without running freakish distances for no apparent reason at all? I beg you not to leave me forever bound to the pool, because it might just do me in, if you haven't already done so yourself.

Please be kind.

Humbly yours (because you made me so),
The Graceful Chicken

Killing the Inner-Pack Rat: Step 4

In Which We Made a Searching and Fearless Moral Inventory of Ourselves

  
Kurt made an incredibly humbling point the other day. He asked: "So, after 20 days of getting rid of 21 things a day, do you notice a difference?"

Um, no (jerk). Not unless you count the difference in my thought patterns when I am at the store and I now assume that anything I buy will be tossed in the near future and so I simply do not bring it home to begin with....unless of course we can eat it, then all bets are off!

I had thought my last few Pack-Rat posts were somewhat inventorial but if I am to be fearless in my searching, then I must admit I have only begun to scratch the surface. What started out as a little humor, poking fun at an un-self-diagnosed issue that I thought needed a little addressing in order to soothe my naturally-minimalist husband's angst, has opened up into an entirely new dimension of self that clearly needs some major pruning. Funny how that works. 

Recently I read that if your household income is just 50 thousand a year, you are in the top 1% of global earners. (If you make just 34k, you are in the top 4% of global earners and those barely making it at the U.S. poverty line? They are in the top 13% of the world's earners, give or take a little depending on where you get your data.) Chew on that for a second. We spent months watching people on the news yell and spout off about the top 1% of our country's earners, often in ways that vilified and condemned them, yet if we broaden the picture just a little to include, say, the rest of the world, well then the majority of Americans contribute to the inequalities that exist among humankind. And when I start to glance inward and really search what is in my own heart and life, it's like the first time a scuba diver swims over the reef and is witness to the incredible colors, rich beauty and abundant life of the world deep down under.....except instead of awe and wonder it's: "Ah hell! Sharks!" Mine happen to be sharks of excess. Which, when you get down to it, means greed has played far too big of a role for far too long. Greed, and um, idolatry.....ouch.

Please take note, I have never thought myself greedy. Very much the opposite actually. I came from an incredibly generous home and I have embraced that heart for giving to others. I don't covet the stuff my friends and acquaintances have, don't try to keep up with neighbors, don't typically care about the latest trends or technological developments, have no need to accessorize or replace things that aren't clearly broken. With the exception of jeans, which I wear everyday until they become Godly jeans (holey-er than thou), I buy clothes maybe once every 3 years or when I can no longer fix the holes. And even then, only when I can get them at rock bottom prices. And I would much rather give than receive. So, how am I claiming greed here? Well, just look at the stuff:

 This is only the first week's worth of donations. It doesn't even include the stuff I threw out because it was worthy of the trashcan alone. The second week was just as bad and included three computers I gave to my friend's genius kids (and there is more where those came from) and my guess is, we will go on like this for much, much longer than 40 days. After all, who needs three crib mattresses when no babies are sleeping in cribs!

So, maybe it isn't greed as much as idolatry. I have unknowingly made idols out of unnecessary junk. I have given worth to worthless objects, held on to things as if they significantly add value to my life when in fact they do just the opposite. Maybe that is why this joke is on me. This 12-step program (that you are welcome to tune out at any time, or better yet, participate in...Woo hoo! Open Meeting!) is actually the very thing that I need in order to drastically change my living to reflect my values. These baby-steps are bound to be life changing, for the entire family. Already I have kids complaining that they have nothing to wear (because we gave it all away.....oh, and because I haven't done the laundry, but who's counting) and I have made mistakes, like getting rid of my one pair of rain tolerant shoes that I rarely wear only to find that I actually needed them today...but then, did I really? I survived (and so have the kids). And slowly, we are letting go of the stuff so that we are no longer being possessed by our possessions.

There's a quote from the movie Fight Club that comes to mind:
"You buy your furniture. You tell yourself, this is the last sofa I will ever need in my life. Buy the sofa, then for a couple of years you're satisfied that no matter what goes wrong, at least you've got your sofa issue handled. Then the right set of dishes. Then the perfect bed. The drapes. The rug. Then you're trapped in your lovely nest, and the things you used to own, now they own you."

I am tired of being owned by things (and certain fast-approaching marathons, but I'll save that for another post). And I am the only one who can change that. And in doing so, by jumping off the consumption bandwagon and creating a more minimalist life, my little family takes the first tiny step towards ending our contribution to the world's great inequities, regardless of what percentage we land on. And maybe, just maybe, it will help Lily let go of the rock collection....that she SLEEPS WITH!