Five Rings

Every family has its quirks and traditions; I believe this is true because it's the only thing that reminds us that we are all one related unit and as such, it keeps us from clawing out each others' eyes at family parties.

My family, on both sides, has a vast array of traditions. My mother's side uses the same christening gown for every child, and the only one who hasn't been baptized in it is my brother Brian (and that's only because his twin brother was wearing it at the time). We have a habit of doing the Electric Slide in inappropriate places, stepping up as the fourth in the Siege of Ennis and, since we all suffer the famed "Irish Whisper," no family party is complete without a game that I like to call, "Who Can Yell The Loudest?" And there isn't a soul on the planet who can hold a candle to my Nana's mashed potatoes or her Irish bread, and no one on Earth will ever be able to convince me otherwise.

On my father's side, we have our common idiosyncrasies, too. My stepmom once commented on our reliance on ice cream, and she was right; in my experience, there is no situation, good or bad, that cannot be enhanced by a large, cold bowl of ice cream. Though we all tend to lean the same way, we are very politically informed and can (usually) see the merit in all sides of an argument. I've already waxed poetic on our love of college football and the fact that I can blame my running problems on genetics is well-documented. Our love of all things sport runs deep through our veins.

Today's topic is one of the few that I can say mean a lot to both sides of my family: The Olympic Games.
 

My Paint skills aren't the best, but just go with it.

Winter, Summer -- it doesn't matter; much like parents and their children, I love them both equally, for so many different reasons.

I grew up in the frigid northeast, so the Winter games are particularly dear to me. My mom enrolled me in figure skating at the age of seven so I could be just like my idol, Kristi Yamaguchi. Once I hit puberty and my center of gravity changed, I spent a portion of my teen years convinced I would make a grand transition to speed skating, and I still lament the fact that my mom refused to let me play hockey. I'm so amazed by what people can accomplish on ice, snow and other various elements, particularly because I now refuse to run outside in the winter because hello, I could slip! It's also a bonus that when his hair is long, my youngest brother is a dead-ringer for Shaun White.

[Source]

Freaky, right?

Yes, I love the Winter Olympics.

Ah, but then we have summer. I always feel like the Summer Games have an entirely different feel than the Winter, and it has nothing to do with the temperature outside. The intensity of the athletes remains the same, of course, because one does not reach the pinnacle of sport without a hefty dose of dedication, determination and drive. For whatever reason, though, a lot of the summer athletes seem more laid-back once their events are over, as well as a bit more open with the media (Hope Solo and Ryan Lochte and their "scandalous" confessions, anyone?). The world at large seems to prefer the Summer Olympics, which makes perfect sense considering that outside of a very small percentage, the events are more readily accessible to most countries, given the moderate climates needed to train. 

Of course, the glamor of physically seeing so much skin and muscle in the Summer Games might have something to do with it, too; no one can argue that speedos and spandex are a lot sexier than mittens and mufflers.

There is often a debate between Olympics fans as to which sport is the best to watch. I love them all, from diving to track and field to table tennis, but I come out on one of the popular sides as far as my favorite: swimming, hands down. This has been true for my entire life, to the point that I once let my mother talk me into swimming as an alternate on our local Y swim team for a year (I never actually raced, thank goodness!). My sister and Andrew prefer gymnastics, both men's and women's, and I have to admit that I love watching people contort their bodies into ridiculous positions on insane contraptions. I'm also really looking forward to the running events this year, for obvious reasons, and am anxious to see which random sport catches my attention this time around (it happens every. single. time. For example, with Beijing, I found myself at a bar cheering on the steeplechasers like a maniac).

[Source]

My family shares this enthusiasm for the world's largest display of athleticism and sportsmanship. Some of my fondest memories are of all of us gathered around an old tv on an ugly shag rug, cheering on Team USA and rolling in laughter as my sister perfectly mimicked Kerry Strug or my brother repeatedly declared his love for Shawn Johnson at Nastia Liuken's expense. These are the memories that I most looking forward to making each time the Games come around. I'm also looking forward to the long chats and arguments amongst my coworkers, aka my "work family", whom I am very fortunate to say comprise a true global melting pot. Over lunch breaks and coffee and happy hours, everyone will cheer on everyone else's home country, and together we will cheer on Team USA.

In this day and internet age, where we are inundated 24/7 with scandal and heartbreak and everything in between, a bunch of immensely talented individuals will remind us that while their feats of athleticism are nothing short of amazing, it's the texts, tweets, posts, articles, interviews and water cooler talk already taking place around the globe that will make the next few weeks truly special. That no matter what colors we wear, whether on the Olympic podium or sitting at home on the couch, we all have something in common: our shared humanity and a desire to achieve greatness.

That's what the Olympics are all about, Charlie Brown.

I'm So Excited!

As I mentioned about a month ago, after a year and a half of hemming and hawing, I finally bought a new laptop. It isn't anything fancy, but after six weeks I still grin like an idiot whenever I open it up to start clickety-clacking away to my little heart's content. I've written about my miserly tendencies before, so I don't think anyone was surprised that it took me so long to commit to such a big purchase, but this is one of those times when the expense was totally justified. I'm visibly calmer, more focused and finally, after what felt like forever, starting to get my mental wheels spinning again in a way that doesn't make me want to channel our dear friend, Jessie Spano.

As a direct result of this purchase, you might have noticed a  (very) mild uptick in my posting "schedule". I use that term loosely, as it's obviously less of a schedule and more of a, "post when the mood strikes"-type routine, but I have been trying to post something --anything!-- at least once a week. This has been a bit of an unusual summer, family-wise, but one of my goals for the next few months is to really spruce up ye olde blog; a redesign, better photos and, with any luck, more consistent content. I tend to write the way I talk, and if any of you have met me in person, you know that I find it extremely hard to pin down a single thought for very long. I loathe the term "word vomit," but there isn't really a more accurate description for what ends up coming out of my mouth (or, in this case, on the screen).

I've been doing a lot of thinking, though, and I believe I can pigeonhole the subjects that most excite me into three main categories: anecdotes, reviews and editorials. Still rather broad, as potential subject matter goes, but I'm hoping to fine-tune my focus as I streamline the blog.   

Which leads me to my next point: if you haven't noticed already (and really, why would you?), I finally decided that my domain name is worth the investment, so you can now find me at thecaitieexperiment[dot]com (don't worry if you have the old address bookmarked; it's an auto-redirect).

To complete my little 21st century coming-of-age, I am happy to report that after three distraction-free years, I finally caved and agreed to cable and internet at home. I'd like to pretend that it had to do with going back to school, taking an online workshop or some other worthwhile pursuit, but let's be real here: the City of Boston cut everyone's free basic cable (and therefore my ability to watch NBC), the Olympics start on Friday and as a total sports junkie, I am glued to the Games every second I get. It was only a matter of time before someone called Comcast (to his credit, that someone was Andrew).



On a (marginally) related note, I had a strange but fabulous dream last night, in which I was somehow an alternate on the US Olympic swim team. Michael Phelps was nowhere to be seen, but Ryan Lochte was a perfect gentleman. For the record, I was Team Phelps for Beijing because, well, HISTORY and all that! But I was pro-Lochte all through the trials four years ago and I am rooting for him now (as are most American women and, I assume, women of the world, at least according to every Olympic magazine cover on the stands and Ralph Lauren himself). I would like Phelps to win a few golds so he gets his record, of course, and I suspect that he will... but watching Lochte try to beat him (and the rest of the pool) should provide some much needed excitement to the next few weeks.

I can't decide what this says about me, but it's very likely that the combination of these two things (the laptop and the Olympics) will be the highlight of an otherwise tame summer. That, and getting to visit an apothecary because the steroid gel I was Rxed for my ankle is apparently harder to find than Antipholus. I'm a simple person, really.

Now that I have resorted to Shakespeare humor, I shall take my leave on this note, which I found on my Wise Women Quote of the Day Calendar:

"Let the world know who you are, not as you think you should be, because sooner or later, if you are posing, you will forget the pose, and then where will you be?" ~ Fanny Brice

The Injury Chronicles: Part Two

This morning, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes.

After a lot of thinking, hemming, hawing, whining, drinking and thinking some more, I made the decision not to enter this year. It sounds like it was a hard call, but really, it wasn't. The fact is, while there is a good chance I would be physically ready and able to run 13 miles by October 7th, mentally it could would be a disaster.

Why? Because frankly, I'm scared to start running again. I'm scared of the huffing and puffing and the snail paces on the clock. I'm scared of the blisters, the band-aids and the bloody socks. I'm scared of the ice baths, the endless energy shots and the Costco-sized gallons of Gatorade that threaten to overwhelm my (tiny) fridge.

Mostly, I'm scared of pushing too far, too fast. Of hurting myself all over again. Of running my feet, quite literally, into the ground.  

I started physical therapy last week. Despite being surrounded by medical professionals for most of my adult life, I was still really intimidated by the prospect of having a qualified professional watch my every move and then instruct me on how to fix whatever I did incorrectly. What if I was, I don't know, bad at it, thus hindering my recovery to the point of never being able to walk, let alone run, again? (You probably think I'm kidding, but Andrew will vouch that I have these kind of reactions often. I'm nothing if not consistent in my paranoia and fear of judgment and failure).

During my assessment, my PT echoed the thoughts expressed by every doctor I've seen; I have a really flat right foot and a really, really flat left. He even went a step further and said that the left arch has entirely collapsed. Like all those before him, he assured me that this is not my fault, that it would have happened in due time anyway, that running just accelerated the need for a good podiatrist and custom orthotics. Like my sports med doc, he thinks that the stress reaction itself was likely a result of severe overpronation and that  the trauma of whacking my foot was just a catalyst, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back (or almost broke my ankle, if you will).

Thankfully, he also used the phrase, "already turning the corner" and gave me a referral to a very highly-regarded podiatrist, whom he guaranteed would not give me the one-glance-and-done routine perfected by the last pod I saw. Unfortunately, said M.D. is unavailable to see me until August 20th, which is a really long frickin' time from now. In the meantime, I've been a good little doobie, paying thrice-weekly visits for electrostim, massage, stretching, strengthening and ice. I do my little exercises three times a day (err... I try, anyway), tying my little rubber band to a desk chair and miming the alphabet under my desk. And, to the horror of most women I encounter, I have abandoned all sense of fashion and overhauled my collection of summer footwear.

Tangent: This is week 11 of wearing sneakers. Did you hear that? WEEK ELEVEN! OF SNEAKERS! I admit to a minor indiscretion involving a pair of three-inch wedges and the occasional fling with flip flops, but for the most part, I've been wearing holes in every pair of pseudo-supportive sneakers I own. And by that I mean I've been purchasing every kind of over-the-counter insoles known to womankind in the hopes that they will somehow miraculously provide the arch support my failing feet crave, thereby saving me several hundreds of dollars next month. So far, no dice. By the time I'm done I will have amassed enough CVS Extrabucks and CitySports Rewards to finance my entire apparel-shoe-sock-and-gel budget for a year, let alone pay for custom insoles. But I digress.

Today, the 2012 BAA Half Marathon sold out in an hour and fifteen minutes, without me.

And I am relieved.

The Only Worm I Want...

... is at the bottom of a bottle of tequila.

And on that note, hola!*

Today is one of those days where everything feels just the slightest bit ... off. Not only do I feel a tad fuzzy in the brain (must be the wrackspurts), but I keep going to set things down and winding up a centimeter or two off from wherever I was intending them to be. And by that I mean I almost fell out of my chair at work because I misjudged the distance to it and, well, I think we all know what I'm capable of under these circumstances.

All Harry Potter references aside, my inability to get out of bed this morning might be the cause of this brain fog, since I was intent on ignoring my 5:30 alarm, my 6:00 alarm before finally, at 6:45, dragging my carcass out of bed. You might have picked up on the fact that I just said 5:30 alarm... and yes, I meant 5:30am, rather than its glorious, happy-hour-inducing counterpart, 5:30pm. I've been having a lot of trouble sleeping lately, so I thought I'd try to take advantage of this nuisance and attempt to transition into a morning person for the 393rd time. Monday I was up and driving home from the Cape by 5:30 and yesterday I was awake at the same ungodly hour, even managing to squeeze in a killer arms workout before seven. Aside from the delayed-onset muscle soreness currently radiating through my phalanges, I didn't even hate it (that much).

As usual, though, I stayed up too late last night doing really important stuff (like finishing Season 1 of Game of Thrones and working on a few book reviews). As a result, I broke my two-day streak of waking with the roosters and slept in.

Oh well. As Scarlett says, "tomorrow is another day."       

*Fun fact about yours truly: I took three years of Spanish in high school, but to get credit toward my college language requirement, I needed to take a competency/placement exam at freshman orientation. I was feeling lazy that day, and for that reason, I opted to skip out on the test and instead registered for a full year of Latin. I loved it so much that I continued on with it after that mandatory year and finished four credits shy of a Latin minor, which comes in handy more often than one would think. Semper ubi sub ubi.