Notes from the Red Bird House

Right now I have something new at the top of my list of stupid things. Yesterday, after not having run farther than four miles in several months, decided to run ten miles. On a treadmill. At the gym. I watched one and a half episodes of Sports Center on ESPN, listened to music, and prayed that the hot gym manager would show up so I'd have some decent scenery. I also periodically prayed for survival. Such prayers are new to me where running is concerned. Generally speaking, survival has always been guaranteed. I've taken a few leaps here and there, but deep down I always knew I could do it. I began yesterday's run with the highest of hopes. 'I can do this. I can. I've done it before'. Sure, not in nearly six months, but my confidence was high nonetheless. Mistakenly so it turns out. I had flashes of brilliance, like at Mile 1 and again at Mile 5. Because the treadmills at the gym only allow sixty minutes of activity and I would be running over ninety minutes,

'Because forty-three can happen to me or I can make it happen.' ~ From a social networking 'check-in' at Planet Fitness by Stacee Harris two days before her forty-third birthday. I wrote that and I mean it. In truth, it's a paradigm shift; a change in my way of thinking. I've always approached age with an 'it's whatever' attitude. Another year older, another year passed...Whatever. I didn't seem to care one way or the other. Since turning thirty, I've never looked my age and routinely get asked to see my ID for 'proof' when I tell how old I am. In other words, I look young and I act young. As such age means little to me. Right now. Today. At the age of almost forty-three. However, I would very much like to have a similar attitude well into my seventies and beyond. The way I see it, I'm not even halfway through this life. I still have a lot to do and a lot to accomplish. Many people think that when you hit a certain age, you&#

I stopped. Breathing. Moving. Thinking. She was beautiful. Absolutely, painfully, exquisitely beautiful. God, it hurt. How could it be? How could she do this? Be this way? Make me feel this way? Without even knowing her name or a thing about her. Spellbound. Numb. Tortured. Done. That moment. The Moment. Our eyes met, but only for a second. I looked away. A fight for breath. Breathe, dammit, breathe. I looked back. She was gone. Would I ever recover? Did I want to? I wanted the pain of her. Wanted it. The scar. The beauty. I didn't need her name or her birth date. Just the dull ache of her beauty. I knew I could look forever and never find her, but every breath, every painful searching breath, would remind me. Exquistely. Painfully. Absolutely. And I would never be the same.

'In a world where no one wants to be who they are, the hardest thing to be is yourself.' ~ Stacee Ann Harris Sometimes I think I should apologize or at the very least make an excuse or two. I'm different. There's no getting around that. Honestly though, at the age of nearly forty-three, I think I'm done pretending to pretend. I'm more or less who I've always been, with occasional minor improvements of course, and I'm not planning any major personality changes any time soon. I'm good with who I am and who I want to be.  I don't know if everyone can say that. Abject boredom aside, I'm content. Most days I might even be willing to argue that I'm happy. I work a job I like well enough and that pays me well enough. Yes, with a degree from a reasonably prestigious private college I should probably do 'more' with my life. Unfortunately, a good degree doesn't guarantee happiness. Neither does wealth or status, for that matter.

At this point in time, I'm incredibly thankful for my imagination. Life is boring. Bo-ring. Bo-ring. Bo-ring. I've made some changes and plan a few more, but I fear that no matter what I do, I'll still be mired in the doldrums of the humdrum. Being broke doesn't help. Oh, I don't have to be broke. I don't. I could charge up my Visa card again and make minimum payments on all my other bills. I could be fat and flying high. It's just that I've done all that before I never end up anywhere good. In fact, I almost always find myself in more debt (weird how that happens) and working yet again toward debt-free. This time I'm determined to get there. I thought I'd be forty-two and debt-free, however given that I'm rapidly approaching my birthday, it looks like it's going to have to wait until the early days of forty-three. Which is why I love that imagination is free and that Netflix is only $7.99/month (after my free trial). I've been ge

I am my own contradiction. I am. I know this. Nothing with me is set in stone. I reserve the right to change my mind. Which I do quite often. Except when I don't. In essence, I often want what I don't want; need what I shouldn't need. I go back and forth. By the week, by the day, and even by the minute. I can be steadfast and usually I choose to be so. About most things. I have the ability to withstand cravings and I can save money when motivated to do so. About other things, primarily social things, I'm more quixotic. One day I think I want this; the next I think I want that. I twist in the wind of social acceptance and wish I could be a standard deviation or two closer to 'normal'. Then I come back to me. The me that I've always been. More or less, though occasionally less than more. The me who is quiet, pays her bills on time, delays gratification, and prefers to be on the outside looking in. The me who chooses to be off the grid more often than on.

I'm going to call it a figment of my imagination. Others may prefer to call it an obsession. Tomato, tomato. Either way, if it gets me to the gym with increased regularity, I'm for it. Suffice it to say, I need to get to the gym more often than I have been. I have reason to be fit and there's no way prepare for that at the last minute. Now is the time and I need motivation. Which is where my imagination comes in. I'm not good at going to the gym. I'm not. I don't like working out and I don't like being at 'the gym'. Even worse, I don't like my gym. I've tried a couple since moving to Austin and I haven't warmed to any. I see my current gym as the lesser of all possible evils. Sure, the customer service sucks (I've been a member for nearly two years and no one knows my name), but it's cheap, convenient, and offers free tanning. If I go at the right time, it's almost tolerable. Almost. The 'right time' is defined by

'No', she said as she pulled away. Their eyes met for a moment. 'I can't. We can't'. More silence. She looked down at her ring then held it up with an unspoken question. Their eyes met once again. 'It's never stopped you before'. 'Unfortunately or fortunately, they aren't and never were you'. With that she turned and walked away never looking back.

There's a look that some women have. It's the attractive ones. Let me re-phrase. It's the ones who KNOW they are attractive. The look is specific, unique, and impossible to mistake. It's the look of a woman who's been told she's beautiful a few too many times. It's the don't-bother-me-unless-you-can-come-up-with-something-more-original look. She's heard it all. Beautiful, pretty, gorgeous, fabulous, amazing, sexy, perfect. Boredom set in long ago and it shows. Reference Danica Patrick and Angelina Jolie. They ARE and we are damn lucky to share the planet with them. Reference also the pretty girl manager at the gym. She's beautiful, I'll give you that. I'd even argue that she's gorgeous and sexy in a way that could be attractive to me. I've never seen her smile or heard her speak. She's a walking closed sign and as such I've never spoken to her. Not even 'Hi'. The look she gives me speaks volumes (essentially, fuc