Labyrinthine Lessons

I’m having a problem shaking the memory of a scene from a movie that I watched several months ago now.

It’s not that is was a vivid scene, and it certainly isn’t a profound movie – quite honestly, I’m embarrassed to admit I watched it at all – but since the scene keeps bugging me, I thought I ought to blog about it in an attempt to rid myself of it’s reoccurrence in my memory.

I know the replaying of the scene is triggered by a variety of things; seeing a homeless person pushing a full-to-overflowing shopping cart (all their worldly possessions, no doubt) or seeing my backpack clad self reflected in an office window as I walked home from work one day; even the act of writing up my very first, Last Will recently; but whatever the reason I’ve been thinking a lot about the amount of stuff I have amassed during my ‘X’ number of years on the planet.

I have a lot of stuff. Too much stuff really. Every so often I think I ought to divest myself of some of my less-significant possessions. A thought that is often followed by a large sense of dread and feeling overwhelmed. An unpleasant undertaking that; if I can quote my friend C’s reaction when faced with unpleasant tasks he needs to tackle: “... is akin to being flayed alive as far as I'm concerned. gAck!, I'd rather smell my own intestines burning before having to do that... but I expound in possibly a little too much detail” Graphic but fitting, C.

Ironically, it was in one of these desperate and somewhat futile attempts to divest myself of some clutter that I re-watched “Labyrinth” for the first time in probably 15 years. About six months ago I decided it was time to divest myself of my VCR tapes but before jettisoning them, I decided to go through them and digitize what I’d like to keep. The majority of the tapes were what could be referred to as mixed tapes, random collections of shows and music videos and various other videographic-flotsam. But in amongst the myriad of mixed tapes were a few movies that I liked when I was younger, one of which was “Labyrinth”.

“Labyrinth”, for those of you not familiar with it, is a coming of age movie in which a teenage girl named Sarah has to come to terms with the passing of her childhood and divest herself of some of childhood ways.

The scariest part (other than seeing David Bowie in cotton leggings) was the part of the movie with the Junk Lady. After being drugged, Sarah falls into what appears to be her room at home, at which point she starts re-connecting with her toys and stuffed animals, gathering them up in her arms at which point the helpful Junk Lady (a rather old woman hunched over and laden with all matter of junk piled on her back) comes a long and starts piling all Sarah’s old toys onto her back, telling her how wonderful all her things are and how much she needs them; weighing her down with all her childhood clutter. Until Sarah realizes she doesn’t need all this junk and sheds herself of the burden.

Now, I’m not holding on to my childhood – my arms far too short to reach back that far – but I do tend to keep things for “sentimental reasons” and because “someday they might come in handy” or better yet “someday they might be a collectors item.” I can’t tell you how many things I have kept around my small apartment that fall into this last category.

The problem is, my place is cluttered and it’s beginning to weigh me down. It’s becoming mentally overwhelming. I need to divest myself of some of these things, to rid myself of the “under-useful” and jettison the “potential collectibles” that I just no longer want.

I need to realise how much of this is just junk; just stuff that I have kept over the years that no longer hold any real significance; just dust collectors that need to be purged from the premises.

So this weekend I plan on starting the purge – it will be a long and painful process, I know, but one that needs to be undertaken and one that is a long time overdue.

I will have to be strong and ruthless and see these things for what they really are – just junk, weighing me down, burdening me – slowly turning me into a Junk Lady.

Cartwheels in the Grass

Every so often I have an almost uncontrollable urge to do cartwheels in a grassy field.

Odd, really, I know.

It is just that sometimes I am so shockingly happy that I am stuck, while passing a grassy field, with the odd urge to do cartwheels though it.

The tragic thing is I'm not sure which I find more odd; the urge to do cartwheels or the underlying happiness that drives the desire.

This morning, on my way to work, no less, I was struck with the cartwheel contagion. I resisted the urge – being right downtown and dressed in my long leather coat and dress clothes I was afraid I’d be picked up by a passing police cruiser and escorted to the nearest mental institution after being mistaken for an escapee.

I guess the feeling was a kin to the day I resisted the urge to do my Happy Dance on the way home from work. But then, it was Spring, the long cold hibernation of body and spirit was at an end.

Now, nearing the end of October, I face the next 5 months with a sense of dread and resignation – Winter is just around the corner and the days of darkness are rapidly approaching. I already walk to work in the morning in the dark and soon, it will be dark by the time my work day ends and I shall travel home in the dark then too.

But today, in the dark, I wanted to do cartwheels.

I think the cartwheel compulsion comes from the desire for weightlessness; it is a controlled fall in which you cause yourself, for one brief moment in time, to be suspended upside down in mid air. It could also be a desire to recapture the whim and whimsy of childhood; when silly was fun and inhibitions were at a low ebb.

I mentioned my cartwheel compulsion to a couple of people – first they questioned the cartwheel compulsion and then they, after I explained I want to do cartwheels when I’m happy – they questioned my happiness.

Why are you so happy?

I don't know, was my response. I just am.

Maybe sometimes you shouldn't question things, shouldn't try to find a reason and just embrace the mystery. Rather than analyze it to find a cause, you should just accept it.

Sometimes, without warning and without reason, I just want to do cartwheels in the grass.

Another Season Passed

Last Sunday (October 11th) marked the end of yet another "race season"; quotes are important here because I use the term rather loosely, since my race season only consisted of three races spread out over about four months.

The final race in my season was the Royal Victoria Marathon a race I have done several times before and like my other big race this year - a race I was rather under prepared for. I had the best of intentions - but unlike some people who get awarded Peace Prizes for having the best of intentions - I will win no prizes for my intentions and my actual effort fell short of my goal of expert training - quite possibly proving why people should not be awarded prizes for their intentions but rather the summation of their actions (but enough wailing and gnashing of teeth over Peace Prizes and how they are awarded).

Having disappointed myself with my less than stellar effort to train for my first main race in July, I thought I might have redeemed myself by re-doubling my efforts for my last main race - eat better, exercise properly, don't miss workouts, train smart. Alas, ultimately, I accomplished none of these goals. So race day found me unnaturally resigned to my fate of a lack-lustre performance knowing that the extra ten pounds I was carrying around was going to translate into a slower time and the sore muscles I were feeling five kilometres into the race would only get worse as the race progressed.

On the bright side, the day could not have been better for the race. Sunshine (once the sun came up), no wind and about 6 degrees at the start and 12 degrees at the finish - perfect weather! The route itself is spectacular - winding its way though Victoria, along the waterfront with the Olympic Mountains off in the hazy distance - though the upscale parts of town before turning back on itself to lead the runners back to where they began in the heart of Victoria, nestled between the inner harbour and the Legislature.

It's a shame that I expend so much willpower and brain power to running that I don't have an opportunity to enjoy my surroundings (I'm sure there is a life-lesson in there somewhere).

Amazingly, as I stood at the start with about 2000 other lucky individuals, I wasn't very nervous. Unlike last year, when I secretly told myslef I was running for my Mum beacuse she couldn't run at all that year due to a recent surgery to have a pace maker implanted. This year, I was just here to run, to do as well as I could do given all the things I felt were against me this year (mostly self-induced). I was just out for a very long run with a lot of other people.

The gun went off and the racers surged and stopped, surged and stopped as they sorted themselves out, crossed the start line and found enough space to run properly.

"How do you mentally prepare to run 42 kilometres?" my friend M had asked me the day before the race. "I try not to think about it," was my response. And I do try not to think about it; I try not to think about the long four (if I’m lucky) hours in front of me, the number of steps I have to take, the number of volunteers I encounter, the number of spectators I pass (which included my friend P about 4 times), the signs announcing each passing kilometre, but most of all I try not to think about all the aches and pains I feel as the race progresses.

Unfortunately, this last item for ignorance is not, despite my best intentions, able to be ignored: left shin between k-one and k-5 (as expected, it fades); the right hip - which starts about k-4 and continues for the remainder of the race; left knee and lower back which began somewhere near the turn-around and steadily worsened as the distance to finish diminished.

Despite my best efforts, which included ample doses of Ibuprofen, the knee, hip and back all conspired to slow me down and while I was 1:56 at the half and was on track to break four hours (my secret goal) as the distance to finished, so did my speed.

And then there was that damn pink bunny!

No, I was not hallucinating due to exhaustion and ibuprofen overdose, most of the longer distance races I have partaken in recently have participants called “pace bunnies”. The job of the pace bunny (besides crushing the hopes and dreams of the runners they pass in the later kilometres of the race) is to run the entire race, at a constant pace, running for ten minutes and walking for one with the aim of finishing the race at a specific time – i.e. four hours. To distinguish them from the rest of the mere mortals (and race wreckage) on the race route they wear tall pink bunny ears with their race target time written on them for all to see.

And see him I did. The route itself is more or less an out-and-back with a loop through downtown to begin with before heading out along the “sea wall” on Dallas Road, wiggling its way into Oak Bay and Uplands before doubling back on itself and finishing outside the Legislature Buildings next to Victoria’s inner harbour. It was just after the turn-around that I first saw the evil four hour pace bunny.

As a rule, I don’t look at my watch as I run, I don’t want to know. Knowing leads to extrapolating, extrapolating leads to one of two things, having a time I’m happy with, or (more likely) having a time I’m not happy with. One year, I kept track of my time and ended up extrapolating myself into what I think must have been a panic attack (or a giant ego attack) and drop out of the race with less than ten kilometres left.

So seeing the pace bunny about five minutes behind me at the turnaround point (about 23.5k into the race) made me realize that I was on pace to have a sub four hour marathon, provided I could keep the bunny behind me. So, when I saw him for the second time, with about 6 kilometres left in the race I was less than impressed.

Glancing right, I saw the ears and swore – he laughed. “Did I say that out loud?” I wheezed. “Yup,” he chirped. I swore again and continued to slog along; trying to keep pace with the springing spry and completely annoying pace bunny from hell.

My weakened but still hopeful mind reasoned that since he was walking and running, if I could keep pace almost keep pace with him as he bounced along, I could catch up when he stopped to walk and then I might be able to complete the race in less than four hours. My feeble brain attempted to work out, based on the number of kilometres left and the time it takes to run each kilometre, just how many times he’d be walking for and just how far away I reckoned I could let him get. What my foolish and exhaustion addled brain failed to realize was that it wasn’t in charge. Math would not be of any use to me, my body was ruled by the Triad of Pain (knee, hip and lower back) and they weren’t interested in the math.

Soon after the blasted bunny passed me, he stopped and did his walk, at which point I passed him, only to have him bound past a couple of minutes later. Brain told legs to stay with him; legs complied at first, then decided it was too much work. I watched as the blasted bunny complete with large white pompon tail (like the ears were not enough taunting) bounced off towards the finish line leaving the crushed souls of slower runners in his wake.

As the pink ears bobbed away in front of me getting smaller and smaller as they until they disappeared, so did my faint hope of a sub four hour marathon, but why did it matter. Why, after I had reasoned thought out my training that a sub four hour marathon was not attainable this year did it matter that the blasted bunny had been there at all? Because, if it wasn’t for the bunny, my brain wouldn’t have done the math and my spirit wouldn’t had had hope - Hope that was squashed by a blasted bunny. So I spent the last five kilometres cursing pink bunnies and forcing legs that didn’t want to run anymore to keep going.

I finished the race, 4:02:40. A very respectable time. A time, all things considered, I am quite happy with. Was it my best time ever? No, not at all; but it was the best that my body could do and even though the basted bunny squashed my spirit as he bounded past, I kept going, kept telling my legs to run, kept telling myself that I was going to finish. If I just kept pushing myself, I’d get there, in my best (albeit only) time this year.

I just had to keep running. And so I did.

Damage Done

I think the damage is already done. I think it's probably too late, the die has been cast and there is little (or nothing) I can do to change it.

Recently I spent a fun Saturday afternoon with a friend of mine, wandering around in a trendy part of town browsing through an assortment of knick-knack shops and junk shops. In one of these shops we came across a display of humourous t-shirts and S and I began reading shirt slogans out to each other. One of the shirts depicted a daily weather forecast, three symbols and descriptions under each symbol. The first said something about waking up grumpy, the second was something like “annoyed with the risk of angry outbursts” and the third was something like “Chance of more of the same tomorrow”. I chuckled and said I liked it S agreed and said something along the lines of; it suited me.

That’s when it hit me – that IS how people think of me – as a grouchy and angry person. That’s what I will be remembered for – heck, that’s what I AM remembered for.

That fact, or possibly more accurately - that perceived reality, leaves me feeling rather depressed. Depressed because it is NOT the way I want to be remembered.

I don’t want to be remembered that way because I don’t think it’s accurate, I don’t think it is the real me.

I will concede that I DO wear my heart on my sleeve and as a result it is always clear how I feel about things. Maybe that’s a bad thing, I don’t know.

I will also admit that I have displayed my annoyance and frustration in public and I agree that a mature (theoretically) adult should not throw temper tantrums like an over-tired ten-year-old child but there you are, sometimes emotions get the better of me. The problem is, though my emotions are fleeting the impressions they leave are not.

When I was a teenager, I came across a bumper sticker (or some such thing) that had the following slogan on it: “When I do right, no one remembers; when I do wrong, no one forgets.” The fact that I liked it I chalked up to the fact that I was a typical angst-ridden teenager who felt like no one understood her.

Unfortunately, I am now at an ever-increasing distance from being a teenager and yet I still can’t help thinking there is a grain of truth to the saying.

People remember my temper and not my tenderness.

I have cried bucket-loads of tears upon hearing of the death of a good friend’s pet cat.

I have driven a friend to another city an hour away because she needed me to.

I have worried about good friends when they have been going through hard times in their marriages.

I have sat up all night with a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on and who just really didn’t want to be alone that night. We sat up all night and talked and hugged and then went out for breakfast and got on with the things we needed to do.

I have (in my humble opini0n) a really big heart and a lot of love for my friends and yet I’m not remembered for being fiercely loyal – just for being fierce.

I’m like a hedgehog; I appear a bit prickly and if stressed I only show my prickly side. But really, I’m rather soft and, like a hedgehog, I will eagerly eat foods that are high in fat and sugar – though I don’t think that’s relevant.

I know that throwing temper tantrums at my age is not socially acceptable and I am working at curbing that. But I think, too, that I am too sensitive when it comes to jokes about my ferocity.

I am a no-nonsense person. I don’t suffer fools gladly and I have rather high standards, all qualities that, for the most part, serve me well and are, in my opinion, good qualities to have.

So maybe I don’t need others to forgive me my outbursts as much as I need to forgive myself. Maybe I should, as someone suggested, go buy the humourous t-shirt and wear it with pride. I can poke fun at myself; I know my own shortcomings and am better off for the knowledge.