Marathon

I'll be the first to admit I've been to a lot of sporting events.  I've played in them, winning a National Championship, and losing a Final Four game.  I've watched the Yankees win a World Series, sitting seven rows behind their dugout in 1996 with my dad, hugging him as Wade Boggs mounted a horse, and Joe Torre let the tears flow.  And I've sat in the stands cheering for the Mets, Giants, Nets, Red Bulls, LA Galaxy...countless times reclining in admiration of the athleticism taking place in front of me. Sports take us through the highest of highs, placing athletes on pedestals, creating idols, and nurturing rivalries and competition.

Yet today, I choked up watching ordinary people compete not against each other, but against time, age, mother nature, and their own limitations.

I was in Long Branch, under the brightest of springtime skies. On the drive down, I'd taken a moment while ascending the Driscoll Bridge, when there was nothing but blue and clouds ahead, to comment on how perfect a day it was.  Now, walking across Ocean Boulevard, nothing seemed unusual, except the vision of white tents peeking through the  row of brand new condominiums.  

The closer we got to the ocean, the more people we started to see milling about, some wearing fleeces, shivering in the wind coming in off the sea.  There were others, dressed in spandex and shorts, with numbers affixed to their chests and medals around their necks.  There was even a four person cluster dressed in the aforementioned spandex, but with wigs and bedazzled capes styled like Elvis.

The ones dressed for summer were smiling, guzzling bottles of brightly colored sports drinks, water, and chowing down on everything from bananas to hot dogs.  They had a somewhat dazed look in their eyes, their hair was matted, but they seemed genuinely, unequivocally, happy.  

We were there for my sister's boyfriend James, who turned forty in November, and, after running a half last year, decided he wanted to run a full marathon.  This was his race, a 26.2 mile course around the Jersey shore, culminating in the final trek down the boardwalk in Long Branch.  

We had a rather sizable group to support him. James's daughters, his mother, his best friends John and Drew, John's girlfriend, and my family were all headed down to cheer him on.  

I'll be honest. The idea of a marathon terrifies me.  When I first heard of it, it was in the context of ancient Greece, the legend of Pheidippides running from the Battle of Marathon to Athens to tell the assembly that the Persians had been defeated.  A noble cause, yes.  A damn stupid one that ended in his untimely, exhausted death?  Well, that too.

I've never been much of a runner.  My friends chide me because, as a soccer player for most of my formative years, I did my fair share of moving quickly on the field.  But most of that involved chasing down a ball, or sprinting to elude a defender.  The actual running of it all- the miles pounding the sidewalk and streets, listening to Melissa Etheridge's "No Souvenirs" on repeat, my knees screaming- that was punishing.  You're alone with your thoughts, with your body.  You're aware of every breath, every memory, every instinct to quit.

Which is why, gingerly approaching the finish line with our crew, I was awed to see these people accomplishing what I never could.  They were fighters, all of them.  Pink shirts with "Survivor" printed in big letters, American flag patterned shorts and dog chains around their necks, friends holding hands as they ran through the finish line. Each had their own story, their own demons and victories, their own reasons for enduring.

A marathon isn't entered into lightly, it's something you have to commit to, fully giving yourself over body and soul .  I know my friend woke up at ridiculously early hours, went to bed late, withstood grueling mile after mile.  I know he charged through the wall you inevitably hit (he told us it was around mile 18 that day)- and he kept going.  

We had our own minibattles that day to contend with. To start, there was security- and that security almost cost us our buddy's reunion with his family.  They wouldn't allow his mother to bring in her four inch by four inch purse.  She was running late, got lost getting to the venue, and, after being guided in via cell phone directions, was promptly stopped.  

After a brief conversation with my sister (consisting mainly of "I need you to do this for me"), I used my speed and long stride (remarkable, I thought, as my legs extended and the sea crashed behind me, I can still glide while sprinting) to move from the finish line to the security stop, scanning the crowd for two adorable little red haired girls, and a feisty petite grandma. They were relatively easy to spot.

"Hi!  Nice to meet you," I said, bending down to hug grandma.  "Just head over to the finish line.  I'll be right back," I stated, gesturing toward the yellow-flagged finish with one hand while my body moved in the opposite direction, towards where my mom and stepdad were perched with my kids.

After that quick hand off to my stepdad, I ran back towards the finish line, my ponytail slapping my red Harvard hat - only the sweet grandmother with the double stroller wasn't there.

Instead, my sister and our friends were looking rather confused.  "Where'd they go?" Nicole asked me.

"I have no idea!  I pointed over here..." I trailed off, scanning the crowd, my stomach sinking as I realized James was headed towards the finish line any minute.

Nicole's phone buzzed.  "You have to find them. Please," she said to me, pacing away as she turned back to the finish line. "Hello?  (pause)  What do you see?  Do you see the yellow flags?".  

I handed my camera over to John's girlfriend, giving the fastest tutorial in how to handle it possible, and ran towards the fence.  I ascended the miniature dune, the sand and tall grass giving way beneath my sneakers, and climbed up on the juxtaposed metal .  I spotted them, speaking to a black-clad security officer about twenty feet away.  

Waving, I pleaded, "Her son is about to cross the finish line- can you PLEASE let them through?" I could feel my voice catch in my throat, that thing that happens when you're too emotional for your own good, and the sobs are threatening.  

Knowing how far James had come, knowing how important it was to him to have his girls and his mom there for this once in a lifetime moment, I tried every Jedi mind trick I could conceive of.  And then, I used good old fashioned Jersey stupidity/ingenuity- I just acted like he was going to say yes.

James's mom took the cue, and started walking towards me with the stroller.  I sensed the guard's hesitancy as he held back a bit.  "I just don't want to get fired."

"You're not going to get fired- you can escort us if you need to," I assured him, placing one foot on the top of the fence, and hopping over it.  Briefly, I thought of the security guard by the entrance, the one holding the four foot long automatic weapon that looked like something out of Judge Dredd. I quickly dismissed this.

The group of us made our way through the emergency medical station, straight towards the finish line.  We reached yellow caution tape, and I started to pick up the four year old out of the stroller.  "Come here, sweetie- we're going to get your daddy."

The words were barely out of my mouth when I saw James, curving around the bend, having crossed the finish line, and coming straight towards us.  In the moment, I heaved a sigh of relief that his family was there for his accomplishment. I noticed his legs shaking, his eyes somewhere between delirium and a dream at having accomplished such a Herculean task. The image of the white fabric on his shoe dyed red from his foot's blood blisters popping during the last mile stays with me.  But most of all, I remember the smile on his face, the one mirroring his daughter's as I handed her off to him, and he beamed.  

I can't imagine running a marathon.  My knees are too far gone, the wear and tear of twenty plus years of soccer is too much for a road race of that magnitude.  But I can see why you would.  It's a proud moment, a defining moment.   Just to be a part of it in some way, to help someone reach their goal, cross an item off their bucket list, and shout to the world that they can conquer the unconquerable, was special.  

If you can swing it, do it.  Ignore the naysayers, ignore your angry limbs, and just see what you can do when you give yourself over to the "what if" of your dreams.  I teared up because literally everyone who crosses the finish line comes out a winner- a rarity in sports, and in life.  It's a feat worth being present for, in any capacity.  

Cocktail Party

I turned away from the hoopla around me, the small child wrapping her skinny arms around my neck, her face burrowing into my shoulder.  We passed by her dad, who leaned out of the conversation about music long enough to give her a kiss.  "Good night, Riley."

Navigating through the sea of people, I glimpsed snifters and wine glasses, sparkling with amber and maroon colored liquids.  The music held its own at a low decibel level, someone crooning "Sweet Child Of Mine" through the speakers while the voices around us laughed and whooped, and tittered with joy.

Walking towards the stairs, I smoothed her hair down as she pleaded, "But I don't wanna go to bed.  I wanna watch the snowman movie."

Glancing at the clock- 9:18- I responded, "Sorry sweetie, it's bedtime.  We'll watch the snowman in the morning."  I trudged up the stairs, careful to hold the railing with one hand and my daughter with the other, since, even at 35 and stone cold sober, I'm still a little unsteady in high heels.

I placed Riley gently in her bed, tucking her in up to her chin.  "Snuggle lamby, too," she sleepily instructed, and I obliged, pulling the covers around the matted, formerly grey-now-white lamb as well.  I sang a quick verse about jet planes, looking at her light blue eyes and dark hair, wondering how I created something this perfect in such a flawed world.

Finishing our Peter, Paul, and Mary moment, I clicked on the light in her fish tank, turned off the overhead light, and closed the door down to a crack.  "I love you, Riley."

"I love you too, Mommy," she said, rolling over onto her side and curling up around her lamb.  I think she was asleep by the time I hit the stairs.

I began my descent.  I could see the glow of the kitchen from the darkness of the hallway, and in a flash, I realized I was an adult.

I was now the mom putting the kids to bed.  My friends were the ones laughing, and drinking, and dressing up for the party downstairs, while the kids' doors remained closed to block out the noise.  I walked by the table piled high with cupcakes, and immediately found my sister by the sink. "I just had an epiphany,"  I said.

"We need more hors d'oeuvres?" she asked.

"No.  I'm the mom now."

"Yea, duh. You've been a mom for about 3 and a half years," she responded, taking a sip of her drink.

"No, I mean, we're the grown ups." The thought was hitting home, a stunning piece of recognition that I wasn't quite sure I could handle.

"I was just thinking that, actually, watching Riley and Ella running around.  Granted, Ella wasn't polishing off a beer like I did at her age," Nicole mentioned, referencing her brief period of toddler experimentation involving a partially drunk bottle she swiped from a table in our childhood living room.

"When the hell did this happen?"I asked, glancing around the room at the granite countertops, wingback chair, and leather sofa, all of which I paid for myself.

When did I go from freewheeling teen, hosting parties on our parents' back deck and making out in the bushes with boys, to a mom with a mortgage, tenure, and two kids?  When did I stop traveling, jumping from country to country, driving across the US on a whim, and become a suburban housewife?  When did I stop being the one put to bed, and start being the one doing the putting?

I thought about all the times my dad had carried me up the stairs, his red hair tickling my nose as I was transported to my room.  I thought about my mom kissing me goodnight, the smell of her Tuscany perfume lingering on my nightgown after she went back down to the party.  I thought of drifting off to the sounds of muffled laughter and a sweet symphony of voices, lulling me into dreamland.

I grew up.  No one can be Peter Pan forever, and flit around, with no home and no roots.  Eventually, I settled.

It's not always easy- the older we get, the more "stuff" there is to take care of.  Health isn't something to be taken for granted anymore- there are stress tests, echo cardiograms, and doctors visits.  Your friends start running marathons- for fun- and team sports become relegated to wiffle ball in the backyard and adult softball leagues.  Marriage is hard, taking care of someone in chronic pain takes its toll.  The stressors of owning a company and struggling to keep it successful are draining.  The constant barrage of new common core standards, tests, and paperwork zap me of energy I want to spend on innovation and actual teaching.  Children are the best gift in the world, but they need constant attention and don't understand the concept of mommy needing to sleep past seven in the morning- ever.

But growing older has its benefits.  I have more amazing memories than I can write about.  I have two daughters who think I'm the funniest, most wonderful person on the planet, and are a rapt audience for my singing.

I work at one of the best schools in the state, where my creativity is lauded, and my students are bright and eager.  I'm given the freedom to be me, to be the wacky teacher who has teens write epic memoirs, make videos and scrapbooks, and sit outside analyzing their philosophies on life with each other.

And looking around the party, I have friends.  Old ones from when I was 17 and awkward, and newer ones from trivia nights and work.   They're silly and willing to ham it up with fake mustache props and Etch-A-Sketch frames for photos.  I've got a ton of messages via social media wishing me well, from people I miss, people I love, and people I've known for multiple decades.

Celebrating a 35th birthday beats the hell out of the alternative, and on this birthday, knowing so many people I care about are struggling to make it to their next ones, I know I'm lucky.

I'm the mom now, and I have the privilege of hosting the grown up parties while my daughters sleep upstairs.  I'm 35, and it's a pretty good gig.