Posted by Erin 8:15 AM 2 comments

A Room of One's Own
Tuesday, December 11, 2007

We sat across from one another over a brunch of an omelet (him) and carne asada (me).

I wasn't sad, or upset. Merely reflective. But when he said, "I want you to feel like it's your home, too," I found giant silent tears sliding down my cheeks.

I knew he did. I knew that he was sincere. I had moved in somewhat suddenly after putting my condo on the market and receiving an initial flurry of activity surrounding the listing. We had originally decided to move the two dogs to his house across the isthmus in the spirit of keeping my place continually show-able. But after only a couple of days of having my dogs in one place and all of my things in another, I soon followed with everything except for my artwork, rugs, and furniture.

For those days, and many that would follow, I felt ill at ease. Like wearing a sweater that was too small. Like forgetting to do something important but not knowing what.

It wasn't lost on me that I would be the second woman to share that space. That I was using the closet his ex-girlfriend had called hers. That my toothbrush and perfume occupied the same shelves that hers had less than a couple of dozen of months before. That she had been on my side of the bed long before me. And it was unsettling. But it wasn't completely that.

And it wasn't the negotiation of space. Even when I tried to make that an issue ("Well, what are we going to do with all of these dishes?" "Where am I going to put any of my clothes?" "What about my TV/bedspread/wine glasses/insert any random household item here?") he was nonplussed. He boxed up his old dishes. Cleaned out a whole closet for me, and part of his. Reorganized the kitchen to accommodate the bags of dry goods. Didn't bat an eye when I reorganized his reorganization ("Oh!" he said one morning, finding the marshmallows in a different cabinet than he had put them away in the night before, "This is where they're supposed to go.") And did all of it with a content smile. Happy to be doing it. Happy I was there.

And yet. It was hard to shake the loss I felt. Even if I couldn't put my finger on exactly what I had lost.

I had lived on my own on and off for the past six years. After a brief stint living with an ex-boyfriend in New Jersey after graduate school, I packed up and headed to Madison for a job, barely knowing a soul. I found an apartment by myself, and then, a condo. With my mom's eye for design, penchant for finding a good deal, and elbow grease, I was soon living in a space that could only be described as me. As home.

It was there where I would wake up on Saturday mornings, Leonard the dog curled in next to me, and watch Book TV before rising for a morning run or to take myself out for coffee. It was there that I hosted a myriad of Grey's Anatomy nights with a group of people who I would soon count among my very best friends. It was there where I would stay up late into the night -- a bottle of wine beside me, Leonard curled on my feet, and my laptop perched on my legs -- working on finishing my novel or a keynote speech for work.

It was where I broke off a long, hard, six-year relationship -- first laying on my bed in the heat of summer in an unfinished bedroom, and then again, more than a year later, sitting at my kitchen table on a blustery October afternoon. And it was on the first couch I had ever purchased where I kissed Chief of Stuff for the first time. It was the place of my 30th birthday bash, the first actual cocktail party I had ever hosted, where I returned to after running my first marathon, and where my closest friends and family gathered, all of us exhausted from the day, after I completed -- what has, so far, been the best and most monumentous day of my life to date -- the Wisconsin Ironman this past fall.

It was the place -- of all the places I've ever lived -- where I felt most me.

Simply put, it was home.

And even though I wanted to -- even though I was looking forward to turning the page -- leaving that place had left a hole I didn't know how to fill.

I tried the Buddhist tact -- that sorrow in life is rooted in attachment to possessions. That I was being unnecessarily materialistic. And then, when that failed, when the feeling of off-ness just wouldn't dissipate, I painted.

On a whim one night on the way home from work, I decided that the spare room -- the room where my closet was, which was chalk-yellow and shocking in first morning light -- needed to change. In less than ten minutes, I picked out a deep beige, a roller, blue tape, and a pan, and headed home to at least make that room mine.

By midnight, fueled by a wine and the company of a good friend, I transformed that room into something more me. When CoS called from out-of-town to ask how my night had been, I told him it had been great. I had painted. I had claimed a bit of space. I had softened the edge of that unsettling feeling just a little.

And soon, I decorated for Christmas. Hung my ornaments on the tree alongside of his. Hung a picture he had given me in the living room. Placed my family portrait on the dresser in his -- our -- room. And that feeling softened more.

It's still there, that feeling. But it's lessening with each passing day. And I've decided, it's okay if it hangs on. If only to remind me what kind of steps I'm taking, how far I've come, where I'm going.

Because no one ever said that these sorts of things were easy. Exciting. Satisfying. Meaningful. But not easy. That is life. That is love. Ralph Waldo Emerson, perhaps, said it best: “For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else.”

So true. So very true.

Posted by Erin 7:44 AM 7 comments

I Heart My Local Starbucks
Monday, December 10, 2007

"My" Starbucks, the one on Capitol Square here in Madison, has to be one of the best of its kind. It's clean, it's cozy, and since I've been frequenting it for about two straight years, most days, it kind of feels like a second home at times -- my own little version of "Cheers." Because after all that time spent ordering the same latte day in and day out, the baristas do know my name.

I know. I should be frequenting one of the locally-owned coffee shops on and around the square. Supporting hometown business. All that good stuff. And now and then, I do. But here's the thing: I like Starbucks. I like the fact that they have new flavors every season. I like the fact that they get involved in the community -- from displaying local artists on the walls to sponsoring a family in need for the holidays. I like that they give their baristas good benefits. I like that those baristas are so nice to the few homeless folks who frequent the place, too, as are the other regular patrons who recognize them. I like that they put out the horiscope daily. But most of all, I like -- no, love -- that when I order a latte, it's going to taste exactly the same every. single. time. And that, my friends, is priceless. Because there's nothing like paying three dollars and change (or four) for a sporadically-almost-undrinkable latte.

But I digress. Back to "my" Starbucks. Today I walked in, crabby at the fact that it was already Monday. Daunted by all that lay ahead of me this week to get done before the holidays. And still reeling from several bad coffee experiences in a row over the weekend during my visit to the Detroit area.

I stepped up to the register. "Venti today or just a grande?" the dark-haired guy in the Starbucks smock asked me.

I told him that Monday meant Venti. Always. And a triple. Always.

He laughed. Asked me what had happened to my usual penchant for Toffee Nut lattes, why I switched, if I had had a good weekend, and what I had done.

Just then, a barista that I had oft-chatted with but never actually "met" until a few weeks ago, waved at me. "Morning, Erin!"

They left me smiling into my triple-vente-nonfat-latte all the way to work. So friendly, so nice, and in the midst of so much espresso-making craziness at 8:30 a.m.

Oh, and bonus of my Starbucks? The occasional Blake Becker sighting (twice now, and counting). Apparently even professional triathletes need their coffee fixes, too.

Posted by Erin 7:23 AM 4 comments

Snowed In
Wednesday, December 05, 2007

After throwing a rousing dinner party the night before (well, maybe not rousing per se, but lots of food and too much wine, for sure), I peeled myself out of bed Saturday morning, as I always do, because of the dogs. They wanted out, as they always do.

And as I stood in the backyard with them (I have a backyard now!...more on that to come), thinking, "I should really pick up the yard before it snows," it started to snow. At exactly that instant. Small, fluffy flakes great in number and falling with intensity.

Throughout the weekend, the flakes kept coming. Kept falling. After briefly venturing out on an ill-advised brunch trip, Chief of Stuff and I returned straight home. Errands were put off, to-do lists tossed aside. And we planted ourselves firmly in the living room, alone together, organizing old pictures that we had both kept boxed for far too long.

I mused, to myself, that had this kind of snow -- this kind of day -- presented itself in Marquette, Michigan where I attended graduate school, I likely would have gone about my usual business. Snow in Marquette, after all, wasn't significant unless measured in feet at a time, not inches. And since Marquette is perched on the shore of Lake Superior in the "snow belt" of snowy Upper Peninsula of Michigan, snow there wasn't really all that significant, ever.

But here in Madison, it is. There are more people. More streets to plow. More cars for those plows to navigate. And regardless of there actually be less total accumulation than I'm used to, that makes it tougher going no matter where you want to go. So, this weekend, it was nice to have an excuse not to go at all.

My plan was to binge on the remaining episodes of "Tell Me YouLoveMe" that I had left to watch. After not having more than basic cable for more than five years now, I do now, and have been taking full advantage of it. I wanted -- no, needed -- to find out what was up with Dave and Katie...if Jamie would get back together with Hugo, and what would happen now that Carolyn and Palek had given up on trying to have a baby and Palek had said that he didn't want kids anyway.

But the stubborn little cable box insisted that it was having problems connecting to its mothership, and wouldn't let me watch OnDemand. I fumed. I pouted. And then, I discovered that Kona was on!

Kona, as in the Ironman World Championships.

I didn't know how I'd feel about watching this. Inspired to do it again? Revulsion at the memories it brought back -- a year of double bricks, bonks and roadside meltdowns..the Dairyland Dare.

And here are some of the thoughts that went through my mind and passed by my lips whilst watching:

On the shot of the swim -- called a "contact sport" (isn't that the truth!) by the narrator -- both from above and below the water: "Ohmygod, I can't believe I survived that. And am I ever glad that I didn't watch this before September!"

On watching Natascha Badmann crash her bike, and then continue on with a broken shoulder or collarbone until she couldn't bear it any longer: pure awe...and that the bike leg hurts badly enough without doing it after breaking bones.

On witnessing Normann Stadler getting taken away in a med van: "Wow, it really can happen to anyone."

On watching the officials tell a woman she had missed the bike cut-off by four seconds and seeing her guided away, sobbing: "That's a lot of why I had a meltdown at the end of my bike leg. Because I'm not so unlike her. Because that -- not making it -- was entirely possible."

And on seeing Chrissie Wellington demolish the field in only her second Ironman: "How in the hell does she do it? And running the second-fastest marathon ever at Kona, to boot? Insane. And amazing. She makes it look deceivingly easy."

On watching Chrissie Wellington smile, ear-to-ear, throughout the entire thing?: "She looks how I felt that day. And that's what Ironman is about."

There were so many more impressions I had. It did bring back so many almost-tangible memories. And I was inspired...just not enough to want to do it again right now. But eventually, I lost interest. Because despite all of the motivational and uplifting music, the calm-yet-forceful in a this-is-important-sort-of-way voiceovers, the amazing stories of each athlete out there -- despite all that, it felt flat and inaccessible compared to my September 9th...to being inside of it looking out, instead of outside looking in.

I changed the channel. The cable box was now ready to let me watch Tell Me YouLoveMe. And I felt guilty as I settled into Episode 8. Because I should have been glued to video of Kona's unrelenting topography and climate, to the athletes that struggled to endure it...and themselves. I was over it, though. Ready to move on.

Later that night, I got a voice mail from one two of my closest friends and biggest supporters who were drinking wine and watching the World Championships from their couch in Washington, D.C. They said they had thought of me, and how happy I looked in all of my pictures, and that I had made it look so much easier than some of the stragglers at Kona looked. And that they were proud of me. Again.

That voicemail meant so much. It stuck with me throughout that night as I fell asleep. In fact, it's still with me. Because for me, Ironman was never about Kona, even someday. It wasn't about my time. It was about -- as I've said a million times -- the experience, the proving to me that I could.

And out of that experience, I got so much more than I had bargained for. Messages like that one. So much support. So much -- just so much.

Someday, I think, I'll be able to watch Kona through the same lens as most people. With the appropriate awe and respect that it deserves. Right now, there's just too much tied up in it. Too many emotions that I'm trying to let settle.

And that settling, it's been slow.

Posted by Erin 1:26 PM 0 comments