No, that's not what I mean!So the moving prep is starting. I've decided to fly home with my bike checked on the plane instead of shipping it. This way I can have it right up until the end, and since I'm not going to have a car in the states I'll only have to re-assemble it (and maybe give it some new brakes, tires, cables, a true, and a bath) and it'll be commuter and training ready. I called Aer Lingus (No, it's not THAT, it's the Irish national airline! Pervert.) and advised them I'd be travelling with a bike. I asked if the bike would be included in my weight limit, and she said, "No you're paying 30 extra euros for the bike supplement... You have 36 kilos..." What wasn't clear was whether my bike figured into my 36 kilo limit or not. Maybe I should have spoken in English, since each language requires its own etiquette and Irish people are nice, while the Spanish give you as little information as possible. Does anyone have any suggestions for flying with a bike? Box or bike bag? Has anyone ever done this on a European airline (with their 20k/44lb weight limit) and can give me any clues to the weight limit thing?
You should know that I just include these Youtube links to be background
music to my posts and don't actually expect you to watch them. The important thing
is the lyrics
The day after I told Silvia I was moving back home I woke up to an email from my dad with my flight confirmation for September 21. Game Over, Press Start to Begin. While I was writing a few-line response to my dad, I got an email from a company that I interviewed for a year ago. It said, "We will be beginning another recruiting campaign this fall and were wondering whether, since we were quite enthusiastic about hiring you but were not able to due to your the incompleteness of your documentation last year, if your working permit had been arranged at this current date. If so, would you be available to come participate in the next training cycle?" This was a REAL job at a consultants agency, with great pay (by Barcelona standards), a good schedule, doing exactly what I wanted to do (translation). It had kind of been my beacon to stick out all the passport bullshit and put up with teaching for another year. It nearly broke my heart to write back saying that I was sorry, but that I would not be available to accept the position. So, in a matter of hours, a matter of minutes, the idea of leaving my prospects and life in Barcelona went from Theoretical and Exciting to Real, Scary, and Sad. It's just like the Shawn Colvin song (above) where she says, "Everything changed in a matter of minutes, nothing was saved in time..."
WARNING, THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH CONTAINS W A Y TOO MUCH INFORMATION. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
I have less than 3 weeks left in Barcelona, and am trying to enjoy it for what it is, but my body's telling me otherwise. My organism is reacting to stress in its usual way: insomnia, but this time it's brought 2 friends along: Constipation and lack of Menstruation. My tits are as big as 2 houses and my back hurts because I haven't shit right for weeks...
IT IS SAFE TO PICK UP YOUR READING HERE.
It's like my body is holding its breath for something; whether it is waiting for something good or bracing itself for something bad I don't know. Silvia and I have decided to continue on as usual and enjoy the time we have left together (said like that, it sounds like I'm dying) and we keep reminding/begging each other, "don't cry". In the supermarket the other day she asked, "Do we need bulgar?"
"No, no one's allowed to buy bulgar, or quinua, or brown rice, or white rice, or basmati rice, or sushi rice until we eat all the grains in the house," I said.
"But by then you'll be gone."
I sniffed, choked on the lump in my throat, and changed the subject, "Do we need taco seasoning?"
But then, the next day something happened that reaffirmed why I'm putting us through this. I was signed up to do an olympic triathlon in Bumbledeefuck, Girona with my club. I wasn't too psyched about doing it, but I was determined to prove that I hadn't completely turned my back on the tri club's 5 race minimum. Race day: Saturday, 3:30pm (weird, I know), it's like it was arranged for those of us from the city without access to a car. Wednesday I wrote to the team captain asking about transportation, times, and where to get my chip (wouldn't want to forget THAT again!). Thursday, 10:30 pm, the team captain gets in touch with me, "There's no room in my car, I don't think there is in anyone else's either" ("I don't think", thanks for asking around for me, jerk!). Friday, 1:30 pm, go to pick up chip, have a stroke of good luck that the federation HQ is still open since usually they close at 1:00. Friday, 2:00 pm, Silvia calls the bus line (I'm afraid of phones) and asks about bike regulations and schedules. She throws a notebook and a pen at me and repeats what I should write down, "Disassembled" (dammit), "Packed up" (shit), "Buses leave Barcelona at 9:30 am and 2:30 pm" (crap, gotta leave at 9:30 for a 3:30 race). "Buses leave Banyoles at 10:30, 12:30, and 5:30". "Shit," I said out loud, and she gave me a 'sorry, I know' look. If the race started at 3:30, not even the fastest triathlete in the world could finish the race, disassemble their bike, shove it in a box, and dash back to the bus station in 2 hours. "There are no later buses?" Silvia asked, she listened and shook her head. Yet again, my lack of connections, and the Catalan tradition of not being kind to strangers had won out on my good intentions.
That night I got drunk. Like really, really drunk. Like the bad kind of drunk of people who have given up. The kind of drunk where you black out and do stupid shit kind of drunk. Like say something incoherent kind of drunk. Like don't even want to get out of bed in the morning, or afternoon kind of drunk. Like a hangover so severe that I couldn't even sign my name on a credit card receipt because of the tremors kind of hangover. It brought me back to one of The Angry Runner's posts from awhile back (which I can't find right now, but it's okay since his situation when he wrote it actually has nothing to do with my current situation) where he said, "If you don't run, you do stupid things". That post hit me like a kick in the heart and continues to reverberate through my head.
IF YOU DON'T RUN, YOU DO STUPID THINGS.
You DO NOT use alcohol, or any substance for that matter, to deal with your emotions, no matter how much they may hurt. You DO NOT, under any circumstances hit people, even if it doesn't actually hurt and you were joking anyway, especially the people you love, no matter how "minuscule" or "responsible" you see their role in your fall from grace. You DO NOT get so drunk that you can't get out of bed the next day. You DO NOT allow these kinds of things to hurt your loved ones and ruin your life if you can help it. I just gotta remember that. If I don't train I do stupid things.
No more pawning off responsibility and letting other people give me excuses. THAT'S why I'm moving home, to run away, to get a clean start. If I don't run away now, I WILL do stupid things. If I don't make it a priority to train, and I let other things get in my way, I WILL do stupid things.
I haven't drunk since then, by the way.
music to my posts and don't actually expect you to watch them. The important thing
is the lyrics
The day after I told Silvia I was moving back home I woke up to an email from my dad with my flight confirmation for September 21. Game Over, Press Start to Begin. While I was writing a few-line response to my dad, I got an email from a company that I interviewed for a year ago. It said, "We will be beginning another recruiting campaign this fall and were wondering whether, since we were quite enthusiastic about hiring you but were not able to due to your the incompleteness of your documentation last year, if your working permit had been arranged at this current date. If so, would you be available to come participate in the next training cycle?" This was a REAL job at a consultants agency, with great pay (by Barcelona standards), a good schedule, doing exactly what I wanted to do (translation). It had kind of been my beacon to stick out all the passport bullshit and put up with teaching for another year. It nearly broke my heart to write back saying that I was sorry, but that I would not be available to accept the position. So, in a matter of hours, a matter of minutes, the idea of leaving my prospects and life in Barcelona went from Theoretical and Exciting to Real, Scary, and Sad. It's just like the Shawn Colvin song (above) where she says, "Everything changed in a matter of minutes, nothing was saved in time..."
WARNING, THE FOLLOWING PARAGRAPH CONTAINS W A Y TOO MUCH INFORMATION. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
I have less than 3 weeks left in Barcelona, and am trying to enjoy it for what it is, but my body's telling me otherwise. My organism is reacting to stress in its usual way: insomnia, but this time it's brought 2 friends along: Constipation and lack of Menstruation. My tits are as big as 2 houses and my back hurts because I haven't shit right for weeks...
IT IS SAFE TO PICK UP YOUR READING HERE.
It's like my body is holding its breath for something; whether it is waiting for something good or bracing itself for something bad I don't know. Silvia and I have decided to continue on as usual and enjoy the time we have left together (said like that, it sounds like I'm dying) and we keep reminding/begging each other, "don't cry". In the supermarket the other day she asked, "Do we need bulgar?"
"No, no one's allowed to buy bulgar, or quinua, or brown rice, or white rice, or basmati rice, or sushi rice until we eat all the grains in the house," I said.
"But by then you'll be gone."
I sniffed, choked on the lump in my throat, and changed the subject, "Do we need taco seasoning?"
But then, the next day something happened that reaffirmed why I'm putting us through this. I was signed up to do an olympic triathlon in Bumbledeefuck, Girona with my club. I wasn't too psyched about doing it, but I was determined to prove that I hadn't completely turned my back on the tri club's 5 race minimum. Race day: Saturday, 3:30pm (weird, I know), it's like it was arranged for those of us from the city without access to a car. Wednesday I wrote to the team captain asking about transportation, times, and where to get my chip (wouldn't want to forget THAT again!). Thursday, 10:30 pm, the team captain gets in touch with me, "There's no room in my car, I don't think there is in anyone else's either" ("I don't think", thanks for asking around for me, jerk!). Friday, 1:30 pm, go to pick up chip, have a stroke of good luck that the federation HQ is still open since usually they close at 1:00. Friday, 2:00 pm, Silvia calls the bus line (I'm afraid of phones) and asks about bike regulations and schedules. She throws a notebook and a pen at me and repeats what I should write down, "Disassembled" (dammit), "Packed up" (shit), "Buses leave Barcelona at 9:30 am and 2:30 pm" (crap, gotta leave at 9:30 for a 3:30 race). "Buses leave Banyoles at 10:30, 12:30, and 5:30". "Shit," I said out loud, and she gave me a 'sorry, I know' look. If the race started at 3:30, not even the fastest triathlete in the world could finish the race, disassemble their bike, shove it in a box, and dash back to the bus station in 2 hours. "There are no later buses?" Silvia asked, she listened and shook her head. Yet again, my lack of connections, and the Catalan tradition of not being kind to strangers had won out on my good intentions.
That night I got drunk. Like really, really drunk. Like the bad kind of drunk of people who have given up. The kind of drunk where you black out and do stupid shit kind of drunk. Like say something incoherent kind of drunk. Like don't even want to get out of bed in the morning, or afternoon kind of drunk. Like a hangover so severe that I couldn't even sign my name on a credit card receipt because of the tremors kind of hangover. It brought me back to one of The Angry Runner's posts from awhile back (which I can't find right now, but it's okay since his situation when he wrote it actually has nothing to do with my current situation) where he said, "If you don't run, you do stupid things". That post hit me like a kick in the heart and continues to reverberate through my head.
IF YOU DON'T RUN, YOU DO STUPID THINGS.
You DO NOT use alcohol, or any substance for that matter, to deal with your emotions, no matter how much they may hurt. You DO NOT, under any circumstances hit people, even if it doesn't actually hurt and you were joking anyway, especially the people you love, no matter how "minuscule" or "responsible" you see their role in your fall from grace. You DO NOT get so drunk that you can't get out of bed the next day. You DO NOT allow these kinds of things to hurt your loved ones and ruin your life if you can help it. I just gotta remember that. If I don't train I do stupid things.
No more pawning off responsibility and letting other people give me excuses. THAT'S why I'm moving home, to run away, to get a clean start. If I don't run away now, I WILL do stupid things. If I don't make it a priority to train, and I let other things get in my way, I WILL do stupid things.
I haven't drunk since then, by the way.
9 comments:
Sounds like you need to go out on a date with your trainers tomorrow. A nice long, no destination, wind in your hair, spring clean sort of a run.
I remember you telling me about that one line when we were sitting in Starbux down in the hood. I always thought my posts were essentially nonsense; tired rants from an emotionally volatile introvert looking for some attention, but if that one little line of relative truth did something for ya, then it's all worth it.
Quote me as much as you want. You know where to find me otherwise if you need to talk/write. Oh yea, I decided without consulting you first that we're going out to party one night/weekend when you're back in the Boston-Metro area. I didn't work out the details of who, what, when, why(well, i know the why), or how quite yet, but I (we????) may be taking a trip up to Beantown.
Remember what Tupac said: "Fuck the police"...i mean..."Keep yo head up".
I just re-read your drunk part...
You're remind me of college. Stop it.
There is a big difference between running "away" and moving forward or running "to." I don't think you're running away at all.
Box it, don't bag it. It's better protection for the bike. Use up boubble wrap is good too.
Running to a 'better' distination is a good thing.
Best wishes and safe travels.
My heart is breaking for you, Claire. I wish this were easier for you - but I think you know you're headed in the right direction. I agree with Grey, you're not running away, you're running towards.
ps - thanks for the speedy thoughts this weekend! I think they worked ;)
I like the expression of "spring clean sort of a run." Definitely get out there and rid the self of the old cobwebs.
Indeed, priorities are hard to set and choices are hard to make and if we don't run, we may make mistakes. Or something like that.
you are not running away, you are moving away. I know it's a corny thing to say, but what doesn't break you makes you. It's like when you have to go through a contraction in order to get to the expansion-you're just in the hard part of the race where you're waiting for your second wind. The only thing you have to remember when you're in a race, is to keep going. That's what you're doing, and sometimes in life, that is the hardest thing to do.
-kat
I have read nothing about breasts or constipation in the last 5 minutes.
Nothing.
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