Breath of fire

To be truthful, it's been my calming noise all of my life. I don't even realize I do it when I go to sleep. When I was a child, I napped with Mr. Maiden on the couch. It's the sound of him sleeping. The sound of him breathing.

Constrict the back of your throat, and breathe - ujjayi breath - the sound of yoga and the ocean, and the sound of my dad. The sound of COPD.

When I was 19 years old, I was an out of shape first year university student in Northern Michigan. (I'd been to Grade 13 in Parts North, but then transferred those credits over to the University. A phenomenally cheap strategy for getting through school.)

Anyhow. I got suckered into playing Broom Ball (for the uninitiated, it's hockey rules, played with small rubber brooms and a hard rubber ball on the arena ice.) as one of the only girls on the intramural team. Because we were short girls, I had to run for the whole period. I didn't get a break.

I stepped off the ice and experienced my first (and one of my worst) exercise induced asthma attack. When I recovered, I called Mr. Maiden, and asked him what asthma felt like. He sighed and said "Well, honey, how about you tell me what it feels like."

It never really surfaced again as badly until a nasty virus lasting weeks and weeks in Arizona had me prescribed with a puffer to take several times a day.

Off and on, I've had a puffer ever since. Well, mostly off, to be honest - I haven't had one in the house for about 10 years. I remember tossing the last one when it expired back in the apartment. I think it was the one bedroom, so at least before 2000.

The thing is - in the lunch time running group, I am always, always the last one in the line. Always. I watch people I really should be faster than (think old and infirm wearing pumas, for Christ sake) pass me on my runs around the bridges. And I have running partners with whom I train during lunch hours.

I can always tell, D says, when you're not behind me - I can't hear you breathing.

(Apparently, it's not normal for your friends to be able to hear you when you run?)

You know, S says, I really don't think it's a getting in better shape thing. I really don't think your lungs should be the only part of you keeping you from more speed.

I always assume that the reason I can't breathe is because I am in some way not in good enough shape, and if I just work harder, it will fix itself.

Why not get a puffer? they ask.

I am afraid of it.

I want to be stronger than this - to be able to manage to train and run at the same speed as others. Not to see others slowly gain away from me because I can not go faster, never go faster and still breathe.

I do not want this - it terrifies me. A small part of me thinks that it might be worth a try - to see if it really is better, faster, without the constant controlling of the gasp - three counts in, three counts out - don't panic, you're fine.

A part of me suspects that it might not make a difference. That I will always be the one at the back of the pack.

The other part just misses him so badly.

Ok, he says, looking vuaguely around his desk at post-it notes, I think that's about it...

Anything else you can think of? I ask

Don't think so?

Boss-Man's Boss pokes his head in. You acting? he asks me.

Yep, says Boss-man.

Well, I say, me and the pick-up guy.

Mostly Katie says Boss-man.

Exactly half, I correct him. For two of the four weeks.

Well, says Boss-Man's Boss, good luck. You've got big shoes to fill!

I know, I say, contemplating the pile on the floor, imagining shuffling around his office in them.

I've been here 18 months. My acting is by no means a new situation, so why the warning this week?

THIS should be fun......

During a recent visit from Mrs. Maiden

Oh, by the way, she says, if you find one of your new Mr. Clean Erasers with a teensy corner bitten off, it was me - not mice.

Ok, I say, but you know you're allowed to use the whole thing?

Well, I use it to clean my teeth. She explains, See? See how much whiter they are? It's what the tea does, and I just can't get it off with toothpaste alone.

But, I say, what about whiteners? I mean, have you considered that?

Well, she says, but those are chemicals! I mean, I don't want that, right?

But mom, I say, um, I think the thing about the whiteners is that they were designed to go in your mouth. Unlike, say, a Mr. Clean Eraser.

But do they taste bad? I mean, Mr. Clean has no taste! [you got that right, lady! Have you seeeeeeen that earring? I mean, so 90s!!]

Uh, I say, I guess I've never noticed. Sorta minty, I'd bet? I guess the downside is the sensitivity, but that goes away when you stop using it...

Hmm. She says, am I going to look like a grinning skull when I use them?

Well, no, I explain, see, because you are in charge of how long they are in your mouth, and it's a gradual thing, so if you start to feel like you're good, that you're white enough for right now, you stop. No one makes you keep doing it until your teeth are blue.... [she has seen the results of overzealous whiteners and is concerned.]

Hmm. She says, whiteners....

(I can see that Mr. Clean is going to continue his unconventional responsibilities unless I buy the gels and watch her use them.)

And now a break for some logic.

Here's the thing about being a member of the Religious Society of Friends. (A Quaker y'all.) The thing is - one of the tenants of Meeting is that well, you don't necessarily need a meeting. If you can't make it, that's generally considered ok, because you can meditate for guidance from the Spirit (a piece of which is in all of us) as needed.

It's pretty darn convenient.

Meetings (what we call services) are silent and turn into a discussion only when members are moved by the Spirit sufficiently to share with others. (We don't have a service, nor do we have a minister or priest. Meetings are not lead by anyone.) Sometimes, no one feels much like talking. Great as an adult. Painfully, mindbendingly boring as a kid.

The last actual meeting I went to was right after Husband and I decided to get married just shy of 11 years ago. But see, just last week, I was having a hard time. My anxiety (about what I couldn't tell) was affecting my sleep, making me jittery at work, irritable, and just generally, not that fun. I asked for some help on Thursday.

On Friday, as I drove to work, I got my response. The thing about dealing directly with the Spirit is that his words are not filtered through someone else. It's a direct line in a language I usually understand, and it went something like this:

"You know I have your back."

Yep. I do. Really. (I don't talk about it much, and I do what I can with the whole blending into Catholicism thing. But I talk to God when I need to.)

"So if you know I have your back, how dare you have the audacity to be anxious? Get out there and do your best. The rest is up to me."

It seems so beautifully simple that I just had to share.

Boss Lady

I'm having domestic help issues.

As I scrubbed the upstairs bathroom this weekend, I tried to remember the last time I did it. I don't think I can. Could it really be sometime this spring, before Lolo's hospitalization? Very probably.

LACKLUSTER. (please note: spray and wipe has been done relatively frequently. I've also cleaned the tub in recent memory. It's just the deeper stuff that has been left to its own devices. The floor, for example.)

We have a running joke in the Casa Valentine that someone needs to speak with the cleaning lady (that'd be us). She's not very good. (Well, we're busy!) In fact, we routinely question why we're paying her. (We're not. Maybe we should?)

But then today, as I heated up my leftovers for lunch in the kitchen at work, I took a good assessing look at them and found them to be somewhat sub-par. They were: 2 whole wheat tortillas with reheated chopped steak. (Not so bad, but distinctly lacking in chlorophyll.)

But then I thought of what husband had: 1 hot dog and 3/4 sausage with the rest of the steak bits on top and 1/2 corn on the cob left-over from last night. No buns, no sauce. Husband gamely called it meat mosh and some corn. I totally put that together for him and called it lunch. That's not cool. Not cool at all.

Our personal chef is heading for a smacked bottom.

Supplements

By means of explaining what the past month has been, a series of vignettes:

1. Prepping for the funeral, MlleL asks "Mama, when the daddy puts the seed in the mama to start a baby, how does he put it in there? Does he.... (mimes swallowing something)" (Aaaaaaa!) I figure that when they're ready to ask, they're ready to know, so I answered in a way I thought she could understand - and vague enough for me to be ok with it. We came up with something along the lines of 'privates kissing'.

"Does it hurt?" she asked. "Umm, no," I said, "it's nice. It's like kissing, right? Kissing's nice." "Ok," she says, and we continue dressing.

2. After weeks and weeks and weeks of tough training seemingly only getting worse (you guys, says a colleague. You take it so seriously. It should be fun. Sweetness and light. Last time was sweetness and light, I say, this time is all pain and darkness. Only I really am telling the truth.) I am rejected from donating blood for the second time in a row. I am low on iron. Apparently, really low. Enough for a surprised noise from the nurse rejecting me.

3. Regardless, I stop in at Running Room to pick up supplies. Because I am convinced that somehow, if I just eat enough carbs and try harder, I can force my legs do what they are seemingly physically incapable of doing. Running Room staff and coaches explain just what exactly it means to be anemic and try to train. And also offer very supportive advice on how to deal with the disappointment of not running the half marathon. Because this is also a large part of the advice.

4. During a particularly sad and hungry day, I run into an colleague, who claims shock at my weight loss. Of which, I stress, there has been none in a year, but she grabs my wrist, and in a way that only someone who has known you for a long time can, pokes me in the place between my ear and jawbone to prove her point. Somehow, this makes me feel miles better.

5. I am driving MlleL to shopping, and she says "K is afraid of having a baby." K is the 4 year old at her day care. "Oh?" I say? "She's afraid of the blood." She tells me. "She's afraid of it hurting, but I told her what you told me. I told her that it wouldn't hurt. Because the daddy will be gentle, right?" "WHAT?" "When he pokes the seed up your vagina. He'll be gentle, right?"

"Uh... Yeah....... Sweetie, are you telling K about having babies?" "Yeah....."

Oh god. Oh, God. My kid is that kid. THAT kid in school!!!

Drama!!

oh my goodness.

I was going to be writing another whine about being sick, and tired, and one of the worst fibro streaks in recent memory (seriously. It hurt to wear clothes and use my powder brush. Shit.)

But right now?

RIGHT NOW???

I can't breathe, because I'm watching Finn sing 'Jesse's girl'. Um.

Can't talk.