Sink or Swim

I am now officially a geo-bachelorette. We knew this day was coming, but despite all of our best intentions to "prepare" ourselves we didn't really succeed at that. I was taking an intense summer class, spending all my nights and weekends doing schoolwork. The Hubs was packing up his stuff and hanging out with all of his SC friends for a last hoorah. And then, suddenly, he was gone. The days had been so full of stuff to do that the reality of living apart for nine months didn't finally sink in until his Uhaul was pulling out of the driveway.

For the first week, I couldn't sleep. I would lay in bed until 3, 4, 5 in the morning until finally lulled into an infomercial induced coma. It wasn't because I was worried about him; I knew he was safe and settling in. It was just different. There was something missing. It's a good thing he still has a lot of clothes and other things here, because it allows me the illusion that he is just gone for a short trip, whenever I need to fool myself. If his half of the closet was completely empty, I have a feeling I would be much more of a basket case. Even more of a basket case than using his bath towel that he left hanging on the hook instead of putting in the laundry hamper, just because it's his. (Don't judge me.)

Fortunately, I have slowly been forced back into a regular schedule by the demands of work and my final semester of grad school. And it's quickly become apparent that staying busy is going to be my primary coping mechanism for this separation. Between taking a research class, working three jobs, playing on a kickball team, training for a marathon, and doing all the house and pet stuff on my own, I don't have all that much time to sit around and pine for him.

Speaking of house and pet stuff, I am pretty proud of myself for not letting things immediately turn to rubble. I've been keeping up with the always-necessary vacuuming, dusting, mopping, etc. I have not allowed dishes to accumulate in the sink, despite having a broken dishwasher for a while. I've shuttled the dogs back and forth from the vet's office (although I do have to stagger the visits because I can't wrangle them both at once--especially since one becomes panicky and irate whenever coerced into the exam room). I've done yard work--and not just mowing! I actually trimmed all of our overgrown trees and shrubbery! (There is an inappropriate alternate meaning there as well, but I will gracefully leave it unsaid.) I also took a solo road trip with both dogs, which, believe me, requires acrobatic-like skills during potty stops.

However, I am still afraid of the weed-wacker and the power washer. And I have not yet had sufficient initiative to drag the mower onto the other side of the house. And I borrowed The Hubs' friend to come install the new dishwasher instead of figuring it out myself. And now the vacuum cleaner is broken, with pet hair swiftly accumulating as I figure out what the heck to do with it.

There was no gradually acclimating to this scenario. We just had to jump in--I like to imagine cannonball style, with a dramatic splash--into the deep end. And while I'm not sprinting through the waters, neither am I clinging desperately to a raft. I'm figuring things out the best I can, moment to moment.

I'm doggie paddling.

Ollie has not yet embraced the "sink or swim" mentality. He's a clinger.

The Order In Which I Neglect Things:

1. Blogging (sorry folks)
2. Anything and everything that could be considered a "domestic art"
3. Exercise
4. Sleep
5. Personal hygiene
6. Sanity

Only seven more days until the end of the summer semester.

Whatever Gets Me Through The Day

I read an article in Shape magazine a while ago, talking about how different people motivate themselves to push through hard workouts by using different tactics. Some meditate, some try to distract themselves, and others respond better to Zena Warrior Princess-esque battle cries.

As I've begun training for my next marathon (and particularly now that I am not yet back in shape and even my short runs are a struggle) I've been thinking about all the little mental games I play with myself just to make it through my workouts. I have quite a few up my sweat-wicking Under Armor sleeve, so I thought I'd share them with all the other reluctant runners out there, as well as anyone else who often finds themselves in...unpleasant situations.

First there is mentally declaring war on whatever poor soul happens to be using a machine nearby. I believe this is pretty common, but I am the champ! It doesn't matter if it's the peppy sorority girl on the elliptical, the 500-pound guy walking two miles an hour, the track-star-looking guy with legs longer than my whole body, or a sweet little old lady. It. Is. On. And I will not stop my machine before they do. This usually gets me past the first 20-30 minutes, since that's about when most normal people stop and move on to greener pastures. Oh, but not me.

Once I've exhausted my supply of unsuspecting opponents, but it's still early enough in my run that I have a little pep in my step, that's when I start performing "Shoop" by Salt-N-Pepa. Not outwardly of course; my legs are a little busy. But in my head, I am starring as both Salt AND Pepa in a kick ass music video a la the Fly Girls from In Living Color. Added bonus: I will be prepared with an awesome routine if The Hubs ever gets me drunk enough to do karaoke.

When I'm dripping sweat and my energy starts to drain, I imagine Jillian Michaels screaming in my face. KEEP GOING! KEEP GOING! DON'T YOU DARE SLOW DOWN! I DON'T CARE IF YOU VOMIT ALL OVER YOURSELF, YOU WILL FINISH THIS WORKOUT! RAWWRRRR!!!

Well, Jillian is a very busy gal. She can't stick around all day. So when I'm out from under her watchful eyes, I start bargaining with myself. I'll make deals like, "I'm going to slow down for two minutes, and then bump it back up again." Or, "I am not going to look at the treadmill screen again until I count to 100." Or, "I am going to keep this incline until that guy outside walks to his car, gets in it, and drives away." You get the idea.

But when my body really starts to panic, and I start questioning whether I can make it even a tenth of a mile further let alone three miles, this is the mantra I always come back to: "Of course I can." It's this simple little reality check that snaps me out of questioning myself and looking for excuses to give up. And it works, because it's true. Because I've done it before, and I'll do it again. Because my mind can show my body who's boss. Because whether I finish by sprinting, walking, or dragging myself by my fingernails, I will finish. Of course I can.

Here I am with my pops after the Marine Corps Marathon.
I'm currently training for this same race--only this time The Hubs is doing it too!

The Storm Before The Calm

Getting ready to go on vacation is always a little crazy. There's trying to make up extra hours at work, doing laundry, packing, paying bills, figuring out petsitting arrangements, and generally doling out all the information anyone might need to take care of things in your absence. For us, it also usually includes a deep cleaning of the entire house, since The Hubs is singly focused on the joys of returning home to fur-free floors and fresh sheets. I have to admit, it is pretty nice. There was so much running around this time, however, that all we could manage was to mow the grass, do the dishes, and clean out the litter box. Our friend is staying at our house while we're gone to watch Ziggy and Tweeder, and he'll have his dog with him too, so I suppose the floors wouldn't be fur free when we got home, even if we had done the usual swabbing of the decks.

On Thursday, we drove the eight hours up to my parents house to drop off our other dog Ollie. Friday was filled with running errands and my sister's surprise 30th birthday party, and this morning we woke up bright and early and are currently sitting in Dulles airport waiting for our flight to beautiful St. Martin. Well, we're flying to St. Maarten, but then staying on the French side, St. Martin.

That's right. After seven months of marriage, we're finally going on our honeymoon! So all of the crazy preparations were totally worth it, because my reward is to spend a whole week alone with my honey, right here:

(photo from villavillas.com)

Cheers,
Sarah

Before My Husband Leaves

In just two short months my husband will move to another state, becoming what the military calls a "geographic bachelor." He will essentially relocate the contents of his man room to a small apartment eight hours away. He'll be at school--not deployed--so I don't have to worry about him being in danger unless you count the occasional paper cut. We'll see each other most weekends, and we're already used to spending a lot of time apart, so I'm also not worried about losing touch or the spark of our honeymoon phase. If anything, more time apart will probably extend our honeymoon phase for an extra year. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, yes? But what I'm really a bit nervous about...what I really want to know is...who is going to open the honey jar?

I admit I've grown soft in my marriage, coming to depend on The Hubs to pick up the slack for all of the million tiny things I forget, am incapable of, or simple don't feel like dealing with. Things like fixing the cars, killing roaches, carrying our beer pong team to victory (because I'm definitely no help there), providing enough body heat for both of us during the winter months, and of course anything involving math. Visitors to my house will hear many requests for "man hands" to open condiments, lift things that are heavy, and reach things that are high. He plants the grass and mows the lawn, or at least is there to troubleshoot when my infrequent attempts at lawn mowing go awry. ("So, your hippie-dippie non-motorized push mower won't roll forward? It might have something to do with that big stick caught in the blades.") Don't think that it's a one-way street with The Hubs doing all the work; I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who has ever cleaned our toilets. But the point is, I rely on him an awful lot.

My standard reply, when man hands opens something on the first try after I've shredded my palms trying to do it, is "thanks," followed by "well, I loosened it up for you." It seems as though no matter how hard I try, it always takes one last touch from my big, strong hubby's hands to make everything turn out right. And I like that. It seems to be an apt metaphor for marriage. But the other day, when I wanted some honey for my tea and the lid just wouldn't budge, I passed it off to The Hubs. And instead of opening it with a mere flick of his wrist, he handed it back to me and told me to give it one last shot. And you know what? I got it. So I guess that's an apt metaphor for a military marriage. We will always rely on each other, and he'll be there when he can. But sometimes he'll have to pass everything back to me and I'll just have to make it work without him.

I don't know if he handed the jar back to me because he was sick of dealing with my feeble requests for help, because he just wanted to give me a confidence boost, or because he is slowly trying to prepare me to deal with life in his absence. But it seems to me that there are two ways of preparing for a separation, whether a deployment or a geo-bachelor TDY (temporary duty assignment). You can try to wean yourself off your spouse, taking on their jobs around the house and trying to figure everything out for yourself before asking them to step in. Or, you can sit back and let them help you out as much as possible now, because you'll be taking care of everything by yourself soon enough. If I'm feeling particularly lazy, I'm inclined towards the latter, i.e. "I'll be the only one cleaning the kitty litter box for nine whole months, so you should do it now even though you did it last time." But I guess a part of me does feel like it's time to slowly take on more and more responsibilities, testing out my self-sufficiency while I still have him here as my safety net.

What do you think is better: pulling away before he's actually gone, or keeping everything the same until the last possible moment?

Sarah

Que Sera, Sarah

It's no coincidence that my name fits in so nicely with this well-known phrase sung by the glorious Doris Day. It happens to be my personal motto. Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. Or as I like to say, "toast is toast." It's a relaxed but confident, optimistic yet objective, tolerant and open-to-possibilities mindset that I tend towards. This is not to say that I don't make plans, have goals, try my best to reach them, or occasionally get stressed out. I just don't feel the need to know all the answers or hold grudges, and I generally feel like everything will eventually shake out the way it's supposed to. Not everyone can understand or agree with such a laissez faire attitude, but it works for me--in my approach to friendships and day-to-day problems, to religion and my relationship with God, and even when someone cuts me off on the highway. My family likes to tell this story about how, as a child, if someone made me angry I would booby trap my room out of spite so they couldn't come in. I'm all for funny and embarrassing stories from youth, but every time this one is told it really bothers me because the point of telling it is to demonstrate that I hang on to ill feelings with vindictiveness, and this is so contrary to who I actually am.

I've been thinking a lot about this lately, becoming reflective and self-assessing as my birthday came and went. And I can honestly say, with no egotism, that I really like who I am. When I think about how I treat people, how I treat myself, and how I spend my time, I realize that I am the person who I want to be. This was kind of a surprising realization, since that was definitely not always the case. I know that I needed to spend many years floundering and making mistakes in order to get here, and I know that I'm not done evolving. But for now, it's nice to have wonderful friends and family, a fabulous husband, adorable and goofy pets to pour love into, good health, and to know that I've finally found what I really want to do career wise. As I roll into my 27th year on this planet, I am filled an attitude of gratitude, and a sense of infinite possibilities.

Cheers,

Sarah

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

Monday afternoon, I sent off my last assignment of the semester (woot!) and hit the open road with one of my furry children. 450 miles, one outrageous gas tank fill up at a kooky country store, one human/canine potty stop, and about eight hours later, I arrived at my parent's house in Virginia. This semester has been so jam packed that I hadn't seen my family since Christmas, which is just way too long. The next morning, I went with my mom to her bowling league, out to lunch, ran some errands (and did some shopping for honeymoon clothes, in case The Hubs is wondering what that big charge was), and decided to drive back down south another 175 miles to my little sister's house. She had a baby this past October and I sorely needed to catch up on all the growth and development I've missed over the last five months.

After lots of baby snuggling, picture taking, the first margarita of the Cinco de Mayo festivities, and an...interesting night sleeping in a recliner, my mom and I headed the 175 miles back north (after adding quite a few extra miles searching for an IHOP; I was on a pancake mission). After a glorious nap to undo some of the restless recliner hours, we went to see my other nephews' chorus and strings concert. Afterwards, we went out to dinner and I thoroughly enjoyed margarita number two. Who cares if I'm not Mexican? I'm on vacation! And, dammit, I'm celebrating Cinco de Mayo all week. Ole'!

I got to sleep in this morning, and am going to see my two best friends tonight to catch up over some beers and live music (and margarita #3, if I have anything to say about it). Tomorrow is my nephew's baseball game, and hopefully spending some time with another great friend. Then Sunday is Mother's Day and a family barbecue, and Monday Ollie and I make our way 450 miles back to South Carolina, thus ending my whirlwind tour. Whew!

But right now it's time to add a couple more miles to my trip, by foot. My troublesome infected poison ivy is finally healed to the point that I can wear running shoes, and I need some way to justify my margarita habit :)

Cheers,
Sarah