101

Yesterday's post (or was it this morning, technically?) was the 100th. Not too shabby for 10 months of blogging, and I'm proud of myself for having kept it up. Rockin'!

Picture It...

Sunday, February 22. Grand Rapids. The 8 & Under State Swim Meet. Of course, I had to go. And I actually remembered my camera. I arrived at the pool just as a close race was finishing in the girls' relay, and was there just in time for Justin's first swim - the breaststroke leg of the 100-yard individual medley relay. I don't think I've seen him swim that fast before, and their team took 2nd! I got teary-eyed again, and both feel like an ass and a sense that nobody else feels like their heart is running around out of their body on that pool deck. Maybe that's the secret I should send in to postsecret... But alas, I thought he had a great meet overall - 2nd in two relays, 4th in the 100 IM, and 3rd in the 50 freestyle and 2nd in the 25 free.

But the interesting part was his reaction to his 50 free swim. He's been battling with his time, as he swam his fastest early in the season and has had a really hard time repeating that performance. When he doesn't get too upset, my brother does, as he seems to feel Justin's not trying hard enough and is capable of swimming faster. This time, it was Justin who was upset with his time (and maybe the fact that he placed third and not first, though he seemed okay with not placing first in his other events). So, maybe this time he did work hard and try his best and it wasn't good enough in one way or another. It's just amazing to me sometimes. I look into his sweet face and see myself. I don't remember getting overly frustrated with sports. I knew I would never be a great swimmer, so I settled for being okay. I still worked hard, but it didn't damage me that I wouldn't swim in college or ever make it to state meets. My frustration was more with my education. I was reminded today of being at home alone after school during my senior year in high school, sitting on the couch, working on Calculus homework, and hurling the book across the room in utter frustration at not being able to figure out a problem (probably matrices, damn that Rene Descartes). And it was all because of some overwhelming feeling that it should come easier to me than it did. Mind you, I got As in calc (and everything else, mostly), so how could that not be good enough? The trigger for that memory was Justin ripping off his cap and goggles after his race, and throwing a few good punches at his swim bag as he was digging for his towel, obviously upset. He pulled it together for his last race, and by the end of the meet, when I got my hugs and kisses, he was in a pretty good mood, which was nice to see.

Part of me thinks this is all a good character builder. As if somehow that the level of frustration can be good, and I know that Justin needs to learn how to deal with things, have confidence in himself, and be proud of himself. Oh, and it is so fascinating to watch my brother trying to pull the best out of his son, when my parents struggled with that very thing with him. I just hope these life lessons aren't as elusive for my nephew as they were for me.













And the pictures - Justin getting his medal for the 50 free, swimming in the 100 free relay, getting ready to swim the 50 free, and talking to my brother (who was volunteering as a timer) before the 100 free relay.

PostSecret

I usually try to remember to check PostSecret on Sundays, and if not, I'm sure to hit it on Mondays. Today's post was about that universal thing called love. And it's just funny how easy it is to relate to many of them, but particularly:

-I would like to drop an anvil on his girlfriend / love interest's head
-I am afraid I'll never find what other people have found in terms of a meaningful relationship (this person referenced their grandparents)
-and, if I could go back in time, I would've kissed him... or maybe I did, and it still didn't work out. Nonetheless, no risk, no reward!

Ah, yet another reason to love Sundays!

Things I Miss...

sunblock and mosquito bites
hugs from people taller than me
people laughing at work
relaxed shoulders
playing cards 'til five in the morning with Kirk
Lambrusco nights
sunshine
Justin's belly-laugh
sleep
Daria
bonfires
not having to say a word

Oh, Michael...

I've had a few people ask me about the latest Michael Phelps drama - mostly, I'm sure, because of how avidly I watched his races in the Olympics this past summer. I couldn't tear myself away - it's so rare to see swimming on television that I savored every moment I could. But I digress... the question of late has been what do I think about Phelps and his bong...?

Honestly, I should preface this by saying I think marijuana should be legal. I have heard one argument against legalizing being safety while driving, but frankly, there's an instant THC test nowadays that works about as quickly as a breathalyzer (I know because I got into a disagreement recently with someone at work about how long certain drugs are detectable in various samples from the body - blood, hair, urine, etc...). I often wonder if it's just because the alcohol lobby is so strong or because smoking in general has been crucified, but I'm sure in my lifetime, recreational marijuana will not be legal in this country.

So, back to Phelps. My first response was that he's an idiot for putting himself in the position to be photographed with his lips wrapped around a 3-foot bong. My next response when I heard this at work was that surely he probably needed to smoke pot to get a good case of the munchies to be able to consume his 10,000-plus calorie diet while training. Then I thought that marijuana certainly cannot be performance-enhancing in the world of swimming (oooh, look at the pretty tiles on the bottom of the pool! Oops! I think I forgot to inhale when I turned my head to breathe! My gosh - it's taking a year to swim one length of the pool!). And then I remembered reading about his training regimen - 365 days a year, for roughly eight years if you count both Olympics. Can you imagine working 365 days a year? I think I'd need more than one hit off that bong if I worked that much. Oh, and think about the lung capacity of swimmers. Phelps could probably suck down an entire joint in one hit. And speaking of, do you know how many swimmers smoke? From my recollection, a whole lot of swimmers did / do. And when you read the reactions of his fellow Olympians, consider that thought. I have yet to see anybody in the sport of swimming come down too hard on Michael. He was suspended from competition for all of three months (again, it's not performance-enhancing, and he was on the bandwagon for being monitored for doping throughout the Olympics to remain above suspicion). I don't think that USA Swimming is really going to ban the greatest swimmer of all time from competing with London four years away. At least not for a little walk in the park like he just had.

But alas, he was contrite. He's supposed to be a role model, blah blah blah. I'd be more concerned if he had been photographed snorting coke or passed out with a needle in his arm. People are calling for him to enter rehab. I mean, seriously? Rehab? For smoking a little pot? Again, seriously? So he's going to town after winning eight gold medals during one Olympic games. Give the guy a break. And really, who cares? He's an amazing swimmer, which is why I know of him. He could be a complete whackadoo and I would still love to watch him swim, because he's just such a freak of nature. So, Michael, if you're reading this, stop apologizing. Enjoy your success. We'll see you again in 2012 when major stations decide to air swimming again. It'll be a long four years without you.

As Heard While Shopping...

I ventured to the lovely Lansing Mall this evening, and overheard the following:

Girl A: Yo, Biatch! I just saw your baby daddy!
Girl B: Where he at?
Girl A: Food Court. Where else?
Girl B: That bastard!

I followed with a quick stop at Walgreens to grab some Diet Coke and a copy of US Weekly to satisfy my trashy celebrity "news" craving and heard the following:

Scene: Customer is talking on her cell phone, in an obvious rush, and hands the cashier a $100 bill for roughly $30 of merchandise...

Cashier: Joe, you denuded my drawer of all the small bills. I cannot break this customer's $100 bill.

Now, I could see in the drawer, and my many years of till experience at Record Town told me she clearly had more than enough change in $10 bills to go along with the one $20 bill she had. But that's almost beside the point. The cashier reminded me of someone from my past in such a striking way it was almost eerie. I have not heard the word "denuded" since I was a student at Oakland University. I had applied to the university and was asked to go to campus for a scholarship competition at Meadowbrook Hall. The day consisted of a tour of the mansion, lunch and an exam including a blue book essay. In the little time we had to chat with people, I met a girl named Trista. I later found out that my mom had lunch with her mom that day. In yet another fluke, we were roommates at orientation. She commuted, and I lived on campus, and we would regularly run into each other and hang out occasionally. She tried to get me to join the Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) with her. I went to one meeting, where I heard the word denuded uttered by someone who was discussing having difficulty passing college algebra - I believe she was stating she felt denuded of her self-confidence because she was struggling so much with the class. It was then that I decided that the melodrama of SCA wasn't for me (that and hearing about pre-17th century role playing...shall I call for a chimney sweep??). I did end up hanging out with some of the people I met there, but I definitely remained on the fringe. But holy flashback, Batman! I can't believe that was over fifteen years ago already. I feel denuded of my sense of time!

Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar...

So, I had to really dig to find a page-a-day calendar for work. I usually get one for Christmas or my birthday, but no such luck this year. I did hit the post-holiday sale at Barnes & Noble, and the best I could come up with was "Plato and a Platypus Walk Into a Bar..." which is a humorous look at philosophy (sometimes). The entry for Thursday was:

Infinity & Eternity
Two cows are standing in the pasture. After a while, one turns to the other and says, "Do you realize that although pi is usually abbreviated to four decimal places, it actually goes on to infinity?" And the other cow replies, "Moo."

Spartan Fan?!?

My friend Ange asked me the other night if I'd like to go the MSU - PSU basketball game. I'm certain I must've looked at her like she was nuts. Now, mind you, I used to be a sports fan, which is to say I used to watch Michigan football religiously, would watch the Lions when I could bear to, loved the Pistons back in the days of Bill Laimbeer and Ricky Mahorn (yes, I even had the Bad Boys! poster - my mom was jealous), and would avidly watch the Wings during play-offs and sometimes during regular season. However, during the last several years, I changed from a rabid Michigan fan to a casual observer who would cheer for any Big Ten school - even OSU - if they were in a bowl game. But I was never, ever, a college hoops fan. Not ever. It used to drive Kirk nuts, as he was an even more die hard fan of MSU than I was of UM. We would watch the football games together, and I would gleefully watch the Wolverines saunter off to yet another bowl game (this past season being the only exception). But as soon as basketball rolled around, I had no interest whatsoever - of course, the one sport where UM didn't have a chance in hell of beating State. I swear it wasn't planned - I just thought it was kind of boring.

So, my puzzled look had Ange a bit confused perhaps, but only because she didn't know the back story. I told her I would go unless she had any other takers that would be more interested than me (I was setting the bar low, you see). She said she hadn't, and we made arrangements to meet up and head to the game.

Sunday was beautiful. We had a decent walk to the Breslin Center, complete with sunshine and melting snow. We walked in, found that our section was right across from the entrance, eventually found our seats and settled in just in time for the anthem. I always love hearing the national anthem at the beginning of sporting events. I'm sure it's because it takes me back to my days of swimming, where we always had the anthem or the pledge of allegiance to start the meets, or maybe it has a bit to do with a trip to Washington DC when I went the the Supreme Court building, the Capitol and the Tax Court (we got kicked out of there - you apparently have to have official business to visit...who knew?), along with the other monuments and museums, that has really given me a sense of nostalgia and patriotism when I hear either tribute to the United States.

Anyway, I started looking around and noticed the Izzone surrounding the court. The only other basketball game I had been to was a Pistons game at the Palace - sitting in the upper bowl, which made me a bit queasy and made the Pistons look like mini people akin to Homies running around the teeny court. This wasn't the case with the location of our seats at the State game - lower bowl, behind the band, where we could see and hear everything. I have to say, the experience, despite how poorly the team played, kind of turned me into a bit of a Spartan basketball fan. I know I enjoyed it because I started to feel a bit nauseated at the end of the game when the score was so close... that only happens when I really get into the mood, and I was surprised that I had that reaction. In terms of the ambiance, the sound was deafening, the Izzone was hilarious (even the ones way at the top of the upper bowl, which Ange pointed out to me about halfway through the game), the fans were fun to watch, we were indoors (I still hate the cold), and I reconnected with sports, which is something I haven't done as a spectator in a long, long time. Needless to say, if Ange asks me if I want to go to another game with her, she won't get such a perplexed look!