![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Well, I went for a run this evening. It was chilly. It was, of course, beautiful during the day, and then all of a sudden after I put on my shorts and the breathable shirt and socks and shoes, it gets almost cold. I ran 4.3 miles, nonstop, at Central Park. I haven't run that far since February. Yesterday was different, because I ran to the park from my apartment, so there was traffic and people to deal with. Today, I tried paying less attention to other people, except when I looked back to make sure it was safe to pass (I'll be taking my driver's test soon, after all). I didn't care who was passing me; I just knew I needed to keep going. I paid attention to my breathing. My stride. I tried to remember all the fine-tuning I did when I was more diligent about running. I enjoyed it.
I took the subway home after stretching for a little while. I sat near a mom and her two little girls. This pair of sisters were loud and cheerful and everyone in the car was watching them and smiling. They appeared to be singing a song to their mom they learned in preschool. The mom was carrying a Disney Princess backpack. It was pink. You know the one. The older sister looked to be about five, and the younger one seemed three years old, except she was little. The song involved clapping and slapping their knees and chanting words I could not quite understand. In the middle of a line of the song, one would interject a completely random thought, and then the other one would continue the conversation until the song turned into handclapping and knee-slapping and a bunch of cutesy outbursts and wonderful giggles. Their little voices and laughter held my heartstrings in a vicegrip, and I nearly fainted from an overdose of cuteness. I heaved a happy, yet longing sigh that spilled my melted heart onto the subway floor. Thanks a lot, biological clock.
***
Well, dadgum, people. Everyone so far has been very gracious in their comments for the About Me page. You have even made me cry. And not that I mind, but what's with everyone except Karissa being anonymous? I kind of can figure out who everyone else is, but a few I'm unsure of. I kind of have to rethink what I'm going to write on Saturday. I kind of was expecting everyone to be a little snarkier, but I can definitely work with what you've given me. Friends, you have presented me with a challenge, and I gladly accept. It will be an honor to attempt to turn the writeup into something entirely about me, but probably less blatantly than Tyra Banks or Oprah Winfrey would do it. If I fail, it is because I can't think about myself without thinking about the people who have influenced who I am.
***
And, more from the fanmail files. This was to another author of an essay in the dad anthology I've mentioned. Her name is Alice Bradley. I only went to her site the first time to get her contact information, and I also happened to catch a glimpse of a Twitter post about Barbara Kingsolver. This is what I wrote:
I took the subway home after stretching for a little while. I sat near a mom and her two little girls. This pair of sisters were loud and cheerful and everyone in the car was watching them and smiling. They appeared to be singing a song to their mom they learned in preschool. The mom was carrying a Disney Princess backpack. It was pink. You know the one. The older sister looked to be about five, and the younger one seemed three years old, except she was little. The song involved clapping and slapping their knees and chanting words I could not quite understand. In the middle of a line of the song, one would interject a completely random thought, and then the other one would continue the conversation until the song turned into handclapping and knee-slapping and a bunch of cutesy outbursts and wonderful giggles. Their little voices and laughter held my heartstrings in a vicegrip, and I nearly fainted from an overdose of cuteness. I heaved a happy, yet longing sigh that spilled my melted heart onto the subway floor. Thanks a lot, biological clock.
***
Well, dadgum, people. Everyone so far has been very gracious in their comments for the About Me page. You have even made me cry. And not that I mind, but what's with everyone except Karissa being anonymous? I kind of can figure out who everyone else is, but a few I'm unsure of. I kind of have to rethink what I'm going to write on Saturday. I kind of was expecting everyone to be a little snarkier, but I can definitely work with what you've given me. Friends, you have presented me with a challenge, and I gladly accept. It will be an honor to attempt to turn the writeup into something entirely about me, but probably less blatantly than Tyra Banks or Oprah Winfrey would do it. If I fail, it is because I can't think about myself without thinking about the people who have influenced who I am.
***
And, more from the fanmail files. This was to another author of an essay in the dad anthology I've mentioned. Her name is Alice Bradley. I only went to her site the first time to get her contact information, and I also happened to catch a glimpse of a Twitter post about Barbara Kingsolver. This is what I wrote:
Hello.
You signed my book last Wednesday night, and I didn't get a chance to talk to you. I have to blame it on all the people and the overstimulation of my brain from all the people, and the serious buzz I was getting just from being around so many passionate bloggers with so much bigger passions than blogging. I had even read your essay and was prepared to discuss it in case you required a report in exchange for an autograph. I was fortunate, I guess.
Will you be around again? I got to talk a little bit with Doug and Heather and Jon and Sarah, and I don't know how I missed you.
Regarding one of last Twitters about Barb Kingsolver and your conversion to farmerhood, this is what I wrote to a friend living in Kazakhstan. She and her family left the city back in February:
"A few of my friends have jumped on the Barbara Kingsolver bandwagon and read Animal Vegetable Miracle. We've formed this unspoken band of tree-hugging, small-farm supporters. We've gathered at least a month's worth of food storage, and I'm spending this month not going out to eat at all. Do you know how hard that is in New York City? It's been fun cooking, though. Chilis, stews, pastas. All meatless. Meat is expensive."
Anyway, seriously. Enough about me. I'd like to get to know more about you. The bond between your husband and son sounds precious. How long have you lived in the area? How long have you been married? I guess I could actually go to your blog to ascertain all of that. It's funner to send personal emails sometimes, though.
Much continued success with your writing and family.
Happy Mothers Day.
And then I went back to read her blog. And it made my heart hurt for her. And then I felt bad, so I wrote her again:
Alice, my email to you on Sunday was based solely on my impressions from your essay in the dad book. It might have been too peppy, too unaware. Please don't kick my teeth in. (I thought I was the only one with that preference of violence.) I hadn't yet begun to read your blog. I'm new to your blog. I'm sorry if I seemed insensitive in that email, but mostly, I'm sorry you're going through a hard time right now. I cannot imagine personally what it feels like to experience such loss, but I can be supportive. I don't know you, but I support you.
Then, she actually wrote back:
Oh, May, you weren't insensitive! No problem, truly. Thanks for
understanding that I can't write the most detailed response right now.
Thank you for your emails, too. Both were kind of adorable.
Best,
ab
It continues to blow my mind what kind of a world is out there. All those people, the lives they lead. And to think a lot of the people I don't really know out there have similar experiences to the people I do know. They remind me of my friends. And I think, hey, maybe if I give so-and-so the link to this other person's blog, maybe so-and-so can offer some relevant advice and encouragement or take comfort in not being alone in this world. Just in case. Present the opportunity which they can both turn down, but at least it's out there. The option exists.
Okay, I'm diving into my computer to find a faux-toe to post.
And then I went back to read her blog. And it made my heart hurt for her. And then I felt bad, so I wrote her again:
Alice, my email to you on Sunday was based solely on my impressions from your essay in the dad book. It might have been too peppy, too unaware. Please don't kick my teeth in. (I thought I was the only one with that preference of violence.) I hadn't yet begun to read your blog. I'm new to your blog. I'm sorry if I seemed insensitive in that email, but mostly, I'm sorry you're going through a hard time right now. I cannot imagine personally what it feels like to experience such loss, but I can be supportive. I don't know you, but I support you.
Then, she actually wrote back:
Oh, May, you weren't insensitive! No problem, truly. Thanks for
understanding that I can't write the most detailed response right now.
Thank you for your emails, too. Both were kind of adorable.
Best,
ab
It continues to blow my mind what kind of a world is out there. All those people, the lives they lead. And to think a lot of the people I don't really know out there have similar experiences to the people I do know. They remind me of my friends. And I think, hey, maybe if I give so-and-so the link to this other person's blog, maybe so-and-so can offer some relevant advice and encouragement or take comfort in not being alone in this world. Just in case. Present the opportunity which they can both turn down, but at least it's out there. The option exists.
Okay, I'm diving into my computer to find a faux-toe to post.
