Monday Morning Haiku 1

I lie here alone.
Rain beats against my windows.
Why early meetings?

3.1 in 25.5

First thing this morning I got up to practice for the Susan G. Komen 5K on October 16. By "first thing," I mean right at 11:30 when I rolled out of bed. I ran the park near my house, several times in fact, in preparation for the race in October. By the way, to the cute woman I passed at least twelve times as she was walking her dog, I really would have stopped to say "hello" if I hadn't been so seriously in training. Anyway, the last time I did this, it was two weeks ago, and I ran the first two miles a little too fast and petered out for the third, eventually walking the last half-mile. After that dismal failure, I knew I had to be more focused in my efforts. This time, after some strength training and some changes to my regular running routine - working on both stamina and pace - I ran the entire 26 minutes. Problem is, since I was running a different park, I have no way of knowing my actual distance. I do, however, judge it to be at least the five kilometers I'm training for, since I ran that park at least ten times.

The point is, self-improvement is out there. Sometimes it's hard to come by, and it takes a great deal of dedication. On the other hand, sometimes it's as close as the park down the street or the book on your shelf, and as easy as dropping out of bed at 11:00 on Saturday.

The Little Things

Just last night I was coming home from church and driving due west, right into the sun. The sky looked like a washboard of clouds with sunlight streaming down them, all orange and red and yellow, like that pillar of fire that led the Israelites. It was such a perfect rectangular shape, kind of opening towards the top and flanked by darker clouds - it looked like an extention of the road, giving the illusion that if I drove straight ahead long enough, I could just drive straight onto it and keep going, up and up to wherever it ends in the sky. I told the kids to look at it, and at first they didn't see anything, but once I pointed it out to them, they had pretty much the same reaction, sharing what they thought it looked like, what they thought it meant. Then after five minutes or so of discussion, I think the very realness and transitory nature of it set in on us. We drove the rest of the way west before we had to turn, at least another fifteen minutes, all of us in silence. I've learned to make mental pictures of beautiful things just like that one, to remember and fall back into when life isn't nearly so beautiful.

Then we turned south on the highway, driving at a nice clip, which was just enough above the speed limit for me to feel like I'm getting somewhere, but not so much that I couldn't get back under the limit immediately if a cop appeared. Suddenly, the old, red pickup truck in front of me swerved, hit a huge piece of tire (must have been the whole thing), and kicked it up in the air straight at my windshield. I was in the far right lane, and didn't have much time to react as the airborne debris barrelled straight at my head. I had enough sense, at least, to swerve right onto the shoulder instead of left into traffic, but I couldn't get over far enough. The two-foot long strip of tire hit my left side mirror, taking it almost completely off, and scaring the life out of my kids. For the next few minutes, I cursed the driver for kicking up the tire, cursed the person who had chosen to drive on a tire so worn that it had peeled away from the wheel like a candy wrapper, and cursed the road crews for not clearing the highway of such dangerous traps.

And that's the thing. Within thirty minutes, two visions had been thrust upon me. Two very different objects had forced their way into my field of vision and etched themselves in my memory. I hadn't asked for either one, but they had both made an impact on me. And for at least fifteen minutes, I chose to focus on the wrong one. After I calmed down, I relaxed myself and remember the beautiful sky, and chose to be happy about the fact that the tire hadn't come straight through the window and taken us out, and the fact that for once in my life I actually have enough money in the bank that I can take care of a problem like this right away, instead of driving around with the car like that for weeks or months.

And now today is another day, with another set of possibilities, and I'm looking for another beautiful sky.

Essaywhuman!?!?!?

I've just put down an unfinished stack of essays, test prompt responses to be exact, in order to write this, because I've had an epiphany. For the last few years, I've been trying out all the new techniques for grading and evaluating essays. I've used rubrics and portfolios, peer editing and even parent editing. I've incorporated technological solutions in my quest to free up some of my time and save my eyes and brain from the sea of drivel with occasional mini-islands of coherence. Email, message boards, online essay graders - I've tried everything to lessen my workload of essays, but I still feel overwhelmed by them every time I get a new stack, and I think I have figured out why. The truth I've been unable to face until now is simple - I don't want to grade any papers. Zero. None. I don't want to read them. I don't want to critique them. I don't want to carry them home and pretend I'm going to get to them over the weekend, only to bring them back unread and untouched on Monday morning. Maybe I'm in the wrong business.

Smile!

My children actually attend the school where I teach, which has it advantages and disadvantages. The advantages are more influence over their education and more time with them even on nights when they sleep over at their mother's house. The disadvantages are some awkward moments in the halls and a distinct case of "staff kid" syndrome. One other small perk is that when picture day comes, the photographer lets us take a picture together, and always gives me a free eight-by-ten and some other smaller prints.

This year, like always, I took the kids out of their classes and down to the room where the pictures are taken. Unlike other years, it took over twenty attempts to get a shot that the photographer was pleased with. Either we weren't all completely in the frame, or there was too much shadow on someone, or someone was out of field, or someone wasn't smiling big enough - you know, like an insane evil doctor opening the Acme box containing his Oblitero-ray gun. There was a moment there when all three of our heads were pressed together, literally skin-to-skin and cheek-to-cheek. At that moment I was thinking, and I'm sure both of my kids were sharing my thoughts - literally the same neural impulses passing right through the flesh - just how much of a jerk would I look like if I just stood up and ended this? What if I just shouted, "Enough! I'm not looking for Ansel Adams here, just give me something I can stick to the fridge and let me go!"? Probably a big jerk.

So I sat as patiently as possible for another ten minutes and another six poses. "Let's try it with Dad standing and the kids seated," or "Let's try it with the kids standing and Dad kneeling next to them." And the thing that made me the most uncomfortable was not the time it took or the different poses. It was the constant manhandling. It's really my fault, I guess; I just had high hopes that the next time a woman touched my face that much, she wouldn't be forcibly manipulating it into contorted positions. Have you ever had a photographer move your chin so far down that you can't help but wonder, "Exactly how ugly am I when people have to take a picture of the very top of my head before they feel like it's a good shot?" Still, live and learn, right? What I learned is that next year, if I'm going to endure that much physical contact for that long, I'm going to make sure I get the younger, cuter photographer so that at least I can pretend it's a date.

Brassieres

That's right, brassieres. They used to be fantastically secret lacy things for women that inspired so much intrigue and fantasy that even a glimpse of one, just a sliver or a strap, was enough to turn a bad day around. Now I have to buy them for my nine-year-old daughter. So I'm standing in Target in front of a display of bras for little girls, one that seems to have far too many options, if you ask me, and wondering, "How did I get here? Where exactly did I go wrong?" Still, we are able to decide on one that's agreeable to both of us. (Seriously, bra designers, low-cut training bras? Strapless training bras?) We throw our one bra onto the conveyor belt along with what I hope is an impressive pile of manly stuff, and I walk out a changed man, a man who buys bras. Within a week, it becomes obvious that we need more than just one, but thank God one of the women at church has already seen the need arising, and catches me after service, handing me a bag containing three or four. Of course, the exchange takes place with about the same shady secrecy as a crack deal going down at noon on 79th street. We get in the car and my daughter says immediately, "They're too big. I need a thirty-two." I reply, "Don't worry, you'll grow into them." As the words are leaving my mouth and simultaneously wrapping around my head and entering my ears, cutting into the innermost parts of my brain, I just hang my head and say a little prayer for myself.

No Sleep Til Brooklyn

So, basically, it looks like I'm not supposed to sleep at all. EVER. Observe:

12:00 am - My daughter is screaming as loud as she can because she was sleepwalking and woke up in her brother's room. Get her to bed by 12:30.

‎2:00 am - Somehow a flying beetle got in the house and was trying to fly through the window right above my head, buzzing and banging the glass trying to get to the light on the other side. Tried to ignore it, shoo it away, but failed. Finally turned on the light in the living room and then the porch to lure it outside. That worked - kind of. I could swear I saw it fly back in, but too tired to deal with it. Back in bed at 2:40.

‎3:20 am - It did get back in. It's on me. Back to bed after doing the bug-on-me dance and squashing it at 3:30.

‎4:00 am - Still awake after the bug. Now I'm thinking about stuff, including why I'm not falling asleep. Alarm goes off at 6:00 am. Better luck tomorrow.