365....And Counting

It has been barely little more than a year since the first clinicals for my BSN-A classmates and I; just over 365 days since we first hit the floor in our (super attractive) green scrubs and (so very uncomfortable) snowy white shoes. For some of us, like me, it was our first hospital experience, our first time taking blood pressures on real (not classmate) people or answering call lights. If you had told me my first day on the floor some of the things I would do within the next 365 days, I might have nervously whispered to my professor, "I am concerned this patient is experiencing a decreased level of consciousness with increasing delusions, maybe you should come and help me assess them."

 I whispered everything nervously my first day on the floor, I think. Sometimes I wonder if my professor wasn't considering slipping me a Xanax just to help me get through the day. The mere fact that she was able to keep a straight face as I carefully took my patient's apical pulses before dispensing all blood pressure medicines speaks to both her kindness and professionalism. 

Cox College Selfie....

Back in those days I was very proud of my Cox College scrubs, I thought everything in the hospital was exciting, including the menu choices in the cafeteria. I've learned a few things since then..beginning with how unflattering those Cox College scrubs are. I was once asked when my baby was due while wearing them.  Also, not everything at the hospital is exciting. Not everything at the hospital should be exciting. A colonoscopy, for example, is not exciting at all. And I am pretty sure that is reassuring news to the patient, a calm colon is much better than an overly excited and busy one. 

I secretly envied my confident nursing school friends who seemed so at home and sure of themselves in the early days of class and clinical. Just making friends had been hard for me, I felt shy in this world of adults after years of working with adolescents. I felt clumsy and awkward in patient rooms handling medical equipment and trying to memorize a whole new language. I was sure I was the dumbest person in my class and my professors and patients were sighing and feeling sorry for me. It was in my nature to try and make myself small and disappear but our professors had stressed that getting involved in clinical was one of the keys to landing a job so I lurked around the nurses' station and tagged along with any nurse who would let me, using sheer dumb luck and the patience of good nurses to gain experiences. Enthusiasm and eagerness can open a lot of doors for you, even doctors will explain and invite you along if you appear willing to learn. Before you know it you might find yourself strapped into the medical helicopter with the flight crew if you can tag along often enough.

Eager Ride Along Fun

Our first week of nursing school we had to introduce ourselves and state where we wanted to work, I remembered hating this moment because I had no idea and it seemed everyone else had some sort of plan. Also they all had normal names not hillbilly names from 1942 that made them sound 80. I think I muttered something about "nursing education" a job I doubt if I even knew existed, but education was what I had always done. Barely 6 months later I would job shadow in the Emergency Department. Life changes fast in accelerated nursing school. My favorite professor had told us, you will know when you are "home" and after one 12 hour job shadowing shift, I knew I was "home." Unlike my surgery experience, where I kept sneaking peaks at the exit wondering if I could escape....She knows everything, that professor, she really does. 

Me...If I was much cooler....

I didn't come to nursing school thinking I would be Nurse Hathaway. I didn't come to nursing school expecting Peds clinical to be my favorite (yes I said it) or thinking I would care for a 3 lb baby. I didn't expect to see a C-section, I had no idea I would ever calmly put in a IV. If you had told me I would see someone intubated I might not have known exactly what you meant. I didn't come to nursing school to be peed on, thrown up on, clean up body fluids or be exposed to MRSA or pertussis.What I learned once I was here is how much every experience in nursing school teaches you and shapes you into the nurse you become; the one who is caring for all of those patients who are throwing up or needing the IV or are the parent of the sick baby. What I learned is that the friends who you make in nursing school, the ones exposed to the MRSA with you, who then go home and write 12 pages of paperwork and a care plan about it, are really like none other. Because they understand and are the best friends... and the best nurses.  

 I came to nursing school pretty clueless, and as I enter Capstone next week and prepare to graduate in May, I am still overwhelmed by all I need to learn before I start my job in the ER in June. But when I think of who I am now compared to who I was a mere 365 days ago...well, at least I don't think I'll need that apical pulse for your morning meds. 

 

Accelerated Blogging

I don't have time for this blog. I don't have time to clean my house, get my oil changed, or make crafts. (Technically time is not the reason I don't make crafts-absolute lack of talent, interest, or craft supplies are a few of the many, many reasons I am not crafting; but time sounds better and doesn't offend your Pinterest loving friends). I certainly don't have time to feed and raise my children, list making and grocery shopping are much too time consuming. I've resorted to flying through the Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market randomly grabbing the first five things I see and then flinging them on the counter at home while shouting "okay, I'm going to the library."
 Among the many things I have learned in my first semester of (Accelerated) nursing school: I can manage nursing school as long as I allow everything else in my life to fall down around my ears. And by everything, I mean the dirty house, the empty refrigerator, the less than perfect meals. And by everything I also mean the friends I haven't seen or talked to in 3 months, the job I gave up on, the 8 (okay now 13) pounds I need to lose, the dark scowls when I miss family events, the dates I've turned down (imaginary ones, in my mind, proving I am willing, in my mind), and the NBA playoffs. My house is dirty, my pants are tight, my roots are terrible, and I forgot to pay the cell phone bill (again); but, I finished my last Final today and I couldn't be happier.
It's hard to believe how much I have learned since January, when I sat in my first nursing class overwhelmed with the amount of knowledge all the professors seemed to have. I felt like I should write down everything they were saying-they just spewed nursing knowledge and I knew nothing. Sometimes they would stop mid-sentence to ask us if we knew what a word meant and I would sneak peaks around the room to see if anyone else was as clueless as I was about diaphoresis was. I would read and highlight and take notes busily, but I felt like everyone else knew so much more than I did...which led me to the next big nursing school lesson.
I am not as smart as I thought I was, and I never thought I was that smart. But by about my third test in nursing school, I was trying really hard not to cry-every day. When you are a teacher it is easy to be the smartest person in the room, you design your class and your tests and engineer the class discussions and if kids have questions YOU always have the answers (even if you're making it up, which I was most of the time). But in Accelerated nursing school, surrounded by Type A personalities driven to succeed my Type B raft was rapidly sinking under multiple multiple answers and assessments I couldn't keep straight; and while my classmates bonded and struggled through the stress together, my shyness and insecurity kept me alone in my shell.
Which leads me to another nursing school lesson (and also possibly a song from an era I don't remember, despite how tired and old I look these days) we get by with a little help from our friends. I have always been a person who HATES asking for help; the ultimate sign of weakness for Ms. Independent. However, nursing school taught me real quick: ask, beg, cry for help. I asked teachers, because I didn't want to kill someone, for help with skills; I asked other students, because they all seemed to know more than I did; I asked my friends, because my kids still had lives which didn't change just because I had reading, and assignments, and tests. My son rode home from practice so many nights with one of the other wrestling families they probably should have gotten to claim him on taxes. I began to look up from the ground once in a while and talk to my classmates; I found them to be much less intimidating once I spoke with them. I found out some of them were frustrated, even struggling at times, too.
We survived competencies, when we had to demonstrate skills in front of our clinical teacher. I, a woman who faced down angry administrators, held the hands of grieving teenagers, and gave birth to two children, almost threw up with nerves over demonstrating that I could take a blood pressure on one of my classmates in front of my professor. Somehow I passed without heaving. What's more, my professor did that awesome thing I have seen so many wonderful teachers do-she looked at me and saw something I couldn't see in myself. And I saw myself through her eyes.
The first time I walked into the hospital on a clinical Friday, I just wanted to stop in front and announce "this is my life now, I belong here." Until I realized in my bright green student scrubs with my huge book-stuffed backpack, I was probably the last thing the actual nurses, doctors, PCA's, even the nice volunteer ladies at the front desk, wanted to see. Nothing screams eager, but clueless, like a full backpack of nursing school books on the floor. A hospital can be a very intimidating place to a sick patient, it can also be a very intimidating place to a new nursing school student entering a patient room for the first time about to perform-or attempt-a skill. Again, years of standing in front of a classroom went out the window and nerves almost paralyzed me; and again, we get by with a little help from our friends, and we become what our teachers believe us to be.
A few weeks of clinical can teach you a lot; experience is a great teacher, and a great humbler. You see how far you've come and you also see the reality of life in the hospital, of life for sick patients. Nursing is not like Grey's Anatomy day in day out on a hospital floor. But the lives of each patient are just as important. When I started nursing school, I was there to get a BSN, now I understand the importance of both the BSN and the RN I will have once I pass my NCLEX. I want to work in a hospital and I want to be one of the nurses caring for the sick, or injured, patients.
Today was my last final, the end of a stressful two weeks of measuring what we have crammed into our heads in this first semester of nursing school. I hate to break it to my professors, but the tests didn't even scratch the surface of all I've learned (some of which I feel like I forget and relearn every few days). The tests (even the choose all that apply) can't measure the values, the friendship, and the confidence. They can't measure the stress on my kids, the sacrifice of time, energy and exhaustion. They can't measure the sheer determination it's going to take for all of us to survive the next 12 months of Accelerated nursing school-it only gets more difficult. Even knowing that, though, I know-for me-nursing school is the best decision I have probably ever made. Unfortunately I don't have any more time to explain why (or to add fun pictures).

Now

I wear a lot of pink. Not the brand necessarily, although given my discount and love of yoga pants (they improve my butt faster than squats and are more affordable than William Rasts) it is not unusual for me to be advertising PINK somewhere on my body, or on the bag I am carrying, or the hoodie I am about to put on...you get the idea. Sometimes, actually often, I even wear pink PINK. Ask me my favourite colour and I will tell you it's yellow, although when I wear it people often ask when I was diagnosed with jaundice. So I don't wear yellow, I wear pink. I don't know when I started accumulating so much pink in my wardrobe, my trainers (those are sneakers, I am also rereading Harry Potter, so be prepared most of this blog will be written in the minimal British slang I know) all I know is now it is my favourite colour to wear.

Always remember...

Two years ago I wrote a blog, one of my first, about teaching our children about 9/11 (it's called Our Job if you want to read it) because many of our kids are too young to remember the tragedy vividly-or at all. I don't know that I have much more to add or say, my feelings about our roles as parents certainly haven't changed in the two years that have passed. But, as a person, I am a much different person now. And much like our country is much different now than it was before that terrible terrorist attack, I think tragedy is what has changed me.
If you are a regular reader of this blog (and you know you are, Mom. Bless you) then you have read my entries about Steeler Seaburn, who was probably my favourite student I ever had, and how shattered I was by his death 17 months ago. As I prepare to work at the second annual Steefest-the large fundraiser for the scholarship fund founded in his memory- on Saturday, I am still sometimes dumbfounded that this is real. That he is really gone. I still feel that way when I take him Arnie Palmers-like I used to at school-at the cemetery and see his headstone. How can this be real? Yet it is. And so much has changed in those 17 short months, and so much of it is connected with Steeler.

Now, I consider his mom, Genny, one of my best friends. I talk to her often, not just a few times a year. And not just for scholarship events, but as a friend-for parenting advice, funny stories or just those times you need a friend. She's probably the strongest person I've ever met, and one of the funniest and most generous. Her son was very much like her, I see that now. His aunts are friends of mine. Now, I have all these friends when I go to football games, or other Willard events, and I don't sit alone or duck my head any more. There are all of these wonderful people in my life Steeler left me with.
Now my son is a wrestler like Steeler was. He loves wrestling, and it has meant a lot of learning for me in a short amount of time. At times, it has brought that grief back to the surface because my wrestling connection was always Steeler. The day of Aaron's first wrestling match I cried all the way there, I cried for the questions I had with no Steeler to answer, and I cried because I knew I needed to make this wrestling season about the son I had, not the boy who I lost. And I did, helped by this community of other wrestling parents (Genny among them) who answered my questions, cheered for my son, and pitched in when this single mom needed an extra hand. But there are still moments when I see my son in his pink socks and hear his hilarious comments, movie quotes, or Daniel Tosh jokes and that hole in my heart both fills a little and hurts a little.
Now I am back in the classroom, somewhere I swore I would never be. I am substitute teaching while waiting to hear my nursing school fate. And I am enjoying it, although I have already met kids who I know I could easily love. As a teacher, that was what motivated me-I loved kids and I wanted to help them. I am different now. I have seen kids devastated and been powerless to help, I have lost one and been shattered. I don't want to experience that again, so I like my distance now. It is why I am glad I am only the substitute. It is one of the reasons why I will make a good nurse, but why my teaching days are probably best behind me.
Now, after work I hurry home to my kids instead of making plans with my friends. I am a better mother now. Now, I squeeze our tight budget a little tighter instead of taking the shift that means I have to miss the band competition, the wrestling tournament, or even not be able to keep an eye on the homework. Now I am rereading Harry Potter in my spare time, turning off the tv and ignoring Twitter or Facebook. Now I understand that life is short and precious. Now, I have this wrestling community of family and friends who I am not afraid to ask for help if we need it.
Tragedy does not define us-just as 9/11 did not define us as a country of victims. Tragedy does change us, it makes us stronger sometimes. It makes us see our priorities, it can teach us lessons and bring us closer. So now, as I put on another pink outfit (pink was Steeler's colour, he wore it well) and say a prayer for 9/11, I am thankful for the strength and change I see in my life.

Dear Dwight

Dear Dwight,
You don't know me (yet) but I am a big fan. Okay, let's be honest-with the media blasting you've taken this last year, and the team uncertainty and the slightly unfilled expectations in LA-I may be your last fan. Me and your mom. But that's okay, I have the dedication of at least 10 fans, so statistically I should count as...I am not sure, there's probably a formula. Involving Greek letters and at least one square root, I am struggling in Statistics. Hopefully it's not on the test. But the point is, I love you, Dwight.  I support you, Dwight. I will cheer for whatever team you end up on, even if Dirk also plays on it. And you know how I feel about Dirk (You don't? Read more blogs. Tell your famous friends to read it too.)
I am dedicated, Dwight. I loved you through the media bashing last year when you went to the Lakers, who are my less than favourite team. (I don't like Kobe's smile, it creeps me out) I loved you when you were injured, when you didn't play well, when you wore that headband (we have all made poor accessory choices, it's okay. I once had blonde hair). And I love you now, while you are carefully choosing which team to play for in the future. The future is important, Dwight. I know, I am a (tiny) bit older than you. I have wisdom. And wisdom, they say, is the new sexy. Or maybe that's funny, funny is the new sexy. Or maybe it's short moms over 30 who like cupcakes are the new sexy. Yes, that's it.
I understand that sometimes what you think you want-or what everyone else wants for you, just doesn't work out. I know you care about your fan(s) and want to keep us (me) happy, but we just want you to be happy. And by we, I mean me. Most everyone else just wants you to bring them a championship and be fodder for their criticism (I see you, Jalen Rose)
The media says you have a lot of options for your future. I have heard (and by heard, I mean some guys from Twitter, who are generally well informed, told me) that even staying in LA is an option. Sometimes that is for the best, stay with what you know and make it work. Sometimes, though, you have to reinvent yourself. Maybe it's your time for reinvention, to try something new. Are you willing to work hard, Dwight? Because being something new takes hard work, harder than you have ever worked. It takes time and commitment and the dedication to a goal that may seem very far away. But if you are, even the hard work will feel right and worth it. The hard work will only make you want to keep working harder and be more successful. Trust me on this, I have some experience with reinvention.
Remember when you were in that Queen Latifah movie? The one about the NBA player (cough, cough) who ditches the skinny, super attractive model for the health care worker, technically Queen Latifah-who is gorgeous-who was playing the health care worker. (like say, a nurse) Acting was new for you, but your 2 minutes of screen time really made the whole movie. Trust me, I've seen it like 3 times. You sit on that couch like you were born to do it. It's never too late to learn something new, to improve on who you are. You know what would have made that movie even better? Let's say Queen Latifah had two kids....and I really believe she was a (tiny) bit older than that NBA player...

Don't be afraid, Dwight. Sometimes change can be scary, but we have to do what scares us a little if we really want something new. It's like free throws...Bad example. Repetition may be safe, but it doesn't always make you better and if LA isn't working for you, then move on. Of course some people will criticize you. Some people criticise everyone, they have a million ideas in their head-and they apply them to everyone, regardless of any differences. Don't let those people (haters, I believe they are called) bother you, they will be already judging and improving the next person before they even notice you are gone. Be your own person, find the best fit for you. Even if it's outside of what everyone expects, say a single mom instead of a NBA dancer, or beautiful actress. Wouldn't it be fun if that single mom is fascinated by tall people, and has a few questions (Do you have to special order pants? Is everything in your house giant sized, like in Alice in Wonderland, Would you please drive a smart car just so I can laugh?)  Maybe you could take her to a Justin Timberlake concert.
Sometimes we all miss what we are aiming for (I promise I am not bringing up free throws again. It was a general metaphor. Using the backboard is generally a good idea, just saying), but you are a strong rebounder. It's one of your best skills. I have faith in you that you will be a huge success wherever you go. I believe your new fans will love you-how could they not, I mean look at you...and your basketball skills. I believe some wise person has hidden the headbands, so you can start fresh. I think a great future lies ahead of you, Dwight. I think a great future lies ahead for both of us.

Mirrors

If there's one thing that annoys me, it's radio overplay. I'm sure it's a problem everywhere, but in Springfield Missouri, it seems local radio has a play list consisting of Bruno Mars, Pitbull, Niki Minaj, and Thrift Shop. Perhaps it only seems like radio is overplaying Niki and Pitbull because they keep showing up in everyone else's songs-or is it the other way around, is everyone else collaborating with Pitbull?-but it seems like I can't escape either. Like a toddler that follows you into the bathroom, there's Niki Minaj and the same rap on every station, in every song...there's Pitbull reminding you of his area code.

Overplay this guy

The only time overplay doesn't bother me is when local radio overplays a song I really like. Every so often a song comes along I just can't get enough of, and currently Justin Timberlake's Mirrors is one of them. Although really, if you know me, you already know that when it comes to Justin Timberlake, enough is not a word in my vocabulary. I am a loud, proud Justin Timberlake disciple. Justin the recording artist? Love him....my Ipod features a ridiculous amount of both Justin as well as N'Sync. Justin the actor? Oh yes, I've seen his movies...Justin the designer? William Rast is the only brand of jeans I will wear, even though you can't even buy them in Springfield.

This past year has been one of great change for me, even my daughter commented to me the other day "you're so different now than you were a year ago." She made her offhand comment the day before her birthday, and she is right. Months of job searching-and months of grief- had left me feeling frantic, exhausted and disheartened. No matter where I looked, even teaching-something I felt I had been good at-seemed to hold any hope of a better future. Quite frankly, I felt like a loser. I could see why people just give up and buy lottery tickets.
It was just about then, a job fair discussion about nursing school ignited something inside me I hadn't felt in a long time. Hope. My favourite Bible verses are about hope because hope changes everything. Hope is something real. I swallowed my fear and sat in the admissions office at Cox College of Nursing -tears streaming down my face-and asked simply, "is there a way I can do this?" And someone said yes. And hope grew.
So now I have hope...and fear...and a future. I start school again in a week. And if all goes well, when my daughter graduates from high school, I will graduate too. And my BSN will support my both my daughter and son through college. It's a long way off, its a long hard road....but I have a plan and  hope.
I think that-hope-is what I hear when Justin Timberlake sings. Something about his voice...I saw him on television once, performing What Goes Around (one of my favourite songs, because I want it to be true. We all want it to be true) and he was playing the piano. I remember thinking "wow, the kid can really play the piano, he's got some talent..." I saw him in the Omletteville skit on Saturday Night Live (YouTube it. Trust me, just YouTube it. And prepare to laugh) and thought "this kid is funny, he can actually act. He's hilarious. He's got some talent." Mostly, there was that moment a few years ago when I tried on my first pair of William Rast jeans and looked in the mirror. I looked at those jeans, and thought-these look good. My butt looks good. No other voices, not Ed's, just mine. It was one of my first moments of complete freedom in Recovery. It was a moment of hope-of more to come- and victory of a hard fought battle.

Sings, dances, acts....

I think of those jeans, of that mirror, of that moment when I wonder if I can handle going back to school. I know it's going to be hard, but I know I've seen harder-and survived. I over play that song-Mirrors- in my head while I run to calm my anxiety about that scary road ahead.  And even though "tomorrow's a mystery"...I feel ready. 

Runners

I used to be a cardio queen, I was pretty much addicted to those EFX or Arc Trainers at the gym. You know those machines that are like hamster wheels-you "run" around but never go anywhere- I probably logged thousands of miles on those in my relentless pursuit of "being skinny." And while I was cardioing (go ahead, check the dictionary, there's probably a picture of me, on a machine, in there) I would read a book, or watch one of the numerous tv's dangling from the ceiling for the enjoyment of myself and the rest of the cardio crew. These days I rarely spend time in the cardio room, unless my running injury is bothering me, or I am using the row machine (I like to pretend I am on a crew team, possibly at Harvard or some other school which would never accept me). These days I prefer to run (and by run, I mean jog slowly), box on the heavy bag (with my pink boxing gloves and terrible form, I'm like Sugar Ray Leonard..if he was a woman with poor boxing skills), jump rope, run stairs, or even lift weights. I like variety, I like challenging myself, I like sweating-a lot-I like acting like I care about fitness crazes like INSANITY (read that in a loud, screaming motivational voice)or CrossFit (use same voice). I like the kickboxing class I take on days when my schedule permits it. Some days I like leaving my stuff in the locker, leaving the gym, and running through the neighbourhood, enjoying the flowering trees and looking at the houses. These days, my exercise time is my time to relieve stress; my time to remind myself my body is better strong than skinny; my time with just me (and the music stylings of whoever I choose to accompany me). These days, I am not in charge of my own fitness, and my recovery thanks me every day.

When it comes to making fitness decisions for me, one of the last strong holds of Ed in my life, I finally decided to hire out. Like my daily decisions about food, I must learn to manage exercise. Unlike an alcoholic, with Ed recovery, we must learn to manage what tempts us every day; we don't have the ability to just cut it out of our lives. I must eat healthy, I must exercise...just like I must sleep, I must read good books. A healthy life includes all of these, probably along with other things like shelter, love, having a dog instead of a cat, but those are subjects of another blog. As strong as I may feel in recovery one day, crisis and stress can bring a backslide at approximately the speed of a race car. So, when I felt myself backsliding as I faced grief, financial stress, and just the regular single mom struggles....I found professional help. I hired a trainer.
Turning my fitness plan over to someone else is an element of trust for me like those other people have in healthy marriages. It's a question of control...and Ed likes to hang onto any piece of your life he can control. Fitness was mine. I always felt I wasn't "doing" enough, not running far enough, not working with weights enough, not working on my abs enough. Now someone else decides how much I will lift, what activity I will do, how many ab exercises I need. Now, when I exercise on my own time, it truly is just that. My time to do what I like, which many times is run.
The first time I met the man who would become my trainer, he said "you look like a runner." I was surprised by his comment. Yes, I like to run. Yes, I run almost daily. Yes, I run an occasional 5K. But I'm not a "runner"...Those would be those lean people in the short shorts (in January) with the crazy gleam in their eye. I've seen them...I am just someone who runs..sometimes. Most every day. I used to run ridiculous amounts, like 10 miles at a time, but I can't anymore.
I started running because, quite frankly, I was bored. I was taking kickboxing class, but I was bored by the cardio machines. So I tried alternating a few laps of running and walking at the indoor track at my gym. Then my brother mentioned a 5K, so I signed up. I think the grand total I had run at that time was a bout a mile and a half, and I had about 3 weeks to prepare. I prepared, and discovered, I liked running. I liked it because I felt like I was accomplishing something every time I ran, I liked it because I had to eat well to run well, I liked it because it was just me and my headphones. About a year into my running career, I had already overdone it though. I was running 10-11 miles at a time, when I started having pain down my left leg. Constant pain. I was literally limping and not able to sleep by the time I gave in and went to the doctor (yet I was still running...an obvious conflict of logic).
The doctor called me a runner. He sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat, then assigned me to a physical therapist. He called me a runner too, sighed dramatically and mentioned that runners are notoriously hard to treat. I have no idea where this came from, although by the time physical therapy was over, during which I had run most of the days he told me not to, I wondered if perhaps I was hard to treat. Physical therapy helped, but the bottom line is I have tendinitis in my ITB, I have something called Piriformis Syndrome, and these are over use injuries. As long as I use my legs, I will probably have problems ....
 I work on my feet on a tile floor for 7-8 hour shifts. I like to look vaguely stylish, so I don't have orthopedic shoes. My leg hurts a lot. I average 4-6 miles per run now, and the 4 miles are more common than the 6. I don't use a mile counter when I run outside, so many days I have no idea how far I ran, I just run further if my leg feels good, less if it doesn't. And if it is hurting badly, then I use the EFX machine or the row machine. I try to listen to my body...even when I don't like what I hear.
Every year in October I run the 10K Sunshine Run, the last two I ran with my friend Carmen. Neither of us really prepare, we just run. My leg usually hurts during the Sunshine Run, but I keep going. I have to finish, I have to run it all, no matter how slowly. I'll crawl before I walk, it's just the way I am. I am not a runner though, those people are crazy. I always wear the same things when I run, I always wear the same socks, I always listen to my Ipod. I have to do those things, or it bothers me. I bought new socks recently, I can't decide if I like them. When I run, I can feel that they are different, and it bothers me. But I am not a runner, those people are regimented and crazy. I don't own any spandex running pants, nor do I own appropriate cold weather running clothes. I run in an Under Armour sweatshirt I "borrowed" from my son (found on his floor) if it is cold. See, I am not a runner-those people are crazy, out there dressed inappropriately for the weather.
I simply enjoy running, so don't confuse me with a runner. Now, pardon me while I put on these expensive running shoes, and plug in my ear buds. It's time for a run....

Good Ol Boys

The other night I was in the kitchen studying cookbooks (and by studying cookbooks, I mean eating snacks) when I found myself rather fascinated by what I was hearing on television. My son was watching one of his shows; he has a lot of shows, mostly on A&E usually about people making money by either buying, selling, or scavenging what I call useless crap. He enjoys watching Storage Wars, Pawn Stars, and other televised celebrations of what I consider hoarder behaviour.
This night, he was watching another favourite Duck Dynasty. Although I had never watched it, I know about the show, it seems many people I know watch it. Many people I see at the mall wear clothing advertising it and many men I see through out Springfield seemed to have adopted the facial hair as some sort of a trend I would title Ways To Make Yourself REALLY Unattractive with the Addition of Facial Hair.This particular Duck Dynasty adventure had two men (I don't know their names, but they had beards) searching for donuts and then staging a contest to eat the donuts. I stood there, fascinated, slowly shaking my head like there might be something I was missing in the appeal of this as television. However, at the same time as I heard the men commentate their adventure, I got it. I got it, because as a kid there was a little shop my parents used to take us to where we ate donuts, and washed them down with Mr. Pibb. Yes, Mr. Pibb, and kids-it doesn't get much more redneck than Mr. Pibb.
These days, I desire neither a Mr. Pibb nor a donut, there's nothing about the taste of either that I really like. I have many of the same feelings about most of the food I grew up eating (heavy country cooking); music I grew up listening to (country); or hobbies my parents enjoyed (camping & floating, I'm a hotel person. I like beds and showers.) My children sometimes seem a bit surprised when I say or do something that reminds them I am from a very small town in rural Missouri. Although Springfield, or Willard (where they attend school) is hardly a cutting edge metropolis, both of them are more progressive than Ava-the county seat of Douglas County, Missouri. My mother was raised there, and my father was raised on a farm, outside of Mansfield and Hartville, both towns smaller even than Ava. And although both of my kids lived in Ava for a while when I taught there, neither of them are old enough to remember living in a town without a mall, multiple fast food options, and  a high school of 1000 students.
Perhaps this is why Duck Dynasty has never appealed to me, I know what rednecks do; I don't need to watch it. And redneck is a term I tend to use with scorn these days, tossing it out in frustration at small minded thinking, rebel flags, or screaming conservatives fighting all forms of civil rights or social progression. But as I watched (and watched again, my son convinced me to watch two whole episodes) I kept thinking "I know these guys." Because I do. They are good ol' boys, and I grew up around dozens of guys just like them.
When I say good ol' boys, I don't mean those strutting kings of small town politics, because I know those guys too, and I detest them. I have had plenty of interactions with these good ol' boys in my days since leaving Ava, and the less of those I meet the better off my life will be. These sorts of good ol' boys are the reason I am glad my son wrestles instead of plays basketball, the reason I am continually frustrated by some of policies or decisions my children's school district makes, and the reason why I was happy to wash my hands of public education. Anyone can be a big fish in a small pond, and these guys are whales in mud puddles.
The kind of good ol' boys I am talking about are people like my dad, who was raised working on a farm and has maintained those values and work ethic his whole life. He still believes in the ideals and morals of a small town: you put your family first, and I don't mean by tweeting Team FOE or rapping about them, I mean by working and saving your money to provide for your family, and always coming through when they need you. I don't ever remember a crisis or emergency in my family that my dad didn't handle. He's the first person you call, the first person who shows up. He worked more than 40 years in public education and paid for the college education of all three of his children. And when he remarried, my stepmom's children became family too. These kind of good ol' boys live by the rules I saw played out on Duck Dynasty:
If you sink something, haul it up- Or in other words, clean up your messes. Take responsibility. You break something, fix it (even if its with duct tape). You lose a job, find another one; someone will always pay a hard worker, no matter what the work. Sometimes you may need to call another guy (or someone with a truck, or a trailer, or both) but you can always solve a problem.
Too many large men sink a boat- Or in other words, everything has its limit. Too many hours of work will kill you; too many drinks will leave you with bruises and a hangover; and too much ego will provide someone a reason to properly kick your ass. Know your limits, know your family's limits, know your friends' limits and live within them. If you don't, you may find yourself up a creek without a paddle, or at the bottom of the creek, looking for your boat.
A deer won't fit in a sports car- Common sense goes a long way to good ol' boys. And we all know you can't haul a deer in a Toyota. My dad, and most of his friends, hunt. I grew up eating wild game, he often fills our freezer with deer meat. Many good ol' boys hunt, and eat what they kill. Many of them fish and eat what they catch, its common sense. These are not men hunting Bengal Tigers, these are men hunting food they will actually eat. They need guns, they use them. And they need big sturdy trucks, that probably guzzle gas, but that's that's their lifestyle and they are entitled to it.
You don't get rid of something just cause its a little rusty-I don't know if the Duck Dynasty boys ever found that barbecue that fell outta the truck, (sometimes I need more snacks) but I understand their desire to fix/return it. My dad always knew a guy who could fix something, if Daddy couldn't fix it himself. My dad saves everything, it used to delight him when his cars would be over 150,000 miles. My stepmom always keeps leftover, or wraps your plate if you don't finish it. They don't waste, people who grew up on farms usually don't. Either they worked too hard to get it, or they aren't sure when another is coming, so you take care of what you have. This barbecue metaphor can also be translated into a relationship one, but no one likes an overly long sermon when supper is waiting.
NASCAR is a sport-Okay it's not. But its fast cars, and that's fun. And it's really, really loud. 'Merica!
Banjos belong in bluegrass bands-This has nothing to do with the show really, I just threw it in for all the hipsters at Starbucks feeling meaningful while they listen to Mumford and Sons. You're not. You're not any more unique, deep, intelligent or reflective than those listening to a good Bluegrass band on Friday night on the Ava square. You're following a trend (multiple trends with your Pumpkin latte, fashionable scarf and Toms shoes) just the same as the wanna be rappers and mini gangstas. Be genuine, be yourself.
Those two episodes may be all the Duck Dynasty I ever watch, but at least I understand why everyone is talking about it. And it was a good reminder of my roots, or as Jay-Z says "never forget where you came from."(Technically Denzel says it in a Jay-Z song). My dad and I don't always agree on everything; I doubt we have ever voted for the same man for President. I probably won't ever take a date to a family function because awkward is not my favourite feeling. I drive a Toyota, he would never buy a "foreign" car. But I respect who he is, and where he came from. Because it's who I am, and where I came from too.