Of course, I'll need to have a house warming...

...because this blog is changing locales. (There'd be too much irony in resurrecting this guy for Easter.) Please look for me here: http://alannahbean.tumblr.com/

Plunge this.

I’d set my alarm for 6:30 with the intent of “sleeping in” by an hour to cure a recent bout of sleep deprivation. My ever-reliable internal clock, however, flipped my eyelids open at 5:12 am, and sleep was not to be mine. Fine then.

After ten minutes of gritting my teeth and lifting weights, boredom set in and I jetted from the door of the apartment building, enjoying the warm air and rising sun. I trotted toward the river, heading out over the Longfellow and taking a right up the Esplenade, soundtracked by the curious noise that is Sigur Ros (I’d highly recommend them for an early morning run. It makes the world you’re observing appear as if it’s just been born, and reminds you that nothing is here depending on you to make sense of it. Refreshing).

Sounds zen-like, no? As the path split, I veered toward the side of the path that’s closer to Storrow Drive, mostly to avoid the land mines planted in the night by flocks of stunningly angry Canadian geese. This path is divided by a man-made tributary of the Charles (still suspiciously brown), and flanked by a high curb on both sides, presumably to keep bikers from taking an inadvertent swim in the event of a crash (or “emergency landing” as the airfolk prefer to call it).

I cruised along the path, oblivious to anything but bizarre Icelandic post-rock chanting and nascent sunlight. Suddenly, my left heel was glued to the ground. Hamstrung, pain shot up my leg, and I lurched forward, losing my balance. A militant mommy with her stroller jogger thinger had clipped me, effectively pinning my foot behind me at a critical moment mid-stride. To my great horror, I grabbed for the curb and missed, going headfirst into…the Charles. (A little history on the cleanliness of the Charles River: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_River)

I was shocked to find my head underwater, and even more surprised, upon resurfacing, to find that I stunk of rot and stagnant water. GI Jane, Stroller Operator Extraordinaire, did not much more than watch me haul my bruised and shocked self from the river, rubbing the egg on my head. To her credit, she mumbled, “I’msosorry, areyoualright?” or some permutation of a polite statement of concern/contrition.

I took perhaps the hottest shower of my life this morning, but if I grow a third nipple or turn into the Incredible Hulk tonight, please understand that I am not to be faulted. Love that dirty water.

(PS – the extraordinary talent of Laura Niemi Young will be on display this evening at Gulu Gulu Café in Salem, MA – please be sure especially to admire the giant horse portrait of a creature I love so dearly!)

This time, the girl is really letting go...

Have you recently gone to the beach with a six year old? If so, you’ll know that bringing your book was probably a move based in futility. With your beloved first grader in tow, you most likely had to make a beeline for the water. Once in the water, you competed for longest-held bent-leg handstand (bravely touching the murky bottom with your delicate fingers, errant crabs be damned), and Flippered around in the waves with the kid in backpack position. Afterward, there was catch, keep away, Frisbee. Sandcastle building followed, an epic shell and rock hunt, a long walk to the jetty to hunt for starfish and barnacles and crabs, a trip to the ice cream truck and the beach house. You know this kid. You were this kid. I continue to be this kid.

I’ve been the butt of jokes for years because I can’t. Sit. Still. One therapist wisely pointed out that I was the approximation of a “human doing” rather than a “human being”. Is it exhausting? Yes sir. Do I know any other way to be? No, I do not.

For the past two years, I’ve been in constant motion, balancing two full time graduate programs with a 40 hour work week and myriad hobbies (and a little socializing to boot!). Get ready. I’m going to say this, and I’m going to say this once:

I AM BURNT OUT.

There. Done.

That was me admitting I have a problem. Now, let’s get on to solving it.

About a week ago, Danielle Laporte of the creatively kinetic White Hot Truth blog wrote a beautiful post about regaining yourself post burnout – 11 things to do (and not to do) when you’re burned out. Details here: http://whitehottruth.com/business-wealth-articles/11-things-to-do-and-not-do-when-youre-burned-out/
While Laporte herself admits that life balance is a figment of our type A imaginations (oxymoron in the house, catch that?), I’ll be rereading her list of recovery-themed behaviors at least once/day until I feel whole again. They include:

1. Cease keeping a to-do list (ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. Really?)
2. Keep a schedule (done. Committed to my grey matter).
3. Schedule in sleep (don’t have to tell me twice. What’s more delicious than a book in bed?).
4. Plan to do one Busy Luxury thing that would make you giddy, but has felt like a waste of precious time (yoga? Horses? Painting?!).
5. Recapitulate your work process and your stress.
6. Return to your roots (suburban summertimes…fire up the grill!).
7. Do not start anything new (this I will struggle with. I want surfing lessons. I want to write. I want a new fitness goal.).
8. Express your gratitude (the ineffable Meg Cline suggests a gratitude journal, and she is the shit. Therefore, I shall give thanks many times over).
9. Be generous (please register for gifts ahead of time).
10. Wholly trust the organic nature of create-fry-regenerate. (Accordingly, please be patient with my first attempt at a substantial blog post in quite some time.)
11. Trust. (Deep breath. High five, universe, let’s do this.)

Why is this so important? Because I’ve quit my job. Because I’m ::gulp:: moving home to live rent-free. Because my car died and I’ll be bicycling through my life. Because I’m going to be a full time graduate student interning in a high school, and I’m alarmingly close to the job I think I’ve always wanted…and yet still so far. I just threw my dice at the sky. Breathe. Rest. Regenerate. Make it happen.

And here I go.

Dino-CHOMP!

I've never had a problem with eating my crusts, but MAN, where was this in 1987? Or right now...by the way, I have a birthday coming up in two+ months.

http://www.curiobot.net/products/Dynobyte_Crust_Cutter

Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.

~ A. A. Milne

On consistency...or on spontaneity...whichever you need.

"Either once only, or every day. If you do something once it's exciting, and if you do it every day it's exciting. But if you do it, say, twice or just almost every day, it's not good anymore." -Andy Warhol

You went to school to learn, girl, things you never ever knew before...

In the past week or so, I’ve had brushes with death by a speeding Audi, turning Pathfinder, and ambling 86 bus. Contrary to popular belief, my tendency to start my mornings with a healthy dose of K-Os, Marvin Gaye, Feist, or the ineffable Craig David (don’t repeat that, it’s a little embarrassing that I listen to “Fill Me In” on a regular basis) did not lead to my near-flattening. I finally found a book so good, so tailored to everyday life, so irresistible, that I’ve indulged in the habit of dreamy playground nerds everywhere: reading and walking.

The siren’s song leading to my demise is Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project, an intensely-readable quasi-how-to dedicated to one woman’s personal search, ensuing research, and action plan for inviting happiness into her life. Released December 29th, the book is climbing the NYT bestseller list like a spider monkey and should become part of your permanent collection as soon as possible. Rubin, a Yale-educated lawyer-turned-writer, wife, mother of two, and successful writer sat on a bus in New York City several years ago and wondered what it was she wanted from this life. Her answer? The ubiquitous: happiness. Highly analytical by nature, Rubin set about devising a twelve month plan (one major theme or goal per month) with roughly five specific action items. She scored these on a resolution chart as developed by Benjamin Franklin, maintaining the former month’s behaviors and adding the new. The result? Rubin was able to change her lens on the world. The bottom line: if you think you’re happier, you’re happier, and those around you benefit. When they are happier, you in turn are happier. It behooves you, then, to do whatever it is you can (small actions are best) to improve your own happiness.

This book was absolute candy for my sunshiney, psych-oriented brain. For those of us who’ll be working with the “worried well” set, it’s an absolute treasure chest of actionable plans and potential “homework assignments”. For those of us who are the worried well…get thee to a bookstore. Pronto.

You can imagine my delight, then, upon discovering that Rubin would be speaking last Wednesday at the Brookline Booksmith in Coolidge Corner. Determined to finish the book and follow along with Rubin’s conversation, book and highlighter in hand, I read at every possible juncture (taking breaks to beam mightily at strangers for no apparent reason. They’ll smile back, honestly! Even in Boston!). On Tuesday afternoon, I boarded a train bound for a meeting at Porter Square nose buried deep in The Book. At Central Square, an athletic-looking fellow boarded my car with a boom box pumping classics by the Jackson 5 (I couldn’t help it, I began to wiggle in my Wellingtons just a hair). Most of the train, nestled into their piles of down and fur in the stodgy winter colors New Englanders prefer (brown, grey, black, black, and black) hid in their collars and looked grumpy in the way that only a Masshole can. This kid, they presumed, was going to ask us for money. And they were right.

“Okay y’all,” he blasted, turning up “1, 2, 3” just a little bit louder, “Welcome to my show! If you like what you see, please make a donation at the end. But I promise, you’ve never seen nothing like this.” With the exception of myself and another at the end of the car, my fellow passengers looked…well, pissed.

What followed was one of the most amazing feats of physical ability every to grace public transportation. Our unflappable MBTA dynamo not only broke it down, but he shook it, flipped it, spun it, and shagged it. He danced up on the seats, the doors, the poles, the floors. He made Jamiroquai look like your grandma at a wedding. With a flourish, he grabbed poles on opposite sides of the aisle, flipped himself backwards, did something resembling three back handsprings as the train rounded the tricky corner between Central and Harvard stations, and managed to somehow reverse his motion with a forward piked somersault. Awesome. As he returned to his feet, he boomed over MJ, “Whew! Let’s get it going in here! Anyone want to see some more? If you do, say, ‘Dance, black guy!’” Unfettered by the constraints of being PC (sorry, Dalia, and Culture & Identity classmates), I hugged The Happiness Project to my chest, clapped my hands like a three year old at the circus, and yelped, “DANCE, BLACK GUY!” The car full of mostly white passengers looked at me, horrified. Our intrepid performer laughed, came over, tapped the book in my arms and said, “Sister, you don’t need this.” I beamed…he danced…and people began to warm up. They couldn’t help themselves. They watched. They gasped. I danced around. He was awesome.

When we arrived at Porter just moments later, thirty people on the red line on a Tuesday afternoon had gone from scowling silence to clapping, cheering, and dancing. The man of the hour took his boom box on his shoulder and grabbed my hand, and we danced off the train together. We high-fived and parted ways. As he boarded a train headed back to the city, I thought, “Lucky them, they’re in for a treat…gosh, I hope someone on that car is reading The Happiness Project.” I floated into my meeting, generally a snooze fest related to resume writing psych interns, and smiled quietly to myself. As Rubin reminds us, so easy to be heavy, so hard to be light.

I had hoped to share the story with Rubin last night, but I’m pleased to say her reading was full and her time was limited. I hope this whole book tour process of hers launches a national Happiness Movement, but that could just be how a former publicist turned proto-therapist dreams.

As I start Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed before seeing her on Friday, I leave you with only one small request: if you see a girl with glasses and a long brown braid with her nose an in orange book, please offer to help her cross the street. The written life is just too irresistible.

On slowing down...

"Inside and outside her head, a billion, trillion stars, beyond count, circled and exploded...Songs were heard in spheres within spheres, electric, crackle, sharp. She heard nothing. How could she, when not once had she even heard the sound of her own breathing?"

- Poet Duane Michaels in Stephen Cope's Yoga and the Quest for the True Self

2010 - The Running of the Rhino

Because it's Christmas, and at Christmas you always tell the truth, I'm going to be quite honest with you: I'm a terrible runner.

Perhaps I'm being harsh; I'm not terrible, per say - I can go pretty quickly over a shorter distance (3-5 miles), but it's not pretty. I have short hamstrings and overdeveloped quads, so I do this sprinting/trotting up on my toes thing, which, when coupled with a swinging braid, looks remarkably like the back half of a horse out for a jaunt. This rhino does not run so much as jog, and even then it's lacking true athletic grace.

I'd like to think I make up for it in grit and determination, however, so in 2010 I'm setting out to prove it. Between you, me, and this little corner of the internet, I've had a mental block on distances over 10k since making a horrific attempt at training for and completing a half several years ago (all you need to know if that I finished, but I suffered. A lot. And hard.) All of this running with the periodic 5k thrown in hasn't made for much structure in my schedule, and there's much to be said about having measurable goals. If I ever plan to be a credible sports psych professional, it's time to bust through the brain wall and toward a finish line set much further off in the distance than I had ever anticipated!

Last year I found myself reading about Bay to Breakers, and watching Kara Goucher fight the good fight to nearly win Boston. A little voice inside of me bellowed "I want that!" and so 2010 is my year to try the races I'd never anticipated. The training schedule is set. I'll need good friends and great company for both long runs and races. Let me know if you want to play (Hal, Michael Tsung, I thank you in advance)!

Here's the schedule. 2010 will be the year that the rhino ran:

Sunday, February 7- Super Sunday 5k, Boston - goal: finish, don't freeze

Sunday, March 14 – Ras 5k, Somerville - goal: speed

Sunday, March 28 – Ocean Drive 10 miler, Cape May, NJ - goal: finish

Sunday, May 16 – Bay to Breakers 12k, San Francisco, CA - goal: finish

Sunday, May 30 – Run to Remember ½ marathon, Boston, MA - goal: finish

Sunday, June 27 – 13.1 Boston ½ marathon, Boston, MA - goal: improve

Saturday, September 11 – Plymouth Run to the Rock ½ marathon, Plymouth, MA - goal: improve

Sunday, November 7 – NYC MARATHON, New York City, NY - goal: finish, eat lots of delicious things to make up the caloric deficit before returning to Boston

F. Scott Fitzgerald's wisdom-packed letter to his daughter...

Dear Pie,

Things to worry about:

Worry about courage
Worry about cleanliness
Worry about efficiency
Worry about horsemanship
Worry about...

Things not to worry about:

Don't worry about popular opinion
Don't worry about dolls
Don't worry about the past
Don't worry about the future
Don't worry about growing up
Don't worry about anybody getting ahead of you
Don't worry about triumph
Don't worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault
Don't worry about mosquitos
Don't worry about flies
Don't worry about insects in general
Don't worry about parents
Don't worry about boys
Don't worry about disappointments
Don't worry about pleasures
Don't worry about satisfactions

Things to think about:

What am I really aiming at?
How good am I really in comparison to my contemporaries in regard to:

a.) Scholarship
b.) Do I really understand about people and am I able to get along with them?
c.) Am I trying to make my body a useful instrument or am I neglecting it?

With dearest love,
Daddy

F. Scott Fitzgerald to his daughter "Pie," age 11, at summer camp. August 8, 1933

love, loooove is all you need

especially if you're an orphaned baby hedgehog and you've adopted a hairbrush as your surrogate mama

Viva la tomboy!

Dresses or umbros, she's going to need protection...save our tomboys!

http://www.startribune.com/lifestyle/42817822.html?page=1&c=y

Omphalophobia: terrified by a lint holder

I'm pleased to announce that Boston has finally ceased doing her impression of Seattle - you may all stop taking your winter dosage of vitamin D. Hooray for seasonal affective disorder!

So. While I'm doing my best to resurrect the blog, there's not too much to be said this week. I've had a couple of inquiring minds ask about the roots of this deeply-seated and long held belly button phobia. A little research yields that I may not be the only one - fear of the belly button is technically called omphalophobia. I'm thinking that it might be time to face the fear, tell the story, and just redirect future investigators to the blog so that I don't have to experience the sweating and nausea that comes along with telling the story. Going to grab a basin, and we'll get to it....

Circa 1987, your blogger was five years old, pleasantly chubby, generally cheerful, and most definitely an only child. To counteract any negative only child symptoms, my mom decided it would be helpful to me to spend as much time as possible with my cousins, particularly Maura, who was three years (and a day) younger. Maura and I wracked up the hours reading and playing house (okay, I sat in the corner and read while she flipped plastic pancakes on the barbie skillet), hopping around the yard, and taking turns bursting into tears over bugs, hair pulling, and mulch to the face. (We only mulch at each other now on holidays - a lot has changed. I also almost unintentionally poisoned her boyfriend with a lie about the nut-bearing status of my banana nut muffins last Easter - sorry, Brian!) Maura and I also spent a lot of time with her friend Megan. One day, while driving home, Mom informed me that Megan wouldn't be joining us to play for the rest of the week.

"Why?" I asked stretching my toes to rest on the dashboard Volvo stamp and sipping a McDonald's diet coke.

"Well," explained Anne, nurse extraordinaire, "Megan needs to have surgery on her belly button."

Anything having to do with bugs, blood, or mud immediately intrigued me. "Why?" I asked again.

"Erm. Well..." my mom paused to chew on her own Diet Coke straw, trying to figure out how to simply the explanation of a hernia for a kindergarden audience.

"Don't drink and drive!!!" I shrieked, alarmed.

"Right, sorry...what? Oh, right. Well, Megan has a little bit of her intestine crawling out of her belly button, and so the doctors are going to poke it back in."

I immediately lost my taste for Diet Coke and most carbonated drinks as it dawned on me that the belly button is merely a thinly gathered pathway to the intestinal underworld. The potential for things to go wrong - to burst, to allow for sneaky gut snaking, to spring this fabled hernia - is terrifyingly high.

About six months later, while bopping around in one of my very first horseback riding lessons, the pony stopped short and ducked down for an impromptu dandelion salad. I formed a ball and rolled over her head, but not without snagging my belt on the horn of the western saddle. Realizing how close I'd come to the deadliest of situations, I lay mock-paralyzed in the grass until the pony started in on one of my braids for extra roughage. In the car on the way home, I cried. These intestines must stay intact.

To this day, I get nauseous, shaky, sweaty and white faced when I discuss belly buttons (or omphalophobia) in any sort of depth, which happens periodically as people find this to be stupid and amusing (understandable. It's completely irrational, I get it). Low rise jeans have been a life saver - no more inadvertent navel pokes by a metal button.

Excuse me. I need to lie down.

Whimsy means using my 8 year old eyes...

I often find the things that delight me most would've also delighted me at age eight...therefore, I present with no further ado Keith Loutit's Bathtub IV (featuring Megan Washington's Clementine):

Bathtub IV from Keith Loutit on Vimeo.

Thanks to Megs!

Additionally, courtesy of Sara...wee meerkats, otter peanuts, and little bits of rhinoceri. Now I'd like a baby turtle to schlumpf around on my desktop during working hours!