MMMM: Weighty Issues

I know I’m new to this exercising thing, but it seems every week a new quirky dilemma presents itself. Three weeks ago, raging headaches knocked me out. Two weeks ago, because my legs were so weak, I had to lift them with my hands to keep them running. This past week I gained weight. That’s right—I gained weight. When I started this workout regimen, I didn’t put myself on any kind of diet. Save for chocolate chip cookies and alcohol, I’ve been eating and drinking what I’ve wanted. It’s worked. The first week I dropped 5 pounds. The second week I dropped 2. The third, another 5. This past week, however, I gained 2.5 pounds. Before implementing my exercise regimen, I don’t think I would’ve thought twice about a 2.5 weight gain. I might have even called it a fluctuation, yet making a commitment to walk away from a glass of wine with dinner and adding additional workouts last week to make my weak legs stronger, I wasn’t willing to be that cavalier.

So, I Googled “weight gain and exercise” and learned that my weight gain may simply be a reaction to the sudden and extended exercise I’m putting my body through. Needless to say, I was relieved to know there may be a physiological reason rather than a caloric reason why I’m gaining weight. I’m not ready to give up pizza or cheese fries just yet.

In honor of my weight gain, I thought I’d share one of my favorite songs with one of my favorite drum beats:

Here are my stats for the week:
Ran 30 mins (W, F)
Ran 2.5 miles (Sa)

Aunt Lena

This past week in class, I’ve been talking with my students about memoir writing, about the structure and qualities of good memoir writing. We’ve been discussing the importance of taking one event in one’s life, filtering through the memory of it, and then retelling the story with important, vivid, and ample details. This week I gave students an assignment to choose one person in their life that has had some kind of influence on them and then use an event from their lives to illustrate this influence. I explained that the influence doesn’t necessarily have to be good or serious, as in a parent’s love and caring. The influence could be destructive, as in a friend’s pressure to drink 52 shots of tequila in one night. I told the students I didn’t care what the influence was as long as they described one person and one event. To illustrate this point, I used an example from my life: my Aunt Lena and her unconventional wisdom.

My Aunt Lena was a first generation Italian-American who came of age during the Depression. She didn’t go to school past the 6th or 8th grade because her family needed money. So, she worked in a laundry, washing and ironing and fixing buttons on shirts. I know she was glad to have a job and she took great pride in the quality of her work, but I also think that her work and the difficult times she lived through affected her views of the world. Her parents believed in and instilled in their children the promise of prosperity that America guaranteed to immigrants. Seeing the struggle of wage laborers challenged that promise and it made Aunt Lena skeptical of authority.

That skepticism came out in the way she lived her life. She wasn’t too keen on rules and laws that interfered with what she wanted. I’ve blogged about the time she threw her car keys at me when I was 14-years-old and told me to go to the store to buy cigarettes for her. She didn’t care I couldn’t legally drive. It was just a stupid law created by “sons-of-bitches,” a term she frequently used to talk about people she didn’t like or people who posed a threat to her freedoms. She wasn’t going to let a little federal law stop her from smoking her Viceroys.

Nor was she going to let these kinds of laws hinder others. She took every opportunity to tell those in ear shot that they shouldn’t listen to what others tell them to do. They should listen to themselves and do what they want to do. This is great advice for someone, like myself, who is continually being told to cut and color her hair, yet wants to do neither of these things. This advice may not be so great for someone, like myself, who wanted to have a glass of wine with dinner when she was 11-years old. Yet, that is exactly what Aunt Lena told me to do one night when I was at her house having dinner.

“If you want a glass of wine, have one,” she told me as she poured herself one. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” So, I grabbed the bottle after she set it on the table and filled my glass. We toasted each other and once my wine was gone, my cheeks burned red and my body went numb, woozy. She saw the effects of the alcohol and said, “Did you like it?”

“I don’t know. I feel kind of funny.”

“Well, now you know. If you don’t like it, don’t do it. If you like it, drink a glass once in a while. It won’t kill you.”

Not too many adults would allow a 6th grader to drink a whole glass of wine with dinner, but Aunt Lena did. Later, when I was of legal drinking age, I asked her why she let me drink wine when I was younger. She told me she didn’t believe in denying kids (or adults) what they wanted. If kids wanted a handful of M&Ms, give it to them. By denying them the M&M’s, she said, the M&Ms become the forbidden fruit, and nothing in her house is forbidden. If you want something to eat, eat it. If you want something to drink, drink it. If you want to dance, dance. If you want to sing, sing. You have to do what you want to do, and don’t let anyone tell you differently.

What I realize now and wholeheartedly appreciate about her “do what you want to do” philosophy is that she was honest and steadfastly truthful in her living. Where others would say, “No,” Aunt Lena would say, “Those sons-of-bitches don’t know what they’re talking about.”

MMMM: Enduring My Runs

The headaches are gone, which is nice. The motivation and desire to stay focused are strong, which is even nicer. But my physical strength and endurance is lacking. Woefully lacking. Last week, I ran easily through the first 10 minutes of my runs, struggled for the next five minutes, and then wrestled with my legs to keep them moving while I sucked air for the last 10. I know my strength and endurance will improve as I continue to run, but I thought I’d give my stamina a boost by adding a little strength training to this routine. Since I’m only running 3 days a week, I thought I’d do some kind of cross-training, strength-training activity on the days I don’t run.

There’s no smooth transition to this next paragraph. In fact, there’s no smooth transition from that last sentence to what I want to talk about next. So, I’m just going to say this: I love the new Beth Hart and Joe Bonamassa CD: Don’t Explain. I’ve become a huge Beth Hart fan these last two years. Her soulfully rich, edgy voice sings to me. I’m equally enamored by Joe Bonamassa. I watched a concert of his on the Palladia channel one night and was blown away by his playing. Needless to say, I was over the moon when I heard they put out a CD. I haven’t been back to this stratosphere since listening to it. I’d highly recommend this CD to any blues fan out there. One of my favorite songs on this CD is “I’d Rather Go Blind,” an old Etta James song. Hart brings something more gripping and compelling to this song than James’ did, if that’s even possible. Although Hart and Bonamassa’s version is one of my favorites on the CD, it’s not on my running playlist on my iPod. It’s too slow and bluesy. When I run I need something a little more upbeat. So, I have “Chocolate Jesus” instead.

This, too, is a great song. And who hasn’t skipped mass on Sunday to go to the candy store? I know I have. I used to go to Super America (Kenosha’s version of 7-11) and buy a Boston Cream donut. I’d then ride my bike down to Lake Michigan, sit on the rocks, and eat my donut. That lake and those donuts and the rocks were my very own chapel where I could satisfy my soul.

 

Here are my stats for the week:

Ran 25 mins (M, W)

Ran 2 miles (Sa)

A Winter Morning

As many of you know, I am not a poet or a big fan of poetry. Nothing against poetry itself, but most of it doesn’t speak to me. Yet, this morning when I took my dog for a walk at the local park, I wanted a poem to ring through my head, to capture in words what I saw—the morning sun backlighting trees, casting shadows over the snow and golden hues into the open water of the frozen stream —what I felt—the prickle of cold on my thighs and in my cheeks—and what I heard—birds singing over the rustling trees and babbling brook.

This poem by Claude McKay comes close. The pictures below the poem were taken during my walk. They’re the images I’m trying to capture.

Winter in the Country 

Sweet life! how lovely to be here
And feel the soft sea-laden breeze
Strike my flushed face, the spruce’s fair
Free limbs to see, the lesser trees’

Bare hands to touch, the sparrow’s cheep
To heed, and watch his nimble flight
Above the short brown grass asleep.
Love glorious in his friendly might,

Music that every heart could bless,
And thoughts of life serene, divine,
Beyond my power to express,
Crowd round this lifted heart of mine!

But oh! to leave this paradise
For the city’s dirty basement room,
Where, beauty hidden from the eyes,
A table, bed, bureau, and broom

In corner set, two crippled chairs
All covered up with dust and grim
With hideousness and scars of years,
And gaslight burning weird and dim,

Will welcome me . . . And yet, and yet
This very wind, the winter birds
The glory of the soft sunrise,
Come there to me in words.

 

MMMM: Finding Inspiration

I’m baaaaccckkk. Actually, I’ve been back at it for a while, only I haven’t posted about it. I’ve been busy turning my life upside down. Since January 1, Joe and I have been making a conscious effort to change our destructive habits. We’re eating healthier. We’re exercising more. We’re drinking less and less often. It’s killing us. It really is. Last week, I was stricken with a wicked headache for three days. Over the weekend, Joe vegged out on the couch watching horrible movies on Netflix because he felt sick. We realize our bodies are going through all kinds of withdrawals and acts of rebellion. So we’ve been looking for moments of inspiration to keep us moving and motivated.

Here’s one of the embarrassing songs I have on my iPod that keeps me moving in the right direction. I sang it all last week on the treadmill. I’d substitute my name, Colleen, for hers, Eileen, and told myself to “C’mon Colleen.” These were the only words I sang because I couldn’t understand the other ones. Nonetheless, the song and words worked. They pulled me through my raging headaches and kept me running.

Totals for last week:

Ran 20 mins (T, Th)

Ran 1.5 miles (Sa)

MMMM: Wrapping Up My Youth

Marilyn is staying with us for the holiday, and we couldn’t be happier. Really. But there’s something about having another person around, especially my mother, to make me realize just how Joe and I live. The day before she arrived, Joe and I were in the kitchen talking, having coffee, trying to make a decision about breakfast. He opened the refrigerator and stared. After a few moments I asked what was wrong.

“We live like we’re still in college. We only have beer, butter, and ketchup in here.”

So off to the store we went. We now have a fully stocked refrigerator, complete with beer, wine, and Bailey’s Irish Cream. We also have the staple foods most people keep around the house—fresh fruit, eggs, bacon, milk, juice, etc. It’s kind of nice to live like adults, and it should be no surprise that it takes a fun-loving, caring parent to make that happen.

So, in this holiday of growing up, I thought I’d share a song of what my holidays were like as a single woman.

Here are my stats for the week:

T, Th ran 20 mins.

Su ran 1.5 miles

MMM: The Sweet Talkin’ Brother of a Teacher Man

“This next song goes out to Joey O.” I’ve always wanted to say that, though I’ve never wanted to be a DJ. That was my friend Traci Barry, who was crazy, mad about the music profession. I promise to talk about her “passion” later, but right now I want to talk about Joe Olson, my husband. As husbands go, he’s a keeper. Here’s one of the many reasons why.

On Friday, during our respective lunch breaks, we went to a local farm, Happy Hollow, to buy a Christmas tree. As Connecticut farms go, it’s really, really small: one horse, two donkeys, four sheep, and a chicken coop. I don’t know how many chickens. But from time to time, as I pass the farm on my way to work, I hear them in the coop. It’s very close to the side of the road.

Over the last two years, the owners of this teeny tiny farm have spruced up the place. They’ve upgraded the barn for the horse and the coop for the chickens, and they’ve also set up a roadside market for eggs and fresh vegetables and fruits. Last year they began selling Christmas trees. On Friday, after Joe and the woman farmer strapped the tree to the roof of our car, we paid for the tree inside an open shed that had wreathes and decorative planters for sale. I saw a planter I thought would look nice on our mantle.

“What do you think about this planter for the fireplace?” I asked Joe.

“Sure, if that’s what you want. I just wanna make you happy,” he said with tease in his tone, a tease that gave a nod to the name of the farm as well as to a standing joke we have with each other—that it’s our life’s ambition to make each other happy. I know. It’s sad and pathetic and sappy and the thing that makes people roll their eyes and walk away from us when we say things like this to each other. Unfortunately, the lady farmer was trapped behind the counter and couldn’t escape the saccharine laced sentiment. She plopped her hands on the counter, swooned, and dropped her head, saying, “Awwww. That is the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a long, long time. I hope he means it.”

“He does,” I said, reeling in my smile.

So, this next song, which is on my iPod’s running playlist, is for Joey O, the sweet talkin’ brother of a teacher man. By the way, I chose this version to play because in my delusional mind I’m as tall and as sexy and as talented as Joss Stone.

Oh, yeah, before I forget, here are my stats for the week:

T, Th ran 15 mins

Sa 1.5 miles.

A Rose by Any Other Name

This past week in class, we’ve been discussing “Everyday Use” by Alice Walker. It’s a story about claiming one’s cultural heritage. For Mama, the main character, that means using household items, such as butter turns and quilted blankets, to maintain her everyday existence. For her daughter, Dee, claiming one’s cultural heritage means putting items such as butter turns and quilted blankets on display, transforming the utility of the items into cultural artifacts. These differences fuel the tension between Mama and Dee, but they also raise larger questions about how to claim and maintain one’s own identity.

When Dee comes to visit her mother, she returns with a new name. Dee decides she no longer wants to be known by the name her oppressors have given her. Rather, she wants to be known by Wangero Leewanika Kemanjo, a name she has chosen. For Dee, changing her name signifies a reconnection to her African heritage. For Mama, Dee’s name change signifies a rejection of their shared history. Dee was named after her Aunt (Mama’s sister), who was named after their mother, who was named after her mother, etc. Mama is willing to accept Dee’s name change, though she can neither pronounce this new name nor understand Dee’s thinking.

Sometimes I feel as if Joe doesn’t understand my thinking about my name. When we got married, he asked me to change my last name to “Olson.” I didn’t. I kept “Connolly.” He was hurt and would periodically ask me if I had changed my mind. It broke my heart to disappoint him, but I didn’t want to change my name. As a feminist, I could never see myself perpetuating the patriarchal tradition of becoming a man’s property. My mom and sister jumped on Joe’s bandwagon and told me “those days” are over and that a woman could take her husband’s name without subjecting herself to her husband’s rule, especially to Joe’s because there is nothing controlling about him. I agreed: there is nothing controlling about Joe, but I wasn’t going to take his last name.

Plus, I said, I’d lose my sense of self. I’ve been Colleen Connolly for the past 40+ years. With all of my quirks and ticks and shortcomings, I know who I am. I know how to be “Colleen Connolly.” I didn’t know how to be “Colleen Olson,” an identity I associate with being “Joe’s wife.” If I became Colleen Olson, I told him, I’d have the same last name as his ex-wife, and I don’t want to be associated with her or him in that way. I think this reason hurt him the most. Or, at least that’s the sense I got. He was an Olson. He wanted me to be one too, and when I said, “no,” he felt rejected.

He still does. Today in the mail we received a wedding reception invitation from my cousin who eloped over Thanksgiving. She and her husband are having a reception in a few weeks. The envelope was addressed to “Ms. Colleen Connolly and Mr. Joseph Olson.” The return address had her new name. She took her husband’s last name. When Joe saw Jayne’s new last name he walked to the other side of the room, saying, “Hmmm. Looks like someone loves her husband.”

Joe and I have been together 10 years, married for five. I know the tone of his voice as well as I know my ABCs. He tried to sound jovial, but there was a lace of disappointment and a jab of hurt in it. “Just because I didn’t take your last name,” I said, “doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I love you. I love everything about you. I even love your last name. I just don’t want it as my own. It’s not who I am.”

I’m sure this won’t be the last time the subject of my last name comes up, but I’m hoping the next time it does, it’s in the context of how it’s continually mispronounced as “Colony” or “Cannoli,” and not as a symbol of rejection.

Marathon and Music Memory Monday

As promised, here’s my memory of tambourines, Mike LaMacchia’s Midwest Tour, Anne Gram, and Billy Preston’s “Will It Go Round in Circles.”

About five or six years ago my cousin Michael LaMacchia, a professional musician in Mill Valley, CA, took a mini-vacation to our hometown of Kenosha, WI. While he was there, he played a couple of gigs at the Anderson Arts Center Twilight Jazz concert series. This series, like other summertime jazz festivals, is an outdoors concert meant to take advantage of the beautiful summertime weather in a beautiful location. The Anderson Arts Center is an old mansion on the shores of Lake Michigan.

Needless to say, his first concerts were a raving success. So much so that he came back the next year with a few of his musician friends and booked a few more gigs. The year after that he booked a few more. The year after that even more. With each passing summer, Michael’s concerts became not only a stage of great music but also a meeting place for family and friends. During one of the gigs, I ran into an old high school friend, Anne Gram. She hasn’t changed since we graduated. She’s as effervescent, funny, goofy, kind, and sweet as ever. She’s also one of Michael’s unofficial booking agents and has done a marvelous job of helping him book his gigs, extending his stay, promoting his time back in the Kenosha area as “Michael LaMacchia’s Midwest Tour.”  

Michael usually does his Midwest Tour in August, a month that holds a lot of birthdays, weddings, and anniversaries for our family. August also happens to be Anne’s birthday month and mine as well, and she usually makes a big deal out of it. I’ve never been one to throw myself a birthday party, but Anne is. The gusto she exudes booking Michael’s gigs is the same gusto she brings to his gigs and her birthday celebrations. On the night of Anne’s birthday two years ago, she showed up at Michael’s gig with a bag of tambourines. She began to pass them out to everyone in the bar. As she did, Michael and the band played Billy Preston’s “Will It Go Round in Circles.” Anne came running from the other side of the bar, tossed me a tambourine, and pulled me out on the dance floor. In a vortex of celebration and excitement that Anne has a knack of creating, we went round in circles, playing tambourines and dancing.

Michael’s Midwest Tour has been a highlight of my summers for the past five years. Anne’s presence and birthday celebrations are also part of those highlights.

Last week I ran in circles on my treadmill. Here’s what I accomplished:

M, W = ran 15 minutes; S = 1 mile

Marathon Monday, With a Twist

I’m not going to make a big deal out of this, especially since it’s Tuesday. I’m simply going to say I’m back on the treadmill, which means Marathon Monday is back on the blog. But I thought I’d do something a little different this time. To keep my interest in running as well as in writing about running, I’m going to turn Marathon Monday into Music Memory Monday. Here’s why and how.

Like most people, I run with an iPod. I hook it up to my treadmill’s sound system and go. And like most people, I have music on my iPod that is hard core, kiss-ass cool as well as rather embarrassing. This strange combination keeps me moving, and I think I’ve figured out why. It’s not a profound revelation or even an astute observation. It’s more like “it’s about time you jumped on the understanding-the-connection-between-people-and-music bandwagon.”

I love music. I love listening to it, and I love thinking about it. It stirs a range of emotions in me that I like feeling. I like feeling the pain in Janis Joplin’s voice when she challenges a former lover to take a piece of her heart. I like feeling Carrie Underwood’s anger when she takes a Louisville Slugger to both headlights. I especially like nodding to Aretha Franklin’s dictum to call the funky low down feeling of moving left to right, of rocking steady, “exactly what it is.” And there is nothing like getting lost in the brilliance of Led Zeppelin.

Music also stirs a lot of memories of shared times with friends and family. Kid Rock’s “All Summer Long” evokes thoughts of my high school friends. Anything by The Police reminds me of my college roommate, Tania Metcalf. And the Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” will always hold bitter sweet memories of my Aunt Anita.

Every time I run I have these feelings as I remember these people and the time we’ve spent together. So, in addition to the weekly updates with the statistics of the miles and times and drudge of the running, I thought I’d also pick a song on my running playlist and share a memory.

This post is already long enough, so I’ll start next week with the music memories potion of Marathon Mondays. Stay tuned and I tell you all about tambourines, Anne Gram, Michael LaMacchia’s Midwest Tour, and Billy Preston’s “Will It Go Round in Circles.” For now, here’s a little taste of what’s to come (By the way, don’tcha love his hair!):