That Time With the Breast Milk in Oakland

When we last left each other, I was contemplating a dramatic change in my professional wardrobe accompanied by strategic self-groping and loud, profanity-laced declarative statements about my occupation.  I am relieved to tell you that this has not yet come to pass, though certainly the likely headline of "10 Lawyers Collapse Simultaneously From Heart Attacks During Mediation," would have alerted you that I had sprung my plan.  In any event, it is probably a good thing for all concerned that I have not made the papers in this regard, and yet the common sense that you are all hoping will arrive to save the day seems not to have rung my doorbell yet.  And so, while my breasts are at least arguably on the blogging table -- well, I actually have them right here, of course, and I am not at a table, but you know what I mean --  I feel compelled to grasp this opportunity to expose the only other breast-related story in my repertoire.  

To be clear, and to fulfill all of the required legal disclosures, the ensuing post will reference breasts, breast milk, and the pumping of breasts to capture breast milk.  Just to get any lurking squeamishness out of our systems, let's say the words several times in a row all together: breast milk, breast milk, breast milk, breast milk.  There. Over it now?  O.k.  Then we can begin.

***

My daughters are now 9 and 11, but they started out much younger.  Back in 2003, I interviewed for the job I have now on the exact projected due date for my second pregnancy -- February 26, 2003.  (Yes, I interviewed at a full and complete nine months pregnant.  I shit you not.  Undoubtedly the employment lawyers in the audience are laughing hard at what the HR department had to deal with when they got a load of me in person, "really, obscenely pregnant" having been left off of my resume.  To be fair, though, I did let them know I was pregnant before I showed-up, 'cause I'm thoughtful like that.)  I was rotund and swollen and waddling, draped in the lone maternity suit that still fit, a tent-like navy number with a tie-back struggling to meet its purpose of tying something back.  I don't remember much about the interviews that day because most of the residual brain capacity that was not being shoved out of the way by my ballooning uterus was fully occupied with a running and constantly evolving action plan for what to do if I went into labor in a strange and unfamiliar building on the other side of downtown, far from my car and my law firm office, in the midst of strangers.  I don't think I've ever experienced again the precise emotion or state of mind that is the result of the following internal mantra, "Please don't let my water break in the General Counsel's office.  Please don't let my water break in the General Counsel's office."

Four days later, my second daughter was born. (I have thanked her many times for her tardiness on that occasion, which allowed me to get the job and which she has never exhibited since.) Several weeks after that, I received the job offer and accepted.  I then took the four months of maternity leave I had negotiated and started my new job, on Bastille Day -- July 14, 2003.

As is often the case, after pregnancy and childbirth there was lactation.  I elected to breastfeed my second daughter, just as I had my first, which meant when I started back to work in July, I was still nursing, which then led to pumping as, sadly, my newborn was not so lucky to receive an offer of employment and have an office in the same building.  Happily, my new employer had excellent facilities for the pumping of breasts.  No more would I run the dangerous risk of pumping in my law firm office, as I had with daughter number one, which did not have a door that locked.  (This enabled my very well-meaning but uninformed male colleague to walk-in on a pumping session once, as he was sure the "Do Not Disturb" note taped to my door meant only that I must be working on a brief and surely did not apply to him.)

So, all was well in the land of new job and repeated motherhood, for at least the first few weeks.  Then my new boss, a sturdy NFL-lineman of a man (whom I had never met or worked with before he hired me), informed me that I needed to attend a major trial the company was about to begin in Oakland, California.  I would only need to attend for a few days, but it was a rare, bet-the-company type of trial that I really needed to experience directly.  Fine by me.  I love going to trial.  I would miss my little girls, but it would only be a few days.  The only hitch was the breastfeeding.  I would need to keep pumping during the trip if I wanted to continue breastfeeding when I returned.  (For any readers who may not know this, if you don't continue with the demand, the supply will dry up.)  So, I packed my bag and my lovely, Pump In Style breast pump.

Pump In Style.  This is worth pausing on for a moment. This is completely fraudulent marketing, if you ask me.  There is nothing stylish whatsoever about any part or aspect of this machine, let alone the task it is designed to accomplish.  The insides are just plastic and tubes and knobs and power cords, plus a little compartment for storing small plastic bottles, and the outside (which presumably is meant to be the stylish part) is just an unfortunate abundance of black Naugahyde, or some distant relation thereof.  And while one assumes the designers intended the black, hulking mass to pass as a briefcase or other professional carryall,  the hideous design only calls more attention to the charade.  It is the presumably well-intentioned equivalent of walking around with a sign taped to your back saying "kick me," only this sign says "this woman is carrying a breast pump because she will be pumping her breasts in the near future, or, she may have already done so."  It fools no one who has any cause to know about breast pumps.  Those who don't have any cause to know about breast pumps just make awkward jokes about your new, unusually portly briefcase, especially if you've not previously carried a briefcase around every day for months on end as if the nuclear codes were stowed inside.

Back to the trip.  Traveling with a breast pump causes one to encounter the following decision point: to check or carry-on?  On the one hand, you don't really want to be seen in association with the bag any more than necessary, on the other hand, were the device to become lost in transit, bad things would happen.  So, carry-on it will be.  This may cause your new boss to look at you funny as you tote not one, but two "briefcases" onto the plane in your second week on the job for the trial of a case you have had no involvement with whatsoever.  But onward you go. 

And here is where it starts to get interesting.  See, it is all well and good to plan and pack all of the necessary equipment and options.  But one cannot easily research breast pumping facilities from afar.  To be more specific, one cannot determine in advance where one might set-up shop for some pumping action in the Alameda County Superior Court House in Oakland, California, for example.  Not even with mad internet search skillz.  At least not back in 2003.

One possible explanation for this is that there are no such facilities. 

But I am getting ahead of myself.  First, you have to leave your hotel and be picked-up early in the morning by your outside counsel, who will also notice and furrow a brow over your double briefcase approach (and who you, reader, have correctly imagined to be an older white male).  But again you shall deflect odd glances and avoid anything that approaches acknowledgment of your seemingly unusual affection for briefcases, let alone any discussion that involves the words "breast" and "pumping" as applied to your person.

Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.  Just keep swimming.

At long last, you arrive in Oakland.  It is now 8 a.m.  Court won't start for about an hour, so you listen to the discussions of strategy and the order of witnesses scheduled for the day, etc., nodding in agreement as appropriate.  Finally, group consensus says it is time to hit the bathrooms before the trial day begins.  Your first chance for some re-con is at hand.  Down the long, white hall you go to the bathrooms, because it is abundantly clear that in a building of this age and style the bathroom is your only place of refuge.  You visually sweep the room quickly and observe the traditional set-up:  a row of five stalls on the right and a row of sinks facing-off on the left.  You check the first stall.  No outlet.  Second: no outlet.  Third: no outlet.  Fourth: no outlet.  The final and remaining stall is against the end wall.  No outlet.  There is, however, an outlet just outside the stall on the wall near the floor.  This will have to do.  When it is time for pumping, you think to yourself, you will sit on the toilet in the last stall, plug-in just outside the stall and have at it.  Great.  Back to court.

Court happens and any number of things transpire that might make for an excellent and substantive blog about cutting-edge legal issues, such as the application of the ADA to the layout of moveable merchandise fixtures on retail floor pads, but that is not our concern.  Our concern is this: when will the morning break occur.  Or perhaps more accurately, "there will be a morning break, right?"

When the morning break in fact arrives, you bolt for the bathroom and secure the crucial fifth stall.

Plug-in: check.
Toilet as chair: check. 
Decidedly un-stylish pump on the ground in front of you (fully visible under the stall door): check.
Breasts locked and loaded: check.
Ignition: check.

But then you are suddenly alarmed by the incredibly loud noise that is reverberating all around the bathroom which, you have just noticed, seems to be covered completely in tile, marble, porcelain and concrete.  What in god's name is that racket?

Oh.  It's you and your breast pump.

Your eyes widen.  Your heart races.  Your face flushes.  Over the din you hear the outer bathroom door open and notice that an unusual amount of time elapses before a stall door is opened.  Not enough time to check or apply makeup with any diligence, but more than you would expect for someone on a mission to urinate.  You imagine the scene from the bathroom entryway: a room overwhelmed with mechanical whooshing and churning sounds, yet seemingly empty of people and machinery, except for a black A/C adapter style plug in the wall at the end attached to a cord trailing under the door of the last stall and dead-ending into a strange looking black briefcase.

Embarrassment closes in on you and wraps you in a much too long and lingering hug, but what can you do?  Nothing.  You can do nothing but continue on course, which is, therefore, what you do.

When it seems that a sufficient amount of milk has been forcibly extracted and captured, you re-stow your carry-ons (which have definitely shifted during this flight) and emerge determinedly toward the sink.  Here, you shall pour out everything you have spent the last 20 minutes trying desperately to produce and collect.  Down the drain it goes.  (Although I am saying it, it goes without saying that there is no on-site refrigeration available.  Plus, even if there were, how to transport days worth of milk at an appropriate temperature from San Francisco to Minneapolis at the end of it all?  FedEx?  It can't be done. And so, down it goes.)  You steal a glance in the mirror to see if there is anything in your appearance that says, "this woman has just spent the last 20 minutes half-naked in the bathroom pumping her breasts."  Not sure of what that would look like even if you saw it, and by now accustomed to your regular look of fatigued bewilderment (which, in hindsight, you now realize is exactly what the former appearance would look like), you finally exit the bathroom.

When you return to the court room, it is twenty-five minutes after the strictly enforced fifteen minute break commenced, which means you momentarily capture everyone's attention as you do your best to quietly re-enter and take your seat in the gallery.   It is now 10:40 a.m.  Day one.  You are still in the early rounds of a bout that seems destined to go the distance.

Lunch happens and is full of fascinating discussion of trial assessment and strategy.  You are able to maintain a veneer of normalcy because no pumping is required during lunch.  Your twice-a-day pumping schedule, developed as a compromise between returning to work and continuing to breastfeed, now seems the only possible way to navigate a trial schedule while lactating.  (You are a woefully underappreciated genius in the subject of breast pumping.)  This means you just need to knock-out the afternoon break without incident and you should be home free for the final evening pumping back at the hotel.

The afternoon break goes more or less exactly like the morning break. You nearly sprint to the bathroom to cower in corner stall and endure the silent comings and goings of other restroom users while you endeavor to pump in shielded anonymity, only to return tardily once again to a courtroom already in progress.

At the conclusion of the trial day, there is one final round of assessment and strategizing, punctuated with interjections of "great job today" and "well done."  In the car ride back to San Francisco, when the conversation relaxes back a bit from the legal minutiae and re-hashing of events, a joke is made about how the new hire must have a heroin habit, as she spends so much time in the bathroom. (I shit you not.)  You reflexively laugh and smile, yet offer no counter explanation.  You wonder if your employment is actually in jeopardy, but then steer the conversation deftly to some subject interesting only to Californians (such as freeway traffic or Arnold Schwarzenegger) and hope that you are safe.

Years later, days two and three of the trial are not distinct enough to recall.  You remember contemplating a different approach involving the manual pump (which is notable mostly for what it lacks: a Naugahyde case and clamorous mechanics) but then dismissing this idea, because even using lawyer math you realize that attacking the issue (or tissue, as it happens) one breast at a time is bound to take twice as long as two at once.  Somehow, though, the trip reached its scheduled end and you and your twin briefcases returned home to Minneapolis, where you resumed nursing and pumping and lawyering.  And did not get fired.   Or investigated for suspected heroin use.  At least not so far as you know.

***

And that, my friends, is the other breast-related story in my repertoire.  That's all I've got.  Not an ounce more.  Well, except for that time when I had to pump-and-dump on the New Jersey Turnpike on the way from Newark to a wedding, but really that's the whole story right there.  

Wherever I go, Whatever I do, I Have a Uterus

Every now and then I encounter a situation or circumstance that reminds me, in case I had somehow forgotten, that I am female.  It’s not that I lose track of this fact or get confused by the idea of gender.  It’s just that most of the time I don’t walk around and do what I do every day and simultaneously think about the configuration of my chromosomes.  I don’t brush my teeth or pour my coffee or drive to work “as a woman.”  While I am generally familiar with my own anatomy, and for years now I have correctly navigated department store offerings, public bathrooms and the locker rooms at the gym, there are still certain circumstances that never fail to stir up the sediment of my mind and send this thought bubbling to the surface:  I am a woman.   And sometimes this one: I am not like the other people here.

***

The first of these circumstances occurs in the course of what I sometimes do for my job.  I am an in-house lawyer for a large corporation.  I am in charge of managing the company’s litigation no matter the type, size or geographic location -- from real estate disputes in West Virginia to patent litigation in San Francisco to tax fights in Topeka.  To do so, I sometimes participate in mediations, settlement conferences, trials or other legal proceedings on behalf of the company.  And although I am not directly litigating the case (I hire outside counsel to do that), my role in these settings is more than just to provide a dusting of glitter.  I am the company and the company is me.  I am there to personify and articulate our view of the case or controversy and our willingness, or lack thereof, to resolve it through compromise.  Happily, because my advice and recommendations are usually behind the company’s positions, this is easy for me to do.

Often times, it seems, this reality is not quite so easy for others. 

Years ago I began taking an inventory along gender lines at these events.  It occurred to me only because it was startling in its obviousness.  It’s like noticing the one person in a crowd who is wearing neon orange – on St. Patrick’s Day.  You walk into a room of people and realize they are all boy people and you are the only girl person.  It’s just impossible not to think about.   The instigating event for my tallying was a deposition I defended years ago when I was still in private practice.   If memory serves, the count was 18-2, meaning that all of the lawyers in the room were men, my client was a man while me and the court reporter were the only women.  Ever since then, I survey the room before we begin and count to determine the ratio.  (Note: I do this silently in my head, of course, though I do like the idea of designating someone as the starter and sounding-off as we go around, just  to bring everyone into the game.)  Usually it’s on the order of 6-1 (I am the one) or 4-2.  Nothing all that remarkable.  Still, I have yet to ever break even or flip the advantage.

Sometimes, though, it is remarkable.  Just last week, I attended a mediation in a very large and complex lawsuit in New York in which 50 people from numerous law firms and corporations participated.  We convened in conference room as long as a city bock in which tables were arranged in a huge rectangle, with placards displaying our names U.N. style, and in which multiple screens were set-up around the room to ensure that everyone would have a sight line for any PowerPoint presentations that might be forthcoming.  I had to crane my neck a little to get a visual all the way around the room as we took our seats, but I conducted my now routine silent inventory: 44-6.

In these situations I become acutely aware of the reflexive question that arises and is practically written on the faces of the others when they encounter one of us comprising the six:  I wonder if she knows what she is doing/is any good at what she does?  

This question isn’t inherently sexist or discriminatory.  It could be asked of anyone, and so long as the asker is open to accommodating whatever conclusion the evidence supports, there is nothing wrong with this question.  Except that, in my experience, it only arises when it is a woman or non-white male that is being encountered.  In other words, you never see the same expression on the face of male lawyers when they are meeting other male lawyers for the first time.  Male is what they expected.  Male is the norm.  Male is assumed to be competent until demonstrated otherwise.  Female, however, isn’t.  I am not presumed to be an experienced and formidable attorney.  I am wondered about.  Competence is not automatically given to me – something for me to lose – it is something I have to demonstrate and earn.

To those of you who are predisposed not to believe this and who are rolling your eyes at me already, I can hear your questions.  How can I know this?  Aren’t I just making biased assumptions that stem from my worldview?  Haven’t times changed enough that this is no longer a reality?  I think these are good and valid questions.  I cannot be certain that I am right.  But my personal experience informs me that often times, I am right.  During my 15-year career as a lawyer, I have been asked the following questions:

(1) Are you the court reporter?

(2) Are you the paralegal? 

(3) When is the lawyer going to join us?

(4) Who else from your company is attending the mediation?

(5) Do you have authority to represent/bind your company?

(6) Do we need to talk to someone else to get additional settlement authority?

The first few questions almost always arise as I enter a room, before I have had an opportunity for introductions  -- when all that is known about who I am is what I look like.  I have no data to support this, but I have a hunch that most male lawyers haven’t been asked these questions.

It’s not that there is necessarily deliberate or conscious discrimination occurring (though trust me, that is still out there, too).  Most of these questions are not mean spirited and the askers are almost always immediately embarrassed and apologize once I have answered them.  But they nevertheless still reveal prevalent baseline assumptions, including this one: people in positions of authority tend to be male; as well as the similar, but slightly different proposition: women tend not to be in positions of authority.

Importantly, these assumptions are not wrong.  Most court reporters are women.  Most judges and business executives are men.  And while there are many women lawyers, there are far fewer of them in litigation.  See Women As Lawyers Stat Sheet.   Nevertheless, to presume that a specific individual is the court reporter based solely on the fact that she is the first woman to walk into the room is a dicey and damaging paradigm.

To be fair, I have considered the possibility that my personality may also play a role in this.  All other things being equal, I tend to be a happy and optimistic person.  I can sometimes be chatty (though here I note that if I were a man the adjective would be “talker” as in “he’s a real talker,” while a woman is chatty or bubbly; you can draw your own conclusions about the implications of the language).  On top of this, although I am most certainly capable of it, I don’t naturally gravitate to the “super-bitch” demeanor nor do I find it to be an effective strategy in the long run.  (Again, there are language differences here: asshole or hard-ass versus bitch.)  So, I tend to smile and be nice and not say “fuck you” to anyone right off the bat.  I prefer to wait until we have reached the appropriate point in the proceedings, which is usually much later, before breaking out the salty language playbook.  (Even then, while I find swearing to be cathartic and even enjoyable, I still tend to swear about someone or something and not at them.)  Niceness, it seems, is believed to be a known associate of weakness, inexperience or lack of intelligence.

I wonder why that is.

And since we have found our way to the topic of swearing, let me add this: if you are the kind of person who likes to swear and will do so in front of others on occasion (and I consider myself to be in this category), you need to own it.  Either be comfortable with it or re-assess whether you are comfortable with it.  But don’t go on a rampage of f-ing this and f-ing that in a room full of people and then turn only to me, the woman in the room, and apologize.   I realize that you think you are being polite, but you are not.  You are being sexist.  If you feel your swearing was rude and impolite, then you owe everyone an apology.   If you don’t feel you owe everyone an apology, then the only reason why you think you owe me an apology is because you think I am especially sensitive or delicate or easily offended simply because I wear a bra and you don’t. 

Well knock it off.  I don’t want your fucking apology.

While one might rationally conclude that these extreme ratios, sexist assumptions and biased behavior would make me angry, most of the time they don’t.   Perhaps it is the mellowing that comes with age, but anger is rarely the emotion I feel when experiencing any of the above.  Instead, it is more along the lines of sudden self-consciousness or a mental note of the observed dynamic.  It is emotionally disarming, actually, to enter a room and suddenly realize that everyone is thinking the same thing that you are -- you are a woman – even though not a word will be said about it.  So, I usually just conduct my inventory, observe what I can about the attitudes of the other parties I must engage with, and add that to the storehouse of information that informs what strategy I will employ and tactically how I will carry it out to achieve my desired objectives.  To be totally honest, and to give away a bit of what may have contributed to any success I have had, I think the habit of surveying and assessing my environment gives me an advantage.  I have come to embrace the upside of being underestimated.

***

The other time I find myself confronted with a flashing red light that says “FEMALE -FEMALE – FEMALE” is only every time I pick-up the newspaper or attempt to inform myself of current events via CNN.com or Slate.com or Mother Jones’ Twitter feed (@MotherJones) in 2012.  This is because several different presidential candidates and state legislative bodies are deeply concerned about my uterus.  Well, it is not just my uterus that they are concerned about, but really any American uterus anywhere, and it turns out only us women have them.

From my vantage point, the concern about the State of the Uterus is a corollary, if not always a companion, to the attitudes and assumptions detailed above.  The source of all of the anxious hand-wringing on the right seems to be this:  the uterus is among the standard features in the female product line, which also includes a "female" brain.  To their great chagrin, these features are a package deal and are not separable.  It’s sort of like the cold weather package on your car.  Either you’re in for the seat heaters, leather seats and the turbo-charged rear defrost or you are not, but there is no a la carte option.

This means that basic competence and intelligence are not to be assumed.  It must be demonstrated and earned.  As the good legislators in the State of Virginia have made clear, it therefore follows that just because a woman has had a uterus inside her body her entire life, doesn’t mean she is "fully informed" and really understands what it’s all about.  The best way to be sure her standard, female-model brain really gets it, is to force her into an unnecessary medical procedure so that she can see pictures of the fetus inside her uterus that she is seeking to abort.  (To my mind, the fact that she is seeking to terminate the pregnancy seems to conclusively demonstrate that she is aware that she is pregnant and has a firm grasp on the schematics of pregnancy, but I’m probably just missing some subtlety in the analysis.) 

No doubt the great state of Virginia is leveraging the latest findings from the front lines of educational research.  Certainly they are only proposing such legislation because it is backed up by stacks of disciplined, scientific, data-driven, peer reviewed studies showing that the best way to really educate on the topic of “you have a fetus in your uterus” is to require the woman to watch a screen while her genitalia is exposed and probed by a someone who disagrees with her decision to remove said fetus. 

With this revolutionary breakthrough in understanding, it only makes sense, then, that a wholesale reinvention of American sex-ed is just around the corner.  If we are serious about ensuring that our children really understand sexuality and reproduction, then we cannot turn our backs on them. We must employ the same techniques as soon as possible.  We would still break out the fifth graders by gender, of course (no need to make it awkward), but then I foresee classrooms where each child undergoes a pelvic examination while watching a screen.  Certainly the Catholics would be willing to assist with the young boys (as they have a demonstrated track record of deep concern in this area), while Christian and Muslim fundamentalists alike share a patronizing and paternalistic disdain for women generally, buoyed by a deep seated fear of female sexuality in particular (though, to be fair, the Catholics and Hasidim could get in on this one too) – so they would be eager to manage the young girls.  With all of these volunteers, we could roll-out a nationwide program that would really have an impact.  Because watching a screen while someone probes you is sure to make all the difference in your level of knowledge and understanding, which is what this is really all about.  Just ensuring that everyone is fully aware and informed.  And how can anyone be against that? 

***

The third situation in which gender awareness rises to the level of everyday consciousness is the Bahamas.  Well, to be more precise, not just the Bahamas, but really anywhere people strut around in bathing suits all day. 

(Here I must stop and say how fortunate I am.   Despite having been issued only a female model brain, I have managed to make something of myself and can contribute substantially to my family’s financial well-being.  Even further against the odds, given the brain I had to work with, I have managed to use my uterus responsibly (even without all of the latest advances of education-by-screen-and-probe), so I have two healthy children instead of 20.  As a result of this sheer good luck on my part, vacationing in the Bahamas with my family is within the realm of possibility.  And actually, I am doing it right now.)

The main downside to the Bahamas, coastal Mexico or Hawaii, however (and some of you may be surprised to hear that there is one), is that they encourage a lot of swimming and surfing and snorkeling and other activities that entail being in or very near the water.  Water itself I have no issues with.  It is lovely to look at and listen to and float on top of.  Getting in it, however, is where I often draw the line.  It is cold.  Always.  I don’t care what the latitude is or the name of the sea or ocean.  I promise you it is cold.  But although I am right about this, it is actually beside the point.  The point is that water begets water activities which begets bathing suits which begs the question – where is the line between “women’s bodies are beautiful and natural and are nothing to be afraid or ashamed of”  and “I really shouldn’t be able to tell the diameter and color of your areola, or that you most certainly have a Brazilian wax, if we’ve never been properly introduced and I am neither your lover nor your gynecologist."

This is a tricky subject, which means I shall immediately plunge forward.  I am not against bikinis.  Moreover, I am all in favor of women's bodies.  They are beautiful and natural and strong and capable of doing the same variety of activities that men's bodies can.  I do not believe they are dirty, or shameful, or full of sin.  I disagree that shaking hands with a woman or seeing her ankles (let alone any other body parts) can have catastrophic consequences on men, as some extreme religions profess.  Most importantly, I do not believe that virginity is a woman's greatest asset and that if she loses it outside of marriage -- even if it is forcibly taken by rape -- she should be put to death because she is now damaged goods and has brought shame to her family.  Indeed, these ideas are so horrifying and repugnant to me I have a hard time even referencing them to make my point.

But I find the other extreme almost as troubling.  Almost.  While the former views and practices arise out of a fear of women's sexuality and a paranoid, insecure need to repress and control it, the opposite practice of exaggerating, promoting and seemingly rewarding sexual display and expression by women is not much better.  They are two sides of the same coin, really.  Both reduce women to a single dimension: sexual functionality.  I say seemingly rewarding because I find the "female power" argument that is sometimes asserted here to be completely wrong-headed and false.  Embracing your own victimization doesn't make you less of a victim.  More to the point, no one believes that Girls Gone Wild is a stepping stone to becoming CEO.  Reducing yourself to boobs and a vagina just confirms the sexist suspicion that you don't have much of a brain.

So here I am in the Bahamas, enjoying the sun and turquoise waters.  And watching an endless parade of bodies and swimwear meander down the beach, into the ocean and in and out of the numerous pools.  Most of my fellow vacationers are not engaged in sexual advertising (though the delegation of overly-tanned New Jersey moms is pushing it more than I wish they would.) But there is always some contingent of "Oh!  How on earth did my breast pop out of my top like that when I made such an effort to secure it with four square inches of fabric held fast with double-knotted dental floss?"  To say nothing of the highly functional "thong" bikini bottoms.  Because nothing says "I am a highly intelligent person who should be taken seriously," like your ass hanging out for everyone to see.

***

But you know, maybe I've been coming at this all wrong.  Maybe I have just been extremely lucky that I've gotten this far in life with just a girl brain, without a "fully informed" understanding of my own body or the assistance of governors and legislators in making decisions about birth control, or a better appreciation of the true power of my special lady parts when exposed for all to see.  But I just can't get past my need for rigorous analysis and data  -- must be a weak, female brain thing.  So maybe if I just test these ideas I can see where the data comes out and that will inform what I should do.  Here's the plan:  I will go to my next mediation in stilletos and a thong bikini, grab my breasts with one hand and my crotch with the other and declare loudly, "I'm the lawyer and I'm here to represent.  Anyone got a fucking problem with that?!"

That should do the trick.

And the Stories They Rode In On

About halfway through 2011, for reasons I can no longer clearly recall, I decided to keep track of the books I read on an annual basis.  So I tried to remember what I had already read in the opening months of the year and jotted them down.  Then I added the rest as they accrued.  I eventually learned about Goodreads and now I track my reads that way, too, though I still keep a Word document on my computer to which I dutifully add each completed volume and its author.

There is something about lists and tracking one's own activity that is very powerful.  For example, in theory I already know what I eat every day because I am the one shoveling it into my mouth.  If I were to actually write it down, however, and reduce it to documentation admissible in court, I would surely object to my own evidence and argue that hearsay must somehow have been involved.  I know I ate a handful of tortilla chips and a chocolate chip cookie when I got home from work, before then pouring myself a glass of wine and beginning to make dinner, but confronting this on paper just makes me look bad.  Of course, this is precisely why food journals are encouraged in many weight loss programs, but let's consider the context for a moment: I am a tried and tired middle-aged woman.  I am not in the market for ANYTHING that makes me look bad.

Not surprisingly, I have not adopted the habit of writing down what I eat.   I see nothing rewarding in engaging in guilt-induced self-flagellation that would surely only make me uptight and unhappy.  But list-making in the positive direction -- good deeds done, rather than sins committed -- now that's something much more palatable.

Several years ago I started tracking my workouts on MapMyRun and then last year the books I read.  It is amazing how engaged one can be in chasing one's own tail just by doing so in the form of a list.  It goes without saying, I hope, that I am not required to report any of this to anybody else.   It's just me keeping these lists and monitoring my progress, if any.  I am both parole officer and ex-con.  And yet, it works.  By tracking my workouts and watching the accumulation of hours spent and calories burned, I am motivated to exercise more often.  By tracking the books I read, I find myself more willing to pick up a book and resist the television.

In my limited experience, the most satisfying part of list keeping comes at the end of a measurement period -- the end of a month for workouts, or the end of the year in the case of my newly minted book list.  I then review the time period in question and see what I managed to accomplish.  This can generate its own internal momentum, where I suddenly rush to get items logged before the bell rings and I must put my pencil down, such as on my recent year-end vacation to Mexico during which I was reading like a fiend to get one last book in before 2011 was bolted shut and padlocked forever. 

So far, my list of books read is not particularly impressive.  It looks like this:

RP's List of Books Read (est. 2011)

2011

Bossypants, by Tina Fey
Born to Run, by Christopher McDougall
See a Little Light: The Trail of Rage and Melody, by Bob Mould
Moneyball, by Michael Lewis
The Long Shining Waters, by Danielle Sosin
Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen
Where Men Win Glory: The Odyssey of Pat Tillman, by John Krakauer
The Long Run (Kindle Single), by Mishka Shubaly
Saltwater Buddha: A Surfer's Quest to Find Zen on the Sea, by Jaimal Yogis
The Visible Man, by Chuck Klosterman
The Leftovers, by Tom Perotta


2012

Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris
Life List: A Woman's Quest for the World's Most Amazing Birds, by Olivia Gentille
Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef, by Gabrielle Hamilton
Growing Up Amish, A Memoir, by Ira Wagler

Compared to many people I know, my list is decidedly short of stature.  Still, it is a starting point.  A geographic marker.  A benchmark.  I have read hundreds perhaps thousands of books in my life, but I've never kept track of them.  Now, I will write them down, strive to lengthen the list year over year and have the chance to look back and see where I've been. 

Which is what I did recently with my nascent little book list.  I looked back over it and was struck by how many of the books on my list were either memoirs/personal histories or biographies.  At least 7 of the 15 listed to date, and that's not even counting the book in which I am currently embedded, Hitch-22 (A Memoir) by Christopher Hitchens.  I hadn't been aware that I was seeking out so many non-fictionalized accounts of life in the modern world.  I hadn't done so consciously, yet I was consistently gravitating towards the stories of life as experienced and recounted by others.

Up until my 2011 survey, I would have told you that I almost always go for fiction.  In fact, the more fictitious the better.  By this I mean that I have plumbed the depths and limits of the canyon under the bridge of my suspended disbelief and it is deep and wide.  I am not bothered by impossibility or farfetchedness.  If the universe ceases to behave in accordance with the immutable laws of physics I will likely be giddy with delight.  To wit: some of my favorite books of all time are Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series.  If you are not familiar with these books I will first take a moment to weep for your gaping loss.  {Sob.}  I will then quickly move on to telling you that the series begins with a particularly lousy Thursday morning as experienced by our befuddled protagonist, Arthur Dent.  On this day, he finds himself lying down in the mud, in his bathrobe, in his front yard in order to dissuade the driver of a bulldozer from proceeding with tearing down his house.  After his startlingly calm and intelligent friend, Ford Prefect, arrives on the scene and convinces the driver of the bulldozer to take Arthur's place in the mud so that Ford can borrow Arthur for a few moments of critical conversation at the pub just down the block,  Arthur thinks his day might be looking up.  But then, with a seemingly celebratory pint in hand, he learns that Ford is actually a hitch-hiking alien from another part of the universe and that Earth is moments away from being blasted into smithereens by the Vogons as part of the equivalent of an intergalactic highway widening project.  Owing to his good fortune in having unwittingly befriended the only hitch-hiking alien on Earth, Arthur is soon safely stowed away on one of the Vogon blasting ships just as they are clearing out the inconsequential and irritatingly daft space detritus that is Earth.  And then the story really picks up.

(If you are not yet convinced of my historical appetite for literary silliness, I give you Exhibit B:  my once deep and abiding love of Tom Robbins' novels.  I rest my case and move for a directed verdict.)

After reminding myself of what types of writing I used to gravitate towards and noting how far away from this warm and familiar sun my apparently elliptical orbit has now taken me, I pondered the possibility that I had become interested in the real, concrete and gravity-ruled stories of others' lives because I am very aware of being decidedly in the middle of my own.  Aware that the beginning is over, the middle is in progress and that the end will one day come.  Accordingly, I find myself somewhat less interested in imagining the crazy, logic and physics-defying things that will surely never happen, than examining and considering the many, grittier, less shiny aspects of living that certainly will.  The human experience may not yet encompass the hilarity of intergalactic space travel (during which, you must not forget to bring your towel), but it is chock-full of nuance and emotion and the pain and joy that comes with experience and any kind of connectedness to others and the world we collectively inhabit.  Missives from the front lines of life are, therefore, suddenly more compelling to me.  I am thirsty for reports on the land ahead and for any advice or scraps of information about how others have navigated this terrain.  What were their joys, their pitfalls, their successes and failures -- their regrets?

***

Tina Fey's book was intriguing to me because I find her to be such a refreshing kind of celebrity, especially since I generally tend to dislike celebrity.  A lot.  The more you seek fame for the sake of being famous, the more I will tend to conclude that you are a vapid idiot not worth my time.  But Tina -- 'cause, you know, that's what I call her -- she seems different.  Better.  From what I can tell, she has managed to succeed not only in her field, but also in constructing a stable and well-engineered psyche  that is not in need of constant remodeling or redecorating with each new trend, nor at risk of collapse from huffing (and here I mean deliberately to reference both metaphorical Big Bad Wolves and Demi Moore).  She is smart and funny and has managed huge success in an industry known to be historically allergic to such women.  It seemed I wanted to know if there was some secret engine of abuse or hatred or family dysfunction that propelled her forward and I was very pleased to discover that, mostly, she is just normal smart and funny.  Not fucked-up and tormented smart and funny.  Somehow, I found that deeply gratifying and reassuring.  Maybe the future for women generally, and my daughters in particular, wouldn't require the tortured exaggeration of certain attributes and personality traits and the repression of others, often at great personal cost, to succeed in the big leagues.

Bob Mould, on the other hand, turned out to be quite the opposite kind of specimen.  I read his book, See a Little Light: The Trail of Rage and Melody, mostly because I am a big fan of his music.  Indeed, the title of this blog is a line from one of his songs.  Unlike Tina, Bob seems to have contracted every possible strain of fucked-up over the years and has paid dearly for it. And if you ask me, he still hasn't fully recovered.  Although we shouldn't need any more stories of abusive childhoods and drug addiction and denial of sexual identity to maintain our resolve against these social ills, his is yet another compelling account to add to the evidence sheet. 

Pat Tillman couldn't tell his own story.  As you may know, he was the former NFL linebacker who left a promising, lucrative and comparatively safe career in football in order to join the military and serve his nation after 9-11.  He was killed in Afghanistan by "friendly fire" in what can only be described as a horribly botched patrol that resulted from horribly botched military strategy and the illogic and irrationality that can exist in a "chain of command" environment.  That U.S. troops might be directly responsible for the deaths of other U.S. troops is awful, which is why it was determined at much higher levels that the true facts and circumstances of Tillman's death should be obscured and hidden.  The saddest part of this story isn't even the senselessness of his death and how it happened (although that is infuriating and heart wrenching), but that the handling of it was in such sharp contrast to the values Tillman embodied and for which he was willing to risk his life.  Tragedy happens.  We all know this.  But to bury tragedy in a shallow grave covered with the thin soil of short-sighted self-preservation and then preside over the body with a religious ceremony that the deceased specifically indicated he didn't want -- well, that just takes nausea and disgust and deceit and disrespect to a whole new level.  Pat's story is both inspiring because of the personal portrait of who Tillman was that emerges from Krakauer's thorough and considered research, and demoralizing for uncovering the persistent and intractable problem of narrow-minded group think.

Those are just the higher-profile memoirs/biographies on my list.  I haven't even told you about the even more fascinating lives of Phoebe Snetsinger (world-record holding bird watcher) and Gabrielle Hamilton, teenage runaway cum award-winning New York restauranteur and ridiculously talented writer.  But if you want to know the truth, these two are the best stories on the list and are nothing like what you think they will be.  Which, in a way, is the point.  It's the old "you can't judge a book by its cover" lessen that nevertheless bears repeating over and over again no matter how many covers you have tried to not judge in the past.

***

I don't have a nifty trick for linking all of these stories together, except to note that their disparity and individuality and uniqueness is precisely what I love about them and why I am currently so drawn to memoir and other non-fiction.  I love that the reality of human experience -- the common thread -- is simply that we are human.  There is no one thing that we all do or experience the same way or even agree upon, it seems.  And yet, we can recognize humanity in each other though it is manifested in an infinite variety of individual expressions and realities. 

Predictably, reading so many stories of the lives of others might lead one to consider what one's own story is.  If your life were reduced to a narrative, what kind would it be and how would it be told?  What would be the major themes and the minor plot lines?  What might the future, as yet unwritten chapters hold?  To what extent do you feel that you are in control of your story and able to shape its progression and denouement?  And to what extent is your story influenced or shaped by where you were born, who you were born to and your access to food, shelter, healthcare, education and employment?

If that is not enough to bog you down for a good long while, then let me add a few more existential rocks to your mental rucksack.  On a parallel track, one can also consider the fact that, unless you are a hermit who was born from the short-lived and unlikely romance between a rock and a lusty patch of soil one peculiar summer night long ago, you are also a player in someone else's story.  Perhaps many stories.  You are a son or daughter, sister or brother, wife or husband, boyfriend or girlfriend, mother or father or just plain old friend, acquaintance, colleague, schoolmate or neighbor to someone else.  This means that in addition to contemplating your own personal narrative, you can also contemplate how you figure into, or out of, the narratives of others.

Here's what I'm driving at:  I am someone else's mother.  In fact, I am two someone else's mother.  The. Mother.  You know, the person that everyone loves to complain about and load with expectations and impossibly conflicting essential attributes.  The person who must be strong yet soft, loving yet fierce, understanding yet demanding, nurturing yet freeing, forgiving yet rule enforcing, not to mention endlessly patient, good at school projects and in possession of a blue ribbon, family heirloom recipe for some sort of pie or cookie or other beloved baked good.  The person described and discussed at length in every single one of the memoirs/biographies digested above.  In short, the person responsible for millions of jobs and a whole sub-economy in the field of psychotherapy. (On the upside, though, if my kids ever win an Oscar, tradition holds that I will be the first person recognized and thanked in their acceptance speech.  So it pretty much evens out in the end.)

Here, to your great relief and mine, I will stop and take a breath.  I'm not really about to go careening out of control all over the internet.  It just feels that way.

What I find gratifying about looking through literary peepholes into the lives of others, or thinking about the book that is my own life, or the thousands of dollars in future psychotherapy, the need for which will be my fault, is not that I come up with answers, but that I come away with questions.  Lots and lots of questions.  There is nothing so satisfying as a good question.  (Fine.  Maybe there are a few things as satisfying or even more satisfying than a good question, but for me, a good question is up there.)

So, I think about the world full of different stories and how my own has unfolded and may yet unfold and I ask myself questions.  As it happens, the questions eventually led me to make a list.  A "bucket" list, I hear it's called, which I understand to reference a list of things that I would like to do or experience or achieve in case I accidentally cause Mrs. O'Leary's cow to kick the bucket . . . er . .  . lantern over and set the barn and then the entire city of Chicago on fire, which would surely land me in jail for the rest of my days. 

Whatever. 

I made a list and I like to review it every now and then.  Because in this instance, waiting until the end of the measurement period to take stock of where I have been, trace the major themes of my story and what I've done or accomplished, will be too late. 

And also, it is amazing how engaged one can be in chasing one's own tale just by doing so in the form of a list.

Personal Best: Running to Empty

In the March 2012 edition of Runner's World Magazine there is a section, as there is every month, called "Personal Best."  In this issue, the first part of this section is subtitled, "The Warmup: Love Your Run."  The single-page feature gives tips on how not to get bored with running, addresses fueling during a run, and also includes responses to the question, "What do you love most about running?"  The overwhelming majority of respondents (64%) selected "how it makes me feel."  Just below this is the following quotation:

I think I get addicted to the feelings associated with the end of a long run.  I love feeling empty, clean, worn out, starving and sweat purged.  I love the good ache of muscles that have done me proud.

I read this at least a week ago when the issue arrived (and I will never understand why the March issue arrives at the beginning of February -- shouldn't that be the February issue?), but it has been following me around ever since.  Although I am not, and have never been, a hardcore runner, this statement captures exactly what I love about running, or any strenuous endeavor for that matter; the sensation of effort and sweat and exhaustion.  The sense that you have gathered what you have, in whatever amount that happens to be, and used it all up, or at least a good portion of it up.  Rather than feeling depleted or hollow, this sense of spent energy is strangely fulfilling, gratifying and uplifting.

No doubt the scientific explanation will involve endorphins and survival instincts ("RUN!!!!") and evolutionarily developed predispositions toward traveling long and far and enduring what other species cannot.  (For those of you who have not read Christopher McDougall's most excellent book, Born to Run, I urge you to do so.   It does not matter if the only running you do is to the grocery store in your car, you should read this book.  I loved it so much, I read it twice.  Consecutively.  I'm not kidding.)  But as much as I love science and what it can reveal to us, in this instance I am more interested in the individual, subjective experience than the names of the chemicals in my brain that are behind that experience.

So back to that empty, sweaty, wrung-out, tired and totally psyched, euphoric feeling you get at the end of a long run or bike ride (so I'm told) or hot yoga class; that good feeling of work and accomplishment and satisfaction.  It is for real.  Yet, if you're like me, you will nevertheless regularly attempt to avoid the very rewarding sensation that you know you like.  It goes like this:  you start out almost every time contemplating whether you are going to do anything at all.  You'd like to go for a run, but it is ______.  My fill-in-the-blank favorites are usually "cold" (less than 75 degrees), "not sunny", "dark", "really cold" (less than 60 degrees) or "really fucking cold" (less than 40 degrees).  I've also been known to assess how far I wanted to run (usually 4-5 miles) against how much time I have (not enough).  Never mind that I could just run 2-3 miles and be fine on the clock.  If I wanted to run 4-5 miles but don't quite have time, well, then, maybe today isn't the day for a run after all.

Once I have navigated the fun house mirrors and pits of quicksand that apparently account for most of the space inside my own head (at least that not already occupied by rogue hamsters), I usually manage to exit through the side door into the daylight of a decision to go running or go to hot yoga anyway.  And here's the thing:  I have never once regretted the decision to get off my ass and do something.  Not one single time.  I have never gone running and arrived back at my driveway panting and drenched and thought, "Shit!  What did I do that for?!"  And I have never gone to yoga and found myself soaked, emptied and rolling up my mat 60 or 90 minutes later muttering, "well, that was a total waste of time."  Yet the very next time I consider doing it again, I must still fight my way though the same internal maze of inertia and false logistical complications.  Evidently the evolutionarily validated impulse to conserve energy exists side-by-side with the reward systems for expending energy.  So our brains are effectively telling us, "don't do it, but if you do it you will be glad you did."  No wonder we get so flummoxed and contorted with political debates in an election year and can't seem to speak intelligently to each other.  We can barely understand what our own brains are telling us about whether we want to go running or not, and that doesn't usually involve any yelling.

Thankfully, I have discovered that there are other ways to approach or approximate the sense of release and emptied satisfaction of strenuous physical exertion that involve less self sabotage.  For me, taking-in live music is a legitimate alternative to running around outside until you drop.  And while I have a bias toward the visceral experience of being surrounded by people and sound while a band like Broken Bells or The National or Trampled by Turtles ignites the jets underneath First Avenue, and sends the whole place blasting off into another universe, I am not unfamiliar with Beethoven, Vaughan Williams or Verdi and the purging experiences they can unleash in an altogether different environment.  Somehow music, not just listening to music but experiencing music, is a good proxy for physical expenditure.  Perhaps it is the vicarious impact of being so close to those who are exerting great effort and pulling out all the stops, but I think it is possible that mind melding may be involved.  If you give your attention to the music and follow where it leads, you will find that the effort of concentration and emotional reaction is real and substantial.  Remember how Spock would get sometimes after a really intense mind meld with James T. Kirk or Dr. McCoy or some uncooperative alien?  He'd be all spent and collapsing and barely conscious?  Well, in my experience, music done right is a mind meld that can leave you slumped over against the walls of the Enterprise struggling to stay upright -- in the best possible way of course.

But even better than watching others expend themselves in the process of making music, is finding a good basement and a few gullible friends and making your own.  True, this approach does have the distinct disadvantage of much lower music quality, but the direct involvement in the process has a protective, insulating effect.  You are less likely to notice the diminished musicality because you are busy spending so much energy making the sounds that your effort is distracting you from.  But oh, does it feel good.  Singing is cathartic and satisfying and rejuvenating and wonderfully tiring.  It's why we sing in the shower, in our cars and when we're vacuuming the living room.  For most of us, it is not the singing that we're really afraid of, it is the risk of being heard by others.  Singing we know is good.

Performing, however, is a different matter.  It is complicated by judgment and approval and reaction.  Which is where the basement comes in.  If you have one, I highly recommend that you go sing in it.  Immediately.  Just go down there and pull the string for the light bulb hanging from the ceiling, pop an old cassette tape of some band you used to love in high school into the boom box you have on the shelf for when you are doing laundry and start belting it out.  O.k.  Fine.  Go back and close the door first, but then crank it up and belt it out.  You will not regret it.  Speaking with the voice of experience on these matters, I can tell you that once you get the hang of the basement by yourself, you can slowly step it up to more vigorous vocalizations in the shower and then in your car.  The car does present increased exposure as others may be able to see you singing as you whiz by, even if they can't hear you, but you will endure.  And then, eventually, you may graduate to singing while a few other people play instruments in someone else's basement and you will marvel at how far you have come and how rewarding all that hard work has been; and how good it makes you feel.

Which brings me back to 64% of surveyed runners and 4 out of 5 dentists.  One of the upsides of middle-age (and I haven't found all that many) is that by the time you stumble bleary-eyed and confused into your 40s wondering how you got there when you only looked away for a split-second, you have gotten to know yourself over the years.  In my case, this means that I am well aware of my own foibles and idiosyncrasies and well-honed ability to argue with myself and lose.  So I have learned to trick myself and game my own system.  How do I do this?  Easy.  Resistance to effort is greatest when it is right in front of you.  If the issue is whether I have to go running right now, well, then there are all kinds of factors and considerations that must be taken into account.  This is the same reasoning process my daughters use when they swear to me that they will (a) put away their clothes, (b) clean their room, or (c) do whatever else I am asking them to do in a minute.  The difference between now and a minute from now is huge.  Everyone knows this.  Because "now" means you have to do something, and "a minute from now" means you don't have to do anything just yet. So, here's what I do: I sign-up for races and other events in the future.  No need to do anything now, just agree to do something later.  (Interestingly, this is also how I got into trouble with the Columbia Record Club, but I digress.)  Of course, what I'm counting on is that my more rational, goal oriented brain will eventually kick-in and insist that I do some amount of preparation for said future event, because it is simply unacceptable not to.  And there you have it.  System gamed.

Applying this process, my calendar already reflects the following upcoming events:

Get Lucky 7k (St. Patrick's Day)
Warrior Dash (June 30)
Iron Girl Duathalon (September 23)

I am already registered (meaning I have paid actual money) for all of them.  Predictably, I panicked just yesterday when I realized that St. Patrick's day occurs in March, and that is next month.  Time to lace up.

But what I really want to do is one of the Ragnar Relay races.  If you are not familiar with this particular breed of racing, the Ragnar web site provides the following explanation:

Ragnar is the overnight running relay race that makes testing your limits a team sport. A team is made up of 6-12 individuals; each individual runs 3 legs. The legs of the race vary in difficulty and distance, from 3-8 miles, allowing elite and novice runners to run together. Over 2 days and 1 night, teams run across 200 miles of the country’s most scenic terrain. Pair that with crazy costumes, inside jokes, a great finish line party and unforgettable stories. Some call it a slumber party without sleep, pillows or deodorant. We call it Ragnar.

So in other words, you gather up a bunch of runners, a van or two and whatever else you need to cover 200 miles and you start running.  You don't stop until you hit the finish, meaning that there is running happening constantly by someone in your group for 36 hours or so.  So, if your stint rolls around at 3 a.m., you strap on some sort of headlamp, pop out of the van door, hit the pavement, and get moving.  When you're done, you get back in the van and wait around until it's your turn again.

I don't know why, but this is hugely appealing to me.  Sure, there is nothing stopping me from running around my own neighborhood at 3 a.m. and looking ridiculous this very night, but that wouldn't be quite the same.  I wouldn't get to hangout in a stinky van with stinky people while eating GORP and potato chips and wondering when I'll have a chance to pee.  It's all that added charm that I would be missing. The running is just a means to an end, the end being something less quantifiable than mileage logged.

But whether it is stinky vans or dank basements (no offense intended, Jim), I think what I'm really after with these experiences is something beyond olfactory stimulation.  What makes the "empty, clean, worn out" feelings associated with effort so satisfying is more than just endorphins (though don't ever underestimate the power of endorphins).  It is the knowledge that I showed-up;  that I registered for and participated in my own life, which is confirmed by the fact that my legs are tired or my heart aches or my head hurts (though that is sometimes related to the consumption of certain beverages); that the world has required something of me and I have given it.

So, if you know where I can get a few vans and  a half-dozen or so people who like to stew in their own sweat for a few days, skip sleep and run down a dark road in the middle of the night, let me know.  The Minnesota race is in August and I'd like to get that sucker on the calendar, because it is certain to make me feel good no matter what I tell myself when race day rolls around.

Vamos a la Playa: The Truth from Akumal, Mexico

Due to the quirkiness of the school calendar this year, my daughters' two-week winter break was scheduled from Monday, December 26 through Friday, January 7.  In the habit of always seizing any opportunity for travel and vacationing, my husband and I decided to follow the lead of my brother-in-law and his family and head south to Akumal, Mexico for the second week of the break in a bid to stockpile enough vitamin D in our systems to outlast the cold, dark Minnesota winter (although the early reports indicate, with some alarm, that winter is a no-show so far this year in Minnesota).

Akumal is south of Cancun in a coastal area known as the Riviera Maya:

It is sufficiently beyond the grasp and influence of Cancun and Cozumel such that it is still a quaint and small coastal town favored by hippies and scuba divers.  Even better, it is part of the former stomping grounds of the vast ancient Mayan civilization.

Staring at the bewitching blueness of the ocean, your thoughts begin to tumble and roll with the waves -- out and back and out again.  After many sun baked, beer soaked days of this, one eventually reaches a trance-like state in which certain profound truths reveal themselves with perfect clarity:

*****

Coffee is an essential and delightful morning beverage at any latitude.

*

It is possible to have beer and/or margaritas with both lunch and dinner.  Every day.  Also, so long as it is after you have had your coffee, it is perfectly fine to have a beer before you've consumed your first solid meal of the day.  In other words, there is nothing wrong with the 11 a.m., pre-lunch beer even if you never ate breakfast.

*

When on vacation in Mexico, a 44 year-old lawyer, wife and mother of two from suburban Minneapolis may begin to wear an anklet with shells woven into it and believe that it looks perfectly appropriate on her:

*

Attempting to paddle board for the first time in the ocean will ensure that the entire beach perceives you to be lacking in both common sense and coordination.  It is also an excellent way to get soaking wet if you’ve gotten bored with swimming.

*

Eating good food at a restaurant on the beach with sand beneath your feet and the ocean at your back is way better than eating good food indoors with your shoes on and no ocean.

*

Even if you are not a natural born shopper, it is easier to go shopping and buy things when the vibrantly colored currency you are using and the equally vibrantly colored wares you are buying seem totally detached from your more bland, northern understanding of commercial reality:

* 

It is important to remember that the Italian you learned in college is not the same as Spanish, so that when you order “pasta con burro solo” for your daughter, you will realize that you have just asked the waiter for “pasta with only burro” (as in the mule-like animal) when you meant to order  “pasta with only butter."

* 

It is not possible to be uptight or harbor uptight thoughts while sitting in one of these chairs on a patio by the ocean.  It is also not possible to provide effective parental oversight while sitting in one of these chairs on a patio by the ocean.  The beer in one's hand is absolutely secondary in this scenario:

*

There a are many more lizards in Mexico than is really necessary to create that air of the exotic:

*

Despite what your family will tell you, there is absolutely no requirement that you actually go into the ocean and swim around in it when you are on vacation in Mexico.  It does not matter how much money you spent on your tickets, or when the next chance will be to swim in the Caribbean Sea.  I have consulted the U.S. Department of  State web site and read all of the excess verbiage provided by the airlines, and there is absolutely no you-must-go-swimming-and-get-ridiculously-cold-and-wet required for re-entry into the United States.  Hold your ground on this one and do not be bullied by your seemingly well-meaning family members.  They are not the ones whose core body temperature will fall to a barely life-sustaining 65 degrees when you accede to their demands and plunge yourself into the frigid embrace of the sea.  When they say it is warm, they do not have the same understanding of "warm" that you do.

*

Nevertheless, when you go to Mexico, you should always pack the bikini that you are mostly (and rightly) afraid of (and therefore never wear), because (a) the people that came with you to Mexico are already stuck with you, and (b) you’re never going to see the rest of these people again, and if they can handle everything else strutting around the beach, they can handle you, no matter how pale and undisciplined your midsection may be.  It is irrelevant that you have no intention of swimming.  (There is no way in hell there will be a picture for this one.)

* 

Potable water is vastly under appreciated by Americans.  In Mexico, the best solution for susceptible gringos is known locally as "cerveza."

*

Although you have transported them thousands of miles, your children will behave the same south of the Mexican border as they do south of the Canadian border:

 

This is closely related to "always sit on the camera before you take a nap":

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If you decide to speak to your family again after they have victimized you with unflattering photos that you feel compelled to include in your blog post in the name of journalistic integrity (as well as a self-imposed, mid-life vanity check), then vacation days and nights provide an opportunity to embrace your feminine side and do girly things, like smear green mud on your face and get henna tattoos:

 

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The Mayans pretty much kicked ass back in their day.  I mean, even now, we're worried about the calculations they did predicting that the jig is up at the end of this year.  Plus, they had a really good eye for real estate.  If they had just remembered "buy low, sell high" and hadn't gotten all exploited and conquered and stuff, nearly 2500 years later with a little fixing-up, this place would be worth some serious pesos:

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But perhaps the best truth of all is that the warm Mexican weather, even in December and January, ensures that I will only be cold about 10% of the time, a dramatic improvement from the norm of 80-90% of the time, so long as I can stay dry:

Adios.