Sunshine

I. Hate. Snow.

Yes, a strong objection for the girl who has "LOVE" written on post-it notes all over her bedroom walls. But seriously, I hate it. And can you blame me right now? It snows every other day. And no, New York City does not magically expand to accomodate for the massive amounts of snowfall.

As you avid readers might recall, a year ago as we entered 2010, I vowed to fall in love with winter. And fall in love, I did, for about two weeks. Seriously, Mister Winter, how could anybody still be happy after we've had the snowiest January EVER in NYC?

So now, I vow - and challenge all of you, too - to ignore the snow.

That's right - ignore it. It's not there. Like when little kids cover their eyes and think they've disappeared and you can't see them. I am covering my eyes to the snow. (My family likes to remind me I will always have the mindset of a 4 year old, here.)

In fact, noticing now that there's no snow outside, I'm feeling better. In fact, I'm radiant daydreaming about all the things that do make me smile (besides a sunny day):

~ When my students give me hugs and laugh at my funny faces...and make them back at me
~ When I go to the theatre and Chris gives me a huge hug because we've chosen working at a children's theatre over making lots of money a few more blocks downtown
~ When I make my tea in the morning
~ Yoga class
~ When my students say the simplest things that make me laugh or want to cry, like when I say "repeat after me" and they actually say "repeat after me," and "Miss Jodie! Look I'm a cat!" when all they're doing is running around in a circle
~ When we get into heated debates in grad school about the necessity of arts in the schools
~ When I saw my sister at her track meet a couple of weeks ago
~ When my dad texts me something like "it's the weekend, time for a beer" and thinks he's tweeting
~ When the 2 year old I babysit reads books to me
~ When a good song comes on the radio and I get up and dance in front of my mirror
~ At improv, supported by a group of genuine, down-to-earth friends
~ Wrapped up in a certain someone's arms
~ When I'm onstage
~ When I'm playing a character and she feels something so incredible I feel so lucky I get to, too
~ When I feel something incredible
~ Walking around the city exploring new places
~ Looking at the skyline of New York City from the subway platform in Queens and thinking..."yea, I made it. Here I am."
~ Running along the river, thinking..."yea, here I am."
~ Being with those I love, thinking..."yea, here we are."

So I was walking through the mist of a light wintery mix this morning and a bluejay stopped right in front of me. I couldn't remember if I've ever seen a real bluejay up this close. I smiled. And stood there for a minute. In the gross snow and sleet and slush and cold and wind in the dead of winter. I thought, this is where I am right now. And that's really all I've got. So smile - even if the sun isn't out.

If we're all smiling, maybe we'll create enough sunshine on our own to melt all this snow.

Library Love Affair

Me and the New York Public Library don’t exactly get along. Odd, I know, considering both myself and libraries are for the most part non-confrontational. If I had to personify a library I’d say it was the quiet, docile, wallflower type. Perhaps my outgoingness is clashing with the library’s more reserved features?

I was so excited the day my library card came in the mail in 2007. My membership will let me borrow books for the price of nothing! It will let me pour over play scripts and musical scores. It will provide me with entertainment and enlightenment on my 45 minute commute into the city. I intended to take advantage of my membership like no other little actress has ever taken advantage of the Public Library system before. And did you know, there’s over 87 branches of the NYPL and you can use your card at any one?! So many possibilities!

How quickly you let me down, Library. The first time I went to drop off my books on their due date was a Friday in November of 2007. It was cold. And raining. It was just a quick stop to the library before taking the train to visit my boyfriend in CT. But the doors were locked. That’s weird, it’s 10:32…aren’t libraries open by 10 on weekdays? Oh, well I’ll drop these off in the…where’s the drop-off box? I circle the whole building, twice, as the clock ticks and I suddenly realize I’ll be late for my 11:15 train. No drop off box? How are you supposed to drop off books if there’s no drop off box? Oh! Security Guard! You can’t hear me because there’s a huge glass door between us, but can you read my lips: “Where – Do – I – Put – These?” He must have read the anxiety on my face because he’s coming over to me. Hopefully to take these books off my shoulders. Did I mention their heavy, too? They’re hard-cover musical scores of Cinderella, Kiss Me, Kate and Songs For a New World, along with a Neil Simon play.

“Sorry, miss, we’re not open,” says the little old Indian man. He’s rolly-polly and about 5 feet, and his front teeth are chipped. “Oh, ok,” I smile ever-so-politely – as that’s the only way I know how because I’ve only been living here for a month and not quite a New Yorker yet – “can I just drop these off, then?” “Oh, no, you can’t do that. We’re not open. We open at noon.” WHAT?! What about us morning people? We go back and forth because I’m having a hard time fathoming this flaw in the library system. And I really can’t wait for 12pm. Then I’ll definitely miss my train. “Well, would I be able to hand them to you, and you can drop them off for me at 12?” “Oh no no no, miss,” and he turns his back on me as if I’ve just asked him to give me his first-born child. With desperation in my voice, because it’s hitting me that I am just a little girl in this big evil city and that even the rejection of the little jolly old elf-looking security guard at the library can knock me off my feet, I ask “Well then what should I do?” He points to the north. “One block up, there’s another library.” “Thank you! Thank you!” I shout as I run with my track-star speed down the stairs of Lincoln Center, my heart lifted again at the hope this city offers and the pay-off of my persistence.

I approach the giant doors of Library #2 of 87. Good, I see people inside, that means…wait, why is this door locked? Hello, can you let me in please? Three librarians stare at me as I try to break in. C’mon, you are right there on the other side of the door, just let me in. They shake their heads no. I put my hands in prayer position and mouth a “please!” Point to my figurative watch. Motion I have to go. They shake their heads no. I slowly drop my plastic bag of books to the ground and put my arms up as if I’ve just dropped a weapon and am backing away slowly when the tall hipster librarian man shoots me a glare through his black rimmed glasses and mouths “don’t’ you dare.” Fine! I throw my arms up in anger and disbelief, shooting an equally menacing (in attempt) glance back at him. It’s 10:59. If I run, I will make my train to the safe haven of CT and although I’ll have to pay a fine for overdue books, at least I’ll have a good weekend. And I do. Until I find out that the fine for my late library books is $11.50! I could have bought one of the darn books for that! Or a cocktail!

The fury of my late fee, the absurd hours, and absence of drop-off boxes has put an end to my love affair with the library. In fact, I don’t go back until a Monday in January. I've even looked up the Monday hours on the website. Full of optimism and forgiveness I march up to the glass doors to find out... it’s closed! For Martin Luther King Day! Strike again! Reminder notices should be posted around the city and the internet that things like libraries are closed on holidays such as this.

My relationship with the Library has been a long, difficult road these past three years. Every time I try to learn from a mistake, I seem to then make another. In fact, I’ve taken up an affair with Barnes & Noble to curb my reading fix. Inspired by the new year, though, I logged onto the Library’s website ready to request some books last week. After 20 minutes of selecting my browsing and selecting my books, I find out…my library card expired…yesterday.

This relationship is just not meant to be. Good thing there's other things in this city to take advantage of...

Why I Run

I was doing intervals at the track the other night. Yea, I’m crazy. I'm not training for anything at the moment. And tonight, I'm tired. I've worked all day. It was a blah day. I'm thinking of stopping, walking home, and eating lots of icecream. Just as I'm about to veer off the track, I hear a Coach say "On your marks, get set, go!" And out of habit…I’M OFF!

I start picking up my speed, lengthening my stride. I feel great! And then, some 8 year old punk comes up on my right and passes me! What?! You are 8 years old! I can’t let this happen. So I pass him, remembering Dad’s words, “If you’re going to pass someone, PASS someone.” So I’m sure to keep my sprint up. Well punk apparently heard this piece of advice, too, because up on my heels he comes again, with his buddy, and they PASS me! I can’t let this happen. There are probably cute guys on the sidelines who are watching me. I PASS the little kids and reach their coach first. “Good job boys” he says to them, but I know he means “Good job, woman” to me.

I’m glowing with pride when Coach shouts, “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF! Again?! I can’t help it. My legs keep going as 2 different punks are riding on my heels now. And these hot-shots are chatting! Unbelievable. I’m not letting THEM beat me. I hold off my lead on these losers, again reaching Coach before them, and just in time to hear “Ready! Set! Go!” And…I’M OFF!

Dear Lord, what am I doing?! I’ve haven’t ran a faster 1200m since…well, since I ran the darn race senior year of high school. I can’t believe I’m holding off round three of the third graders. Must…keep…going…I…am…strong…Cannot…let…8…year…olds…cough…beat…cough…me…cough…

My heart is pounding. My lungs are burning. My breath flew out of my chest at around the 200m mark. And my mind is flooded with thoughts of inspiration. My tough little sister who was Western Mass champ in a few different events, my other determined little sister who used to beat me in Cross Country races, my brother who plays sometimes 3 or 4 sports games a day, my mom who ran my first half marathon with me, and my dad who is running his 10th or so marathon this Sunday in New York City (sorry, I lost count around 7…). I start thinking about Dad. And Boston 2009. We were all waiting for him at Mile 20, and he was running behind schedule (pun intended).

He should have ran past us by now. Where is he? Did we miss him? Is that him?! No. That’s not him. He should have been here 3 minutes ago. Do you think something happened to him? I’m worried. He should have been here 6 minutes ago. I’ve never felt so anxious. My dad, who is always there for us, is not here. This is not like him…

To train for a marathon, especially Boston and NYC, is no small feat. Months of training, mentally and physically, take a toll on you and your family. Your whole lifestyle is affected by your training. Scheduling in long runs, what you eat, when you eat, when you sleep, if you take the elevator or the stairs. And if you don’t perform well on race day, well, you’ve basically thrown away the past 8 months of your life. So where is Dad? I want him to get his PR. I want him to finish. Now I just want him to be happy. We are standing outside Kristen’s dorm room at Boston College. The same place Dad went to school. Where he met Mom, too. He usually achieves his PR with each marathon. He's a Boston qualifier, which is a mark of success for any marathoner. But today is colder than anticipated. Something wrong must have happened this one time...

“There he is!” shouts one of us. He comes around the corner and I cannot remember a moment I’ve felt so relieved. He runs right up to us and we all wrap our arms around him. Hold onto him for dear life as he says “I’m so tired, girls.” Something you never hear Dad say. And we shout “You can do it!” And we run with him for a few moments. Giving him our strength and energy and love until he crowd envelopes us and there he goes off onto the next 6.2 miles and we get back on the sidelines, tears streaming down our cheeks, overcome by so much emotion that I’m exhausted and feel like I’ve just ran the 20 freakin miles.

People scream and cheer and yell and run alongside their loved ones and cry and jump up and down and this is such a crazy thing to experience and I love it with every ounce of my being. Kristen and I stand out there for another 2 hours, cheering everyone on, reading their names on their arms or shirts. Isn’t this the least we can do for these people? We can’t go inside now, the rest of the runners need us! We lose our voices. We lose our energy. Seriously, being a spectator at this sport is almost as draining as being a participant.

“Ready! Set! Go!” I’m snapped back into reality at lap 4. These punks looks a little bigger and faster. Have they saved the best for last? Well, they’re not beating me either! And I pick it up a little more.

I'm not sure what I'm running towards. Or what I'm running from. Living on my own, running makes me feel connected to my family because we all share a passion for this sport. And living in this crazy, busy city, running makes me feel at peace and quiet with myself. Basically, I run because it makes me feel happy. I run because it makes me feel good. I run because it makes me feel.

And now I feel like I have to puke…but at least that’s feeling, right?!

So go get ‘em this weekend, Dad. I’ll be cheering you on with the other 44,000 runners who remind the rest of us that there are truly inspiring people out there. Each running at a different speed, each for a different reason. And someday I’ll be one of them. That is…if my legs can ever move after this 3rd grade track practice…