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…

Doctor Stalker

We all know the only reason I like my hostessing job is because it’s in TriBeCa and I get to wear dresses and be pretty and smile. Easy! The downside is the amount of creepy people who take that as a signal to start a friendship with me, hit on me and/or stalk me.

First there was Carrie, who quickly earned the nickname Crazy Carrie, because she was at the restaurant every day while coping with her divorce. I feel bad for the woman, but after 2 months of seeing Carrie everyday, I was sick of hearing about her divorce. Carrie quickly started saying things like "well, you know what I mean, cuz we're friends," and "I can tell you, because we're friends," and "keep this just between us because we're friends." No Carrie! We're not friends! We're only talking because you've cornered me at my host stand!

Then there was Pete. Real nice guy. He was stopping in before working as a PA at a film shoot. What started as a quick macchiato break turned into a two hour story of his life and how his recent diagnosis of ADD suddenly made his whole life make sense. Believe me, I felt bad for the guy's history, but I was running out of comforting, friendly things to say.

I'm not sure why these people feel the need to divulge their intimate stories with me, a stranger. But the worst is if they interprete my listening skills as genuine interest and make a habit of visiting me at the restaurant.

Doctor Garrett is a good looking guy. He’s fit and works out. Muscular. He’s a doctor, too. He lives in TriBeCa in one of those apartments that I only dream of someday renting. He can afford it because he’s a doctor. He’s 37 years old. He’s a doctor. Smart. Did I mention he’s a doctor? Doctor Garrett is also 100% obnoxious. And 100% my stalker.

"Jodieeeeeee. What’s happenin’?” Oh great, Doctor Garrett’s here to visit me again. I am only here 3 days a week!
“Oh, uh, hey Garrett.”
“I was just walking through the neighborhood. How you doin’?” No you weren’t – the waiter told me you came by twice earlier today looking for me.
“I’m good. How are you?”
“Gooooood. Just got back from the gym. Those reps killllllllled me. Don’t be alarmed that I’m in my workout gear and not my doctor scrubs.” Nope, not alarmed. More alarmed when you wore your scrubs here the other 3 times, actually. Do you even own a regular t-shirt and jeans?
“It’s cool. Got the day off?” Why am I continuing the conversation by asking questions?!
“Yea. So I hit up the gym hard.” Yes, we’ve established that. Oh wait! ---- you mean!, you work out?! Oh wow, I’m so impressed!
“Was thinkin’ of headin’ to the beach. So nice out. You like the beach? (lightbulb goes off) What you up to?!”
“Duh, I’m working.”
“HAHA! You’re so funny!” *slap*

The *slap*: the slap is when Doctor Garrett means to give you a little “love tap” like one does while flirting, and instead literally slaps my forearm, right below the elbow. It hurts.

“Ow! Careful with those muscles there!” He smiles. Why is this guy confusing my friendly “just doing my job” smile with a flirtatious invite?! I am cordial with you because it’s my job. I answer you when you talk to me while you’re getting a drink at the bar next to my host stand because it’s my job. I say “How are you?” and “Hope to see you again" not because I really care or want to, but because…it’s my job! And I know you know what a job is, because you have one, and you remind me what it is every time you come in here to stalk me.

I’m sorry – there’s a few different ways to hit on a girl and stalking her at her place of work is just not one of them. I have no choice but to humor you. I mean, literally, no choice. My job is to stand here by the door and smile. At you.

“Well when’s your next day off?” Oh dear, here we go…
“Oh geez. They are working me into the ground here! It’s like they want me to have no life and just make friends with the people who come through the door!”
“You are so funny!” *slap!* Ow!! How is that funny?

Cell phone rings. “Oh uh, hang on. Gotta take this.” Please do…I’ll just get back to my JOB.

Doctor Garrett proceeds to stand in the middle of the doorway, yapping into his cell phone. He keeps giving me the one-minute finger, as if I am his date and he’ll get back to me asap. No worries, dude. Take the call. In fact, take the call OUTSIDE. Are you even dining here today? Did you want to get a drink? Can I HELP you?

“Blah blah blah…fixed gross income…blah blah blah…yea it’s that high…blah blah blah…yea I know, my accountant couldn’t believe it either…” (covers earpiece) “One second Jodie, I’m so sorry.”

ARE. YOU . KIDDING. ME?

There are girls who fall for this. Who are so impressed by a man’s ability to bench press and obtain an insanely high grossed fix income as a doctor. But I am no such girl. In fact, I’m the type of girl who says:

“You know, when you slap me…it hurts.”

Because if we're going to be friends, dear restaurant regulars...then I'm going to be honest.

“No! That’s a good thing! It means I like you.”
“Yea, I know that’s what you want it to mean, but it’s not working. Because you’re slapping me. You’re hitting me. It hurts. I’m just letting you know so that, for future reference, when you’re flirting with women, you shouldn’t do that.”
“Haha. You are so funny! You’re so cute!”

Ahhh…and thus the abusive flattery and forced frienships continue. Just trying to pay my way through grad school and an acting career by working this silly hostess job. Just gotta find the humor in this situation to make it less creepy. Just another adventure for our ingénue.

Someday I'll Buy Iced Tea

I bought an iced tea at the convenience store around the corner from my house yesterday and it was the best thing in the world. Not the iced tea, itself, although I do love iced tea. But the experience was awesome. How amazing could a trip to the convenience store be?, you ask. Well, need I remind you that it's the little things - like talking to strangers and turning the age of my birthdate- that make me happy.

When I was little, I thought it was a shame we didn't live near a convenience store because I thought it would be so cool to just be like "Hey Mom, I'm popping to the store real quick to get an iced tea real quick! Be back real quick!" And then I could walk or ride my bike down the street all by myself, spend that mysterious green thing called money, and drink my iced tea while making my way back home. Real quick. But in Feeding Hills, we didn't have a convenience store around the corner. Our convenience store was conveniently located 4 miles away. Nor did I walk home from school, so I couldn't stop for a malt shake at the malt shop(pe) on my way home, like all the kids did in the 1950's of my imagination. My suburban town has some rural sections, and we lived in one rural part that was rapidly growing residencially with big new neighborhoods full of big new houses and no little old convenience stores.

You can imagine my excitement upon moving to New York City, with places for me to grab iced teas all the time, any time. Although, at $3 a pop, I don't grab a drink every day. I save my $3 for special occassions. Like for when I'm really thirsty. Or bored. And hence why yesterday's trip was such a treat: because I have now developed a love for Arizona's teas in huge cans for just (drumroll please) 99 cents! It is such a bargain! It's like 2 drinks for the price of half of 1! At this price, I can make up for all the drinks I wasn't able to buy as a little kid!

I knew when I was 12 that I was moving to NYC when I grew up. And so I knew then that I would someday live my dream of buying cans and bottles of artificially sugared drinks with fancy names like Snapple. Unfortunately, there were some other things that I aspired to when I was little that haven't lived up to their potential. For one, I played for hours upon end with my mini kitchen when I was young, and now I can't stand cooking. All those hours I was looking forward to doing the "real thing" and then it just panned out to disappointment. Also, I always thought it'd be cool to have my own set of keys and open the door to my house on my own. This movement we go through at least once a day as adults is often more of a burden than a simple routine, as my hands are often full of bags and the mail and my cell phone and my over-priced beverage from the convenience store, and the key always gets stuck while my screen door likes to hurl itself at my face if it can't be shut again in 1.3 seconds. And one more thing - when I was little, I couldn't wait to write out checks in a checkbook that was all my own. I practiced my signature every second I got. Now the thought of writing out a check is associated with a cringe as I think about my bank account, and my signature, although I think is pretty, is often misread, for I'm told my cursive "U" looks like an "N," and thus I possess the tax returns for Jodie Pfan.

Aside from those inconveniences, being a grown up is still just as cool as I thought it would be. I mean, I don't even have to ask my Mom whether or not I can grab a quick drink at the store - I can just go all on my own without asking anybody! Although that comes with it's drawbacks, too. Sometimes I could use a little help opening the door and definately with the cooking. And I wouldn't mind if Mom wanted to come to the convenience store with me. Drinking iced tea together is more fun. Whether you can get it real quick across the street or have to drive a million miles to get it.