It never fails, no matter how much I try to vary my teaching schedule, slow one class down, speed another class up, it seems like first papers of the semester all come in at exactly the same time. Four classes, 80 students, 80 papers to read over a weekend. From Thursday night until - well, until I'm done, I do nothing more than sit, read, eat, bathroom break, walk around a bit, repeat until done. Luckily, this only seems to happen for the first paper, but, all the same, I hit a point in the reading where I feel as though I have stepped into the Twilight Zone and am living in the lines and lives of my students. It's a strange, eerie feeling, when I lift my head from reading and wonder where my reality lay amid my vision. A quick phone call home to my husband helps to ground me, or, as happens once in a while, a line from a student paper that makes me laugh out loud. I always swear I'm going to start a notebook of funny things my students write, I jot them down on scrap paper and then they get lost. So, before I forget, here's a couple that got me laughing out loud in the library.
"I turned the page and couldn't believe what I was seeing. A menashatwa."
(Okay, so here, I'm pronouncing the word: men-nah-sha-twa, thinking it's some kind of Native Amerian Indian terminology for something...)
"One man and two women."
(Oh! menage a trois!)
LOL
The next one:
"When I got to work [at the nursing home], I started my shift by passing ice."
(Ow! Ow! Ow!)
So, it's not all drudgery. A few light moments like this, and then tactfully finding a way to correct the writer as to the spelling or correct grammatical usage. Back to work, passing comments.
No, I really mean that one.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Best-laid Plans
As I headed out for my morning run, I met up with my neighbor, Mary, also a runner. We stopped for a moment to chat, commiserating on the weather, our ailments of the week, and discussing upcoming races. “There’s still time to register for the run on Saturday,” she tells me. “I’m sure if you sent it in today, they’d still take it as early.”
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t do early registration.”
“Ah, you’re more of an impulse kind of person…”
“No. No I’m not. Not at all.”
No, when I first began racing, and I mean really racing, not just doing a run here and there for fun when it was in my own backyard, I would plan my entire summer (or season – The Season) around my race schedule. As the sport publications came rolling in, I would be checking out the schedules in the back, logging onto race web sites, using search engines to find more obscure races. I would plan which race to do when, how it would compliment the races to come, and how to work in training to build for each successive challenge. Impulse? No way.
Any other plans I had for summer had to fit around this schedule. If friends asked me to join them for a festival or concert or other summer fun activity, I first had to consult The Schedule. I could never be out past 9:00pm, as I needed my sleep to be up and training by 5:30am. Vacations were actually planned in accordance with races. If we went anywhere new it was because there was a race. Of course the great thing with triathlons is the need for water and long expanses of roadway, so most of the places we ventured to were really quite beautiful, near lakes, oceans, forests, mountains. Some of the sprints allowed for visits to cities, where not as much space is required, such as the Danskin Tri in Seattle.
And in keeping with all of this careful planning, I was a master of pre-registration. I had a system for always making the cut-off date, marking on the calendar the day I needed to send my payment for the race coordinators to receive it on time, or to make the postmark date. For series races, I had the fax number programmed in the speed dial of my fax at work, which I would dutifully follow-up each time with a phone call to be sure they received my fax. Impulse? No, now I think we’re bordering on neurotic.
So, what happened? When did this all change to “I don’t do early registration”? The year I planned to do “it”—the big one, an Ironman.
I was ready. I had raced for three years, completing two half Ironmans with qualifying times. I’d had one bad year in there where I suffered knee injuries, but had tacked a successful year on top of it to erase its memory. I was ready. I scoured the races, there now being so many more choices for the Ironman-length. I found one close to home that hadn’t closed for registration yet, but requiring some travel and accommodation plans. Oh goodie, a vacation!
I read all the preliminary information, studied the course maps, read participant comments on list serves and group pages. I was psyched. To better set myself for the challenge and to assure my place, I pre-registered for the race well in advance. I told people I was going to do it, talking it up with close friends and colleagues to gain their support and encouragement for my efforts. I was doing everything the pros advise to “get yourself into the race.” And then the t-shirt came – with the race logo on the front and the letters boldly emblazoned on the back “IN TRAINING.” I was so proud. My training soared. I was peaked both mentally and physically. I was doing everything right.
Then, two months before the race – you can guess this, right? – injury. A pinched disk in my upper back, between the shoulder blades. Every time I turned my head, the dagger twisted in my back. When I ran it wasn’t bad, but when I stopped and put my arms down, fireworks shot through my spine. I lost feeling and motor control in my right arm on several occasions. Swimming was out of the questions. Biking was the only activity that didn’t cause pain.
Well, three doctor visits later, I’m in PT for the remainder of summer, The Season. My psyche is Swiss cheese, my ego is crushed, and I’m all but on the verge of diving into the black hole of depression. I know The Race is out of the question. It has become an impossibility. Unreachable. Unattainable.
I look back over the race info. I can still ask for a refund, at least $150. I hammer out a letter and send it e-mail. A week later, no response. I call the number and leave two messages. No response. I send one more e-mail. This time, a response, telling me to send a letter through traditional post. I do so, and receive a response that my request has come too late to receive a refund (One week too late – do I argue this with them? No.), but they will carry over my registration for next year.
I put the letter away in a box of race memorabilia. I go to PT twice a week for three months until I just can’t stand to go anymore. Going to PT reminds me that I am an injured person, not whole, not able to compete. I have to tell friends, family, colleagues of my injury and inability to compete. Their disappointment for me only adds to my misery.
My recovery is slow. It’s not until March the following year that I even consider the upcoming season. It’s then I decide I will never again pre-register for a race again. Yeah, it costs more (and can you please tell me why it costs so much more sometimes? Really, is it $20 more worth of work to register a person the day of instead of the day before?), but I’m already out $150 on pre-registering, so I figure I’ll late register until the extra cost matches that, then reassess my approach.
I can remember an old racing pal of mine, Frank, who I would see stroll in the morning of a race and fill out the forms. He was a veteran, having seeing the Big Island numerous times, always pulling a first for his age group in local venues. Back then, I just couldn’t understand how he could wait until the last minute to register, someone as experienced as him should have it all planned out, right? Now I know, as do many other seasoned racers, that you don’t know what’s going to happen from race to race. It can’t be that neatly planned every time, as much as you may want it to be. I suppose it only takes one injury, one incident to remind us that we’re human. We can’t always count on making life plans based on the health and well-being of our bodies, or at least we have to expect there will be times when those best-laid plans will fall through, especially when we continue to push our bodies to extremes and beyond limits. That’s just what athletes do, but then we have to be willing to pay – literally.
This is the lesson I have learned. And what have I to show for it? Well, a $150 t-shirt for starters.
“Oh, no,” I replied. “I don’t do early registration.”
“Ah, you’re more of an impulse kind of person…”
“No. No I’m not. Not at all.”
No, when I first began racing, and I mean really racing, not just doing a run here and there for fun when it was in my own backyard, I would plan my entire summer (or season – The Season) around my race schedule. As the sport publications came rolling in, I would be checking out the schedules in the back, logging onto race web sites, using search engines to find more obscure races. I would plan which race to do when, how it would compliment the races to come, and how to work in training to build for each successive challenge. Impulse? No way.
Any other plans I had for summer had to fit around this schedule. If friends asked me to join them for a festival or concert or other summer fun activity, I first had to consult The Schedule. I could never be out past 9:00pm, as I needed my sleep to be up and training by 5:30am. Vacations were actually planned in accordance with races. If we went anywhere new it was because there was a race. Of course the great thing with triathlons is the need for water and long expanses of roadway, so most of the places we ventured to were really quite beautiful, near lakes, oceans, forests, mountains. Some of the sprints allowed for visits to cities, where not as much space is required, such as the Danskin Tri in Seattle.
And in keeping with all of this careful planning, I was a master of pre-registration. I had a system for always making the cut-off date, marking on the calendar the day I needed to send my payment for the race coordinators to receive it on time, or to make the postmark date. For series races, I had the fax number programmed in the speed dial of my fax at work, which I would dutifully follow-up each time with a phone call to be sure they received my fax. Impulse? No, now I think we’re bordering on neurotic.
So, what happened? When did this all change to “I don’t do early registration”? The year I planned to do “it”—the big one, an Ironman.
I was ready. I had raced for three years, completing two half Ironmans with qualifying times. I’d had one bad year in there where I suffered knee injuries, but had tacked a successful year on top of it to erase its memory. I was ready. I scoured the races, there now being so many more choices for the Ironman-length. I found one close to home that hadn’t closed for registration yet, but requiring some travel and accommodation plans. Oh goodie, a vacation!
I read all the preliminary information, studied the course maps, read participant comments on list serves and group pages. I was psyched. To better set myself for the challenge and to assure my place, I pre-registered for the race well in advance. I told people I was going to do it, talking it up with close friends and colleagues to gain their support and encouragement for my efforts. I was doing everything the pros advise to “get yourself into the race.” And then the t-shirt came – with the race logo on the front and the letters boldly emblazoned on the back “IN TRAINING.” I was so proud. My training soared. I was peaked both mentally and physically. I was doing everything right.
Then, two months before the race – you can guess this, right? – injury. A pinched disk in my upper back, between the shoulder blades. Every time I turned my head, the dagger twisted in my back. When I ran it wasn’t bad, but when I stopped and put my arms down, fireworks shot through my spine. I lost feeling and motor control in my right arm on several occasions. Swimming was out of the questions. Biking was the only activity that didn’t cause pain.
Well, three doctor visits later, I’m in PT for the remainder of summer, The Season. My psyche is Swiss cheese, my ego is crushed, and I’m all but on the verge of diving into the black hole of depression. I know The Race is out of the question. It has become an impossibility. Unreachable. Unattainable.
I look back over the race info. I can still ask for a refund, at least $150. I hammer out a letter and send it e-mail. A week later, no response. I call the number and leave two messages. No response. I send one more e-mail. This time, a response, telling me to send a letter through traditional post. I do so, and receive a response that my request has come too late to receive a refund (One week too late – do I argue this with them? No.), but they will carry over my registration for next year.
I put the letter away in a box of race memorabilia. I go to PT twice a week for three months until I just can’t stand to go anymore. Going to PT reminds me that I am an injured person, not whole, not able to compete. I have to tell friends, family, colleagues of my injury and inability to compete. Their disappointment for me only adds to my misery.
My recovery is slow. It’s not until March the following year that I even consider the upcoming season. It’s then I decide I will never again pre-register for a race again. Yeah, it costs more (and can you please tell me why it costs so much more sometimes? Really, is it $20 more worth of work to register a person the day of instead of the day before?), but I’m already out $150 on pre-registering, so I figure I’ll late register until the extra cost matches that, then reassess my approach.
I can remember an old racing pal of mine, Frank, who I would see stroll in the morning of a race and fill out the forms. He was a veteran, having seeing the Big Island numerous times, always pulling a first for his age group in local venues. Back then, I just couldn’t understand how he could wait until the last minute to register, someone as experienced as him should have it all planned out, right? Now I know, as do many other seasoned racers, that you don’t know what’s going to happen from race to race. It can’t be that neatly planned every time, as much as you may want it to be. I suppose it only takes one injury, one incident to remind us that we’re human. We can’t always count on making life plans based on the health and well-being of our bodies, or at least we have to expect there will be times when those best-laid plans will fall through, especially when we continue to push our bodies to extremes and beyond limits. That’s just what athletes do, but then we have to be willing to pay – literally.
This is the lesson I have learned. And what have I to show for it? Well, a $150 t-shirt for starters.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Nail Biter
I don't bite my nails.
My husband yells at me to stop biting my nails. I don’t bite my nails. My nails are just bad. They are weak and chip easily when I go swimming and grab the edge of the pool. They get banged up and break because I’m not careful with them when I do things like clean the house or garden in the yard. I really don’t garden much. But I also don’t bite my nails. I bite my cuticles. They split and tear easily, and so I bite them away. I grab the loose piece of skin in my teeth and try to nip it back flush, but it doesn’t always work. It sticks up. It gets snagged on things, like fabrics, and I can feel it rubbing up against my other fingers. Sometimes its hurts because it keeps getting bumped and pulled back even more, so biting it away helps it feel better. Unless biting it away makes it feel worse. This happens when I tear the skin back away from the nail. I pull it too far down into the finger. Then it quickly turns bright pink and bleeds.
I keep band-aids everywhere. In my desk at school, in my book bag, in my purse, at least four boxes of them right now in the house. Sometimes I go through three or four band-aids per finger each day. I hate it when they get wet, and I wash my hands regularly throughout the day. Maybe a bit irregularly. Often. I don’t like to touch things other people touch or may have touched with their hands. Unclean hands. Hands I don't know where they have been. I don't like to touch other people, doorknobs, food, anything. If I do, I wash my hands as soon as I can.
I lie to people when they look at my bandaged fingers and ask what happened. I say I burned myself. My friend Angela is a nurse. She said, “The pads are on the wrong side.”
“What?” I asked.
“The pads on the band-aids. If you burned yourself, they would be on the other side. On your finger tips. They’re not. They’re on your finger nails.”
Leave it to a nurse to notice this.
“I have bad cuticles,” I tell her, deciding, of all people in my life, she would understand. “They rip easily, and sometimes I pick at them.” Truth. “I’m trying to get myself to leave them alone.” Lie.
“Oh,” she nods.
It’s not just little bites and bits of skin that I pull away. I pick and pull and nip and shred at my fingers regularly, sometimes tearing away layers of skin in fleshy sheets. I played the upright bass for over twenty years, so some of my finger pads tend to callous up, then shed anyway, so some of it just happens; I can’t do anything about it. Like on my index fingers. The skin there will regularly slough off and pull away easily.
Once, while driving through town, I saw an old woman fall off her bike. She didn’t really fall so much as she had sort of almost stopped, lost her balance and tipped over. She was wearing carpi pants, leaving her ankles exposed. As she landed on someone’s grassy lawn, the bike came crashing down on top of her, the pedal slamming into her ankle and pulling backward as the momentum continued rolling its wheels away from her. The edge of the pedal, a kind of serrated edge to help the foot stay on, caught her skin and I watched as it pulled a layer of flesh back and away from her thinly muscled bone. She was old. I don’t know how old, but she had grey hair and spindly limbs with wrinkly skin. Her skin, the pedal just pulled it back like tissue paper. She had a horrified look on her face. I was only just driving by, but it all happened so quickly that I saw it. I don’t know if skin getting pulled away like that heals or not when you’re that old. It must still heal, it just must take a while longer.
That’s how my skin comes off my fingers. In sheets that I pull away with my teeth. It comes off pale, sometimes white, sometimes translucent. I shed. Sometimes it bleeds, sometimes the skin needed to come off, was ready to come off, so there is no blood. Not hardly even pink beneath it.
Last night, in the bar, I’d had maybe a bit much to drink. I was picking at my index finger on the left hand with my right hand, but fingers don’t always do it. So I chewed on it. I got some skin to come away. A small piece. I picked at it some more. I grabbed a small flap of skin in my teeth and pulled it away. It hurt, but I was buzzed, so I wasn’t feeling much to make me stop. I wouldn’t have stopped anyway, even if I hadn’t been drunk. I feel the pain and know it’s only going to hurt more, but I can’t make myself stop, because I would be left with a flap of skin just hanging there. I continued to pull. The place where the top flesh was being pulled away from the tender flesh beneath it tingled down my fingertip, following the transient line of separation. A large flap of skin came away, peeling all the way down the front of my finger, down the full length of the pad to the borderline of the first digit, then it ripped away completely. I sat there with the large piece of flesh in my mouth.
It was near the end of the night. I was alone at the table. JodiAnn had left, Shawn was in the bathroom, and Casey just wasn’t paying attention this time, or he would have yelled at me. I held the skin between my front top and bottom teeth. I ground my teeth back and forth, but the piece was too thick for me to break through it. Normally I could sit and nibble down bits of skin, cut them up between my teeth over and over again until they became a fine kind of fleshy gravel, then I would spit it out. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t spit it out. Sometimes, I’m a cannibal. I couldn’t break this piece up into smaller pieces.
I looked at my finger. I had a bright red spot where the skin had been. It was the shape of Lake Michigan, my normal, unscathed flesh on the left, Wisconsin, and on the right, Michigan, with Ohio and Indiana down below the digit border. It wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt. I blew on it. It felt cold in the air, as though I were touching ice. The lines of my fingerprint went below that top layer (or was it two or three I had pulled away?); they looked like plump, juicy cells in a slice of fresh, ruby red grapefruit. I put my finger in my mouth. My tongue felt like sandpaper against the raw pad and it stung like a new burn when exposed to air.
The ball game ended. Our beers were empty, except for JodiAnn’s. She left some. Casey stood up to leave, and I took the hunk of flesh out of my mouth. It was a prize piece, that’s for sure, but I had to leave it behind. I dropped it on the floor and put on my coat. I had to hold my finger out straight and not use it. Like the hands in the Michelangelo painting, only I didn’t want to touch another person. I didn’t want to touch anything.
My husband yells at me to stop biting my nails. I don’t bite my nails. My nails are just bad. They are weak and chip easily when I go swimming and grab the edge of the pool. They get banged up and break because I’m not careful with them when I do things like clean the house or garden in the yard. I really don’t garden much. But I also don’t bite my nails. I bite my cuticles. They split and tear easily, and so I bite them away. I grab the loose piece of skin in my teeth and try to nip it back flush, but it doesn’t always work. It sticks up. It gets snagged on things, like fabrics, and I can feel it rubbing up against my other fingers. Sometimes its hurts because it keeps getting bumped and pulled back even more, so biting it away helps it feel better. Unless biting it away makes it feel worse. This happens when I tear the skin back away from the nail. I pull it too far down into the finger. Then it quickly turns bright pink and bleeds.
I keep band-aids everywhere. In my desk at school, in my book bag, in my purse, at least four boxes of them right now in the house. Sometimes I go through three or four band-aids per finger each day. I hate it when they get wet, and I wash my hands regularly throughout the day. Maybe a bit irregularly. Often. I don’t like to touch things other people touch or may have touched with their hands. Unclean hands. Hands I don't know where they have been. I don't like to touch other people, doorknobs, food, anything. If I do, I wash my hands as soon as I can.
I lie to people when they look at my bandaged fingers and ask what happened. I say I burned myself. My friend Angela is a nurse. She said, “The pads are on the wrong side.”
“What?” I asked.
“The pads on the band-aids. If you burned yourself, they would be on the other side. On your finger tips. They’re not. They’re on your finger nails.”
Leave it to a nurse to notice this.
“I have bad cuticles,” I tell her, deciding, of all people in my life, she would understand. “They rip easily, and sometimes I pick at them.” Truth. “I’m trying to get myself to leave them alone.” Lie.
“Oh,” she nods.
It’s not just little bites and bits of skin that I pull away. I pick and pull and nip and shred at my fingers regularly, sometimes tearing away layers of skin in fleshy sheets. I played the upright bass for over twenty years, so some of my finger pads tend to callous up, then shed anyway, so some of it just happens; I can’t do anything about it. Like on my index fingers. The skin there will regularly slough off and pull away easily.
Once, while driving through town, I saw an old woman fall off her bike. She didn’t really fall so much as she had sort of almost stopped, lost her balance and tipped over. She was wearing carpi pants, leaving her ankles exposed. As she landed on someone’s grassy lawn, the bike came crashing down on top of her, the pedal slamming into her ankle and pulling backward as the momentum continued rolling its wheels away from her. The edge of the pedal, a kind of serrated edge to help the foot stay on, caught her skin and I watched as it pulled a layer of flesh back and away from her thinly muscled bone. She was old. I don’t know how old, but she had grey hair and spindly limbs with wrinkly skin. Her skin, the pedal just pulled it back like tissue paper. She had a horrified look on her face. I was only just driving by, but it all happened so quickly that I saw it. I don’t know if skin getting pulled away like that heals or not when you’re that old. It must still heal, it just must take a while longer.
That’s how my skin comes off my fingers. In sheets that I pull away with my teeth. It comes off pale, sometimes white, sometimes translucent. I shed. Sometimes it bleeds, sometimes the skin needed to come off, was ready to come off, so there is no blood. Not hardly even pink beneath it.
Last night, in the bar, I’d had maybe a bit much to drink. I was picking at my index finger on the left hand with my right hand, but fingers don’t always do it. So I chewed on it. I got some skin to come away. A small piece. I picked at it some more. I grabbed a small flap of skin in my teeth and pulled it away. It hurt, but I was buzzed, so I wasn’t feeling much to make me stop. I wouldn’t have stopped anyway, even if I hadn’t been drunk. I feel the pain and know it’s only going to hurt more, but I can’t make myself stop, because I would be left with a flap of skin just hanging there. I continued to pull. The place where the top flesh was being pulled away from the tender flesh beneath it tingled down my fingertip, following the transient line of separation. A large flap of skin came away, peeling all the way down the front of my finger, down the full length of the pad to the borderline of the first digit, then it ripped away completely. I sat there with the large piece of flesh in my mouth.
It was near the end of the night. I was alone at the table. JodiAnn had left, Shawn was in the bathroom, and Casey just wasn’t paying attention this time, or he would have yelled at me. I held the skin between my front top and bottom teeth. I ground my teeth back and forth, but the piece was too thick for me to break through it. Normally I could sit and nibble down bits of skin, cut them up between my teeth over and over again until they became a fine kind of fleshy gravel, then I would spit it out. Sometimes. Sometimes I don’t spit it out. Sometimes, I’m a cannibal. I couldn’t break this piece up into smaller pieces.
I looked at my finger. I had a bright red spot where the skin had been. It was the shape of Lake Michigan, my normal, unscathed flesh on the left, Wisconsin, and on the right, Michigan, with Ohio and Indiana down below the digit border. It wasn’t bleeding, but it hurt. I blew on it. It felt cold in the air, as though I were touching ice. The lines of my fingerprint went below that top layer (or was it two or three I had pulled away?); they looked like plump, juicy cells in a slice of fresh, ruby red grapefruit. I put my finger in my mouth. My tongue felt like sandpaper against the raw pad and it stung like a new burn when exposed to air.
The ball game ended. Our beers were empty, except for JodiAnn’s. She left some. Casey stood up to leave, and I took the hunk of flesh out of my mouth. It was a prize piece, that’s for sure, but I had to leave it behind. I dropped it on the floor and put on my coat. I had to hold my finger out straight and not use it. Like the hands in the Michelangelo painting, only I didn’t want to touch another person. I didn’t want to touch anything.
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