Earlier this summer, I was a bridesmaid for my best friend from high school. I had mixed feelings about being in the wedding: she and I had definitely drifted apart during college and I even felt, often, that she and I didn't really know each other any more. Everything between us felt so automatic, from the semi-regular phone calls to the obligatory visits in our hometown. She's never the first person I think of spending time with when vacation or a free weekend rolls around; in fact, some of the time we'd spent together prior to the wedding left me feeling melancholy and misunderstood.
A few days before her bachelorette party, I sat down to wrap the gift I would cart to Chicago. Maybe this shouldn't come as a surprise, because writing has always played a role in our friendship - we published a newspaper together in elementary school, wrote poetry together and have presented each other with various writings at important times in our lives - but I had no trouble writing something really meaningful for her. I tied it into her gift, alluded to some marital advice and tried to make her think about the kind of marriage she wanted to have. I was rewarded with a hug and a few tears, and the uncanny feeling that maybe she and I still knew each other better than I thought.
Now I'm getting ready for a college friend's wedding and once again, I have the honor of being a bridesmaid. I've played a much more active role in this one, planning the bachelorette party and helping out the maid of honor with wedding day plans, as she is currently out of the country for school. Truthfully, I've been looking forward to this wedding more than the last one: after all, she's one of my favorite people to spend time with. We had some great memories in college and have become even closer since graduation. Her husband-to-be has become a good friend and we all do some of the most fun, crazy things together.
I've put a lot of time and energy into creative decorations for her party and thoughtful preparations for her wedding day. Ray's apartment will be covered with photos of him and the other gorgeous men whose hearts broke when Kristy announced her engagement. (Who knew Brad Pitt only hooked up with Angie because he couldn't have Kristy?) On her wedding night, she and Ray will return to their apartment to find it a romantic paradise, and when they open the big group wedding present I organized, they'll be blown away. (Seven of us went in on a tent, sleeping bags, sleeping pads and cookware - it's the best gift ever!)
For her bachelorette party gift, I collected photos from the other ladies attending the bachelorette party to make a scrapbook of all Kristy's best times with "the girls." So tonight, as I neared the end of the album, I decided to take a break from the sticky gluestick and messy black stamp pad to write the accompaniment to this gift. I expected the perfect words to flow off my pen, just as they had for Adrienne...but nothing came. I started and stopped, stared off into space and puked out something that sounded like a trite explanation of her gift.
So what's the deal? Why is it that I had an easier time writing something heartfelt for the friend I, honestly, like less? Why is it so much harder for me to even come up with a concrete message for the woman I now consider to be my best friend? I've posed the question on here before, but what really makes a best friend? Is it the person I'd rather spend time with or the person who's weathered the most with me? Is it the person I most readily laugh with or the person I've often cried with (and sometimes about)?
Maybe it's just that I've been so wrapped up in the logistics of this wedding that I haven't sat down to really think about what I want to tell Kristy before she gets married. Maybe this one will be harder because I'm not practiced at writing for her, as I've written for Adrienne for over sixteen years. Maybe it has nothing to do with the depth of our friendship and more to do with its length. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow feeling inspired...
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Another weekend, another race.
This weekend, we headed to Stony Creek Metropark in Rochester for a time trial. In a TT, everyone starts at separate times (or in this case, in pairs) and you're truly racing the clock, versus starting in a pack in a cross country race and battling the other racers for position. Anyway, we did a preride on Saturday and were not impressed by the fact that 2/3 of the course consisted of gravelly two-track. Both of us do our best on more technical single-track...plus, riding down a gravel road is BORING!
The race went well, despite all the two-track. We both got second place in our classes and while Mitch still had some gas in him at the end, I was completely dead. Laying in bed that night, my legs just ached! I guess that means I need to do a bit more conditioning before the next one. Thankfully, I'm pretty sure that one is mostly "real" mountain biking.
Not much else is going on. I didn't post last week because I was not having a good time in the office, and I suppose it's not fun for y'all to read constant complaints about my slacker co-workers. This week promises to be better, as I have adjusted my attitude. AND I have no appointments on my calendar, so I can be super-productive!
The race went well, despite all the two-track. We both got second place in our classes and while Mitch still had some gas in him at the end, I was completely dead. Laying in bed that night, my legs just ached! I guess that means I need to do a bit more conditioning before the next one. Thankfully, I'm pretty sure that one is mostly "real" mountain biking.
Not much else is going on. I didn't post last week because I was not having a good time in the office, and I suppose it's not fun for y'all to read constant complaints about my slacker co-workers. This week promises to be better, as I have adjusted my attitude. AND I have no appointments on my calendar, so I can be super-productive!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Chicago Accomplishments
While I'm in the Windy City for the Annapolis Institute (a conference for higher education professionals trying to develop/improve alumni, parent and student recruitment efforts), I'm stepping outside my comfort zone and doing some "big girl" things!
*I rode a taxi from the train station to the hotel all by myself. (I did, however, get scammed into paying someone $5 to hail one for me...dumb, but a lesson learned.)
*I rode the train back from one of the northern neighborhoods and found my way from the stop to the hotel all by myself.
*I found a good place for breakfast and joined the throngs of Chicago locals walking purposefully down the sidewalks in the morning.
It's neat to be in Chicago and I can understand how the amount of excitement and energy can draw people here. But for me, even the urban beauty of the city lights doesn't pull me in as much as do the fireflies that dot the yard outside our apartment complex. I head home tomorrow and couldn't be happier about it!
*I rode a taxi from the train station to the hotel all by myself. (I did, however, get scammed into paying someone $5 to hail one for me...dumb, but a lesson learned.)
*I rode the train back from one of the northern neighborhoods and found my way from the stop to the hotel all by myself.
*I found a good place for breakfast and joined the throngs of Chicago locals walking purposefully down the sidewalks in the morning.
It's neat to be in Chicago and I can understand how the amount of excitement and energy can draw people here. But for me, even the urban beauty of the city lights doesn't pull me in as much as do the fireflies that dot the yard outside our apartment complex. I head home tomorrow and couldn't be happier about it!
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Boyne XC Marathon
Bike races are interesting events. You have a whole spectrum of riders there: there are recreational cyclists, on good-but-not-great bikes, with most of the basic gear but with a look of uncertainty on their faces, and friends of those recreational cyclists, encouraged by their buddies to participate but unsure of what they're getting themselves into and looking a bit awkward with athletic shoes, platform pedals sometimes even cotton t-shirts. There are more serious riders who have been around the circuit but are still a little rough around the edges and independent, having not yet established themselves as part of any specific corps of riders; the cycling teams, sporting matching jerseys and pedaling around in disciplined, deliberate lines as they warm up for the race; and the elite racers whose sponsors adorn their busy jerseys and shorts, intense and quick off the starting line with unparalleled confidence in their riding abilities.
Almost everyone wears spandex and bright colors. Men unashamedly reach down the front of their shorts to adjust equipment or apply ointment to ease the chafing. Women forget to obsess about the size of their rears and are comfortable in thighs built up by hill climbs. No one seems self-conscious about their physical flaws, making no apologies for the small pooch of a belly or the hint of a love-handle. Riders of all shapes and sizes squeeze into busy, loud jerseys proclaiming their team affiliations, their love for a brand of beer or their preferance for a gear manufacturer. Their shoes can be just as attention-getting, often clashing with the rest of the ensemble while the clickity-clack of metal cleats on the parking lot provides a soft, crunching rhythm.
The racers shoot from the starting line, jostling for position and streaking into the woods. The more experienced riders are aggressive enough to end up in front while those new to the sport hang back to see what happens. There will be passing and repassing throughout the course, though sometimes riders will be spread out enough to feel alone on the trail. There will be crashes and cursing, "pleases" and "thank yous" from passing riders, frustration because they can't get around an unfortunate topple and concern when a real injury necessitates stopping with a fellow rider. While everyone is striving to cross the finish line first, no one places the well-being of a competitor below the cheap plaques awarded after the race.
And when all is said and done, they sit in their dirty clothes, whose bright colors are streaked with dirt and sweat. They trade their bike shoes and soaking socks for sandals, letting the wind and the sun dry their sticky bodies while recapping the moments on the trail. They wait for results and compare pre-ride, ride and recovery strategies, some downing more electrolyte-laden formulas while other crack open cans of beer. Sometimes they bother to wash their mud-spotted faces, legs and arms or tend to bloody, oozing scapes; most times, they wear these badges of honor proudly, spinning tales of downhill spills and uphill battles. If they place, they pick up their awards to a smattering of applause, shake some hands with their competitors and head home to think about training for the next one.
(Mitch rode over 20 miles at Boyne Mountain and placed second in his third race of the season. We both look forward to the Stoney Creek XC race in two weeks.)
Almost everyone wears spandex and bright colors. Men unashamedly reach down the front of their shorts to adjust equipment or apply ointment to ease the chafing. Women forget to obsess about the size of their rears and are comfortable in thighs built up by hill climbs. No one seems self-conscious about their physical flaws, making no apologies for the small pooch of a belly or the hint of a love-handle. Riders of all shapes and sizes squeeze into busy, loud jerseys proclaiming their team affiliations, their love for a brand of beer or their preferance for a gear manufacturer. Their shoes can be just as attention-getting, often clashing with the rest of the ensemble while the clickity-clack of metal cleats on the parking lot provides a soft, crunching rhythm.
The racers shoot from the starting line, jostling for position and streaking into the woods. The more experienced riders are aggressive enough to end up in front while those new to the sport hang back to see what happens. There will be passing and repassing throughout the course, though sometimes riders will be spread out enough to feel alone on the trail. There will be crashes and cursing, "pleases" and "thank yous" from passing riders, frustration because they can't get around an unfortunate topple and concern when a real injury necessitates stopping with a fellow rider. While everyone is striving to cross the finish line first, no one places the well-being of a competitor below the cheap plaques awarded after the race.
And when all is said and done, they sit in their dirty clothes, whose bright colors are streaked with dirt and sweat. They trade their bike shoes and soaking socks for sandals, letting the wind and the sun dry their sticky bodies while recapping the moments on the trail. They wait for results and compare pre-ride, ride and recovery strategies, some downing more electrolyte-laden formulas while other crack open cans of beer. Sometimes they bother to wash their mud-spotted faces, legs and arms or tend to bloody, oozing scapes; most times, they wear these badges of honor proudly, spinning tales of downhill spills and uphill battles. If they place, they pick up their awards to a smattering of applause, shake some hands with their competitors and head home to think about training for the next one.
(Mitch rode over 20 miles at Boyne Mountain and placed second in his third race of the season. We both look forward to the Stoney Creek XC race in two weeks.)
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Life in St. Johns
I've been writing a lot about our weekend activities and kind of neglecting the day-to-day. So this morning, I'll write about living in St. Johns. First, it's a pretty small town, possibly the smallest in which we've yet lived. But it's safe and clean; we like our apartment complex and the neighborhood. There's an elementary school right behind our building and sometimes we go out on the playground and fly our kite. There's a tree line between us and the school, so we can sit on our balcony in relative privacy, while still hearing the excitement of Little League baseball games.
We live on the north edge of town, so it's easy to get to the back roads for bike and motorcycle rides. I'm learning to appreciate Mid-Michigan's own special beauty: the growing fields of corn, green and "knee-high by the Fourth of July," the fields of wheat waving in the wind, the old red barns leaning on the edge of the pastures. Granted, we sometimes long for the hills and forests of Cadillac, but this feels more like home than that ever did.
St. Johns is a bedroom community for us: we grocery shop, rent movies, get haircuts and go to church in DeWitt, the next town south. But we've made some friends and have been enjoying an actual social life. Amanda, the web content writer at Alma, and her husband, David, have been hanging out with us since early spring. They're tons of fun and Amanda is a talented cook, making dinner at their place a delight. And John Kruse, an old friend from college, just started working in my office and lives not five minutes from our place. Amanda, John and I carpool to Alma each morning and we all make a point to get together regularly outside of work. Mitch and John hang out quite a bit, too: watching sports, playing Guitar Hero and sampling scotch. In addition to eating and drinking, we've played mini-golf and gone line dancing! Oh, how wonderful to have local friends! Tonight is dinner at Johns: grilled salmon, rice pilaf and wine.
So that's life in St. Johns for a transplant. And now, because I can't resist, here are some photos from our Fourth of July weekend with Ray and Kristy:
We watched fireworks on the lake on Friday night - they were amazing! And it was just a person doing them, not a town or anything.
Who knew tubing behind a pontoon boat could be so brutal!
Launching waterballoons off the porch is a great time! SPLASH!
We live on the north edge of town, so it's easy to get to the back roads for bike and motorcycle rides. I'm learning to appreciate Mid-Michigan's own special beauty: the growing fields of corn, green and "knee-high by the Fourth of July," the fields of wheat waving in the wind, the old red barns leaning on the edge of the pastures. Granted, we sometimes long for the hills and forests of Cadillac, but this feels more like home than that ever did.
St. Johns is a bedroom community for us: we grocery shop, rent movies, get haircuts and go to church in DeWitt, the next town south. But we've made some friends and have been enjoying an actual social life. Amanda, the web content writer at Alma, and her husband, David, have been hanging out with us since early spring. They're tons of fun and Amanda is a talented cook, making dinner at their place a delight. And John Kruse, an old friend from college, just started working in my office and lives not five minutes from our place. Amanda, John and I carpool to Alma each morning and we all make a point to get together regularly outside of work. Mitch and John hang out quite a bit, too: watching sports, playing Guitar Hero and sampling scotch. In addition to eating and drinking, we've played mini-golf and gone line dancing! Oh, how wonderful to have local friends! Tonight is dinner at Johns: grilled salmon, rice pilaf and wine.
So that's life in St. Johns for a transplant. And now, because I can't resist, here are some photos from our Fourth of July weekend with Ray and Kristy:
We watched fireworks on the lake on Friday night - they were amazing! And it was just a person doing them, not a town or anything.
Who knew tubing behind a pontoon boat could be so brutal!
Launching waterballoons off the porch is a great time! SPLASH!
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