I cannot be alone in having a difficult time saying goodbye to my “long past their prime” brassieres. The signs were there for some time, maybe years. First, I could no longer read the manufacturer’s tag that told me what size it was (not always a bad thing.) The band was puckered and stretched and the color was faded from years of washing. But the straps. Oh the straps. Those workhorses had done the best they could over the years, but now they’ve simply given up and let their load just…sag.

Why do we hang on to our undergarments for years? Wouldn’t it be nice to change our wardrobe with every season?

I know MY answer to this. I don’t change because it’s SO difficult to find something that I like, and when I do, I’m NEVER giving it up. 😤 Bra shopping is AWFUL. A professional fitting is probably the best way to determine your size, but be prepared to find out that you’ve been doing it wrong for YEARS. Once you find out what you SHOULD be wearing, you find that your options have now been reduced to nothing available in the store. Ordering online or from a catalog is certainly more private, but without trying something on, the chances of you hating it have exponentially increased.

Perhaps the biggest reason we don’t replace our bras (despite the fact that they have long been crying to be retired) is that they are COMFORTABLE. They are the friend that is there every day for us, putting up with the load with only modest complaints (think the safety pins we’ve resorted to from time to time to safe a strap from destruction.) We don’t like change, and a replacement is a threat to the friendship.

So here I am at a crossroad. I have had the same sports bras for 11 years. They have gotten me through countless 5Ks, Half Marathons, Full Marathons, Sprint Triathlons, and even a 50K and my first 70.3 Ironman. I love them. They are the girls who hug MY girls. Sure, we’ve had some chafing over the years, but that’s expected. But lately, they’ve been looking faded, tired, unenthusiastic.

I recently found myself in a horrific undergarment situation. Brian and I were on a weekend trip to Greenville SC, and I realized that I FORGOT to pack a sports bra 😱. As if the workout gods were looking out for me, there was a Lululemon store JUST AROUND THE CORNER from our hotel. It was Black Friday, the store was mobbed, but I braved the crowds just to purchase a serviceable bra for the weekend. So much pressure! I settled on the Air Support bra (wireless-something I rarely purchase) and dropped $98 on a damn replacement bra which I figured I’d wear just once.

Oh, I was SO wrong.

I loved her.

She hugged me and held me tight. No chafing. No constant adjustments. And no underwire! She made my older bras look like Baby Boomers. I loved her so much that I went on line and ordered another (this one was only $79!)

So now I’m going through my lingerie drawer and removing my inventory. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, at least until I got to my Marvel bra. She and I go waaaay back.

5 minutes after tossing her I rescued her from the trash can. What can I say? She will always be my bestest girl ❤️

It’s not accurate to say that I have a Love/Hate relationship with swimming. Rather, it’s a Like/Loathe situation for me.

Neither of my parents knew how to swim. Therefore, my brother and I were subjected to lessons at an early age. My brother took to the water; I did not. Starting at age 8, every Saturday morning was spent in misery at the local YWCA. It took me 4 tries to pass Beginner’s, primarily because of my refusal to put my face in the water. I loathed my instructors, the typical one a retired Drill Sargent who NEVER entered the water and yelled out instructions from the pool deck. The best day of my life occurred when I acquired Plantar’s warts from the Shower Room and my lessons stopped.

What I did enjoy was diving. I wasn’t good at it, but I liked the challenge. Unfortunately, that phase ended when I attempted a platform dive. I didn’t extend my legs and slammed into the water, sinking like a rock. This life-threatening event solidified my rejection of water for years.

Fast forward to my college years, where my college had a swimming requirement. I believe we had to be able to swim 50 yards-2 lengths of a 25 yard pool. It was there that I realized that I wasn’t nearly as bad as half of my class, many who had never been in the water before. I had no problem passing the class.

More years passed, and I started to run. Nothing else mattered. All I wanted to do was run. I was now in my 40’s. Inevitably, I sustained an injury that prevented me from running. The fitness center that I was a member of had a wonderful lap pool, and for some crazy reason it was calling me.

And so, I swam. And I really enjoyed it for the first time in my life. I loved the mechanics of swimming. Technique was everything. You could see who “had it” and those that simply flopped around in the water. I started to become a snob, mocking those people who I called “bobbers” (the old ladies who attended the water exercise classes but never wanted to get their hair wet.)

I started my Triathlon phase in my 50’s. Now, it wasn’t just about swimming-it was swimming in a lake. My first triathlon was the Cleveland Triathlon where the swim was in Lake Erie. It was here that I learned that I truly sucked in open water. I was completely unprepared for this part of the triathlon.

Well here I am again. After taking a year off from triathlons, I’m training again. I have 2 warm up Sprints this Spring leading up to my first Ironman 70.3 in July. I’m learning to like swimming again. The workouts are really tough, but the satisfaction I get when I’ve completed each one makes me feel like I’ve grown a scale or two. 🐠

It really is amazing what clarity comes with age. At least until glaucoma sets in…

Years ago, I remember nearly suffocating with responsibility. I felt so completely trapped in a career that was making me miserable. So much was demanded of me with my family, work and Life in general. I would never do it, but I completely understood why some people just walked away from a seemingly perfect life.

But time marches on. Children grow into adults. Parents pass on. And one day I woke up and knew that suddenly it was safe to simply…be myself.

I frequently tell people that I’m at the tail-end of my career as a Pharmacist. This is singularly the greatest motivation I have to keep working. I’m not trying to move up the corporate ladder or seek an advanced degree. I’m not just “biding my time” until retirement; I’m actually ENJOYING my last few years. (Think about THAT for a few minutes my pharmacist friends!) For once, I’m not afraid to speak my mind, to demand excellence from my coworkers and to fight for what’s right for my patients.

I feel that a great weight has been lifted from me in so many aspects of my life, and this feeling is liberating. I’m an athlete, but if I don’t feel like getting out of bed for a 5AM run, I don’t. If I want to have an extra glass of wine after dinner, I do. If I feel like wasting money on a flippity fish for my spoiled rotten cats, I do.

The point is this: There are so many aspects in life that I have little or no control over. I have learned to accept this. I latch on to those little things that I CAN control, and make the most of them. I can appreciate the ability of doing the little things MY way.

My husband and I own a condo at Myrtle Beach. It’s a nice place to go to on weekends and also a source of income when we aren’t there. Of course, the Spring rental season has been cut short, and frankly we’ve stayed away mostly because, well, everything is closed.

Not any more! The impatient public has spoken, and the beach has been reopened to the public. Our curiosity got the better of us, and we attempted a walk along the beach. I thought I was prepared (masking and practicing social distancing.) I wasn’t.

What I found was a bunch of foolish people whose idea of social distancing was keeping their group of 10+ people at least 4-6 feet away from the next group of 10+ people. One would think these folks had been isolated for 6 months instead of 6 weeks. They carried on as if nothing had changed in this world, and out of the hundreds of people we saw, I was the ONLY one wearing a mask. And someone MOCKED me for this. Someone I might add who was 50 pounds too heavy for the thong bathing suit she was occupying, so she had no room to criticize…

Sigh.

As a society, we need to WAKE UP. Life is different now. I keep hearing people say that they can’t wait for things to return to “normal.” We have a “new” normal folks, and yes, it’s scary now. Take a deep breath (in your mask) and let it out slowly. COVID-19 isn’t going away any time soon, and we must adapt. We must accept change and embrace new routines. But mostly, we need to take this SERIOUSLY. Even though the hospital I work at has not yet taken active COVID-19 patients, we accept recovering patients, and their survival rates once they are off the ventilator are dismal.

Step back folks. Take this down time to reflect and mostly CHILL. The rat race will return (in a different presentation I’m sure) but until then, relax. Alone. With a mask.

Back in September 2019 I started an ambitious training period. For the past few years I’ve been focusing on triathlons, but I truly missed endurance running. I wanted to run another marathon, and hell, while I was at it, why not an Ultra marathon?

Marathon #7 was back to the beginning with the National Breast Cancer Marathon in Jacksonville Beach FL. Back in 2011 this was my first full marathon, and this year’s experience was so great that it certainly won’t be my last. I have been talking about this race for years here in Florence with my running friends, and finally several of them committed to joining me.

I will admit that I was worried that the race would not live up to my buildup in the eyes of my friends. I knew it would be a great experience, but would they think so? The Donna is an emotional experience that doesn’t disappoint. This race is about overcoming adversity and fear. It’s about love and life. And PINK. More pink than should be legal. When it’s all over, you’ll even be sweating pink.

I trained for the Booby Trap challenge, which included a 5K on Saturday 2/8 and a marathon on Sunday 2/9. I wasn’t looking to break land speed records-I just wanted a strong effort both days.

I had 2 really good days of racing. I had prepared for all weather contingencies EXCEPT…sun. Every other time I’ve run this race it’s been cold and overcast. Darn if that sun didn’t shine on me for the entire course. By the end of the marathon I was sporting a lovely case of sunburn as well as windburn. Who knew that could happen by the Atlantic Beach in Florida?

It was a small price to pay for a great experience. This is a race where crowd support is second to none. The first 13.1 miles were a huge street party that offered limitless beverages and food galore. Shit got real at mile 13.2, but a local Catholic Church offered “run thru” communion for anyone who needed spiritual intervention.

My motto is always “Finish Strong.” I think I nailed it with this one.

Next up-Badwater Cape Fear.

Earlier this week, a lovely lady passed away.  Her final months were not kind to her.  She seemed to age exponentially overnight.  Perhaps she suffered a stroke.  Arthritis had settled into her legs and hips.  She moved slowly with pain.  Dementia had set in, and she no longer had a desire to eat.  We weren’t sure that she recognized her home at the end.  We simply wanted to make her comfortable for her journey home.  There were no more treatments available, and we made the painful decision to let her go.

Not much is known about her earlier years.  She came into our lives after spending an unknown amount of time on the streets of Cleveland.  She wasn’t alone; she had a male companion.  She was taken in by a homeless shelter and received medical treatment.  She was undernourished and ill, but by the time we met her she was well on her way to recovery.  One of the shelter volunteers introduced her to us, and we bonded immediately.  There was no doubt in our minds that she would be coming home with us that day.

Of great concern to us was how our other child would adjust to a “new” sister.  He was wary of her-he was accustomed to being an only child for awhile now.  They tolerated each other and respected each other’s territory.  He was king of the outdoors-she was the lady of the house.  She loved spending time with family and loved company-he was more shy and reserved.

Several happy years went by. We were contemplating a move.  Our boy was aging.  We worried about how our children would adjust to a new environment.  Sadly, our boy passed in his sleep.  Only our little girl would be making this trip with us.

The move was very traumatic for her.  She was lost, confused.  What happened to her house?  Nothing was the same for her, and she was sad.

Once we moved into our permanent house, Life started to improve.  She discovered that she had so much more space to explore and claim as her own.  She also found that she LOVED the heat (and there is plenty of that here in South Carolina.)  She realized that she was born to be a Southern belle.  Her daddy worked from home and she found she enjoyed her role as his office assistant.  Her later years were quiet and spent with family who loved her unconditionally.

Our house is too quiet now.  We’ve never lived here without her.

Darling Dora, you’ve changed our lives for the better. We didn’t want to let you go, but sadly it was time. Rest easy now on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.

I always said that when it came to a loved one who was no longer alive, I only wanted to remember their birthday and NOT the day they passed.  Yet here I am, remembering my father on the anniversary of his death, December 7, 2012.

I could type for days about everything that made my dad THE best father in the world.  It didn’t matter to me that he was a well-respected Aerospace Engineer with NASA.  He was that man that came to all my elementary school music concerts and ignored the fact that they were usually awful.  He worked hard during the week, and enjoyed family time on the weekends.  He was an avid hiker, enjoying the Metropark system in Cleveland, OH.  To this day I know how to identify Ginko leaves and (fortunately!) poison ivy.  I love classical music because I grew up in a household where my father played the piano and encouraged my brother and I to do so as well.

My father’s sense of humor is probably my fondest memory.  For a man who was, for a lack of a better term, brilliant, he was amused by the silliest things.  He was not above laughing at fart humor, and he was a fan of Benny Hill.  He was known for his quiet, snarky remarks, particularly during church choir practices.  I think he would be proud of me to know that I inherited his dry wit (I don’t think I could make it through a work meeting without it.)

On this bittersweet day, there is a macabre story about my father that I’d like to share.  Knowing his sense of humor, I think he would find it amusing.

My father died peacefully at home on December 7, 2012.  He  was under hospice care, and he passed during the early hours of that day.  The hospice company was wonderful, and once notified, we were told that the funeral home would be at the house within the hour to remove my father.  One never thinks much about the routine activities of the day, until everything you are going through is LESS than routine.  As the mortuary workers were preparing my father for his last trip, I heard the school bus picking up the neighbor’s child.  I was thinking how awkward it would be for the little tyke to see Dad roll out while he was waiting for the bus.  But it was actually worse.  At the EXACT moment when Dad was leaving his house, the garbage truck stopped at his driveway to collect his weekly refuse.  As embarrassing and horrifying as this was, all of us in the house started to laugh.  Dad would have found this hilarious!  He was going out with the trash!  He couldn’t have timed this better if he tried…

I have so many great memories of my father, and I certainly won’t let that last one ruin a lifetime of love.  But, being my father’s daughter, I hope I can provide a bit of levity to my family when I take my final journey.

Bob.  Always a class act.

It’s hard to believe that 35 years ago, two young kids fresh from college made a commitment for life with one another. In an age of disposability, where few things are made for lasting permanence, we chose to stay with each other through sickness and health and to ride the roller coaster of Life together.

I couldn’t imagine a better person to share my life with. I often say that Brian is my “better half” but I mean it with great sincerity. He is the Ying to my Yang. He balances me. He enhances me. He make ME a better person because of who HE is. We are a good team together. We created 3 phenomenal children who are successful adults. I truly couldn’t ask more from anyone.

Looking back over the years, we’ve had some wonderful adventures together. We’ve laughed together and cried together. But the point is, we’ve done it together.

Being married to your best friend is something to be truly thankful for. I suppose this is why we chose this time of year for our wedding, so that each year, we formally give thanks.

I love you Brian. Please, always be YOU.

If you’ve been a runner for some time, you know that not all runs are awe-inspiring. Some of them are ok, meh, or even downright crappy. And then, there’s the Bonk. The run where the wheels fall completely off the bus and there you are, any number of miles away from the starting point and looking for SOME way to get back that doesn’t involve running.

I had one of those runs this morning.

I was set for failure from the get-go. I’m experiencing the “change of season” crud. My sinuses are so full of junk that my ears feel like they are about to explode. The crud has moved to my lungs so I’m constantly coughing, especially if I take a deep breathe.

Not exactly ideal running conditions. Add to it warm and extremely humid Myrtle Beach weather, and I should have known that 12 miles was overly ambitious.

I had a very hard time adjusting my hydration belt. It kept slipping down and I was constantly hiking it back up. I realized pretty quickly that I was ill-prepared for the humidity. I couldn’t breathe well. Taking a deep breathe caused a coughing fit, which lead to a snotty nose. I ran out of tissues and water by 4 miles. I had a new brand of energy chews that were…vomitous.

Just past 5-1/2 miles I started seeing black. This generally proceeds passing out.

I wisely stopped.

Everything sucked about this run. My pace was inconsistent and frankly disappointing. My heart rate was much higher than it should have been. I planned my nutrition and hydration poorly.

And now I was MILES from home.

When I felt strong enough to at least walk back, I had plenty of time to think. And feel miserable.

Why is it that when something goes very wrong, our minds like to dwell on past disappointments? I ran through a litany of runs and races that were utter bombs. I guess growing up a Clevelander conditioned me for this. I mean, every year newscasters like to trot out “The Drive” and “The Fumble” when the Browns are stunningly lousy. When you hear this constantly you begin to believe that this is how it will always be…

THIS IS THE POINT IN MY BLOG THAT I’M SUPPOSED TO SAY SOMETHING INSPIRATIONAL.

I’ve been practicing Mindfulness on a daily basis for over a year now. I seriously doubt I’m any closer to Enlightenment now than when I started. But I have learned this. The key to Mindfulness is to be able to OBSERVE our emotions without BECOMING our emotions. In this situation, I acknowledge that I had a shitty run. There it is. This run does not define me as a shitty runner. I need to let this run go. Rest up. Lace up the shoes in a day or two and start again.

As I rounded the corner to home, I tried to think of something positive that I could take back from this morning. I looked down. Oh yah.

The best thing about my run today were my socks. Run strong my friends.

  This is a special day. First, 28 years ago my life changed completely with the birth of my first child. Wishing my lovely daughter Hannah a wonderful birthday. We are miles apart but I am so proud of who you are and what you have accomplished so far in your life. 

Today also marks the one year anniversary of when I arrived here in the South. It has been a wild ride for the past 12 months. I’m not sure many of you can honestly grasp what it is like to uproot yourself from the only place you ever called home and move somewhere foreign and vastly different. I have a new career (although still in Pharmacy) a new house, new friends, new everything. I left the familiar behind and forged ahead. 

People often ask if I like it here in Florence. I usually answer that  I’m working on it. Yes. There are many aspects I enjoy. But overall I still feel like an outsider. I honestly need to work harder on trying to “fit in” but  not sure how successful I’ll be at that. 

Professionally, I made a solid choice about leaving Cleveland. I found a hospital that was in desperate need of a Pharmacy makeover. The first several months were a nightmare, but with the help of a forward thinking CEO, I have been given the tools I need to turn this department around. This has made me extremely happy and fulfilled. Every day is still a challenge, but I no longer feel the dread and desperation that I once did in my previous position. 

One other aspect that has been wonderful is how supportive and amazing my husband has been about this transition. I asked him to come along on this crazy ride, and although he has much stronger ties to Cleveland, he has embraced this move and thrived. He’s developed new hobbies and has adjusted to working from home. 

I can’t say how long this Southern phase will last, but I’m glad that I took this leap of faith. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t take this chance when it presented itself. 

Happy Anniversary Florence!