No apologies

Raindrops, they’re falling on my head beating a tattoo in my brain. A steady beat creating a rhythm I can’t seem to keep up with. But it steadies me and slows down the thought processes flying through my brain at a pace I faster than I can run. Then sweet and slow, like a lullaby, it rocks me to sleep. Sleep that has thus far evaded me as my synapses fires and reminds me of all I have to do, have done, should do and want to do. It blurs the lines I’ve drawn to protect myself and reminds me that there are good reasons to take chances. To be adventurous. To take that tumultuous leap into the future.

There was once a time that fear ruled my every action.  While it didn’t make me a shut-in, it still controlled a large part of my life.  I was afraid of what people thought of me, what would happen if I took certain actions or made certain comments. I was afraid my husband was pissed at me. Again. (no he wasn’t violent). I was afraid of talking back to my parents (as an adult) and I was afraid of the scorn of people I hung out with on a frequent basis. Being surrounded by abusers of alcohol and drugs, I was afraid of overindulging for fear of loss of control taking even things prescribed to me. I had very good examples of how I didn’t want to be and how I didn’t want to act.  Certainly, I wanted to be able to live in the moment and enjoy myself, but at the cost of my own personal safety?  Perhaps I was overly cautious.

I confess this because it was and still is a long hard battle I fight with myself.  I’ve mentioned this to friends and many are skeptical of the idea that I was once a quiet dormouse in the corner of events and functions. Some think I joke when I say it. Yet it was true.  Sometimes still is. I didn’t talk much because I was afraid of how people would react to what I had to say.  I speak easier now and make a point to greet new people as they approach. Simple things like eye contact, a smile and a handshake don’t cost much.  Relationships aren’t built on them and despite how much that effort took me at first, it sill doesn’t cost much.

Recently, I set the schedule for volunteers for an event local to my area and dear to my heart.  That’s hard to say considering I’ve never sat in on a single session for the two years I’ve been involved with it, but I think it’s a life changing event. I didn’t, at first, understand the concept of Human Circuitry.  The statement that it’s the intersection of technology and people is too trite. There’s no way that it is sufficient enough of a statement unless you’re a long time attendee.  But if that is true, there’s no reason for explanation.  The simplest way to explain it is that it’s the technology that surrounds us and what we do and how we interact with it.  In a society where many, many people around us believe there is an oversaturation of electronics in our daily lives, Human Circuitry describes the idea of how to use these conveniences to make the world around us a better place. I think. I digress though.  As awesome as that subject is, it’s not the point of this post. Like I said, I set the schedule for volunteers for this event and in doing so, I used what I knew of each volunteer and placed them in areas that would best use their skill sets.  I tasked one individual who had the interaction skills of a politician to greeting attendees as they arrived while surreptitiously checking to ensure they had their entrance badges, I tasked media pros to the AV team and I set vivacious women to the registration desk where their customer service skills would shine. The hardest though was a gal I had made friends with the previous year.  Her skill sets were limited and she was extremely shy. I decided to push her in a place where she could shine with the right encouragement.  Registration with the vivacious women that I knew she would probably love to emulate.  Her shyness reminded me of where I had been, the personal journey I was on and I ached for her.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s a great person and interacts rather well, but a rather frantic email confirmed my decision to give her this little push. Because sometimes that’s all you need to start down the road towards a fabulous life.  I hope that little push helped her.  I definitely saw her make a point to interact with attendees and pass on business cards to her newly labeled venture.  Where she goes from here?  Your guess is as good as mine.

When I was young and a new student in college, my mother jokingly referred to me as a “forever student”.  Little did I know at the time how close to the truth she was. I’m always looking to find out why. To understand situations, ideas, thoughts, people… I’m constantly searching for answers.

To my problems, those of my friends, family, & those concerning our world in general. I drive and see the homeless population living on the streets, ride transit past the Refugee Womens’ Alliance in Columbia Center & reflect on the challenges that must permeate their lives. Some say we control everything that happens to us & others say that its fate and you have no control. Either way, I know there’s a solution to every problem I see. One will not fit every problem, but each permutation will own their own solution. The big question is why can’t we find it? Do we make things harder for ourselves than it really needs to be?

I had the opportunity to hear Mark Horvath (@hardlynormal) speak last summer at Gnomedex 9.0 and learn how homelessness has affected his life and where his journey has taken him and imagine the places he will go and the lives that, although briefly touched, he has & will make a difference in.

I see his journey and wonder to myself where I fit. I have a passion for helping. It is such a vital part of who I am that it has literally fed my soul to volunteer for events and causes. I volunteer time, money and energy to various activities knowing that somewhere, someplace, something I have said or done will make a difference somewhere sometime. I’ve already seen it on small ways with my fitness endeavors. At a recent run when I struggled to keep going the last few meters, an unknown compatriot patted my back in encouragement and told me that she had set her pace off mine and KNEW we would have no problems with those last few feet.

Encouragement does that to a person. It revives them and feeds a small part of them somewhere that feeds their entire engine. It can make a discouraged runner finish a race. A struggling student try harder for better grades, and give HOPE to those who have begun to think there was none.

I have had the unfortunate opportunity to be touched by lives affected by drug use, abuse in its many forms, cancer, premature death and indifferent relationships. I see their issues and many times feel helpless wondering what I could do in their lives to make a difference. I’ve had family members reach the pit of despair and watched helplessly as they lifted themselves up and bettered their lives.  At the same time, I see people around me express indifference with their lot in life. They don’t like it, but either don’t want to see a way out, or don’t really care to put forth the effort to do so despite having the desire to see the change.

Life can be so fuzzy sometimes. Recently, I retweeted a quote from someone that basically said do what you love. If you do what you love, “the rest” will follow.  This “rest” differs from person to person and I have found that what we believe it is differs also.  For myself, I’m a big believer in fate and karma.  What you were meant to do will happen in it’s own good time.  Good turns beget good turns and vice versa. Certainly, there’s an element of free will, but that free will turns and curves like any good river and still, eventually, takes you down the path you were meant.  Where is life taking you? What good will you do in this world?

On any typical night home, the first stop after work is home to refresh my clothing, perfume, etc and ensure that my pet has the love and attention he needs to not make my home a poopy mess while I’m gone. And I’m gone frequently unfortunately while I find my way around life again. It’s addictive, yet these pauses at home are nice to have as a breather.
The other afternoon, on my way home, a song came on the radio. I’ll admit to a widely eclectic taste in music mainly driven by mood. It’s why I like music sites like Musicovery.com where can specifiy my random plays based on mood. Other times, I’ll just use Pandora or Grooveshark. All three are great players. Today, though, the radio sufficed for my ride home. Not surprisingly, the song I want to be a Billionaire came on.  You’ve probably heard it. It’s played on most of top stations at least a billion times since it’s release.

Today I identified with it in a way though. I do want to be a billionaire.  However, I’d rather take that money and give some to my parents to make the rest of their life easier.  Pay off their debts and buy them a few toys.  I’d like to endow a couple of scholarships for Pacific Islanders. Not the typical ones that require a 3.0 GPA, but one based on need and desire and passion and drive.  I think there is too much talent out there that isn’t being realized because of lack of appropriate numbers.  I want to fund research projects for various forms of cancer.  Did you know that Leukemia patients, even in remission, have a likelihood of developing another type of cancer?  It begs the question of if there is one tying element to these various forms that could become a universal start to a cure?  My grandmother died about 5 years ago of Esophageal Cancer and when she was intially diagnosed they told us it was rare.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered that their definition of “rare” and mine differed greatly.

Oh and yeah, I wanna buy a few toys for myself, but truly honestly, I want to share it with others that just can’t find the right break.  What would you do?

A friend of mine has a weekly post that always goes up that is entitled “Every Monday Matters” where she talks about an important issue. It’s one of the few (along with Bakerella’s post) that I look forward to on Mondays.  But I actually think it’s every moment that matters.  We just simply, no longer, take enough of them.

Today as I sat here pondering how to formulate this post, I came across an email sent to me.  Yet another forward and I almost deleted it.  But I took the chance and opened it and read one of the most heartwrenching stories I’d read in a long time.  It’s one I’ve read before so many would wonder why I cried.  Read it for yourself:

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its

dedicated staff, he offered a question:

‘When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection.

Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do.

Where is the natural order of things in my son?’

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. ‘I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.’

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked, ‘Do you think they’ll let me play?’ I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, ‘We’re losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.’

Shay struggled over to the team’s bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay’s team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay’s life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.

The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman’s head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling, ‘Shay, run to first!

Run to first!’

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, ‘Run to second, run to second!’

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

B y the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball . the smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher’s intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman’s head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, ‘Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay’

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted, ‘Run to third!

Shay, run to third!’

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming, ‘Shay, run home! Run home!’

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team

‘That day’, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, ‘the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world’.

Shay didn’t make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

Heartwarming isn’t it?   It’s a moment in time that those parents will cherish through the rest of their lives.  I have a few moments of those in the treasure chest of my memory also.  Many of them include my nephew, Micheal Kekoa.  Two years ago today, I sat in my living room hemming a tablecloth I was making.  In retrospect, it was rather ugly, but what stuck out is the call I got from my mother.  She was on vacation, so I immediately picked up the phone and began teasing her about calling.  But she was in tears and eventually she was able to get out that Kekoa was dead.

I was horror struck enough to hang up on her and yell for my husband and just as hysterically explain the situation to him.  Calmly, as he always did, he managed to get all the facts out of me and we raced down to the hospital in Lakewood to find out Kekoa’s true status.  Alive and hurt or actually dead?  By the time we left the hospital that evening we were all rather numb.  Kekoa had died at the hand of the guy who my sister was dating at the time. That first year was hard as we struggled with so many adjustments. That happy vivacious three year old was no longer part of our lives. Because his father partially blamed my sister, we also lost his sister as part of our lives, all of which made the funeral itself difficult. My sister requested we not talk to any press, who even found out where I was living in Renton.  In retrospect, I wish I had spoken with them if only to stop similar abuse to another child. To make more people aware of the possibilities of what can occur. The plain cold facts?  My sister made a poor choice in mates.  Someone she trusted with her children, her heart, abused that trust in the most extreme way possible. People called her a whore for being with that type of person and so many other derogatory comments.  We held our tongues.  We watched as Kekoa’s father railed at the system that failed his son on news publication after news publication.  Like many people, he worked so much to be able to give his children what they needed and wanted and had already missed out on so much. We watched his uncles make comments on the life of a child they were barely part of and we ached.    I was lucky. My work affords me the opportunity to see a counselor should I need it and I utilized it immediately and frequently until I could find a sense of closure.  I still grieve and I still miss him, but I cherish my happy memories closely as they’re all I have left of him.

That fateful moment that marks the two year anniversary of Kekoa taking his last breath has come and gone and I ponder and reflect.  What changes could have been made?  Here’s some statistics for you.  Childhelp.org says

• A report of child abuse is made every ten seconds.
• Almost five children die everyday as a result of child abuse. More than three out of four are under the age of 4.
• It is estimated that between 60-85% of child fatalities due to maltreatment are not recorded as such on death certificates.

Every ten seconds. Despite Pierce County CPS dropping the ball in my nephew’s case, this is an alarming statistic.  It’s imperative that we change this statistic.  I can recall, with regret, the change in my nephew’s demeanor.  The happy vivacious boy you see in this picture wasn’t. He would stand on the edge of the room and watch.  He no longer laughed as freely and was definitely moody.  It puzzled me, but I assumed that given the fact that I don’t see him all that often since my move to Renton, that this was just him being tired and cranky.  Little did I know about the bruises my other sister, who was his daily caretaker, was seeing.   A year after his death, we sat in a courtroom and listened to the offender’s own brother condemn his actions.  We listened to the judge offer comments on what he thought of the situation and most importantly pass judgement on him for his crimes.  We cried anew as Kekoa’s father raised a tape recorder in his hand up high and played the last sound of Kekoa’s voice he ever heard. A voicemail left only days before his death and smiled in memory of his beautiful smile.

This post didn’t quite lead in the direction most people that started reading would have assumed that it was headed.  Shay’s story, true or not, was used to illustrate the good things and memories that can be created in life.  I’m sorry if you feel I’ve misappropriated it, but I want people to be aware that not all signs of abuse are as evident as others.  While you always want to proceed with caution, don’t turn a blind eye and assume someone is taking care of it.  Don’t say to yourself that it’s none of your business.  GET INVOLVED. Volunteer where you can.  Did you know in Texas, they have a volunteer program to help with their elderly population as well as their kids?  Find a SIMILAR program in your area and help out.  Most importantly, hug your children closely tonight and remember Kekoa.

We sat in a bar early one Friday night talking about the week and how hellacious it had been, things going on in life, and like many other gal-gathering going on throughout the world that night, bemoaning the lack of men in our lives.  I confided in her my fears for my life as I know it. The previous weekend, I had made a commitment to meet a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. Moving from Spanaway to Renton meant that the people I saw on an almost daily basis weren’t as prevalent in my life any longer.  The distance meant that my contact with these people wasn’t as frequent as they once had been.  I actually had to bump my schedule against theirs to find times when we were both free.

I digress though.  I made a commitment to spend time with this friend and had neglected to because of time spent with my parents.  The following Monday I emailed him and apologized.  We traded emails back and forth and he commented that he thought I hadn’t come out because I was afraid.  That confused me. Afraid?  Of someone I saw at least 3x’s a week every week for 5 years? What would I have to be afraid of?  When I asked him, he only commented that I’m a grown gal now.  That last comment saddened me.  It made me realize that he was definitely aware of my separation from my husband and that his intentions may not have been as above board as I would have liked. A few days later my neighbor asked me out.  The one that’s as old as my father. I relayed this information to my friend and my fears about entering the dating world.  I’m not even technically single yet either.  Her comment, although short and succinct, made me do a lot of thinking.  “Why not?” she asked.  Indeed.  Why not?  Contracts were in place separating my life from that of my husband even if a divorce was not yet final.  Although my belief was that we would spend the time apart thinking on which direction we wanted to take our lives and work through our issues, he took it as putting life on hold for a year. Very frustrating when you are eager to move past pain, past heartache and unshed tears.

Think I did indeed.  While I had indeed moved past the daily tears, he still controlled my life and the decisions I made. Why was I still allowing him this measure of control? I needed to allow myself to think that these options were available. The first thing I did, while seemingly unrelated, was to finally remove his friends from my Facebook “friends” list.  He had told me for years that they didn’t consider me a friend and I never believed him. I always thought it was a snide hurtful comment that he would make when we argued for the hell of it. To dig the pain I was already in even further. Little did I know that much of it was true.  They could care less what I was up to. I had in fact, walked past them on multiple occasions without a reaction from them. This one small deletion from my life felt so liberating, I proceeded to remove them from other areas too.

It’s strange how liberating such a small action can feel. I never had to go through such actions when I was younger. No symbolic burning of momentoes, no tearing the ex out of pictures because I was emotionally ok with each separation.  Why not? I continue to ask myself. Ready though I am to move onto this next phase of my life, exciting and terrifying though it may be, I realize that I need to see this commitment through to the end. My moral compass simply will not allow me to deviate.  Others may argue that it has nothing to do with morals, but I disagree. Suffice it to say that I’m ready and waiting… excited at the thought of starting all over and terrified at the same time.

One night, while finishing my workout, I looked down at my feet.  I noticed how dirty my shoes were and for once I wasn’t worried about it.  In fact, just the opposite.  I was PROUD of the dirt.  It told me that I’d accomplished something with these shoes.  I had used them over and over again and worn them to this state.  I hadn’t just gone onto ebay and bought a cheap pair of shoes that someone else had worn and conditioned.  For that reason, I’m rather proud of this picture. It’s my Brooks Ariel running shoes. I bought them this summer and it was hard to spend the money on them. I grew up in that middle class place where you didn’t spend 100′s of dollars on shoes (even though that’s rather common place now). You went to Target and Walmart and Payless to get your shoes. Going to Foot Locker to get shoes was a treat. These days I wonder about that. Was this why I never enjoyed gym class? or was it because the “cool” crowd I longed to be part of were the ones walking. I hated running.

Middle school years for many people are an awkward memory that most of us would like to forget.  Gym class in middle school even more.  Our first adventure getting dressed and undressed in front of our peers… How many of you ran for the first available bathroom stall for the first week?  I can honestly say I didn’t.  But I got really adept at putting my PE Shirt on and removing the other one while showing as little skin as possible before moving onto other articles of clothing.  I hate my PE clothes almost as much as I hated PE itself. Hate.  Maybe that’s a rather extreme word to use, but back then that was the sentiment. There was no grey area back then. Do you remember YOUR PE Clothes?  mine was this red cotton tshirt paired with blue shorts with a white stripe down the side.  We stood in line for calistenics and then ran outside on the track.  I was never a good runner and with a sister who was a natural athlete, I was loathe to try many sports.  I dreaded those time tests in high school, yet as much as I hated it I could honestly say that I enjoyed Cross Country running more than running on the track.

copyright fotojack.com

These days, PE doesn’t always mandate a uniform and less kids are worried about what others think of them as they change for class.  For us older folks though, that apprehension sometimes remains.  We go out to buy clothes to workout in and without a general guide it’s hard to say what will or will not work for each individual.  As a short Pacific Islander, the first thing I look for is “will it fit” and then “is it cute”.  Yes, cute is important. It doesn’t matter who will see us in it because WE will see ourselves in it.  However, Cute and fit hasn’t always made the cute.  I’ve found that the cotton stuff wears out faster and sometimes chaffed.  I found that desite the rise in body temperature as you run, running in the winter outdoors is still hella COLD! Gloves made a difference as did long sleeve tops and long pants. Thank GOODNESS for clothing made to wick away moisture so that the clothing itself was more comfortable.  But after racing the St Patrick’s Day Dash in Seattle last month, I discovered the ugly truth about workout clothes. No matter what you do, you still won’t like the way you look in them.

I was talking with a friend not long after the event and she commented on how awesome I looked in the one picture I was able to find of me from the event.  All I saw, however, was the bulge protruding from my midsection.  Eventually I was able to move past that and comment on that RATHER LARGE hat behind me and the rosy look to my cheeks but at the intial moment? All I saw was fat. Self Image is one of those personal battles we all fight and it’s definitely not an easy one. This outfit by the way? My favorite to run in.  There’s a pocket for keys at the back of the pants and the top has thumbholes for when it’s cold.  That being said, I can’t wait for fotojack.com to post the pictures from my latest run.

A few weeks ago, at a friends house, I was involved in a rather interesting conversation regarding Social Media and Location-based services.  A lot of the discussion revolved around privacy which always has been and always will be an interesting and much debated topic.  Some of us involved in the discussion were military brats and thus naturally inclined to be a little more cautious. To loosely quote one participant, “Checking the backseat of my car for wackjobs is a natural inclination.” But not everyone grew up with the same sense of caution that was ingrained with us. (Granted, not everyone live in danger of a suitcase on the sidewalk blowing up on them either).  Location based services made it easy to “check-in” to locations and broadcast through your social networks where you are. And where you are not.  The conversation was sparked by the recent creation of a site called Pleaserobme.com. 

In a world where thieves are prolific coupled with a natural inclination of the younger generation to trust easily, privacy is a very big thing (When hasn’t it been?).  Pleaserobme.com aggregates data pushed from Foursquare (based on the preferences that YOU as a user set) to Twitter and creates a list of people who “aren’t home right now”.  While I rolled my eyes at the articles written about the site, don’t get me wrong. PLEASEROBME.COM IS A GREAT SITE.  It’s an eye-opener for the seemingly unaware. It’s like those reminders you hear during the fall holidays on the news. “Research those companies you donate to.” or “Don’t leave your packages in the back seat of your car in plain sight.”  They’re things we all know inherently, but our sense of trust makes us forget to navigate life erring on the side of caution.

Foursquare, by default, assumes a lot of choices for you. One of the assumptions it makes is that everyone you add to your friends list are people you WANT there. (You do, don’t you?) However, there are a number of other options it doesn’t assume.  Like how you want to share your data and exactly how much of it you want to share. The auto-follow policy is a much debated topic in Social Media circles and Foursquare is not an exception. It allows you to pull your follow list from Twitter and follow all of those people here too. At first, I allowed everyone who requested the ability to follow my foursquare check-ins.  Even cautious as I was in life, I didn’t see the harm in doing so.  It’s just Internet life right?  Internet stalkers won’t happen to me?  Boy was I wrong I discovered one evening when out with a friend.  I had checked into a local movie theater to watch the latest Twilight release.  Imagine my surprise when I get a text message asking me which team I’m on? Jacob or Edward? (Yes, I’m #teamJacob) I had no idea who the number was from. #freaky!  I responded but also asked who the person texting was.  I knew that with the recent changes in phones, I had lost some phone numbers and others just weren’t connecting to the right names yet. 

I was lucky. The guy who texted was and is an absolute gentleman. We’ve talked on multiple occasions on a variety of subjects. But not everyone is that lucky. As nice as this guy was, I changed my default options shortly afterwards. I may KNOW most of the people following me there, but I was not comfortable with their ability to have my cell phone number without actually asking me. Even if I didadd that information myself.  I assume that for this EXACT reason, Craigslist now requires phone confirmation when you create a new account. After all, finding out that a rape or crime ring is succeeding because of your business model isn’t exactly the most flattering thing. It’s interesting how often that conversation comes up often though. Just today @jodijodijodi commented on @shih_wei’s new fan. It was funny to see and sparked a whole new thread of comments concerning Mayorships, Shopping and the fun we have “playing” Foursquare.  Because, after all, that’s what it’s supposed to be. A game you play with your friends complete with points. The nice advantages, though, include knowing where your friends are should you feel inclined to join them and the fact that some locations likePCC @Hotel_max and many others are now offering specials to their mayors or visitors. 

@Shih_Wei’s reaction to @jodijodijodi’s post was typical. Like me, she laughed it off and went on with life. But should we interject some caution into our lives?  As I said earlier, I’ve tended to blow naysayers off on the subject. We all approach it with different views because we’ve all been raised to view life differently. I’ve always felt that as long as you proceed with caution in your on AND offline lives that you should be relatively fine. Until today. It was weird. After making an off-hand comment about spending the evening “stealing” mayorships, I checked into two of my evening locations. I needed some things at the MAC store (as in computers, not makeup…) and stole a mayorship.  I chuckled, checked the twitter account of the guy I stole it from and moved on. Later as Iwalked into Footzone Redmond for my weekly run I checked in again and stole the mayorship away from a friend. I laughed and really enjoyed that one. I teased her since she was there for the same run and we joked about it. 

As we were about to depart, one of the employees told me I had a phone call. Weird I thought. Who would be calling me at the store when my phone had good signal?  I answered and was somewhat stunned. The guy on the other end identified himself and associated himself with Foursquare. You’ll have to forgive me, but since I wasn’t really paying full attention, I didn’t get that “name”.  He was upset that I had stolen Mayorship of Footzone from “him” and wanted me to give it back. (You as puzzled as I was at that moment?) I told him that he’s more than welcome to join us, to which he rudely decline. He didn’t want to leave the safety and comfort of his home and his internet connection (mostly his words, not mine) just to check in somewhere.  He wanted me to remove it from my account. The banter went back and forth mostly because I thought he was joking. He even said he hoped I would die! Now being in good humor I commented that since I was sick, that was entirely possible. (This did give him a moment to pause and retract that particular comment. He didn’t want me to die, really…) After a little more ranting, he hung up on me and I stared at the phone in disbelief.  Seriously? You called the store, a store I don’t even own or work at, to whine at me? Get a life dude. Or better yet, respond to this so I can #followfriday you.

At this point I explained to my running group, and the store employees what had transpired in the conversation. @michellegamboa laughed as hard as I did about it and recommended I tweet about it. I really had to restrain myself from grabbing my phone to do so.  Common sense won out though because I’d already delayed our running group long enough. But plan this post I did.  To make it worse, later research showed that I did indeed steal it from my friend and none of the location visitor “handles” matched the one given to me over the phone. Seriously? Consider me shocked, amused and humbled. For the record, I’m humbled by the “rightness” of the stance others have taken against location based services and not the whining nature of idiots like this guy.

Have you ever looked at the shape of the number 8?  It twists and curves back into itself so that it is a never ending loop.  Turn it on its’ side and it’s no longer called an “eight”, but the symbol for infinity…time everlasting. The chinese even find the number eight auspicious because the chinese pronunciation is so close to the word for wealth.  I look at my life lately and find myself wealthy.  Not necessarily in terms of finances, although that would be nice. Instead I find myself wealthy in terms of relationships. I’ve had the privilege of interacting, both online and off, with some very awesome people.  People with revolutionary ideas, with extraordinary lives.  People with a passion for doing, acting and just plain being.  Like me, many of these people think they lead ordinary boring lives, but it’s the small things that make a difference.  They are great examples that a few simple words can make a big difference in the life of another.

We go through life meeting people like this.  Many times you don’t realize who they are.  They can be the weird guy in the office who sorts the recycling out of the trash. The lady you see at Starbucks every morning who never looks ready to start her day or even the neighbor kid who walks her little puggie every night at the same time you take your fur-baby for their evening constitutional.  They’re the guy in the next cubicle, the next stall in the parking garage, or the next treadmill at the gym.  We call it simply community.

Tonight I met a great example of that.  I stopped by a different 24hr fitness than I normally do. I use the term “normally” loosely because I’ve only been a member about a month and a half. I’ve had such a crappy day due to sinus pressure that I couldn’t relieve no matter how much medication (both prescription and OTC) I took.  It colored everything I did with a sour note. From making me pull over to rest during my commute to work, to having to call customers back for information that the program that we use to record customer information “ate”. I was determined, though, to stop at the gym on the way home.  The equipment at the gym makes no judgements as to the type of exercise you do, the speed you do it at or for how long you do it and I sooo needed a run.

Once I got to the gym I entered the locker room and slowly got ready. I was exhausted, but still greeted others as they entered the room.  As I sat there getting ready, I found myself participating in a conversation with others about music.  One lady had brought her Ipod and was checking the charge.  The conversation naturally lead to how many can’t stand to workout without their music.  It’s an automatic showstopper for them.  I thought I was one of them.  I commented as such because I’d forgotten my headphones at home this morning.  It was yet another casualty of the sinus headache from hell. Imagine my surprise when a perfect stranger not only offered me her spare set, but mentioned that if I was skittish of possible germs, I could use the sanitizer in the gym to clean the ear portion.  I thanked her and explained that I wanted to try and do without.  With that I left the locker room with a renewed faith in people. They’re not all douchebags after all…

oh baby!…. wait… wrong pace… wrong subject even!  Last year I was determined to lose weight. To get to a happier weight.  A weight that wouldn’t have me wheezing when I ran up the eight steps up to my apartment. I loved the adrenaline rush that I got when I exercised already, all I needed to do is get into a constant rhythm. To make it a habit instead of something I remembered to do maybe a few times a month.  Then life took a few detours and in the process I learned that I really do like to exercise!  Like a drug, the adrenaline rush I got from running needed more activity and further distances to maintain the levels I enjoyed.

For quite a while, I’ve been on a search for a running club.  Someone I knew and admired fitness wise was part of one and I felt it would be a good lesson for me.  I’d gain camaraderie  as well as learn new things about running and myself. I was looking for a group that welcomed people who hadn’t run since they were in grade school and so many clubs were intimidating.  They said “noobs welcome” but ran at 5 or 6 am. On a weekday even. Event after all these months, I still think those people are freaks.  But nevertheless, I kept looking and eventually  I joined Seattle Fit.  A network of run groups throughout the US.  A neat thing for people that run a lot and travel because like any other type of group they become a family. One of the neat things I like is that each session began with a seminar about not just running but fitness period.  One week it was about Yoga, and then there were weeks about gear for running, safety, heart rate monitors and more. Their sister group, Portland Fit, even started recording their seminars.  There are 68 videos in total right now and some are as old three years ago, but still as applicable.  Start with the orientation and then pick and choose from their.  My favorite part?  They remind us noobs that there is no way that we’re going to win the upcoming marathon so to stop worrying about that right now.

This past Saturday I went on my first hike of 2010.  I took two young cousins and an aunt on the adventure and we tackled the path to Middle Falls at Wallace Falls in Gold Bar, WA.  BEAUTIFUL COUNTY! My eighteen year old cousin laughed at all the nature photos I took, but I loved that he had tireless energy up this 1000+ foot elevation hike. Oh the joys of being young! We plan on making this a monthly adventure so it will be exciting to see what February’s weather will bring us to challenge us on the hike!  I wanted to bring my mother along, but her comment was more along the pessimistic lines of I have no experience hiking and what about the cold and snow? Don’t let people like this get to you or discourage you.  The reality is that they are very realistic about their limits.  They know they can’t do it and don’t move past it.  I say this as I type because I have to get up every few minutes to roll my aching shoulders and move the cramps in my bootie. My shoulders you ask?  I’m glad you asked. Even a 40oz camelbak I wore after a few hours can cause your body to ache if it’s not used to the weight. Limitations not only didn’t stop us, but kept us fueled!  Next month we ease back a little though and take on Twin Falls for some of our less… active friends.  I wonder though if I should have just started there?