Goodbye to You

I miss everything and nothing at the same time.

Lyrics from Michelle Branch's song "Goodbye to you." I've always loved that song because it's a true testament to letting go of what might be the hardest thing to say goodbye to. But that specific line, "I miss everything and nothing at the same time," I could never comprehend. How can you miss something and not miss it all at once? I couldn't wrap my head around the concept. At least not a few years ago when I was still in high school and very naïve of what was to come in life. But today, I realized just what she means.

I went to Ball State's track this afternoon to observe the women's track practice and talk to a few people for my article. My article is about how a run club organization has been able to provide competition for men who have lost their track teams. Ball State is one of those schools who no longer has a men's track team. My goal today was to get a feel for what track is like without the men there and what the women think of having no men's track.

On one hand I felt my visit was successful. I left with good quotes, a good feel of what track was like here at Ball State, and inspired to go for a run myself. On the other, it made me terribly miss the sport that I absolutely love.

I don't think my friends at Ball State realize just how important running to me once was. Back in high school, it was my life. Literally. My friends were all from the team, my schedule revolved around workouts and meets, my diet was strictly focused on helping me run. Runner's world was my new bible and my workout log was my new diary. It was all I could think and care about. If I had a bad workout or meet, I was angry with myself until the next time when I did better. The perfect example is the one time I didn't PR at a cross-country meet. I was off by about 10 seconds, but you would've thought it was the end of the world. I cried the rest of the day. My family took me out to lunch and I was quiet and puffy-eyed from being so upset. They thought something was truly wrong. They made me call off work and told me to sleep...they thought I was sick. Well, in a way they were right. I was so upset with myself, it's kind of sick to think how dramatic I was. All upset over one race in which the next week I PRed again. It was ridiculous. It was stupid.

It was an obsession.

Yes, it's no understatement to say that I was obsessed with the sport in a very unhealthy way. No sport should mean that much to anybody. I don't even think professional athletes that really live their life around a sport should feel the way I felt. But as much as I wish I could criticize myself, I have to defend my feelings. I may have been obsessed, but I was also extremely happy.

I found that I got a natural high out of running when I was young. I use to go run and run and run, just for the heck of it. In gradeschool I would change my clothes, grab my tennis shoes, make a water bottle, and go run laps around my backyard. In middle school I joined the cross-country and track team where I discovered I had a natural talent when it came to running. My father trained with me the summer before at the little run-down track in New York. It started with just a 400. Then it increased to 800. And then I was up 2 miles. By the time I got back to school I could compete, and I was doing well.

High school came and rocked my world. I was on Varsity all 4 years and I loved every minute of it. Then junior year came and I met my new coach, mr Michael Meiser. An intense passionate runner, he was the best coach our team had seen in years. I blame him for the obsession that I grew with running. He had us out there pushing ourselves beyond what we could believe...and the results showed. We were setting goals and actually achieving them. It was marvelous.

So by the time high school finally ended, it was naturally expected that I run in college. That's what my coach wanted. He strongly encouraged almost all of us seniors varsity runners to continue our running careers in college. And at first I thought that's what I wanted too. I talked to a few coaches, hoping to see what opportunities were out there. But by track season my senior year, something happened. I wasn't running like I use to. I wasn't training like I use to. My coach was hardly around and I found it hard to motivate myself during workouts. Looking back, I now realize I was burned out. I spent so much time training and setting goals, that now that the end was in sight, I was exhausted. I was looking forward to going to college for my career, not for running. After turning down the Wright State's coach's offer to run on the team, I realized that my competitive running career was coming to an end.

So why, after all of this time, I suddenly miss it?

Being at the track today, I saw something I hadn't seen in a long time. I saw a team. Stretching together, running together, pushing their limits together. I saw a coach encouraging them along. I saw passion and strength. I saw a desire in them. They were out there, training, hoping to achieve their own goals. I couldn't help but wonder if that could've been me.

I could've ran in college. Some of you reading this blog might think "Yeah right, Laura. You weren't that good in high school. How can you know that you could've gone out there and ran with those girls?" I don't. Maybe I would've shown up and got my ass kicked. But something in me just knows that that would not have been the case. That if I had worked hard that last track season, and conditioned over the summer, and continued to pour my heart and soul into running, I would be on the team. I would be out there with those girls I saw today, giving it my all. I'd be traveling to different places and competing against other collegiate runners. My times would be faster, my body in better shape. I could've continued my obsession, and knowing me, I probably would've still loved every second of it.

Here's the bittersweet part though. I'm glad I didn't do it. I'm glad the Ball State track coach, who I just met for the first time today, never responded to the e-mail I sent over 2 years ago (in which I also learned today probably ended up in his junk mail). I'm glad I didn't follow my coach's goals for me and made my own decision. I'm glad I chose Ball State for their journalism program, not for their track. Because if I hadn't turned down track, I would've never gone to run club. I would've never learn to love running as it is recreational. I would've never met my current friends and boyfriend. I wouldn't have had the awesome times that I've had. My story could be completely different. And I'm so grateful that it's not.

Sometimes I miss everything about running…and at the same time I don't miss it all. So to the runner I once was, I say, goodbye to you.

Can't Stop Loving You

I hate Phil Collins.

That's a lie. I don't actually hate Phil Collins. For the most part I enjoy his music. He has that soft-rock poppy sound my mother enjoys listening to. The kind you would find on Mix 94.1 or Fly 92.9. His music has that lovers soul of Marvin Gaye mixed with some 80s synthesizers. With the exception of the work he did for Disney's Tarzan (awful movie in which I think completely ruined his music), I enjoy Phil Collins.

But I hate him.

At least today, when I was getting dinner and his song "Can't Stop Loving You" just so happened to softly float out of the speakers in Woodworth's dining area. For some reason that song, and I don't think it has anything to do with the lyrics, triggers memories from my younger days. By that I really mean I have flashbacks of Pittsburgh.

I'm an all-around Ohio girl. Fairfield has always been home sweet home, and I'm proud to call the Nasty Nati my home city. But I can't deny that Pittsburgh has been the city to truly capture my heart. Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed it. Its rolling hills, its die-hard football fans, the entire essence of it. Every year my family and I would go up to Pittsburgh for Christmas and sometimes for Easter. And every year I looked forward to that trip.

2009 was the first year I did not go to Pittsburgh.

I knew at a young age just what Pittsburgh meant to me. I remember being in my grandparents backyard, taking it all in and thinking to myself "Here I am, in Pittsburgh." You know the saying, "live in the moment?" Well I can say, without a doubt, that those times in Pittsburgh were times where I truly lived in the moment. And I always knew that.

The last time I was in the Steel city was September of 2008 for my cousin's wedding. And since that time I have been craving to go back. Homesickness can occur with places that aren't really considered your home, at least not by others. But for Pittsburgh, it as a part of home. It's a comfort zone, a safety blanket. I can go there and feel comfortable. I can reminisce on parts of my childhood. I can proudly sport my black and gold. I feel happy, and content, and free. Those streets are a part of me. And after about a year and a half of separation, I miss them terribly.

The streets aren't the only ones I miss.

The reason my family and I would visit Pittsburgh was to visit my grandparents on my mom's side. Ed and Ruth Syska. They married at a young age, and my grandma had her first child before she was 21. My mother grew up in a yellow brick house on 4th Avenue in Laurel Gardens, right down the street from North Hills High School. And over 18 years, that little yellow brick house became a second-home to me.

There is much I could say about my grandparents, but to sum it up: I loved them. And to see them go was one of the toughest experiences.

My grandpap passed away when I was a junior in high school. He had cancer and was living in a nursing home. But to be honest, I don't think it was the cancer that killed him. It was the fact that he had lost his wife to alzheimer's. The fact that he couldn't care for her anymore. The fact that his wife, the love of his life, could barely function, let alone remember who he is. He didn't die from cancer. He died from a broken heart.

My grandma passed away a little over a year later, but her death was more of a relief than a tragedy. After seeing her suffer, seeing her forget who I was, forget her own life I was relieved to know she was no longer trapped in her own personal hell. The last time I saw her I promised myself I would never go back...the nursing home was too cruel. Constantly surrounded by death, I don't understand how anyone could work though. It literally feels as though life itself has been sucked out of you. I also swore I would never lay eyes on that building again. Unfortunately I can't erase those images from my mind.

But the truth is they're gone. I can miss them all I want, it's not going to change anything. All I have left are the memories that still linger in the back of my mind and tattooed on my heart. And sometimes all it takes is just a melody to remember what I can't stop loving.

Damn you Phil Collins.

"Winning"

Winning. By definition it means to "be successful or victorious in." My personal definition is "to save myself from humiliation and gain a small amount of respect." Winning.

Tonight I challenged my boyfriend to a few games of ping-pong. I didn't decide to play this game on a whim. No, I knew before challenging him to any game that I had to walk in with some amount of confidence. If not I knew I would be setting myself up for humiliation. Which in my world would be the definition of losing. And losing is not acceptable.

Or is it? Did I honestly care that he won 3 out of the 5 games, making him the overall winner? Ironically, no. I cared more about the possible fact that perhaps I didn't deserve to win any of the games and the two that I did "win" were won only because he let me. What's the point in "winning" if it isn't won fair and square? That's still suffering some small sense of humiliation, isn't it? Which, again, would be losing. It would just be losing obliviously. I didn't want to win out of pity. I wanted to win because I was better.

Better. There's a word that needs to be thrown around carefully.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not out to prove that I am better than my boyfriend. In fact in most aspects I would say he's better than me and I prefer that. I mean, wouldn't you want to be with someone who is better than you? Someone you feel you don't deserve? Someone who makes you a better person? For me, yes, and that's exactly how I feel. 

But it doesn't mean that I never want to be better than him in something. And by something I mean a game, or a sport. In most sports, there's no competition. Running, biking, playing ultimate, (and I'm sure the list can go on) there's no point in even trying because we both know he's gonna win. In some aspect it has to do with the whole "he's a guy, I'm a girl," situation and that's fine, I can accept that. But you know when that theory applies and when you're just plain awful at something. You know the difference between losing from gender differences and losing because you suck. And to be honest, in most sports/games I could play against him, I would lose not because I'm a girl, but because I really do suck.

Except ping-pong.

Not to sound arrogant or boastful but I have a fair amount of confidence when it comes to this mini-version of tennis (which, by the way, I'm sure is another sport I would successfully fail at). My parents bought my sisters and I a ping-pong table when I was in my pre-teens and I grew up challenging my sisters and my dad. I learned mostly from my father, of course. In most cases, I would lose. But every now and then, I would strike just a bit of luck and prevail. It was glorious.

Coming here to college, of course, there are plentiful opportunities available to play ping-pong. And last year, my first year at Ball State, I played against a few guy friends. I won. Finally, something I could have a little bit of confidence in. Something that I could challenge to someone in without feeling like a fool. Something to "save me from humiliation and gain a small amount of respect." Something to win in.

So tonight, I had a small amount of hope that I could prevail again. Not to show up my boyfriend, but to prove a small point. To prove that I am good at something, even if it is just ping-pong. And maybe I didn't win the majority of the games, but I did win two. Maybe I proved to him that there is a game out there that perhaps I can challenge him in.

But until that point is proven, I say, rematch. 

Once Upon a Time...The 90 Day Challenge

Once upon a time, a young aspiring writer sat in her futon just before midnight to pound out her thoughts and practice the art of which she so desperately desired to master. Write, she had been told, every day for 90 days. If you can carve out 45 minutes every day to sit and write for 90 days straight, you have what it takes to be a writer. Because that's what writers do. They wake up every morning, or in this case, just before bed, and they sit and they write. If you struggle to be consistent with writing for 90 days, then writing probably isn't for you.

Or something like that.

Once upon a time, and by time I mean right now, that young writer was me. I went into my professor's office the other day to pour out my concerns of how maybe this writing class wasn't for me, at least not at this time, and I wondered if I should drop the class. A half hour later I learned that maybe I have what it takes to be a writer. Maybe. The only way I would find out is if I stuck out the class.

I start this blog entry with once upon a time, because even though it is the most horrible cliché in storytelling to start off with, I use it because it works. Ever notice how every story that has a happy ending starts with "once upon a time"? I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule, but I have yet to come across them and in my happy little world I prefer to keep it that way. I'm starting my 90 day writing challenge and I am starting it on a positive note. So that maybe one day I can look back and write "Once upon a time a young writer didn't know if she had what it takes to be a writer," and then it would eventually end with, "and she became the successful writer she always dreamed of being and lived happily ever after. The end." 

To be honest I've never been in a panic when it comes to writing. Up until this class, I was always fairly successful at it. I received As in all of my previous writing classes. My friends praised me for the notes I'd publish on facebook. I had an older blog in a which a few kind strangers would post how much they enjoyed reading it. My coach told me that the essay I wrote for a scholarship was one of the best he's ever read. When I was in 4th grade we wrote little fiction novels and I won an award for the work I had done. I learned to accept writing as my gift. 

Ironically it took me awhile longer to realize that I actually wanted to make a career out of it. I dreamed of being a veterinarian once. Or working in the music industry. There was also being a mailman or a librarian. I'm sure lawyer, teacher, and other random jobs also crossed my mind. Of course, none of those dreams lasted long. Especially when I hit high school. It became to clear to me that writing was where I could see myself going in life.

I remember the moment I decided to be a journalist. I was 15 years old, working my first job in the fine dinings of the fast food industry. At the time of my epiphany I was working in the back of McDonald's drive-thru, called extended. Most McDonald's employees dreaded extended. You are alone in the back, isolated, cut off from the rest of the crew, and unless you were under nice management, you weren't permitted to leave your confinement. I, on the other hand, enjoyed the solitary it gave me. Still growing out of my geeky middle school stage, I was shy and preferred to keep to myself. While the drive-thru was hell for others, I found it as my only form of sanctuary in the place I dreaded most.

It was a warm, sunny day when I was working. The kind I hated most. No one wants to be kept inside on a gorgeous afternoon. I had spent from 7am til 2pm sealed up in the walls of high school. I wanted fresh air and to enjoy what the day had to offer. I leaned outside the window, half my body hanging out trying to be apart of the nature I felt so distant from. As I clung to the small ounce of freedom I had, I couldn't help thinking, "One day I'll be out of here. This is not what I'll be doing the rest of my life." The only problem was, I didn't know what I did want to do with the rest of my life. 

I remember standing there and pondering over my future career. I knew 2 things: 1) I immensely enjoyed music. 2) I also immensely enjoyed writing. And I was good at it. Right then and there, it was difficult to choose. The idea of owning my own concert venue, or being a manager of a band, or working for a record company strongly appealed to me. But writing...writing I already knew I liked. And I already knew that I was somewhat good at it (if you're judging that by this blog entry then I most certainly apologize. You must surely find me a liar. I promise, I do better than this!). I had these two loves. What was I to choose? Until it hit me. I didn't have to choose. No. All I had to do was combine these two loves. I could use my writing skills to write about the musicians I adored. I could meet the musicians of my dreams and tell the world about them. It was, at the time, the most brilliant plan I had ever dreamed up. The goal to write for the Rolling Stone was born. 

And now here I am, five years later, far from the greasy confinement of McDonalds in my own new hell called fear and failure. Writing is no longer the fun little hobby I do on the side. It takes more than to just sit and spill my thoughts (again, contrary to this blog, I promise). My perfect As on papers have been reduced to barely Cs. I get nervous, tense, hurt, and uncomfortable. I sense failure in my future and I doubt my abilities. I'm terrified. Because I've realized this truly is what I want to do with my life. And I don't know if I have what it takes to do it. And the only way I'm going to get through this...

Is to write.