Milestone, The First: A 5k without thinking. I just ran it. After weeks and weeks of no running. I just started running and didn’t stop until I hit 3.1, which turned into 3.5, and my legs felt amazing, and my chest didn’t feel like it was burning itself in effigy and all of that was quite unexpected, a bigger-than-baby step for this always-only-a-sprinter, and then I turned around and did it all again the next day.

Milestone, The Second: A 13-mile hike. A Saturday morning hike was my idea, but I didn’t anticipate a thirteen-miler straight out the gate. I’ve long loved hiking, have spent countless summers exploring various destinations only reachable by foot, but it’s admittedly been awhile since my weekends were consistently characterized by endless green, my feet tackling delightfully muddy trails, my eyes taking perpetual snapshots of waterfalls. I grew up playing in the woods, traipsing trails new and old from as early as I can remember, trying to get lost for hours at a time in the dense woods surrounding Priest Lake and never quite succeeding. My dad had done too good a job teaching me how to navigate the trees. I always seemed to know where I was even when I was sure I didn’t.

Among a list of eight hikes suggested by Cayly, Eagle Creek was sitting there, batting its alluring mileage at me, wooing me with promises of challenging terrain, multiple scenic pay-offs, pools I could swim. I couldn’t remember what a thirteen-mile hike looked like, but I stopped being able to sit still when I realized that was what I wanted: I wanted to tackle the longest hike on the list, and her favorite. The one requiring a 4:00am wake-up.

I nearly bounded out of bed at 4am, so excited was I to see this trail, so eagerly anticipating perpetually sweating and laughing with Cayly as we climbed and climbed and climbed. I knew before stepping foot on the trailhead I would love this hike as much as she did. Knew following a gorgeous creek for half a day was going to be a perfect way to start a Saturday. Knew I would be taking countless pictures even while realizing none of them would be able to capture the deafening beauty of standing next to a roaring waterfall while it pours itself over a 130-foot wall of rock. I knew all of that.

What surprised me was never once did I want to stop. Never once did my body feel like it couldn’t handle the mileage. If anything, my legs were telling me they wanted to go farther, wanted to keep pushing, wanted to create a new trail from the end of the old one. The waterfall-littered hike itself was breathtaking, and Cayly and I didn’t see another soul for the first two hours, unless you count the doe and her two fawns who bounded in front of us along the trail, and who we met on our way back, standing mere feet away from us this time.

It was (and no doubt will continue to be) one of my favorite days of this entire year.

Milestone, The Third: Running without music. This happened accidentally this past weekend as I visited Tryon Creek for the first time (after yet another stellar recommendation from Cayly), and again found myself instantly captivated by the sheer beauty of the place, the unexpected quietness of the space. We already have Washington Park, Forest Park, countless coastal spots just a short distance away, and then there’s Tryon: A veritable bonanza of green resting comfortably in the middle of our otherwise bustling city. It’s almost unfair how beautiful Portland is.

It was pouring when I parked at the nature center, just as it’d been pouring most of the night and all morning, and as these trails were new to me, and because I was so smitten with the sound of the rain hitting the canopy overhead, I decided I wasn’t going to start with headphones in my ears. A mile in and I had already forgotten they existed, and there I was, thoughtlessly and merrily running the way so many do, the way my sister always has, listening to nothing but the woods telling me stories amidst my own breathing and the rhythmic turnover of my feet on the forest floor.

There’s something about rainy woods that will always be so comforting to me, as if the raindrops themselves are keeping me company, spurring me forward with their steady rhythmic drip drip dripping, my pace quick quick quickening as the trail bends and I stretch my legs as long as I can, eagerly anticipating what I can’t yet see as much as I what I still can: Lush green tumbling in, surrounding me on all sides, ferns reaching out to brush my legs with their waterlogged tendrils, branches falling over themselves to touch my head, my shoulders, narrowly missing my face as I dodge in and around and through them.

I ran four miles of rolling trails with a giddy grin on my face and by the end of it my legs were tired and all of me was soaking wet, and that giddy grin? Well it really hasn’t left my face.

(For the visual learners (myself included; holler), I’ve created a Flickr set to house all of my woods-traipsing photos, doing business as Hike The Planet! More coming soon and very soon.)

Writing, editing, and organizing grant proposals, and preparing gargantuan-sized grant budgets feverishly, to meet deadlines both old and new.

Snuggling with my pug and enjoying any downtime I have been able to muster.

Writing! I’m so excited about three different stories I have in the works, and thanks to a recent prompt by Danny, I’ve been sitting down daily to translate my excitement into actual words on a page. (Not unlike snakes on a plane. Only better. And with less Samuel L. Jackson.)

Ruminating on some writing feedback I received from a poetry competition (Spoiler alert: I didn’t win), and from friends regarding the first chapter of one of the three aforementioned stories.

Sucking at email. I’m sorry! I promise next week will be better. (I think!)

Editing photos from last weekend’s sisterly homecoming in Spokane. These are a few of my favorites:

Cleaning my apartment to an anal-retentive degree in preparation for Kristin! staying with me this weekend.

Absolutely riveted by the first installment of The Hunger Games. After a gentle prompt from Kali (It went something like, “Have you read these?”), I skipped over to Powell’s and bought the first book, not thinking I was going to be into the story, having read the back cover before and convinced myself I wasn’t interested. By page five Collins had completely hooked me, and I gave the Jiffy Lube attendant the stink eye when he interrupted my reading to ask me to pay him for my oil change. (And yes, I verily realize I’m late to the proverbial party, being that the first book was originally published in 2008, but I like to pretend I fall in love with series when they are basically over so I don’t have to wait years/months/days in between installments. See also: Patience is for suckers!)

Using the note I found on my car after leaving an apologetic note for the person I parked way-too-close-to (There is construction in our parking garage! It is a nightmare!) earlier this week as a bookmark.

Not getting much sleep.

This weekend I am going to:

Have way too much fun with Kristin.

Eat at Andina for the first time.

Introduce Kristin to Hans, and watch hilarity ensue.

No doubt cry as I watch Rhi walk down the aisle toward Bill, and then back again holding his hand, happily married.

Dance my face (or maybe just my feet) off with Kali, and Amanda, and Kristin, and a slew of other people who are in town to watch Rhi and Bill begin their happily ever after.

Take Way Too Many pictures, especially more ridiculous hand-held group shots.

——————-

What are YOU going to do this weekend?

(Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it.)

*Title is a literary hat tip to Joyce Carol Oates’ Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

Theresa Marie (aka babycarrot sister) in Korea:

A moody Cannon Beach:

The beach (almost) directly across the Pacific from Cannon Beach, otherwise known as Naksan, South Korea:

Iggy is not a fan of having his picture taken. This is one of those rare shots I was able to get without him looking down, or around, or otherwise just walking away while I’m in the middle of snapping a shot:

Erin! and her umbrella (ella ella):

Lunch break reading with Kate’s Dread Crew:

Angella! in Vancouver:

Hans! in Vancouver:

Jen! in Vancouver:

Indeed:

Found art near PSU in Portland:

Reading The Monster At The End Of This Book with Meggan and her wee Wesley:

Iggy loves Angella, Exhibit A:

A particularly snowy day in Yangyang, South Korea:

Blurry me:

*For the record, 90 is much too hot for my delicate (pasty white skin, yes, and) sensibilities. I’m a huge fan of moderate-to-cooler temperatures pretty much always, hence me (loving) living in this particular city in this particular state.

Stay cool, kids.

Why, you ask?

Well, first! because I got to spend half a day with the stylishly savvy and incredibly down-to-earth Kali, soaking up the sun, chatting about everything and nothing, stuffing our faces with Italian food, making fun of American Apparel clothing, and finally, watching The A-Team.

Dear American Apparel, This is u-g-l-y, it ain’t got no alibi:

Dear American Apparel, 1987′s Debbie Gibson called. She wants her sweater back:

My review of The A-Team in a 140 characters or less, and without spoiling anything:

No, but really. It was awesome. And you should go see it. Like, tonight. The characters were super engaging, and the comedic timing was near perfect. Sure, there were ridiculous action sequences that could never actually happen, but hi, welcome to all the best action movies.

Cool guys don’t look at explosions.

It was quite amusing to discover Kali and I were watching The A-Team at the exact same time Angella and her husband were, some 10+ hours away. We were equally smitten with the film, and I was definitely not surprised. Angella is awesome for many reasons, not the least of which being her appreciation for (Bradley Cooper, and) great action movies.

On Sunday I woke up early with absolutely zero to do beyond meet Hans for some coffee consumption and studying. While I would wait until later to drink coffee (I dropped in at Barista to see my friend Meggan’s husband, Daniel, and drink their delicious brew), Hans and I had an awesome morning people-watching and conversing at Sip & Kranz, which for some unknown reason I have called Sip N’ Kranz since I first visited the place over a year ago, as if (I can’t read signs, or) it’s a coffee shop doubling as a boy band from the early ’90s.

We sat outside for hours and watched sleepy, happy Portlanders amble by with myriad sized dogs in tow, and listened to kids splashing in the community wading pool at the center of the small park laden with trees and shaded benches. That is, until a man came to sing and play his portable keyboard, just for us.

I also shared the magic of the (very free) MacGruber app for the iPhone with Hans, complete with MacGruber mullet generator.

Reason #437 why I love Hans: She’s a great sport. Especially when it comes to computer-generated mullets.

After leaving Sip AND Kranz, we meandered over to Bridgeport in the Pearl for some patio brews, wherein “brews” mostly means “brew, singular,” as in “I had a Haymaker Pale Ale while Hans studiously studied.”

After monopolizing Hans’ Sunday morning, I hiked around Northwest for a few, eventually stopping in at REI to get into trouble spend some birthday money (See also: my grandma is cooler than your grandma), eventually deciding on a pair of Chacos (a preemptive expense for some river rafting I’m so psyched to be looking forward to as part of Rhi‘s bachelorette weekend in August), and a pair of green Tevas. I then proceeded to get ridiculously sweaty on my trek home. This just in! Leisurely walking: I apparently cannot do it! At least, not when I’m walking solo.

A super “artistic” shot of my new Tevas from underneath the table at 23 & Hoyt.

After changing so as not to stank in public, I went to meet two of my favorite people (Ms. Long Story Longer and the aforementioned Rhi!) for drinks at 23 & Hoyt, and convinced Hans to come and delay her studying a bit longer. A good scholarly influence I am apparently not.

From left to right: Long Story Longer, and Rhi. They make me laugh. A lot.

While chatting with Kali on Saturday, and with the rest of the girls on Sunday, I realized, for the hundredth time probably: I really do have the most amazing of all friends. They are witty and hilarious, kind and generous, and some of the most supportive people I have ever known. I am beyond blessed to have each of every one of them* in my life.

In short: If the rest of the summer is anything like this particular weekend, I will officially be a happy camper.**

So, tell me, what did you do this weekend?

———————-

*Each and every one of YOU if you are a friend of mine reading this right now. (Also, hello! Happy! Monday.)

**No actual camping is planned for this summer, as I’m pretty sure a tent, a sleeping bag, and a desire to camp are prerequisites for camping.

I recently announced my (Roller!) Derby intentions via Twitter, and since then haven’t looked back, which is good seeing as how there really isn’t anywhere else to go but forward, on a pair of quad skates that I am about to own, and hopefully will remember how to skate in, drawing on muscle memory learned from Way Back In The Day, when I rocked Pattison’s Roller Rink every Friday night, and don’t worry, lest you think I’m completely insane (vs. only marginally insane), I do understand there is endlessly more to derby than knowing how to out-skate prepubescent boys who are trying to hold your hand during the exceedingly awkward “Couples Skate.”

Lest any of you wonder how this derby decision came about (Is this an official quarter life crisis? Is Kerri in need of an intervention?), here are some answers to some FAQs (Frequently Assumed Questions), which is to say, the questions I’m assuming you might be asking yourself right about now:

1. What the eff is Roller Derby? It’s a rad sport played on skates that requires agility, strength, and the ability to repeatedly pick yourself up off the floor after being thrown onto it. The Rose City Rollers deem it a “game of brutal beauty.” It’s definitely that. You can read all about the history of derby here.

2. Why do you want to play Roller Derby? I’ve been interested in derby ever since I knew it existed, and especially since one of my good friends turned long-distance derby coach, Jen started skating in 2006/2007. The first bout I ever watched left me determined to skate, because to me derby looks like the most fun a girl could have while getting an amazing workout and reaping the benefits of being part of a dynamic, athletic team. I miss team sports, and the power of weekly practice(s), and frankly: I think with my athletic background I can learn to rock these skates given enough time and practice.

3. But you seem so…nice. I can’t picture you throwing someone across a derby track. I used to play the post position in basketball and believe me, it gets pretty rough under the hoop. I’m tall and pretty strong (soon to be much stronger) and I’ve hip-checked my fair share of bigger-than-me girls. Plus, I think derby might actually make me a nicer person. Having a designated place to unleash a healthy amount of aggression on a weekly basis sounds pretty perfect to me.

3. You recently watched Whip It, didn’t you? Actually no, though yes, I have seen it. To be clear, I’m under no illusion that I’m going to step onto the track and skate so fast I’ll turn Andrew Wilson’s head and be instantly placed in the starting crew on a bouting team next to veterans sporting awesome derby names like Maggie Mayhem and Smashley Simpson. That doesn’t happen (ever, really, but especially not) in Portland’s league. Though I will admit I’m hoping my dad stakes a wooden sign in his front yard with my derby name and number on it. The reality is: I’m attending a derby boot camp from July 15th – August 8th, where I’m fully expecting to get my proverbial and literal ass kicked, after which, assuming I’m still conscious, I’m intending to try out for the Rose City Roller’s Fresh Meat team, which is where I will stay until I’m officially drafted onto one of Portland’s five bouting teams.

4. Speaking of derby names! What’s yours? Awesome question, and I do indeed have one I’m psyched to use, but unfortunately the name itself is a bit top secret at the moment. Not because I’m too cool for school, but because I don’t want to get thrown onto the floor for being the girl who shows up to Day 1 of boot camp claiming a derby name before she’s even made it through one of the drills.

5. But maybe you were born to skate and you’ll fly through boot camp and tryouts, and get drafted onto a bouting team almost immediately! You’re watching Whip It right now, aren’t you?

6. When you make the team, can I come watch you bout and maybe even make a sign for you that I’ll hold up as you skate around the track passing people like they’re standing still? YES. Yes, please! Also: I love you.

OK! So now that you know why I’m simultaneously psyched and pants-crappingly scared about derby, let’s get to some pictures, because we’re all about the visual learning up in here, are we not? Yes, yes we are!

(It should be noted, lest anyone get any wrong ideas, that because my parents are amazing, and because my dad’s face lit up like it was Christmas* when I told him I was thinking about playing Roller Derby, they are financing the gear portion of Kerri’s Great Derby Adventure (KGDA!), for which I am immensely grateful, because derby gear? Is not for the faint of checkbook.)

This is my helmet (to protect my brains!), the one that took me nearly two days to order because I couldn’t make up my mind. Oh hai, Overthinking Everything.

Behold: my knee pads. I have it on good authority that falling on these babies is like falling on “puffy clouds.” My knees really hope this puffy cloud analogy is accurate.

My elbow pads look about the same as my knee pads (and are made by the same company), though of course they are more elbow-shaped. I also have wrist pads, which I might be a little in love with, seeing as how I’m maybe wearing them as I type this. MAYBE.

These are a few of the knee-high socks I ordered to wear when I skate, as I was advised that exposed shins are not happy shins.

Unicorns!

Ice-cream cones!

And the pair that basically bought themselves!

Yes, those are pink knee-high socks laden with mustaches. Perhaps needless to say, I am quite excited about those.

And last but not least, seeing as how none of this pain-filled fun actually exists without them: MY SKATES.

Game so totally on.

——————

*Come to think of it, it actually was! Christmas. After I told my parents I wanted to try out for derby, my dad said they would definitely come to Portland to watch me play, which, if you know my parents at all, is basically akin to them saying, “You’re going to the moon, you say? Well…that’s pretty far, and the parking is terrible, but if that’s where you’re going, we’ll totally be there, too.”

**Post title is from this video, and if you haven’t seen it, I will say with no hesitation that you MUST. No, really. Stop what you’re doing and go watch it now. You can thank me later.

Ever since I became a convert, every other week I have to fight the urge to shout one word from the rooftops, one word to rule them all, one word I want everyone I know and love to understand because of its power to amaze, heal, and soothe.

One word that has nothing to do with corporate ladders, or life lists, or (Kevin) bacon.

I’m talking about the Church of Acupuncture (hallelujah! and) amen.

ACUPUNCTURE.

You guys, I mean it! ACUPUNCTURE.

Let me just make sure I’m being clear here: ACUPUNCTURE. Is amazing.

If I could pinpoint (ah, puns) the one thing that has been the most transformative for me in the past twelve months, I would pick acupuncture. Yes, more transformative than a marriage ending and an incredible trip to Asia, even. I told you this was a love story. And I’m really not kidding.

Ever since college (and quite possibly ever since high school) I’ve been prone to upper respiratory infections. The kind that make my head fly off to Jupiter, and my nose shoot yellow snot like a cannon, and my chest expectorate* clusters of evidence of my body’s own feeble attempts to rid itself of whatever germ has recently taken up residence inside of it.

A year after moving to Portland I got so sick that I physically shudder remembering September, October, and November of 2008. Even if I hadn’t been so sick that I ended up missing too much work and far too much sleep, so sick that once I started coughing I literally could not stop (and I started coughing every day, and every night, for WEEKS that turned into MONTHS, and no amount of Robitussin could seemingly quell the quaking inside my bronchial cavity), I would still probably tell you I dislike my “physician.” That’s me actually air-quoting “physician” because, as I’ve always understood their purpose for existing, doctors are supposed to help people.

I’m sure your doctor does help people. I’m sure your doctor helps you, even! That’s awesome. No, really. I promise this isn’t a post about doctor bashing. It isn’t even a post about my very not awesome doctor, even though since moving to Portland and thus switching physicians, my doctor hasn’t helped me do anything beyond a) get sicker and b) pay for office visits and treatments I wouldn’t have needed had she simply treated my symptoms when they first arose.

All of that to say: my dissatisfaction with my own physician (and with Western medicine in general)  is why I turned to acupuncture in the first place, so to me the back story is more than a little relevant to this here (love) story.

I can’t speak to your personal experiences with your primary care physician, but even when I had a doctor I loved and who had been seeing me since I was probably eight years old, whenever I arrived for an appointment I waited until after my appointment time, and then was taken back to a room where I waited for the doctor to arrive, and then when the doctor finally did arrive I felt as if had about five minutes to rapidly recount my list of concerns, to which said doctor would rapidly respond, most often prescribing or suggesting nothing, beyond maybe rest, or water, and that was it.

Just to be clear, I am not a hypochondriac. (I’m also not judging you if you are.) Quite the opposite, actually. I’m the girl who clearly broke two fingers while playing basketball at some point in high school and never told anyone how badly they hurt, and so never had them reset, and so the tops of two of my fingers on my left hand are noticeably a little crooked.

I don’t call the doctor’s office to talk to nurses for fun, or to annoy them. (I worked in the health care industry for years, so I know there are people who do both.) I don’t call asking for a prescription unless I actually need one. And while I get that I’m not a doctor and never will be, I know my body well enough to know when I need antibiotics, and I would really like to meet the person who has the luxury (and sanity) to be sick for 10-14 days before being given anything that will make them feel better. I don’t call the doctor’s office when I have a cold. You shouldn’t either. I get that there isn’t anything to be done for a cold. For a bacterial infection, there is something they can do. They can prescribe antibiotics. But they won’t. Not until I’m legitimately sick for at least two weeks, thereby missing work and generally having such limited control over my physical symptoms so as to be deemed actually pitiable. And my doctor’s office won’t even entertain the idea of prescribing over the phone, even when my symptoms are identical to ones that must be in my chart, because they are the same (and only) symptoms I call to report any time I call them.

But here’s where the story gets less angsty and more joyful! joyful!

The first time I ever went in to see my acupuncturist, I didn’t wait past my appointment time, and when she herself took me back to her room, she proceeded to stay with me for two hours (TWO HOURS). We talked nonstop for the first hour while she took notes and built a chart for me from the ground up, asking me questions, and listening to me answer them, engaging in direct and meaningful conversation with me. The latter hour was for “treatment” as she called it, and it was the very first time I was going to allow, and actually encourage, someone to stick needles into various places on my body, and I have to tell you (I have been meaning to tell you!), after walking into that office with a headache that registered quite high on my pain scale, I walked out of that office with not an ounce of ache left in my head.

Not only did it eradicate headaches I had battled my entire life, but when I recently went in with my very own upper respiratory infection, a.k.a. Mucus Sickness Of Doom (MSOD), instead of looking at me with no sympathy and telling me I would have to be sick for a full two weeks before any medication would be prescribed–oh and I should just get some Mucinex, and also, drink some water–my acupuncturist told me how thankful she was I came in even while I was feeling miserable and was surely contagious, and proceeded to work some magic with those little needles, sticking them in my arms, and the top of my head, and my feet, and then, for the very first time, she stuck needles in my face. She stuck them in various places along my nasal and sinus passages and the immediate relief I felt when she did that was, I’m not even kidding you, transcendental. My head stopped hurting almost immediately, and I could breathe out of my nose, and for the first time in over a week I didn’t feel like I was going to cry when required to stand upright.

My acupuncturist also prescribed some herbs (Do I sound hippie enough yet? Kerrtopia, here I come!) that all but eradicated my sicky sickness and bright yellow grossness in a week. ONE WEEK. Whereas, the last time I listened to my physician and just waited to get better on my own, per her instruction, I was sick for MONTHS, and even after being prescribed a steroid inhaler for the coughing (and for what she called “viral-induced asthma”), I didn’t feel like I could take deep breaths and/or work out vigorously for any length of time without having trouble breathing for a very long time.

I will be the first to admit I don’t typically get down with needles at all, and especially needles in my face, but by George! it WORKS (from the very first visit, it worked!) and I’m a fan.

Possibly a fanatic as evidenced by this post.

At the risk of coming across like a trite know-it-all who just throws out blanket healing methods without recognizing specific sickness situations, please know that (of course!) I do understand Western medicine has its place in this world, and in my life, and if I ever get caught in a stampede of angry ostriches, you can bet I’m going to the hospital and not my acupuncturist’s office.

But, just as there is a place for Western medicine, there is, I firmly and wholeheartedly believe and will proclaim until the day I die, a place for Eastern medicine, and specifically, Chinese medicine. Because I’m really not exaggerating when I tell you acupuncture has saved my body, and my sanity, this past year and a half.

More than just feeling better, this past year and half I’ve realized I don’t have to settle for one version of medicinal healing. I don’t have to settle for feeling like a co-pay, or a rushed office visit. I don’t have to settle for feeling worse before I feel better.

I can just feel better.

So can you. You know, if you want.

*I can’t type that word without thinking of Gaston in Beauty and the Beast singing, “I’m especially good at expectorating!” And in case you have no idea what I’m talking about, here you go! You’re welcome.

Yesterday morning I revisited the crazy that is signing up for a race on an early Sunday morning, with friends as (awesome! and) crazy as you are, and then freaking out for 48 hours before said race because you are extremely adept at concocting ridiculous scenarios in your head that will never actually happen. (I do this for job interviews, too. It’s the neurosis that keeps on giving!)

“But what if I can’t run like I want to; what if I have to walk the entire race? Or what if I break my leg or something, or I’m too nervous to even start the race, OR the officials think I’m not running fast enough and tell me I should have just signed up for the Shamrock Stride, and what am I doing thinking I can run 3.1 miles anyway? What if they kick me out because I’m not wearing any green? OMG, what if I’m the very last runner across the finish line?”

Yesterday morning Kali and I galloped our way from the start to the finish of the Shamrock Run, and while it quickly became very apparent I need to be fitted for running shoes that don’t make my feet ache and throb and oh hey, fall completely ASLEEP while running, I felt better than I ever have at that distance, and I knew I could finish, and finish strong. I was bummed we couldn’t find Rhi before the start (it was madness down at the waterfront), but it was hard not to grin at the sheer energy bouncing around like the runners who were gearing up to put their feet to pavement on a crisp but clear spring Sunday morning.

It seems a little nuts on paper: paying money to get up way too early on a weekend morning to join throngs of strangers to run a distance you could run without worrying about packet pick-ups, nerves, crowds, parking. But the second I was standing in Waterfront Park, freezing and bouncing and stretching, I remembered why races are exciting, why they sell out year after year. It’s the energy, electric and contagious, bouncing off every single person who made the commitment to show up and participate, radiating to the friends and family members (and complete strangers) who line the route and clap and cheer as people pass by, pushing themselves to reach a finish line that is as much mental as it is physical.

Kali was an amazing running partner, and we laughed at the ridiculously chipper race announcer and his affinity for calling everyone “Leprechauns,” and watched people running in bright green tu-tus and huge hats and even saw a guy jogging while playing a banjo.

I was nervous about the distance and about doing it sans iPod, and about the incline up Broadway around mile two that was admittedly pretty brutal, but once we rounded that corner and started the last leg of the race heading downhill, I had to fight the urge to start laughing, because I was DOING THIS and feeling awesome (despite not really being able to feel my right foot, whoops), and I had forgotten how hard you can push your body and see it respond favorably. I had forgotten how far you can go even when you think you’re not ready.

I know to anyone who runs distance regularly 3.1 miles is a walk in the park.

To this girl it was one of the best things I’ve done with my body for years. And I’m admittedly excited to do it again. You know, when my legs stop screaming obscenities at me.

You see, I’ve been a lover of the ocean, and of all things aquatic and nautical-inspired, ever since I can remember.

My love for sea-faring-everything might very well have been fostered during the myriad spring breaks spent exploring quaint coastal communities in and around Port Ludlow, Washington. Some of my fondest childhood memories spring forth from days spent poking my curious face into every trinket shop in downtown Poulsbo and downtown Bremerton, carefully selecting bracelets laden with sparkling gems found in nearby sand, wondering about the sharks who gave up their teeth for necklaces while peering at tiny sailing ships in tiny bottles  and cheerfully collecting polished shells to keep in my pockets.

I still vividly remember late afternoons spent beach-combing for mollusks and buried treasure on Bainbridge and Whidbey Islands; a morning studying tides with my aunt Joy until she happily selected the perfect window for clamming in Port Angeles; the way saltwater smelled on my skin hours later, still stuck between my toes.

Until I reached my second year of college and realized a simultaneous double major in Biology and English Literature was going to be next to impossible without first learning how to clone myself, I very much wanted to be a Marine Biologist. As such, I had spent many a day-dream envisioning a life led on the ocean floor: mining murky water for mystic and illicit meaning; diving for clues to uncloak the mysteries of marine mammals; marveling daily at the miraculous design of oceanic ecosystems.

Though I know it to be much more than a fairytale career, I still find the possibilities, and the idea of a seascape workplace, endlessly fascinating, crashing waves to me as tempting as a siren song.

It’s little surprise then, that when I was properly introduced in college to one Mr. Herman Melville–author and sailor and self-taught know-it-all concerning all things leviathan and nautical–I fell into deep literary smit. I was fortunate enough to study under a bona fide Melvillean scholar at my university, and was able to take an entire course focusing solely on Melville and his collected works. Soon after, I read Moby-Dick multiple times, followed by every piece of his writing I could get my hands on, including his short stories (which are some of my favorites), and his collected poems.

I was surprised and thrilled to receive an email from a fellow Melville fan while I was in Korea (Hi! Scott), with references to Moby-Dick related awesomeness, my very favorite of which was a project entitled One Drawing for Every Page of Moby-Dick, and the fact that the artist (is super creative and talented, yes! and) knew to hyphenate the title, Moby-Dick (though you never hyphenate the whale, Moby Dick) made me want to give him a literary fist bump. Is there such a thing as a literary fist bump? There should be.

I’m verily smitten with the entire project (which is at this point, still ongoing), especially page 153.  For those of you lazy selective link clickers, this! is page 153 (image © Matt Kish):

The line from the text he took for this page’s inspiration, which also doubles as the piece’s title: “Did you fixedly gaze, too, upon that ribbed and dented brow; there also, you would see still stranger foot-prints — the foot-prints of his one unsleeping, ever-pacing thought.”

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In other quasi-nautical news, last Thursday I attended a (n uber-talented) friend’s art opening, her photography part of a three-point collaboration with two local Portland artists (Hey Jolby!) to ultimately create fifty works of original art, all sea-faring and pirate-esque in nature.

If faced with choosing one official favorite or walking the plank, I think I would have to go with “Treasure of Calypso”:

I was also quite taken with “The Death Coast”:

And “The End”:

(All images © Ashely Forrette & Jolby)

The exhibit is called Sea Legs (and is showing at the Together Gallery until March 20th), and I loved the show enough to seriously plot how I could somehow move into the exhibit space, so I didn’t have to walk out of it without every single piece tucked underneath my arm.

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Thus, we come to the end of this, our maritime digression of sorts.

Happy! March, ye land lubbers.

Post title is referencing a lyric (“I’m on a boat and/It’s going fast and/I’ve got a nautical-themed pashmina afghan”) from The Lonely Island’s “I’m On A Boat,” which, yes, I’ve probably watched six-hundred times, and yes, still makes me laugh, every time.

Oh! And I have a post up at Work It Mom! today, talking about how to deal with difficult bosses and colleagues, and my Print Of The Week is up on Style Lush, too!

If you’re thinking I’m ridiculously excited (you’re right! and), add a dollop of sheer GLEE (I get to see my SISTER, and WILL, and HUG them both), and a dash of apprehension (because hi, I have no idea what to expect, or how I’m going to read anything, and one of my co-workers recently told me to bring anti-poo pills with me, and did I ever anticipate I would be talking to said co-worker about bowel movements while traveling abroad? No, no I did not) to the emotional mix, and you will have my emotional state in a nutshell. Or in a mixing bowl, as it were.

No doubt I’m going to have endless pictures to share from upcoming weeks to be spent in China and South Korea (and I’m beyond excited to take those pictures, and to share them), but for now, here’s how this past week looked in pictures:

Exhibit A: An empty fortune cookie on Monday, which, while causing me a brief existential crisis, also made me realize that yeah, I really do make my own luck. Take that, Cheap Chinese Restaurant Who Shall Not Be Named (cough…August Moon…cough).

Exhibit B: We like to rain it, rain it.

Exhibit C: A new necklace, which I’m (amusing myself by) calling The Precious. The Precious is so precious, in fact, that it can’t bother to be photographed in focus.

Exhibit D: A lovely gift from Sizz! Inside the adorable box was an even more adorable pair of turquoise earrings.

Exhibit E: Or, what happens when you try to take a picture of a beautifully colored sky while you’re walking out to your car after work. I actually love the way this shot turned out, even if it is all epileptic-looking.

Exhibit F: This is what me choosing books to be stowed in my one and only carry-on looks like. The stack below represents the main contenders, which I am now evaluating based on 1) weight; 2) general interest in the story/stories; 3) probability of the book encouraging strangers to strike up conversations with me while I’m attempting to read on the plane. Antisocial air travelers, UNITE.

Exhibit G: I (basically) finished packing a full week before I’m scheduled to fly. That’s a personal record in anal-retentive travel for me.

Exhibit H: Running office-related errands and thinking these window decals walked right out of Where The Wild Things Are.

Exhibit I: Work-related fun in our Creepy Storage Unit. (That’s Erin! at the window.)

Exhibit J: I spent the bulk of Saturday shopping, lunching and movie-watching with Kali! at Bridgeport Village. It was my second visit to the shopping oasis and my first ever trip to Anthropologie. I managed to finish the majority of my pre-travel errands while enjoying terrific company. It was, in a word: awesome. Also awesome: Kali’s adorable flower hair clip.

Exhibit K: Want to donate to Haiti relief efforts and get an awesome t-shirt at the same time? Threadless is offering a new shirt with 100% of proceeds going to the American Red Cross. The mustached rabbits want you to donate. Listen to the mustached rabbits.

*Post title is from a super random episode of Everybody Loves Raymond.