Wednesday, June 11, 2003
LEARNING TO RUN Tuesday, May 27, 2003
Exercise was something no one in my family ever did. Dad was always at work (or so we thought). My mother thought ironing the sheets was strenuous enough. She thought listening to the Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in the summer was sport. My little brother was slightly overweight and very shy. My dad never played ball or anything with him, he had no friends. Grandpa fished. Does that count? Sitting in a rowboat in the middle of Long Island Sound, bottom fishing for fluke made him happy but didn't use up too many calories. My Gram and I did walk long distances. She was actually the only one without a drivers license and no car of her own, so she did walk alot. But no one played games. No tennis, no baseball, no volley ball, no hockey, no soccor, no golf, no nothing.
My mom was always discouraging me from doing anything that might "hurt myself". I did learn to swim in the Sound during those long, languid summers. I discovered the wonders you could see underwater when I got my first scuba mask and you could not get me out of the water. It was like magic. I'd be swimming and poking around the jetty hours at a time. My mother would get agitated when I wouldn't come out of the water. My face would get puffy and a little swollen from wearing the mask too long. I tried to prolong my time under water as long as possible wearing my beloved mask. One day, I'd left my mask on the beach by the high water mark. My dad found it and threw it as far as he could into the out-going tide.
Years go by, stuff happens, I'm never terribly athletic. I try to avoid gym at all costs. I'm always self conscious about my body but work hard to control the weight through food intake alone. I have the kind of body that always looks good in clothes and I seem to have an ability to pick the right clothes that emphasize my finer points. I actually wind up marrying a former Olympian (this is another story) who ran the mile (1600 meter) in Rome in 1960, but inspite of that, he seems happy with me as I am which is doing nothing more physical than sex. I spent most of my time then painting in my studio and artists are not known for their physical prowess.
More stuff happens, I have a child,(another story) stuff happens, I leave my husband, stuff happens, I pick-up a few new relationships. One day, lying naked on the floor of my bedroom with one of my newest (and most interesting) acquaintences on top of me, and suddenly there is a pause. He is staring down at me and says "what is that?". I don't know what he is talking about. He reaches down where my hips hit the floor and grabs a hunk of flesh that just seems to "pool" by my side. No man has ever pointed that out to me before. I look down and indeed, I am shocked myself to see this literal "puddle of flesh". All these years and no muscle tone. None, absolutely none. What to do? No one has ever had the nerve to point out this most unattractive development. My new friend packs a little weight himself but has good muscle tone. Turns out he's run the Boston Marathon at least 8 times and has taught exercise classes at MIT with Maggie Letvin. He agrees to help me with my little "problem". He tells me he will help me get in shape by running. I laugh. I'm petrified. I've never run in my life, not even to catch a bus. I don't own a pair of sneakers, much less running shoes. He takes me to Marathon Sports and has me fitted with my first pair, I think they were Asics. I was living in Dorchester at the time, a tightly packed city neighborhood with a dangerous reputation. Back at home his first challenge is to run around the block. Just around the block. Once. I set out in my new shoes. Up the hill. I'm giddy. I'm laughing but I think I might get sick. Will I make it? I'm afraid my legs won't work. Somehow I make it all the way around the block. He is pleased. My trainer, my mentor, my lover, my friend. He taught me how to run. I've been running ever since.
SMOKING AND DRINKING
My mother kept a ceramic box filled with cigarettes on the coffee table in the living room. They were for guests. Every table had an ash tray. Ash trays were popular Christmas gifts that we kids would make in elementary school art classes. It was the 1950's. My dad smoked cigars then. Big, fat stinky ones and sometimes he'd leave the soggy butts with one or two more puffs in them, resting on one of the ash trays. My mom chain smoked, I think it was Lucky Strike. Grandpa smoked Camels.
My Gram smoked but one Christmas she had a bad cold, turned in to bronchitis and she quit. Just quit - cold turkey. She was the only one in my family who managed that.
I was 7 or 8 years old when I snuck my first cigarette. Took one out of that box on the coffee table and hid outside behind the house. I got it lit, took a puff and gagged. This is horrible! Why does everybody do this I asked myself. That was it for me. I was never tempted again. Probably one of the best decisions I ever made.
Drinking however was another matter. Drinking was also part of the social fabric of our lives. Cocktails were served at all family functions. Whiskey Sours were big for a long time. My Gram loved her Old Fashioned with the maraschino cherry. She'd save her cherry for me.
Dad had a serious problem. He is what I would call a controled alcoholic. He ran a successful business. Never had a serious auto accident. (I don't even remember him ever getting a ticket) But his drinking terrorized our family. We'd watch and wait every weekend for that horrible moment when he would go over the edge and something really bad would happen, and the usual focus of that "really bad" thing was me. I was the family lightning rod.
It started when I would go around after family parties and drink the remains from peoples glasses, the sweet, syrupy dregs of Old Fashions and Whiskey Sours. When I was twelve or thirteen, my friend Donna and I were home alone one afternoon. We decided to mix ourselves a little drink, just for fun. We decided to use Gin from my parents well stocked liquor cabinet because we stupidly thought we could replace it with water and no one would know. One drink led to another and pretty soon there was nothing but pure water in the gin bottle. It was summer and we stumbled out to the backyard. I stumbled over my little brothers wading pool and landed flat on my back in the grass. I must've passed out. I felt my mother's hot breath in my face and slowly opened one eye. She was leaning down, almost nose to nose with me. "Cynthia! have you been drinking!" I laughed and the rest is pretty much of a blur.
Exercise was something no one in my family ever did. Dad was always at work (or so we thought). My mother thought ironing the sheets was strenuous enough. She thought listening to the Brooklyn Dodgers games on the radio in the summer was sport. My little brother was slightly overweight and very shy. My dad never played ball or anything with him, he had no friends. Grandpa fished. Does that count? Sitting in a rowboat in the middle of Long Island Sound, bottom fishing for fluke made him happy but didn't use up too many calories. My Gram and I did walk long distances. She was actually the only one without a drivers license and no car of her own, so she did walk alot. But no one played games. No tennis, no baseball, no volley ball, no hockey, no soccor, no golf, no nothing.
My mom was always discouraging me from doing anything that might "hurt myself". I did learn to swim in the Sound during those long, languid summers. I discovered the wonders you could see underwater when I got my first scuba mask and you could not get me out of the water. It was like magic. I'd be swimming and poking around the jetty hours at a time. My mother would get agitated when I wouldn't come out of the water. My face would get puffy and a little swollen from wearing the mask too long. I tried to prolong my time under water as long as possible wearing my beloved mask. One day, I'd left my mask on the beach by the high water mark. My dad found it and threw it as far as he could into the out-going tide.
Years go by, stuff happens, I'm never terribly athletic. I try to avoid gym at all costs. I'm always self conscious about my body but work hard to control the weight through food intake alone. I have the kind of body that always looks good in clothes and I seem to have an ability to pick the right clothes that emphasize my finer points. I actually wind up marrying a former Olympian (this is another story) who ran the mile (1600 meter) in Rome in 1960, but inspite of that, he seems happy with me as I am which is doing nothing more physical than sex. I spent most of my time then painting in my studio and artists are not known for their physical prowess.
More stuff happens, I have a child,(another story) stuff happens, I leave my husband, stuff happens, I pick-up a few new relationships. One day, lying naked on the floor of my bedroom with one of my newest (and most interesting) acquaintences on top of me, and suddenly there is a pause. He is staring down at me and says "what is that?". I don't know what he is talking about. He reaches down where my hips hit the floor and grabs a hunk of flesh that just seems to "pool" by my side. No man has ever pointed that out to me before. I look down and indeed, I am shocked myself to see this literal "puddle of flesh". All these years and no muscle tone. None, absolutely none. What to do? No one has ever had the nerve to point out this most unattractive development. My new friend packs a little weight himself but has good muscle tone. Turns out he's run the Boston Marathon at least 8 times and has taught exercise classes at MIT with Maggie Letvin. He agrees to help me with my little "problem". He tells me he will help me get in shape by running. I laugh. I'm petrified. I've never run in my life, not even to catch a bus. I don't own a pair of sneakers, much less running shoes. He takes me to Marathon Sports and has me fitted with my first pair, I think they were Asics. I was living in Dorchester at the time, a tightly packed city neighborhood with a dangerous reputation. Back at home his first challenge is to run around the block. Just around the block. Once. I set out in my new shoes. Up the hill. I'm giddy. I'm laughing but I think I might get sick. Will I make it? I'm afraid my legs won't work. Somehow I make it all the way around the block. He is pleased. My trainer, my mentor, my lover, my friend. He taught me how to run. I've been running ever since.
SMOKING AND DRINKING
My mother kept a ceramic box filled with cigarettes on the coffee table in the living room. They were for guests. Every table had an ash tray. Ash trays were popular Christmas gifts that we kids would make in elementary school art classes. It was the 1950's. My dad smoked cigars then. Big, fat stinky ones and sometimes he'd leave the soggy butts with one or two more puffs in them, resting on one of the ash trays. My mom chain smoked, I think it was Lucky Strike. Grandpa smoked Camels.
My Gram smoked but one Christmas she had a bad cold, turned in to bronchitis and she quit. Just quit - cold turkey. She was the only one in my family who managed that.
I was 7 or 8 years old when I snuck my first cigarette. Took one out of that box on the coffee table and hid outside behind the house. I got it lit, took a puff and gagged. This is horrible! Why does everybody do this I asked myself. That was it for me. I was never tempted again. Probably one of the best decisions I ever made.
Drinking however was another matter. Drinking was also part of the social fabric of our lives. Cocktails were served at all family functions. Whiskey Sours were big for a long time. My Gram loved her Old Fashioned with the maraschino cherry. She'd save her cherry for me.
Dad had a serious problem. He is what I would call a controled alcoholic. He ran a successful business. Never had a serious auto accident. (I don't even remember him ever getting a ticket) But his drinking terrorized our family. We'd watch and wait every weekend for that horrible moment when he would go over the edge and something really bad would happen, and the usual focus of that "really bad" thing was me. I was the family lightning rod.
It started when I would go around after family parties and drink the remains from peoples glasses, the sweet, syrupy dregs of Old Fashions and Whiskey Sours. When I was twelve or thirteen, my friend Donna and I were home alone one afternoon. We decided to mix ourselves a little drink, just for fun. We decided to use Gin from my parents well stocked liquor cabinet because we stupidly thought we could replace it with water and no one would know. One drink led to another and pretty soon there was nothing but pure water in the gin bottle. It was summer and we stumbled out to the backyard. I stumbled over my little brothers wading pool and landed flat on my back in the grass. I must've passed out. I felt my mother's hot breath in my face and slowly opened one eye. She was leaning down, almost nose to nose with me. "Cynthia! have you been drinking!" I laughed and the rest is pretty much of a blur.
