Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Oh what a friend can do for the soul.  It’s no secret I have a wonderful set of friends; the problem is most of them are three thousand miles away.  And while Skype and other social mediums have made moving away from them infinitely more bearable, it just doesn’t replace the simple warmth of an embrace or the smile two people can exchange not with their mouths, but in the depth of their eyes.

In the last two months, I forgot what that connection was like.  I’ve walked around this crowded city never alone, yet still lonely.  I know people here, I like people here, but I’m missing those who know what I’m thinking.  Those who know what tricks I have up my sleeve before I even think to use them.  Those people who I don’t mind when they laugh with me or at me, as long as I get to see them smile.

Don’t get me wrong, things are good here, but as I was talking to Shauna (someone I see far too little of) we discussed the City’s ability to play with emotions.  The best way to describe it is… the highs are higher, but the lows are even lower.  When something good happens to you, you feel like you have 8 million of your closest friends to share it with.  But when you’re just the slightest bit down, the city kicks you in the face.

Think about it; if you have a down turn in a relationship, you don’t necessarily want to be around happy couples.  If you just lost your job, you don’t want to celebrate someone else’s promotion.  This doesn’t mean you’re mad at the fortunate ones, it just means you want some time to wallow –alone.  Not gonna happen in New York my friend; remember I said, “lonely, but not alone”… never alone.  Subways are filled with loving couples stealing kisses.  Restaurants have their seats reserved with people celebrating success.  And bars are overflowing with friends laughing the day’s events away.  Everywhere you look will send you into a deeper pit than you ever intended on descending.

Thankfully, yesterday marked the start of The Great Friend Migration of 2010.  Over the next few days, Kev and I have 8 friends coming into town to see us and celebrate Halloween in the city.  First to arrive was Geoff and Breezer, who are actually going to be houseguests for two of the nights they are in town.  Last night I was so anxious to see them, I walked to the subway stop to greet them.  When I found them, I got my embrace, and I got my deep smile.  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I had been missing a close connection.  How can a friend make you feel better than you are?  I’m not quite sure, but I think it happened just when I needed it to.  We spent the night catching up, eating greasy Chinese delivery, and sightseeing.  But, most importantly laughing.  Sometimes laughing when nothing was said because our bonds exceeded the confinements of language.

I spent last night sharing my joy with 8 million of my closest friends.  Friendship is a powerful bond.  I can only hope I return the joy others give to me.

Dumb Ass... Use The Rail

Last night I washed a load of whites.  Not really a big deal, but since my whites were cleaned yesterday, today I was allowed to put on my white thermal top to wear to Starbucks.  It didn’t look like it was too cold out so all I would need was the white thermal top, paired with my light gray jeans, and of course white shoes to tie it all together.   Gathering my laptop, audition folder, and side bag I left the house with a certain enthusiasm; a spring in my step if you will. Well that spring, sprung right out seconds later when I found myself flat on my ass in the middle of the sidewalk. 

You see Chazo (pronounced Chah-zo), one of Mickey’s henchmen, is in charge of keeping my building up to standards.  Up to standards includes mopping all the hallways, stairways, sidewalk, and stoop.  Now when I opened the door of my apartment, the strong smell of bleach alerted me to Chazo’s presence.  Knowing Chazo had recently been through with the mop meant caution was in order.  I even grabbed the rail as I descended down the flight of stairs to get to the first floor.  Safe on the first floor, I continued to spring through the bleach soaked hallway towards the doors that lead outside.  I made it through both doors almost arrogantly with a confidence that exudes… “I know how to walk.”  But it was the stoop that got me.

I decided to conquer the recently sprayed and mopped stoop with no help from the rail at all; rails are for old people.  My god it’s only a stoop.  Just four little steps that have decades of paint on them.  Decades of regular (I would say high gloss) paint, no “non-skid” paint here, just good ole high gloss paint that has created a wonderfully smooth surface---for a stoop.

My right foot led the way.  I went from threshold to sidewalk in record time.  Luckily time slows for the individual who is going through embarrassment.  In this nanosecond I felt my right foot touch the top stair then ever so gracefully rise into the air to reach my left foot (which was already in the air because it had confidence in the right foots ability to stay on the ground).  I remember thinking, “Shit, this isn’t good.”  Next, my ass decided to land on the top stair.  I believe its thought process was… hell if the feet aren’t gonna be grounded, I guess I should.  So good at being grounded was my ass that it decided to be the one part of my body that hit every single stair on the way down.  My arms flailed, my legs kicked, but my rump held steady.

Now laid out on the sidewalk, in a puddle of water, that contained all the dirt from the now clean stoop-- I had time to evaluate.  Not paralyzed, nothing broken (except my pride), I started to look around to see who witnessed this spectacle.  Immediately a car drove by and the driver saw the look of horror on my face.  Then I made eye contact with an old lady about 20 feet away.  The look on her face was slightly confusing.  On one hand, I felt she was looking at me and thinking, “dumb-ass…should have used the rail.”  But then her look also could have meant, “Been there… hope his hip is alright.”  I guess I should just be happy she didn’t offer me her cane.

I got up and realized my very white outfit was now very dirty.  I could have gone up stairs and changed but I wasn’t about to risk going up the stoop.  I wore my dirty white outfit for the rest of the day and took pride in my tumble down the stoop.

Dumb ass…use the rail.

Good Bye Belly Lint... Hello Chilled Towels

God knows I love to exercise at the gym, but in the past few years, I have to say it's been getting less and less appealing.  The gym I had in California was a well known gym with many locations.  When I first started, it was rather nice, but then they started to build a few super premium gyms and in the process, they let their others go to shit.

I mean really... why was it hard to find a working treadmill that didn't have gum in the cup holder.  When your water bottle and towel have to compete for space with gum, hair, and probably belly button lint as well, you get a little grossed out.  Sure you can blame the guests and call them pigs, but I kind of look at it like this... when I go into a gas station bathroom and there is shit on the toilet seat, I don't worry about cleaning up the piss I left behind.  However, if it was clean in the first place, I would have done my job to keep it clean by wiping up my urine spillage.  Or at the very least, if I pissed on the seat, I would have strategically, with my foot, lifted the seat into the upright position as to appear to not be the one who actually pissed on the seat to those patrons using the bathroom after me.  

Oh and don't even think about using the locker room restrooms to take a dump; it is far too dirty to drop a bomb in there.  I couldn't possibly subject my poop to that sort of torture.  And then there’s the showers; when you take a shower only to feel dirtier than you were right after the workout (but now with a slight tickle of athletes foot and jock itch), you know something is wrong. 

Though these were my general workout conditions, I knew I was moving to New York so I stuck it out with them rather than deal with a new membership.  When I got to New York, I knew I wanted to go with a higher end gym that I had tried out before, but logic made me try out a more economical gym that was closer to the apartment.  This economical gym was exactly what I expected; slightly trashy, over crowded, and lacking any ambiance or style.  But, I was there to workout, not hangout so none if that mattered.  Yep... none of that mattered until I went back to the high-end gym for another free trial.

My god what a difference money makes. Clean showers, in which one (being me) can walk around sandal-less with no chance of catching the foot or the jock itch.  So clean, so stylish, plus designer products from Kiehl's to use at leisure, as well as complimentary (if complimentary means only paying the extra hundred bucks in monthly dues) mouth wash, hairspray, hair gel, deodorant razors, cotton swabs and more.  One could feasibly save on rent and forgo the apartment bathroom and just use the gym's amenities.

Past the locker room, the equipment is all state of the art, or at least that’s what I’m told.  All I know is they all work very smoothly and are gum/ belly button lint free.  I'm almost appalled at myself for having the audacity to sweat in facility such as this.  It really is dreadful, but at least they have staff to wipe up after me if I miss a spot.

The studio rooms are all immaculate, which means I won't be blowing some chicks hair wad away from my hands as I'm in Downward Dog.  Each mat is cleaned and sanitized so I don't have to worry about getting ringworm, or having to schlepp around my mat throughout the city.  In addition, there are designated studios for various classes, which means I no longer have to splash in sweat puddles left behind from the 9 o'clock spin class during my 10 o'clock yoga class.

Now if all this wasn't enough to turn me, let me tell you what did turn me... Cold Eucalyptus Towels.  At the end of every workout, I drag my sweaty ass over to the towel fridge---yep, a fridge dedicated to the storage of towels, soaked in water touched with the essence of eucalyptus, and chilled to 39 degrees fahrenheit.  Heaven!   As stupid and self-indulgent as this may sound, it was the reason that sent me over the edge.  Sign me up baby; I want the chilled towels.  Plus they supply all of your towels for everything else like bathing, swimming, and sweating, which makes a difference when you are carrying these extra items throughout the city in a backpack.  Especially after a workout when they are all wet and ripe.

No I didn't get a job as a membership salesman as you might be thinking, but I did sign up for a membership and I plan on getting my money's worth.  Hell, I might even stop in when I’m not working out—did I mention the Cold Eucalyptus Towels???

Bed Bugs... The New Herpes

No, really... don't let the bed bugs bite.  In New York right now it is no joke.  Bed bugs have become an epidemic that isn't going away.  I first saw a poster for bed bug awareness last year in Times Square on a massive billboard.  I remember it very clearly because it was a huge picture of a magnified bed bug.  It was also the first time I thought, "Wait, they really exist...it's not just a cute saying parents tell kids before sleep?"

With a little research, I learned this insect is about the size of an apple seed and not the size of the 14-story building as I saw in Times Square.  They like beds because the can hideout all day in the fibers then sneak their way up when they sense your body heat at night.  And this is when they strike, when you are in bed, asleep and of no threat to them.  They aren't stupid like mosquitoes, they suck your blood when there is minimum risk of you slapping at them.  What's most disturbing is they can live for up to a year without feeding on your tasty hemoglobin.  This makes them basically indestructible without actually throwing out the mattress, burning the sheets and praying they didn't get into your closets or even worse, your couch too.

So bad has this situation become that it seems people are treating it as the new herpes.  Once you've got it--you've got it.  The stigma stays with you for the rest of your days.  Just the other night, I heard my over boisterous neighbors on the street yelling out (yelling is their form of communication, it’s a funny language pattern---talking seems to be out of the question), "guuuurrrl... You got beeeeed bugz, haaaaa haaaa bitch!!!"  Oh and to clarify, this young lady was laughing at, not with, the girl who had been infected.  I felt bad for that scarlet lettered harlet.

Not wanting to be scarlet lettered ourselves, one night Kev and I actually turned around and went back home as we were heading towards a movie theatre to see Eat, Pray, Love.  Sure it may sounds like we are overreacting (we often feed off of each others weaknesses, and can easily become agoraphobic if we are allowed to spin out of control), but if you take in account businesses such as AMC, Hollister, and even Bill Clinton's office have been shut down for days because of infestation, it becomes a real threat.  One, I don't want bed bugs, but even more so, I don't want to sleep on/with the chemical pesticides that are used to kill the bed bugs.  I don't trust the solution enough to risk the problem.

It's gotten to the point where I don't want my fibrous clothes like wool, touching other people fibrous clothes for fear of hitchhikers.  Imagine my fears as I go on background calls and am forced to hang my stuff up on racks with other people’s clothes. I told you extras were humdingers... you know 90% of them have been infected with the new herpes and I don't want that percentage going up with me.  

To add to my fear, just this morning as I was walking to the subway station on my street, there was a couch and a mattress on the curb with "BED BUGS" loudly written on both with red marker.  Red means danger!!!  Had I known this breeding ground was there, I would have taken a different street.  Or, at the very least I would have inconspicuously changed the side of street I was on as if I saw a gang ahead.  You can never be too safe; I don't know how far they can jump... do you?

I wish I could end this blog entry with a happy ending such as, "And then they all died... The End."  But unfortunately, I'm gonna have to leave with, "Be afraid, be very afraid!!!"  And don't be surprised if you come over my house and I make you do a Dustin Hoffman type scrub down from Outbreak before entering.

5:00 am Wakeup Call

Who smokes weed at 5:00 am???  No really... who the hell is up even socializing at 5 in the morning?  Is it because I'm 30 that this time seems like a horrible time to be up; I think not.  I have always stood by the belief that being up for sunrise is a horrible idea.  Think about it, if you are still up when the sunrises, then clearly you've had too long of a night and you're probably way too intoxicated to enjoy gods gift to insomniacs.  But let's say no stimulants were involved and you were just having a wonderful all-nighter with a lover--- you’re still fucked for the rest of the day and your sleep schedule is going to be thrown off for the next week.  Not a good idea!!!

How about if you’re getting up before the sunrise... still a bad idea.  Who wants to be up that early?  In this case, you know you didn't get to bed early enough to get adequate rest so your puffy eyes look like hell.  Plus, if you're like me, you'll keep hitting snooze until that last critical minute before you must leave.  There's the time you'd like to be up to properly get ready, then there's the critical time; the time when one must leave in order to not arrive late.  Too often during my snoozing I start cutting things out of my morning ritual to get that extra 9 minutes of sleep.  First is the shower.  But really how dirty can I be?  I probably took a shower the night before so that's not a biggie.  Next could possibly be ironing clothes, but who am I kidding--I don't iron. Next thing I cut out is a biggie.  Starbucks: I like the ritual and it stops the chance of a caffeine headache by noon.  But look at the positive, already I have given myself 3 extra snoozes.  The last trade off for a snooze is the teeth. Yep, vulgar as it is, there have been times when I decided the next 9 minutes of sleep would be more valuable than hygiene.  And you know what judgers--you've probably done it too, plus Trident Peppermint Whitening does a great job at masking my hellaciously rank morning breath.

Good god where was I going with this... oh yeah, it's not a good idea to get up before the sun because it leads to a lack of sleep, which is a leading cause of people who walk around all day with no showers, caffeine headaches, wrinkled clothes, and dragon breath.  Again, no one should be up for sunrise.

But back to my original point: who smokes weed at 5:00 am?  Well apparently my neighbors do.  And they must smoke quite a bit because at 5:00am, I was awakened by the skunky smell of cheap weed wafting through my windows.  Wafting... who am I kidding, it was billowing into my room on the second floor.  It woke me up for Christ's sake.  It was so bad I got the munchies.  As I giggled my way into the kitchen, I decided it was a good idea to make a peanut butter and jelly burrito. Yes, burrito.  I took out a flour tortilla, slathered it with way too much peanut butter, added just a dollop of jelly, and then folded it (not wrapped, because wrapping would make it a wrap and not a burrito) into a double closed-end burrito.  I ate every delicious bite while still half asleep and wondering when the hell my neighbors were gonna sleep.

Now my feelings towards weed are neither positive nor negative.  I don't enjoy the smell, but I don't mind if people smoke it to unwind and relax.  I really don't mind it when people use it to get their appetite back.  I do however mind when people are smoking so much that it gives me an appetite.  God knows I don't need another reason to eat.

Enjoy your weed people, just not at sunrise and not under my window please.

You're Dead To Me

Yesterday was another early morning for me, 5:00 am to be exact.  It was the day of my return to the work force as well as my big screen or little screen debut.  But don’t get too excited, its not like I’m launching an acting career or anything, I just booked a job as an Extra, or I guess for a more P/C term “Background Artists.”  For those of you who don’t know what an Extra is, it’s basically the people behind the main actors in any given scene.  They never speak, are rarely focused on, and are often heard saying to there friends, “No, I swear I’m in it…the guy hailing a cab, two blocks down, as the camera pans left.  That’s totally me!!!”  Truth be told, it’s not a bad gig for some people.  If you’re union, you get paid decent, there are benefits if you book enough gigs, you get fed for free, and it’s not laborious.  That being said, I don’t think its for me; it has very little to do with acting, there is a lot of sitting and waiting… which doesn’t work for me.  I’m fidgety and may have been just slight touched with ADHD, and I don’t like people.

Well, let me clarify that last point, I don’t like new people at first, especially theatre people.  They/we require way too much energy to be around.  Always wanting to be in the spotlight.  Always fighting other people for attention and “one-upping” each other.  I just don’t have that skill in me so it’s hard to be around a group of these people.  And Extras by trade, love to talk.  I think its stems from having to not talk or fake-talk while the cameras rolling.  As soon as the director calls cut, these guys open there mouths and start giving there life stories to everyone as if they didn’t just give their life story to everyone on-set yesterday.  Number 7 (Yes, we are given numbers not character names), I don’t care to hear that your wife left you and your new girlfriend has a great rack you are still paying for!!! 

Now not all Background Artists are bad, some (you know who you are) make a living in this profession, and treat it as such, a profession.  They go to work, do their job, and understand their role in the big picture.  They also have no time for asshole rookies who disrupt the process and potentially hold back million dollar projects.  It’s a shame some bad Background Artists give Background Artist in general a bad rep because it just promotes the ill treatment and lack of respect for the good ones by everyone on-set.

Now onto the actual day of work…I woke up at 5 and suddenly got nervous about not having enough time to get to the transport van by 6:15.  Oh yeah, if your project is filming outside of the city, they usually provide transportation to the set.  Not wanting to be late, I got ready quicker than usual.  I even cut out a Starbucks run, which is highly unusual; I would much rather be late to an important event than miss out on my Iced Venti Quad, Extra Ice, Splash of Skim, Espresso.  But this was my first day so I decided to bite the bullet and forgo my happiness.  Good thing too, because the trains were running behind and I arrived at the van in Union Square at 6:14. 

I can’t tell you how happy I was to skip my happiness so I could get into a van at 6:15 and no, not leave as I had expected, but wait.  Wait 32 min for other Extras who can’t take there job seriously.  I could already feel the caffeine headache taking hold as my body slowly fought the unintended withdrawal.  At 6:47 the asshole we were waiting for arrived, unapologetic, and even slightly pompous as if we should have thanked him for showing up.  So self-important was he that he took shotgun (much to the drivers dismay), even though there were still many seats available in the back of the van.  Going forth, we will refer to him as “The Actor,” for clearly this man was mis-booked by his agent and should have been the star of this shoot and not a mere Extra.  As he sat his elite ass in the seat, he cleared the drivers cup holders of waters and walkie-talkies to make room for his coffee (no doubt, the coffee I should have been sipping on, and the coffee he got while we were all waiting for him).

Holding for this day’s filming locations was an hour outside of the city at a State Park Beach, and I spent that entire hour burning a hole through his head with my nasty little look.  When we arrived at holding, we filled out our paper work, had our clothing approved, and were shipped off to one of the filming locations for that day.  Usually, at holding or location there will be food and beverages; important because I could then get some caffeine in me to battle this now ragging headache.  But as luck would have it, my particular location didn’t have a food or beverage truck.  Shit, we didn’t even have an ice chest or water.  Even shade would have been nice to slow the dehydration.

Actually, we didn’t even have a chair to sit in, which is funny because I remembered thinking the night before, “I really don’t want to be sitting in a chair all day.”  Well after 3 hours of lying on concrete and sitting on curbs, I would have loved to have a nice comfy—metal foldout chair to park my butt.  What were we doing for those 3 hours, you ask?  Well…nothing, absolutely nothing.  The crew hadn’t even set up the scene to be shot, so we just sat and watched them or tried to sleep on concrete.  It wasn’t until 11 am that someone from crew came over with sip-size bottles of water.  Remember I said Extras don’t get much respect on the set, well this is proof, for 3 hours we sat in the sun with no water, yet they were hiding some the entire time.

As I slowly dehydrated, on the ground, in the sun, with no caffeine I was given even more affirmation as to why Extra people just aren’t my people.  In boredom, we all congregated and started to chat.  The conversation started at the ex-wife and the tits, and slowly progressed into sports.  Oh god, sports…I enjoy going to a game and having a beer or eight, but when it comes to spouting off stats or even watching them on TV, you can count me out.  I just sat there and in a desperate, pathetic attempt to not look too out of place, I kept uttering the phases, “I Know,” “Right...,” “Unbelievable, isn’t it?.”  At some points I didn’t even know what sports they were referring to.  Clearly out of my element, I just wanted to be with people who knew that Cats was the longest running musical until it closed in 2000 and eventually gave way to The Phantom of the Opera.

At 12:15 the food truck arrived and we were on break until 1:15, having accomplished nothing to that point.  But you have to remember, some Extras see this as a blessing by getting paid for nothing.  I see it as a waste of creative energy.  Hell, I wouldn’t even mind helping crew set up the scene, but that is a major no-no for crossing union lines.

After lunch, we were finally sent to makeup.  For my scene, a group of us were to portray car accident victims, this means getting all bloodied up with various viscosities of red substances that stain the skin; oh, joy!  I sat in the chair for a while, and apparently the makeup artist did a number on me.  Of the 8 others that got torn up with makeup, mine was the best because everyone was commenting on how great mine looked.  10 minutes of this goggling at my face made me a little cocky.  I started to take the compliments personally as if I had actually done something.  I got so arrogant that I was sure, when we got to set the director would take one look a my face and say while pointing…”Him there…number 10, lets do a close-up feature on his face---I love it!”   Hahahahaha , when I got to set the joke was definitely on me.  The director looked at all of us, arbitrarily placed us on the street by the car, amongst the wreckage and said, “This one here, put a blanket over this one.”  That person he was referring to was me.

I spent the next half hour lying on concrete, in the sun, under a blanket, in a dreadfully uncomfortable position, my un-needed makeup itching, with no coffee.  And just to remind me how unimportant I was, every time the director called action (which is funny in itself because my action was DEAD), very large mosquitoes (big enough to bite through blankets and clothing) would bite me and steel my blood.  But, ever the professional, I stayed still, fighting the urge of protecting myself from malaria to make sure we got the shot.

When we got the shot and the director yelled, “It’s a wrap,” I learned that what we had been working on all day was going to amount to a total of 20 seconds of viewing pleasure.  I also learned this wasn’t been shot for the big screen, not even for the TV screen, we were just doing something that was going onto the computed screen.  Yes folks, I did all that so I could make a grand appearance on a webisode.  So if you happen to turn on your computer at the right time, to the right site, for 20 seconds you may recognize the sole of my size 11 Brooks, Adrenaline running shoe with the logo taped over.

On the subway ride home, people stared at my blood stained skin as if I had some sort of disease.  It didn’t help that the 10 mosquito bites began to itch, thus solidifying the notion that I was infected with something.  I couldn’t help but think that during my time in college, I was never offered a class to help me prepare for this.  Thank god I spent thousands of dollars on my University of California, Irvine degree in Drama so I could have days like this.   

I Run Because I Can

I went to bed early last night because I knew I had to be up by 6am to run in my first NYC organized fundraiser run.  This particular run happened to be the Susan G. Komen Race For The Cure 5K in Central Park; but that’s inconsequential because I’m just in it for the exercise and chance to share in the experience with a community of runners. 

Running in organized runs such as Turkey Trots on Thanksgiving, or Super Bowl Runs in Redondo Beach have been a favorite of mine for the past few years because it allows me to get together with friends way to early in the morning, bitch about the weather, run the race, and then justifiably pig out after at breakfast.  It’s somewhat of a tradition back home and I look forward to making it a tradition in my new city.

Well, I must have been really anxious to start this tradition because I woke up at 5am, an hour before Kevin was supposed to come in and wake me.  With my newfound time, I decided to hit up Starbucks then head down to the registration booth, which opened at 7am.  As I jogged along the park on Central Park West towards the booth, I started to realize today’s race wasn’t going to be just a race; it was going to be bigger than that…an occasion really, which I hadn’t anticipated.

I first noticed all of the volunteers that were gathering and figuring out their particular piece in this puzzle.  Hundreds of volunteers were changing into their recognizable blue shirts, ready to make this day as smooth as possible for all the participants and donors.  I passed by the start line, which included a speakers platform, balloon arch, and of course news vans eager not to miss the action.

I filled out my paper work, grabbed my jogging number, and took my souvenir t-shirt.  All of which took less than 5 minutes because the other participants hadn’t arrived yet. 

Time: 7:05; race start time 9:25.  Now what?  Starbucks?  Nope, already did that.  Go back home?  Nope, 30 blocks is a little far.  Luckily, I happened to notice a map of the race route through the park.  On it showed different stations like the “Sponsors Expo” and the “Survivor’s Village” in the middle of the park so I decided to go check it out. 

On the way over I watched even more volunteers doing much more than required.  They seemed to be inspired by something much bigger than the act of volunteering in itself.   I also started to see participants filter in; some were alone and some came in groups. Some in regular running attire, some with themed shirts that had the name of the person they were there to support.  If they were lucky, that person was with them and wearing pink…the symbolic color of a cancer survivor.  If they weren’t as fortunate to have that person wearing pink next to them, they carried that person in their hearts and memory.

This is what I wasn’t prepared for; I wasn’t prepared to feel instantly united with a group of people, both as a runner, but more so for the cause.  I found myself putting my souvenir shirt on, which is abnormal, because they usually never make it on my body before becoming just another rag.  But this, this was different; this was bigger than the races before.  I suddenly wasn’t here for exercise or for comradery, I was here for all of my family and friends who have been taken or touched by cancer.  I was here for those who weren’t.  I was overwhelmed.  I found myself walking—wandering really; fighting back the tears because it hurt and I didn’t want to go there… not now.

I ended up at a street bridge overlooking Bethesda Fountain, the famous Angel fountain; it seemed fitting.  There, supported by the rail, I let myself go.  I started to cry, and let myself feel this moment.  It oddly felt good to hurt.  It took me back to mile 17 of the marathon I completed a few years back.  Again, to raise money for cancer, but specifically I ran in remembrance of my grandma.  Somewhere around mile 17, still 9 miles to go, my mind tired and body hurt, I read a sign held up by a lady on the sidelines that read, “You’re running because we can’t…god bless you.”  I ran that next mile sobbing and pain free.  It was the most heartfelt thank you I ever received and I can only hope she’s wearing a pink shirt wherever she is.

Although not embarrassed by my tears because I was with people who knew what each tear meant, I waited at that bridge until I had some sense of composure before leaving.  I headed over to “Survivor Village” and hung out on the edge to listen to the guest speakers and hear the voice of honored survivors and co-survivors (those who went through the ordeal as a partner of the survivor with cancer).  It was inspiring to hear their stories and accomplishments.  It was a club you’d never want to be in, but a club more emotionally powerful than any other in the world. 

The statistics were amazing as well; 25,000 participants were expected on this morning.  20 years ago $15,000 was raised at this event, last year over $4 million on this one day.  20 years ago, breast cancer survival rates were at 74%, today 98%.   Susan G. Komen is well on their way to putting themselves out of business with a cure, and they couldn’t be happier.   I was proud to be a part of it.

The race started with pink shirts in front and then 5 minutes later the rest of us started.  Central Park West was shutdown with runners, celebrities, and politicians, but more importantly, moms, daughters, sisters, friends; some in pink, some in spirit, but still very present.  I jogged and had very few episodes along the way.  I felt more pride than anything.

I finished the race and began my walk home.  Because home was 30 blocks from the finish, I had time reflect on the morning.  I started to cry again.   I couldn’t help but mourn the time stolen from me and my loved ones, who were taken from me too soon.  Too many pivotal moments in my life were lessened because their smile was taken by this quite monster.  My focus soon shifted to the ones I love who have survived; the ones in my life that can rightfully wear that pink shirt and I’m just so goddamn grateful they are still here and their smiles aren’t missing from my life. 

On my last block it started to rain.  I didn’t mind.  It merely reminded me that those smiles I do miss continue to walk with me.  It let me know my they were crying too, but just tears of joy because those of us down here are making a difference.

I run because I can.