F*** You, Cancer

I can remember the very day I met him. I was in the UK, on a project for work, for a company I had been a member of less than 2 months. I was a newlywed, having just married my 'boyfriend' of 4 years. The idea of being gone for what was originally requested, a month, after all the new changes (new job, leaving old job, new marriage, new house, etc), meant the negotiated 2 weeks we decided on was just enough. But I remember meeting him, this handsome, sarcastic Scottish bloke, who was very aware of what his presence was on the project. He seemed like a solid guy, and I figured if nothing else, at least I was working with decent folks.

I planned on seeing a place of the world I never thought I would that weekend, Scotland. When word hit on the project team that I was thinking of this, all came on board, and the caravan was ready to drive up to Scotland, complete with the Scottish bloke I had just met, ready to give us a view into his world, his homeland, and show the American counterparts a good time.

To say a weekend experience in Scotland was fun that weekend wouldn't do it justice. It was a blast. Having someone who knew the lay of the land, made me fall in love with so many aspects of the city of Edinburgh, the amazing architecture, the castle, the pubs, the people. It was a fantastic experience, still implanted in my brain. And that same bloke, a new friend.

Cut to 4 years later, when early one morning, I met a gorgeous lady in the restroom of all places. Come to find out she was British, and had just migrated over, to our US IT operations and in my group. I extended a hand, after washing of course, and introduced myself. When she mentioned she came over to be with a Scottish guy, it took a few minutes before I put the two together. My new acquaintance friend from a few years back and her were a couple.

Thus began a friendship re-ignited and started, a coupling of two amazing folks and people we called friends. I watched her elegance, her grace, infect so many of us she worked with, became friends with, impacted daily. I watched her challenge my timid nature, my unwillingness to just 'jump' at times and even if I felt challenged, loved her for stirring in me, the challenge of trying. She instantly became a good friend. And I watched her approach my former acquaintance friend, complimenting him with such exceptional beauty. They were soul mates and their mutual love, respect, and happiness was a pleasure to be around. It was hard not to be happy with them close by. I benefited so greatly as they both worked in my company, and with me on occasion.

And we shared so many memories, concerts, laughs, way too many drinks. A birthday, my 36th spent at a Linkin Park Concert, just enjoying life. Meeting up with our significant others afterwards, and reveling into the deep reaches of the night. Mid 30s meant we knew better, we knew what would hurt the next day, but reveling in the moment, the joy of life shared.

But this Damn disease....this freaking c word....has ripped someone I love from this shared joy, and so young. A woman of 38, watching her fight, watching her love, watching her never wavering in spite of the challenge and ultimate finality of her situation. And that same Scottish bloke, now also a great friend, watching him remain strong, remain her rock. I had never seen two people so in sync, even in the face of adversity. Soul mates through it all in the face of danger, tragedy, and ultimately quite soon, in the final loss. There are holes in the hearts of so many folks, at the thought of her loss.

I hate cancer for what it has done to an amazing love affair of two friends. What it has done to those of us who love both. And to how in the blink of an instant life can change. But I am forever grateful for getting the chance to have them affect my life, and to love them both as friends. Her memory, will continue to live on, enriching my thoughts on a bad day, when I need a laugh, and a story of the both of them will bring me giggles through the pain and tears.

Thank you Sam, and Graeme, for allowing me to share in your love, your lives, and the beauty that is YOU. I love you both with all my heart.

The Open is upon us, here's to chosing to join the fun!

This year I said no 5 times. It was always the answer no matter how the question was asked, "your doing the Open right," "Of course we can count on you to do the Open, right?" Or my favorite "well they have a scaled version this year..so you really SHOULD consider it (given when my response was...no I feel like I've regressed, I don't think I have what it takes to go through it this year). In fact, I actually had a blog post in my head of reasons WHY I decided against doing the Open formulating in my head last week. But I never committed it to publish, allowing myself the ability to change my mind.

And in the waning minutes, prior to 'THE ANNOUNCEMENT' all us CrossFitters treasure so dearly, the first Open workout, I brought up the site, typed in my name and credit card, and caved, signing up for another year of shenanigans with my crew at the box. WHY?

I could say it was because I didn't want to feel left out. When I was younger I was always the child who wanted to go to school, regardless of how full of sick I was, because I was afraid of missing something critical. Whether it was something lesson related, or something social, I didn't want to be stuck behind the times. I feared not signing up for the Open, but cheering my friends on over the weekend would cause me regret and the feelings of "being left out the fun". But that's not why I signed up.

I could also say I signed up to get a benchmark of where I stand, fitness wise. Feeling like I regressed a bit, I knew the idea of getting a clue of all I needed to work on did seem important. A laundry list of things I could turn into goals; linking pull-ups, working on control on overhead squats, etc. Weaknesses I know will be exposed in the Open again, like they were last year. But that is also not why I signed up.

I could also claim that with a scaled division I didn't have a reason NOT to sign up and do the WODs. That the option of a lower weight, a more "doable Jess" version of an Open WOD would make them more accessible to me to accomplish. But after 2 years of seeing myself achieve goals I didn't think I could, in the Open workouts, that is DEFINITELY not the reason why I signed up.

Plain and simple, in the easiest of terms, I signed up to have fun.

Fun you ask? How is 5 weeks of crazy stress every Thursday when the WODs are announced fun? How is forcing yourself to do weights or movements that are often hard on a regular WOD day, going to be fun, just because they are in the Open. How is it going to be fun to potentially get the lowest amount of reps, or the highest amount of time on timed WODs in the Open. How is it going to be fun.

The reason, is simple. The first year I did the Open was fun for me. I was a year into CrossFit and excited to test myself on things I knew I was a ways off on (at the time I didn't have a pull up yet, and barely mastered a 65 lb thruster 2 weeks before the kick off of the 2013 Open). I was excited, and wrapped a few of my fellow newbie ladies in my gym into the excitement as well (they signed up, challenging themselves also). The vibe in our tiny box of a gym was electric that year.

Living off the high of the first year, I signed up again last year. Weaknesses were exposed. The time that wasn't spent in the gym (life simply got in the way of my regular routine that included WOD time), was exposed and the fun, seeped away. Our gym's vibe was no longer electric, as the focus hit more pushing harder, for the reps, for the scores. Coincidently our gym made it to regionals last year, and while I went to support, and cheer in Utah, a part of me felt lost in the mix of achievements of others, and anger and frustration in myself. The Open was no longer fun.

So when this year and the end of February meant the buzz of the Open again for a third straight year, I was super apprehensive. What would assure me that this year wouldn't be like last, that I would not end up in tears on the last WOD simply because I was frustrated and ready for the 5 weeks to end?

The answer was simply inside of me all along, my attitude, my drive to make it fun. Five minutes before Rory came on to welcome all of us to another Open season, I entered my credit card info. Took ownership of another year, qualifying as a Masters this year. On the day of my birth, 40 years ago, I decided to have FUN again. To make the Open about the excitement of the WOD, but not the stress. To push myself to a level of achievement, but not to stress if I decided to do a scaled version. To cheer on my fellow gym members,  many who I get to see being bad asses in classes before mine at 6:30pm, but see their game faces during "competition" mode now. I promised myself this year was about fun!

Cut to Saturday, and WOD time. I was excited..but nervous. I was stressed, but not overly analytical and worried. And I achieved what I had hoped with a decent 15.1 and a PR on 15.1a. The Open had again become fun.

Here's to the next four weeks, and to the fun of the challenges, to the PR of my fellow competitors, and to the excitement of what makes us CrossFitters in the first place.

A pirate looks at forty....

The big day is finally here. 4-0. The birthday which seems like it was so far away when I turned 10, or 16, or 21. I can remember back to the days when 40 seemed old and not fun, not exciting. The weird thing is, somewhere over the course of the last six months, I began to appreciate turning the big 40.

You see, I was convinced by 40 I would have a family. The 2.5 kids that were super cute, the white picket fence, a job I jumped out of bed for each morning. A 'complete' life. I planned it that way when I was little. The "cookie cutter" life that sounds so perfect, and exactly what I saw my parents having.

But, today, I sit childless. An aunt to two amazingly gorgeous and brilliant nieces. A "aunt" to so many of my friends kids, children of exception talents, and amazing senses of humor. And the truth is, I'm not sad I don't have children of my own. Is it completely not possible in the future, not entirely, but its also not something that I will be super sad about if it doesn't occur. I used to be concerned that that very thought made me seem selfish, self centered.  Wow, Jess, I thought, you really can't give enough of yourself to bring another human into the world. But I realized that wasn't the answer as to why kids were not in my future. It was more something that would materialize if it was "meant" to happen for me.

And the white picket fence? Oddly enough our house doesn't have a fenced in back yard, or side yard. We sit next to an open space and adjacent to the high school in my small town. For a kid who grew up in the big city of Denver, I needed to adjust to living in a small town. I remember the first time my boyfriend (now husband) drove me to see our new house, never before even hearing of the town we were to live (and I went to school 20 minutes north of here!). I was afraid I'd have a hard time adjusting to very small town life. Yet going into restaurants around here, and having them know me by name, running into friends from the gym at the grocery stores, having a support system close by, has made life in our small town amazing. I now would struggle to live in a "big city". Ironic.

And the jump out of bed job? Well, I've been at the same place of employment for almost 10 years. And while I have had my share of setbacks, frustrations and chaos at times there, I realize it has been a blessing to achieve some of the successes I have there. That I was blessed with amazing people as bosses, and co workers over the years from around the globe, who have challenged my work style, and pushed me to want to succeed, and influenced my drive to excel. I've also gained so much from the good and the bad, to realize that even with as adverse to change as I normally am, I've learned to manage and rise from it, quite well.

So, am I at all saddened by not achieving all these "child-dreamt" goals from when I was a kid, by the time I hit the big 40. Not at all. My life has been blessed the last 40 years. I have an amazing family who love me, support me, surprise me and celebrate who I am. I have an amazing husband, who despite us being complete opposites, has learned to understand his aloof wife who lives so much of her life in the gray area of a black and white world he lives in (he's an engineer so the world is quite black and white to him), and loves me even if sometimes he doesn't understand me.

Lastly, I have amazing people who I call friends. People like my friend Deb, who wished me a happy birthday via HER blog today. A person I didn't know less than 5 years ago, but who has made such an impact on my life because she "gets" me. And so many countless others from my CrossFit gym who accept me when I am at my "weakest", challenge me to be great, and appreciate the person I am, every day.

So as this pirate looks at 40, and reflects back on who I thought I would be vs. who I have become now, I'm proud of who I see when I look in the mirror.  Do I have things I want to fix and change? Do I have challenges I want to rise to? Of course I do. But I have learned at 40, its ok to be comfortable with who you are, and allow yourself to be happy.

A love letter to those I miss

Birthday celebrations were always important in my family. They still are. Today would have been my grandfather's 97th birthday. I remember when I was little loving the fact that my birthday fell in between his birthday on the 23rd of February and my grandmother's (his wife's) on March 2. We were bonded in celebration during that week and I always felt so special.

We lost my grandfather 4 years ago, my grandmother two years before that. As I reflected on missing them sometime last year, I poured my love of my grandmother (mostly) into a piece. On the week that reminds me how special they were in my life, I feel it only proper to share.

On the plane ride home, alligator tears consuming me, darkened glasses hiding the emotions welling within my eyes, I grabbed a notebook. After 34 years of having you, my closest ally, my protector, my sponsor..I was afraid of all the memories of you, the vision of you, would seep through my hands like sand. So I wrote to NOT forget, To forget the pain of losing you, losing my rock, losing my strength, all 4’1l of you. You were always bigger than your small stature, in love, and support. And as I reflect on your memories, small vinyets of a long life lived well, I forget how much I miss you…and how ever present you still are, within me. Memories of a time long ago, when the smell of your house meant bean, tortillas, picadillo, and chili were bubbling on a gas stove. Where you always wore an apron, afraid to soil your Sunday best. Where and when you’d scurry us out the door, screaming to fasten our jackets as we leaped down the steps of the back porch into the backyard and rushed to the garage. Always at breakneck speed to get somewhere and the knowledge that age, might have slowed your body, but not your spirit.

You were always afraid of losing things. Meticulous in where you placed them and reminding us to remind you. You made us recite the Lords Prayer, Hail Marys and giving of thanks before every shared meal echoing along with us, as if training your brain not to forget. TO hear they found notebooks by your bed when you passed, of basic tasks, getting up, cooking, laying out gramps’ clothes..still training your body, your mind, your spirit when it started to betray you. You were always a far better storyteller than me. Even if the words, the script, the comments were so basic, they told a sad story at the end.

And you were always there to wrap us in warmth. You made clothes for us from your own weathered hands. Sewed from scraps off cast from many a fabric store, cheap, on sale, but always good enough for mi hija and hijo. And your quilts and afghans, keeping me warm on winter nights with friends envious in college of how loved and worn they were. 'Someone must really love you for you to have something so special,' they’d say. And I would smile and curl into the warmth of that blanket deeper. A secret they couldn’t penetrate of our family’s closeness, love, and acceptance. I still have most of them, hidden in the basement, afraid to wash them for fear they will rip and tear, and forge holes in my memories, the way time has worn the threads.

And your stories…oh your stories. Of you and gramps meeting and you admitting on a bus ride to go gambling one day with me, of the fact that you actually WERE dating another at the time you met him. Scandalous I proclaimed, and you smiled, a devilish, mischievous smile, and said quietly “well..I wasn’t sure I’d even like your Gramps, Jessy.” Knowing that after 60 years together, it OBVIOUSLY worked out. Your candor, reminding me just how human you really were. And how much more I loved you for that…for I always saw you as superhuman.

And when you left, I watched the man you love…crumble. Rise, and hide his feelings, his memories for you in a box hidden from all to see. He wasn’t taught as a young boy to feel loss. And while he grieved, he taught me the strength to carry on, knowing how much he missed you. Knowing that having a picture on his dresser wouldn’t bring you back. And knowing that nothing could replace the hole he now had in his heart. And when he left….years later, going the way only he could….with out a goodbye, without a hint of regret….much like you, I knew you were one. One soul living in two bodies, broken, separated a few years from each other but reunited again in a much better place. Watching over us….loving us, guarding us towards our future. And every time I think of you, the smells of your skin, his skin, perfume and aftershave intertwined in grappled bear hugs to you both, I remember what I miss about having you here on earth, that sense of home.

For the love of the written word...

 

I was a shy kid. I'd spend days behind my bed, my nose buried in a book. I took bites of prose like a starving refugee. And back in the 80s, with the Scholastic Book club inserts I'd carry home, my mom was always willing to buy a selection of each month, because she knew how quickly I would read them. I believe I read every Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary books, did reports on them at school, and imagined myself as one of the characters.

During fifth grade, we were introduced to creative writing. The idea of becoming the author, magically writing the prose someone else could read, completely flipped my mind sideways, and I immediately jumped at the chance.
Up until that point, my writing consisted of goofy little snipets of a 10 and 11 year olds life. Scribblings I can barely read now, from my younger self. I had picked out a cute little square "Cathy" diary (you remember the old comic of Cathy right?) to journal all my feelings into. I pre-dated it way into the future on the last page, February 26, 2015, my 40th birthday. That seemed SO far away. I'd be old, and so different by then. And somehow in my kid mind I believed I'd still be writing in that cute little diary. Telling stories of my husband, family, cute little life I had dreamt up, much like the stories of my youth.

But in 5th grade, creativity and the excitement of crafting a story was born. I still have those stories, bound by staples, on looseleaf papers tucked away in my personal stash of memories in our basement. Humble begins of my young creative juices. I went to a Catholic school from kindergarten through eighth grade so the stories took on images of being trapped in school, and reprimanded by the sisters, or thoughts on how life would be if Jesus was just a person in class with us. Nothing earth shattering, but it pushed me to come up with new ways to express characters. And they are a riot to look back on now. Oh the stories of those stories.

In later years, notebooks, spirals of angst from my teen years and college were filled nightly. Comments and observations flowed on the person who wronged me, the guy who wouldn't notice me, the friends who betrayed me. All the anger, resentment, hurt, flowed from a pen into my notebooks. I picked specific composition notebooks, a special pen, and watched the words encapsulated in those notebooks like a hawk for fear a roommate, my parents, would try to steal them by reading my emotions dripping from their contents.

In college, I elevated my game, and found poetry. The love affair of certain words, formulated with specific patterns and rhythms, allowed me to add further "feeling" into my words. I became enthralled with works of Keats, e.e. Cummings, Yeats. I became the little bookworm kid again, devouring verse and quotes I could live my life by. And committing my own style to my poems. Coming up with a cute notebook name, and oddly, (maybe for fear of the edits and never feeling comfortable enough with my ability within poetry) I always jotted them down in pencil.

But as I fell victim to the world of a full time job, my writing suffered. I quit journaling and pouring my heart on a page. Especially because my job became documentation (I was a technical writer in a past life) the idea of then coming home after putting together content or a user guide became less than inviting. I fell victim to writing becoming a "job" and so I quit doing it for fun, for release, for passions. The only time things awakened my need to jot down feelings were when I was left raw (the heartbreak of a lost relationship or friendship, the anger of a world event). Writing took a backseat to my every day life, not a way to balance every day life.

This too is ironic. As a child, I wanted to be an engineer, just like my dad. When my AP English teacher mentioned I had a knack for writing my junior year in high school, the idea of a job related to writing was planted in the front of my brain. I decided on journalism as major, but shifted gears after graduation. Vanity and lack of making money (even if was based on my passions) led to computers winning out. So while writing and my passions for learning through words, and using it to teach were still present, the fun of creating disappeared.

Cut to this very moment, this challenge, this push to jump back into writing on the suggestion of a good friend, and my love affair with letting the moods and thoughts pour through my hands like water has illuminated me again with the very thought of creating. Writing for me, as well as the consuming of others' words, has always kept my heart full. When it is absent, you can clearly see the changes in my personality and level of happiness. So I  am excited for the new journey that diving back into the writing world has allowed me through this challenge. And looking forward to the new prose, new emotions that flow out of my hands as an older "shy kid" if for nothing more to allow the hunger in me for words, to again be quenched.

Flying the friendly skies...

I remember as a kid I had an extreme fascination with travel. The idea of jetting off to an exciting place. And lets face it, when I was younger EVERYWHERE was fascinating because it wasn't what I was used to, here in good old Colorado. Even the thought of flying for work, excited me.

I also  remember the joy I had, packing the night before a trip, mom and dad reminding me of all I had to remember to NOT forget. For a short while I was convinced there weren't shops where we traveled because of my mom's constant reminder to "not to forget anything." But the level of excitement I had the night before, led me to not sleep well, carrying over into the adrenaline of the next morning or day when we hopped on a plane for the unknown.

As I got older, I became fascinated with the study of people in the airports we wandered through, human behavior. It's an interesting display of folks at their best, or worst. You can generally tell those who are hopping on planes for work related trips, laptop out, feverishly checking emails on their cell phones (never mind as I type, I am on my work laptop, in an airport, just one of those many business travelers). The study of dress, level of stress on making the plane (if they are rookie business travelers), as well as the desire to find a decent meal that doesn't include the default of McDonalds that seems in EVERY airport food court. (I lucked out on this trip, a Farm Fresh eatery, Mod Market,just opened in the United terminal in Denver. Score, bacon before 7am!).

Then there are the travelers who get the chance to hop on a plane to fun, sand, excitement of fresh powder somewhere. The easy going folks who are super laid back, ready to just relax. Their uniforms take on different designs, sweats or yoga pants for comfortability, a pair of shorts and flip flops if they are going somewhere hot. They are always the ones I envy when I am traveling for work, wanting so badly to sneak on their plane and fly away from responsibilities and just relax for a while.

I remember the days before 9/11 too, where displays of affection and love hit you the minute you stepped off the plane. Where friends and family were allowed to greet you at the gate and depending on the reason for travel, it meant a somber and sad hug, or tears of joy as you embraced your friend or family member you hadn't seen in years. When these reunions were confined the spaces of baggage claim and the pick up arrival areas, something felt lost.


I started business travel early, at the ripe age of 22, fresh from college. The opportunity to "see the world" for work was too intoxicating a concept for me, so I jumped at the chance to be a consultant. I found out way too quickly that removing yourself from the life you were used to at home, was more challenging, and depressing, than I first realized it would be. And at 24, realized that I wasn't going to be young and enjoy life forever, so business travel took a backseat to creating a life for myself at home.

Once again, I am forging back into business travel today. I'm lucky in almost 10 years with my company I've only had to travel 3 times for work. Each time, there's been some level of excitement as I go through security, survey the folks waiting in line with me for food and coffee, and remind myself of souvenirs to get the hubby in the place I end up. This might become more constant for me in the near future (business travel that is), so for now, I am enjoying the quiet buzz of the food court, a much needed cup of coffee, and allowing myself to ride the wave of travel til it sends me back home on Friday.

I'm not a competitor or am I?

I've always been what some would call a tomboy. When I was 8-11years old, I'd walk around the house, nerf football in hand, convinced I'd be the first women to get drafted to play in the NFL. I'd practice spirals in the backyard, throwing them to my brother. In my mind back then, I was a competitor, an athlete.

A few years older, I realized my body type meant I could be a "natural" at running. The long lean frame, legs for days. When I placed first in my age group at 12, in a 5K I ran with my dad, I felt like a competitor, an athlete.

A few years after that, I began playing in sports in middle school. Basketball, volleyball, kickball. All things that I hoped would allow me to get better, because I started them so young. I was convinced if I learned some of the sports when I was in my pre-teens that by high school, I'd be starting on varsity teams, unstoppable. Did it help I was one of the tallest (even compared to the guys in my class), you bet? I was an athlete now, a competitor.

Cut to high school, when my lanky, and sometimes clumsy frame became a detriment. When much bigger girls with more power pushed me aside, and I began riding the bench. I no longer felt like an athlete, or a competitor, even as I walked the halls, letter jacket covering my shoulders.

I gave up on being a competitor. I decided I wanted to be a spectator, PR on my cheering, podium as a fangirl of my friends. This past weekend, I attended a CrossFit competition where 10 of my friends from our box worked their asses off. For some it was their first competition, and their drive, their passion for just wanting to do their best inspired me. Maybe I wanted to be a competitor again.

When I started CrossFit I knew how hard it was. I knew how much I would be challenged. But I never realized it would light the fire in me to again want to consider myself an athlete, a competitor. Even if I am last, even if I am struggling to breathe, even if I watch kids 20 years younger than me run circles around me. They are the same ones who don't let me quit.

Last year, I fell apart, on Open workout 14.5. Thrusters are one of my worst lifts. Pair that with burpees over bar and I became a mental wreck. A workout that took the top "athletes" less than 20 minutes took me 45. Every emotion in me screamed in anger, 'you aren't any damn athlete, Jess. You aren't a damn competitor, what the hell are you doing even trying?'

Yet it was my friends, the people who cheer me on in the gym, the ones who have become close for reasons other than shared workouts, that reminded me I WAS an athlete, I AM a competitor, and to keep on chipping away at what hurt. Just one more rep, one more push, one more jump.

I make no claims to being the fastest, the strongest or the most adaptable to a challenge, but I AM A COMPETITOR, I AM AN ATHLETE.