'Fessing Up With the March Monthly Report

So here's the interesting thing about carrying around a little notebook and keeping track of all your doings every day (video link): this practice makes time slow down a bit. When I was a little kid and summers were, like, endless grown-ups would always say, "Just wait until you're a grown-up, time just flies by before you know it." Now, frankly, this statement always struck me as annoying because (a) I was obviously never going to be as old as they were, and (b) I didn't care about time in some vaguely defined future, I cared that I was super bored now.

Well flash forward, check your calendar, and note that we are now squarely in the midst of the vaguely defined future. And time is totally flying by. I finished grad school TWELVE years ago. I moved to Virginia (for the second time) six years ago. It's been more than a month since my last pedicure (appointment tomorrow then wine with my gal pal M., whew!). But having to sit down every day--if only for a few seconds--and review how many sodas I consumed, or record how many push-ups I managed to do before my arms collapsed, does serve to make me note time passing. And it is passing. That's right people, it's already April.

Here's the perfectly prosaic monthly report. Bless me Interwebs, for I have sinned. I didn't do even close to enough banjo practice this month.

An Ode to my Trusty Steed

You deserved a better end than this. Six years ago I brought you home. I won't say "I bought you," because it was less impersonal than that. You'd called to me at the bike shop; sleek and dark grey with slightly bulbous lines to your frame, tucked in among brawny mountain bikes and trembling carbon-framed racing bikes. You weren't super fancy; you were a working bike, a steady bike, a commuter bike. We were kindred spirits.

You sped me along the river when I was first learning my way around DC. Together we braved the congestion of the Mount Vernon path, harsh headwinds and even the occasional blast of hot air coming off a jet warming up on the tarmac at National airport. Later, we rode together in the car 35 miles each morning from our little house in the countryside to the Metro parking lot. Then you and I took off on the path for the last 15 miles into work, most often in the dark. And over these last couple of years, you were my stalwart partner in moving from the Hard Core Suburbs to the District. You were the Sancho to my Quixote, the Tonto to my Lone Ranger, the jelly to my peanut butter.

I had other plans for you. I was going to keep riding you for at least another year, and then give you to one of the guys at the homeless shelter so that you could take him to work, or I would donate you to Bikes for the World so that somewhere in Africa or South America you would change the life of a child who could get to school or an adult who could get to the market. It was going to be a meaningful and dignified next phase for a steady friend, and you were going to continue to be loved and appreciated.

I spent all day today eying bike racks throughout DC. Where are you? Are you still in one piece? Are you being treated okay? I know your brakes were temperamental; is somebody easing into them to keep you from squealing in protest? Your little brass bell was just the right tone, is somebody ringing it jauntily? Is there enough air in your tires? Those friggin' rims of yours are really a pain--I can't count how many tire levers I busted trying to change tubes--but those nice tires rarely puncture.

I am trying to tell myself that the person who stole you from me is a person in pain. He's probably in the throes of some thing or another that has in turn stolen his will and his pride from him. I am trying to tell myself that he'll try to sell you, and that maybe somebody will see your bright pink seat and give him a few bills to bring you home to his daughter or his wife. Maybe you will bring a sense of liberation and possibility to another girl someplace, a girl who can't just go online or to a store and buy a new bike like I can.

Maybe starting tomorrow you will soar through the streets of DC again. I hope so. I miss you.

Running the Numbers (with a movie!)

I've never really been able to keep a diary. Even as a kid, I found writing about my day after the fact unbearably boring. Yet, during the day it feels like a lot of stuff is happening. And at the end of the day, I can't quite get my head around what exactly it was I did.

For over a decade now, much of my time has been spent with data. Spreadsheets, reports, powerpoints, testimonies; you name it and I've done the research and produced the materials. And so, I thought why not keep some data. This is my first monthly report, in movie form. It sums up my month in 10 slides and less than 1 minute. It also represents the first time I have ever had to calculate how much toothpaste I use (about 1 inch per toothbrushing) or who is impeding Metro escalator flow. I'm going to produce one every month, though not tracking the same stuff. While I know this makes me a bad statistician, would you really want to count how many times you brush your teeth every single month? Yeah, I thought not.

So here it is, set to jaunty music: Anastasia's Perfectly Prosaic Monthly Report

Road Rules

When you spend a fair amount of time on the bike path, you can't help but make a few observations:

1. Don't let anybody tell you different, Northern Virginia is a hilly place. Plus, you'll discover that against all rules of nature, there is always a headwind.

2. You are statistically most likely to get hit by a taxi driver, swooping across three lanes of traffic (without using a signal, natch) to nab a fare from another cabbie. Ironically, the fare is most likely a tourist who doesn't realize he's already only three blocks from the White House.

3. It doesn't matter that you are wearing a bright yellow jacket. It doesn't matter that you're nearly 6 feet tall when you're sitting on your bike. It doesn't matter that you have more randomly flashing lights going than a Donna Summer revival concert. Somehow those suburbanites driving their SUVs still manage not to see you.

4. 83% of people under 25 don't actually appear to know their left from their right, so calling out "on your left" is really just wasting everyone's time and your breath.

5. The salesman who sold the hip young man his shiny new Jamis commuter bike ($950), Brooks saddle ($150), and matching Brooks panier bags ($500) did not give him the free advice that a very busy bike path at 5:20 p.m. may not be the best choice for slowly and repeatedly trying to learn how to use those snazzy new toe clips on your pedals ($50).

6. No matter how beautiful you think the sunset is from inside your car, it's nothing compared to how incredible it looks from on a bike.

A Paean to Waxed Wrapping Paper

Okay, yes, butter is itself one of my favorite things, but right now I'm actually celebrating the wax paper that's wrapped around it. In a world of life-threatening plastic clamshells and squealing Styrofoam containers, I find the simplicity of the butter wrapper comforting. I love the bold red lettering; a confident sans serif font telling you what is inside without any spin or focus-grouped branding. And how can one sufficiently praise the handy teaspoon measuring scale on the back, as if they knew you lost your measuring spoons, like, four moves ago. Butter has been packaged thusly since the early 1900s, because, as the leading historian of butter packaging has so insightfully noted, "fine butter does desire a dignified package in keeping with its high level of food value." (Don't believe me? Go ahead and check, I'll wait and just sit here noshing this lovely buttery toast.)

True Grit

The room itself was not glamorous, a well-used podium set up in front of dozens of mismatched chairs with florescent lights overhead. But the view was appropriate for the evening. From the 11^th floor much of DC was laid out below us; expansive and seemingly limitless. We were gathered to honor 41 accomplished men and women. They are restaurant workers and landscapers; they wield tools at construction sites and haul boxes in stockrooms. They care for their children and comfort their aging parents. They pay rent and bills, and they put aside savings to fulfill their plans for a larger apartment or to start a business of their own. And they continue to confront the legacies of substance abuse, incarceration and homelessness. They are the first alumni of the Washington DC chapter of Back of My Feet.

Together they ran more than 8500 miles, though in the stories that volunteers and friends told about them it’s clear that these are men and women who were running toward something. The words we heard most often were “proud,” “friend,” “supportive,” and “inspiration.” We celebrated “leadership,” “focus,” “determination,” and “strength.” We heard about men who once couldn’t run a single mile digging deep and finishing a half marathon. We heard about women who came out three times a week—every week, in the snowy winters and the sweltering summers—to join with others in logging their miles. We shared stories of challenges overcome, of laughter, of love and of the occasional song belted out in the streets of DC. Honorees stood shyly as we read messages of congratulations and pride from their teammates, sometimes looking as if they couldn’t quite believe the effect they had on so many others.

And afterward we clustered together like you always do at a family gathering. Nibbling on cookies, catching up on the daily goings-on with those we haven’t seen in a while. We joked about pounds gained when work starts to encroach on training time, and compared notes about races we plan to run this year. We cheered recent promotions and admired sharply pressed suits and well-shined shoes. As the crowd slowly broke up, with some moving toward buses home and others cadging rides, one thing became clear: against tough odds and the expectations of many, but with the support and love of their Back on My Feet family, these alumni had made it.

Lessons Learned

One week into the New Year, and here is what we've learned thus far:

• You are no more likely to exercise at the end of the day in 2012 than you were in 2011. Having a drink and watching TV is simply always going to sound better at that point.
  
• Tourists did not learn Metro etiquette--or their own left from their right--over the holidays.
• The Republican primaries have been funnier than you thought they would be.
• Cheese, olives, crackers and wine remains the all time best dinner. Hands down.

On to Week Two!