Before the Wedding Comes the Run

On Monday, an article about first time marathoners came across my desk. In anticipation of the Chicago Marathon on October 9, Crain’s Business Journal wrote about the training, injuries, tears and fears of a couple runners, gearing up for their first marathon. Each had their own reason for racing, each had a different take on training, but one sentiment seemed to resonate with all of them. That is, running a Marathon is a complete drain on your time. You are forced to push aside your social life, relaxing Saturday and Sunday mornings, that third glass of wine, your televiewing habits, etc, all so you can go that 26.2-mile distance.

As a second time marathoner – as an overconfident sophomore who believes I’ve got the next one is in the bag – I had to respond. Training consumes your life? Really? I’ve had a much difference experience.

I remember talking about Marathon recruitment back in November of last year at one of my full department meetings. I remember the team pressuring me to run again. I laughed it off and shook my head no (way!) I had a great excuse too – I was getting married next year, and I didn’t think my fiancé would appreciate me training (and training and training) throughout our engagement, and especially during the wedding week and honeymoon, which just happened to be the week of the crucial 20-mile training run.

I don’t know if it was my legs, itching to do more than seven or eight miles, or my competitive spirit wanting to beat the first timer experience, or the desire to be part of a special team again, but in February, when registration opened I signed up. Despite the eye rolls and the “remember whens” from the guy in boat shoes who let the expletives that I uttered just a mile away from the finish line resurface, I couldn’t turn down the challenge.

My friend, Charles, Team manager and honorary spirit captain, told me something as I signed on the dotted line. That if I had too much to do, and this was just going to be burden on top of that, I shouldn’t do it. BUT if I was going to approach it as an accent – a way to relieve stress – and as an energizing element to my day-to-day life, then he would encourage my participation more than ever. I signed up under the latter pretences, and it was an excellent decision.

I have not given my life up to Marathon training. At most, I spend an hour during the weekdays running around (and spying on) Naperville. And on the weekends, I spend between two and three hours depending on the mileage. And if you run right, eat right, drink LOTS of water, and take lots of deep breaths along the course, you will find that the recovery is quick, and you need to not make sacrifice upon sacrifice.

Take this week. I did 20 miles last Saturday. And cumulatively, I’ve run about 21 in the last four days. I’ve also moved from my apartment into Peter’s house, gone out with friends, launched and rolled out (with success!) the Intranet site project that I’ve been managing, presented the state of our business at a two-day planning meeting, cooked dinner every night, colored, and flown and landed in Pittsburgh for the other thing that people also blame for taking up ALL of their time – the wedding.

My advice to getting it all done – Get a good night sleep. Run a little faster. Don’t think about the fatigue (or the weird indigestion you get when stress and hummus start reacting badly in your stomach.) And when you are doing one thing, concentrate on that one thing. As much as we all love to multitask, it can be completely counterproductive.

The one thing I’m concentrating on now – getting ready and getting married. But before the Bridal Luncheon, a little run.

Lo. 

Moving Days

I.
HATE.
MOVING.
If hanging out with TnT, Stein and Marge = Best Day Ever.
Than hanging load after load of stuff all over my arms, and lugging it out of one place and into another = Worst Day Ever.

I hated moving into my apartment on Carson Street. And moving out of it.

I hated moving to South Bend. And then moving out.

I hated lugging a summer's worth of stuff to my Renaissance Room in Lincoln Square for my internship in Chicago midway through MBA school. And then lugging it out.

I hated moving into my little apartment in Naperville, especially because of the strained back consequences I suffered for a week.

And I knew I was going to hate this past weekend - three days dedicated to moving. Alone. Again. And not just any kind of moving - moving AND merging. That is the toughest kind of move of all. See, moving stuff into a space that is free and clear, is one thing. Moving stuff and merging it - finding a balance between space dedicated to the love of beer, fish, t-shirts, and tools, and a space dedicated to clothes, shoes, cooking and art is quite another. August 26 through 28, were to be doomsdays.

Until I realized something. That moving was nothing more than a communication challenge. I thought about moving when I was younger, and it was great. No sweat. Why? Because I didn't do much of it. The help just swooped in from all directions. My Dad and brother would do the heavy lifting, my mom would help with the organization, my sister would be there to take me out to dinner in our new neighborhood, and my girlfriends would be there to house warm the place. The reason moving has been so awful the past four or five times around, is because I've mostly done it by myself.

So as I've learned at work, the better thing to do than silently suffer when you are swamped, is to ask for help. To open your mouth and communicate. And not so surprisingly, most always there is someone there to pick up the pieces.

This move, I asked. And the help came. Two little angels flew in, and although their combined age was only slightly less than their combined weight, from Friday through Saturday evening, they moved overpriced art book by overpriced art book, pot by pan, hanger by hanger, art supply by art supply from my side of the tracks to Peter's, while I purged and merged.

And when Peter, who had been out of town, got home on Sunday, I asked again. And even with a little too much Chicago Q churning inside of him, he and the monster truck did the heavy lifting.

Despite the hours and days that I put into it, I had a great time. And when things got a little rough - when moving started to become the dreaded task that I anticipated, I took breaks:
To play with my stuff a little bit. How lovely.

To cheer on my cousin who dominated the Naperville Central football game and to bond with the vagrant Naperville teens that so often annoy me.

To have a drink with Claire and Trent.
To make spaghetti and meatballs for the heavy lifter.
And to sit back and take in the fruits of my labor. 

In the end, I got to a good place - a place with a cute little writing corner - a place that I will call my new home - and a place where I will once again have a roommate.

And to all those Catholic girls out there - it might make a really stressful week before your wedding, but in the end, I think it was worth it.

Lo.

Bridezilla

The night before their wedding, Carrie leans into Big as he sips Scotch at the bar, and tells him to give her a kiss. She says, "Make it a good one. Because it's the last single girl kiss."

Love that line. Loved it in the trailers. Loved it in the movie. And I will definitely use it a week from now.

However, after watching the clip this morning, I noticed the contrasting expressions on her face and his face a little more. Confidence juxtaposed against concern. She's ready and raring to go; he's uneasy, uncomfortable, and unsure.

When I used to watch this scene, I would cringe in painful anticipation of what would happen the next day, hating Big for his malaise and his big wedding day faux pas. I remember sitting in the theater with my friend Bridget on opening day grumbling, "What a jerk!"

But then this week happened, and I saw his side - I saw Big's pain. Basically, I realized that the groom gets a little worried when his bride gets a little crazy. I realized that Big's big concern was not so much what Miranda said to him, but that for the month or so leading up to the wedding, he felt like he'd lost his bride. Suddenly it wasn't just about her and him, it was about everyone and everything else. The list, the closet, the dress, the venue, the magazine article. And he was out of the equation.

This week, I got a little crazy. I dare say, Bridezilla showed her face a couple times. I became a bridal machine, trying to get things done at a manic pace every night. I got home from work and with a crazed expression start going for the kill - tearing into presents, doing loads of laundry, moving boxes of my stuff, chopping vegetables with a vengeance, pounding out the beat to our song, furiously writing thank you notes, scrutinizing list upon list, menu upon menu, and getting myself all worked up over the small stuff.

I started to feel like I wasn't me. And more importantly, it wasn't us. It was about everyone and everything else. And I don't know if Bridezilla scared me or Peter more. But she was scary. So last night, I tried to take a deep breath, and told myself a couple of things.

• Life exists after the wedding and honeymoon. I will have a lifetime to move in, organize, redecorate, and transform the bachelor pad into home, sweet, home. Phew.
• I'm a terrible dance instructor. We don't need an over-choreographed dance. And no one will judge us.(Hopefully)
• People will understand if they don't get a thank you note exactly two days after their gift came. And our wedding presents won't break without the immediate purchase of a hutch.
• I will fit into my wedding dress. I will look pretty on my wedding day.  
• "Complete with an auxiliary aquarium" is a positive statement.  
• As Peter said, in the end, the most important thing is that we will be married.
• I need to continue to look into Peter's eyes and see him. And us. And remember that's what it's all about. 

As a girl whose last single girl kiss is rapidly approaching, I want to make sure it's the best one ever - one where we have complimentary excitement, smiles, and hope for the best life ever on our faces.

Lo.

Missed, but Made-Up

The vagrant teens, awkward tweens, and tiny tots of Naperville are back in school, which means several things:

• My morning run has an elevated danger level due to newly licensed high school students 
• The morning commute is about 10 minutes longer due to frequent bus blocks and back-ups
• And the morning conversations in Starbucks have shifted from packing children for summer camp, to prioritizing after-school activities.  

Naperville and its child-centered culture never ceases to amaze me. Kids rule in just about every sense of the word, and their parental supervision-less presence is everywhere: PDA-ing down the river walk, bicycling in packs down the street, posing like Beiber with their Beiber-esque hairdos at the skateboard park, and just hanging out on every last inch of every last block of the downtown area. But, even with the freedoms and confidence that I lacked as a child, their parents still hold the reins on one thing - their after school activities. And one amazing thread seems to dominate this conversation - that mom doesn't have time for her kids to do everything. So the consensus is to let the kids pick one or maybe two things to do.

Really? One thing?
Yeah right.
I'm thinking - With three kids, demanding full-time jobs, involvement on boards, committees, and councils, and a staunch commitment to fitness and nutrition, my parents had a lot on their plates. However, every school year, we were encouraged to do it all. And we took full advantage of that. We were all Renaissance kids - experimenting and excelling on the fields, courts, keys, stages, and studios.

My parents enabled our participation - they chauffeured us, outfitted us, and cheered us on, never missing a game, performance, exposition, or experiment. And if one of them couldn't be there, the other one was, making up for the lack of the other parent with claps and cheers that were louder than all the PTA moms combined. Whether it was my mom or dad that missed the event, he or she always felt bad about it and wanted to make up for it.

I'm certain it took personal sacrifice and stress at times, but they wanted their kids to experience life to the fullest. And let me tell you, bouncing from field hockey, to piano, to jazz, to tap, to the theater, made it full (and a whole lot better than just hanging out.)

To this day, my parents encourage us to do it all, and they still show up to cheer us on everywhere at just about everything we do.

I thought this characteristic, especially after hearing the yummy mummies grunt about going to baseball games and art shows, was unique to my family. That is, until I met Peter's friend, Tom. And then I met Tom's wife, Tia. They are a pair, that embrace life and all of its excitement as much as my parents. They do it all, and never, ever want to miss a good thing.

So when Tom missed Peter's 80-foot Lake Cumberland houseboat bachelor party - a party that if you are as odd as my fiance and his groomsman was unmissable - he was bummed. So like my parents, he felt that he had to make up for it in some way.

This weekend, Tom and Tia (TNT), joined forces with Brendan and Margaret (of Best Day Ever fame), and turned a stormy Saturday into the Best Day Ever part 2. After an 18 mile run on the lakefront and breakfast at Uncommon Ground, we were crowned with trucker hats, whisked away in a mini van, and sent off to do some micro brewery research, all while being cheered on all day long by the fun-loving group.

 We stopped for tours and tastings at Flossmor Station and Three Floyds.

And capped the day off with charades and probably one too many rounds at Revolution Brewery.

It's Monday morning and I'm feeling really blessed to not only have family members, but great friends that will always be there to make sure Peter and I lead the Best Life Ever.

Lo.

Another Wordless Wednesday

(Hmmm... just a couple. Eek ... it's official!)

Lo.

Under Contract

I've come to know the 4 mile radius around my apartment and Peter's house very, very well. I've come to know the other walkers and runners, the dogs, the screaming children, the gardens, the dedicated bricks of the River Walk, the businesses and their clientele, the schools, the townie ranches, the nouveau riche McMansions, and the "For Sale" signs that characterize downtown Naperville.

Each block has its own personality and characters that go along with it. But one thing seems to tie them all together - the two or three, and sometimes five and six "For Sale" signs that dot them. Most of the signs just say, "For Sale," but occasionally, you run into one or two who have additional signage letting the perspective buyer know that the "Sale is Pending" or the house is "Under Contract."

I actually just did a lap around a couple blocks, and noticed that one of the iconic "For Sale" signs of Naperville was removed. One of my favorite houses - a three story, colonial mansion, with blue shudders that has been on the market since I first met Peter, since the first time that he brought me out to Naperville and I silently dubbed him my boyfriend - must have sold last week while I was out of town. And it must have bipassed the pending sale and under contract phases and gone straight to the closing. It made me kind of sad. And at the same time, very happy that this beautiful house finally had a happy buyer, and it would once again be filled with joy, laughter and happy memories.

It also made me think about my own pending contract and my soon-to-be SOLD sign. I had been thinking about it all weekend in fact. While Peter was bachelor partying and house boating in Tennessee, and I was caught up at Conference and 36-hour wedding planning in Pittsburgh, I was left to ponder by myself.

With three weeks left till I say "I do," it's getting more real. Really real. And it made me think - not so much cold feet thinking (cause my feet were really hot on the trails and the dance floor all weekend), but more reflecting on the single days - that soon it won't just be me, it will be us. It won't just be my house. It will be our house. And that's a big deal. 

Alone this week, I was also left thinking about all the perspective buyers who had done a tour or two of my house before. None of them seemed to work at the time. There were a couple that fit within one room or another for a little while, but none that I could envision fitting within the entirety of my house. I wondered if they had changed. And I wondered if they would have fit a little better now. Probably not. Probably worse.

Yesterday, I went to Church with my parents - the same Church where Peter and I will be wed on September 3. My Dad said to me as we were walking down the aisle toward our pew, that the next time I would do this, would be when I'm wearing a white dress. I knew several truths at time - truths that made me know that I was under contract with the right buyer.

• I know that I want to get married, and I want to have a family.  
• I know there is no other man in this world that can make me as happy as Peter can.
• I know there is no man, but Peter, that can fit within each room of my house, and not only that, but make each of those rooms even better than before. 
• I know there is no man that can fill my house with as much love and laughter as Peter can.

After not seeing Peter for a week, I'm counting down the seconds till he gets home. Just about ten minutes now. And I'm thinking, I want to jump to our closing the same way my favorite house in Naperville did last week. Less than three weeks away now - hallelujah! 

Lo.

4:00 AM

Over the past couple of months my life has gone from hectic to teetering on the point of completely unmanageable. A couple weeks ago, when I realized that I couldn't find time to blog, I was bummed out. This week when it looked like I wasn't going to have time to blog, cook or run, I was REALLY bummed out.

It's International Conference week, and I'm on day 6 of it. For those that don't know my organization's internal lingo, International Conference is this huge, 1000-person educational / networking / best practice sharing / celebrating Conference that our small staff of 20 or so people put on every other year for our global system of Chapters. It requires our small staff to be on duty, remain calm, teach inspiring 3-hour classes, converse, and put on really good shows, from 6:00 AM to about 11:00 PM (or later) for a whole week - from Sunday till Saturday.

When International Conference week comes up, it means all hands on deck, no rest for the weary, you don't have time to do anything else but Conference all week. So running every morning this week was out of the question.

Or was it?

Ha - I did it - the impossible. I incorporated running into the day's equation every day this week and was still dressed in my business attire, hair done, make-up on, rip roaring to go by 6:00 AM. How? I took early rising to an extreme. My 5:30 start time was pushed up to 4:00 AM. And I got er done.

Yes, I'm THE Early Riser, but 4:00 AM isn't early morning. 4:00 AM is still night time. And I should have still been asleep each time that the alarm went off this week. 4:00 AM is the dark side of early rising, but a side that enabled me to pound out 4 to 6 miles - mileage that probably saved my each and every day.

By eyes are bloodshot and I'm pooped, but I'm ready and raring to go - pumped to facilitate the hell out of Innovation Strategies this morning and Proposal Writing Part 2 this afternoon, then dance the night away at the Gala this evening.

I'd like to thank 4:00 AM and the gym at the Hyatt Regency Hotel for keeping me going. But I'd also like to thank a couple other folks.

My most amazing fiance who took me to a fabulous dinner at the Purple Pig, late on Tuesday night.

The women from Houston who rocked the most amazing boots on the floor of the exhibition hall on Wednesday.

Sports Center and all the football highlights that got me running faster and faster on the treadmill every morning. (Wow, how I need to revisit watching that program - great stuff.)

Ronald McDonald. Love him. 

And my team. I told them I loved them on Monday, and they claimed it was the wine talking. But it's 8:30 AM and I'm straight up saying - you all are the best!

Here we go Friday! Then I'm off to the Burgh to finish planning the wedding, and praying that Peter's 80 foot bachelor party house boat doesn't sink somewhere in Tennessee.

Lo.

The Girls in White

There are some days when I turn into a little stinker - days when my typically cheery, optimistic personality, fades, turns sour, and my go-getter yeses, transform to no-can-do nos. I just gruff. And Peter so nobly responds, well aren't you a pooper. 

However, I made a recent discovery - that is, I unveiled the culprit behind Miss Stinker, and with it, a method by which to conquer her. It happened some time in between being a real poop on Friday evening and running through a downpour on Saturday morning. Lightening didn't strike, but I had a small aha! moment. Basically, I figured out that it was during those moments in life when I feel like I'm losing, that my mood will take a turn for the worst.

For instance, when my fool proof plan to not let work stress me out falls through, boom, pooper. When my eternal diet loses to the ever-so tempting fudge brownie a la mode on the lunch table, boom, pooper. When the girl sitting next to me at the bar looks way better in her jeans than I do in mine, poopity, pooper. And Friday evening, when I felt like I was losing every which way, the pooper came out in full effect. In the battles against work, the move, the wedding, time, the marathon, and then a splitting pain in my lower calf that led to ice packs and elevation, I was losing. Each theme was beating me down, and when Peter came home, I was a full blown stinker. Not even two gin and tonics, a hefty pork chop, and three helpings of tabbouleh could change my outlook. So I called it a poopy evening, and went to bed.

The next morning, I set out to run it off. I disparagingly left the house, certain that I was going to fail two miles in, because of my bum calf. But I fought through the initial discomfort, and then I reached a point where I didn't feel it. In fact, I embraced it, and honestly started running better than I ever had before. I ran for 2 hours and 40 minutes - 19 miles. And I could have run more. I ran away my poopy pout, and just about the time the rain started pouring down on me in Springbrook Prairie, a huge smile surfaced. I felt amazing. I went from concentrating on my calf and my form and every little step, to thinking in space - in my own space, about everything and anything and all the competition I was facing.
Me versus work. Bring on the pressure, I'll perform better. 
Me versus the move. I can so do retro land.
Me versus the other girls on the trail. They made me stand up straighter and run harder.
Me versus Lyla. I just gave her a big hug.

(And you're confused.) You didn't know about this wee competitor, who about nine months ago, I thought I had lost to - who I thought had stolen my white washed thunder. That is, until I saw her adorable little face for the first time - a face, that made me cry for ever thinking that it was my year and not hers.

On Sunday, it was her turn to wear white. Her beautiful Mom and dapper Dad helped her get dressed, and while I thought to myself, wow, I'm never going to look that good when I put on my white dress, I got teary-eyed for ever being a stinker - for ever thinking that there wasn't enough love in my family to go around. When in actuality, Lyla brought more love to our little corner of the world - and has transformed our family into something even better than it was before her arrival.

So here's where I net out as I head into a week in Chicago where I could really turn into a pooper. Sometimes getting behind, falling out of first place, can actually make you perform better. Sometimes the people that you think are your competition, are really your biggest fans. And sometimes, it just takes a long run to refresh your perspective.

Lyla, you looked lovely in white on Sunday. I love you so much. And I love your mom and dad so much. Now, you just better not spill any water on me on September 3.

International Conference 2011, I'm going for a long run right now.

Lo.

Dinnertime

Some people live for the weekend. Some people live for retirement. I live for dinner time - the concepting of, grocery shopping for, preparation of, and settling down to dinner time.

My countdown starts just about the time that my previous dinner ends. Before the tastes of one meal have left my palette, I'm onto the next - thinking about what should grace the dinner table, feed my appetite, and satisfy my senses the following evening.

I dream about dinner - I wake up, mouth watering, to buffets of well-known and novel aromas and flavors, and take notes on the little pad of paper I keep my bedside.

My morning blogging routine is dotted with spastic check-ins to BonAppetit.com, FoodandWine.com and Saveur.com to see who will be the first to change out their promo boxes for the day. (Food and Wine usually wins the race.) 

Through the course of the work day, I will dabble with the idea of making the Corn Dogs featured on Chow.com, or the idea of making grilled halibut with Chef Bill's mulberry mojo, and then unsatisfied around noon with either of these options, I'll flip to see what's cooking in the workshops of Smitten Kitchen and the Pioneer Woman. And then around 4:00, torn, undecided, and with a cache of cravings swirling through my head, I call up the other stakeholder.
So ... what are you thinking for dinner? 
The typical response is that it's my special dinner, so I should decide.
Still sugar plum dreaming of the buffet I woke up to the night before, I give him three options: Okay, what do you want - - Bone-in pork chops with a mango, corn salsa; lamb kebobs over tabbouleh; or (not giving him the option of taco night) Pad Thai with shrimp.

He chooses the pork chops, and after work we split the grocery getting duties - he goes to the Meat Market for the chops, and I go to the farm stand for the accouterments. We meet at his house, and we start the preparations. A little music, a couple drinks, the choppity chopping of vegetables, the lighting of the coals, followed by the spreading of them, the rubbing of salt and pepper into pork, the setting of the table (especially when I make it a fine china night) - all of it makes my heart race. Finally the ingredients come together, work their magic, add dimension to the table, and cap my day with the ultimate taste treat. Good food. Good drinks. Good company. The most wonderful way to call it a day. And then the countdown starts again.

Dinnertime is the best. And last night and tonight I have missed it terribly. In fact, this is dinnertime tonight. Working (and a little blogging) in the Happy Hour ridden lobby of my hotel - which seems to be hippest 20-something space in Irving, Texas. 

It made me wonder how many of the shot-taking happy hour people don't know about dinnertime and how amazing it is.Why weren't they rushing home to partake? And then I thought better. I bet they did know about it. And I bet they were at happy hour for just that reason - to find that special someone to celebrate dinnertime with.

I've sat here for about an hour now - from a packed crowd to five left - the two old guys who honestly should have joined me in one of the corners, and the two girls fighting for the last man standing. One lingers hopefully. The other lingers and leans in a little closer.

Five minutes later the chubby girl lost, and the uber skinny girl won - a girl who looks like she's been waiting for a good dinner for a while. And I'm really hoping they make it past the bar, past the first date, past the second and third, and into the era of dinnertime, where couples are happy, full, and in love with life.

Off to get some some Mickey D's and really looking forward to dinnertime tomorrow.

Lo.

It's Going

When you are managing a project, you're bound to have to field the question over and over again, until said project is complete, "So ... how's it going?" 


I typically embrace the query as I'm also typically armed with a thought-out response, corresponding metrics, a list of next steps, and a strategy for how to prioritize and balance the other unrelated projects and activities that I'm managing simultaneously.

My reply generally yields another question:
"How do you find the time to blog twice a week?"
(Ha!...) My rebuttal:
"I don't watch any television." 


The facial expression that acts as his or her reply tends to convey some sort of 'aha!' moment with an air of mental calculation as he or she figures out what they could be doing with the hours they spend watching Reality's finest line-up. And I tend to walk away, proud of my ability to manage, master tasks, prioritize - work, run, pray, cook, plan a wedding, travel, party, do everything, and then blog about it. Wow, I'm a superstar. 

And then last week happened. The week that Mr. or Mrs. "how the hell do you have time to blog?" put me in my place.
My silent, vacant blog response last week:
I don't.

Last week the do-it-all mentality was carried to an extreme. And unfortunately, it only acted as the amuse bouche for three more courses (or weeks) in a row, of 'come-on Lo, you can get er done, all by yourself.'

This week my projects, both professional and personal, collided, stressed me out, pushed me over the edge, and left me rattled when I left the office on Friday. And I didn't blog about any of them. I didn't even open up my profile to start piecing my thoughts together. I don't think I even had any thoughtful thoughts. I just had task lists running through me head, as more and more people asked me:
So how's project A going? 
Crap.
So how's project B going? 
Crap.
So how's project C going? 
CRAP!
So how's project D going? 
What the F is project D? Oh. CRAP!!
So how's the marathon training going? Have you started fundraising? 
Crap.

How's the wedding planning going? 
Ummm ... (thinking: need to make an agenda, welcome bags, cartoon, bridesmaids gifts, program, seating assignments, hair and make-up scheduling, outfits, dress fittings, Ughhhhhh ...)
Have you arranged to get a marriage license yet? You know it takes three days to process, so it won't be ready if you try to get it when you get home to Pittsburgh on the 30th.
F***!!!!!!!!!!!!

On Friday - at that glorious hour of 1:00 PM, when summer hours come to the rescue, I couldn't imagine leaving. I still had so much to do. I felt jittery and nervous. The many multi-stakeholder projects at work weren't complete, the writing was finished, the water as we prepare to welcome 1,000 people from around the world to a Conference that my department is hosting was getting higher, and I was going to be traveling next week. I started thinking about the big wedding plans, and yes, realized last week that the marriage license presents a big problem. I started analyzing my training and fundraising for the Chicago Marathon. (I did manage to knock out a 17-mile, 2:30 minute run on Saturday morning.) I have to move in less than a month. The cartoon maps of Pittsburgh needed to be done. I'm not giving up cooking every evening and hosting brunches. And I'm not missing any of the fun stuff - the parties, people, and places that make life that much more exciting. Every thing I'm working on seems to be at its peak and the vision of checking them off my list seems so far away. And I'm stressed.

Sitting at my computer last night and this morning helped. It helped me gain control again. And helped me remember that the destination isn't necessarily the best part, it's the journey. Especially, when the journey is dotted with Antonio Banderas, visits from Mom and Dad, dinner at Vie Restaurant, Hog Class pick-ups which contributed to an excellent brunch, an amazing couples shower, and flip videos of my niece, Lyla and her big beautiful eyes. And I also realized that I have a lot of people around me to help.

Off to enjoy the journey to Dallas and hoping for a more prolific week. 

Lo.