Frozen Flamingos Falling from Frigidity

I flopped down on my made bed after a run to the temple. I was soaked in sweat. I knew I shouldn't be touching my cover in the state I was in, but I needed to be horizontal. The air had been as thick as butter, and Caitlin had rocked my trash. Normally I try to tone down my energy in the early morn' because I'm happy and excited to be up and ready to talk about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as well as the mysteries of the universe, and I realize most people aren't like that. 

That wasn't the case Monday. I was drained. I let Caitlin set the pace, and I just fell into it. I remember my friend telling me once that his brother ran an ultra marathon, and he had paced his brother through the most critical points of that journey at night. His brother didn't have extra energy to use on decision making. Like the crazy runners in the book "Born to Run," you need a pacer to do the mental part of running when things get tough; the runner doesn't have to think about how fast to go or where to turn or when to step. 

As we ran up the Safeway hill towards Connecticut, not talking at this point because we were breathing hot, liquid air, I thought about geese. They form a formation and the front runner cuts the air making it easier for the birds behind. Eventually the one in front moves to the back, and a new pacer steps up to break the air. I love how we each do this for each other in life. Sometimes we are strong and can help everyone around us, and sometimes we are weak and need pacers.

As we topped out on the hill, my brain took a sharp turn: flamingos falling from the sky in Siberia! Oh, NPR, you teach me so much: http://www.npr.org/blogs/krulwich/2011/03/07/134229725/flamingos-drop-from-siberian-sky-locals-mystified. So what if your pacer, ummm, goes north instead of south, and you fall out of the sky in Siberia because you're frozen? Well then maybe you just end up in the Krasnayarsk Zoo. And maybe that's not such a bad life! I'm sure these flamingos had no idea that's where they'd end up.

I've thought a lot recently about what to believe and who to follow and how to form opinions and ideas, when so many float around, and what to think about the sexy zeitgeist (noun: the general intellectual, moral, and cultural climate of an era) of our time. I have developing conclusions, but what I do know is there are very few things that are sure in life. And there are some things that I've learned are constant: change and God, and I'm so glad I've learned I can trust Him.

An Accent Aigu over Her E

Yes, there is another Ginette Methot in the world, and, yes, she does have an accent over her surname e, and, yes, it's an accent aigu (noun: The accent aigu ´ (acute accent) can only be on an E), and, YES, I'm jealous. My name is cool, but her name is cooler. Why did we drop our accent? I want it back.

It as the first minute of the first day of the first grade at Saint Rafield's. Sister Luciel, yes, a bona fide nun—with a habit, was calling roll. She got to my name. "Hmmmm, Ginette Methot. Ginette, do you speak French in your home?" (French is still the second most spoken language in the home in New Hampshire.) Little Ginette, "No." "Well, then, how would you like your name pronounced? Jee-net or Jin-et?" Now even as a first grader, I knew the significance of this moment. Squirming in my seat, I realized eternity was expanding before me, and there were two parallel universes, and I could only choose one. Which life was I going to live? Was I going to be Jee-net (French Ginette) or Jin-et (anglicized Ginette)?

Paralyzed by decisions even in those early years, and with the weight of the crux of my first day of first grade in front of me, I realized everyone was looking at me. "Ginette!" I blurted out, trying to get out of the spotlight. I had to make a decision, and there it was. From now on and forever, anglicized! Chapter one of my very own choose-your-own-adventure book decided. What would life have been like if I had chosen little French Ginette? I would never know. Why can't we cheat on our choose-your-own-adventure books of life and read all the other chapters? I always cheated on the fictional choose-your-own-adventure books and read everything.

I love the uniqueness of my name now, while at the beginning of life, I didn't like being different. I don't mind not finding my name on those kitsch racks of blinking key chains. And I enjoy when other people are surprised by its spelling. Now, if I could only reclaim the accent on my last name, it would be even cooler. The other Ginette Methot wouldn't mind, right? Operation accent reclamation.

Big Kid Buys

I've never really felt like an adult before, but I feel like I'm starting to become one. I'm buying a fridge. Yup. I really thought only a lawn mower purchase would do the trick, but then again, I never thought about buying a fridge!

So we have seven girls in a large house, but only one fridge. Rachel has dubbed (verb: to call by a distinctive title, epithet, or nickname) me, or I have chosen to be dubbed, the refrigerator researcher—probably because of my current career. Ha! This is going to be AWESOME. 

Movin' to the Country: Gonna Eat a Lot of Peaches

We're moving! I knew this day would come some day, and August 4 is that day. Melissa, Lynn, and I are moving to Virginia (gonna eat a lot of peaches). The house is a little highfalutin for me, but it's time to change. Seven girls, four and a half bathrooms, two blocks from metro, one stop from DCA, one year until state residency—cheaper graduate tuition, and walking distance from everything. Plus, I don't have a car, so no property tax for me. And I'm getting away from Maryland's ridiculous locality tax.

Change is healthy and good and inevitable. Sayonara, Maryland! I will miss you.

Updated life plan:

• Work for a year and save like a banshee (noun: a female spirit in Gaelic folklore whose appearance or wailing warns a family that one of them will soon die). Yeah, I don't know what they save like.
• Stop working next July, and convince Andrea to travel Asia for two months. I'm going to find my soul; I'm pretty sure it's in Nepal.
• Graduate school in August of 2012.

Life is good.

Roundhouse to the Heart

Here's my casual-dating confession: sometimes I've been that girl. Yeah, the one you never want to be. The one you see yourself being in the very moment it's happening, and you don't want to be her, but it seems like it's beyond your control to stop being her. You see yourself not answering a text for days for every excuse imaginable, not returning a phone call for long periods of time, not entering a room so you don't have to confront a situation. Avoiding. I know I'm not alone in this, but it's inconsiderate at best, and extremely disrespectful to another person. This is supposedly under the guise that we don't want to hurt feelings. But really, does it prevent that outcome? No. It only postpones and makes something that's hard even harder.

So I owe the universe, and I've known that for a while. And I feel like some of that payment has been exacted (verb: to call for forcibly or urgently and obtain). The results of which felt like a roundhouse to the heart. A hit I'm absolutely willing to take because I know a taste of my own medicine is healthy and necessary. 

Here's to my progression. I went on a date a couple weeks ago. He showed up with flowers, and instead of thinking it was too much, which my former self would have done, I thought, "that's so thoughtful and nice." In the whole interaction, I tried to see him as a friend and someone I was trying to get to know, not someone I was evaluating. He sent a card in the mail afterward, probably because I didn't have a phone for an after-date text, and it made my day because it was a hilarious card and definitely way too much. But I think that's just his personality; he's an over-the-top kind of guy. I also found myself defending him when people thought maybe he was a creeper, and it felt good. Finally, he asked me out again, and guess what, I told him straight up no, in a kind way. I knew I couldn't go out again, and I was direct and honest about it. He thanked me so much for being honest, and now I feel I've gained a friend. Success!

The Compression of Vulnerability

There's a concept in dietetics called the compression of morbidity. I've always loved this concept. It goes something like this: we're all going to die, so why not die quickly? Some elderly people suffer from seven to ten years—or longer—and then die, while others, who live healthier lives, compress their morbidity into six months to a year and a half. So live healthy and strong as long as you can and then rapid decline.

I was talking to God one day right after the breakup with this concept in mind. I told Him, "Heavenly Father, compress my vulnerability (noun: capable of being physically or emotionally wounded). If it's going to hurt, make it fast and furious, and get it over with." Last night, as I walked along the platform at Farragut North to meet up with friends, lost in contemplation, I thought to myself, "I love my life." I was so content and happy again. I'm back, and my vulnerability has been compressed. Stage two of the breakup process, done.