In 2011:

I got serious about getting out of debt, sold a car, paid off a car, made and mostly stuck to a budget.

I ran three races, setting personal bests in each race, and requalified for the Boston marathon.

I celebrated a third year working a job I love.

I worked hard to be a really good mother to three really amazing kids.

I dealt with a strained relationship, that by year’s end, began to heal.

I gained a new relationship in a long lost cousin who could literally be my twin.

I learned who my true friends are, recognizing quality over quantity.

I made reading a priority, starting a mother/daughter book club with my thirteen year old daughter.

I found my Bible that I thought I had lost, and now keep it on my nightstand for daily reference.

I learned repeatedly not to ever, ever judge another person, not knowing what their life truly is.

Reading this list is a reminder that resolutions are a form of personal growth.

2012, bring it on!

Merry Christmas, family.

This past weekend, I got extra time with my son. I picked him up at noon on Friday from school and spent nearly four hours in the waiting room of a surgery center. I got to take him home a few hours later, and made sure he had everything he needed, from a milkshake, to pain pills. I made him the best comfort food I could (chicken pot pie) and bought him his own jug of choclate milk. For two hours on Sunday morning, we watched mindless TV, laughing at how unrealistic reality TV really is.

My son was at my mercy because of an injury mid-football season. But he did not give up on his season. Instead, he played with a resilience that most adults do not have. He played with heart, and persistence, and a heavy dose of his mother’s stubbornness.

He is going to recover, and he is going to be okay. Actually, he is going to be more than okay…he is going to be great. And will probably go on to do great things.

And in the meantime, I will get to spend some time with him. Afterall, he is non-weight bearing on his right leg for six weeks. There is no getting away from me until then.

I could not believe what I had just witnessed. Horrified, the crowd I stood among stared as race organizers and medical professionals raced to this man, lying on the ground. As they tended to him, race participants continued their quest of completing a 5k, glancing sympathetically at this one legged runner as they crossed under the finish line banner.

After about ten minutes, a wheelchair appeared, and the man is lifted into the seat. The crowd resumed the applause, only louder, with more intensity, truly in awe of this disabled man, who never lost the smile from his face.

I should have kept my mouth shut.

Apparently, Carol, a 60-something mother of two, marathoning grandmother, and a co-worker, had done 23 REAL push-ups that week at boot camp. So all the girls at work decided to see how many they could do. I am shamefully competitive, so I drop to the floor and perform 25 push-ups.

I could not raise my arms above shoulder level for a week.

But, that little challenge sparked something in me. Every single day since that breakroom incident, I have done push-ups. I alternate between the spread arm boy push-ups with the super hard, elbows tucked into your side push-ups. And the results are amazing.

In the last week, I have had several comments on how good my arms look.

Well guess what? It is all Carol’s fault. You can thank her for inspiring me.

The last time I remember seeing Tori was two years ago when her step-mother and my aunt brought her into Fleet Feet on a busy Saturday (prior to that, it had been her wedding twelve years before). Instantly, I felt like a sister meeting the twin from who she was separated at birth. The connection, the bond, was amazing. We only had a few minutes to talk before I had to get back to work. Thank goodness for Facebook. As we have reconnected over the past two years, we have discovered we are both single mothers of three children. As passionate as I am about running, Tori is about tennis. We resemble each other, blessed with a thick mane of dark blonde hair that naturally highlights in the sun.

I needed to reconnect with my cousin.

Tori turned 40 in May, and with my 40th birthday looming in July, I decided not to delay a long awaited reunion.

So a few weekends ago, my sister and my aunt flew down to Jacksonville, Florida, with me to spend a weekend making up for thirty years.

Our similarities were uncanny. We both love the same red wine. We both are louder than anyone else in the house. We both buckle our purses into the shopping cart at the grocery store. We are both wildly independent. We both fight our natural curls for straight hair. So many times during the weekend, we finished each other’s sentences.

As Tori dropped us off at the airport after a soul-filling weekend, I could not help but lament the fact that we had missed out on so many years together. She was quick to remind me that life’s timing is so important. It had not been our time…until now.

I hit the snooze once. Nine minutes later, I hit the snooze again. Nine minutes later, I hit the snooze for a third time, only to raise my head long enough to reset the alarm for 7:30 am. I was way too tired to ride. My lower back was still sore from an intense core workout two days prior. My legs were a little achy. Sleep would repair my worn out  body.

As I lay there, justifying my laziness, I began thinking about the disciplined exercisers in my life. Carol attends 5:15 am bootcamp a few times a week. Stacey either runs, rides or swims, or sometimes combines two of the three, before work nearly every day. Mark had probably already run his daily six, showered, eaten and was sitting at his desk working as I pounded the snooze button like a judge pounds his gavel.

Good for them, I thought. I am TIRED.

Smiling, as I lay my head back on my pillow, savoring the suddenness of an extra hour of sleep, I remember something that causes me to immediately jump out of bed. I make up the bed before I can climb back in and throw open my closet door in search of my bike shorts.

In less than three weeks, I will be turning FORTY.

Ten minutes later, I was cruising through the neighborhood, saying hi to all the other disciplined exercisers I passed.

It was a great ride, knowing I will be turning forty fighting.

For one hundred and forty four hours, I could do exactly what I wanted to do. Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? And it was…until my brain refused to turn off somewhere around day 4, coincidentally when I plugged back into the real world and checked my email. Suddenly, there it was looming…my To Do List. I spent the rest of the afternoon and part of an early dinner thoroughly depressed/overwhelmed/frustrated, basically all the emotions one should not be experiencing while spending a week at the beach. After some serious soul searching, sound advice from my travel companion and best friend, oh, and a pomegranate martini, I mentally put my To Do List on hold and continued my vacation.

In the five days since returning from the beach, I have had a co-worker hospitalized, an uncle have a heart attack, find out an old friend is getting a divorce and have a dear friend diagnosed with breast cancer.

If I could go back to the beach tomorrow, I would get an airbrushed t-shirt, make friends with everyone I cross, sit on the sand until the sun goes down and the crabs come out, and soak in every moment of peace that time at the beach brings.

The To Do List can wait. Life cannot.

Everyone in Nashville knows how quickly a storm can whip in and whip out, so not one of the athletes bail. As the runners take off for the first of two two-mile runs, I glance upwards, grateful for my umbrella in my hand.

We stand and cheer for the last female runner on the first run course, and as she passes us, she says “will you be here my last time around the course?” Without even a thought, I yell out a “heck yes!”

Literally sixty seconds later, the lightning, thunder, rain and crazy winds began. My fellow spectators and I sprint to a nearby tent to seek shelter. The lead bikers are just heading in, with most of the bikers out on the course, caught in the chaos.  For thirty minutes we watch the storm weary bikers file into the transition area, leave their bikes and head out for the final two mile run.

I would have DNF’d.

As I continue watching the determined runners, some crossing the finish line with the most impressive of lightning strikes in the background, what began to impress me the most was not the lead runner who finished by nearly a mile. Obviously, he was some semi-pro needing a quick fix of a first place trophy. What impresses me are the first time multi-sporters, already stepping out of comfort zones and now braving Mother Nature’s Fury. Many of these back of the packers will never run a ten minute mile or a sub two hour half marathon. In most races, they are just ahead of the course sweeper, often reaching water stops to find all the cups gone, and having few cheerleading spectators applauding the same efforts of the front of the packers. I realize today, that is my hero…the person who is out there to prove nothing but accomplish everything. They do not need crowds of applause, accolades or age group wins (although three of my favorite back of the packers today ended up with first place age group wins due to no competition….these ladies were 55 and older!)

I see the remaining female runner making her second lap of her final two mile run and I head to cheer her on, keeping my earlier promise. As I catch her, she thanks me for being out there (at this point, most participants have either left or have atleast changed into dry clothing and eaten a snack). I decide to jump in alongside of her and for the next half mile, learn that this woman is from San Antonio, has completed five full marathons, ten ultra marathons, several triathlons and duathlons, and is in the 65-69 age group, completely undaunted by the rains, the soggy run and being the last female on the course. She is looking forward to finishing this race and being able to tell a really good war story.