The End of an Era

Imagine something you've always done- something you committed to, sacrificed for, and cried over.  It's what you identified with, and half the people you know you met through this one thing.  Sometimes it seems like your life revolves around it- for good or bad.

It's shaped who you are, how you see the world.  You can't outgrow it, even when you stop doing it.  Because you can never just leave-it's a community that remembers you long after you try to go.  It's a lifestyle that you can't forget. 

Volleyball.

Jo and I blocking.  She's still recruitable ;)

SDVBC 17-1, in case you were wondering

Pretty corny, huh?

But I'm finally doing it, finally quitting.  I always told myself I would, but this time I know I am because the reason is a "shouldn't" but a "can't".  Too many other commitments, and I'm just not brave enough to risk it.  Not even for something I think I love.  College, you know?

I'm not even going to try to explain to you my reasons.  But know that they're solid, and that I had to choose between two paths.  The choice itself was simple-I had no future in volleyball.  It was something I enjoyed, and it couldn't give me anything more than health, friends, and lessons in discipline and patience. 

But it was easy to choose the other option.  Not so easy to live with it.

The movements I practiced so diligently, the muscles I so carefully trained are next to meaningless now.  It doesn't matter now how high I can (or can't) jump, how quickly I can react to the ball. 

What ball? It'll never be the same.

The words I need aren't where I thought they would be.  I can't express how like a dance the blocking footwork was, as we traveling along the net during our warmup, how our outstretched arms stretched above the tape and the veins in my wrists looked when they crooked over the top.  They looked pretty weird, bluey and all.

Even messing around on the beach or in open gyms, it'll never be the same.  That sense of urgency, or purpose, and of team will never again exist.  That's what I'll miss most of all.

But I suspect what ties me to a sport I'm too darn short for isn't any of that.  I started playing when I was around 12, just before a noticeable dip in the road.  Sometimes I would bring my problems with me onto the court, but they never left with me.  The ball would smash against the lines I scored into my arm, until I learned to stop putting them there.  Then they found their way onto other places.  Better to wear your scars on your skin than your heart, I think. 

Volleyball wasn't what helped me get better.  But it was there.  That's how these things are.  Sometimes just being there is enough to help. 

Watch for my daughter in the olympics 22 years from now.

Haha.

The Best Place That's Not My Bed

The driveway to my friend Maria's house is almost always completely obscured by cars and shoes coming, and shoes going.

The house that Mama Horan built.  Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.

The front hall is warm, welcoming.  The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet.  It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder.  A gift and a curse, really.

The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage.  It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked. 

The kitchen that Mama Horan built.  With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.

They converted their garage into a den.  Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge.  One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there.  It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.

Sometimes I like it better than my own house.  I like the aura of acceptance here.  Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug.  Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short.  It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too. 

Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her.  So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood.  Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.

The laughter that Mama Horan shares.  In the house that she built.

Giving Ellen's selfie a run for its money

The Post Inspired by the Dinguses Making Things Hard for Keanu Reeves

Good morning.  It is 2:37 AM and for that reason the following words will probably be strung together in a nonsensical manner.  I'll probably be embarassed when I reread them in the morning.  Technically it's already morning, but you know what I mean.

God, the unsuspecting civilian is so stupid.

Allow me to explain that statement.  I have been on a 90s binge for a while.  It started out with your run-of-the-mill romantic comedies, then to anything and everything Keanu Reeves is in.  I am currently watching Speed (1994), and basically this crazy guy stashed a bunch of explosives on a bus and told our man, Jack Traven, that the bus will explode if:

1. its speed drops below 50 miles an hour
2. anybody tries to get off

Imagine the mayhem.  At one point, they hit traffic and had to drive onto the shoulder.  It was pretty epic.

Now, everyone around them was shocked, with reactions ranging from indignation to outrage to aggressive concern (haha).  But what really pissed me off-irritated me excruciatingly-was how quick everyone was to jump to conclusions, assume nothing was the matter, aside from some crazy guy jumping onto a moving bus, just casually ruining everybody's day.

No.

This is a guy risking his career-hell, his LIFE-and you 're making his life difficult.  Like it isn't difficult enough already.  You can't blame the passengers, the people on the bus whose lives are in danger, for breaking down, losing their cool.  Understandable.  Not ideal, but understandable.

But for God's sake, the news people, the random passerby...

In the words of Dermot Mulroney in The Wedding Date (2005), "there is no such thing as 'out of the blue'".  Actually, I'm pretty sure a bunch of other, more credible, people said that too only I can't quite call any to mind.  Probably Freud or Einstein or Oprah or something.

But I digress.  The point is, what you might be fooled into thinking is something small, something random, is more likely part of something bigger.  Something nobody has the time to explain while trying to save a busful of really freaked-out civilians.

Not that the folks on the bus were being so accomodating, but I've never been in a situation like that so I'm in no position to judge.  (But really...)

I do not own this Image

Then I started thinking (never a good idea this late).  Imagine all the crazy sh*t people pull, and how others respond.  Going too slow on the freeway? Cacophany of honks.  Basically, if you were to do anything disruptive or out of the ordinary, humanity is so self-absorbed that people will probably just assume you are going out of your way to ruin their day with your assholery.

Don't get me wrong-you might be.  Asshole.

But seeing as we have so many excellent examples of seemingly disturbed individuals making a scene and doing a number of strange, dangerous things in the interest of saving the world or something...you'd think our society would have learned to stop jumping to conclusions.

Now I'm not saying that if someone tries to take your car you should assume that they are the FBI and need your motor vehicle to transport them to the Martian spaceship where they prevent the Martian colonization of Earth and just hand over your Honda. That would not be smart.  But I am saying that maybe we as a society should stop jumping to conclusions and assume people around us are just a bunch of inconsiderate assholes when for all we know they could be saving the North American continent from terrorists or something like that.

Wow, all this just so my muddled brain could say :"judge not thy neighbor"?

Just think about it.  The crazy lady that cut you off might have a better reason than you for being somewhere sometime.  Maybe she's not saving the universe, but maybe she's in labor and has to drive herself because her husband is grappling with jewel thieves in Morocco.  Jeez, cut her some slack.

Also, if ever you find yourself on a bus with a bomb, please try to freak out quietly.

Peace.  Talk to you guys later.

Mineiraço

Its a dark time to be Brazilian.

Or is it?

Since yesterday I have read many articles, chuckled ruefully at a lot of memes, about Brazil's defeat at the hands of Germany.  Really, that's putting it kindly.  A lot of people gave up on Seleção after Neymar was carried off the field in the narrow win against Colombia but the entire stadium had turned against the players in canary by the game's close.  They stood for their conquerers-perhaps ironically-and scorned the conquered, leaving them to bleed on the field.

I'm not Brazilian, so I don't understand their pain.  I've only recently started watching the sport, so I try not to join in the discussion over technique or strategy or the future of futebol. But I do have to say this: for a country that proclaims to love the sport and love its players, it is surprisingly disloyal.

Well, not surprisingly.  Those fans displayed commendable restraint by not setting the stadium on fire.  They have been calling this the Mineiraço, a throwback to the 1950 Maracanazo, when Brazil lost to Uruguay in the finals at home. 

So I've already established that I don't know much about the Brazilian identity regarding soccer, and that my understanding of the sport is limited.  However, it seems to me that a love means loyalty, applause even when you lose.  As an athlete myself, I can tell you that a crowd on your side is another player in the game.  A silent crowd will sap your energy, sink you into a depressive, hopeless state.  But a crowd that roars your name, that chants for you, that hollers insults to the other side, can pick you up, and make you feel like a god.  In dire moments, it can make you believe.  When you've forgotten how, it can teach you to be a team again. 

Where'd y'all go?

The Brazilians left their players for dead after Germany scored four goals in, like, ten minutes.  Daunting, sure, but no matter how much you glorify them, those eleven players (plus the ones on the bench, and the one thats out with a broken vertabrae and the one that got himself banned) are human, not gods.  And you haven't loved them.  You can't just cheer for them when they win and call that love.  For them, it was a valiant effort.  They just weren't ready, not without their captain, and not without their star player.  Coach Scolari had expressed doubts about their emotional stability, and then downplayed it later. 

Imagine the pressure, the enormous force dumped upon their shoulders.  Playing for glory in their own home.  Praying for forgiveness two hours later.

Losing is a part of the game.  It's what makes victory even sweeter.  It's a lesson learned, a broken heart that strengthens as it heals.  You could see the players grow frantic, and then give up.  Their legs continued to run, but for them the game was over.  And the crowd didn't try to dispute it.  Crowds are always like that.

The Brazilians didn't deserve to win.  They weren't ready.  Germany simply outplayed them-their passing was more accurate, their defense did more than run around, and they knew it. 

After the game against Colombia, I joked to my friend that 80% of Brazil's chance of winning the title just broke his vertebrae.  Perhaps I wasn't joking.  Brazil has a number of great players, but Germany has a great team.

But I still believe in Brazil.  I believe they will come back, stronger than before.  This has taught them to be wary of relying too much on any one player.  It's a dangerous system.  Perhaps the same fate will befall Argentina.  Perhaps not.  

I still believe in Seleção. 

Vegan Update

The way I approach my diet is actually pretty flexible.  I hesitate to really call myself a true vegan, because I deviate from time to time.  Until I these past two weeks, that didn't happen very often-maybe once or twice a month, and it was almost never meat.

I love food.  I always thought I loved food, but it wasn't until I veered toward the plant-based diet that I realized that before I loved the act of eating, not the food itself.  Mindless gluttony, to fill hours of boredom, or to fill spaces in my life, empty voids, cavernous craters in the soul.  These things cannot be filled by physical sustenance. 

But now I have learned to love my body's fuel.  I take pleasure in colors, textures, smells, and cultural-historical significance.  I'm kind of a nerd.  I'm the chick that makes gazpacho and then reads a bajillion articles about Spanish cuisine for the rest of the afternoon. 

 I'm not a hipster, okay? Hipster don't read- they engage in interprative dance as a means of communication.

That's the loophole.  If it's a culturally significant dish, I will try it-vegan or no.  If it is something I used to eat as a very young child, I will take that stroll down memory lane.  If I'm traveling with people, I won't go out of my way to be a nuisance.  

This system works pretty well for me.  I don't break this lifestyle because I have a sugar craving, or "just because".  I wouldn't break it for a McRibb but I would for a cut of Argentinean asado.  The traditional blend of seasonings and spices, the manner in which it is prepared, are statements of Argentine heritage. 

If I turned it down, I would be missing out on a chance to experience another culture in the coolest way possible.  

That's my justification.  And like I said, it works for me, except that I don't really care for meat anymore.  The way it feels in my mouth, the gaminess...its not the same anymore.  

But I spent these past two weeks at volleyball tournaments, in Orlando and Houston, respectively.  I strayed from the Vegan lifestyle a lot.  Especially in Houston, because if the surrounding eateries are any indication, the Texan's dietary staple appears to be barbeque.  So I said "To Hell with it!" and went ham (ha!) on their pulled pork.

Well, I'm back home now, and I feel gross.  I've been feeling gross.  When I was on a stricter Vegan regimen, my body felt lean and powerful.  Now it feels puffy and uncomfortably full.  Feeling full from large meals of fruits and vegetables and carbs is actually pretty pleasant-but feeling full on pretzels and beef and ice cream is not.  

Before these two weeks, I had lost around ten pounds (in the space of 5ish months-very gradual), my skin had cleared, my eyes had gotten lighter and the whites brighter, I slept better, and I had what felt like boundless energy.

Now, I'm all salty and puffy.  I have begun to break out, and my eyes seem darker.  I keep getting spells of nausea and it's possible I got dumber, too.

But this is how you learn, right?  This is definitely not an experience I'd want to repeat, so I won't ever eat that much junk food again.  I don't honestly think this happened because I ate meat and dairy-I think its because the manner in which I chose to eat meat and dairy was pretty much the unhealthiest option there was.