The Allergist vs The Dentist

The Allergist vs The Dentist

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

“What do you mean you like the dentist ‘way more better’ than me?!” Dr. Reynolds asked Gia Milton.

“The dentist doesn’t poke me all the time!” Gia answered.

Dr. Reynolds was Gia’s allergist. Allergists like to poke and prod their patients. Blood draws, skin scrape tests, and allergy shots were all part of the package. Gia didn’t like it one bit. She was seven, which only complicated matters. Kids are notoriously unwilling to cooperate in these matters.

Gia was looking forward to her dentist appointment the next day. Not only was a visit to the dentist easier, they gave out prizes. Much better than the measly stickers handed out by Dr. Reynolds.

“Here is a copy of her test results, Mrs. Milton,” Dr. Reynolds said to Gia’s mother. We can start allergy shots on her next visit.”

She turned to Gia. “If you got to pick out two stickers, would you like me more than the dentist?”

“Nope,” answered Gia, with extra emphasis on the p. “The dentist lets me pick out a toy. And I get a brand new toothbrush with bubble-gum flavored dental floss. He doesn’t stick me with all those needles either.” A brief pause. “I’ll take two stickers anyway.”

Dr. Reynolds raised her eyebrows as she looked over at Mrs. Milton before leading them to the sticker drawer.

“Hey, I don’t know what to say. You have to up the ante,” said Mrs. Milton.

“I take it she hasn’t had the pleasure of receiving a filling yet?” inquired Dr. Reynolds.

“Not yet.”

Gia selected her stickers, thanked the doctor and they went along their way.

In the car, Gia asked, “Mom, what’s a ‘filling’ that the doctor mentioned.”

“Sometimes people have cavities, or holes, in their teeth. In order to keep them from getting bigger, the dentist cleans the tooth, and then places special material over it. It’s called a filling.”

“So, what’s the big deal?”

“Well, the dentist usually uses a special medicine so the patient doesn’t feel what is happening.”

“Okay…” Gia was confused.

“The medicine has to be given by a shot in the mouth.”

Gia gasped in horror. “Do I have cavities, mom?”

“I don’t know. That’s why everyone visits the dentist. To have their teeth cleaned and check for cavities or other problems.”

“I do not want cavities because I do not like shots!”

“I figured as much,” said Mrs. Milton.

The following morning brought the dentist appointment. Gia skipped into the office with giddy excitement. She was immediately seated in the splendid dentist chair that goes up and down.

“It’s like a carnival ride!” Gia exclaimed.

The hygienist cleaned and polished her teeth with ease. She let Gia pick out her toothbrush; purple this time. They had grape flavored floss with delighted Gia.

“I was getting bored of bubble gum,” she said.

The dentist came in to provide the examination.

“How are you, Gia?” Dr. Connors asked.

“Good. I’m really glad I’m here and not that stupid allergy place. They are always poking me. I told her I like the dentist way more better.”

Dr. Connors perked up, “Really?”

“Yep,” answered Gia, with emphasis on the p. “When do I get my prize?”

“After I examine your teeth. It won’t take long.”

As he tapped and poked her chompers, Mrs. Milton explained how visits to the allergist typically involve getting poked with needles. “She needs skin prick tests, blood draws…the typical stuff kids dislike.”

“I’m thrilled someone actually enjoys coming to see me, Gia.

Dr. Connors carefully checked all her teeth. He let out a disgruntled sigh when he finished. The blue latex gloves snapped as he pulled them off and rose from his stool. A look of disappointment was on his face.

“I’m afraid she’s got two small cavities,” Dr. Connors informed Mrs. Milton.

“Ok,” Mrs. Milton assumed cavities would happen sooner or later. Nearly everyone gets one at some point in their lives.

Gia had a look of dread on her face. She remembered what her mom told her about cavities and a shot in her mouth.

“However,” the dentist continued, “they are so tiny, I believe I can fill them without the need to administer Novocain.”

He turned to Gia and continued. “So there’s nothing to worry about, kiddo. You will come back and see me, I’ll fix your teeth, and you’ll be as good as new.”

“Do I have to get a shot in my mouth?” She gave him a cold glare.

He realized Gia hadn’t understood the word Novocain. “No. I think I can do it without the medicine. Then you’ll still like me more than your allergist, right?”

“Yes!” Gia’s eyes light up.

So that was it, thought Mrs. Milton. By skipping the Novocain, he was attempting to keep his approval rating above the allergist.

Gia hopped out of the chair to collect her prize trinket from the treasure box, and back home they went.

The following week Gia returned to Dr. Connors’s chair for the fillings. She felt a little nervous. Could the dentist really do this with the shot? And would the procedure hurt?

“Are you ready?” He asked her.

She sighed. “Yes. Just remember, I like you better than the allergist.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

Dr. Connors went to work by first showing and explaining all the tools and gizmos he planned to use. Then he eased her back in the chair to get started.

“Let me know if anything hurts or feels funny, ok, Gia?”

She nodded her head; her mouth full of suction tubes and miniature water hoses.

Everything went smoothly. The drilling didn’t cause any problems and Mrs. Milton believed she even saw Gia smile. He filled the cavities and set the cement will the funny blue light. A few taps on a black piece of paper to check her bite levels and she was all done.

The hygienist brought the treasure box to Gia for another prize. She was beaming with excitement.

As she was carefully selecting her prize, Dr. Connors asked, “How was the experience, Gia?”

“Good. I’m really happy you didn’t have to put a shot in my mouth.”

“Me, too,” he replied.

The pressing question hung in the air.

“So, Gia, do you still like me more than your allergist.”

“Definitely!”

Dr. Connors triumphantly thrust his fists in the air and exclaimed, “Yes!”

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: No Goofing Off

No Goofing Off

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

A shopping outing with my husband is usually a spectacle equal to that of a whining toddler. He generally doesn’t enjoy shopping, and browsing is out of the question. He likes to stick to a list. Yesterday, however, was an exception.

Tom and I had a few errands to run before picking up our daughter from the bus stop. First we stopped at an electronic store to research new computers. Our second stop was Costco, one of those warehouse club stores, with a small list: granola bars, crackers, allergy medicine, and grapes. I must admit, it’s a headache to shop there. The parking lot is consistently packed, items never seem to be in the same location, and the checkout lines are horrendously long. Tom doesn't shop here often, but he has been subjected to my rants. We pulled into a parking spot about a mile away. As we walked towards the entrance in the midday August heat, he said, “No goofing off. Let’s just get in and out as fast as possible.” Not goofing off meant no browsing. But I forgot how distracting Costco can be to those who don't frequent this establishment.

We grabbed a cart and went in. First we passed the electronics section. I noticed the computers and briefly stopped to price compare them to the electronics store. Tom shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“Hurry up and get on with the list. We don’t want to be late to the bus stop.”

“Okay, okay,” I complied. The computers will have to wait.

We continued on to the snack section which was only a few feet ahead. I steered around a table with neatly folded jackets.

“I was planning to buy the same granola bars as before is that okay—hey where did you go?” I said to, apparently, myself. I whirled my head around, looking for Tom. I spotted him by the jackets. I pushed the oversized cart back towards his direction. “Find something interesting?”

“These jackets are nice, and only twenty dollars!” he exclaimed. “I need a dressier jacket.”

“Those are medium weight outdoor jackets,” I said.

“No they aren’t, they are too nice to be used outdoors.”

I realized he spends far too much time in rain gear on a boat to understand what a “dressier” jacket actually is.

“When are you going to need a ‘dressy’ jacket? You hate wearing nice clothes.”

“I don’t know, but I suppose I will need one at some point.” He examined the jacket closer, checking out all the pockets and running his hand down the fabric. “Which color do you like better: black or grey?”

I looked at the other choices. “I like the orange one,” I said.

Tom gave me a look of disgust, grabbed a black one, and placed it in the cart.

We turned around to move away from the jackets when I said, “Before I realized you disappeared, I wanted to ask you if the same granola bars were suitable--“

“Whoa!” he interrupted.

A wall of beef jerky stood before us. It’s his favorite fishing snack and he was staring at the biggest selection available. There were jerky sticks, turkey jerky, and individual snack sized. Tom grabbed the latter and added it to the cart with his jacket. With a big grin he asked, “What were you saying?”

“You want the same granola bars or a different kind?” I scowled as I led him over to the choices.

He selected the same lemon bars I purchased before. Finally, something in the cart off the list.

We zipped across to the pharmacy area and I grabbed allergy medicine and moved on to the cracker aisle. Damn you, Costco, for placing chips next to the crackers!

“Oh, hey, I need chips. We are almost out at home.” He ventured through the chip selection and was disappointed in the available varieties. It was taking him a several minutes to decide and I grew impatient.

“I can get those when I do the regular grocery shopping in a couple days,” I suggested, hoping to speed up our progress. He already spent extra time on the jacket and beef jerky after scolding me for spending 17.2 seconds looking at computer prices.

“No. We’ll run out by then. I’ll pick something here.”

I reminded him that as we entered the store he wanted to simply get in and out as quickly as possible. His selective hearing disability must have acted up again because he ignored me.

Finally, he chose the individually sized variety package. I grabbed the package of Goldfish crackers from the list and we continued. I tried to take a shortcut through the housewares to get to the produce department, but I wasn’t cunning enough. He found them. The things that take up all the time in Costco. I should have known better. I was foolish not to anticipate it.

“Check out all the samples today!” he beamed.

Perhaps it was best I leave him while I finish shopping and get to the bus stop. After all, no goofing off. 




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Toots and Farts

Toots and Farts

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

      Kids have the most ridiculously uncensored minds. I was getting Gia (seven years old) ready for bed. She finished her shower and I was helping her brush her teeth, when she let a loud one rip.

I said, “You tooted! Excuse you!” In a few seconds, the aftermath presented itself. “Whew! And it’s stinky!” I pinched my nose and flipped on the fan. It spun to life as is desperately worked to expel the lingering flatulence.

She giggled with a silly guilty grin across her face. We finished brushing her teeth and she paused thoughtfully as we transitioned to flossing. She took this moment to tell me with wide mischievous eyes, “Mom, guess what? Sometimes when I’m taking a bath, I fart in the water!” Her hands flew over her mouth but more giggles escaped.

I gasped. “What?! Ladies don’t do that!”

She released her hand and said, “Yah. And when I do it, it makes bubbles! I can make a bubble bath with my farts. Isn’t that cool?” She threw her hand over her mouth again and resumed giggling.

I bellowed with laughter. How can a discussion about a fart-induced bubble bath not bring gargantuan belly spasms?

She continued, “I only do it when Daddy gives me a bath. He says he knows all about it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, but I told him, ‘I bet when you do it, it makes the water all stinky.’”

I can’t believe our conversation has developed into this. By now my stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

“I’m telling you about it, cause I know you know nothing about this subject.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She switched to a slightly more serious tone. “Because ladies don’t do that sort of thing; you just said so.” She put her hand to her chest, held her nose slightly upwards, and closed her eyes as she spoke. I think she was trying to sound refined, but it was only getting my giggles going again. Luckily, I stifled them.

“You know, you are a lady, and you just admitted to tooting.”

Her hands quickly molded into fists and moved to her hips as she furrowed her brow slightly.

“No, I’m a kid. I won’t qualify as a lady for a few more years. By the way, tomorrow, instead of a shower, I’d like a bath please.”




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Overnight In Paradise

Sunset at Quinn's Hot Springs, Paradise MT 08/05/16

This year was our 15th wedding anniversary. Like everyone says, time flies and it's hard to believe I've put up with T for that many years (ha ha ha). He surprised me with an overnight getaway to Quinn's Hot Springs Resort in Paradise, Montana.

I must back up a little to about a week before our departure when I sprained my calf. (It was evaluated by two different doctors to rule out other ailments.) I have no idea how it happened. Not knowing is irritating because I don't know how to prevent it again. Away we went to Montana, me hobbling along on my leg. The drive was only about two and a half hours from home, and anyone who has driven the stretch of I-90 through north Idaho into western Montana knows the beauty it holds.

Quinn's Hot Springs straddles MT HWY 135 in an area nestled between the mountains. The resort, lodge, restaurant, and hot springs are on the east side with cabins along the Clark Fork River on the west. We stayed in one of the cabins facing the river. What a treat! It was a luxurious cabin with a porch swing, fireplace, wine and snacks, and a fancy bathroom that occupied about a third of the cabin's square footage. We enjoyed relaxing on the swing and watching the river flow, which may sound boring, but we watched an eagle glide directly in front of us over the water. We could see his eyeballs, he was so close! An osprey soon followed suit. Once in a while a fish leaped out, leaving behind a ring of ripples. Berry bushes buffered the cabin from the river and bunnies frequently hopped out to grab a bite to eat. We enjoy wildlife and hoped more species would wander through the area, but these summed it up. It's okay, we'll take it!

Next was to check out these mineral hot springs. A cluster of pools with various temperatures contain the pumped-in mineral hot spring water. The temperatures change multiple times per day, but generally are about 106, 104, 102, 100, 95, 72 degrees Fahrenheit. They contained silica, sulfate, sulfur, calcium, magnesium, sodium, potassium, and iron. Each one has it's own therapeutic benefit and felt quite soothing on my sore leg. Something we noticed about the hot springs pools versus a chlorine swimming pool, is that people moved slower at a peaceful, easy pace; even the children and teenagers! There must be something to this mineral bathing business after all.

We took a break to eat dinner at the resort's restaurant and hopped back in the pools afterwards. That's when the storm arrived. Per policy, guests have to evacuate when there's visible lightening. Once it ceases for fifteen minutes we can return. While we waited for the storm to pass I snapped the above photo with my phone. Lightening brings empty pools, but beautiful Montana sunsets!

I loved the surprise getaway in Paradise. Planning even a small trip on his own is not typical of T, and I appreciate he went out of his way for us. It was relaxing and nice to get out of town. Here's to 15 years and counting.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Bookcase

The Bookcase

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The bookcase stood against the wall in the waiting room. It was small, only two shelves, and coated with a chestnut stain. There was an aluminum monogram letter C mounted on the wall above it. On the floor to its left was a pottery urn with branches of pussy willows pointing up like spears. A single vase with artificial hydrangeas adorned the top shelf, along with a sign that said “A smile is the prettiest thing you can wear.” Only the bookcase didn’t feel pretty. It couldn’t smile. It was empty.

The bookcase longed for books. In its last home, it was crammed with magnificent stories. Their pages telling tantalizing tales of far off places, adventures, biographies, and even children’s stories. Thousands of pages of excitement lined up, to be read over and over again. Oh how the bookcase loved when the people came to it! Their warm hands over its wood, the oil from their skins smearing the chestnut stain along the edges, the creak in the floor as they walked away with a new adventure in hand. It brought the bookcase immense joy to hold the wonders that unlocked imaginations.

People surrounded the bookcase, squatting down to study the available options, selecting the right one to suit their moods. “Which one shall I read today?” “Oh! This is my favorite!” “I’ve heard of this title.” The reader gently ran their hand over the line of books, waiting for the energy to stop their index finger over the one, tapping it with anticipation. They leaned the top corner out first, then finished sliding the book from its resting place. Disturbed dust swirled and sparkled in the afternoon sunrays that filtered in through the window’s sheer curtains. A vertical empty shadow remained on the shelf. If a thick book was removed, sometimes the adjacent books fell over, tapping their neighbor. When more than one book was removed, the bookcase was left with empty spaces, like missing teeth. But it didn’t mind because this was the bookcase’s purpose; to house books and stories for all to enjoy.

Unread books intrigued people to return. The satisfied readers replaced the finished books and selected another. Sometimes they took a break, leaving the books to sit and enjoy each other’s company. It was rare all the books sat on the bookcase at once. When they gathered together, it was like a party. Each book talking to one another and altering their story. When the reader picked up a book a second time, it wouldn’t be quite the same story as before.

Soon the number of books increased and no room was left for them to stand side by side. They were placed on their sides, over the top of the vertical ones. They were placed on top of the bookcase. They piled on the floor next to the bookcase, hugging it. They overflowed, but the bookcase was happy with its growing family. It was more joy to bring the people.

One day, the books were taken away. Voices, belonging to the readers, chimed excitement of a larger space to hold their personal library. The bookcase was wiped clean and moved aside. The bookcase watched, heartbroken, as a new larger shelf unit was the replacement. It was sturdy, stark white, and clean. The bookcase wondered how long before the new unit was covered in finger stains or rings of coffee. The sun filtered through the sheer curtains onto its bottom two shelves, which occupied the same space as the bookcase. The shelf unit now had the job the bookcase loved and cherished.

The novels, nurtured by the bookcase all those years, were placed in their new home. Their tears of homesickness couldn’t be seen by the people, but the bookcase noticed. It desperately wanted to comfort them, but was helpless. It shed some tears of its own. The separation was difficult.

And so the bookcase was transplanted to its new location; an office waiting room. The decorations and adornments were pretty, but they didn’t satisfy the bookcase. Many people, potential readers, walked past but never stopped. It sat empty with nothing to offer. Flimsy reading materials sat on a low table in front of chairs; the bookcase longed for volumes of any story to hold and nurture once again. To bring wide-eyed joy to many more readers. To collect dust, be scuffed, and touched. It hoped that happened soon. It wanted to wear a smile and be pretty.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: The Trio

This turned out to be more of a character development piece. I like the imagery I used; perhaps I can eventually expand this into a longer story. What do you think?

The Trio

By,

Jennifer E. Miller

The trio walked towards the intersection near the interstate off ramp. The sun struck the sidewalk and the heat rose in steamy waves. Human hadn’t bathed or shaved in a few day, he desired the look of dirtiness. To conceal his identity, he sported a boonie hat paired with a pair of outdated sunglasses found at a yard sale. He lugged a metal-framed backpack, army green, stuffed with blankets and other lightweight objects. He only needed it to appear full. Under one arm was a square piece of cardboard. Dog walked in front of Human on a rope leash, held with the free hand. Riding upon the top of the backpack was Cat. She bounced with each step Human took, clinging to the fabric as best she could. She had on her best grumpy-cat face, except she wasn’t lying. 

                The practice was well known in this city. Persons make themselves appear needy, when they really aren’t, stand at intersections with cardboard signs inked in sharpie marker that read “Anything helps,” “Hard times, need money,” and similar phrases. They take turns standing on corners with solemn looks upon their faces, careful not to make direct eye contact with motorists, in hopes one will take pity and hand them a couple dollars. If they are lucky, someone hands them a twenty. The shifts are about three hours and can easily yield $100 per hour. Usually more. The organizing company, if it’s even classified as such, takes sixty percent. That leaves Human with $120, $40 per hour, on a slow day. Much more than his current day job of $17.50 per hour, and Uncle Sam takes a large portion of it. Begging on the corner is a cash-only business and he doesn’t have to share it with the government. It was easy money.

                At first, Human went alone. The cash poured in slower than expected. Many drivers handed him business cards with “call me for a job interview” scribbled hastily on the back. Some pedestrians brought him snacks or leftovers from their restaurant meals. Clearly, people felt sorry for him but he didn’t want their charity. He wanted their money. He had bills to pay, nagging student loans, vacations to fund, and two animals to feed. That’s when the idea dawned on him; to bring his pets along. They add to the look of desperation, and perhaps folks will see he needs money for his “dependents.”

                His plan was a success. His black labrador and tortoise shell cat made ideal ornaments to fleece citizens. A poor man with animals definitely struck emotional chords. They handed out cash with looks of pity and sorrow. He faked shame as he accepted the bills with grace, stuffing them into the ratty pocket of his cargo shorts.

                Lately, however, Human noticed Cat and Dog did not enjoy their excursions. Dog, who was active and friendly, did not display eagerness and joy at the walk down the now familiar stretch of road. Cat, an unusual creature, liked to venture out of her indoor domain and explore past her territory. Today, she growled and complained at riding atop the backpack. Both seemed aggravated on the way to the intersection.

                About half a block away from the intersection, Human could see the woman he was relieving. She packed up the last of her belongings and headed in his direction. He was annoyed with this girl. She wore her Ray Ban sunglasses; a big mistake. Motorists will question why a beggar wears expensive eyewear, and move on. However, he noticed today she had found a way to increase her success rate. She wore a thread-bare t-shirt, that hung off her shoulders. The front had several large holes exposing her belly button ring and smooth abdomen. She smiled satisfactorily as she walked by Human, her blonde braids bouncing over her shoulders. He suspected she gathered a bounty of business cards with personal phone numbers, in addition to a large sum of cash.

                Upon arrival, Human set his cardboard sign down and pulled the large pack from his back, careful to not knock Cat to the ground. Balancing her perfectly, he set the it upright on the ground. Cat continued to perch on the top. It was her preferred resting place during the shift. Dog sat down, panting with drool dripping off his tongue in long sticky strings. Human unpacked the travel water dish and a canteen of water and filled the bowl. He picked up his sign, held it with two hands, faced it towards the traffic exiting the interstate, and waited.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Right vs Left: Political Candidates Explained

Right vs. Left: Political Candidates Explained*

By,

Jennifer Miller

The media is inundated with reasons encouraging me to vote-in certain candidates; I don't need to mention names. My social media news feeds are flooded with various articles and opinions in favor of such-and-such politician. The election candidates plaster newspapers, mail flyers, advertisements, billboards, magazines, T-shirts, and yard signs. Why can't it be banished and we all quietly read our voter's pamphlet a few days before the election? Oh yeah, it's 2016; the year of utter madness and chaos.

This year is quite divided, politically speaking. You're either voting Republican or Democrat. If you don't consider yourself on any one side, you will most likely try to outvote your lesser-favored candidate. But just for the sheer fun of it, I'm going to break things down in a short, easy to understand fashion.

Republicans are traditionally considered right-wing, while Democrats swing left. What exactly do right and left mean, besides direction? According to dictionary.com Right comes from riht, an Old English word meaning "just, good, fair, and proper." Left is rooted to the Old English version lyft, meaning "weak, idle, and foolish." This is immensely helpful in making the current politics straightforward. If you want a "good, fair, and proper" leader, vote Republican. If you favor someone "weak, idle, and foolish," there's a Democrat for that.

Going even further, the Republican's mascot is an elephant which is considered a highly intelligent animal and can even comprehend compassion and cooperation. In contrast, the Democrat's mascot is a donkey, also known as an ass. They certainly didn't think their mascot selection through, did they? Therefore, they most likely won't properly think matters through in office either.

There you have it. You can vote for what is proper and smart, or you can vote for a foolish ass. 

*This was written for entertainment purposes. If you can't get a laugh out of it, consider lightening up.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Flash Fiction Friday: Home Economic Problems

Flash Fiction is a very short story. I'm trying to stay more consistent with writing, so my current plan is to post a Flash Fiction (or it may end up as a Flash Non-Fiction) piece each Friday. If I miss one, feel free to hold me accountable. I welcome feedback.

Home Economic Problems

By,

Jennifer E Miller

It’s the afternoon and I want coffee. The pot has long turned itself off so I choose to zap a leftover mug-full in the microwave as my husband heads downstairs to exercise. I hear the TV switch on, the beeps of the treadmill, and finally his feet striking the belt in even strides. Sitting down on the couch, I put my feet up and place my coffee on the end table beside me with the intention of enjoying some time to myself. I begin the mindless task of checking email by way of my smartphone, when the cat climbs onto me. Between responding to emails and giving the feline attention, I forget about my coffee. When I remember, it’s cold. I now have a Home Economic Predicament: how to obtain hot coffee.

Plan A has obviously been foiled. Plan A is asking the husband to heat it up for me. But he’s downstairs and won’t hear my calls for help over the TV and treadmill noise. I can’t text or call because his cellular phone is MIA.

Plan B is me getting off the couch to do it myself. Plan B has no merit because the cat has made herself comfortable by curling up on my legs. Who am I to disturb her?

The unfortunate solution to obtain my caffeine is to sip it as is, cold. An awful way to honor coffee.

I struggle with guilt over my present situation because a good coffee connoisseur would never let this happen. A good coffee connoisseur would remember to drink it while hot. Actually, a good coffee connoisseur would drink the entire pot while it’s fresh. Or a good coffee connoisseur would go out and give business to the local coffee stands. Even further, a good coffee connoisseur would grow her own beans and sell a unique coffee variety at the local farmers market. That means the good coffee connoisseur needs a warmer climate which requires moving. This big decision requires careful consideration from the good coffee connoisseur…over more coffee, of course. Drat! Now I’m back to where I started!

The cat continues purring on my lap. Perhaps it’s time for Plan C: wait for Plan A to come upstairs.

Darn home economic problems!




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

The Penny and the Twenty

Image source: Wikipedia

Image source: Wikipedia

Recently, it has been announced that the familiar face of the twenty dollar bill will be replaced by a newcomer after protest of society's softies. Harriet Tubman will take the place of President Andrew Jackson. President Jackson owned slaves, an unheard of thing now, but a legal and acceptable practice during that time period. Harriet Tubman is a better choice for symbolizing freedom and the modern world. Nevermind that she was a slave which are purchased, you know with money. Now her face shall represent it? Seems a little backwards. Plus, I feel it's stepping on the face of our former leader. Admittedly, I don't agree with this change. I'm tired of so-called political correctness.

Unfortunately, money fuels the greed of pop culture and fame. The faces on currency carry a sense of power. There are other ways to signify an individual's importance. What about postage stamps? History books? Friendly conversation? Do people care about those things anymore? Of course not! America is obsessed with money money money. Maybe the mint should print geological landmarks on our currency instead, such as Old Faithful, the Grand Canyon, a Hawaiian volcano, etc. Then, perhaps, money won't be associated with a person's power. And the arguments over who is more important will cease.

There has also been debate over abolishing the penny. The one cent. The coveted collector piece for kids. It's the filling for glass jug lamp bases. It's provided luck when finding one face up on the pavement; avoidance if face down. It checks wear and tear on tires and provides exact change. Yet, the penny has suddenly become a nuisance. It weighs down wallets. Putting elementary math concepts in place to trade a merchant for goods, is a time constraint. Nothing is worth a penny anymore, so why have it? (Although, I remember a time when I could purchase a tiny Tootsie Roll for a penny at the local gas station.)

But has anyone noticed who is on the penny? Abraham Lincoln! The man who freed the slaves. Why remove a president from the twenty dollar bill in favor of a slave; yet propose to eliminate the penny, when it houses the face of the very man who set them free.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

The Evolution of Thermometers

The day after the Color Me Rad 5K, G came down with whatever bug I had. She woke up Sunday with a sore throat. Throughout the day she napped and was not interested in her usual weekend shenanigans. Her forehead felt warm so I dug out the digital thermometer which reads temperatures in eight seconds. Of course, sticking anything other than a toothbrush or candy into a youngster's mouth is met with a fight.

The first reading was about 102. Wow really? I took it again. It stopped around 101.5 then the numbers quickly climbed to 102.9. Whoaaaa! I performed a third reading. The same thing happened: reading stopped at 101.5 and then, oddly, zipped to 103.2. Ack! The thermometer's alarm went off and the screen flashed red. Hmmm. Well, regardless, she's sick so I gave her a dose of children's Advil. After some basic troubleshooting, I sent T to get a replacement thermometer since the device was acting strange. "Ask the pharmacy for a recommendation," were my instructions.

The pharmacy recommends the temporal thermometers like hospitals and doctors' offices use. At ten bucks it's about the same price as digital thermometers, and they are more accurate. Plus there's no refusal over an object in her mouth; just slap it against the side of her head. I can do it while she sleeps!

This process got me thinking about the evolution of thermometers. I used glass mercury thermometers when I was a kid. They're considered sinful to use now, due to the risk of mercury exposure if the tube broke. But back then, they were advanced technology. And every kid, desperate to play hookey, placed one against an incandescent light bulb. Ah! the fond memories of the poisonous glass stick! As a tiny tot, temperature was taken under my arm. As I grew, however, it was customary to change tactics: mouth readings. Mom shook it, ran the water over it, and popped it under my tongue where it remained for-ev-er! The thermometer had to practically poke my tonsils for a proper reading, enhancing discomfort. If mom thought it read too low, it went back in. If she thought it read too high, it went back in. When it showed the number she expected she'd say, "Yep, just what I thought." Mother's intuition was always right, I suppose.

At some point, digital thermometers hit the market. They worked the same way, in the mouth, yet came with so-called advantages. First, it was fast. Instead of forever, it only took half of forever. (Hey, any improvement is welcome!) Second, instead of straining to read a bubble of liquid against etched numbers, it gave a foolproof, digital reading. Third, they were safer. No glass to break or calls to Mr. Yuck. There were also thermometer tip covers for sanitation. Ugh! I hated those! The thick seams scratched my mouth, like a paper cut. There was always the worry that perhaps the cover didn't give an accurate reading. I was forced to endure another reading, this time without the cover. Poke poke poke! The first digital models were bulky. A cord connected the thermometer to the display unit which was about the size of a paperback. Eventually, battery operated ones emerged, with a reading in seconds.

The next new thing were ear thermometers, followed of course, by temporal models. These new devices are easy to use, but where's the fun and drama that came from the good-old-days?!




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Color Blasted

G and I participated in the Color Me Rad 5K today, Saturday, June 11, 2016. We walked it as the event is not timed and is simply for fun. By the end, runners are transformed into a rainbow (you'll see). It was cold, but at least it wasn't raining like the last few days. We had fun albeit a few kinks along the way.

I have done a couple of these color fun runs in the past but through a different organization called The Color Run. It zigzagged runners through the streets of downtown Spokane with various color stations throughout which splashed participants with dyed cornstarch powder. The first experience was 2013. The second was in 2014 with my mom. G had intended on participating; however, that year was particularly bad with her asthma and I decided it was best she sit it out. I wasn't sure how her little lungs would do with all that colorful powder. With her asthma under control the following year, 2015, I agreed to let her do it as long as she wore a dust mask. One problem. The Color Run was not coming to Spokane that year. She was quite disappointed and so was I, as I looked forward to experiencing this together. I promised we would do the next one that came to town.

The next one was Color Me Rad in June 2016. A different organization but the same concept, nonetheless. (The Color Run, as it appeared, was just not returning to Spokane.) I signed us up for Color Me Rad four months in advance because there was a two-for-one special, and you all know I'm all about good deals!

The week preceding the event, I came down with a sore throat. At first I thought it was allergies because scratchy throats aren't uncommon for me. When it stuck around and gradually got worse, I decided I'd better get it checked out. Lucky for me, no strep! I explained to G that we may not be able to do the Color Me Rad run if mommy didn't feel well enough (and hopefully she wouldn't catch my bug either). Friday night, I went to bed early. When I woke Saturday morning, my throat didn't feel like razor blades and my head felt much clearer. G felt good, too. Off we went.

Color Me Rad was held at the County Raceway, near Northern Quest Casino. It was a rather brisk morning at about 53 degrees with wind. We got started right on time at 9:00 am. As we approached the first color station (purple), I reminded G to put on her mask. I also brought one for myself so she didn't feel singled out. I'm glad we used them. The gal who dispensed color on us got carried away. She doused me directly in the face with purple powder! She threw so hard that, even though I was wearing the mask and sunglasses, the stuff managed to coat my eyeballs and fill my mouth! I couldn't see for a bit and thought my contact lenses were going to fall out; which would have caused a big problem when it came time to drive home. They stayed in place, but over the next half mile or so, I was spitting out purple loogies; which surely all the other runners appreciated! Luckily G was spared the pandemonium, although she felt compelled to frequently ask me if I was okay. And pointed out that I was already "really colorful."

There was another station, this time with slime, where the gal squirted my face. What is so hard about aiming below the neck?! She could have easily squirted it skyward and let it drop down on people. Sigh; whatever. (I did submit an email to the organization afterwards with feedback regarding this issue.) The remaining color throwers saw that we were wearing masks and were more respectful about where they doused us.

G got kinda whiney about halfway through and was ready to go home. She was upset because I forced her to wear the dust mask. She was cold and the wet slime was intensifying this predicament. As any parent knows, once a kid starts whining it becomes difficult to make them shut up. Sooooo the remainder of the experience was little....tense:

"I'm cold! I wanna go home!"
"Me too, but we have to finish."
(As she's literally dragging her feet in exaggerated agony.) "How many more minutes?"
"I don't know. Maybe fifteen."
(Time advances approximately 47.34 seconds.)
"How much longer nowwwww? I'm hungryyyyy!"
"If we run, we can be done sooner."
"No I'm too cold to run!"
(Mom starting to loose it.) "Quit whining and just move along."
(Wind picks up slightly.)
"Mom-myyyyyy....I want my gloves."
(Luckily, I brought them along.)
"My feet are tired. Are we there yeeeetttttt?"
(Me rolling my eyes and contemplating zipping over to the casino for alcohol.)

We both breath a sigh of relief when crossing the finish line. G's mood improved and she was even compliant for a few photos.

Overall, I like the The Color Run better. I felt it was more organized, had more energy, and the color throwers were more respectful. Surely it's a pain to block off all those downtown streets, but it's a prettier course, in my opinion. The County Raceway is more convenient as far as setup and cleanup, but walking around a maze of automobile racetracks doesn't make for an encouraging or enthusiastic atmosphere. Plus, spectators have to make an effort to come to the venue, where as downtown naturally attracts herds of people making it easy to join the vibe. We might just be done with these types of runs anyhow based on this year's experience. By now, I'm sure you want to see photos so here they are:

Before. Nice and clean.

After. She really wanted to show off her green hair

This was one of her grumpy moments.Apparently skipping over the rumble strips was therapeutic.    

   She finally stopped to let me get a mid-race photo with a sprinkle of color.

                                          

G wanted to take my picture.....      

 ....after I snapped hers.

                                                

And here we are, all colorful and cheery and rad.

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

Bloomsday for $3.49!

Yes, you read that right! Bloomsday only cost me $3.49! I will be happy to explain:

If you aren't familiar with Bloomsday, it's an annual 12K (7.46 miles) race held in Spokane WA on the first Sunday in May that generally attracts about 50,000 participants. The course runs through downtown and the surrounding areas, over the glorious Spokane River, with Doomsday Hill as the famed steep incline. There are the crazy people who finish the race in about half an hour, and then there are the rest of us ordinary folks who sign up for the experience of burning leg syndrome, shortness of breath, and general regret of inducing our own physical misery. Not to worry, it's all in the name of fun and tradition.

Unlike other races, T-shirts are distributed upon finishing the course, making Bloomsday unique. Due to this, the T-shirts have become a badge of honor of sorts. The Bloomsday Association holds an annual contest for the T-shirt artwork. They have certain specifics like only so many colors, no bigger than a paper of 11x14, etc. G got word of the contest and, being the art extraordinaire that she is, was enthusiastic to submit a potential winning design. She let her creativity run wild, and while exhausting her ingenuity, her poster didn't meet the strict contest parameters. Of course, I let her send it in anyway. She put in hard work, who am I to shoot down her hopes. While the T-shirt committee didn't select her design, they did send her a letter of acknowledgement with a complimentary race entry. (Imagine her excitement when she read the salutation, "Dear Artist.") She decided that 7.46 miles was a bit far for her little legs, so she let Mom use her free race entry.*

T-shirt Artwork submission by G: Runners feet across the bridge at Riverfront Park. 

The last and only other time I participated in Bloomsday was about twenty years ago. I grew up watching the race on TV and seeing many classmates sport their prized T-shirts at school the following day. I don't remember exactly when my interest surfaced, but I began asking permission yearly to participate. My mom quickly said no because, "it's seven miles!" a distance certainly to far for my ability. If so many of my friends and classmates finish it, why couldn't I? After admiring the 20th anniversary Bloomsday T-shirts in 1996 which were blue with trampled white water cups, I asked yet again to sign up. Finally she allowed me enter that year, 1997, with my aunt and uncle only because they were walking and, therefore, a safer pace which I might possibly survive.

If I recall correctly at that time, all 50,000 people started at once (it's now partitioned in assigned waves). The enormous force of thousands of runners thrusting forward was similar to a panicked mob exiting a burning building. Because the throngs of people were lined up for several city blocks, it took about 15-20 minutes to reach the actual start line after the gun went off, which means your own race time was not in sync with the official clock. I also remember the parking situation as a big headache. We must've parked halfway across the city, walked to the starting area, waited like upright packed sardines for the race to start, pushed through hoards of runners for another a half mile to the starting line, and were finally off! I don't remember much about the course itself other than climbing Doomsday Hill and seeing the iconic vulture at the summit. I do remember obtaining my shirt with extreme disappointment! The shirts were skin-dulling beige with a swirly design and stick figure runners (the design is kept a secret until race day). They were not nearly as cool as the water cup design from the year before. At least I was able to say I completed a Bloomsday.

Years went by and I didn't have the desire to do it again, mostly because the crowds are such a headache. And the parking. Parking is a disaster. But last year I wished I participated, and this year G gave me the opportunity to enter! It's the 40-year anniversary of Bloomsday; perhaps I just get the itch every twenty years. But what about the crowds? And the disastrous parking situation? I talked to a few veteran racers who explained the more streamlined process: the city bus line offers exclusive Bloomsday routes; groups are spaced out in assigned waves; and there are little computer chips in the race bibs that track your actual start and finish times! Except for the 7.46 miles holding the risk of spontaneous human combustion, it really couldn't be easier.

Yes, yes, Jennifer, but where did you spend the money? Well, in the days before Bloomsday, I was required to pick up my race packet at the convention center downtown. Traffic was obviously congested (50,000 people, remember?), but I caught a lucky break when a metered parking spot directly across the street was waiting for me. I expertly parallel parked, pulled out my wallet to insert change when, to my surprise, there's over an hour left on the meter! I happily skipped across the street to the convention center, obtained my race packet, and proceeded to the city transit booth where I purchased my Bloomsday bus pass for a whopping $1.50 round trip. The remaining $1.99 was spent on Cliff BLOKS Energy Chews because I knew I was going to run out of fuel somewhere within those 7.46 miles. FYI the energy chews were quite helpful by giving a good pick me up when I felt sluggish.

The big day went smoothly. I parked my car at the mall, hopped on public transportation, and was deposited two blocks from the start area. (And it was the same easy return process.) My arrival to the start area, however, was quite early and I regretted being a lone runner. With 50,000 people there, I was sure I could find someone to chat with and help alleviate my boredom. The lucky folks were a jolly older couple who kept me company until start time. It was his 25th Bloomsday and her 15th. I pointed out that their years put together make 40, matching the anniversary of this year's annual race.

As far as the race itself, I had no fancy goals, except to simply finish the damn thing! I thought it would be great to accomplish it in under two hours but wasn't going to kill myself in order to achieve that. Yet, with focus and concentration, I finished in 1:40! While I was training, I would pace a slow jog and count using this pattern: 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10--10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1, 2-2-3-4-5..., 3-2-3-4-5..., up to 10 and repeat for three sets. Then I would walk for one or two those same counting sets. I used this technique during the race which gave me something to concentrate on besides my aching legs and sweating forehead. In a sense, it was like meditation in motion. I did walk most the hills and inclines (the course is full of them) to save my knees. The last mile and a half was the toughest. By then I was exhausted, plus it was a hot day. I'm pretty sure I left a visible sweat trail similar to slug slime. I suppose if I ran too fast, my sweat would've flown off onto the unsuspecting runners behind me. See, a slower pace was good for everyone!

As I crossed the finish line over the Monroe Street Bridge and made my way to the T-shirt distribution table, I couldn't help reminiscing about my disappointment of the design from nearly 20 years ago. The 2016 design were much more pleasing. However, I did think that G's design would've been cuter :)

My $3.49 pocket change was well spent. I had fun challenging myself and felt good about accomplishing a city tradition that seemed intimidating and daunting. Running has never been a strong suit for me, but pushing myself to practice and "go the distance" paid off. And, you betcha I wore my badge-of-honor T-shirt the next day!

Climbing Doomsday Hill

The crowd on Doomsday Hill (Photo Jennifer Miller)

From upper left: The throngs of runners waiting for the race to start; me smiling on the TJ Menach Bridge before ascending Doomsday Hill; Doomsday Hill ummit Vulture; my lovely T-shirt. (Photos Jennifer Miller)

*I am not suggesting that others submit artwork for the possibility of receiving a free entry. I did not know my child would receive it. I am simply telling my story and experience.

Review & Thoughts On "The Collapse of Parenting" by Dr. Sax

My daughter, seven years old, asked me on the way home form school the other day, "Mommy, when are kids allowed to get a cell phone of their very own?" I quickly answered that's up to the parent(s) but that I thought after high school graduation is the proper time. She was stunned. I explained that neither myself of her dad carried cell phones until long after we were married and didn't think it was necessary for kids to own them. Then, I inquired why she brought up this subject. She stated she sees 6th-graders on the bus with phones and assumed that was the age to get a phone of her very own. I thought 6th grade is a tad young for a phone, especially to bring to school. Next, I asked her if those kids ever looked out the window or paid attention to anything else around them; or did they simple look at their phone during the bus ride. She said, "They talk to their friends, too." Well, at least they aren't texting one another when they are sitting in the same seat. I finally let up my cell phone age threshold to consider it when she's sixteen, got a job, and could pay for it herself.

Our conversation made me think of a parenting book I recently finished by Dr. Leonard Sax title The Collapse of Parenting. I borrowed it from the library after patiently waiting my turn in queue. (If I purchased every book that interested me, I'd go broke! Long live the libraries!) It reinforced many of my opinions over current societal values and modern upbringing. I tend to be old-fashioned in this area. I don't think all the hype over fame, fortune, and power is healthy; in fact, it's suffocating our youth into a waste dump of loneliness and irrational expectations. Our fast-paced narcissistic culture has laid out a platform of failure; and most youth have walked the plank. I appreciated Dr. Sax's insight, observations, and suggestions. Here are my thoughts on the book and a few of the points that held the most significance to me.  

The author brings practical yet brutally honest insight to raising kids in modern day America. When youngsters are left to find their own entertainment with no supervision, a shift in mindsets becomes evident. With all the technology, violent media content, and lack of proper adult supervision, they are encompassed by immature upbringing, over-medicated, and not held responsible to their actions. 

The culture of disrespect is explained in the beginning of The Collapse of Parenting: "For the first time in history, young people are turning for instruction, modeling, and guidance not to mothers, fathers, teachers, and other responsible adults but to people whom nature never intended to place in a parenting role--their peers . . . Children are being brought up by immature persons who cannot possibly guide them to maturity. They are being brought up by each other."

"They are being brought up by each other." Let that sink in. This notion of kids raising one another was terrifying to me; I never took that into consideration during my childhood (who really does). I was shy and didn't have many friends so I guess there weren't enough to "raise" me with anyhow. The few I did have were not trouble makers or disrespectful. I was picky about who I shared my time with. In hindsight, I suppose that was a good thing; a mark of character. Nowadays, kids are using technology such as cell phones, social media, and video games, to provide themselves with entertainment and/or communication. Texting and social media particularly add to this dynamic by making it easy for kids to turn to their friends for instant advice rather than entrusting their parents' wisdom. The problem is that, when left with this entertainment, over time children grow up believing those represent the real world, and that there isn't anything worthwhile beyond an electronic connection. Any sense of true living evaporates. At least that's what I grasped from the book, but there is truth to this. For example: parents who play violent video games are more likely to have kids that enjoy them. But what happens when kids constantly engage with other kids who like those things? . . . "They [will be] brought up by each other." Choose friends and activities wisely and limit any potential people, places, or things that could harm moral character.

Something I found interesting was when Dr. Sax investigated upon asking a group of middle schoolers: Would they still join a social media site if their parents disapproved? The group sneered and laughed because they wouldn't even consider asking their parents! They will do as they please and don't care about what their parents think. Another example of the culture of disrespect. Once again, detaching from responsible adults means "[t]hey [will be] brought up by each other" and not value the opinions and concerns of mature individuals, most importantly their parents! It also puts too much control in the hands of kids. They feel entitled to talk back to not only their parents, but teachers, police, or any authority figure, creating and cultivating the culture of disrespect.

(Another point of interest, is that the culture of disrespect is peculiar to the United States, as per the author's own studies. Other countries don't seem to have this issue with their youth.)

Dr. Sax also emphasized the lack of "willingness to fail" with today's youth. Kids are emotionally fragile because they expect instant success, but "[f]ailure comes to us all. The willingness to fail, and then to move on with no loss of enthusiasm, is a mark of character." His theory is that kids "now value the opinion of same-age peers . . . more than they care about the good regard of their parents . . . The result is a cult of success obsession, because "success is the easiest way to impress." This is only greedily fed by the television networks. How many reality shows are out there for people to sing, dance, etc. in a nationwide competition search to find the next star? It's instant success. Gone are the days of trying it on your own, experience failure as a learning opportunity, hop back up on your own two feet, and make improvements to try again. Well, maybe those days aren't gone, but culture has supported an easier way to get there to shield youth from hard work and the disappointment of failure.

A sheltered or overly cautious upbringing can mean the incapability of dealing with failure. Why try or do something that might not turn out favorably? I remember taking a big risk and trying out for dance team in high school and I didn't make it. I was, of course, tearful and recall people reminding me (sometimes with the told-ya-so-attitude) there was no guarantee in making the team. It was as though disappointment should be avoided instead of learning to deal with it. Luckily, I tried out the following year and made the team. I'm glad I followed my desire to accomplish it. I hadn't given much thought at the "willing to fail" correlation as developing into a sensitive personality, but it makes sense.

Lastly, the most important point Dr. Sax makes is who you are, is more important than what you do. American culture dictates that youngsters striving to be stellar athletes or become highly efficient at a skill, is more important than family time, enjoying solitude, or growing into a person of value. You don't have to look far to find families whose time is consumed shuffling kids from one activity to another. They don't have time to eat together or simply spend time doing simple things such as board games or hiking. Fitting all these activities into a scattered, chaotic schedule must be exhausting; and what is it all for? To make the child a better soccer player or artist at the minute chance they would win a full-ride scholarship? I suppose this may contradict the "willingness to fail" section, but I believe what Dr. Sax is suggesting is that there must be proper balance. One or two activities a week that still leaves six days a week for eating meals together would be balance. Three or four activities per week while one child eats in the car on the way to pick up the second is overkill. Clearly, the more children you have the more complicated it gets, but I think his point can easily be made. Many families are eager to boast their busy lifestyles because they don't want to appear bland, boring, or ordinary. What is wrong with being ordinary anyway? What is so shameful in rearing children to have good moral values through ordinary things? Nothing. Unfortunately, our culture's representation of "ordinary" is shifting to doing everything under the sun in order to have an edge over the general population. No wonder we have a generation of kids who are burnt out and have no desire to succeed. They used up all their energy chasing childhood endeavors. 

If you are a parent, then you surely have become subjected to cultural pressures to get your kids involved in all sorts of activities. To be labeled a good parent requires pushing kids to do all sorts of extracurricular activities. Not only are many of them expensive, they are too competitive. For example: For only an amount equal to your yearly social security contribution, kids can play a sport; complete with parents yelling their displeasure from the bleachers over a volunteer referee's failure to call a penalty. It's absurd. Subjecting children to that environment, or forcing them to do something they aren't enthusiastic about, is not going to enhance parental wholesomeness or develop lasting family dynamics. Personally, however, I encourage my child to try new things. If she says she's interested in something, I will generally allow her to give it a go. Sometimes that means committing to a few days of a trial period. I make sure she understands this and agrees to it. At the end, if she decides she doesn't like it, that's okay. (Certainly, at some point, there has to be some discernment between disinterest or lack or desire.) I must admit, with the endless possibilities of activities to occupy kids' time, it's hard to not get caught up in the hype of worrying over lost opportunities. Balance, balance, balance!

The Collapse of Parenting emphasizes a more traditional family upbringing, and to shift American culture back to putting family values first. Spending time with one another, and appreciating small things are important and necessary. Finding a caterpillar or catching a frog are rather ordinary things to pass time; but they spark natural curiosity, wonder, and awe at a world beyond selfish pity. Perhaps because, when not consumed with a daily parade of activities, there is time for the little things. It's the root of the adage, "stop and smell the roses." Take time for the wonders and beauty of just . . . being. When my daughter asks again (which I'm sure she will later on down the road) when she can have her own cell phone, I'm going answer: "When you know it will not affect family bonds, interfere with parental relationships, contribute to the culture of disrespect, or prevent you from smelling those roses." 

Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller

An Indefinite Hiatus From Something I Loved

When I get used to having something in my life, it's hard letting go. But it's important to differentiate an accustomed routine versus loving to do it. I'm not participating in CrossFit any longer. At least for the time being. I suffered a nagging injury which is still healing. While I miss the routine of my gym schedule, as well as my friends, I found myself not excited to resume the activity. I noticed I constantly tried to thwart my feelings to simply uphold an accustomed routine.

I'm going to discuss both pros and cons of my experience. If you are an extreme CrossFitter and sensitive to the slightest bit of negativity, I suggest you just stop reading now. I'm entitled to my opinions, my reasons, and my revelations which apply to me. I don't regret my journey or choices. I'm simply sharing my true raw emotions, a.k.a. feelings, which is difficult enough.

I tried out a CrossFit class back in 2011 after some persuasiveness. I wanted to not like it. I simply wanted to just say I completed one CrossFit workout, but I found that I surprisingly enjoyed being physically challenged. I quickly became interested in some of the elements that I seemed naturally good at such as pullups, pushups, situps, and rope climbing. I started attending every other week or so. That turned into every week, and pretty soon a women's class dawned in order to meet the changing needs of CrossFit. It was a non-intimidating atmosphere and it was fun learning technique, improving skills, and making new friends. There was fun, laughter, and enjoyment in surrounding myself with other ladies. All these things were wonderful, but I noticed gradual changes that, little by little over the most recent years, shifted my yearning to continue.

First, was the competitiveness of the classes. As the women's class became popular and membership increased, a competition circuit seemed to emerge which meant those gals needed more fitness challenges than the average woman. The Rx (or standard) weight for WODs (workouts of the day) became increasingly heavy, like those in a regular class. I realize the purpose was to condition competitors which also puts the box's name out there in the winner's circle, but I felt left behind. I'm a petite person and I physically couldn't keep up with the fast changes of the class so I stuck to lighter weights and focused on those elements I was good at. While I felt welcome in class, I no longer felt important. I wasn't a competitor, yet the class's concentration was on those that were. I didn't have the desire to be competitive which began to affect my group interest.

Second, was the introduction of Wodify, an electronic version of the classic CrossFit whiteboard. In the old days, after each WOD, scores were recorded on a plain ole whiteboard. Members walked into class, their names were written in down in no particular order, and scores recorded appropriately. At the end of class, they were simply wiped away. With Wodify, it electronically keeps score and tracks progress, which was handy. However, it also ranks members for the WOD that day. While it wasn't my personal goal to be one of the first-ranked CrossFitters listed on that thing, it honestly was depressing to see my name frequently at the bottom of the list. The score with whiteboard method were so jumbled, it never even crossed my mind to look at the rank order. Wodify partitioned the ranks first by if someone completed the WOD Rx, then those who modified, followed by time and/or repetition numbers. With this method, someone who did the Rx version in 12 mins, for example, ranked higher than someone who scaled to their ability and did the WOD in 8 mins. But lets say Person 1 scaled and used 55 lb weights. Person 2 scaled and used 35 lb weights and did the WOD faster; now they are ranked higher than Person 1 even though Person 1 lifted heavier. There was no organization to the scaled version of the WODs. If you modified you'd better do it fastest. The problem was the hidden competition factor that Wodify fueled within the class setting, and I suppose modifying allowed me to step back and notice this. I loathed observing dirty looks between women, attempts to conceal jealousy, and the cheating. Yes, cheating. It was there with the old whiteboard system, but got insanely worse with Wodify. The yearning was so intense for some, it came down to cheating to get that number one spot on a stupid electronic tallying system! Wodify turned classes into mini competitions; not something I enjoyed, truthfully. I didn't want to let Wodify further shape my attitude, and I tried my hardest to move past it. I stopped looking at results. I would even "forget" to enter my score. Wodify is great for keeping track of progress, but I certainly did not appreciate the daily score stats. Some people may look at this process as motivation to better their skills, but I clearly felt differently. Wodify brought unnecessary and uncomfortable tension.

Third, was my shoulder started to become a pain in my arse. Admittedly, it's easy to become entangled in the CrossFit hype. I wanted to lift heavier, be faster, and continually enrich my skills. After heavy (for my ability) and/or repetitive lifting, my shoulder became inflamed. I'd rest it until it felt better, than go back to lifting. The allotment days to heal slowing began increasing and the time between flare ups decreased. Before I knew it, my shoulder rendered itself useless. I could handle omitting overhead lifting, but after a while I couldn't hang from a bar let alone perform pullups (my favorite) or toes to bar. Every WOD was transformed into a modified-for-Jennifer-version which became frustrating. Unhappiness and discomfort settled in due to my shoulder troubles. I tried non-invasive treatments: several cortisone injections, physical therapy, and chiropractic care all from multiple medical professionals. They helped temporarily, but once I felt better and returned to CrossFit it flared up. When everyday tasks, such as turning on faucets, putting dishes away, and casting a fishing pole become too painful, I finally caved and had surgery where the doc found "profound bursitis" and shaved down bone spurs.

Agreeing to the surgery was not an easy decision. I spent many days and nights alone in silent tears about the procedure. I was scared of the anesthesia. I was scared of what damage the surgeon would find. I was worried if it would even be successful. I was nervous I couldn't return to CrossFit which I had invested the last five years in and began to wonder if I should go back at all. The doctor was hopeful, but at the same time I sensed he was leery about allowing me to return to CrossFit. He was concerned about my joints, which are loose and unstable, and not a good fit for such high intensity like I was doing. I think he was trying to be a nice guy and not burst my determination-to-return bubble since he knew it was something I loved. At the same time, I began questioning my own antagonistic feelings about CrossFit. After all, I felt grumpy after class and left as soon as I could. Something I was once excited about suddenly turned sour, and I found myself preferring to be elsewhere.

Instead of continuing to foster anger and resentment, I decided it was time to start tuning in and listening to where the universe was guiding me. 

My surgery (which was in December 2015) went well, but my recovery is slow. When I asked to extend my membership freeze for a few extra months it was instead terminated. At first, it felt like a slap in the face. I couldn't shake my reaction of feeling unwanted. But then I tuned in and listened at the chance to veer off my current fitness course. Perhaps an indefinite hiatus from CrossFit is what I needed and to free myself from the bitter resentment created in my mind. The universe was speaking and I chose to be attentive. CrossFit will always be there if I decide to return. I told myself it's okay to let it go and allow as much time as I needed to heal. 

So far, I've presented negative feelings on CrossFit. It probably sounds like there is nothing good, but that is far from true. It's allowed me to make many self-discoveries. I have more confidence in life than I ever have. I'm not exactly sure how CrossFit made that happen. Maybe it's the feeling of exuberance when PRing a lift or move. Or perhaps it's just that eureka moment upon completion of a new skill. Even those who absolutely detest CrossFit in it's entirety, cannot dismiss the tenacity that emerges from those passionate about it. It has enlightened my self-esteem in ways I wish I possessed 20 years ago. I'm more willing to take risks and try new things. I've signed up for 5Ks and even done a couple fitness competitions (before my shoulder went out on me). Enrolling at the Community College would not have happened without the confidence I gained from CrossFit. Heck, I even started this blog because of it. Something about the connection between athletes, fostering the good in one another, thus leading to personal self-discoveries, rides with the spirit of CrossFit.

I've also made numerous friends, who I miss quite a bit. I think that's the hardest part for me about taking my hiatus; the withdrawal from the absence of friends. I miss the encouragement and camaraderie (yes, it was there despite the competitiveness). I miss the small talk, our kids' interactions, and complaining about life's annoyances. I miss looking at our muscles exclaiming, "Hey! Look! Here's another one I didn't know I had!" I miss whining joking with the coaches about how my body aches from WODs. I miss watching people grow and improve. I miss watching the top athletes do cool stuff like lift three times what I weigh. I miss the plates clanking and miniature earthquakes as they drop during the WOD. I miss the gentle whir of the rowers. I even miss the loud music I never really cared for. I miss gritting my teeth to get in just one more rep. I miss when a class performing overhead squats, it resembled engine pistons. I miss the feeling of burning oxygenated lungs, the sweat angels, the "see you next time[s]," and the roll of the garage door along its track to close the box for the day. I spilled more silent tears over the reality of leaving a community.

I don't miss being injured. Leading up to my shoulder surgery, I reluctantly came to realize that I lost some of the love I had for CrossFit. I had grown accustomed of the routine and discounted my physical well-being to keep it going. Coming to terms with my physical setbacks was a tough mental struggle. Maybe I was just not made for it. Maybe I am just getting old. Maybe it's just time to take a step back and allow myself to be taken in a new direction. Perhaps, with time, I can recover enough to return to a (much less intense) capacity. But for now, I need a break.

As I jot down my feelings here, I felt bad for being harsh and outspoken with my thoughts. I know what I have to say is going to upset others. But I need to express my feelings to strengthen the mental recovery process, and it has to be the truth. I need to write out the truth; my truth, for me.

Through these experiences and self-discoveries, I have been given the chance to change and grow. My wisdom has matured like the autumn tree who lost its leaves and patiently awaits its next chance to blossom into a sight more beautiful and grand than before. I've learned patience and acceptance and the importance of putting myself first. Perhaps that explains why I'm now content with leaving CrossFit behind for a while; I recognize the need for change and choose to embrace it, knowing that growth from experiences is the ultimate transformation of wisdom.




Copyrighted 2016 by Jennifer E. Miller