My parents (and other family members) have spent an absurd amount of time at random sporting events. They have fed huge numbers of people with out-sized appetites for the past 20 years. Seriously, they deserve a hand.
You see, I was think about this as my parents set out food in the torrential, freezing rain that came down steadily throughout the early morning hours of my regatta on Saturday. Somehow all of the sports my sister and I chose involved getting up at the crack of dawn for the main purpose of being extremely uncomfortable outdoors for a few hours.
I think maybe we can blame my Dad's side of the family for this one. After all, I distinctly remember the first time I realized I truly did not share my family's passion for downhill skiing. I was probably about 10 years old, dressed like a marshmallow and hobbling to the lodge carrying the absurd amount of heavy and awkward equipment. Gawky 10 year old Abby thought to herself, "My bed was so warm...I can't feel my nose...or my hands...it's still kind of dark out...this is heavy...who finds this fun?"
I just did not get it. Then, sitting in the pouring rain yesterday morning without feeling in my hands or toes, soaked through several layers of clothing, I got it.
We do stupid, stupid things for love.
Sports are weird. You experience pain and frustration and fear and way more discomfort than you would if you just stayed at home and took up crafting. Or video games. Or something. But doing that stupid thing in the rain or the snow at the crack of dawn is what living is.
I would just like to thank my family for putting up with the crazy and getting up with me, feeding my teammates and me, and showing up to cheer me on. It means everything. You guys had to get soaked too and travel all that way just so you could watch my boat go by for a few seconds and huddle with me under a tent for a few minutes. You rock.
But, of course, we do stupid, stupid things for love.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
Why We Do It
I am tired and never clean and the other day my professor told me it looked like I put my hands through a wood chipper. But it's not just me. It's we. We row in the rain and the hail and get up at ungodly hours to pull as hard as we can just to be in that boat and sometimes we lose and sometimes it's rocky and frustrating and everything we do is wrong.
It's you, too. You, the girl in front of me. You, the girl behind me. You agonize over that 2k test and it hangs over your entire day and you pull and that number burns into your brain and you've never felt burning like that before and it's blurry and all you can think is pull harder JUST A FEW...ALMOST...C'MON....and you listen to everyone screaming but the loudest is that voice in your brain telling you you can't but you must.
Why do we do this? Why do you do this?
We do it for the starting line. When your hands lock the oar in and your breath catches somewhere in your chest. When something is screaming from your heart to your fingertips. When we move together as one boat and it feels like you're running in a stampede of horses--a torrent of oars splashing, coxswains yelling, and that moment when the whole race is ahead of you and and it's your, our choice.
But sometimes sleep seems like a distant memory. Sometimes you want to wear jeans like a normal person or go out on a Friday night. Sometimes you look at everything you have to do and wonder if it's even possible. It's overwhelming and sometimes you feel more worried about crew than your actual future.
Why do we put up with this?
We do it for the middle thousand, when maybe you want to just stop but you pull anyway. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you make you laugh harder than anyone else. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you would never let you down and will never take a stroke off and you know they're pulling for you. And when you get off the water they will help you hoist the boat out of the water and even if they're short they'll strain to ease and share the burden. They'll do that with your problems too.
But sometimes you lose. And the disappointment fills you. The frustration eats away inside your chest and you stare at that time and those crews and replay every stroke and flutter of weakness in your head.You look at that uniform and fear that you're letting someone, anyone down. It hangs over you and it sucks.
But what do we do? We breathe. Shake it off. And we take that frustration and fear and disappointment and let it scream through our bodies on the next one, when we tear ourselves to pieces for that finish line.
We do it for the final five hundred. When everything is black or white, or blurry, or wet, or loud, or all of this and the finish line is suddenly 300 meters away. And you take every piece of strength inside you and let it out, pulling in fury for the backs in front of you and the blades splashing behind you.
We do it for the win, but not only. We do it because of we know we can win together. We do it because we are the Ithaca Crew, and we know no other way.
It's you, too. You, the girl in front of me. You, the girl behind me. You agonize over that 2k test and it hangs over your entire day and you pull and that number burns into your brain and you've never felt burning like that before and it's blurry and all you can think is pull harder JUST A FEW...ALMOST...C'MON....and you listen to everyone screaming but the loudest is that voice in your brain telling you you can't but you must.
Why do we do this? Why do you do this?
We do it for the starting line. When your hands lock the oar in and your breath catches somewhere in your chest. When something is screaming from your heart to your fingertips. When we move together as one boat and it feels like you're running in a stampede of horses--a torrent of oars splashing, coxswains yelling, and that moment when the whole race is ahead of you and and it's your, our choice.
But sometimes sleep seems like a distant memory. Sometimes you want to wear jeans like a normal person or go out on a Friday night. Sometimes you look at everything you have to do and wonder if it's even possible. It's overwhelming and sometimes you feel more worried about crew than your actual future.
Why do we put up with this?
We do it for the middle thousand, when maybe you want to just stop but you pull anyway. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you make you laugh harder than anyone else. Because the girls in front of you and the girls behind you would never let you down and will never take a stroke off and you know they're pulling for you. And when you get off the water they will help you hoist the boat out of the water and even if they're short they'll strain to ease and share the burden. They'll do that with your problems too.
But sometimes you lose. And the disappointment fills you. The frustration eats away inside your chest and you stare at that time and those crews and replay every stroke and flutter of weakness in your head.You look at that uniform and fear that you're letting someone, anyone down. It hangs over you and it sucks.
But what do we do? We breathe. Shake it off. And we take that frustration and fear and disappointment and let it scream through our bodies on the next one, when we tear ourselves to pieces for that finish line.
We do it for the final five hundred. When everything is black or white, or blurry, or wet, or loud, or all of this and the finish line is suddenly 300 meters away. And you take every piece of strength inside you and let it out, pulling in fury for the backs in front of you and the blades splashing behind you.
We do it for the win, but not only. We do it because of we know we can win together. We do it because we are the Ithaca Crew, and we know no other way.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
I Will Never Feel Warm Again
In Georgia, we all wore tank tops and got marvelous sock tans. We guzzled water to stay hydrated in the strong afternoon sun.
Yesterday, our coaches had to shovel snow off the dock so we could launch. No number of layers or wool socks could combat the weather of Ithaca yesterday. Piles of hail built up around our feet and the waves soaked our layers through.
My hands were fuchsia for approximately forever. I couldn't finish my salad at dinner because the lettuce felt too cold.
Seriously, though, it could be worse. It's Cornell's spring break this week, and they don't go on a trip. They row twice a day in this. I know. Me. Sympathy. Cornell. I suppose having to suffer through a week like this gives them a pass for blocking the entire inlet and cutting us off like, maybe twice.
I just had to update you guys on how hardcore it felt. Also, if the temperature today breaks 30 during practice, I will worship whatever being I deem responsible.
Yesterday, our coaches had to shovel snow off the dock so we could launch. No number of layers or wool socks could combat the weather of Ithaca yesterday. Piles of hail built up around our feet and the waves soaked our layers through.
My hands were fuchsia for approximately forever. I couldn't finish my salad at dinner because the lettuce felt too cold.
Seriously, though, it could be worse. It's Cornell's spring break this week, and they don't go on a trip. They row twice a day in this. I know. Me. Sympathy. Cornell. I suppose having to suffer through a week like this gives them a pass for blocking the entire inlet and cutting us off like, maybe twice.
I just had to update you guys on how hardcore it felt. Also, if the temperature today breaks 30 during practice, I will worship whatever being I deem responsible.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Over 30 Hours on a Bus, Disgusting Hands, Exhaustion, Worth It
My hands are disgusting. They kind of remind me of the wounds you saw treated in Civil War casualty photos. You know, the ones they treated with leeches and excessive alcohol consumption?
So yeah. On our scrimmage race day I got blood all over my uniform tank. It's badass and also kind of nasty. Also, it's proof that I need to stop death-gripping the oar when I get excited.
I slept on the floor of a bus last night. That wasn't conducive to recovering after getting up at 6:30am every day of my spring break and then rowing for about 5 hours every day.
During my spring break, no one got wild. No one went to a beach. No one got filmed by MTV doing things they'd later regret. No one got fed by their mother for 3 meals a day. I disconnected from all social media, all news, everything.
And it was AWESOME. It feels strange to come out of that bubble, where your whole life is when you get to nap next and what's this practice's line-up and OH MY GOD I'M STROKING? and heck yes I'm getting tan everywhere but my feet and I wish everything I own didn't smell like sweat and lake water and dang this hotel is sketchy and wow I can't wait to eat again.
That was my life for 9 days in Gainesville, Georgia. We rowed at Lake Lanier, the 1996 Olympic Center. We had two-a-day practices with one afternoon off. During that break, we did things like this:
These people matter to me. All of them. Even the novice whose name I don't know or that varsity guy I've never talked to or that girl who's never been in my boat. They matter.
My class matters.
It's spring 2011, baby.
GO BOMBERS!
So yeah. On our scrimmage race day I got blood all over my uniform tank. It's badass and also kind of nasty. Also, it's proof that I need to stop death-gripping the oar when I get excited.
I slept on the floor of a bus last night. That wasn't conducive to recovering after getting up at 6:30am every day of my spring break and then rowing for about 5 hours every day.
During my spring break, no one got wild. No one went to a beach. No one got filmed by MTV doing things they'd later regret. No one got fed by their mother for 3 meals a day. I disconnected from all social media, all news, everything.
And it was AWESOME. It feels strange to come out of that bubble, where your whole life is when you get to nap next and what's this practice's line-up and OH MY GOD I'M STROKING? and heck yes I'm getting tan everywhere but my feet and I wish everything I own didn't smell like sweat and lake water and dang this hotel is sketchy and wow I can't wait to eat again.
That was my life for 9 days in Gainesville, Georgia. We rowed at Lake Lanier, the 1996 Olympic Center. We had two-a-day practices with one afternoon off. During that break, we did things like this:
That kind of hurt.
But honestly, it was amazing. And now that my laundry is in the dryer and I napped for four hours, I can reflect. Some of it was done for me. Our captains gave everyone on the Ithaca Crew Team a gold chain-link. (Not actual gold, duh) At first it seemed a little cheesy, but once you started to get into it, you felt it. We are one team. Everyone's success is your success. Everyone's failure is your chance to make a comeback.
My class matters.
And my whole monstrously-sized team matters.
GO BOMBERS!
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I Want
Okay guys, let's be real here. I suck. At least at blogging. Can I make a semi-incoherent excuse for it? Okay, here goes.
About two weeks back my roommate Ashley and I were talking, as we're like to do when we actually see each other and she isn't busy studying every bone and muscle in the human body. Anyway, the conversation shifted to priorities. Time management. It may have been inspired by the fact that I make lists of everything and write down what I'm going to do every hour of every day days in advance. Anyway, I was frazzled with everything that, well, needed doing. Ashley looked at me and said something very wise:
"My number one goal is to be the best Occupational Therapy student. The best. Everything else is secondary."
And she probably is the best. I judge this by how hard she works and how many words she says (and sings) at me that I don't understand. But hearing this made me pause. In the hustle and bustle of coming back and rearranging my life and getting back into shape, I had no goal. Actually, my goals had been too weak. To not do badly, to not underperform, to not dissapoint. I think I've lost sight, some drive, because for a few days there, I had no idea what I wanted anymore.
Here's what I want.
I want to write. I want to delve deep into our country's politics and culture and fears and tendencies, and I want to contribute to the field I love to study so much. I know I'm in the right major because I get excited about my papers. EXCITED. Last weekend I wrote a short paper-- five pages-- about the conservative political movement and Iceland's economic collapse. And I thought of nothing else. I want to write the best papers in the class and contribute to every discussion.
I want to finish this stupid macroeconomics problem set. There are some days I question how my father managed to brainwash me into actually wanting to take this class. On the plus side, I actually understand the sub-prime mortgage crisis now, about 3 years too late. Yeah, so this want is short term. I am just SICK of drawing supply and demand curves. I GET IT, EQUILIBRIUM BLAH BLAH BLAH OKAY?
I want to find my confidence in crew. I want to be able to approach an erg like I did the starting block for swimming and not feel defeated before I even sit down.
And...I want to get what I want. Kind of like the girl that turned into a blueberry in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Except, if I don't get it, I'll just work harder. And maybe limit my excessive whining to the blogosphere. Are you glad I'm back?
About two weeks back my roommate Ashley and I were talking, as we're like to do when we actually see each other and she isn't busy studying every bone and muscle in the human body. Anyway, the conversation shifted to priorities. Time management. It may have been inspired by the fact that I make lists of everything and write down what I'm going to do every hour of every day days in advance. Anyway, I was frazzled with everything that, well, needed doing. Ashley looked at me and said something very wise:
"My number one goal is to be the best Occupational Therapy student. The best. Everything else is secondary."
And she probably is the best. I judge this by how hard she works and how many words she says (and sings) at me that I don't understand. But hearing this made me pause. In the hustle and bustle of coming back and rearranging my life and getting back into shape, I had no goal. Actually, my goals had been too weak. To not do badly, to not underperform, to not dissapoint. I think I've lost sight, some drive, because for a few days there, I had no idea what I wanted anymore.
Here's what I want.
I want to write. I want to delve deep into our country's politics and culture and fears and tendencies, and I want to contribute to the field I love to study so much. I know I'm in the right major because I get excited about my papers. EXCITED. Last weekend I wrote a short paper-- five pages-- about the conservative political movement and Iceland's economic collapse. And I thought of nothing else. I want to write the best papers in the class and contribute to every discussion.
I want to finish this stupid macroeconomics problem set. There are some days I question how my father managed to brainwash me into actually wanting to take this class. On the plus side, I actually understand the sub-prime mortgage crisis now, about 3 years too late. Yeah, so this want is short term. I am just SICK of drawing supply and demand curves. I GET IT, EQUILIBRIUM BLAH BLAH BLAH OKAY?
I want to find my confidence in crew. I want to be able to approach an erg like I did the starting block for swimming and not feel defeated before I even sit down.
And...I want to get what I want. Kind of like the girl that turned into a blueberry in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Except, if I don't get it, I'll just work harder. And maybe limit my excessive whining to the blogosphere. Are you glad I'm back?
Sunday, January 30, 2011
First Week Back
Seriously guys, I had a choice to make. It was blog or sprawl out on my living room floor with my tongue lolling out the side of my mouth.
Lucky for you--blog!
My classes are great. They actually seem relevant to--I dunno--real life, and my readings have been interesting. Extremely lengthy, but interesting. I mean, if you haven't read The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, stop reading my blog and go read that instead. I never thought reading about economics could be so mind-blowing and terrifying.
I also spend a lot of time at crew, because it owns my soul. Its most recent coup over my life had me running back to my apartment at 7:30am in -2 degree weather with wet hair from lifting and swimming. After my hair completely froze the first time, I realized I would have to figure out a different kind of schedule. Also, because I usually don't return to my apartment during the day, I carry my entire life around with me. My political theory professor took a look at me with my huge crew bag and over-flowing book bag and asked, "What, are you moving in?"
Granted, he is the snarkiest person I have ever met (awesome) and also looks like he should be teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry instead of Ithaca College.
My macroeconomics class has not killed me yet, but I did almost choke to death when my professor said the words "problem sets."
My apartment is awesome. At this point I'm pretty sure the only thing missing are cookies.
It feels fantastic to be back. It's really cold to be back, but whatever. I missed you, Ithaca.
Lucky for you--blog!
My classes are great. They actually seem relevant to--I dunno--real life, and my readings have been interesting. Extremely lengthy, but interesting. I mean, if you haven't read The Shock Doctrine by Naomi Klein, stop reading my blog and go read that instead. I never thought reading about economics could be so mind-blowing and terrifying.
I also spend a lot of time at crew, because it owns my soul. Its most recent coup over my life had me running back to my apartment at 7:30am in -2 degree weather with wet hair from lifting and swimming. After my hair completely froze the first time, I realized I would have to figure out a different kind of schedule. Also, because I usually don't return to my apartment during the day, I carry my entire life around with me. My political theory professor took a look at me with my huge crew bag and over-flowing book bag and asked, "What, are you moving in?"
Granted, he is the snarkiest person I have ever met (awesome) and also looks like he should be teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry instead of Ithaca College.
My macroeconomics class has not killed me yet, but I did almost choke to death when my professor said the words "problem sets."
My apartment is awesome. At this point I'm pretty sure the only thing missing are cookies.
It feels fantastic to be back. It's really cold to be back, but whatever. I missed you, Ithaca.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Happy Birthday, Dad!
You are all quite familiar with how awesome my dad is. Today is his birthday.
Here are some things my Dad has that I have:
1. When I find something that I like, I stick to it. Dad could eat Life cereal every breakfast for the rest of his life and be totally fine with it. This loyalty carries over to the people he loves in his life. It does not carry over to football, seeing as he just sent an article to my mother and me that basically said, "Stop torturing yourself with this whole Redskins-fandom thing...please for the love of God just stop."
2. A quiet demeanor: Dad is quiet, and he uses words carefully. He taught us to say what we mean and mean what we say. I took this respect for language and ran with it. He's probably to blame for my intense love of writing. He is also to blame for my love of crime thrillers (Dennis Lehane, I'm looking at you.) Actually, his mom is probably to blame for that, but that's another story.
(This love of words has not translated into any effort into actually editing my blog instead of word-vomiting and posting. Unfortunately.)
3. A love of music. I, a 20 year-old woman, went to a concert with my dad this summer. And it rocked. Dad taught me that a song can change your day and it's worth it to sit in the car for a few extra minutes to hear that one guitar solo.
4. My height. Well, he's half to blame at the very least. GEE THANKS GUYS.
5. Certainty. My Dad and I generally believe we are right about most things. My Dad is like this because he usually is right about things. I am like this because I am from Washington, DC.
Things My Dad Has that I WISH I Had
1. An ability to master any skill. If my Dad wants to learn something, he will do so and become very good at it. He puts his mind to it and focuses, learning everything from sculling, timber-framing, guitar, bass, to tai chi just because he wants to. If my inability to not run away and hide during Granddaughters Week Crafting Sessions is any indication, I have a ways to go on my ability to master challenging skills.
2. Ability to say the right thing at the right time. My Dad is the real-life combination of all those inspirational coaches you see in movies. Sometimes he does have to let you run through the mud a bit and scrape your knees from falling, but he always knows the exact lesson you need to learn. And he'll tell you when the time's right, and he'll choose his words carefully.
3. Ability to dunk. Okay, so my dad kind of had that until his ankles rebelled against him, but seriously, WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?
4. My Dad knows and full-heartedly believes that you deserve to love what you're doing. My Dad believes in that dream you have, and thinks you should have it. Just take it with a shot of realism, and you're on your way to a Paulson-family upbringing.
So, thanks, Dad. I know you're skiing today, and it's something you love to do. Just don't try to do any flips this trip, okay?
Here are some things my Dad has that I have:
1. When I find something that I like, I stick to it. Dad could eat Life cereal every breakfast for the rest of his life and be totally fine with it. This loyalty carries over to the people he loves in his life. It does not carry over to football, seeing as he just sent an article to my mother and me that basically said, "Stop torturing yourself with this whole Redskins-fandom thing...please for the love of God just stop."
2. A quiet demeanor: Dad is quiet, and he uses words carefully. He taught us to say what we mean and mean what we say. I took this respect for language and ran with it. He's probably to blame for my intense love of writing. He is also to blame for my love of crime thrillers (Dennis Lehane, I'm looking at you.) Actually, his mom is probably to blame for that, but that's another story.
(This love of words has not translated into any effort into actually editing my blog instead of word-vomiting and posting. Unfortunately.)
3. A love of music. I, a 20 year-old woman, went to a concert with my dad this summer. And it rocked. Dad taught me that a song can change your day and it's worth it to sit in the car for a few extra minutes to hear that one guitar solo.
4. My height. Well, he's half to blame at the very least. GEE THANKS GUYS.
5. Certainty. My Dad and I generally believe we are right about most things. My Dad is like this because he usually is right about things. I am like this because I am from Washington, DC.
Things My Dad Has that I WISH I Had
1. An ability to master any skill. If my Dad wants to learn something, he will do so and become very good at it. He puts his mind to it and focuses, learning everything from sculling, timber-framing, guitar, bass, to tai chi just because he wants to. If my inability to not run away and hide during Granddaughters Week Crafting Sessions is any indication, I have a ways to go on my ability to master challenging skills.
2. Ability to say the right thing at the right time. My Dad is the real-life combination of all those inspirational coaches you see in movies. Sometimes he does have to let you run through the mud a bit and scrape your knees from falling, but he always knows the exact lesson you need to learn. And he'll tell you when the time's right, and he'll choose his words carefully.
3. Ability to dunk. Okay, so my dad kind of had that until his ankles rebelled against him, but seriously, WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?
4. My Dad knows and full-heartedly believes that you deserve to love what you're doing. My Dad believes in that dream you have, and thinks you should have it. Just take it with a shot of realism, and you're on your way to a Paulson-family upbringing.
So, thanks, Dad. I know you're skiing today, and it's something you love to do. Just don't try to do any flips this trip, okay?
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