InnerTeub

My brother just wrote a nice little post about Michael Lewis’s commencement speech at Princeton University, a speech that deals with the role luck plays in our life. You should go read it.

This experiment helps to explain Wall Street bonuses and CEO pay, and I’m sure lots of other human behavior. But it also is relevant to new graduates of Princeton University. In a general sort of way you have been appointed the leader of the group. Your appointment may not be entirely arbitrary. But you must sense its arbitrary aspect: you are the lucky few. Lucky in your parents, lucky in your country, lucky that a place like Princeton exists that can take in lucky people, introduce them to other lucky people, and increase their chances of becoming even luckier. Lucky that you live in the richest society the world has ever seen, in a time when no one actually expects you to sacrifice your interests to anything. 

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One of the quickest ways to annoy me is to complain that there aren’t enough women in business, or start-ups, or math classes, or whatever. I think it bugs me so much because I – as a woman – have participated in both business, and start-ups, and math classes.

I hate these questions because it hints at some intrinsic flaw that women have. “Women aren’t a force in start-up companies because they don’t like risk.” “Women aren’t in math and sciences because they lack the confidence to think they can participate.” I think there are truths to those statements at a very high level, but as an individual, I hear them and I think “Ugh, not again.” There are plenty of men who do not start their own company, plenty of men who get literature degrees, and very few people are going “Yeah, that makes sense, you’re doing that because you’re missing that certain something” in a judgy “if only you were better” kind of way. People don’t analyze men’s choices through the lens of inherent personality traits, but they do with women – they do with me — and I hate it.

Years ago, a male coworker – in an attempt to get under my skin – asked me: “Doesn’t it bother you that that guy over there that is your age with the same skill set – makes more money than you?” And my exact response was “No. Because if he makes more money than me, that means I negotiated a crappy salary, and that’s on me.” And I still feel confident in that answer, because the coworker he was referencing? Did not make more money than me. Do I *hate* negotiating salaries? For sure. Do I do it well? For sure. Women as a collective may be thought to have many flaws but as an individual person I would prefer if it was not assumed that I do.

(Disclaimer: of course there is an institutional bias towards women in industry. The conflicts of motherhood and working and the effects that having kids has on salary earnings – it’s all real. I do understand that. But that’s a flaw of the system, not a flaw of the person, and the assumption of personal shortcomings are the areas to which I am referring.)

This is all my way of saying that I bristled when I saw an article shared on Facebook titled: “The Trouble With Bright Girls”, because, like, greeeeaaaatttt, yet another example of my assumed less-ness. But this article pleasantly surprised me; for one of the first times in a girls vs. boys discussion, I actually related to the girls:

 She found that bright girls, when given something to learn that was particularly foreign or complex, were quick to give up – and the higher the girls’ IQ, the more likely they were to throw in the towel.  In fact, the straight-A girls showed the most helpless responses.  Bright boys, on the other hand, saw the difficult material as a challenge, and found it energizing.  They were more likely to redouble their efforts, rather than giving up

…

Researchers have uncovered the reason for this difference in how difficulty is interpreted, and it is simply this:  more often than not, bright girls believe that their abilities are innate and unchangeable, while bright boys believe that they can develop ability through effort and practice.

Ok, you know: this groks. It is not surprising to me that I’m good at my job– I expect that to be true; I consider my intelligence and general competence a part of who I am. How different would it be, however, if I considered my success to only be an earned result of sustained effort (which if I’m being objective, it must be) versus just an assumed outcome?

Now that I’m typing this, it seems remarkably silly. I’m not inherently good at athletics, but 5x/week of Crossfit and hey, look at me, I’m kicking ass there. The challenge of getting better is energizing to me, and because of that I’m seeing results I would never have expected considering my baseline athletic skill-set. How easy would it be for me to have just said “I’m not an athlete, I won’t be good at this” and just continue to … not be good at it? (Very easy, if the first 20 years of my life are any indication.) So this morning I read this article, and I thought of my crossfit life, and I found myself going: “…well, shoot.” Looks like my genderness had something to teach me after all. I would do well to remember:

No matter the ability – whether it’s intelligence, creativity, self-control, charm, or athleticism – studies show them to be profoundly malleable.  When it comes to mastering any skill, your experience, effort, and persistence matter a lot.

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When my oldest brother was a middle school teacher, his students used to tease him about “Mr. Lewis’s Happy Memory of the Day” – the point in each class when my brother would go “You know, when I was a kid….”

Along those lines, please enjoy these two true yet random and completely unrelated stories about me, as I kill some time between meetings.

*****

Did you know I was born in Texas? I was! Lived there until I was 5, at which point we moved to Minnesota, and, I have to say, if at any point in your childhood years you have the opportunity to move to Minnesota to complete your upbringing, I highly suggested you take it. Growing up in Minnesota was awesome; I have seriously entertained thoughts of moving back just so I can send any potential children to my old school. Rock on, Minnesota. 

Anyway, what? Right, so: born in Texas, moved to Minnesota. Thanks to some very formative years in Texas, I was a bleach blond 5 year old with gold high heeled sandals, a bikini ( five years old, y’all) and a sharp Texas twang. My first few months at my new school in Minnesota, I took a vocabulary test, and I got the definition of “To Fix” incorrect; I had answered: “To Get Ready To Do Something”

You know: Fixin’ to get some dinner. Fixin’ to go across the street. Fixin’. To get ready to do something. Obviously.

*****

Last year:

Me: “Look, I didn’t FORGET about our anniversary; I just didn’t realize this Tuesday was the 31st”
Mike: “Our anniversary is the 30th”

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I have a tattoo on the inside of my left ankle. It’s an M-dot symbol, the official brand of Ironman Triathlon. I got it three or four days after I got married, at a tattoo parlor in Key West, in the middle of a hot and humid June afternoon. My husband  — a word that still felt new and delicious at that time – has the same symbol on his left calf, and I remember remarking to him “well, we’ve got matching tattoos – now this marriage will never last!”

(I appear to have been mistaken.)

I don’t know that I had always wanted a tattoo. In truth, I was fairly petrified and when my husband (“husband”!) pulled the bandage of a few days later I refused to look at it, refused to even look down my leg, so sure I was that I had made a huge mistake and would hate it, hate it, hate it.

(I love it.)

I never considered putting a tattoo on my back  or some other part of my body that I couldn’t see — any tattoo I got I wanted to be something I could see all the time, not something that was just on display for other people. And I do see mine; briefly in the dark light of 5am as I tie my shoes for Crossfit, in meetings at work as I cross my legs and my pants ride up just a bit over my ankle. It’s now a part of me, just as I wanted it to be; a reminder that once upon a time I stopped being sick and became an athlete, and I finished not one but two Ironman races, and I did so along side some of the best friends I’ve ever had. It’s a reminder of how much I love the life I created for myself, and of how weird life is, that a nerdy bookworm drama geek could become the type of person who competes in races that take longer than 12 hours.

(About a year after getting my tattoo, I ran into an ex boyfriend at a coffee shop. “Wow” he said. “You ruined a perfectly good leg with that ink.” I stared at him for a minute, this person whose approval in all things I used to crave, and smiled. “Well, my husband absolutely loves it” I replied.  Yes, this ink does indeed serve as a reminder of how much I love the life I’ve created.)

I’ve been thinking about ink lately, especially coming from watching the Crossfit Regional Championships. These competitions are filled with beautiful, beautiful shirtless bodies, some with such impressive tattoo work that I can’t help but be envious. I want to know when they got theirs, I want to ask if they considered what it might look like when they’re not 30 and a Crossfit King and no longer have a body that they want on impressive display. I want to ask them about their stories, what kind of jokes they cracked with their tattoo artist while they waited one, two, three hours for them to finish.

But I also think about the timing of getting inked. My tattoo reminds me of a good time in my life, but if I had gotten when I just started becoming an athlete, when I still on the cusp of invalid, would I remember more the old me? Would it serve as a reminder of the bad times, not the good?

I need to fix my m-dot. I want it outlined in black, a detail that got lost in communication back in Key West. (“I can’t outline it now” said the tattoo guy. “The black will bleed into the red. If you wanted it outlined you should have told me before.” Pro tip: Functional communication skills are an important life skill, in marriage, careers, and in discussing permanent brands one places on one’s body.) But I’m hesitating on fixing it; I’ve placed so much power in the story behind how I got this ink that I’m worried about adding to it. What if the narrative changes to me, what if it becomes a reminder of some harder things I’m dealing with now – do I wait until the storm has passed, so that when I catch a glimpse of my ankle, the only thing I do is quirk a slight smile, and remember how lucky I am?

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No worries, it’s fine: you don’t have to take me up on my advice to Kristin Armstrong’s blog in Runners World, because I’ll just keep posting excerpts here.

(Apparently.)

From her latest:

I read something about how elephants are trained.  When they are young they are tied up by one ankle with a heavy chain.  No matter how hard they struggle or pull against it, they cannot escape.  Over time they accept this condition as their destiny and full grown elephants are able to be restrained by a wimpy little ankle chain.  Anyone with eyes could see that with one tug of their mighty leg the elephant could instantly break their tether, but the elephant has no idea.  The strongest animal on land dreams of freedom.

How often are we like the elephant?  We are restrained by the old voices that used to define us when we were young.  The heavy chains are nothing more than twine, easily snapped, if only we knew we had the strength.

Somewhere in Middle School or High School I got this idea in my head that I was terrible at math. I didn’t even both taking it my senior year in high school, and when I started college, I signed up for the easiest looking math course that would get me out of the math requirement (it was “Intro to Statistical Computing’)

I ended up teaching statistics for the next five years. It paid for grad school. What the hell did I know?

Somewhere in Middle School or High School I got this idea in my head that I was terrible at sports. Then I spent my twenties running marathons and doing Ironmen triathlons. I didn’t want to start Crossfit because I was no good at lifting, and now it’s one of my favorite things in my life. What the hell did I know?

I loved that part of Kristin’s last entry — a nice reminder that who we think we are might need an update, every now and then.

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Day 101: Presents from Lucy!!!, a photo by LizScott on Flickr.

I met Lucy in … 2003, I think. No, that’s right: 2003. I was started grad school and moved into a house in an “up and coming” section of DC (which up and came right after I left, and now I can’t afford to live there, ha) that housed five girls, Lucy being one of them.

I’m not sure the exact moment we became friends, but over the course of many many many weekend nights spent in studying until 9pm and then making a frozen pizza, cracking a bottle of Rene Junot and going crazy watching West Wing DVDs, we became quite close. So close, in fact, that she belongs in the exclusive club of “women who are like sisters to me, so much so that I do not have a single picture of us together.”

Along the way we graduated, moved far, far away (she moved all the way to SILVER SPRING, you guys. That is in Maryland. Yes, technically we’re only talking about 6ish miles from my house in DC to her house in Maryland but believe me when I tell you IT WAS FAR. A WHOLE OTHER STATE.) She had a baby, I moved to Colorado, life goes on, as it does. We don’t get to spend weekends hiking together (as we did the entire summer of 2004, when we were both single, broke, and really sick of DC), or nights “treating” ourselves to frozen pizza (see above re single, broke), but we’ve got IM, we’ve got email. We’re still in each other lives, even if over the years our lives somewhat rotated out of each other’s daily orbit.

(Actually: cool story that isn’t the point of this post: when Lucy moved out of our grad school house to move in with her boyfriend (before you go all whoremongering – which apparently is acceptable again in 2012– she married him, so like, cool your jets, moral authority /sarc), he gave me a stuff dog named ‘Lucy’ as a replacement for my real life Lucy roommate. I still have this dog and get the pleasure of drinking wine with Lucy nightly. Ha.)

Anyway. I came home yesterday to find an out-of-the blue piece of mail from Lucy – a random print she thought I’d like that she sent on. I’ve been smiling since I got it, not just because I like it – which I do – but because I’ve spent the hours since receiving it mentally reliving good times with my old friend. Lucy, if you were here, I’d crack us a bottle of cheap white wine, cue up some West Wing, and happily settle in for another great evening. Miss you.

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– I spent a lunch hour a few weeks ago coping with a bad day by registering for running races. Here’s what on tap:

• Trail 5k April 21st
• Greenland Open Space 8 miler (trail) on May 5h
• BoulderBoulder 10k on May 29th

And possibly the 10 mile Tough Mudder in Beaver Creek in June. I mean, why not, right? I think I’ll be a little bummed at Greenland that I’m not doing the 50k option (“after all” says the me of 5 years ago “why race if you’re not going long?”) but I’ve no interest in actually doing long training runs, so! Thereyago.

– I loved doing the Incline and the subsequent run down the mountain and all, but hoooo boy did it KILL me. My quads and stabilizing calf muscles are dead. DEAD. I have spent this week whimpering every time I’ve stood up from my desk. Walking around corners is painful as my ankles no long want to work to stablize me, so much so that I legit wore compression socks under my work clothes this week, just to make it through the day. Awesome. To say that I’m not in peak running shape would not be a particularly slanderous statement.

– I’m not particularly awesome at running or Crossfit – I mean, I show up, I try hard, but let’s be real, it’s not like I’mwinningor anything. I’m OK with this because I like the effort and I like subsequent results it has in my mood and jeans size (what?), but I have to tell you: I made the leader board* for my gym’s Daniel* workout, and well, that feel pretty fantastic.

* Leader board: fastest times for a given workout are posted on a white board, including the date and name of when /who completed it

* Daniel: Complete the following exercises in order, for time:

• 50 pull ups
• 400 m run
• 21 thrusters @ 65lbs
• 800 m run
• 21 thrusters @65lbs
• 400m run
• 50 pull ups

And with that: Happy Friday, y’all. My stepdaughter’s spring break starts today and we’re heading into the mountains to see if we can find ANY snow left. (unlikely, but worth a shot.) (Oh! Which reminds me! The other day my stepdaughter texted me, all: “Have you ever seen Titanic?” and I was all “Girl, PLEASE.” I mean, seriously! Who hasn’t seen Titanic? (Um. 15 year olds who were not alive when it came out, that’s who.) This is just like the time she looked up from a Friends re-run and was like “Wait? Ross and Rachel dated?” and then I died, because, honestly, KIDS THESE DAYS and their COMPLETE DISREGARD FOR CULTURE)

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Manitou Springs used to have a “Scenic Incline Railway” – a cable car that would take people the eastern face of Rocky Mountain, to appx 8500 feet. This railway shut down in 1990, but the track (the “Scar”, so called because the mountain looks scarred with the tracks were laid) is still there. The track is about a mile long, and gains just over 2000 feet of elevation.

This would only be moderately interesting except for the fact that this is Colorado, a state filled with sporty people in a state of constant oxygen deprivation, and so when they see something like this:

They think: “You know, I bet it would suck to run up that. We should try it.”

Apparently I am one of those people:

This past Sunday we met up with some friends and climbed The Incline. It was so hard, you guys. I know that’s kind of a “no duh” statement, but: it was really hard. {/whine} I lagged behind my friends and huffed and puffed up, having thoughts similar to those I had at the end of the Ironman, which can be summed up as “This sucks bad idea stupid stupid stupid suck suck suck.”

Eventually, of course, you do get to the top:

And lo, it is awesome. And – dare I say – worth it.  

Now, you could go down the way you came up, but that would be stupid. (Um. Stupider than following through on the initial impulse to climb it at all, that is.) Luckily, there is a four mile switch back trail that goes down the other side of the mountain, the infinitely safer and saner way to descend (and likely ascend as well, but… that defeats the point of doing something stupid just for kicks.)

That run down the mountain was one my favorite runs of my whole life. To be fair, it ALL downhill, making it a leeeetle more of a “controlled fall” than “run” (related: my quads and stablizing calf muscles no longer work, OMG) but oh, it was amazing. While going down it I remember thinking to myself “THIS. This is why people move to Colorado, THIS is why people love living here, THIS is amazing.”  (Aside: Kate ran down the whole thing yelling “PARKOUR!” as she launched herself off boulders and trees on the way down. Heee.)

It’s been a hard month, you guys. Things are fine, it’s just been hard. I needed to take a day to make things purposefully harder, as counter intuitive as that seems. I need to struggle to get up, so I could embrace some joy in coming down.  Climbing The Incline is absolutely an idea born of a mass of oxygen deprived individuals, but it was exactly what I needed.

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A text message conversation with la Stepdaughter, circa like 6 months ago-ish:

In case you’re wondering: I firmly believe that introducing her to Tim Riggins and Logan (Veronica Mars, not pictured texted, but still high ranking in our affections and yes I am conflicted about that given his concerning tendencies but I’m working past it and making it a teachable moment and all that because: Logan) is one of the better things I’ve done as a stepmother. Culture is important, people!

(This text was also sent around the time that she complained “Ugh, I have NO idea why you think Alcide is so hot” and I had to explain that it was likely because we make her cover her eyes when he takes his shirt off. It’s hard to be a kid. Someday she’ll see The Truth)

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Lots on my mind the past couple of weeks, so much so that my only real coping mechanism has been to go home from work every night and watch four or five hours of The Vampire Diaries.

It started innocently enough. My stepdaughter mentioned she loved the show, so we downloaded the first couple of episodes to watch while on bike trainers, thinking we should at least be cognizant of the stuff she’s into, and we need stuff to watch while training, so, hey: win. (Had nothing to do with the two male leads, nothing at all) (Seriously. Nothing at all.) (Ahem.) And then: Oh, man. It’s so good, you guys. Not like, Battlestar Galactica good, or West Wing good, but maybe juuuust a notch below Veronica Mars good. Good enough, I should say, that we’ve made it through the first two seasons and 18 episodes of season three in abbbbout a two week window.

One thing that makes me laugh, however, is how OLD I’ve gotten for a show like this. Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy a good vampire story on the CW as much as the next 15 year old, but I came across a quote from an episode recap on TWoP that summed it up perfectly:

Now, on The Vampire Diaries, Damon’s in the shower, and I can’t decide which I find more appealing — wet, nekkid Damon, eye-thinging at himself in the mirror, or that bathroom, but I’m leaning toward the bathroom, which tells you more than you need to know about my age

It’s true, you guys. Every time that bathroom is on screen, Mike and I go “Oooooh, that bathroom is AWESOME” The half naked pretty people in the bathroom? Secondary mention at best.

And they say adults can’t enjoy pop culture with their kids. Pshaw.

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