Colorado girl

Occasionally it is necessary to get away from the bustle of downtown Boulder and the people in it, and sweat out the qualms and quandaries of the previous night with the help of mother nature. After finding a place to park a few blocks down the street from Chataqua park, I started to realize this was not quite the getting away that I had envisioned. Nevertheless, I slipped on my earphones, cranked the iPod to drown out my heavy breathing and headed up the least-packed trail at a slightly slower gait than normal.
Earlier the same morning I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth, both figuratively and literally. The micro brew consumed last night had certainly left its mark. Slapping for the cell phone only heeded more vomitous realizations: So many missed calls and even more drunk dials resulted in a decision to stop drinking, again. Lifestyle changes must be made as my climbing and psyche were degrading by the weekend. This combined with much confusion relating to overzealous men, nice men, past men and just men in general led to the sudden urge to get outside for a long trail run.
The run was medicating, but not quite as planned. About 20 minutes into the jog after realizing some wrong turns had led me to bight off more than I could chew, I stopped to ‘check out some boulders’ (read: catch my breath for longer than I deserved). Hippity-hopping down the path like a sparrow, with legs to fit, came the typical Boulder runner with a regal, panting best friend at his heals. I give the nicely-aging gentleman a smile of desperation, wiping off the drips of sweat still running down my forehead. To my surprise he yelles, “Get yourself up there!”
I really don’t know how to respond so I pant, “Is it worth it?”
“Of course. You can do it. You’re a Colorado girl now.” And he was off.
Wait, a Colorado girl? Have I not been a Colorado girl my entire life? What did he mean by this? My immediate conclusion was that I must look fat and out of shape, but after further convincing gave the nice man, and myself, the benefit of the doubt and thought maybe he could have meant a number of different things by that; I’m just not sure what.
Regardless, his statement changed the mood of the run in a positive manner. The iPod got turned off, the run got more intense and Colorado was enjoyed more, honestly. At the peak, I scrambled to a good sitting spot with a view of the other side of Boulder and my perspective on life was immediately changed.
With head finally cleared, the hike down was a little sunnier and the air significantly fresher. Upon arriving at my car I realized that sometimes it takes an out-of-place comment by a very in-place stranger to change a bad perspective and clear the clouds of one’s mind. I still don’t know what he meant by his comment, and it will perturb me for quite awhile, undoubtedly. But along with the confusion comes the life lesson, which isn’t all bad.

Ohhhbama... and other election-day trends

It has become sometimes painful to observe the ignorant, sheep-like following of Sen. Barack Obama by the entire Boulder (and surrounding) community knowing perhaps more than half are doing so because it is trendy (although they will probably claim otherwise).
While Obama must be given credit where it is due for attracting so many 'new' people to the election of arguably the most important position in the country, the manner in which this attraction is occurring is more in tune with a female-male courtship or a jam band groupie than a political election.
Flocking to the nearest hip bar to watch each debate with 100 others holding the exact same 'views,' patrons of Obama memorize enough clever witticisms to quote the following day at Whole Foods, another hip bar, or basically anywhere, as everyone believes the same thing. Ask any at the bar-debate party the next day what Obama's foreign policy plan for the middle east is (perhaps the most important topic, and most talked about?), and see who actually knows the answer. And if they happen to know the answer due to common-sense party-line politics, ask them about another topic. The answers will most likely resemble an episode of "Street Smarts."

Evidence that this is not just a bitter rant can be found in an article of the Golden Transcript following Obama's visit to the Colorado School of Mines: http://www.milehighnews.com/Articles-i-2008-09-18-208033.114125_Obama_supporters_fill_arena.html In the article, a woman named Mary Orem, a Golden, CO resident was captured in this manner:

Tears streamed down her face intermittently during Obama's 45-minute speech. "I'm 54, and this is the first time I've been able to be this involved," Orem said.

Really Mary? Tears? Please keep in mind that, according to the article, Obama was addressing national economic issues, not freeing war-torn countries. Tears hardly seem necessary.
But more distressing is the quote from Orem. At the age of 54 this is the first time she has been able to be this involved? How frightening that Orem has lived to the age of 54 without realizing that as a citizen of the United States, it has been her job since the age of 18 to be 'this involved' in the political process. Furthermore, I have trouble sleeping at night thinking about people of this intelligence and emotional (tears?) level voting for the next leader of the free world.
However, I retain some hope in the fact that Mary, in her emotionally fragile state probably forgot to register to vote, and will instead sit at home and feel involved on election day.

Stress and P.M.S.

My mother once told me, and has since then continued to tell me, that stress does not exist. Hilariously, neither does P.M.S. They are both society's excuse for making excuses, if you will. My question is: how do you not get stressed trying not to be stressed? Whenever I offhandedly say that I'm stressed and she tells me that it is virtually impossible, my mind goes into a cycle similar to this: "Oh no, if I'm not stressed, then what is happening to make me so... crap! How do I explain what I'm feeling right now? Ahhh! What's going on! Why can't I say I'm stressed? Is my mom mad at me for saying I'm stressed or does she just think me a weak person? Gosh, she sure stresses me out..." *cue cycle restarting*
The same goes for P.M.S., except substitute bitchiness for the stress.
The point is, I'm going to work on not letting my mother tell me how to feel when there are apparent physical and mental indicators proving otherwise. This is a huge step. Huge. Honestly, I'm a little stressed about it right now. I'll get into that later.

The anniversary that isn't

What do you say to someone on the anniversary to which you did not make it?
It is a strange place to be hit with such a date right in the midst of getting over that thing which the date so well signifies. If the relationship is no longer, the date is then just a date. So one is then left mourning the loss of the importance of a date, along with the loss of the relationship. In essence, on this particular "non-anniversary" it is bound to rain throughout the day, someone will ruin your vanilla latte when you need it most, your car will break down, the birds will most definitely not sing and you will be alone. Very alone.
Fortunately, these circumstances will then allow you to instead remember this date as the worst day of your life as opposed to the date when you would be showered with flowers, gifts, sex and candy. Oh, and romance.
What does not kill us makes us stronger, what does not impregnate us saves us from stretchmarks and... candy makes you fat, so it's good that there is none of that too.
But this just leads back to the first question: what do you say? The smart choice is to leave it be, let the damned be damned and move on. There are quite a few other days in the year that promise to be much more pleasant. However, it would be comforting to have someone else as miserable as oneself on the other line, mourning the date as well.
How pathetic, right? What is in a date, anyway?

Note: I now realize that this post sounds inspired by madness along the likes of stream of consciousness queen Virginia Woolf. However, because I am sounding slightly depressed is no reason to lock me in a room and put me on bed rest as they did to Ms. Woolf, may she rest in peace.

"Bolder"

I'm finally moving to the town where everything I believe lies on the moderate to conservative side of the political spectrum. I would be, in fact, bold to assert my respect for Palin, for instance. However, the comfort that I was expecting in being accepted for my views is not quite soothing. While the "liberal" party is supposed to be more open-minded, it is in fact only open to its own views. I want so badly for there to be a medium where socially liberal and fiscally conservative can come together and actually make a factual defense for something while adding a pinch of feelings, just for taste.
Of course, this is wishful thinking, and until I come out with my third party manifesto, I will not complain -- at least for the rest of this post.
Boulder really is a remarkable town, what with its millions of cars and trillions of cyclists all meshing together in a gigantic, ever-evolving, stop-and-go worm that makes its way across Broadway. It is one of those places where it is so easy to fit in, yet feel inwardly fake, or to be a follower for doing what feels right. Most of the time it does not matter, as there are so many milling around that one easily goes unnoticed. It is the first time in my life that I have had the pleasure of disappearing, always going to small schools and living in the same city in which my parents both grew up.
Of course, the happy finding when going unnoticed is when you are noticed, which Boulder is also good for on occasion.
I'm not fearing becoming a Boulderite, and will in fact embrace it head-on... boldly if you will. I'm going to do everything that would identify me as a Boulderite if it feels right. Yoga... check. Granola... yum/check. Rock climbing... check. Cycling... check. Wearing chacos... check and check. Enjoying the musicians on Pearl St... check. Plastering a peace sign somewhere on my vehicle or on my person at all times... working on it. Inner peace and spiritual enlightenment... still to come.

Breeding Intolerance, wife abuse and arranged marriages

The (mostly) unspoken battle of religion rages on in my house. I continue to appease my parents and regularly attend church services of the southern baptist kind, but it is increasingly more difficult to stay put in my pew with some of the things that the adored pastor spews from the pulpit.
I've been surprised several weeks in a row: all sermons have been somewhat centered around political views and how the church should vote in the next presidential election. A few weeks ago, the topic surrounded tolerance, and why it was a bad thing. Those of us hippies that want to hold hands, sing "Kum-by-ah" around the campfire are INSANE! How could we actually accept that others have their own view and that it might *gasp!!* be different from our own. Conclusion: we must blow them up and vote McCain.
Last Sunday, the sermon looked to be on the right foot, and then that foot slipped off a ledge and the whole sermon slipped down an icy crevasse, never again to see the light of day. The topic? Family structure. Of course, the pastor began by warning us that he was not going to be politically correct, because you can't change your beliefs in order to not hurt the feelings of "the fallen." I believe there is a difference between not being politically correct and being an asshole, but that can be argued otherwise I suppose... So, in a lavish explanation of the age-old "children should obey their parents," Pastor slips in that wives should submit to their husbands, no matter how stupid their husbands are or how incapable they are to actually run the family because that is how the Bible says we should run our families. Now, if this does not scream, "Abuse your wife- you can!" I don't know what does. Talk about empowering men and setting women back a hundred years. We may as well be fundamental LDS and let the husbands have more than one wife to do their bidding.
Oh, and last thing. Arranged marriages: still okay according to the pastor. He referenced his recent trip to India, talking to a girl who told him that she would only marry a man that her parents picked for her, and even if she did not love him, she would obey her parents. I don't know about anyone else, but if I were to only marry a person that my parents picked for me, I would be up the proverbial Shit Creek with no paddle, and a foot washing Baptist husband.
The thing that started this rant happened before I even had my morning cup of tea. I had brought home a free "enjoy the outdoors" publication, and on the back page was a quote by Aldous Huxley, "My father considered a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing." Underneath, my mother wrote, Ask what your heavenly father thinks about it. Thanks mom, I think I'll go ponder that, in the mountains.

Why echinacea?

There are certain 'truths' in life that are thrust upon us from a very early age. Many are grown-ups' hilarious, witty tricks or explanations for the complexities of the world that later get placed in a child's scrapbook only to be laughed at again by that parent and an uncomfortable boyfriend 10 years down the road. Often, these 'truths,' which I place in quotes as many of them are not in fact truths at all, lead to generally horrific outcomes. The severity of the outcome may not be realized until much later, and can come in the form of physical or psychological devastation. Usually the latter in my experience.
Some such circumstances I can look back on and laugh. One primo example: my mother didn't find it appropriate for my sisters and me to use the word "fart." I've found it normal in many families for children to use "toot" or something slightly more fruity to replace the oh-so-earth-shattering fart. However, my mother and her sister decided to tell my cousins, sisters and me that the action of passing gas through our bottoms was "sparting." All was fine and dandy for awhile, because our circle of "sparters" was tight-knit, and comfortable. Sadly, this all had to end when the first one of us broke out of that circle, tried to use "spart" and was harshly laughed back to the Spartans.Needless to say, I still feel awkward saying the word fart in front of my mother, but have gotten over the brunt of that one.
So, why "Echinacea Meditacea?"
Whenever we (my five sisters or I) would start to get sick, my mom would automatically, without any hesitation whatsoever, say, "Take some Echinacea!" while running toward the fridge where she stored the vile of concentrated amber liquid. A few dropper-fulls would go into a small glass of orange juice if we were lucky, luke-warm water if we weren't (why the water couldn't be cold, I have yet to figure out). Since I can remember, for most ailments, Echinacea was the answer. I've even noticed myself telling my friends to take it when they are coming down with something. I take it loyally, and will probably continue taking it, even after finding out the truth. The thought of mom's cure is comforting, but that's about it.
Studies have shown (check anywhere) that Echinacea, while potentially easing the symptoms of a cold and maybe shortening its duration, does absolutely nothing. In fact, it shouldn't be used if you have any of a long list of ailments, are preggo or nursing, etc. While pure Echinacea does have its benefits, the modern supplements on sale in most grocery and vitamin stores aren't very good, some have been found to be tainted, actually. So, the modern-day consumer is left with a lot of research before them if they want to find a pure supplement that will actually aid them. If they slack and go with what the commoner is doing/advising, they could get stuck with tainted pills that will make them worse-off than before. But with careful searching and patience, the benefits of Echinacea can be realized and result in the betterment of life, which is what most of us strive for in one way or another, correct?
With this picture painted, I realize how many times this parable plays out throughout our 'education days.' How many things do we believe simply because someone has told us that it is the way, the truth (and the light?)? I grew up believing there was a god because that's what we learned every Sunday. But I want to start exploring my thoughts on these things in the reverse manner than how they were fed to me. Thoughts and evidence first, conclusions and 'grand statements of being' last. Not simply religion, as if religion could ever be simple, but this applies to all aspects of life and how we go about leading it.
I rarely take time to meditate on the why in my world. I've come to a crossroad in life; one in which I would normally be reaching for the proverbial Echinacea, but in finding that it doesn't work, more exploring needs to occur to get me back. Therefore, Echinacea Meditacea is my mindset for the time being... until all of the pieces are put back into their rightful places or brutally chucked at random to god(s) know where.