As English department chair, I have a few mundane duties. Number one on the list of tedious is attending monthly district meetings. This past week, I had the pleasure of attending one such event. After sitting through pleas to join the superintendent’s strategic planning committee and comments that to teach problem solving skills, we need to assign more reading of expository pieces from the textbook, I was done.
Of course, that’s when I was stopped in the parking lot by one of the other chairs. She wanted to ask me about rubrics, so after that conversation, she asked how long I had been teaching. When I told her eight years, she was shocked and said, “Wow! I thought you were in your early twenties!”
Now, how many thirty-year-olds wouldn’t love to hear those sweet words? Oddly enough, this one. With all the trouble I had turning thirty, I thought a statement like that would be akin to hearing the voice of Jesus himself. It wasn’t, though. I proudly told her, “No, I just turned thirty in October,” to which she responded with an even greater amount of surprise.
I suppose this means I’ve arrived. I’m a thirty-year-old, and I’m learning to embrace it.
Today was training day 2 of my official half-marathon adventure. According to my Smart Coach from runnersworld.com, I had to run 2 miles today. I just could not convince myself to go to the gym to run on the treadmill like a hamster. I wanted to run outside in the fresh winter air, even though it was completely dark by the time I was able to get out.
Fears of being assaulted or hit by a car aside, I stepped out of my front door and ran six times around my block (2.3 miles total). This was a major accomplishment, considering that we live at the crest of a pretty tall hill.
This means I ran up and down the really tall hill six times, and I did it at a 12-minute mile pace, which, for me, is pretty darn average. Two words: hell yes.
That half marathon is starting to look easier and easier.
There is only one place in the world where the Pussycat Dolls and Pat Benatar can coexist peacefully. Sunrise Rollerland, otherwise known as the location of my surprise thirtieth birthday party.
Oh yes, it’s true. I spent the Sunday night after my birthday rollin’ it up with baby boomers, pre-teens, and a weird forty-year-old employee in camo pants and a wife beater, who loved his job waaay too much.
It was the perfectly symbolic place for a thirtieth birthday party, considering the last time I was there, I was probably about fourteen. As I walked into the dank musty lobby, I looked around and realized that everything was still exactly the same. From the Old English crest that accentuates the medieval theme to the intense game of red light/green light, it was like I was in high school all over again–only better. Better because this time, I went with a date (my husband) and because I wasn’t wearing neon.
Even the music was the same–Heart, Belinda Carlisle, and Pat Benatar. They just have some new friends now.