Mile 19

I am all up in my own self-pity grill right now, so stop reading if you don't want to scoff. Because my rant is super scoff worthy.

A number of years ago, I completed the Portland Marathon. I had trained all summer to walk the course very fast, but when the event was happening, I found myself running, though I wasn't a runner, and walking way beyond my usual pace. Apparently this is called "race adrenaline" and as far as phenomena go, it is a bastard. Yea sure, you are cruising along at mile 5, 9 or 14, wading amidst the hubris as you look at your branded watch and think, "At this pace I will finish in time to watch the back to back "90210" episodes on USA and eat a lasagna! And still do the laundry and roast a chicken!" Or something (not at all) like that. It all felt great and powerful and uplifting and superhuman.

Until mile 19 when the wall crashed down on my swollen head. "How does that feel Cocky McGee?" it said while dangling a bottle of Advil in front of my face.

"Ow," I said.

Really. It was not just pain, but also a feeling of absolute exhaustion. My muscles turned into 20 pound lumps of Play Doh and I realized, at this mile, that the strap of my jog bra (sorry! I hate that term, but what am I going to use in its place? Athletic support? Jock brassier?) had rubbed my shoulder raw. I was not going to make it, feeling the way I felt. No freakin way.

But I did. At mile 20 was my old house, with Advil and a Bloody Mary waiting for me. My friend Warren, a marathon veteran, was there, and wouldn't let me sit down, but did let me chug a cocktail before sending me on my way. And you know, by mile 21, I felt much better. I actually ran mile 24, managed the last bit by sheer determination and teared up when crossing the finish line. It was so worth it, and something I swore I would never do again.

Until I decided I'd take a job in an office that works in another language. Yea. That was smart! It was arrogance that made me think I could slip into Dutch without too much work and it was 8 hours of mile 19 that made me want to quit today. But my friend Marco here is my friend Warren there and he gave me quite a talking to tonight (while sitting on the sun deck of Musikgebouw overlooking the Ij -- so pretty). Apparently we Americans believe so much in ourselves that we are shocked when we can't do something perfectly and tend to quit rather than struggle. "Europeans," he said, "are quite honest about their failings, which shows our humanity and allows us not to put so much pressure on ourselves." Interesting. He convinced me that stopping now would cause me great regret later. This is a guy who speaks seven languages, so I am not going to argue with his wisdom. But I do want to quit, even though I know I won't.

Learning a language while working full time and spending all non-working time with my English-speaking people is quite difficult, and I hope I remember that when feeling frustration toward non-English speakers who live in the US. It isn't school, where you have set time periods devoted to studying. This is more trying to remember the word for "Less" while grabbing some chicken to make for dinner before the grocery closes at 8. It is very hard, but I hope very worth it. Will I get a commemorative medal when it is all over? Perhaps a free container of yoghurt and a complementary banana? Only time will tell.