Amy Lu's View

My mom got fired for getting pregnant with me. 

This story has always been part of the lore of my life. I don’t remember a time when my mom was alive when she didn’t tell this story. It’s seeped into my narrative DNA. 

It may or may not be true, or entirely true, from a “reality” standpoint, but it’s a story that’s conveyed a lot of truth to me throughout my life. 

I’ve recently been inspired by Mother’s Day to try and share this story of my mom in her honor. It feels like a complicated story to explain, though, so I decided to try it as a script (not sure for stage or screen) to make it easier to tell. 

Although my mom frequently told this story, I sadly didn’t pay close attention to it. I make no claims about the factual accuracy of this story (anything that IS accurate is thanks to my sister re-hashing this with me). 

Without further ado, I now present: 

The Ballad of Colleen (a short play)

SCENE 1: (Superintendent’s office)

DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT (DS): MRS. LUEDTKE!!! You are pregnant with your THIRD child? The third?! This is unseemly! Elementary teachers should NOT show such an obvious sign of having engaged in sexual activity. PLUS, your husband is rarely home, as he works out of town on a construction site as Fred Flinstone. How do we even know that HE is the father of this baby?! In light of this scandalous behavior, your career here as a teacher at (REDACTED) Elementary School is over! When you go home at Christmas break, do not return. You may re-apply for a position next fall, and we will see if you have seen the errors of your ways and repented. We may, may rehire you…now go! You are dismissed! 

[Close-up on Colleen. She looks strong and determined. She does not dignify this buffoon with a response and strides out of the office]. 

SCENE 2: (Superintendent’s office, later that day. DS is on phone)

Hello?…Yes, Principal So-and-So…I have fired Colleen Luedtke and I do NOT want you to hire her, got it? I am blacklisting her! Yes, goodbye….(hangs up and dials) Hello…Yes, Principal So-and-So Number Two, this is Dastardly Superintendent and you are NOT to hire Colleen Luedtke because I have said so, goodbye!…(hangs up and dials again): Hello, Principal of Halmstad Elementary, do not hire Colleen Luedtke, she is a woman of ill-repute, and I have spoken! 

(Cut to PRINCIPAL of HALMSTAD ELEMENTARY in his office): What?! No one tells ME who to hire! If that Colleen applies I will hire her!

SCENE 3: (Years later, early-mid 1970’s.. Colleen Luedtke is a successful and much-loved  teacher at Halmstad Elementary in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin. A celebratory ceremony is underway to recognize the innovation of Halmstad Elementary, featuring a speech by Dastardly Superintendent.) 

DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT: As a very important person renowned in my field of Elementary Education, I want to say how impressed I am by Halmstad Elementary, an OPEN school with NO INTERIOR WALLS separating classrooms. Yes, people will look back at us and marvel at how impressive we were in the seventies. Now I will welcome each teacher at Halmstad Elementary to come on stage and be recognized and blessed by me for being part of this amazing endeavor. 

(Teachers file past the Dastardly Superintendent and shake his hand, like a graduation ceremony, until finally COLLEEN LUEDTKE takes the stage, approaches the DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT and shakes his hand).

COLLEEN LUEDTKE: Thank you for firing me. Escaping your inept clutches and coming to work at this beacon of enlightenment known as Halmstad Elementary where I am loved and respected was the best thing that ever happened to me. 

[CLOSE-UP ON DASTARDLY SUPERINTENDENT WHO LOOKS MORTIFIED AND WILL OBVIOUSLY SPEND THE REST OF THIS DAYS WRACKED WITH REMORSE]. 

SCENE 4: Also mid-seventies. Colleen receives a phone call from a representative of NOW (National Organization for Women). 

NOW REP: MS Luedtke! We at NOW have learned how you were screwed by THE MAN and we want to take your case to court! We will represent you and get justice and smash the patriarchy! And we will get you money!

COLLEEN LUEDTKE: Thanks, but no thanks. Where were you when this wrong happened? I don’t want to spend years in court, and I think you are more interested in making a political point than in me as a person. I will continue to happily teach at Halmstad Elementary and live out on the tundra with my three children and teach them to always stand up for what’s right. 

THE END (Fadeout to “I Am Woman” by Helen Reddy”)

I did wish that my mom had let NOW sue on her behalf, but I also understand why she didn’t. I think this also taught me there ways to “fight” and triumph that might be less obvious.

I learned so much from this story: Patriarchy and injustice are real and formidable (okay, I didn’t actually have a word for “patriarchy” until college); women need to be resilient and strong; having a career can be important for women. I don’t remember my mom every saying “I’m a feminist’ or even talking about feminism, but I think she taught me to be a feminist by this story and how she lived her entire life, whether or not she intended to.

Most importantly, I learned “Don’t Mess With Colleen” and how lucky I was to have Colleen in my corner. 

My race Bib says that I’m running for “My dad” but I really ran the Foxtrot Half Marathon for me. 

I ran for 10-year-old Amy whose family learned, after weeks and weeks of time at Marshfield Clinic, that dad had Parkinson’s. Um, okay, whatever that is…so he’s going to move more slowly? That doesn’t sound so bad. Are we going to be going to Marshfield less often? Definitely won’t miss hospital visits, but the mall in Marshfield is way cool and has the best Empire Strikes Back cards. 

(And my dad was only FIFTY when he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s–super early, and younger than I am now, #HolyShit. And who knows how long he had it before being diagnosed?)

I ran for high school Amy who was completely freaked out when dad totally froze at Hardees, as in he literally could not move or get out of the booth, so we had to call an ambulance. But dad and I sat in the booth and casually chatted while mom took care of things because that’s what we did. 

I ran for Amy at all ages who thought it was pretty damn funny (even though I felt guilty about it) when my brother did an excellent impersonation of my dad’s jerky movements (caused by meds and not actually Parkinson’s, I think. And to be fair, my brother did an excellent job of making fun of all of the family). 

I ran for 23-year-old Amy who was terrified that dad was going to fall when my parents came to visit me when I had moved to Cedar Rapids and I was showing them the mall where I worked and it was the first time I saw dad really not be able to walk. 

I ran for Amy in her late twenties who worried about how mom and dad were going to survive living out in the middle of nowhere with dad’s Parkinsons getting worse. 

I ran for 30-year-old Amy who was so grateful (and amused) that my brother was able to pull my dad up by his suspenders when he started sliding down out of the pew at mom’s funeral. 

I ran for 30-year-old Amy constantly stressed and wracked with guilt that dad was going to fall at home all alone now that mom was dead and he was living out in the middle of nowhere all by himself.  

I ran for Amy in her early 30’s learning that her dad had hallucinations caused by his Parkinson’s meds that made him experience a whole plethora of things including the dog talking to him. 

Of course, I just centered myself in my dad’s story of life with Parkinson’s. Besides these moments I specifically remember (or think I remember, I make no claims of accuracy) I wonder how much my dad’s having Parkinson’s through much of my childhood shaped me. Is it one of the reasons I’m so anxious? 

I know it affected my mother and significantly contributed to her stress. I’m guessing it affected my brother and sister, and my niece, Kate, too, but #NotMyStory. (I’m also running for my current friends who have Parkinson’s but I don’t feel it’s my right to name them). 

My family didn’t try to keep my dad’s Parkinson’s a secret–in fact, we probably talked about it too much. We definitely adopted my mom’s “radical honesty” approach: Our dad has Parkinson’s, we live in a shack, mom and dad can’t stand each other, etc. etc. (editing here for and not delving into the “etc.” out of respect for other family members. Let’s just say mom was NOT reticent about telling the world about family problems. I would relish telling you about those problems in person/via Zoom, etc). 

BUT, I’m not sure that how we talked about my dad’s Parkinson’s was very helpful. I also don’t know what we could have done differently. In the eighties and nineties, we didn’t have the interwebs to learn about diseases like Parkinson’s. We didn’t have support groups (real or virtual) and probably wouldn’t have participated even if we could. We didn’t think about diet or physical therapy. We got through the best we could, and I don’t fault us for that. 

So I’m super grateful for everyone who has contributed money to my fundraiser to support research to end Parkinson’s. Because it sucks, not only for the person who has it but all of their loved ones and/or family members (which may not be the same). 

And I ran for Amy Today, grateful I had a good reason to do a virtual Half Marathon that let me channel my narcissism in a positive way. So yeah, now it’s time for Running Talk: I was super stressed about this run, mainly because I’ve been having blister issues. I probably should NOT have done this run because now I’m going to continue to battle blisters for days/weeks but it wasn’t too uncomfortable during the run. 

My biggest issue during the run was an extremely runny nose. Sorry, not something you probably want to read about but the truth. My constantly running nose is also nostalgic as I think about my brother saying he has never NOT seen me without a kleenex. 

My ego is definitely taking a hit because this was probably my worst Half Marathon ever as far as time goes, but it also wasn’t as bad as I feared it could be. I haven’t really trained and blister, see above. 

I am proud that I creatively dealt with a wardrobe issue. Per usual, I underestimated how hot I was going to get and two miles in wanted to ditch my arm warmers. But, of course, that is environmentally sucky and I like these arms warmer. So, I TIED THEM INTO MY BUN! And they stayed there for the entire 11 subsequent miles and looked festive!

And the run was ridiculously beautiful. So green. And I’m  still amazed by those flowering purple and pink and white trees we didn’t have on the tundra where I grew up. 

I miss my dad. More than I thought I ever would (he died in 2013). But I’m relieved I don’t have to worry about him anymore, and that my biggest Parkinson’s related concerns these days are blisters. 

As the great sages The Eagles told us, “You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes.” 

I offer that you also can’t hide your big scary eyes. Or maybe you can, but why would you? I recently gave myself big, scary eyes on purpose for all the world to see as part of our church “Art Challenge.”

Simply put, an art challenge involves people recreating a famous work of art in some way. The possibilities are just about endless–the art can be recreated with food, toys, another type of art, and of course, photography. I don’t know if they originated with COVID-19 lockdown but I think they have flourished with folks having some extra time and pent up creativity and needing a socially distanced outlet. 

When I learned my church was doing an art challenge, I pondered for weeks about how I could participate. I certainly wasn’t obligated to make an entry but I just couldn’t pass up on an opportunity to “create content” (as it’s referred to in our favorite podcast/cult “TBTL”). I couldn’t miss the chance to perform/sing/write/etc. some thing that would (potentially) be viewed/consumed by (forced upon) other people. 

Taking a  photo that copied a piece of art seemed the easiest route. But what in the world could I recreate? I needed something that only required a simple costume and background, and didn’t involve nudity on my part. Working StanLee into the photo would be an added bonus and an easy way to pander (there was no way I was going attempt using the cats–dubious at the best of times, but the poor girls have StanLee-induced PTSD these days and are particularly skittish and dangerous). 

As the deadline to submit an entry loomed, inspiration hit–could I do one of those “big-eyed” painting recreations?

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I’m only aware of the Big Eyed paintings because of my friend Amy. During lockdown I have seen the Big Eyed painting she owns hanging behind her during numerous online meetings. 

I knew the painting that Amy owns wouldn’t work for me to do as a recreation, but she informed me that it was by the artist Margaret Keane. It didn’t take me too much Googling to find a Margaret Keane painting called “Beach Bums II” that featured a dog and a simple outfit and background that I thought StanLee and I could reasonably recreate. I was especially happy to find a dog with coloring similar to StanLee’s, as many of the dogs in Margaret Keane’s works are white. 

I’m not going to try and tackle the works of Margaret Keane or the whole genre of Big Eyed artwork. I’ve barely scratched the surface of learning about it, but I highly encourage my readers to explore it and learn more. It seems fascinating and weird. I will say that you may be familiar with Margaret Keane from the movie “Big Eyes” and know that her husband tried to take credit for her work. Why were/are these creepy, depressing, disturbing, and scary pieces popular? Art truly is subjective. 

Once I had a piece to re-create, my biggest factor was timing–when would Chad and I both be available so he could take the photo? (Yes Chad was only willing to be involved because this theoretically benefited our church). When would StanLee be relatively chill? And then we had the logistics of determining where we would stage the recreation. A-ha!–we have a blue wall in our hallway outside of the bathroom! Would it be hard to take the art down that was already hanging there so I could stand in front of it? Would Chad have to stand in the bathtub to take the photo (he did not). 

The submission was due Friday by noon, so we rather spontaneously decided to take the photo late Thursday morning before Chad took StanLee to daycare…Yes! I found the blue sweater I thought I had without too much digging in my closet. Yes! I was able to find and slather on some deep blue eyeshadow around my eyes. Yes! StanLee looked at the camera for one photo without wiggling too much.

No! I wasn’t fully able to remove the eyeshadow before I had an online video meeting with colleagues who didn’t know me. 

Yes! I was able to enter something in the church art challenge that was funny and creepy and slightly disturbing (it disturbed us anyway, and not just because my chin seems to be disintegrating). Chad even made a valiant attempt to be meta and take credit for the work (just like Margaret Keane’s husband) during our artists statement at the reveal party but I think it went over all of our heads (it certainly went over mine. Maybe StanLee got it). 

And not only did I get to MAKE CONTENT, I got to be part of a fun and amazing community event that featured extremely creative works by my fellow church members. Once again, I was blown away by the ingenuity and talent of these folks–not to mention the attention to detail. 

It’s enough to make my big eyes big in wonder (rather than terror or dread or despair–or at least in addition to). 

“April showers bring May flowers”–definitely a saying made for a cool and rainy April day like today. I’m no gardener or botanist, but I have faith that flowers are coming and have even noticed a few blooming already (like the phlox and perhaps even the dandelions–setting aside a “weed or flower?” debate–in our very own yard). 

Spring feels like an elusive season, especially in Minnesota: Here one day, and then the next day it’s summer and then back to winter. That’s definitely how it’s felt this year. 

This spring seems like a good metaphor for my feelings these days: sunny and hopeful, then rainy and moody. I want to go out into the big wide world that I’ve been denied/been avoiding for months, but I also want to stay in and hibernate forever. 

Many days, I feel like Toad in the story “Spring.” I want to stay in my metaphorical (and sometimes literal) bed with my covers over my head, even as my dear friend Frog tries to coax me outside. 

When I decided to finally continue my “Frog and Toad Blog Challenge” with the Spring story, I was only vaguely familiar with it. I had no idea it was going to be so appropriate to my feelings concerning a return to our new normal, post-COVID pandemic life. 

Yes, I’ve blogged about this ambivalence before, and since that post, I’ve been affirmed and comforted by many more stories and columns (especially in the New York Times) about people having anxiety and fear and confusion about adjusting to a different life. With apologies to John Lennon: “You may say I’m a weirdo, but I’m not the only one.”

I’m seriously trying to ponder and accept that my life doesn’t have to look exactly like it did. It may be hard to make choices, but I can re-evaluate my priorities. This can be a process that I don’t have to have figured out all at once. 

And really, while it will probably never feel quite so dramatic or pointed or urgent as it does now, shouldn’t I always be doing this, even without a pandemic?

In “Spring,” Frog employs a little bit of deception to coax Toad out from his bed. He pulls all the months off Toad’s calendar until he gets to May (even though it’s really only April–Toad has declared he sees a big difference between April and May). 

I’m not opposed to being my own Frog right now. I’m in favor of a little self-deception of the “Fake it ‘till you make it” kind. 

And not to throw any shade on April, but there is something special about May, “When May is rushing over you, like desire” (“These are the Days” by 10,000 Maniacs, and yes it would be awesome if I could learn that song for church Zoom coffeehouse). 

Desire for what? Safety? Connection? Variety? Theater? Sunshine? Bourbon? Rest? Challenge? Excitement? Noodles? Music? Joggers? (the pants–not people–because they are RUNNERS!) Cheese?

My problem and blessing has always been that I have desire for all these things, and so much more, but having these things all at once isn’t usually very successful. Or it may be more or less successful, but it’s usually exhausting. I want to feel the rush, but don’t always want to be in a rush.

10,000 Maniacs do actually answer the desire question, and tell us the desire is “To be part of the miracles you see in every hour.” 

Of course, Frog and Toad end “Spring” by going outside together–and isn’t being together (whether physically together or emotionally, spiritually, etc.) one of the biggest miracles (besides cheese?)

I do get a little tired by all the “adulting” jokes. Yeah, cute, but overdone.

But I sincerely have thought that there would come a time when I would feel like an “adult.” Now that I’m over 50, I think I need to accept that time isn’t necessarily going to happen. Yes, if I look back over my life, I do feel different now than I did when I was twenty, but the changes have been subtle and gradual and don’t necessarily mean I’m more mature. 

One small way I thought I might feel like an adult is in my experience of possessions. For example, I thought I would someday just magically want and understand having matching towels.

But more often than not, having what I consider “adult” possessions just feels stressful. It’s not that I’m not materialistic–I am. I like things. I like owning things. I like having things. But buying things–at least things that aren’t clothes–can be time-consuming and angst-ridden. Making decisions about what are the best things for us to have just takes too much thought and consideration. Plus, I have just enough awareness and liberal guilt to be weighed down by the environmental and social justice consequences of my purchases. 

While I like the idea of having “adult” things, I like the things I have. For example, I love dishes, and think I would like having new dishes, but I like the dishes I bought almost thirty years ago at the dollar store. And I bought them with my mom. Why/how would I get rid of those?

“My possessions are causing me suspicion but there’s no proof”

–“Don’t Dream It’s Over” by Crowded House*

So Chad and I joke about living like college kids–not that we can’t afford “better,” but we just don’t have the motivation to attain more. But sometimes, inertia gets the best of me and has a real downside–like living with a broken dish drainer for ten years. Did we get this thing for our wedding?! Not sure when it actually stopped functioning well, but it’s been a half-assed nasty thing taking up way too much counter space for years.

It’s not like I don’t use a dish drainer. Even with a dishwasher (also extremely old and not working well) I eat a lot and drink a lot so have a LOT of dishes–even in the Before Times. Being quarantined and spending so much time at home and liking to shop online during  online meetings finally motivated me to purchase a new dish drainer. 

It’s been a life changer. Seriously. When you consider how much I use this thing versus how much I spent on it, it’s kind of astounding I didn’t buy it sooner.

Is it the perfect dish drainer? I’m sure it’s not. I’m sure I could have found something more attractive and functional at a better price. But that may have taken me another thirty years. My friend Mark’s motto of “Right is good, done is better” can also apply to shopping. 

I finally decided that I am the kind of person that needs a decent dish drainer. That question, “Am I the kind of person who owns this?” is at the heart of many of my possession dilemmas. What does owning this or that say about me? What does NOT owning it mean? Like it or not, I think our possessions are often more about our identities, our hopes, our aspirations, that what we actually want or need. 

Another possession question I’ve wrestled with during pandemic times is “Are we a decanter household?” The answer is a hesitant, slightly embarrassed, but enthusiastic “Yes.” 

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Is having decanters rather ridiculous when we basically live like college students? Yes, except we don’t drink like college students (it would be much cheaper if we did). I’ve been intrigued with decanters for years (mostly inspired by TV, especially “Lucifer”), and several years ago we acquired a really awesome vintage 70’s decanter at a second-hand shop for the play “Orion” we were doing. 

This awesome decanter languished in our basement until I decided, “What the heck, I really like alcohol, so why not drink it out of a totally pretentious and silly but pretty decanter?” And then, I got Chad a decanter for Christmas engraved with “Chamy,” because, if you’re going to be preposterous, you should be all in. 

And yes, we actually use it. Not always, but more often than not. I’m not sure it makes drinking any better but it certainly doesn’t make it any worse. The only real downside is that I occasionally waste some alcohol if I spill it while pouring it into the decanter, and it’s sometimes hard to remember what booze is in the decanter–as we only have two decanters we don’t have one for each type of booze we regularly consume (but that’s certainly something to aspire to. Unfortunately, most of the decanters I’ve seen come with glasses and I love glasses but we definitely do NOT have room for any more glasses). 

So am I the kind of person who uses a decanter? Yes (even if I’m using it while wearing sweatpants). Do I appreciate a functioning dish drainer? Absolutely. Are my plates from the dollar store? Uh-huh. Are my towels matching and free of snags caused by cat claws? No way. 

I don’t know what deeper meaning this conveys about my essence: I’m silly, lazy, materialistic but feel guilty about my environmental footprint. I like to think I’m unconventional (no country duck decorating aesthetic for me) and artistic. I’m sentimental. I’m cheap. 

I’m not sure what I thought adult me would look like, but this isn’t quite it. My possessions do often make me confused and suspicious, but I’m not sure why.

Just don’t let me get buzzed and shop from the Hammacher Schlemmer site, or I may end up trying to figure out the existential meaning of a giant pepper grinder:

*I loved this song as a teenager, and saw the band in concert and got a t-shirt with this quote on it. I got extremely self-righteous/annoyed/defensive when my friends asked me what it meant.

I can never, ever, never ever, complain if Chad doesn’t notice if I’ve changed my hair or if I’m wearing some exciting new outfit. 

Two days after Chad recently shaved his beard, I became aware of this only because a friend mentioned it on a Zoom lunch call. In my defense, it’s not like Chad had an extreme lockdown Grizzly Adams beard or anything, so there wasn’t THAT much difference between “Chad with beard” and “Chad sans beard.”

Hmmm, I could maybe sell that argument if this wasn’t at least the third time this has happened in the last twenty years. The first time it happened, Chad thought maybe I was purposely attempting to mess with him. Nope. I just was, and remain oblivious (maybe self-focused/narcisstic is more accurate). 

I mean, Chad is very handsome with and without a beard, so what’s the big deal, right? 

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Actually, I DO remember when I first saw him with a beard: thirtyish years ago when I visited him when he was studying abroad in Costa Rica. He didn’t tell me about the beard before I got there, and between the new look and the setting of a new country (complete with a language I didn’t speak) I was rather overwhelmed and kind of freaked out. 

So my current nonchalance about Chad’s facial hair could be taken as a sign of my current calm and relaxed state. 

Chad claims he didn’t do this on purpose, but he actually shaved his beard on the day that beards had been the topic of our Zoom lunch meeting conversation. The middle-aged plus ladies on the call agreed that we were NOT fans of the currently popular lockdown/Grizzly Adams/hipster beards (thankfully we were all older women and/or lesbians and not likely to date men with said beards) but that Chad and the only other man on the call had very attractive, well-kept beards. 

I could be embarrassed for not giving proper attention to my beloved, but perhaps I should actually get credit for busting gender stereotypes (as the stereotype is that men don’t notice the appearance changes of the ladies in their lives). 

Um, yeah. 

Honestly, I don’t expect or even hope that Chad notices changes in my appearance…I just want him to praise my appearance and remark on my beauty, style and loveliness. I don’t care if he thinks  I look the same day after day–as long as he tells me I look amazing.

In fact, I probably get most annoyed at Chad for being TOO observant–and commenting on aspects of my wardrobe, hair, etc., that are a little off. Or noticing that I’ve changed my outfit several times before leaving the house/logging into the virtual meeting. 

Let’s just say I WON’T be the first to notice if Chad is replaced by an alien/clone/robot that looks more or less like him. Unless said replacement is noticeably complementary…and then I may just decide a little hostile takeover of the world is worth having my ego stroked. 

I WILL be sure to NOT let the replicant on any Zoom calls with observant church lunch folk.

(The text of the story I shared at our most recent church storytelling evening–via Zoom. The theme was “Becoming.” This even has some bonus material I didn’t have time to include).

The spectators lining the race route on that beautiful spring morning enthusiastically cheered as my friend Stephanie and I ran past. 

When Stephanie proposed we run the 2K Get in Gear race, I was dubious. Sure, I had been “jogging” a bit on and off for a few years, but actually running a race seemed like a big next step. 

Chad assured me that 2 kilometers–only 1.24 miles–was really not that far to run. I could do it. So I stifled my doubts and we registered. 

And here I was, running my very first official race as the onlookers clapped and whoo-hooed. Cries of “Great job!” “Way to go!” and “You got this!” filled the air.

Okay, the spectators were really there to cheer on their children, but they were also very supportive and encouraging to all the runners in the race–even to me and Stephanie. They didn’t judge us (at least not openly) for being the only adults in the race not running with their offspring. 

Yes, for my very first official race, we had accidentally signed up for a 2K Fun Run intended for children and families. Honestly, I’m not even sure I would have realized we were running a race for kids if Stephanie hadn’t noticed and pointed it out. I can be rather oblivious, especially when I’m running, and I was definitely focused on myself and my nervousness about being able to run 2 whole kilometers.

As we crossed the finish line, Stephanie and I rather sheepishly accepted our medals. I was a little embarrassed, but also still happy. Since I didn’t even know if I could finish a 2K I took satisfaction in my accomplishment. 

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Of all the identities I currently claim, none surprises me more than “runner.” How in the world did I, the adamantly anti-exercise child and young person, become a runner who has finished three marathons, at least seven half marathons, and several more 10 mile and 10K races?

It wasn’t just that I was lazy about being physically active–sure, there was some of that, and I definitely didn’t like to sweat or breathe hard. But mostly I was deeply unsure about moving in and using my body. I always remember feeling uncoordinated, self-conscious, and even afraid with and about movement. I never learned to ride a bike or swim, and I never climbed a tree. 

Okay, maybe that’s not entirely accurate–as a young child, around 6 or 7, I did like to run– according to my brother at least. I don’t  really remember this, or at least I can’t be certain what are my actual memories and what are my taking his stories and making them my memories. But he likes to tell the story of how I did run and he would make sound effects from the “Bionic Woman” tv show to accompany me because, just like the bionic woman, I was running so fast it just looked slow.

But if true, that sporty interest somehow evaporated, and for most of my youth I definitely identified myself primarily with my mind–my body was mainly just a vehicle to get me from couch to refrigerator or to grab my next book. 

I don’t think that first 2K race seventeen-ish years ago marked my transition from non-runner to runner. It’s a nice marker to point to, and hopefully a somewhat amusing story to share, but becoming a runner, like I think becoming most things is, has been an ongoing process. I do know I started running around 1999 when we moved to the Twin Cities and have kept at it in some way, shape or form. And somewhere along the way, I stopped protesting that I wasn’t a runner and qualifying what I did as “just jogging.” I embraced that I was a runner–not a professional athlete or anything, but I moved my body faster than walking on a somewhat regular basis, and was therefore a runner.  

While I don’t exactly know when or how I became a runner, I have some clear ideas about what being a runner means for me. It means trusting in a process to accomplish goals, and tackling things in phases rather than trying to do it all at once. It’s trying to do my best given my current circumstances, and not having to always compare myself to others or even myself to feel successful. It’s being obsessed with my heart rate and protein and carbohydrate consumption. It’s having gross toenails. It’s decorating my arms with temporary tattoos of inspirational quotes. It’s noticing the same garbage adoring my running route. It’s being inspired by the cheers of strangers at a race and moved beyond words by friends who come out to watch me run a marathon. It’s feeling embraced by the running community and belonging to a runners’ Facebook group and feeling totally at home when I shop at our local running store. It’s having dresser drawers overflowing with race shirts and decorating our Christmas tree with race medals. It’s posting unflattering selfies where I look all sweaty and red-faced. It’s being filled with gratitude that I am able to run and realizing my privilege compared to those who can’t run safely because of race, health, or economic circumstances. It’s listening to hours and hours of podcasts and audiobooks. It’s having the confidence that I can do things that I never thought possible.

Being a runner doesn’t mean I always make healthy choices, and in fact, some of my running behaviors aren’t necessarily all that great for my body or mind. Sometimes I run when I should let my body rest, or run just to burn off empty calories. I don’t always, or even mostly, run to do something good for my body but to try and wrangle it under control. But even when I’m not running for great reasons, I think I still appreciate my body more than if I wasn’t running. 

Maybe I most felt like a runner last year when I wasn’t running because of an injury. Even though I wasn’t able to run, I had hope and faith–at least most days–that if I was patient and just kept moving, kept walking and riding the stationery bike, that I would eventually be able to run again. And I did. Slowly, at first, and for only short distances, but I was running, and was able to do it for longer times at faster paces. More importantly, even when I wasn’t running, I didn’t lose my runner’s mindset or heart.

Sometimes people ask me if I’m going to keep running, even if I’m not in-training for a race. The answer is unequivocally “Yes.” Or maybe, it’s more accurate to say I’m going to keep on being a runner. Aging and other circumstances beyond my control may limit how much, and how fast, I can run, and a day will probably come when I can’t run at all. But I have every intention to keep on running as long as I can, and to keep being a runner even when I can’t actually run. 

If nothing else, I think I’ve already accumulated a lifetime of t-shirts and medals to play with. 

I have mixed feelings about returning to my pre-Covid life. 

There. I’ve confessed it. 

It’s weird to feel some reluctance and unease about something that is seemingly universally celebrated, but I’m trying to keep it real. 

Please don’t get me wrong, I’m not hoping that the pandemic continues, and I am NOT anti-vaccine. It’s wonderful that so many people are now more safe and connected and less restricted in their daily lives. Everyone who can get a vaccine should as soon as they can.

I also realize that my feelings come from a place of extreme privilege and my specific circumstances (no children at home or out in the world to worry about, no loved ones in congregate care facilities, my ability to work at home, access to good technology, etc., etc.).

I loved my pre-Covid life, and I miss many things about it. This past year has been filled with anxiety and loss and frustration, even though I am so much more fortunate than most. If I thought Covid restrictions would never end I’m sure I would be freaking out about that.  

I loved my pre-Covid life, but I’m just not sure I’m equipped to go back to it. 

I’ve made a lot of changes since Covid, and many of them were weird and hard, but my life now feels pretty full and interesting and meaningful. I can’t quite imagine the logistics of adding commute time and getting dressed and prepared for leaving the house time to my life. And how will I fit everything into my life when I won’t be able to multi-task by combining activities like attending church while tidying up the kitchen? (Yes, I know no one is good at mutli-tasking and it just results in doing multiple things poorly but I’ll take a marginally cleaned kitchen over one that is successfully in disarray). 

I think I have a version of imposter syndrome –I don’t feel capable to be the me I was. I look at the life of Amy Before March 2020 and I think “How did she do that?” This imposter syndrome is seasoned with a spicy special sauce of FOMO–not fear of missing out as much as fear of missing opportunities. 

Intellectually, I know I have a lot of power to choose what I want to do, or not do, when life returns to the New Normal. But those choices are so hard for me to make. (Again, a sign of being blessed with so many wonderful options).

I also realize I can take this transition as an opportunity to start re-thinking some of my priorities and choices. And no matter what I want, I can’t exactly go back to being the old me, none of us can, even if we wanted to. This past year has been too impactful and transformative. But I can be more thoughtful about who the new me is. I don’t have to figure it out all at once. I can make mistakes and challenge people’s expectations (including my own) and I will survive if I do regret that I said “no” to something.

I’m posting this confession so friends may understand a little better if I get twitchy during vaccine talk. It’s not you, it’s me. And maybe other people have mixed feelings about what life will be like once Covid is more or less under control, and hearing my confession will be comforting or affirming. You may not have my particular emotional cocktail of self-doubt and guilt, but I do think it’s normal to be conflicted in the face of a big change, even a positive change that we hope for. 

I’m posting this because blogging helps me make sense of my emotions and gives me a feeling of calm and control. If I can write about something, especially in a way that’s more or less fit for public consumption (even if that public is mythical) it makes me a little less angsty, at least for a while. 

I’m pretty sure that however my life changes (or doesn’t) in the New Normal, I’ll want to keep blogging about it.