Who's on First?

I'd be the first to admit that I sometimes take sports just a little too seriously. When the Cubs were a couple of outs away from getting into the World Series and blew it (I know it wasn't your fault, Mr. Bartman); when the Bears failed to beat the Colts (and that no-talent Peyton Manning) for their second Super Bowl; when the Europeans stole the Ryder Cup from us at Medinah, I let those crushing defeats get to me in a way that was only marginally less than how it must have affected the actual participants. I know it's only a game. But it's a game I often get way too emotionally invested in.

Take last Monday.

After watching my favorite hockey team lose Game 7 at home in overtime (after coughing up several leads), I'm sorry to say I had a rough time sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I kept seeing that stupid puck bounce off our defenseman's shoulder into the goal. Crazy, right? The next morning, still bummed out about an event that had no affect on my actual life, I had to ask my bleary-eyed self one question. Why do I care so much? Why do I take someone else's endeavors so seriously? Why do I let a sports disappointment affect me in such a negative way?

I'm not sure if I know the answer but I think I know what I have to do about it. I have to try to use some of the energy I expend watching and worrying about whether my team is going to do what I'd like them to do and start worrying about how (and when) I'm going to start focusing on what I want to accomplish in my own life. It's not as if Jonathan Toews is worrying about whether or not I get my book edited. It's not as if Patrick Kane is tossing and turning trying to figure out how I'm going to turn my love of writing into something that can pay a couple of bills. And, more importantly, not one of my beloved Blackhawks is going to help me deal with the fact that my youngest child is about to move very far away in the very near future.

Getting through that last one is going to be tougher than any Game 7 I can imagine.

Let the Games Begin

If you know me at all, you know that I don't have to have an excuse for putting off what I should be doing at any given moment. Cleaning, organizing year-end financial info, going through the boxes in the basement that haven't been opened since 1992; you name it, I'll find a way to avoid doing it. As you might imagine, this admission does not do much for my self-esteem but maybe I wouldn't feel as bad about owning up to this character flaw if I actually had a good reason for putting all those tasks on the back burner.

For the next two weeks, I do. I actually have a half-way decent excuse to leave those dishes in the sink; I actually do have a semi-acceptable reason to ignore the dust bunnies gathering on the baseboards; I actually can justify the fried chicken I hastily purchase on my way home from work rather than putting a home-cooked meal on the table. For the next two weeks, I have something more important to do.

I have to put on some comfy clothes, whip up some hot chocolate, and watch The Olympics.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved this once-every-four-years-now-every-two-year event. When I was younger, I slid around the kitchen floor pretending I was Janet Lynn. Later, I sat on the edge of my chair as a bunch of college students beat the Russian hockey team and cheered as Dan Jansen skated around the rink with his daughter after finally winning a gold medal. Now, I spend most of my viewing time saying things like, "How do they bend their knees like that?" or "That hurts just looking at it". After all this time, I've reluctantly made peace with the fact that I'll never be an Olympian but would it be too much to ask to be able to do a squat without pain?)

I'm as nationalistic as the next guy but, for me, The Olympics isn't just about flag-waving patriotism. It's about effort; it's about determination. I'm in awe of anyone, no matter what language they speak, who works as long and hard to achieve a goal as Olympic athletes do. (And let's not forget those sacrificing parents who got them to the gym/mountain/ice rink at 6:00am - I'm not sure I could have done that either).  While it's fun to see U.S. athletes win a bunch of medals, it's hard not to get emotional when you see anyone (unless they're from one of those smug, arrogant countries that deserved to lose) fulfill a life-long dream.

So, okay, it's not the pure-spirited haven for amateur athletics that it was originally designed to be (don't the NHL and NBA players already have a venue to promote their talents?). Yes, it's dished out in manipulative ways by greedy TV networks and often tainted by corrupt judging. But you know what else it is? It's inspirational. And that's why I'll be watching.

Those dust bunnies can wait until February 24th.

LX and Counting

Well, it's been an eventful week. I celebrated a milestone birthday and The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. I have to say that the Hawks winning The Cup on my actual birthday made the transition to a new decade a lot more tolerable but still, when the high-fiveing and jumping up and down were over, I had to face my new reality. I was now in serious AARP country; a place where Scooter Store flyers and hearing aid offers would be regular visitors to my mailbox. (My husband actually asked me the next morning, "How's my little senior doing today?" It's amazing the man is still taking in oxygen after that one.)

Don't get me wrong, I know there are a lot of people in this world who didn't get to reach the birthday I just celebrated, including a very dear friend that I miss terribly. She would have given anything to be standing in my Clark shoes so I should shut up and appreciate the gift of every day. And I do. Honestly, I do. But there's something about hitting those zero birthdays that sobers you up in a hurry - Blackhawks win or no Blackhawks win.

So, here's my plan. I'm getting off my saggy heinie and getting myself in shape. I'm looking very carefully at food labels (hello, Whole Foods) and trying to cook fresh, healthy meals as often as possible (goodbye, McDonalds). I'm not going to go through another day putting off what I know I need (edit that book) to do and want (a 2015 return to Italy?) to do. I want to learn more; help more; grow more (except in that aforementioned heinie area which has grown quite enough, thank you very much). In short, I want to use whatever time I have left on this planet to be as productive, supportive, generous and kind as I possibly can.

And if, along the way, a book with my name on it ends up finding its way to a shelf at your nearest bookstore, I don't think I'll be too worried about that next zero birthday.

And For My Next Number . . .

Trying to decide what you want to do with the next half (alright, third - I passed the halfway mark a little while ago) of your life is exhausting. Every now and then I look through full-time job ads trying to decide if I really want to re-join the ranks of commuters who fall into a coma in front of the TV after a ten hour day at the office. No thanks. I'm more intrigued by the possibility of working from home but who doesn't fantasize about collecting a paycheck while decked out in a pair of comfy pajamas? I've always said I'd rather clean toilets with a toothbrush (not my own, mind you) than earn a living as a telemarketer (something about all that rejection) so that's out. But my nephew has actually found a way to make a living writing for an educational website so I know there are other options. I just need to get myself in gear and go out and track those suckers down.

And there's the problem.

When my dad retired he said he wanted to use his time to grow spiritually, emotionally and physically; he wanted to learn new things, travel, volunteer. I'm not retired yet but I couldn't agree more. This is the time of my life when I don't have to worry about taking care of anyone but me (and my very neglected husband). This is the time in my life when I should be doing everything I can to make my dreams come true. I've feel proud to have checked off writing a book and blessed to have finally stepped on Italian ground (but that's never going to be off the list) so now it's time to see what else is left in the tank.

And there's the other problem.

If I had half my husband's drive and determination, I know I would be on The New York Times best-seller list by now. If I had one-quarter of his ability to organize and implement ideas (Excel and I are acquainted but I rarely keep in touch), I'd be on my way to my first million. If I had one-tenth of his innate know-how about making connections, setting deadlines, and promoting oneself, I wouldn't be sitting here writing a blog with nine followers (not that I don't appreciate each and every one of you); I would be networking and Twittering my little fanny off to work my way up to double, or maybe even triple, digits.

But I can't give up hope. I have to keep plugging away; chipping away at those goals that seem so unattainable. I have to find a way to conquer the fear and insecurity (and, yes, laziness) that throw me off track.

And I can't forget about my secret weapon; that guy with enough ambition for both of us.

With his (and God's) help, I'm counting on being able to turn this second act into something worth writing about.