Central Park

I ran in Central Park last Thursday. On my way, I ran into Admiral Roughead in his police escorted military convoy. I actually run into him often which I find a little suspicious given that I live in Detroit. Who should one call when being stalked by the Chief of Naval Operations? I mean, enough already, Gary! I had a similar incident with an actress named Rosario. Honestly, some people have no regard for personal privacy.

Admiral Roughead was Commandant of Midshipmen when I was at the Academy. (Have I mentioned that I went to the Naval Academy?) When I think of Admiral Roughead, I am of course reminded of his catch phrase, "Everything in moderation except moderation itself." I always thought it should be "INCLUDING" moderation itself, but I have an incredibly compulsive personality. You may have noticed this?

So, I'm running through Central Park and it is literally 430 degrees outside (I am not one to exaggerate). I thought I was going to die and some unsuspecting runner was going to happen across my lifeless body. The mystery would fall upon a snarky, mixed-gender crime-fighting detective-duo that lands me my very own plot line on Law & Order SVU (BUM - BUM). End Scene.

One good thing about running in Central Park is the numbers game. The sheer mass of people running at any given time guarantees that I will actually pass people. And I'm not just talking about walkers and moms holding their toddler's hands as they struggle to take their first steps. I mean real runners. Complete with real running "outfits" (because obviously if you have a real running "outfit" you are a real runner...). But just as I would start to get excited I would get passed. I don't really mind when it's by a 30-year old meat-head sans shirt chanting, "Which way to the gym!" But when it's a 60 year old woman, it gets a little disheartening. I started thinking,

'I wish there was a bear chasing me. I bet I would run so much faster. How can I incorporate that into my workouts? I would seriously be so fast trying to outrun a bear. Or a rabid dog. But not the shit-kicking kind. Something that would really put the fear of God into me. Man. There's gotta be a way to bottle that up and sell it. Why didn't I pay more attention the day they taught business in business school?'

OK. Back to moderation. I started thinking about how we so often think of moderation as part of our daily life. Exercise (by the by, I did the 6-mile loop in Central Park in about 60 minutes. Beep, Beep!), diet, drinking, incorporating new robot moves into one's dance routines, work-life balance, etc. But what about family? I come from one of those crazy Latin-American families where your third cousin twice removed is still just "cousin," or your play aunt/uncle depending on the age gap. I am in town this week because my grandfather died. It is very painful. I call, text, email, facebook-poke my friends on a daily basis. I wish that my 71 year old grandfather had had a facebook account so that he would have known that I was training for a triathlon. He would have known that my idea of excellent child-rearing is doping your kids up with Nyquil before taking them in public or Vicodin before taking them on a plane. And he would have known that I still have a dance party in my car when Miley Cirus comes on the radio. But don't worry. He knew that I am the Queen of the Robot. He knew that I have random bursts of school spirit as I do periodically shout 'Beat Army!' for effect. And most importantly, I know that he knew I loved him. He was, in essence, my only grandfather; one of the few people on this earth that loved me unconditionally. But did he know that I loved him because I knew he always believed in me; because he made me laugh every time I spoke to him, whether he intended to or not; or because when I kissed him his mustache smelled of tobacco and he patted me on the butt and said, "Grandpa loves you."?

Much later that Thursday evening, I was sitting around drinking beers (which is so not on my triathlon training program or "Skinny Bitch" diet) with my uncles and my cousin (whom I've always considered my uncle). These men, now in their 40's and 50's were like super heroes to me growing up. Veterans all, they influenced where I went to college and my decision to serve in the Armed Forces. Even last Thursday, as I toasted my grandfather with them, I sat back and admired my uncles. Funny, charismatic and handsome, anyone of them could be a GQ model in his own right. I felt like a shy little girl who finally got invited to the party and could drink with them. Over the years, I have fallen in love with their equally gorgeous wives and amazing children (who incidentally will be severely injured if they ever try to call me their aunt!). But I don't call any of them every day. I don't even call them every month. They know that I love them. But I'm not sure that they know that I love them because I remember them tucking me into bed as a child, cheering me on as a plebe, or simply because I still light up whenever they're around.

When there's a death of someone close, it reminds me of January 1st. There's a reinvigorated sense of motivation, but by February 1st, resolutions from the new year have been forgotten. I will not resolve to call or email on a weekly basis; nor will I do anything as cliché as dedicating my race to my grandfather. But I will try to learn from this experience so that I'm not filled with the same sense of regret as I feel towards my grandfather's passing and all the pieces of me that I wish he knew. So as I think about moderation, I will consider that it should equally affect all parts of my life. And that maybe Admiral Roughead had it right after all. I will think about moderation beyond terms of incorporating a bike and swim into my running routine; beyond alternating "Go Navy!" cries with "Beat Army!" cheers; and beyond mixing up the Robot with a little bit of the running man. I hope I continue to feel my grandfather's presence in my life. But I'll always remember his last gift to me, introspection. I may even reach for it during my race in August. Maybe by then I'll have figured out how to bottle up a shark to chase me through my swim in Lake Michigan.