Tics, not Ticks

Lyme disease is a huge worry this August.  Family members and friends have suffered from this disease, which can be serious and debilitating.  But I suffer from a different problem.

My teaching nightmares started earlier than usual, during the last week of July.  I blame Sara K—she mentioned having them on Facebook, and I was all smug, commenting, “Mine don’t start until August 1!”  Clearly her power of suggestion seeped into my subconscious, and the dreams about not having my lesson plan and not finding the classroom lasted for about a week.  Travel, sickness, and then planning took precedence, and my anxiety took a different turn.  Instead of disturbing my sleep, I saw some physical manifestations.  My shoulders and neck started tightening up with increased time at the computer.   My office floor, clean for the entire summer, started sprouting stacks of books and multicolored folders brimming with articles and lesson plans from Classes Past. 

My dreams were no longer about teaching but about airports and crowded public bathrooms.  I would wake up before the alarm, strangely alert, which was completely different from July when I would groan at waking up at 5 a.m. (which you have to do if you are going to get a decent run in before the sun cranked up full blast by 6:30 a.m.).   Now it’s comfortably dark at that hour as the days grow shorter.  August may not be friendly to teachers, but it is to runners.

The most disturbing indication that I was actually anxious did not manifest in its usual ways:  no road rage, no refusal to watch True Blood or Episodes or Weeds because I had to work.  Instead, my left eye, or more accurately, my left eyelid, regained its tic.  This tic used to only happen rarely, and only in spring, when the pressure of driving all over the state supervising student teachers, completing projects, writing recommendation letters, and other projects gain an urgency that seems more pronounced than  in the fall. 

I remember exactly when and where this tic started.  It was spring of 2008 in the English Department hallway of a Rhode Island high school.  I had just observed one of my student teachers for the third time.  She had done an excellent job, but we had a prickly relationship.  We were talking, and all of the sudden there went my eyelid—pulsing away as if it had a heart of its own.  I kept up my side of the conversation, hoping that although I could feel this bizarre, violent motion in such a tiny space, nobody could see it.  Instead, the student teacher, not known to be particularly affectionate, or to even like me, gave me a huge hug.  I can only think she thought I was going to cry, and then when she hugged me, I almost did.  Her act of compassion has always stayed with me, and we kept in touch for a long time afterward.  She is a classy and talented young woman.

That tic has served as a physical signal of inner turmoil ever since.  And in spite of having a strong first week—collaborating with my one of friends for the first time on one class, recovering from one bad session to a strong second session in another class, with a third class going better than expected—the tic has arrived, months early. 

Apparently, it doesn’t matter that I have taught for 17 years straight.  It doesn’t matter that I felt ready (syllabi done in advance) and supported (my colleagues amaze me with their words of wisdom).  It doesn’t matter that my husband is taking care of the grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning so I don’t have to worry about it.   My anxieties were once private, mostly laughable affairs (cue the can’t-find-the-classroom nightmare scenario) but now have become frequent, visible manifestations.  Sure, my husband says nobody can see my quivering eyelid unless they are a foot away from me, but when I feel that thing going like a tiny heartbeat when I’m in front of a class, I want to punch myself in the face.   

This too shall pass, no doubt.  I’ll remember that I actually know what I’m doing (see that remark about 17 years).  I’ll get to know my students.  I’ll get into a routine of planning and grading.  I’ll realize the joys of thoughtful classroom conversations and responses to texts.  I’ll quit worrying so much about how I’m coming across and more about how to make this a useful and productive experience for my students.

So if you see me, and my eyelid is twitching, don’t feel like you have to give me a hug.  But it might be nice, anyway.

Steroids in August: A Cautionary Tale

The last several times we have visited Indiana, the ancestral homeland for three out of four of our parents and the place we met, fell in love, and lived happily for 13 years, I have gotten sick.  I didn’t throw up, I didn’t get hives, I just managed to catch the flu.  Nels and I argue about the flu.  He says you only have the flu if you are puking up your guts.  I say that there is another kind of flu—the kind when a common cold goes on steroids.  But more on steroids later. 

I’m not sure what it is about Indiana that makes me sick.  I told a fellow Hoosier about this phenomenon and she said that the state has toxic air.  Every time her nephew visits from Texas he gets sick.  But she does live in Highland, near East Chicago, which is, for you non-Hoosiers, where all the factories and mills used to be.  I remember going to Chicago with my family and holding my nose as we drove through that section. 

It might also be because of the stress of visiting our families, which we do only twice a year.  While both sets of parents and siblings have conveniently located themselves in just two cities, albeit three hours apart, it means we try to sweep in and visit both in our trips.  While I don’t envy my friends with relatives scattered across the country, trying to figure out whom to visit for the holidays, maybe we are trying to do too much.  Or maybe my getting sick is part of the grieving process as I watch our parents age, and my parents, on this particular occasion, part with many of their belongings, including the house in which I grew up and they spent the last 43 years of their marriage. 

On the 13 hour drive home, I managed to survive on tissues, multiple bottles of water, three doses of aspirin spaced at four hour intervals (it’s weird how aspirin quits working exactly when they tell you it’s safe to have more), and a McDonald’s cheeseburger and fries.  At the time, I didn’t realize my sense of taste had been removed from my body, because the heat and salt and texture of fat made up for it. 

The next day was the nadir.  I woke up stuffy, swollen, feverish, and headed to the clinic after a shower, two cups of tea, and three crackers.   Luckily, nobody was in line ahead of me, but apparently I wasn’t the doctor’s only patient.  I had to wait an excruciating five minutes for her to tell me that the x-rays didn’t indicate pneumonia (yay), and that it would take about 45 minutes for my prescription to be ready (boo).   This is the first incident that reminded me that Janet being sick is similar to Janet having low blood sugar:  irritable and irrational.  As I listened to the doctor giving precise directions to her patient on the phone, I was sure she was deliberately making me wait in the freezing curtained room.  Should I take off the hospital gown and put on my clothes?   Would she want to examine me again?  Who the hell puts phone patients ahead of actual patients?  I am going to leave.  Right.  Now.  Luckily, the doctor wrapped up her phone call before I could storm out.  She informed me my prescription would be ready at Walgreens in 45 minutes.  45 minutes?  What?  Are they flying the pills in from Canada? 

I went home to lie on the couch and texted Nels that he could pick up my meds.  Luckily, he had just gotten a new cell phone so I could reach him even though he was running errands.  Here was the context of our conversation (please remember what I said about low blood sugar): 

Me: I just left a message for the pharmacist to let u pick up the prescription.

Him: Who is this?

Me: Spock.  Please fill my scrip for a wheelbarrow full of pounces [Spock is our cat.  I thought he was trying to be funny and wanted to go with it]

Him: I don’t think this is who you think it is.  Leighton here

Me: Yikes!  My bad.  Sorry L

Him: No worries.  Ha

Me: You’re an asshole.

Me: Which is mean and I’m sorry, but my sense of humor is not working. 

So.  When Nels came home, he didn’t mention the text exchange, but insisted on going to the drugstore right away, bringing back my meds, and then going to the grocery store, instead of doing all of that in one fell swoop.  I interpreted that to mean he was sorry for being a jerk while texting, so I didn’t mention it either.  Clearly he was apologetic, and that was all I wanted.

That was Wednesday.  The next day, Nels went out of town and I called him late in the day to see when he would be home.  Some guy said, “Who IS this?” and I hung up immediately.  Through a feverish fog, I realized that PERHAPS Nels wasn’t the one I had texted.  I checked again and realized I had transposed one number.  Whoops. 

Me: I am SO sorry about this msg from yesterday.  My husband got a new phone with a very similar number and I thought he was playing tricks on me.  I apologize for being a jerk.

Him:

I can only hope that he accepted my mea culpa. 

Which brings me to steroids.  The day after not being able to do anything but lie prone until it was time to sit up and eat soup and crackers, I felt like I had kicked this thing.  Sure, I was still sniffly and coughy, but I felt ready to work.  I dragged all the books and papers downstairs needed for one of the classes I was teaching and happily planned what I am pretty sure is an amazing syllabus (I admit I haven’t looked at it yet for editing purposes).  I felt magical and capable, busy planning my running and yoga schedule for the next day.  Then I talked to my sister.  She said, “You have to watch the steroids.  They make you feel better than you really are.”  The next morning, my neighbor said the same thing.  Then my mom called and gave me a similar warning.  But I was totally like, “I’m on the ROIDS!  I feel GREAT!  No wonder baseball players use this stuff!”  Nels scoffed at their warnings too.  He said, “They are steroids, not heroin.”  Damn straight! John Hiatt and Steve Earle in Hyannis Friday night?  No problem.  Cracker, Big Head Todd, Blues Traveler, and Barenaked Ladies in Boston on Saturday night?  Let’s party! 

There were some odd side effects, though.  I tried a few bites of a ripe avocado and threw it away because it had no taste.  Then we were at the Melody Tent having a beer and I realized I literally couldn’t taste it.  There was a little sharpness on my tongue from the carbonation, but other than that, I couldn’t tell a Sam’s Summer from a Fosters.  What a disappointment. 

Fast forward to Monday.  I was ready to be well.  After all, I had finished the roids and the Z-Pac.  Once the drugs are done, you’re done being sick, at least that’s how I remembered it.  I don’t get sick very often, and when I do, I rarely go to the doctor, but this was my memory.  So I decided I would get back to my weekly mileage of 45-50 miles, starting with eight on Monday.  That went okay, probably due to the vestiges of steroids.  Of course, I was pretty sure my watch battery was dying, because I did my customary eight miles about seven minutes slower than usual, even though it felt like the same level of effort.  I even did yoga that night and felt “cleansed” afterward. 

So the next day I was going to do eight miles again; after all, I needed to make up some miles.  I did six at a snail’s pace with multiple walks.  Suffice to say, the steroids had worn off, just as I had been warned.  I was left hot, sniffly…and maybe a little bit grumpy.  Sure, steroids are not heroin, but damn if they don’t promise more than they can deliver.      

After a second trip to the doctor and a different antibiotic, I am finally feeling better in the real way, not in the steroid way.  No way am I going to take that steroid decongestant.  I can’t bear the letdown twice in a row. 

Ode to My Right Arm

Ode to My Right Arm

Part I

Years ago, a motivational speaker advised that breaking habits should start with something easy 

Such as

placing one’s watch

(this was back when people used watches instead of phones to tell time)

On one’s opposite wrist.

I lasted about two hours.  It just didn’t make sense! My watch was on my right wrist

For a reason.

As a southpaw, my left arm had more important things to do. 

And that is how I have lived my life ever since.  Until a few months ago, that is.

Part II

Dear right arm:

I held you in contempt

Or maybe just neglect

Seeing that you were weaker

And less agile

Than your twin sister, the left. 

When I needed strength

Or mobility

Or balance

I chose her over you,

Even moving the computer mouse to her side. 

Writing, eating, cooking, driving, planting flowers,  cleaning bathtubs, washing windows

Unlocking doors

I chose her over you.

Brushing my hair and my teeth

Putting in my contacts

Applying makeup, taking off makeup

I chose her over you.

As a counter to these finely tuned tasks,

You got to carry my book bag, computer bag, grocery bag, and lunch bag

All at the same time. 

I ignored the signals of your distress

Until a simple yawn and stretch

Sent shooting agony

From shoulder to elbow

Radiating pain so bright

I couldn’t believe my skin stayed pale and cool to the touch.

As any child of neglect

Would righteously do

You spoke out firmly and vigorously.

So now we work together, cautiously.

You’ve got your mouse back.

You are becoming better at brushing my teeth and hair, and

I even let you drive when there’s not much traffic. 

Still haven’t moved my watch, though.

The balance still tips toward the left out of habit, but the dialogue

Has begun—

A halting conversation with frequent pauses. 

Ego versus Body: A Dialogue

Ego versus Body: A Dialogue

Do you live your life in the should realm?  As in “I should be grading my students’ papers instead of writing this blog” or “I should have a clean house like my neighbor does because if she has a husband, two kids, one foreign exchange student, two cats, a beagle, and can do it, why can’t I with my husband and cat who sleeps all the time (the cat, not the husband)? 

I have spent most of my life in this realm, and I would like to move.  You can have it, rent-free, forever. 

The dangers of should have been apparent to me for awhile now, but it is insidious, lurking around corners and leaping out to surprise me with me its knowing and judging eye, just waiting to catch me lollygagging around the bases.  On a recent long run that was shortened through circumstances described below, I realized that should, which is rooted in the normative claim of what is “correct” or “right” according to some standard—either cultural, psychological, or a bit of both—is on a first-name basis with my ego.  In fact, I’m pretty sure they have been sleeping together.  Just when I thought my ego had my best interests at heart, I realized it doesn’t care about me; it only cares about what others think about me.  It thinks that I should do what it projects others expect of me.  These aren’t real expectations on the part of others, mind you, only the ego’s interpretation. 

Like any lover who fears her partner is stepping out on her, I hired a detective, whom I will call the Witness.  Here is what she heard on this run last Sunday, as my Ego and Body duked it out.

Ego:  Let’s go 16 miles today!  If you run 16 miles today, 18 next Sunday, and then 20 the following week, you will have reached my goal of running doing a 20 miler in June! 

Body:  It looks good so far, but I haven’t done more than 13.5 miles since late April.  Plus I ran 8 miles Friday and 8 again on Saturday.

Ego: Pish-posh!  You should be able to do this just fine.  You felt amazing on both of those runs. 

Body: That’s true.  But I did drink last night, and stayed up late.  Didn’t get started until 7:20 a.m. and the sun is already bright. 

Ego: Remember that beer is all carbs and that gigantic burger was all protein!  I’m telling you, you should be able to do this, no sweat. 

Body: “No sweat?”  Have you looked at me lately?  I’m drenched and it’s only been 10 miles.  I have had to stop and get water several times already. 

Ego: C’mon now.   The sun is making you gloriously tan!  Quit moving toward the shade.  Hey, why is that guy asking you how you’re doing?

Body: Probably because my face is purple and I look like I’m moving underwater.  We need to find a bathroom.  Stomach is sending emergency signals. 

Ego:   Just have a gel and I know we can get the rest of those miles!

Body: I can’t even think about eating a chocolate gel, especially with caffeine.  Do you want me to throw up right here in front of all these kids? 

Ego: But we have to get to 16 miles!  That was our goal for today.

Body:  That was your goal.  I’m walking home, which is 2 miles away, and I’m lucky I can still walk.

Ego:  But you can pass that old grandpa dude up there who is barely moving!  C’mon now, don’t you have any pride?

Witness Analysis:

The Ego has strong ideas about what must/should take place, but is at the mercy of the capabilities of her compatriots; in this case, the Body.  This is why the Body is such a good teacher to the Ego:  the Body cannot be coerced.  Well, she can, but only to an extent.  In this case, passing the “grandpa dude” at mile 11, but then seeing him pass us at mile 12 as we were walking, was what I would call humbling, and what the Ego would call a “disaster” (her words, not mine).  In a fight to the finish, the score is: Body: Sick, Ego: Chastened.  No winners here, except that both were laughing about this and having leftover pizza soon after.      

What I’ve been reading…

Rogue Island by Bruce DeSilva.  If you are a fan of hard-boiled detective fiction and actively mourned the recent death of one of the best in the genre, Robert B. Parker (forgive the insouciance, but he’s Jesus to the God(s) Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett), then you will appreciate writers like DeSilva.  What makes him even better is that he’s a native Rhode Islander and former Providence Journal writer, so his take on the politics of this state feels authentic.  Rhode Islanders like to think they are special in lots of ways—as if they are the only ones who like personalized license plates and buy bread and milk at any threat of a snowstorm—but in political malfeasance, this state has few rivals (Chicago comes to mind).  Every day, there’s an aging mobster known as “Chippy” or “Whitey” who is finally going to jail or died in jail.  But I digress.  The protagonist in Rogue Island is a newspaperman with his flaws (endearing of course), an aging car he calls Secretariat, and a flair for choosing the wrong women, drinking the right beer, and getting into a fair amount of trouble investigating State House machinations.  This book came out a couple of years ago, and he has a new one called Cliff Walk that I will swipe from Nels’ bedside table when he falls asleep tonight.

Starboard Sea by Amber Dermott.   Jason Prosper is a privileged white boy trying to make it through prep school and into Princeton.  Trouble is, he’s of this milieu but doesn’t really belong there.  Sound familiar?  I am not sure we need an updated (1980’s style) version of Catcher in the Rye, and I have my doubts as to the authenticity of a middle-aged woman writing as a teenage boy, regardless of her familiarity with this world.  Holden’s voice in Catcher was so clear and smart and in pain.  In this book, Jason’s voice is not as immediate or raw, despite having experienced just as much tragedy.  To not know what happened with best friend Cal who committed suicide, or even with Aidan in the Swan Boat until the final pages, meant that the narrator himself was withholding something from us.  That distance may have served the story from a plot perspective, and I’m sure Amber Dermott agonized over that choice, but it didn’t serve my connection or understanding of Jason.  That being said, I enjoyed learning about sailing as a sport, East Coast prep school privilege, and refamiliarizing myself with 80’s culture.

The Power of Habit by Charles Duhigg.  I heard Terry Gross interview Duhigg on “Fresh Air” and A.J. Jacobs name-checked him in his newest one, Drop Dead Healthy.  The book is basically about how we acquire habits as individuals, institutions, and organizations.  I found Habit useful but a bit redundant and limited.  Duhigg seems to be using a purely cognitivist approach when it comes to habit, ignoring deep sociocultural and psychological needs that lead to habits.  I like that he has a framework for changing bad habits, which is: 

1.       Identify the routine

2.       Experiment with rewards

3.       Isolate a cue (location, time, emotional state, other people, and/or immediately preceding action)

4.       Have a plan

But how do I cultivate good habits?  And how are these habits connected to my identities and deeply scripted personal and political discourses?

On another literary note, my parents are getting ready to downsize and my mom sent me some of my childhood favorites, most of which were her childhood favorites.  I dipped back into Little Women and sat mesmerized for an hour reading the last chapters of the book.  I won’t reread the whole thing—it’s a bit preachy for me--but do plan to reread the sequel Little Men, which I loved.  In Alcott’s world, boys may act worse but are forgiven more easily, so there is less preachiness.  Makes me want to go back to Concord…

Little Women

Little Men

Saratoga Trunk

Queenie Peavey

True Grit

Black Beauty

Hans Brinker (or the Silver Skates)

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

Bambi

A Wrinkle in Time

The Incredible Journey

My summer reading will definitely include many of these.  I wonder how these will feel to me as an adult?  The animal books (Black Beauty, Bambi, The Incredible Journey) were often painful to read, so I’m not sure I want to revisit them, but maybe I should anyway.

Ahimsa: Taking My Own Ripe Journey

The eight yamas and niyamas are a set of yogic guidelines that are similar in purpose to Christianity’s Ten Commandments.  Both serve as a set of rules or laws that support the functioning of relationships and society through tasking the individual to act in certain ways.  However, the yamas and niyamas are not undergirded by the threat of “Thou shalt not…” with the implication being “Or else!”  There is nobody to be afraid of with these restraints, whereas the Ten Commandments are based on the fear of God’s—and by extension, society’s—wrath. 

This is a good thing, because if ahimsa, which is often translated to “nonviolence,” were an actual law, I would be on Death Row.    I violate it multiple times a day toward myself, hopefully less often toward others.  For me, this translates into the fear of not being good enough and not doing enough.  One result is that I have become a slave to my planner and email inbox.   Deborah Adele talks about this very thing: “I had created a violent inner world of pushing, overdoing and under-sleeping…” which leads to this:  “…how we treat ourselves is in truth how we treat those around us.  If you are a taskmaster with yourself, others will feel your whip.” 

I believe that these pressures are not just personality traits that she and I share, but are also deeply political.  The emotions I feel are partially internal, but they are also external, resulting from gendered and cultural forces outside myself.  For example, there is the guilt for not meeting certain expectations for professional women, like being good at my job, having a clean house, and being nice, all on the same day.  That pressure, and then the subsequent anxiety, anger, and guilt at not living up to some invisible, unreachable standard, are socially driven.  Thus, that violence I commit against myself, and subsequently others as I take the role of stern taskmaster, is fed upon by socially constructed cues about what it means to be a woman, a teacher educator, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend. 

Ahimsa, and other elements of yoga practice, provides a counternarrative to these pressures.  The idea that I am okay—not just okay, even, but perfect--just the way I am, is radical in western thought.  How can I be perfect when I forgot to shave my legs, dirty dishes are in the sink, and there are 114 unanswered messages in my inbox?  Self-acceptance feels Stuart Smalley-ish:  “I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me.”  This seems faintly ridiculous because our culture provides archetypes of perfect women, wives, mothers, etc., and it is clear that I most certainly am not “good enough.” Instead, yoga tells me that the external does not matter; that I am indeed a worthy human being, just like everyone else.

Running and yoga are good lessons in ahimsa, as my expectations are necessarily limited by my physical body.  My lungs, heart, and legs can only be taxed so far, so fast.  My hips and hamstrings will only stretch to a certain point.  Wise coaches and yoga teachers tell me to listen to my body.  This listening has become part of my running and yoga practice, and as a result, I have been able to push my own perceived boundaries in unexpected ways.

If I am to practice ahimsa, this acceptance of my physical boundaries will necessarily carry over to the rest of my life by recognizing and respecting my personal and professional boundaries as well.  I have a job in which, as one colleague said, there is no end.  I could work 24 hours a day, and there would still be emails to answer, proposals to write, papers to grade, classes to plan, ideas to consider, students to support, colleagues to share.  This is what drew me to this work in the first place:  it requires engagement of my mind and my heart.  I cannot imagine a better fit for my personality than this profession. 

In order to have the energy to do my life’s work, then, it seems I must try to understand and appreciate all that is mine to do, and all that is others’ to do.   One of the ways I violate ahimsa is that I try to fix things for people instead of letting them figure it out for themselves.  Deborah Adele suggests that being a fixer and worrier is a violation of ahimsa, because when we worry about others, we imply that they are not capable of, as one of my student teachers said, “taking their own ripe journey.”  When I consciously withdraw my worries and fears on behalf of others, I have more positive energy to give to the world.  

In this way, ahimsa is both personal and political.  It is personal, because it means living with integrity through recognizing and respecting my own boundaries.  It is also political in that it asks me to resist gendered and classed pressures that are implicit and explicit in this culture. However, ahimsa does not require that I withdraw from the world; just that I make deliberate, thoughtful, and compassionate choices.   It is both freeing and frightening to step outside the familiar zone governed by fear and judgment.  Like everything, this will be a nonlinear, recursive process, in which I get it right sometimes, and fail miserably at other times.  I may not have Stuart Smalley’s confidence, but at least I can get off my own personal Death Row.    

A Runner's Valentine

This year, I knew I would be at a conference for my class that was scheduled to meet from 4-6 p.m. on Valentine’s Day.  I asked a colleague to cover for me, and she said, “Sorry, I can’t.  My husband is a romantic and I know he will have made wonderful plans for us!” 

You would think that she was a newlywed in the first throes of early love.  But no, she has been married for many years and has a grandchild in high school.  I began thinking about the role of romance in my own marriage.  We will be married 18 years in June, and the romance, as traditionally constructed, has been gone for awhile now.  My birthday is within a few days of Valentine’s Day, and Nels has been known to ask, “Do I have to buy a Valentine’s Day card too?”  If he has to ask, there can be only one answer.  On a Valentine’s Day a long time ago, I shamed him into buying me flowers, and it was just all wrong.  Instead of being a gesture of love, it was a gesture of guilt based on my culturally constructed feeling that flowers=romance=love.

Ironically, I have received the most beautiful flower arrangements from him for my last few birthdays, even when he is out of town, as he was last week.  This is from a guy whose normal idea of a gift for me (and anyone else) is from the clearance rack at Marshall’s.  The bargain is part of the narrative of gift-buying for him. 

Over the years, my ideas about romance have changed.  I love the pure beauty and riotous scents that my birthday flowers bring to our late-winter, scratchy-heat home.  Not only are they an expression of Nels’ recognition and appreciation of what I enjoy, but they contain the early promise of spring.

 However, the real romance occurs not in a fancy restaurant or B&B, but on the East Bay Bike Path.  When we are running, we can talk about all the easy and hard things we are experiencing as individuals and together.  For some reason, hard truths are more palatable while running; maybe because we are not looking at each other, or because we are both engaged in physical effort, or because we are engaged in a shared experience even as we are talking about something potentially polarizing. 

In addition to these potentially difficult conversations, though, there is also the encouragement Nels provides for me as a runner.  He can compute numbers in his head (I love to test his actuarial skills by throwing out random equations about money or running times) and his newest calculation indicates that it is possible for me to run a BQ (Boston Qualifier) in my late 40’s.  “All you have to do is get down to 3:45!”  he enthuses.  I ran my last marathon in 4:26.  I have my doubts, but he does not.

For me, the ultimate in romance is someone who believes in me more than I do myself.  So, no, honey, you never, ever, have to buy me another Valentine’s Day card.  I love you.