Tiny Kitten On The Road: The Christine Dorey-Reid Story

*NOT THAT YOU ASKED
By W.G. Reid (B.M.O.C.)

And Everyday "I Consider Myself-Self-Self-Self The Luckiest Man-An-An-An On The Face Of The Earth-Rth-Rth-Rth."

"I'm small, but mighty." That's how my wife describes herself. She says it with aplomb but it is always within the context of a jest. Just a silly platitude revealing nothing more to the unsuspecting than that she has a sense of humor about her self. This is true. It is also true that she is physically small by most standards. My tiny kitten. Five foot nothing and 105 lbs. Cursed with an unassuming cuteness, winsome demeanor and always having to be in the front row for the class pictures. Being seen if not always heard. Happily resigned to 'official scorekeeper' so she could hang out with her more athletic friends. She married, devoted her life to her two daughters, had a long career as a dental hygienist, a number of over indulged cats - and then change.

Why? Who knows? I didn't know her then. I guess you're thirty-nine and then forty and your kids are off with the car. Your choices become yours to make again. And maybe the sudden luxury of that made her careless. After all, if you've done everything right for a lifetime, shouldn't there be an age where you get to be stupid about your life again. As Bernard Malamad said, 'The life we learn with and the life we live with after that.' Maybe . . . she felt it was time for someone else to keep score.

The change was not without pain and consequence. By the time I came along she was well into it her new life. It included running triathlons. She was definitely not a scorekeeper. She had already run three triathlons and numerous five and 10ks. It showed. She had the figure and vitality of someone half her age. Did I take it seriously? Not really. Everyone was running. It was the new tennis. The fountain of youth for the generation who "hoped they die before they get old." If that sounds too Gen X, you're right - I'm a little younger than my wife. It was her thing. Secretly, I chalked it up to vanity or desperation. You know, "The new thirty is forty." Yeah, right. Whatever.

Now zooooom. It's been eight years. My wife is 50. She has run 60 races. 12 Duathlons, 4 Triathlons, 8 Half Marathons, 8 Marathons and numerous 5 and 10 kms. I watched her train for six months through an IT injury to prepare for the Walt Disney World Marathon. She had to walk three-quarters of it - but she finished. She ran last year's Boston during a nor'easter that was so bad they almost cancelled the race. Sometimes, rarely, I'd break out of my REM sleep to catch her rising out of our bed at 5:30am in the dead of winter to do her morning run. "So this is what it felt like to live with Lou Gehrig. Poor, poor Eleanor Twitchell.", I'd say to her. (She didn't get it. Eleanor was Lou's faithful and devoted wife made famous by Teresa Wright's portrayal in 'The Pride of the Yankees.')

Was I supportive? Yes, mostly. Was I Eleanor Twitchell? Not always. Sometimes I'm sure I undermined her efforts a little by telling her what I thought: she was crazy, she could miss just one day, it's not safe to run at this hour, it's too cold or too hot, those shoes are only six months old?!, etc. I'd tease her about her latest new accessory. (Ack Traks !? Come on). I'd pout a little until I thought she felt the requisite amount of quilt for spending another Sunday with her running group. Hey, I'm a funny, sensitive, caring hunk - but I'm also human. And...well, I didn't always get it.

So I watched her rise every morning in the dark to run, accepted her daily exercise routine as a part of our life, waved goodbye as she headed off with her mates to another marathon, and stood by as she struggled back from sprained ankles and torn ligaments. The first time she qualified for Boston, it finally clicked for me. Think about it. The Boston Marathon is like the Super Bowl or the World Series. It is the premiere international race for professional marathoners. It is the only sport where technically anyone can compete. On the same day, on the same field as the best in the world. And my wife was running in it.

I could see it in her eyes. I can't explain it without torturing you with puffy adjectives and insufferable platitudes that will reveal more about the dangers of mediocre writing than anything I could add to what Ring Lardner and a thousand other sports writers have already said. All I know is, for all the love and intimacies I share with my wife, in that time I am on the outside looking in. I am Eleanor Twitchell on the sidelines. She is Lou Gehrig. It is her own space and time and reward. The heart and soul of my wife is given over to the heart and soul of an athlete. It is a beautiful thing and I am at once filled with pride and envy and joy for what she has worked so hard for.

And when she says "I'm small but mighty.", I will sometimes quietly and knowingly add to whomever's listening - "She is, you know"

*William Reid is not a real doctor and any information or counsel provided within the contents of this blog are strictly for entertainment purposes only. The term 'gay blade' is not what you think and you should immediately find a quality dictionary and look it up.

God, My Underwear and The Universe.

NOT THAT YOU ASKED*
By W.G. Reid, B.M.O.C., F.S.C.H.

Does God exist and does he have my resume on file?

I am not a cynical person. Cynicism is bad for the heart and as an over-weight man with a smoking addiction, I don't think I can really afford to be. And because I can't embrace cynicism, I've learned over the years to try to be at least more skeptical. But even a healthy dose of skepticism can leave you sitting on the fence on a lot of the big issues, (ie. God, the universe, underwear, the proper way to build a skating rink) and I think there's a point in one's life when you have to get off the fence. Personally, I'm a Stanfield man - white cotton briefs. Not going to change and never will. I've gotten right with my underwear. Amen to that. As for God and the universe? Trickier, but for me, yes, I believe God exists.
It's not an epiphany. Just a comforting willingness to buy into the incomprehensible idea that there is a there there. It's a personal choice that I make and it is an exclusive club of me. I'm not preaching or recruiting. It doesn't necessarily inform my actions or my relationships with anybody. Like my Stanfield's, I am on my own with this one. And that suits me just fine.

For one, I like the idea of God. A creator. It sounds good conceptually. The premise is simple. There are no membership fees. No salesman is going to call. I'm not talking about religious doctrine, faith or fatalism. I'm talking about something out there that is possibly and probably beyond our comprehension. An unresolvable but intimate truth of the universe and my relationship to it. Do I think God has a personal plan for me? Nope. Do I communicate with God? Not really. Oh, the occasional wink and a smile now and then. Does God return my calls? Never. Mostly, I think we're all just ants at a picnic. So we should probably enjoy the food and try really hard not to get stepped on. Or maybe God's just one big giant human resources department. My resume is on file and if anything comes up that matches my particular skill sets someone will be in touch. In the meantime, 'good luck in your future endeavours'. Yeah, that's right. I'm saying that if God does try to contact us, that most of us will be getting form letters.

This personal take on God does not influence my decisions or values particularly. I like to think I do that with the help of a supportive family and friends. I can be as judgemental as anyone else on issues of doctrine and cultural sensibilities or as enlightened and respectful as I choose to be regarding different ideologies. Religious fundamentalism has played a pivotal role in our society and it is hard to ignore or dismiss that. Growing up my BFF's parents came from Lebanon. His religious beliefs inspired no more curiosity in me than my friend who had no cable TV or the kid whose Mom wouldn't let him wear jeans. (Okay, that kid was me.) As an adult, enlightened, educated, broaden by life experience, it disturbs me that my relationship with him would be more informed by his religion now then it ever was when I was twelve.

However, for me, in my middling age, there is an inescapable desire or perhaps just a willingness to except that there is something beyond my comprehension. When Einstein came up with his Theory Of Relativity, it was just that - a theory. (One of the reasons why he didn't win the Nobel Prize incidentally.) He couldn't prove it. I know people who get along quite well as agnostics, atheists, secularists or devoted church goers. I would no more ask them about their personal religious belief than I would ask them how much money they make or their frequency of sex. And although I abhor religious intolerance I confess to cringing a little when that nice old lady drops by with her pamphlets or when I hear that the evangelical base of Americans is around seventy percent. But I also would be less than comfortable in a society that didn't have some foundation that informed their values and behaviour. Maybe I don't feel I have to be confined by a list of 'dos and don'ts' from on high but I'm thankful that some people are god fearing and motivated to lead lives informed by a moral doctrine.

Nobody likes to think that life is dangerous and arbitrary. There are supposedly millions upon millions of galaxies out there just like ours. The universe seems as limitless as the oceans seemed to our ancestors. Our sensibilities tell us that everything has a boundary, a physical end and, therefore, so too must the universe. Is there life out there? People like us? I can't think of a more 'cart before the horse' question. Because if you look at our own history, we seem to have a pretty strong record of not getting along with each other on this planet. How could we ever manage to cope with a universe of conflict and resolution? Again, I'm being skeptical not cynical here. It's just that our collective resume isn't very good.

Not that you asked.

*William Reid is not a real doctor and this blog is strictly for entertainment purposes. Side effects may include morale outrage, mild self-discovery, dry mouth, apathy or a slight tingling sensation. Spell checkers and grammar queens may feel a slight sense of superiority that corresponds with there sad and lonely lives. If you experience an erection that lasts longer than four hours stop whining. Mr. Reid hates an ingrate.

Forget The Lyrics? You Were Probably High.

NOT THAT YOU ASKED*
By W. G. Reid, B.M.O.C., F.S.C.H.

Whatever happened to the songs that Frank Sinatra and Cole Porter sang? Now those were good songs.

There is a management philosophy that comes up a lot today. It's the 'don't ask, don't tell' concept used by giant peach heads in large institutions. However, I think this has a broader and more humanitarian purpose that has yet to be considered. I think we should apply the 'don't ask, don't tell' theory to the music lyrics people remember - or don't remember, as the case may be.

The other day I heard a back-to-the-seventies classic that I couldn't get out of my head for the rest of the day. The song was 'One Tote Over The Line' by Brewer & Shipley. It's about a poor guy backpacking around the world and heading home on the train. He has been on the road for sometime and he's anxious to get back home to his Mom and Dad and homecooking, etc. His dilemma is that he has accumulated so much stuff that he has too much luggage. Hense, "one tote over the line." He can't get on the train until he gives something up to fall within the regulated amount of carry on luggage. Alas, he finds himself 'sittin' downtown in a railway station one tote over the line.' It's about the subtle irony of bureacratic rules and restrictions that limit our lives, confine us and the philosophical dilemma of freedom in a democratic society. Are we truly ever really free? Does democratic freedom require some compromise?

So I'm singing this song while I am drying the dishes (that my wife wont let me jam into the dishwasher) and she laughs at me and says, "It's one toke over the line, you idiot! He's high!" Ohhhh, of course, 'cause it was the really cool and groovy seventies and everybody had indiscriminate sex and did drugs and I am the walrus.

First of all, my version makes for a way better popular song. Where is the pathos and drama of some loser getting high in a railway station?! Sorry, honey, but we all weren't high in the seventies but we've all had too much luggage at one time or another. Am I right?

My point is did I really have to know this? I wasn't asking people to join in. I wasn't hurting anybody. I was minding my own business in my own kitchen. What else do I need to know? Is that pink stuff in The Cat In The Hat toxic waste? It's just pink stuff, right? Well...isn't it? The Brady Bunch were actually actors with real outside lives. Yeah, okay. Didn't need that information. There were homosexual undertones in John Knowles' 'Seperate Peace' ? Huh? Not the book I read. That ruined it for me. Not to mention having to reevalute my relationship with my old college roommate. He loaned me the book! That was some awkward 10th reunion. Believe me!

So heads up people. If you hear me singing The Small Faces' 'Itchykoo Park' leave me alone. I don't need or want to know what "itchykoo" actually refers to. As far as I'm concerned it's just a beautiful sunny day in a nice park where "we can miss out school (won't that be cooooool), why go to learn the golden rule." Or something like that. "Nothing illicit going on here, Officer!"

Not that you asked.

*William Reid is not a real doctor and any information or advice given within this blog is strictly for entertainment purposes and should not be reproduced without the expressed written consent of the Canadian Lacrosse Association.