It's Not A Foot Fetish If You Get Paid For It

I get paid to touch and do things to people's feet, sometimes while their loved ones watch. And to inspect feet as their owners walk back and forth like doomed ducks in the arcade shooting game. And, to listen or talk about arches, bunions, toenails, and all sorts of foot-bound things. Honestly, I don't have a fetish. I work at a running store.

I stumbled upon this job, which is not uncommon because I stumble on lots of things. Usually this ends badly, with me icing a throbbing body part (or two) with a bag of frozen blueberries and cursing at the bandaids that never stay where I need them. But I'm lucky. I have months of free time before starting a full-time graduate program in June, and wanted to find a part-time commitment where I'd be useful on the days I didn't have a "read-nap-read-nap-nap" scheduled (it's brutal....I know).

This is a perfect temporary part-time job. It's in a respected, local running store, owned by a former corporate guy who encountered the perfect storm of a brother's untimely death, corporate distaste, love of sports, love of people and community service....all leading to the creation of this store. That is grossly simplifying Kevin's journey from the whitest-collar background to store owner, but ten-plus years later he has a robust business that's much more than just a place to buy running shoes. And now, I'm a little part of it.

I'm a runner (we RUN, not jog), and have loved it for years. The longest I've gone without running is a month, not counting the 6 weeks off to let a broken foot heal. I love it so much I ran a marathon on that broken foot, which some have said makes me a fool. It's sometimes hard to explain to people who ask, that my love of running has nothing to do with fitness. It's a spiritual and emotional necessity, which is why I suppose I generally don't share the actual running with anyone but a very few. So, working in a running store gives me the chance to hangout with and help others who have the running bug, too. These store visitors, and my new co-workers, and the store's approach to its visitors, are all wonderful.

So, I'm feeling it's time for an inaugural "The best parts about working at a cool running store (so far)" tribute. And I swear....the guys at the store did not put me up to it.

Best Part #1: The staff.

I'll save detailed staff descriptions for another time but for now, I'll just say that Kevin (the owner) and his three full-time 20-something associate 'dudes', are in love with all things running, and are especially passionate about - and excellent at - teaching people and helping them fulfill their running and wellness goals. They know as much about shoes, equipment, biomechanics, and injury prevention and treatment as some licensed therapists I know. They're all smart, quick-witted, slightly nuts, and just ooze a genuine lovin' life vibe. They're also some of the nicest souls I've met. I love the fact that each of these guys own more shoes than I've had in a lifetime, they run in shorts in 23 degrees, that they don't blink at the size of my appetite, they like when their beards freeze, and that the 'dudes' think I'm only maybe, ten years older than they are. Don't ask me why they're apparently delusional about women's ages. Juuuuust let'em think, what they think.

Best Part #2: The shoes. Or actually, the shoe education.

Shoes, shoe components, and the nuanced differences between Brooks, vs. Adidas, vs. Asics, vs. all the others. Who knew such precise adjustments to flex grooves and hydroflo insets and patented foams and rubbers and all the other things, would result in such performance differences for people. It's fascinating. OK, I'm a geek. Apparel can be tricky, too. I thought I knew running, until I started this job. Now I realize I only know anatomy and muscle physiology and biomechanics, and enough about training to be respectable....but almost nothing about all the rest of it. Which is a lot. I'd really like my work hours to count as credits towards my upcoming graduate degree. I mean, Kevin gives TESTS! I have the basics down now, but have a 10-K's worth of "insider" info to learn still. So, bear with me if I agree with you - for just a sec - that the best reason to buy that pair of Asics is because they make your feet look cute. Or fast.

Best Part #3: The customers.

Ho-hum, la-de-da, typical list stuff so far, you're thinking. But as educational as the store's merchandise is - at least for me - the store's customers are even more so. I didn't make up the 'make my feet look cute' comment. A woman last weekend - let's call her a "cougar" - spent approximately 68 minutes trying on everything but the shoe we wanted her to try, because all the others made her feet look more cute or matched her CAR, and there was just no way she needed an 8 1/2 in any shoe because she'd never worn an 8/12 in anything before in her life. I am sure she has a weekly mani-pedi, and may be in denial about one or two things other than her foot size. If that sounds like a complaint, I didn't mean it to be. She was a challenge but ultimately a good sport, and the source of endless good-hearted entertainment for us long after she left (with the right pair of 8 1/2 shoes!).

Like her, everyone visiting the store, is a story. This may sound cliche, but the staff really tries hard to unearth each one, and respect the story they find. Even the cougar's, especially hers. And apart from her, almost everyone visiting the store is in an open, exploratory, full-of-hope state of mind. It's refreshing. So far I've met octogenarians who still tear up their treadmills, women with tremendous weight-loss stories, people bouncing back from life-saving surgeries, folks of all ages who are training for their first races, experienced ultramarathoners, high school athletes of all abilities....and it's only been three weeks! Who will walk through the door next, is anyone's guess. That's part of the learning, and a big part of the "how cool is this!" factor.

So, I'm heading off to see if this is the day that Mario, or Marc-Andre, or my Mom, will finally walk through the store door.

And, let me give their feet a little above-the-board lovin'.

Why Online Dating Beats Online Scholarship-hunting

The University of Pittsburgh wants paid. Not yet, thankfully. I know that I'll need financial aid to cover my program, but I want to do my best to minimize the loan (potential fist-bump coming from financial advisor), by applying for as many scholarships as possible. That I actually qualify for, I mean.

Last week I started to visit the free scholarship search websites, which is a lot like running through an unavoidable cosmetic section of a department store, to escape the women who are hell-bent on spraying something on you, or worse, drawing scary eyebrows above the eleven-step eye makeup that's a sure improvement over what God gave you. Which is one reason why I've boycotted malls and department stores. But, that's another creepy story.

So, through today, the scholarship search has produced one opportunity I've applied for - a $2,500.00 award from a wonderful-sounding sorority called Zeta Phi Beta. What a remarkable group they seem to be - and they award a half-dozen or so undergraduate and graduate scholarships each year. I'd be honored to earn one from them. Explore it, if you have the need to for someone. I never would have learned of them except for scholarship.com, or FastWeb or FastAid (I forget which site delivered it).

Now, this is where my enthusiasm for the online scholarship people starts to dip a little. And, here is why I don't think it'd be the worst idea ever for the match.com folks to takeover the scholarship guys; golf turf management. And, horseshoe pitching. For starters. Those are just two of the...unusual...activity selections on one of the scholarship sites.

What you read next, I swear...I am not making up (right, Dave Barry?).

To help match students to scholarships, the online scholarship people (OSP, to shorten it from now on) ask for the expected basic background information - GPA, standardized test scores, stuff like that. They also encourage completion of a detailed student profile to improve the search results - duh. So, to help with that, their solution is to provide various "organization/activity" sections, intended I guess to personalize results as much as possible. I'm all for that. I'm also a 46-year-old "career do-over" graduate student who has done a few things since high school and undergrad, so the extracurricular activity options that the OSP folks provide, aren't really a good fit. Like golf turf management, which I'm sure rocks for the 1/2% of students who can claim it. And, as cool as it would have been to select the "college newspaper cartoonist" or the "harness racing" options, it just didn't seem like a good idea.....though I might do it later just for fun. It was also concerning that Pittsburgh wasn't an option for my "city of legal residence", or that Pitt wasn't included in one site's "schools you plan to attend" section. Maybe I should've applied to Bergen University of Norway, instead. Under "special characteristics" I could've chosen - and I am not making this up - "undergrad named Gatlin", or "left-hander attending Juniata College" ....but none of the things I would've really liked to mention. Like, I am a !$##!#*#%! female middle-aged career-do-over occupational therapy grad student, who's ready to get going and needs some !#$##!! money!

So it's not shocking that the scholarship matches I've gotten based on the inputs I could provide, are a little whacky. I mean, do I really qualify for the $5,000 award for architects, and the $2,500 for travel agents? Or is my doppleganger messing with the me?

I'm trying to be as specific as they ask but, c'mon OSP people. Help me - and the others like me - out a little bit here.

Which brings me back to today's proposition - that online dating effectivity beats online that for scholarship-hunting. I can build a scorecard to support it. I just finished a basic match.com search. For fun, let's compare those results, to the some of the scholarship sites':

Scholarship

• Agriculture Loan Foregiveness Program - it's $20,000, but I don't think the tomato seeds that an expert gardening friend gave me, are going to get me there.
• PMI John Fondahl Memorial Fellows - for people in project management. Wait...maybe that means that LOOKING for scholarships is like a PROJECT, which the looker is MANAGING. Yes, that's gotta be it!
• Brickfish "Best Toy Ever" Contest - umm....
• Grand Canyon State Games Essay Contest - winners must attend a southwestern US college. Pitt, the Big East conference, Pennsylvania, Eastern Standard Time. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, Eastern Standard Time. But, that's right....the 'Burgh doesn't exist! Which means the Steelers never won the Super Bowl! And my Pens never won the Stanley Cup! Sigh....

match.com

• Holy cow. It says that there are 2,000+ "mutual matches" based on my selections, including preferred age range, distance from me, "interests/activities" and "favorite hot spots" (not THAT kind). It's hard to imagine that over 2,000 men within 50 miles, are that compatible with me. So, even assuming that 95% of them aren't really compatible because their best friend - or ex-wife - coached them through their online profile (which means they don't REALLY like pillow fights, or running in the rain)....that leaves 100 solid-quality matches. That's about 94 more than the three scholarship websites - with no 50-mile limit - were able to produce. I was going to highlight a few dating matches to make the point, but I'll save "akbobnpa"* and "runrefrun"* in case one of them ends up being the reason I change my facebook relationship status someday.

*Not their real online dating names. Or....are they?

So, the online matching effectiveness scorecard? So far, I'd bet my first semester...okay, maybe just my textbooks....on a match.com takeover of the other guys.

But, I'd still win the pillow fight.

It's Not About the Money

I'm not always practical. Please don't get me wrong. I'm not frivolous, either. I was raised in a home where we saved scraps of foil and plastic wrap to re-use well beyond what the Saran Wrap people are probably comfortable with, even though Saran Wrap was apparently once sprayed on fighter jets. Until 2007 I still had the living room furniture that my former husband and I bought in 1990. I'm proud of my "new" home, partly because the property and decor updates have been made with cans of paint, a borrowed rear-tine tiller, a well-worn tool belt, handy friends, and some sweaty ingenuity. You get the idea...impractical, no, reasonable, yes.

So why don't I feel a little naughty for spending $59,634.17, that I don't have?

I committed to that number when I sent one-hundred dollars to the University of Pittsburgh last week, which secured my spot in the 2-year occupational therapy graduate program that begins there this June. Two years - at least! - without a paycheck...which I'm used to now as a seasoned displaced worker. Luckily I have a streak of my parents' thriftiness, with no debt and a healthy savings because of it. When I lost my job and decided to change careers, my financial advisor almost fist-bumped me when we ran through all of the "can I do this?" numbers - a move that might've been hard for him since he's never even high-fived. But, that's another story.

So with the fiscal blessing of a very proper advisor, I spent twice the equivalent of a Mario Lemieux rookie hockey card this fall, to finish the prerequisites for the really expensive credits to come. And it felt good. Not to spend the money, but to know that I have a career-change plan with both certainties, and with a big "follow your heart/by-the-seat-of-my-pants" aspect. Which is helping to build something so gratifying that I can't describe it very well yet. And the impractical part is that no matter how much some friends tease about my new debt monkey, I'm not worried about it. Not the least bit. Even though I know that in my new vocation I won't come near my previous earnings. Even the part-time job I just agreed to at Elite Runners and Walkers has nothing to do with the paycheck. I may be endlessly confused and sometimes off-base about other matters of the heart but this one, is crystal clear. There is just a powerful but easy, comfortable, knowing...that there's no reason to worry about this part of the future.

That's an accomplishment because for as fortunate as I am in so many things, I can also get in my own way. Actually, my ego does. Becomes the boss of me. Frustratingly and sometimes unpredictably. I've talked myself into bad decisions or behavior, and out of good ones, just by listening to the blahb-ing in my head. This is commonly known as acting like a mind-numbing ass. That's not a put-down, it's just the truth. Honestly, I should know better by now but, like Man vs. Food, the head vs. heart or the ego vs. id, can be a full-bodied challenge. This abundant life has always been even more so when I've just given my agitated ego a hug, then sent it off to be of some service in another part of my body (don't ask me how it works, it just does).

So, a stepped-up resolution (as much as I dislike the concept) to give my ego enough busy work, to let the other pure parts do what they do best. Like, bringing me to an enormously gratifying new vocation. My financial advisor will be proud of me, but my loved ones will appreciate it most.

And, I might even earn more fist-bumps along the way.

A Love Note for My Dad

My Dad died, three years ago, January 8th. This is the first year that my Mom has felt more like marking the day with the laughs and memories that she focuses on during the rest of the year, than on what it was like to slowly lose him over three years. She's a funny woman, and my Dad was a wit too, so this mindset is a good thing.

Maybe it really settled in over Thanksgiving and Christmas. My family and I spent time looking through old photo albums, which gave any one of we grown-ups good reason to tell the kids all sorts of stories. Most of them, mostly true. Or, our version of the truth. For example, there is no arguing that each year my July birthday party was at the Woodland Hills Swim Club. There are lots of squishy-looking pictures of my sisters, friends, and cousins celebrating in flashy bathing suits. And, no arguing that my incredible Mom made a double-layer chocolate-iced chocolate birthday cake each July, despite knowing it would slide and melt into an unrecognizable gooey blob in the heat (not, a bad thing). But after that, facts start to scramble. Example - comment from person 1..."remember so-and-so peed in the pool so often that our eyes turned yellow?", followed by person 2..."no, so-and-so actually turned the snow yellow sledding the winter of the teacher's strike". Forget for a second the "ewww" factor. Honestly, how mixed up could we all be?


And so it is with stories of my Dad. Even while he was alive and well, one of us would have a much different memory of a certain Dad thing than everyone else. And sometimes, no memory of it at all. Like, one Christmas Eve years ago, my Dad stopped the car at one of the best homes in the "rich" neighborhood we cruised each year after Christmas Mass (looking at the lights, not to break and enter), because my Mom felt sick. Forgive us, but she left the car dressed in her Christmas dress and high heels, to throw up on the yard decorations while we sat and watched. We all remember that. What I wish I'd paid attention to was my Dad, who apparently said as she bent over and heaved, "God! She has great legs." I missed the best part, as it was happening. But, one of my sisters caught it, thankfully for the rest of us.


It's interesting what happened to Dad stories, when he died. I didn't truly begin to appreciate my Dad until my late 20's, which might be true for lots of people. I think that's true for my sisters, too. The dozen years or so from that point on were a gift, just because our perceptions shifted, and we paid closer attention. So I thought I grew to know him very well. But in the last month of his life and the first weeks after his death, I got to eavesdrop on and be the audience for stories about my Dad. Other people filled in blanks I didn't think were missing. For example, I knew he was a veteran. One veteran buddy I'd never met, visited my Dad often in the rehab facility he was working so hard to come home from. A week or so before Christmas, his buddy was leaving Dad's room as I got there, and he was there again a few days later. That time, I got to listen while they chatted and laughed awhile. About little things, details I never thought to associate with my Dad. My heart grew three times as big (with apologies, to the Grinch). I wished that I hadn't turned down his many invitations to hang out at the VFW with he and his buddies (apparently because I couldn't fit it in for one reason or another - silly). His buddy was one of many loved ones who came to support my Dad while he was in a place he'd rather not have been. And I got to see a lot of it, and appreciate that he had a big, wide, full life beyond my sisters and I.


At the funeral home and in the days after, I met more veteran buddies, and saw great-aunts and cousins and decades-long friends of my parents that I hadn't been with in years. Of course there were lots of stories, some I'd heard, and many I hadn't. But the biggest turned out to be...how much my Dad meant. Just that. Which is everything, I guess. He wasn't perfect - he'd be the first to tell you that. But he was imperfectly perfect - perfectly, him. His loved ones cried and laughed comforting my Mom, and the rest of us. I wouldn't worry about paying for grad school if I had a dime for each time I heard someone tell us - with bona fide fervor - what a true gentleman he was, what a beautiful and strong-willed soul he has, what a trusted and dependable friend/cousin/nephew/co-worker/soldier/neighbor/athletic teammate/citizen he was. Not just once, but again and again. My Mom still hears it through the cards, visits and emails that folks make sure she gets throughout the year.

I know I'm inadvertently leaving out lots of adjectives and accolades. My Dad deserves all of them. I hope I told him enough how proud I was of that, and that I love that......he was a big reason that veterans will benefit from the new VA Hospital in Washington, Pa, which he pestered local politicians for (firmly, and diplomatically). Love that he bounced back from job losses and career disappointments, and from health issues he hid from my sisters and I so that we wouldn't worry. Love that he adored the Food Network even though he could only make popcorn and coleslaw. Love that he was patient enough with us to throw pitch after pitch, and help us plant a vegetable garden in the backyard, and let us dance on his feet, and let us make mistakes if it meant we'd be a student of them. Love that he cried when he found the perfect spot for the grave of the dog he had a love-hate relationship with for over a dozen years, and cried when he accidently mowed over a bunny den hidden in the yard. That he wasn't afraid to show rage when I became a crime victim, or when others experienced an injustice. Love that he sat in the front yard with me some nights and pretended that he could also see the astronauts hopping along on the moon (I SWEAR, I did). Love that he made me chase down tennis balls and shoot baskets til I hit them right. That he was the biggest, most heartfelt cheerleader to the patients alongside him in the hospital or physical rehab, and to his loved ones throughout all their lives. Love that he loved my Mom so openly, and admired her legs til the day he died. That he was the most appreciative Grandpa that ever walked. That he loved to laugh at Will Ferrell with us. That near the end, he let me wheel him to Mass, and help him in the bathroom, and told me he wasn't afraid to die anymore.

My Mom and sisters, and other loved ones, have their own lengthy love notes to my Dad. And though he's not here they're still being written, by us all.

His funeral prayer card included this verse from 2 Timothy: "I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith". And so you did, Dad. Perfectly.

To Work, or To Bueller?

I just might be the luckiest person in the world. I'm at the very beginning of a five-month vacation, thanks to a happy timing situation. The graduate program I entered doesn't start until early June - that is, a 122-day gift.

On 5 month vacation eve I was sure I could divide the time into daily 25/25/25/25, read/nap/read/nap segments, with interruptions to play in the kitchen, try to improve how well (badly!) I run in snow, romp with the dogs and kids in my life, spoil my Mom as much as she'll let me, spoil friends and neighbors a little too, maybe finish the house DIY project list, find great hole-in-the-wall food spots. If Ferris Bueller were a middle-aged woman, this might be his list.

It's Day 2+ and that plan still sounds pretty solid, but somehow it already feels like it's time to go back to work, in some shape or form.

Some of you are in a similar situation - displaced with a package to decide how to invest, or considering re-entering the work world, looking for the right or a different vocation (in addition to motherhood, or as spouse), looking to take the best next steps. And there's a time-gap between now and whatever you've chosen. Or are thinking about. So there might be some impatience. And even though the vocational question has been answered for me, I'm itchy, too. Some itchiness is good, I think. But I'm afraid that too much of it, or too much vacation, would send me into a little self-absorbed tunnel. (Lord....someone please tell me if I'm already there)

So, an insane question: to Bueller, or to work? I'm going to try to do both in the next 100+ days. Some work here, a Bueller Day (or two) there..... So with that in mind, here are parts of the revised 5-month plan. For starters:

• Just before Christmas I learned that we displaced workers can work part-time, without losing a bit of our full unemployment benefits. How great is that?! (if you want it). The "how to" information is hard to find on the PA UC Benefit website, but the local office shared the information. A fantastically helpful woman there told me exactly how much I could earn each week without sacrificing benefits, and walked me through a few other things. The number for this area: 412/267-1315. I just applied to the special needs school where I've volunteered awhile, and to a local running store. It helps to keep in mind that a part-time job doesn't need to be completely related to what you'll eventually be getting paid to do in your "real" job. Duh. But it took a little while for that to sink in.


• Volunteering is unmatched on many levels, but volunteering-with-benefits is even better. For example, in Pittsburgh, a volunteer within the Carnegie Museum network gets free admittance to all four of the museums, plus exhibit previews, and earns discounts on merchandise and classes. I hope to be "working" at the Science Center, but I'll get the Art Museum, Natural History Centre, and the Warhol in the deal. Amazing, if you're a geek like me. There are lots of opportunities.....a good friend of mine is a volunteer teacher at a local center, and earns credits for services there. It's an excellent way to satisfy a number of needs or desires, including frugal creativity (if that's one of yours, like it is for me).

So, these "fake" jobs, plus the original vacation plan. Lovely!! And, looking ahead to when I'll be back on a full-time schedule, I hope to take as much of this next five months with me as possible. Remember....Ferris, to Sloan: "The question isn't 'what are we going to do', the question is 'what aren't we going to do'". Or something like that.

Yes, I'm thinking it's entirely possible to be a working Bueller. Bueller. Bueller.

Confessions 2

Confession #1 - again, there's nothing very helpful here about mid-life career changes (soon, promise), but you might again give thanks that you've never....

#2 - I got stuck inside a port-a-john at Lake Arthur, during the off-season, on a solo trip. Yes, by mistake. The 911 operator snorted (a la, a big wild boar) because she was trying to hide the laughing. I don't blame her.

#3 - I owned a "Barry Manilow Live!" album at some point in my teens, based on the unnaturally high volume of pictures my parents took of me holding it with that year's birthday cake. Next Christmas, I am not looking through my Mom's old photo albums.

#4 - Just as creepy....one of my sisters and I used to sing our entire Donny & Marie album collection, in our backyard. Where no one would hear us. But now I think I understand some of the pained looks our neighbors used to give my family.

#5 - Even though I made peace long ago with not being a Mom-of-the-First-Order, sometimes I miss the children I didn't have.

#6 - When I row on the erg machine at home, I sit on an old boyfriend's sweatpants to cushion my butt from the hard seat. Any therapist might have fun with that one. I know I do.

#7 - I have "house" underwear, and "public" underwear. Enough said.

#8 - Sometimes I'm afraid that I feel big things too greatly. It can be a stupidly powerful thing, but at least it leaves no room for doubt, or second-guessing.

#9 - I am the luckiest girl in the world.

#10 - And, I'm more thankful now than ever for the many beautiful souls I know and have known. As this great new year starts, I wish every one of you continued fullness of joy, resilience, and realized hopes.

Off, to jump on a pair of old sweatpants. Just one of many confessions that keep the daily "life spark & joy" machine humming.

Barking at Snowmen

Dog #2 is smart. I don't claim that as though I had anything to do with it. She was already over three years old when I adopted her in the Spring of 2008. Once in her new home, she quickly started to make Dog #1 look like he'd forgotten to study. Or studied, ever. And Dog 1 is no mental slouch.

#2 anticipates everything, watches everything, uncannily understands new direction, and commands, and situations. And she seems always to be planning (sweetly) how to get me - or any other poor soul - to agreeably do her will. If there were an Amazing Race for dogs, I'd send her off to run it without a worry.

Which is why I'm surprised that Dog 2 barks at snowmen. With a fury born in the depths of hell. No matter how many times we've walked past the snowmen in the same front yards. She should know better by now, right? I mean, snowmen may make the best damn pee poles any dog could unleash on but, snowmen-as-menace only happens on Calvin and Hobbes' watch.

I'm sure that somewhere inside, Dog 2 realizes that snowmen are just snowmen, and that barking at them might be silly, or irrational, and not gonna make them flinch or budge one bit no matter how much she wants them to. Whatever her reason, she maintains this bit of perception-as-reality thing. And that's okay. It's a manifestation of hope.

I've started to label my own bits of deep-seeded, profound irrationalities as "barking at snowmen". Silly? Irresponsible? Making excuses? Maybe some would call it that, like those who thought it was nuts to start a new career at my age, or run marathons, or to love whom I've loved, or hope for great love again. But I think barking at snowmen is just one aspect of hope. And I've never been a hope-quitter.

There is some in me, for me. Always.