Saturday, November 15, 2008
Pretty Woman, Anyone?
I was recently given a belated birthday gift by a retired professor in my department. Actually, I wasn't given it--I have to go retrieve it. "It" is a designer top of my choosing from an upscale ladies boutique that I've never heard of, nor have had any reason to know of, as it probably does not cater to my mainstream fashion and discount shopping sensibilities. When he told me of his intended gift while in my office one day, he encouraged me to go to this store, and told me its whereabouts, and pick out a nice top--any top I wanted, regardless of price--and just tell the clerk that he was paying for it. When I tried to refuse such a kind gift, he became very stern and repeated, "please, please." With such mannerly insistence, how could I then decline the offer? So I accepted, and agreed to go to the boutique and pick out a top of my liking regardless of price and tell the salesperson, "it's on Dr. So-and-so." When I pictured myself doing this, I couldn't help but conjure up images of a certain film about a classless prostitute who is made proper by her rich and cultured client, suddenly imbued with a conscience to help the poor girl. So in an effort to fix her up, he sends her on a shopping spree to designer stores she would never have previously patronized, or had the means to patronize. This made me further wonder, what was this professor thinking when he thought of such a gift for me? Did he view me as a hard-working but unfortunate young girl in need of refinement? I began questioning my own self image, which I didn't consider to be terribly tragic or in need of revision. Perhaps, though, his motive was as innocent as wanting to give a nice gift to me, but not wanting to risk picking something out himself. In such an instance, though, as one keen friend pointed out, the modern day gift card might have sufficed.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Liberating Act
I was going through some old papers from a Women's Studies class I took in 2003, and I found this report on a project we were assigned that is rather humorous. The assignment was to carry out a liberating act, something that defied societal norms, or countered stereotypes, or gave voice to those who had none. In the true spirit of revolution, I chose to reverse the gender expectations in the local swing dance scene. Okay, it was a copout, but the report is at least mildly entertaining.
Liberating Action Project
The Pre-Act:
I will challenge the traditional gender roles in a local social dance scene. Most often, in the lindy hop (swing dancing) scene of which I am a member, the men are the leaders and the women are the followers. The men ask the women to dance, and the women are expected to accept any man’s offer if they are not otherwise occupied. While these rules are not always followed in the Tampa swing scene, there is a certain fear associated with breaking them. Even in today’s society, progressing toward gender equality, if a woman declines a dance with a man she is glared at repulsively and hurtfully by a man and denounced by him in the presence of other dancers. This tactic has been effective in intimidating most women, including myself, into automatically accepting dances from any man, no matter how offensive, or no matter how valid her reason is for not wanting to dance, even if it is simply because she does not want to dance at that moment. The alternative is to quickly fabricate a satisfactory excuse as to why a woman cannot dance that particular song. For example, “I am having an asthma attack” or “Oh, I’d love to, but I promised someone else this dance” (while searching the room for that someone else). There is also the dodging method. In this instance, a woman must spend a great deal of time and effort avoiding certain men that she does not enjoy dancing with. This may mean staying on an opposite side of the room from a man, or bolting across the dance floor when she suspects he is approaching her. Other, friendly, dancers, who are hip to the game, can also interject right before the point of contact, preventing the offer from occurring. The fact that this game is played nightly at swing dancing events has always been disturbing to me. At first it made me feel very snobbish and arrogant that I had an inclination to turn anyone away, but then after a while I began to feel justified in wanting to choose my dance partners. After all, the men in our scene have their choice every night and they rarely encounter the same problem as women.
So for my act I will attempt to take control of this choice by actively asking men to dance – men of my choosing – and by turning down a dance, if I am inclined to do so, with a simple “No, thank you,” regardless of the consequences. My audience consists of the men I involve in my act and other regular dancers who are present.
The Act:
At a monthly Friday night dance, I implement my plan. I realize that I do frequently ask my male friends to dance – it is the new dancers and the few offensive men that I avoid asking. I ask men to dance, men whom I generally do not ask because they ask me. They seem pleasantly surprised at the reverse offer, and a few pretend to be shocked, remarking that I never ask them to dance. This makes me feel a little badly because I do not particularly dislike dancing with these men, I just don’t usually make the effort to ask them. Because I am doing a lot of asking, and still being asked to dance in the intervals, I am not sitting out much, and this, in turn, does not allow much opportunity for the typical avoidance games. However, the usual suspects seem to always be on watch, and there are two occasions in which I am asked to dance when I do not wish to. To the first man, I reply “No thank you. I’d like to sit this one out.” It is a gutsy move. I feel somewhat emancipated, but also a little guilty. I receive the dirty look from the man that implies “You just turned me down for this dance so you must reject me as a human being,” and I ignore it. To the second guy, I say, “Not right now, but maybe we can dance later.” This is not as honest as I want it to be, for I know I will not want to dance with this individual later any more than I do now. It works, though. He does not ask the rest of the night. Perhaps it is because he sees that I am choosing my partners more so than usual. There are a couple of women who lead as well as follow, and I make a point to dance with them tonight, just on the principal of breaking tradition.
The Post-Act:
I learned that some individuals will always take offense at being turned down for a dance, but that does not mean I should give into them simply because they feel it is my obligation as a woman – part of a gender category often stereotyped as kind, gentle, and submissive – to dance with them.
At times during the night I felt doubly burdened. I felt I was working harder than usual seeking out dance partners and then asking them to dance, but I also felt the usual pressures of being asked to dance when I didn’t care to. I realized that the consequences of my actions were minimal, and had this been done several decades ago it may not have been as well-received. Most people were open to the idea of women asking men to dance. Some of the newer male dancers told me afterward that they prefer it because they are intimidated by the more experienced female dancers, and therefore seldom ask them to dance.
In the early days of swing dancing, women were traditionally asked to dance by men. It was an honor to the man if the woman accepted, but they were not necessarily expected to accept as today’s women are. We are still supposed to be as courteous and passive as we were then, but we have not gained much ground in the way of choice. We cannot turn down an offer to dance without being chastised for it. I hope to change this way of thinking as much as I can by continuing to actively choose who I dance with. I hope that I will eventually feel less guilt after refusing a dance.
Liberating Action Project
The Pre-Act:
I will challenge the traditional gender roles in a local social dance scene. Most often, in the lindy hop (swing dancing) scene of which I am a member, the men are the leaders and the women are the followers. The men ask the women to dance, and the women are expected to accept any man’s offer if they are not otherwise occupied. While these rules are not always followed in the Tampa swing scene, there is a certain fear associated with breaking them. Even in today’s society, progressing toward gender equality, if a woman declines a dance with a man she is glared at repulsively and hurtfully by a man and denounced by him in the presence of other dancers. This tactic has been effective in intimidating most women, including myself, into automatically accepting dances from any man, no matter how offensive, or no matter how valid her reason is for not wanting to dance, even if it is simply because she does not want to dance at that moment. The alternative is to quickly fabricate a satisfactory excuse as to why a woman cannot dance that particular song. For example, “I am having an asthma attack” or “Oh, I’d love to, but I promised someone else this dance” (while searching the room for that someone else). There is also the dodging method. In this instance, a woman must spend a great deal of time and effort avoiding certain men that she does not enjoy dancing with. This may mean staying on an opposite side of the room from a man, or bolting across the dance floor when she suspects he is approaching her. Other, friendly, dancers, who are hip to the game, can also interject right before the point of contact, preventing the offer from occurring. The fact that this game is played nightly at swing dancing events has always been disturbing to me. At first it made me feel very snobbish and arrogant that I had an inclination to turn anyone away, but then after a while I began to feel justified in wanting to choose my dance partners. After all, the men in our scene have their choice every night and they rarely encounter the same problem as women.
So for my act I will attempt to take control of this choice by actively asking men to dance – men of my choosing – and by turning down a dance, if I am inclined to do so, with a simple “No, thank you,” regardless of the consequences. My audience consists of the men I involve in my act and other regular dancers who are present.
The Act:
At a monthly Friday night dance, I implement my plan. I realize that I do frequently ask my male friends to dance – it is the new dancers and the few offensive men that I avoid asking. I ask men to dance, men whom I generally do not ask because they ask me. They seem pleasantly surprised at the reverse offer, and a few pretend to be shocked, remarking that I never ask them to dance. This makes me feel a little badly because I do not particularly dislike dancing with these men, I just don’t usually make the effort to ask them. Because I am doing a lot of asking, and still being asked to dance in the intervals, I am not sitting out much, and this, in turn, does not allow much opportunity for the typical avoidance games. However, the usual suspects seem to always be on watch, and there are two occasions in which I am asked to dance when I do not wish to. To the first man, I reply “No thank you. I’d like to sit this one out.” It is a gutsy move. I feel somewhat emancipated, but also a little guilty. I receive the dirty look from the man that implies “You just turned me down for this dance so you must reject me as a human being,” and I ignore it. To the second guy, I say, “Not right now, but maybe we can dance later.” This is not as honest as I want it to be, for I know I will not want to dance with this individual later any more than I do now. It works, though. He does not ask the rest of the night. Perhaps it is because he sees that I am choosing my partners more so than usual. There are a couple of women who lead as well as follow, and I make a point to dance with them tonight, just on the principal of breaking tradition.
The Post-Act:
I learned that some individuals will always take offense at being turned down for a dance, but that does not mean I should give into them simply because they feel it is my obligation as a woman – part of a gender category often stereotyped as kind, gentle, and submissive – to dance with them.
At times during the night I felt doubly burdened. I felt I was working harder than usual seeking out dance partners and then asking them to dance, but I also felt the usual pressures of being asked to dance when I didn’t care to. I realized that the consequences of my actions were minimal, and had this been done several decades ago it may not have been as well-received. Most people were open to the idea of women asking men to dance. Some of the newer male dancers told me afterward that they prefer it because they are intimidated by the more experienced female dancers, and therefore seldom ask them to dance.
In the early days of swing dancing, women were traditionally asked to dance by men. It was an honor to the man if the woman accepted, but they were not necessarily expected to accept as today’s women are. We are still supposed to be as courteous and passive as we were then, but we have not gained much ground in the way of choice. We cannot turn down an offer to dance without being chastised for it. I hope to change this way of thinking as much as I can by continuing to actively choose who I dance with. I hope that I will eventually feel less guilt after refusing a dance.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Walking for a Cause and Walking Away
This past weekend I participated for the second year in the American Heart Association's Start! Heart Walk 2008-09, Tampa Bay. I joined my department's team of six walkers (three of whom raised money)--pretty measly considering how large the Department of English is at USF. I was able to drag in my friend Taylor to walk and talk with me for three miles on a Saturday morning. We arrived at the Raymond James Stadium with time to spare, so we began a hunt for free coffee, which seemed at first an attainable goal. We went from corporate tent to corporate tent, spotting the big green coffee decanters brought to the event for the sole purpose of caffeinating early morning walkers, but being turned away a couple of times because we were not actually part of that corporation's team, or because we were not VIP heart walkers--whatever that meant. Taylor persisted, though, and after conversing in her friendly and unassuming way with the guard of the VIP line, we were told we could go in the back of the tent if coffee was all we wanted (as opposed to the full breakfast buffet offered to VIP members, as though they were preparing to run a marathon rather than complete a three-mile charity walk). With the coveted coffee in hand, we made our way over to our team of six and chatted before the larger USF team went to stand for the photo--a rather burdensome task, it turned out. The camera man was raised in a crane about twenty feet in the air, and try as he did, he could not effectively communicate to his group below. He seemed to be speaking in his normal inside voice, unhurriedly and unauthoritatively, as though we were standing inside the crane carriage next to him. After several shots were eventually snapped, we dispersed from the bleachers and listened to a strikingly young girl belt out "The Star Spangled Banner" while white carrier pigeons were released into the sky (Taylor learned that the pigeons would actually fly home to their owner afterward--such an inquisitive mind she has). The walk began and Taylor and I wasted no time departing from our group (what is this "team" business anyway?). We buzzed past fellow walkers and talked about family, friends, jobs, and quite appropriately, walking. How it clears the head, strengthens the body, and soothes the soul. Well, maybe we didn't say all that, but I thought about that trinity of wellbeing afterward and I decided to apply it metaphorically to a troubled spot in my life.
***
I had recently been sucked (quite willingly) into a fruitless flirtation with a former romantic interest--to use a term of my mother's--and I was experiencing letdown after letdown from this person, yet still maintaining moderately high expectations for him. Our very history was based on bad timing, ineffective communication, and vague definitions of being (yes, much like that). I allowed this person to affect my happiness, or lack thereof, at his convenience, or--dare I say--whim. When another friend asked why I was attracted to this person who I seemingly had little in common with, all I could say after an unnaturally long pause was that I liked how I felt when I was with him. I felt a strong connection. Could I have been alone in that feeling? Unfortunately, our encounters had been entirely in the hands of randomness, as any attempt to plan something with this person failed miserably. For, as I sat with my friend trying to explain why this person had such a hold on me, he was standing me up--us both up--yet again. So I must walk away from him and his unreliable ways. Chance shopping encounters and birthday kisses will not cut it. If he cannot make an effort to show up in my life, I cannot be even an occasional presence in his.
***
I had recently been sucked (quite willingly) into a fruitless flirtation with a former romantic interest--to use a term of my mother's--and I was experiencing letdown after letdown from this person, yet still maintaining moderately high expectations for him. Our very history was based on bad timing, ineffective communication, and vague definitions of being (yes, much like that). I allowed this person to affect my happiness, or lack thereof, at his convenience, or--dare I say--whim. When another friend asked why I was attracted to this person who I seemingly had little in common with, all I could say after an unnaturally long pause was that I liked how I felt when I was with him. I felt a strong connection. Could I have been alone in that feeling? Unfortunately, our encounters had been entirely in the hands of randomness, as any attempt to plan something with this person failed miserably. For, as I sat with my friend trying to explain why this person had such a hold on me, he was standing me up--us both up--yet again. So I must walk away from him and his unreliable ways. Chance shopping encounters and birthday kisses will not cut it. If he cannot make an effort to show up in my life, I cannot be even an occasional presence in his.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
My Golden Year
An observant friend told me that this year is my golden year, since it is my 28th year and my birthday is on the 28th day of the month. I can find little reason to believe otherwise, as this has been one of the most special and memorable birthdays to date.
The celebration began with a family dinner at Acropolis Greek Tavern in Ybor City, honoring a trio of birthdays: Dad's, Anna's, and mine. In everyone's thoughts, as well, was Aunt Bonnie, whose birthday was the 24th. As such gatherings have become more infrequent in my adult years, I find that they have come to epitomize the true joys in life. Amidst the belly dancing, the food-igniting, the loud band-playing, and the napkin showers (they literally throw packages of perfectly good napkins all over the restaurant in random celebration), I will remember with fondness the genuine delight in simply sharing each other's company, even (and especially) if it required ineffective cross-talking and awkward seat-hopping in order to visit with everyone.
The next evening my friends from school arranged a celebration at a local and favorite pub, Four Green Fields. In typical graduate student fashion, everyone showed up much later than I did, save for one man I didn't know well or even recognize until he told me his name. That called for an immediate vodka and cranberry. Eventually, people I knew trickled in and and we moved the gathering outside, where I bumped into an old crush. The company and the evening couldn't have been better; I even have a hazy memory of an Irish birthday tribute sung to me by the band. I was holding my own after a couple of mixed drinks, and then the shot came that knocked me on the floor--specifically, on the floor of the bathroom stall I had entered and remained in for long enough to cause concern in my friends. They managed to drag me back out to the party where I managed to sit for a few seconds before standing to hurl over the bushes (lukily I think I'd gotten most of it out in the bathroom, so the bushes probably only received dry heaves). It happens. Jessica and Curt, bless them, drove me home--a fun-filled trip for them, I'm sure, as I was in no condition to give adequate directions or even open my eyes. Once inside, I stumbled onto my bed and awoke the next morning to a note from Jessica that she'd taken my key so she could lock me in. Do friends get any better than this?
As a sort of finale to the birthday celebration, I came into work on Tuesday, the actual day of my birthday, to an office filled with note cards dangling on ribbons from the ceiling. I was soon aware that my coworkers were standing right behind me snapping photos of my reaction--which was a mixture of shock, joy, and general overwhelmedness. Deedra, my supervisor, had secretly requested that everyone employed in the department (about 300+ people) write a birthday message on a card she provided, and then submit them to her in time to string and hang in my office on the big day. After the commotion of opening my office door died down, I took a few moments to read the cards and began quietly sobbing at the amount of kindness and thought that was put into this very memorable surprise. It was the best honor I could have ever dreamed of receiving. To top it off, Deedra and another coworker, Nancy, had baked an apple pie each, which the office staff delightedly devoured later in the day.
The celebration began with a family dinner at Acropolis Greek Tavern in Ybor City, honoring a trio of birthdays: Dad's, Anna's, and mine. In everyone's thoughts, as well, was Aunt Bonnie, whose birthday was the 24th. As such gatherings have become more infrequent in my adult years, I find that they have come to epitomize the true joys in life. Amidst the belly dancing, the food-igniting, the loud band-playing, and the napkin showers (they literally throw packages of perfectly good napkins all over the restaurant in random celebration), I will remember with fondness the genuine delight in simply sharing each other's company, even (and especially) if it required ineffective cross-talking and awkward seat-hopping in order to visit with everyone.
The next evening my friends from school arranged a celebration at a local and favorite pub, Four Green Fields. In typical graduate student fashion, everyone showed up much later than I did, save for one man I didn't know well or even recognize until he told me his name. That called for an immediate vodka and cranberry. Eventually, people I knew trickled in and and we moved the gathering outside, where I bumped into an old crush. The company and the evening couldn't have been better; I even have a hazy memory of an Irish birthday tribute sung to me by the band. I was holding my own after a couple of mixed drinks, and then the shot came that knocked me on the floor--specifically, on the floor of the bathroom stall I had entered and remained in for long enough to cause concern in my friends. They managed to drag me back out to the party where I managed to sit for a few seconds before standing to hurl over the bushes (lukily I think I'd gotten most of it out in the bathroom, so the bushes probably only received dry heaves). It happens. Jessica and Curt, bless them, drove me home--a fun-filled trip for them, I'm sure, as I was in no condition to give adequate directions or even open my eyes. Once inside, I stumbled onto my bed and awoke the next morning to a note from Jessica that she'd taken my key so she could lock me in. Do friends get any better than this?
As a sort of finale to the birthday celebration, I came into work on Tuesday, the actual day of my birthday, to an office filled with note cards dangling on ribbons from the ceiling. I was soon aware that my coworkers were standing right behind me snapping photos of my reaction--which was a mixture of shock, joy, and general overwhelmedness. Deedra, my supervisor, had secretly requested that everyone employed in the department (about 300+ people) write a birthday message on a card she provided, and then submit them to her in time to string and hang in my office on the big day. After the commotion of opening my office door died down, I took a few moments to read the cards and began quietly sobbing at the amount of kindness and thought that was put into this very memorable surprise. It was the best honor I could have ever dreamed of receiving. To top it off, Deedra and another coworker, Nancy, had baked an apple pie each, which the office staff delightedly devoured later in the day.
 |
| From Birthday 2008 |
Friday, September 26, 2008
Here Comes Fall
As the summer began with a flourish of outside activity and appreciation for the climate where I live, so it exits and in its place comes fall.
Recently I attended a pool party at a faculty member's house, and as though aware that I would likely not go in a pool for many more months, I remained submerged in the pool and later the hot tub for nearly five hours, floundering in the weightlessness of the water. The truer reason I remained in the pool was because three big friendly dogs occupied the inside of the house and even the outside patio, and I was only safe from them in the water. As typically occurs, the dogs pounced on me as soon as I entered the house, somehow sensing that I was allergic to them, and after about fifteen minutes after my arrival and two attempted tongue baths therein, I made for the protection of the water, hoping the dogs could not swim.
I suppose it is fair to say that I also stayed in for so long out of fear of making an exit. As the only adult in the pool with all other adults gathered around it in their dry, flesh-concealing clothing, I would have felt a spectacle getting out of the pool in a drenched and clingy, probably shifted bathing suit. I mapped out possible scenarios in my head that might allow me to get to the safe covering of my towel, but too many people were between it and me, so I sank back down into the water and floated around on a giant foam noodle.
At the night's end I emerged from the pool with shriveled up skin and scraped feet from dog-pedaling intermittently to stay afloat.
***
Although I live in a region that is notoriously "seasonless," I find that the longer I live here in Tampa the more I am able to appreciate the subtle nuances of the changing weather patterns. This past week, however, the cool air and gusty winds were anything but subtle as they whipped around, announcing the approaching autumn splendor.
Recently I attended a pool party at a faculty member's house, and as though aware that I would likely not go in a pool for many more months, I remained submerged in the pool and later the hot tub for nearly five hours, floundering in the weightlessness of the water. The truer reason I remained in the pool was because three big friendly dogs occupied the inside of the house and even the outside patio, and I was only safe from them in the water. As typically occurs, the dogs pounced on me as soon as I entered the house, somehow sensing that I was allergic to them, and after about fifteen minutes after my arrival and two attempted tongue baths therein, I made for the protection of the water, hoping the dogs could not swim.
I suppose it is fair to say that I also stayed in for so long out of fear of making an exit. As the only adult in the pool with all other adults gathered around it in their dry, flesh-concealing clothing, I would have felt a spectacle getting out of the pool in a drenched and clingy, probably shifted bathing suit. I mapped out possible scenarios in my head that might allow me to get to the safe covering of my towel, but too many people were between it and me, so I sank back down into the water and floated around on a giant foam noodle.
At the night's end I emerged from the pool with shriveled up skin and scraped feet from dog-pedaling intermittently to stay afloat.
***
Although I live in a region that is notoriously "seasonless," I find that the longer I live here in Tampa the more I am able to appreciate the subtle nuances of the changing weather patterns. This past week, however, the cool air and gusty winds were anything but subtle as they whipped around, announcing the approaching autumn splendor.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Uncertainty
How quickly life changes. I am now living on my own again and continuing my ongoing quest for the peace and joy that I know this world has to offer. I fear sometimes I am all too content to swim around in a constant sea of uncertainty and unknowing, but I also believe this is an intrinsic part of who I am, and lately I've come to embrace it.
I was recently at a gathering with new acquaintances where one of them asked me if there was anything I decisively opposed. Apparently I had been making arguments against others' declarations of dislike--for art, for people, for poetry. I was hard-pressed to come up with an answer right then, and I sat thinking on the subject for a while, allowing the conversation to go on around me. I eventually came up with a few pet peeves, as was requested, and these included discourteous people in general, people who don't hold doors for the next passer-through, and people who talk loudly on cell phones in public places. While I'm certain I could come up with a much longer list of dislikes, as I often find myself an easily irritated person, my reluctance to do so stems from a deep-rooted effort to keep an open mind and to not judge. These sound like simple, basic principles that most of us embrace, but to truly do so is not an easy accomplishment. So while I may seem unopinionated or indecisive much of the time, I remain firm in my desire evaluate and weigh the merits of a given situation, and in effect, not commit to a position right away. Perhaps I'm too much of a literature student, where we are expected to weigh all sides of a particular text--something for which I'm exceedingly grateful. I can flounder all I want. Until I have to write a paper, that is.
I was recently at a gathering with new acquaintances where one of them asked me if there was anything I decisively opposed. Apparently I had been making arguments against others' declarations of dislike--for art, for people, for poetry. I was hard-pressed to come up with an answer right then, and I sat thinking on the subject for a while, allowing the conversation to go on around me. I eventually came up with a few pet peeves, as was requested, and these included discourteous people in general, people who don't hold doors for the next passer-through, and people who talk loudly on cell phones in public places. While I'm certain I could come up with a much longer list of dislikes, as I often find myself an easily irritated person, my reluctance to do so stems from a deep-rooted effort to keep an open mind and to not judge. These sound like simple, basic principles that most of us embrace, but to truly do so is not an easy accomplishment. So while I may seem unopinionated or indecisive much of the time, I remain firm in my desire evaluate and weigh the merits of a given situation, and in effect, not commit to a position right away. Perhaps I'm too much of a literature student, where we are expected to weigh all sides of a particular text--something for which I'm exceedingly grateful. I can flounder all I want. Until I have to write a paper, that is.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Olympics for the rest of us
It's easy to imagine the impact the Olympic games have on the athletes (perhaps), but what do they do for the rest of us? As I sit in my living room for the ninth evening in a row and watch the most accomplished athletes in the world display their power, agility, and mental toughness, I find myself inspired to move off of the couch and onto the floor for a round of push-ups, or an attempted headstand. Sure, these are small steps in the direction of legendary greatness, which, perhaps I'll never achieve, but the point is that I've been inspired to move, and surely so have millions of other viewers world-wide. Of course, the contradiction of having to be sedentary in front of a television set in order to receive the inspiration to be active is a bit of irony not lost on me. But when I start off on my meager 2.5 mile run, and I'm feeling less than driven and under-energized, I can at least think of Lolo Jones literally overcoming her hurdles, or Dara Torres swimming past a competitor less than half her age, or Alicia Sacramone, who, despite showing human flaw, pushes forward with grace and resolve. And I make it through my run for that day. I'll call on their inspiration five more times out of the week.
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