I am 37 going on 13...

I turn 37 Monday, it's amazing to think I've been on this earth for 37 years.

It doesn't seem 20 years ago that I was kicked out of my high school newspaper class because I threatened to eat my teacher's baby (I was REALLY mad at the time, obviously). It doesn't seem that long ago that going out before 9 p.m. was unheard of, the bars in Pullman didn't get going until at least 10. Now going out after 9 p.m. seems like Russian roulette, "can I stay awake long enough?"

I can't drink as much beer, or gin, or vodka or other crazy concoctions I would purchase for $1 on dollar well night at Shermer's. I can't stay up late, or sleep in. I can't eat a plate of pizza bites dipped in ranch dressing for dinner, or breakfast. I can't do shots of tequila, with or without the maraschino cherry. I can't even think of functioning if I have a hangover. I can't drink bad beer, sorry Natty Light.

I can't seem to live on $600 a month--that included rent, gas, alcohol, food and entertainment. I can't sit in front of a TV on Tuesday morning eating donuts and drinking coffee while watching Charlie's Angels and WKRP reruns. I can't go out all night, get a few hours sleep and still get up to go to work and be productive. I can't let a messy bed go unmade. It's funny how getting older has refined my need for tidiness and cleanliness, ask any college roommate I had and they'll tell you that was never much of a concern of mine.

What doesn't seem to change as I get older is the fact that I don't seem to mature much beyond 13. I like to call it child-like as opposed to childish. Life is too short to be too serious all the time, although it could be argued I should be serious sometimes.  Maybe I'll work on that.

Probably not.

When I turned 30 I wrote a list of things I wanted to do in my 30th year. Here is one page from that list that when I read it the other day made me tired just thinking of what it would take to do all of this.

The list was huge, mostly unobtainable and oft influenced by others interests instead of my own intrinsic wants and desires. So, to make up for that crappy list from seven years ago here is my list of lofty things to do in my 37th year:

1. Learn to make cheese
2. Complete more triathlons
3. Beat my current PR on a 5k
4. Stretch more
5. Grow a vegetable garden (raised beds already made!)

6. Watch less TV
7. Read more (I'll even try more fiction)
8. Be a better friend
9. Be a better daughter
10. Be a better girlfriend
11. Say "yes" more (and yes, that makes me giggle just re-reading it)

Not so lofty, huh? I've decided that making quantifiable goals keep me from taking a U turn when it is presented that may lead to something amazing, or not so amazing. But how would I have known either way if I didn't take the chance in the first place? When I was in high school one of my mom's good friends, Barb, told me that making goals just keeps you from doing all the fun things you'd miss while you were too focused on making it to that one specific event. Besides, wouldn't you rather just enjoy life as it comes at you?

Um, yes. And I think I've lost some sight of that.

I'm going to spend the next year trying to let a lot of things just be. Just be what they are. Be who they are. Be who I am.

I am going to spend the next year entering 38 better than I entered 37.

"Dos" and "Don'ts"

When I was younger my mother had a subscription to the magazine Glamour, in the back of each issue was a "dos" and "don'ts" section. This section was filled with women who were either fashion "dos" or fashion "don'ts," these "don'ts" women usually had black bars across their eyes as to not embarrass them to an entire world of Glamour readers. I always felt bad for those women who were forever branded as “don'ts” among the glossy pages of that fashion rag, worried that one day someone might notice them in a crowd and point accusingly while laughing at the outfit they were wearing. I also cringed at the idea of the moment one of their friends opened to that page and recognized the hideous outfit branded a “don’t.” Awkward next girl’s night out for sure.

Little did I know I was one of those “don'ts,” not in terms of clothes (minus the phase I went through in 8th grade where I wore three Swatch watches hooked together as a headband--I think I may have photographic evidence of it buried deep somewhere in my cedar chest) rather in terms of swim form.

If you are like me you figure swimming is swimming, if you don't drown you are doing it right. I don't remember taking swim lessons, as far as I know my mom and dad taught me to swim by throwing me off the boat while floating on the Snake River, I didn’t sink. Viola! Swimming. However the way I learned to swim apparently wasn't the right way.

Last year the Hot Tamale and I took a swim clinic from our coach Mark Kendall at Speedshot racing. During this clinic each participant was videotaped underwater, once each person was taped we took to the pool deck to "critique" each person's form. As each swimmer came on to the computer screen Mark and other swimmers made comments like, "look at that rotation, good extension, great catch, good head position, great kicking from the hips." When it came to me, the group fell silent, Mark struggled to find the words to describe how terrible my swimming was without completely offending his new client. Apparently I'm just lucky enough not to sink to the bottom of the pool. Mark was a good sport and offered lots of support and suggestions to help me become a better swimmer.

From that moment until yesterday I have been working tirelessly on improving my swimming form. I have taken lessons from Mark, attended swimming clinics with gold medal Olympiads, practiced, practiced and practiced. Each time I get in the pool I feel like something is different, that somehow my form has changed—even though that change in form makes me question the idea that it won’t cause me to sink to the bottom of the pool. This change hasn't made me faster and it hasn't made me such a great swimmer that I am signing up to cross the English Channel.

But yesterday, all that work and practice finally paid off. I was a "do." We went to another swim clinic yesterday trying to brush up on our form and, for what I had expected, some new and major things to work on. But no. Not this time. This time Mark started my video and the first words out of his mouth were, "look at that, she's starting her catch, great form." I couldn’t believe my ears. Hot Tamale and I looked at each other in shock, “Is that you he’s talking about?” HT’s eyes said to me. My eyes responsed, “Holy shit, it can’t be.” But it was. That was me catching the water as my arm broke the surface. That was me holding my arm and moving my body past it. That was me kicking enough but not too much. That was me on that screen.

That was me. I was a do.