Chirky

I never wanted to be a starving artist. You know: those people who stand in a walkway, pretending to paint a picture and hoping you’ll buy it, or bent over on a crowded side street squeezing out a tune from a gleaming saxophone. Inevitably there’d be a hat turned upward and discarded on the pavement, indirectly begging for any amount of change, though dollar bills were preferred.

Through high school and college, that’s what I equated with writing. It was fools’ gold, something that you could only do if you never expected to have a mortgage or regularly pay your bills. So I earned my degree in Technical Writing and Editing, since I figured that would be the only way to get to do what I loved, writing, and still earn a salary. (Somehow journalism didn’t occur to me, and I’m still not sure how that is possible considering how many hours I spent with my academic advisor, laboring over the decision to apply for an English degree or to choose something more practical, like Business Management.)

For the last several years I’ve worked in mergers and acquisitions. I handled the legal side, drafting contracts and researching the companies whose assets we were purchasing, and for the most part, it was fairly interesting. Then a year ago, on a whim, I started interviewing outside my field. I just thought there had to be something more – something better suited to me – out there somewhere. Turns out there was.

I’ve taken a writing position with a subsidiary of one of the largest travel agencies in the world. That subsidiary’s headquarters is here in Dallas. And today was my first day.

For a long time, Roger and I thought we were moving out of Texas – that maybe we’d settle in Seattle or San Francisco – and that may still happen in the future. But for now, we’ve found our treasure. And it’s every bit as real as we’d hoped it would be.

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"Well, the day has come…" I say as I smile nervously, lingering at the door of my manager's spacious office.

He smiles and jokes back with me: "What day? What has come?" I silently wonder: If I keep everything light, maybe he won't notice the fact that I'm resigning...

In the end, he did notice. And while I'm sad to leave the friends I've made here, I'm ecstatic about making the move.

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A conversation Roger and I had today, while standing on the property of a home our realtor had just shown us:

"It's YOUR job to look before you leap, and it's MY job to be impulsive!"

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A few weeks ago I sent an email to Whoorl with a simple subject line: "Hair. Help."

Oh – why hello there.

I was having a hair crisis, and in case you didn't know, Whoorl is the go-to girl for hair crises. I emailed these pictures of my hair to her, plus sent her paragraph upon paragraph of more information than she ever wanted to know about my mane and how I style it and what products I use. I mean, if she's going to help me, she needs as much information as possible, right? I thought so, too.

But here is where I have to be honest: I like my hair. I like the color. I like the curls. Most of the time, I even like the length and the style. It's just that, in general, I don't feel very polished. I feel like I have a haphazard look, like maybe I belong on a beach in a sarong, selling trinkets to foreign tourists. (On second thought, a beach doesn't sound bad right about now...)

Check out those long, luscious locks.

The thing is that my hair is really super thick. I have loose curls – they're not tight at all – but it's definitely more than a wave. Most of the time, I feel like my hair is so heavy (because it is) and just hangs there (because it does) awkwardly. If I leave it down, it falls into a crooked part in the middle of my scalp.

I really don't know what to do with it other than shrug my shoulders and hope for a better hair day tomorrow, a day where there will be less frizz and more togetherness. Hello out there? Am I the only one who has this problem?

I'm tired of ponytails, of buns, of pulling it half-back in a clip. I told Whoorl that it's like when you walk down the street and see a woman (that woman is usually Whoorl, but that's beside the point) and everything about her is so polished - from her shoes to her clothes to jewelry to her hair. And right now I'm that person who just stares after her, wishing I could pull her away for a day of shopping and coiffing. I frantically try to memorize everything about her so I can go home and try to re-create her look. To sum it up, I just need HELP.

Wait - do I have a mullet? It looks like I have a mullet.

I don’t straighten my hair because I've learned the hard way, despite my optimism every time I try, that I don't know the first thing about straightening it. I have used a flat iron, I have used a blow dryer. Afterward, my hair generally looks like someone took a wire brush to a poodle. (Note: I'm not using a wire brush.)

I don't want to have straight hair permanently (Remember? I like my curly hair. I even want curly hair.), but I would like to have the option of it every now and again, just to change things up a bit and feel a bit more polished. In response to my hair crisis, Whoorl taught me a few tricks of the trade, which I totally plan on employing in the next few weeks.

That is, unless I can find a way to permanently relocate to a beach. Preferably in Thailand. Or Belize. I won't be picky.

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I strapped on my timing chip and pinned the number 74 on my shirt. It's a little amazing how that chip and number made me feel like a real runner, like maybe I was that girl whose shorts had slits up to her armpits. I strutted outside and joined my prancing group. We were conveniently positioned in the back of the crowd so that the faster runners wouldn't have to bother trying to get around us. The horn sounded and I began to follow hordes of bodies moving down the street.

I ran, and I ran, and I walked, and I ran. I ran a longer distance for a longer period of time than I've ever run in my life. I decided halfway through the race that if I came across the finish line last, I wouldn't be disappointed. I couldn't possibly be disappointed. Because the point was that I finished.

Every time I went around a corner, I secretly hoped it would be the last. Every time my foot pounded the pavement, I wished it was already crossing the finish line. I made little goals for myself: Just make it to that crack in the road; Just pass that red car; Just stay in front of those women walking; Just start running again once you get to the stop sign. And when I made that mark, whatever it was, I would set a new goal for myself. Sometimes I would surprise myself by starting to run again before I met my next goal.

When the finish line was finally in sight, something happened. It was like I hadn't been running at all, like I wasn't completely worn out, as if I had just been out on a short, leisurely walk. The entire race, Roger was beside me cheering me along. I began sprinting, tearing down the road for the last fifty yards. I couldn't help but wonder whether I could have maintained that pace for a longer period of time, or if perhaps I should have begun that tempo earlier in the race.

In the end, I didn't finish last, but almost. I was number 132 out of 141, and I would have been 133 had Roger not hung back a bit so I could step across the finish line first. But the point is: I finished. And I couldn't be more proud.

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Left to myself, I'm not a runner. Or even a jogger. I'll walk. I'll bike. I'll swim. I'll skip. I'll rollerblade. I'll train on the elliptical. I'll do somersaults, whatever. I won't run.

Something about taking steps in such quick succession makes my heart rate shoot through the roof, like a misfiring machine gun, and to me it feels almost as frightening. Which is why I'm still not sure why I joined a running class several weeks ago, or even why I'm considering signing up for another.

Before the class began, we each had to write down our goals for ourselves and give them to our trainer. Mine was simple: I want to run a mile. And then I want to run two miles. And then I want to run a 5k. Without feeling like I'm going to die.

The first night of class was hot and humid and we were training next to the Dallas Mavericks, which was sort of intimidating to me. I mean, they're professional athletes and I was totally winded every time I passed them. My pride hijacked my body and I was convinced they were all staring at my red face, sweaty shirt and leaden legs. I was heaving and couldn't breathe, and even though they were just doing crunches on the sidelines, I'd be damned if I didn't run when I passed them. Every. Single. Time. I'm still not sure why I was compelled to save face in front of the Mavs.

So that first night I pushed myself too hard – what with all that running, and all – I actually thought I was going to pass out. And I'll admit it here: after class, I cried. So they moved me down one level, which sort of bruised my ego, but by the sixth night of class, I was actually enjoying running, which has always been an oxymoron to me. In fact, at times it was even FUN. Is that normal?

Of course, I should also admit that I use the term running loosely. It's more of a jog. Or actually, no, it's more of a prance. I'm in a prancing class, and I know this because I can stop running and start walking and I don't lose my pace with my group.

(Should I have admitted that?)

Last night was our thirteenth class and we ran relay races, circa third grade. There's something to be said for long, powerful legs and easy, short distances. The sprinter in me leapt to attention and I'll tell you this: I totally schooled our opposing team. There's nothing more terrifying than the sight my body rushing toward you in a very matador-meets-raging-bull way and I'm feeling quite pleased about it today.

This weekend I'm running my first 5k, and though I doubt there will be any sprinting involved, I'm pretty certain that I'll be able to prance it without feeling like I'm going to die.

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