Celiac Disease: I Got This. Maybe.

I can’t say being diagnosed was a shock, exactly. I always knew it was a possibility, and that’s why I decided to get tested now when I’m symptom free, before this autoimmune disease with a Greek name could screw me up too much (Thanks for the genes, Mom). Even so, I reasoned that my gluten-light diet (hey, it’s healthier) would mean a positive diagnosis would just mean substituting a few ingredients. I mean, I knew some of the social ramifications would suck, but I thought I understood what I was getting into.

But a real diagnosis is kind of like hearing that creepy kid in eighth grade likes you–you had your suspicions, but AREYOUFREAKINGKIDDINGMENOWAY. Here I am, just ten days after being told I’m Celiac (by the way, we need a cooler name for us gluten-intolerant folk), and saying, “So I’ve been diagnosed with Celiac disease–now what?” Just like everyone else who gets diagnosed. I’ve got a leg up on know-how, food prep and stuff, but I’ve been surprised by my own reactions. Life seems to have changed dramatically, even though it hasn’t changed much at all.

Perhaps the most surprising bit is how isolated I suddenly felt, despite a wonderful husband and great friends. It’s weird to suddenly belong to a minority with restricted food privileges. So here I am, writing for the Internet (and other newly diagnosed Celiacs who wander across this post) about the reactions that surprised me, so other people know they’re not crazy for feeling so emotional about a dumb protein. If you’re diagnosed with Celiac disease, here’s what you need to know.

1. Your relationship to food WILL change. I’ve never had to argue with my body over food until now (I recognize that I’m really lucky). I see a cookie, I eat a cookie, then I have a salad because I hate feeling stuffed and I actually like salad. I make conscious decisions on what I eat and enjoy the balance. But food has never been an enemy. But suddenly, almost overnight everything is suspect. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, the presence of food makes me mildly apprehensive. Can I eat this? I want to, but is it going to hurt me? Since I’m symptom free so far, I won’t have the benefit of hindsight for next time. You will have the same reaction–it’s all because you want to be healthy but the job is tricky. Even if you’ve had a model relationship with food up til this point, be prepared for a new paradigm.

2. You can’t really ease into a GF lifestyle. You become GF the moment you’re diagnosed. I told myself that I wouldn’t go cold turkey on the gluten stuff, since my tests show that I haven’t inflicted too much damage on myself yet. But that’s just the thing. Now I know that every bit of this weird protein I eat is actually, truly, cumulatively damaging me. A week after the diagnosis, I’m still eating some things that have small amounts of gluten, and I am conscious and guilt-ridden every time I do.

3. The transition will be easier than you think. Declining the tasty coffeecake someone brought is kind of a bummer, but you know, it’s just one choice. Making one deliberate choice isn’t hard, and my week is just full of individual choices. That’s the easy part. After all, a healthy diet naturally excludes a lot of gluten. You’ll find that a lot of foods you love are already GF, and that most parties include a veggie tray or coffee. You’ll be super glad “there’s an app for that” and so many more options than there were 10 years ago.

4. The transition will be harder than you think. You’ll have sudden moments of realization about how different life is even though it hasn’t changed much on the surface. You have to take the food with you to parties and on vacation because you can’t guarantee what will be available. You realize that people you made meals for probably can’t do the same for you, because they don’t automatically watch for cross-contamination and derived ingredients like you will. You help friends move and can’t take advantage of the traditional beer and pizza reward. You realize that you’ll have to grill the restaurants and your friends with questions about ingredients for the rest of your life. And yes, it will suck.

5. You WILL feel alone. I know people who have Celiac disease, and many more who are gluten intolerant or allergic. There is a community, and you’ll discover more and more people who live the lifestyle. But your larger community will have no idea. When you realize you can’t accept food from people because you don’t know what’s in it, and that the people closest to you can only sympathize, you will feel alone.

6. Like all life changes, in the end, you will be okay. Yes, life in America revolves around food and now you’ll have to undergo a radical shift in how you approach and think about food. But “is not life more important than food”? Sometimes you’ll be keenly aware of being Celiac, but many times it just won’t matter. Your faith is still the same; your friends still want to raise a glass with you. As summer comes, you can go hiking and running and watch old episodes of Doctor Who when it rains.

Maybe you’ll have Celiac-related issues pop up now and then, maybe not–but everyone has issues. The relationships with people stay the same, and you’ll learn how to ask for support and how to accommodate yourself and how to not snap at people close to you when they absentmindedly offer you a Krispy Kreme.

This is different, and I certainly empathize better with folks who have crazy food allergies and moms who worry about their kids accidentally ingesting something normal but harmful. But you know? I’m healthy. I have a supportive husband and friends. And life is still good.

When Brokenness Catches Up

A dirty wedding dress hangs over my steely kitchen chair. I’ve already removed enough safety pins to make one of those ridiculous emo choker necklaces, the kind I had wished my identity could contain in September 2001. The veil is crushed underneath, and the dress has met an uncharitable end from its chaste beginnings. My race bib is still on the table. I haven’t scrunched up the courage to throw it away, even though I have no designated drawer for disposable nostalgia.

I can’t help it. Saturday’s race was only the last 6.2 of a real marathon like Boston, but the atmosphere is still happily childish, victorious, and humanistic in the best sense possible. You get 38,000+ participants, another few thousand volunteers, and a healthy dose of family and spectators, all part of this massive event that doesn’t really mean anything. We’re all just covering 32,808 feet on two feet.

They say the hospitals had to perform multiple amputations.

I look at that silly, ridiculously heavy satin under the bright kitchen light (we installed a dimmer because its full strength was as bright as a hospital, but warmer) and I think about the ridiculous story I was going to tell about running with a fake bouquet in one hand and a wad of the dress train in the other. All the people who smiled when they saw my deliberate artifice and said absurd things. “The Runaway Bride,” there she goes. It was going to signify community and avoiding self-seriousness and probably be entirely too serious itself. Instead, I think of last races, races overshadowed, races unfinished, and races never run. So many people running, and interrupted.

You know what they say about marathoners. 100% discipline, 100% strength, 200% crazy. The runners who qualify for Boston represent the pinnacle–something the rest of us look on with bewilderment, admiration, and a little bit of envy. Even those of us who flatly refuse to train that intensely go a little slack-jawed at these folks. Some reward they got today. That kills me. I know that every single marathoner will get back on the course in the future, because that’s what marathoners do, setbacks be damned–then I think about an eight-year-old boy. I swear.

I hate it because running is a community centered around doing rather than dissecting. A runner is a type of creator and instigator, this metaphysical mix of aesthetic and glutton. You can’t do a 5K without feeling encouraged by the other people around you. Everyone wants you to succeed, to be better, to enjoy being outside just for the hell of it. For once in a crazy world, we get to hang out as strangers with a common smile because we’re heading towards the finish line. Who cares about sounding cliche if you have the miles to back you up.

Boston is a long way from Richmond. All my acquaintances and friends are unscathed in this disaster. The tick-tick-ticking of my keys on the keyboard is as close as I come to the sound of pounding feet the pavement today. Boston isn’t my tragedy, and I feel a little guilty for co-opting it and acting like I have a right to be emotionally affected. After all, writing about it is an implicit request–demand, plea, whatever–for people to read. Many people have far more right to claim this tragedy as theirs, and they need support in ways I can’t comprehend. But my dealing-with-bad-things filter is clogged after this, after Gosnell, after talking to young women who feel so suffocated by a system meant to protect them that they run from home. Brokenness bubbles up and nearly overwhelms. My prayers go in many directions, and especially north to Boston tonight.

Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.

Come quickly, Lord Jesus, come.

“For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.”

Three Reasons We’ve Been MIA (It’s Not Because We’re Busy)

Hi there. What’s shaking? Oh you know, just a dismembered bathroom, grad school, and new challenges at work, along with some large doses of introspection. Here’s the inaugural “why we’ve been MIA” — hopefully without resorting to the treacly “so busy” excuse.

1. WordPress ate my political, rah-rah-third-party post in November and I couldn’t recreate it to my liking. Its disappearance was probably God’s mercy on me, as I was in no mood to respond but would have done so anyone with snippy remarks and attitude. Besides, that post was mostly for myself as I figured out what in tarnation I intended to do once I found myself in the ballot box. Ironically, I’m truly and honestly not certain who I voted for. Seriously. I was about to vote a couple booths down from a little old lady who suddenly fell and took her booth with her, shaking up the humdrum (she was okay). It startled me enough that I voted, walked out the door, then stopped and said, “Hang on, did I vote for the dude I meant to?” Oh well.

2. I’ve been reading a lot of Christian feminist blogs while resisting the impulse to stake a public claim. I’m weighing many aspects of the subculture I grew up in and trying to sort wheat from chaff, personal conviction from my conviction. And frankly, this process is not for public consumption, at least not yet. This process is bringing me closer than ever to core orthodox doctrines, but also inspires plenty of knee-jerking. There are enough voices crying in the wilderness (including friends like Emily and Hännah, as well as plenty of Patheos, RHE, etc. Also, Wayne Grudem‘s logical leaps make me raise my eyebrows); I don’t feel God calling me to join them, but perhaps to bring them food and water and love them in their mission.

As I process privately, I’ve concluded that my role is different, but no easier and no harder: to love the people around me. And there’s no reason for me to create a permanent public record that will almost certainly be read, misunderstood, or painful to people I love. At least not yet. Believe me, I’m reading and conversing privately on this subject like crazy. Feel free to ask and challenge me.

3. We’ve been focused on other hobbies. You know that half marathon I said I was going to run? I OWNED IT (well, I finished). Now there’s gardening to do in addition to the running, and I’m puttering about with other writing projects as well as starting voice lessons. It’s awesome. Oh yeah, and the wedding hopping of last semester (four weddings with about double that in related events). David’s all-consuming thoughts are grad school and surviving IEP/VAPP/SOL season with his sanity intact. And did I mention that we gutted the second bathroom and have had a bathroom in our kitchen for over a month? Yeah, that’s us.

And I know that’s kinda-sorta admitting that we’ve been busy. But I’m done acting like busy-ness is something we have foisted upon us, rather than something we choose that reflects who we are. And so, this counts. Hah.

Now that we’re back, I’ve changed my tune a bit. Here’s what I expect going forward:

I have no interest in being another DIY, aspiring photographer enthusiast. There are plenty of folks doing a great job of that already, and my voice is stronger in other areas. And frankly? I tried a few posts in that regard, and discovered that I just. don’t. care. So I’m avoiding the fad, and took down the “Our Chateau” page to avoid any competition.

I DO want to tell the great stories that come from living life in Richmond, and to document my enthusiasm for new lessons. I’m sure I’ll say dumb stuff now and then, and I don’t intend to hold my breath until I have all the answers. But I distinguish between the public and private conversations just like I distinguish between ripe and underripe fruit — only one is fit to serve my guests. So I’m committed to writing what’s fit for public consumption, should anyone wander across my sphere. And you know what? We have some pretty great stories to tell.

My voice is strongest by speaking the positives, and letting  beautiful ideas and confident faith be their own rebuttal to the naysayers. And yeah, I’m excited about that.

Attack of the Serial Hobbyist

This photo epitomizes David’s very first ride on his restored Enduro motorcycle.

Sadly, the awesomeness of this photo cannot be conveyed by the image alone. This picture needs less than a thousand words though, as the explanation is thus: after more than a year of blood, sweat, under-the-breath mutterings and a ton of work, David finally had the thrill of coaxing his beloved 1973 Yamaha D125 Enduro bike to life, and rode it all the five miles to his parents/sister-in-law’s houses (I was at work). The bike performed quite beautifully, if noisily, all the way to his parents’ driveway. His mother happened to be outside and returned his wave with wild gesticulating and pointing at the fuel tank. At this point, David dismounted in the front yard and actually looked down to figure out the cause of her consternation. That’s when he realized his bike is spurting flames. Yes, real ones, from leaking gas that’s apparently ignited. So he threw the bike on its side and waited for the flames to die down.

They didn’t.

By the time they reached four feet in the air, his mother had run to get a fire extinguisher and David singed his leg hair putting out the blaze. But all was well in the end, although he had to drag the bike home on his dad’s trailer. Apparently a loose screw in a gas tank opens the floodgates, and a hot carburetor leads to crispy wiring.

Now, I can tell this story because David thinks it’s hilarious, and actually called me to exult in his “first ride” story. His mother may not agree, but staying sane with David kind of depends on operating with “all’s well that ends well” as a motto. So I have to laugh and agree – congrats, honey, that’s quite the ride.

David’s a serial hobbyist – he hyperfocuses on blacksmithing for a few months, then small engines, then chess, etc. – and I’m glad. His boyish heart assures that I pay attention, and I must confess that his hobbies yield pragmatic value. I’m also glad that we’ve given ourselves “fun money” budgets that we can blow on whatever we so choose, so no one worries about how much the other is spending. Especially when the other absolutely cannot understand the appeal of the hobby (13.1 comes to mind). So off we go with our fun money, both comfortable knowing that we can splurge or save however we choose.

I wasn’t so sure fun money in designated checking accounts was really necessary when we began the habit, as I thought it would just encourage spending for spending’s sake. I admit that I was wrong. Instead, the system allows David to have fun without worrying about worrying me (remember, I’m the penny pincher under all circumstances), and actually encourages me to HAVE hobbies. Because there ain’t no such thing as a free lunch, even for cheap curiosities and ladies’ nights. Having a designated budget gives me room to breathe and explore possibilities I’d otherwise ignore.

So cheers to you on a great ride, David. I’ll be right there with my camera next time.

Sometimes Half Is All the Way: Marathons and Personal Finance

I did it. Well, I’m going to do it. And yes, this might the first sign of mental breakdown, but I’m remarkably okay with that label if it carries me across the finish line. After all, a dash of crazy is a prerequisite for a half marathon, and even more for the full 26.2.

Yep, I’m signed up for the Richmond Half Marathon and made my first training run with the group on Saturday. Apparently I’ll do almost anything in pursuit of a car sticker, or so I’m discovering. Now that I’m passed the quarter century mark and inching ever closer to the inevitable 30, I imagine the window of opportunity will close before I realize it (we’ve made it four years without an “oops,” but the odds can’t be in our favor much longer, heh. And I’m not running my first giant race with a baby belly). So 2012 is the year I woman up, and November 10 is the day I prove it.

I’m running with the novice team – no surprise there – but why I’m a novice instead of an intermediate runner is much more interesting.

Of course I’m no Usain Bolt. However, my pace had essentially nothing to do with which level of runner I am. The novice training teams include pace times from 7:00 minutes to 13:00 minutes or thereabouts, which means some folks are running almost twice as fast as others even though we’re all lumped together. Likewise, the intermediate teams are spread out across the board, and some of the paces match the novice teams. What gives?

Before I took the plunge on the training team, I sat at the feet of Head Coach Ro Gammon for an info meeting. A bunch of us were sitting on the floor of a dance studio in American Family Fitness, all us of trying to look casual without being too ridiculous in a room full of strangers. Coach bounced up and down on an exercise ball with way too much energy for someone her age as she gave us the details. She advised us to sign up for intermediate or novice based not on our time, but on our miles.

Say you run 15 miles a week at a 8:00minute pace. Better stay in novice. Say you run 25 miles a week at a 10:30minute pace. Bump yourself up to intermediate.

Ro emphasized over and over that the training is really about how many miles you have on your legs. It’s not how fast you run, but how far. I had to digest that for a minute. After all, most races are about how fast you can get across the finish line, the end. But once you hit the long distances, your body will give out if you push too hard, too fast. There’s a steady 10-20% a week increase rule for mileage, and if you bust through that, you’re almost guaranteed to get injured during training. And nothing guarantees a DNF like a worn down body.

So yeah, I’m definitely running with the novice folks. I have no interest in biting off more than I can chew and nearly choking myself to force it down. I want the smaller goal of 15 miles a week, even though it means I won’t be as close to running a full marathon, because this gives me a better chance of success long term.

Success depends on wisdom, and wisdom dictates that you don’t ramp up too fast, lest you burn up your mental and physical resolve. For me, it also means not going it alone, and sharing the experience and struggle with others who have set those same, smaller but still noble goals. We’re already breaking down the walls, and I know we’ll be cheering for each other come the full 13.1.

And you know, it all cross-applies to how we manage money and build wealth. Start slow, finish well. Small goals on the way to big goals. Don’t feel the pressure to turn everything around at once. Find a community that will talk you through. Break the taboos and train together. Same principles, just a different sphere.

Over the past year, personal finance has lost its fear factor for me, partially because of my job, partially because of great blogs like Get Rich Slowly, and partly because of personal experience. I’ve demystified the phrase. It’s no longer a phrase that inspires images of cutting back and mumbo jumbo jargon, but has become a natural extension of the way I live my life. Really, that’s what personal finance should be – a path to make and meet your goals and find freedom.

It’s like running a half. Sometimes, halfway really is all the way. Because if you put the miles on your legs and get in the habit, you’re going to keep climbing.

Married with Goals

Today is the first full day of our fourth married year.

That’s another way of saying our anniversary was yesterday and I’m late.

We had a lovely time celebrating the blessed occasion by throwing dodgeballs (at the other team, not at each other) and downing Bandito’s food with new and old friends. Given our laid back style and the highlights of this year, the merriment seemed appropriate. Some of my favorite memories since last August include us being childishly ridiculous with a splash of only-because-we’re married thrown in. For instance, Dr. Who with cocktails. Or Lion King on the Landmark stage. David trying his darndest to scare me on the stairs and me bolting up them like a startled rabbit (a not infrequent occurrence… my fear of the dark coming out I think). Or the neighborhood walk that ends with “looking at a house” as an excuse to harvest the blackberry bushes. And you’ve already seen photos of Color Me Rad.

Those delightfully comic and whimsical moments often creep up on us instead of being planned, but being married to David is full of surprises. Given how much self-seriousness I can muster up, his fanciful side is a necessary antidote. But thanks to these moments, I’ve realized that “settling down” doesn’t mean settling, and the transition to old married couple will certainly come with laugh lines. I’m incredibly lucky and thankful for my perfect match.

What’s next for us? Maybe rental property. Maybe Europe. Definitely grad school for him. Almost certainly not a Scion tC for me, though we almost splurged before settling on a convertible rental in September (we tried to be irresponsible and failed). Who knows.

We keep kicking around ideas to wear away the rough edges. The process is rather like prospecting for skipping stones along a lake. You’ll look at dozens before you find the right shape, and enjoy the scene nonetheless.

Back in college, the thing about “real life” that terrified me most was the lack of concrete milemarkers after graduation. If not for David’s career as a teacher, the school year itself would be irrelevant, and I’d be adrift in time with nothing except what I made for myself. That’s either terrifying or exhilarating, depending on your personality. But four years into this new adventure, I have found new anchors and markers – they’re just not linked to time.

The inevitables are replaced by big dreams that may not be realized tomorrow or even next year, but leave you with that tingly smile that comes with a settled destination. Believe me, I’m the last person in the world to say that “the journey is more important than the destination” because of my personality type, so that’s not what I mean. For me, the joy comes in knowing that the destination is there and smiling at its fluidity. I do care, quite tremendously, if we ever get there. But I won’t be the least surprised if the destination is 100 miles west of what looks like true North today.

Orange You Glad (We’re Back)?

There’s an inverse relationship to the amount of content one has to blog and the amount of time one has to actually write. I’m sure there’s some strange Internet axiom about that, somewhere, though I’ve never seen it alongside Godwin’s Law. Anyway, rather than bore you with all the details, let’s just say the end of the school year mobbed us with commitments and we’ve been recuperating quite happily this summer. But we have made time for some lovely adventures.

For starters, we took a mini beach trip with my family mid-May. I managed to split the wiffle ball in half when we played on the beach, effectively winning the game (I’m pretty sure that’s how it works). It’s crazy that my family now has enough people at the right age to play an even game — I remember years of 5-year-old twins having meltdowns mid-game because they’d been at the beach too long. Can’t say I missed that!

There was lots of wind and chilliness going on that weekend. But aren’t my parents cute?

We even dragged ourselves out of bed for the sunrise.

I committed to keeping my DSLR in manual mode this weekend, and am happy to say that one picture in 100 turned out stunningly. Haha.

And of course the trips to the Mathews cottage continue… and now that my SIL and I both have sweet cameras, we’re having a lot of fun with light painting and such.

We spent some lovely evenings with friends, including a Friday on Brown’s Island for Dawes/Sara Watkins.

We also took on church music (funny story…), a bathroom remodel (thanks leaky toilet), the Monument Avenue 10K with Joe and Megan (did you know mayonnaise is a great pre-race food?), and lots more. But the pictures most worth sharing are from just this past Saturday at the epic Color Me Rad 5K, when some friends joined forces with us to constitute Team Orange You Glad. It’s best explained in before and after pictures (and no, I did NOT risk my DSLR at this event).

Before the 5K and colorbombing:

After the 5K and colorbombing:

It took me 45 minutes to desmurf after the event (and there was blue earwax for days… no seriously), but it was totally worth the memory and the pictures. Plus I ran into some of my favorite local bloggers, who were super gracious despite my incoherent excitement at seeing them. I have to laugh at myself too because I would have run very far away from this race back in highschool, when I was rather a Miss Priss. Now, I’m the one who drags David to this kind of thing. Maybe I’m learning to take myself less seriously, eh?

Kudos to everyone in Richmond who added some color to their life this weekend!