I slide into the water of Lake Monona in Madison, WI and slowly swim away from shore. As I dolphin kick below the surface, I come up out of the water to see the first glimmer of light peering out over the lake. I take a deep slow breath and contemplate the day ahead. I dip back under and roll up onto my back, the sky shimmering a fraction more bright than the moment before.

As I float on my back, staring out along the horizon, I think of the importance of today. I have spent each and every day of the last year preparing in some way for what is to come. The hues of the sky ignite inside my anticipation for the journey ahead. I feel strong, hopeful, happy.

Any doubts I have are slowly blanketed by the morning light, kept safely below the surface. As I peer out at the array of bobbing heads in the water, I know that they all feel the same sense of comfort. Each smile appearing brighter as the light shines on their faces.

Reds turn to oranges, oranges turn to yellows, and yellows slide into blues. The water ripples across my shoulders while my reflection stares back up at me. It looks at me as if to tell me I am awake. Alive. Ready.

I slide my body up along the top of the water, taking a few strokes to loosen up. The light is now turning into heat, and I feel the warmth of the sun on my back, arms, and neck. My heart skips a beat as I get a jolt of excitement coursing through my veins. This is it!

Every single body in the water rotates towards the horizon as the oval peers further above the line of trees. A small humming sound fills the air above the water as whispers are made about it's beauty. The shoreline begins to bustle as family and friends yell final words of encouragement to their loved ones.

An announcement is made to line up along the two orange buoys. I slide backwards towards the direction noted, keeping my eyes on the horizon. 30 seconds to start. I rub my hands together to ease the tension in my body. 25 seconds to start. The sun is now a full circle in the sky, appearing gigantic on the horizon. 20 seconds to start. I take one last look and think of how amazing this day has already been. 15 seconds to start. I switch my gaze to the water and my mind to the task ahead. 10 seconds to start. My anticipation can last no longer, I am shaking with excitement. 5...4...3...2....1. The sound of the gun ripples through the sky, and any calm that the morning held is now 4000 arms of chaos spinning through the water.

On September 6, 2003, at 20 years old, I began and completed my first Ironman Triathlon. I traversed my way through 2.4 miles of swimming, 112 miles of biking, and 26.2 miles of running. Beginning at sunrise, I raced for 13 hours to finish after the sun had set that day. Tears of joy slid down my face as I crossed the finish line, received my medal, and fell to the ground in exhaustion.

And despite the intensity and pain I endured during those long 13 hours, when people ask me how it was and what I remember most vividly, I tell them of the few moments before the race as the sun rose and I believed anything was possible.

As thanksgiving weekend came to a close, I look back on it with a sense of contentment. It wasn't an easy week, that's for sure. Fitting in time with family, friends, and a potential significant other can be overwhelming. But in the end, it was a week full of fun, fullness (mmm. Turkey.), flirtation, and fights. And I probably wouldn't have it any other way.

The early part of the week was centered around a boy. A very attractive boy. One who I had spent most of my summer getting to know, and who was back in town for the week. We quickly reinstated our daily morning runs, talking as we made our way along the upper peninsula trails. One afternoon was spent picking cranberries in the wild, while another was spent getting our nipples pierced. I look back with appreciation for the time we had together, and was thankful that the nipple piercing didn't hurt quite as much as I thought it would!

As my brother, sister, and their spouses rolled in to town on Wednesday evening, we quickly rolled into a rowdy game of Spoons. And with game after game, and drink after drink, it was four in the morning before we even knew what hit us. And the drinks certainly hit us. It took almost mammoth efforts for our mother to get our friends to leave and us in bed so that she could be up early in the morning to begin cooking our Thanksgiving feast. Through all the commotion, I am not only thankful I came out victorious in the final game of spoons, but that I came out with all my limbs still attached.

With twenty visitors to our house for a delicious meal, Thanksgiving day was filled with quality grandma time, sumptuous eating, and even several big foot sightings (well, according to my youngest cousin). With the endless chatter and mounds of food, I am thankful for a big mouth that managed my way through both the talking and the eating.

The remainder of the weekend was filled with a mix of all of the above. More running with the boy, spoons with the relatives, eating of the leftovers, and drinks with friends. And with my sadness over it all ending on Sunday afternoon, I am thankful for it all. For a family that can get together and find laughter in just about anything. For getting to know a guy who is pretty damn awesome. For friends old and new who make it so easy to pick back up right where we left off despite time spent apart.

And for myself for pushing through it all. Because behind the silver lining of this entry, there were struggles along the way. Uncomfortable discussions, doubts of affection, unspoken family frustrations, and tears shed. But while in the past I may have run away from these uncertainties or hid in my room, I made myself open to the experience to see what I could gain. And I gained a whole damn lot. For that, I am thankful.

I turned over the top card on the pile. Orange. I dragged my red game piece along the board to the nearest orange square, keeping me about ten spaces behind my competitor.

As I looked over at my 5 year old cousin, a fierce Candy Land contestant, I could see the grin on his face as he rushed to take his turn. Turning over his card, he moved his game piece just two spaces to the nearest blue square.

The game was carrying along smoothly. A few more turns and I was closing the distance between us. Orange, blue, red, green. Double Green. The battle continued.

The rules of Candy Land seem simple enough. Draw a card and move your game piece to the next closest square of that color. Draw a card with two blocks, and you get to move to the second nearest square of that color. Draw a location card, and you gain the chance of either moving far ahead of your competitors, or getting stuck falling behind.

Now, there are shortcuts that let you sneak ahead a few spaces, as well as penalty spaces that keep you from moving at all. But as much as traversing through the Gooey Gumdrops, Lollipop Woods, and Molasses Swamp kept me on my guard, I was unprepared for the slick moves of my youngest cousin.

When my next turn moved me just two spaces behind his blue Gingerbread Man, I was told that the deck suddenly needed to be reshuffled, with a double green magically falling on top. Despite questioning this new 'rule', as well as his dodgy shuffling methods, I was no match for taking on his knowledge of the game.

Back with a solid lead, my cousin returned to normal game play. But as I pulled the "Queen Frostine" card, my Gingerbread man slid quickly into the second half the the game board, and several spaces ahead of my young competitor. Just as suddenly as before, the rules of the game seemed to change.

I had apparently been unaware of a new shortcut in the game. A shortcut that brought the little blond boy's game piece back ahead of mine. Again, I glared at my opponent and questioned his move. Claiming I couldn't actually see this supposed shortcut, I was told it was 'invisible.' I backed off my claims of foul play and let the game continue.

The only way to win the game, once a player nears the end, is to draw a purple card to land on the last space on the board. As my competitor approached the end, his repeated attempts to turn over a purple card proved unsuccessful. I slowly slid along behind him, weaving through the Molasses Swamp towards the coveted Candy Castle. As the boy sat just two spaces behind that last space, I dragged my piece just one spot behind him.

And magically, as seems to happen in the game of Candy Land, the rules changed again. I was told I only get four cards to draw from each turn, while he gets several more. After four turns, I quickly noticed I had no purple cards at all. With concerns about the proper rules of the game, I questioned him on how I was to get to the finish. All I got back was a unknowing look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders. Repeated questioning drew the same simple response.

As my competitor overturned a purple card on his next turn, and dragged his Gingerbread Man across the finish line, I admitted defeat. It had been nearly twenty years since I had played this little game called Candy Land, and I was not about to go against a seasoned player on the exact rules of the game. I'm just still not quite sure why I never won a single game.

In two short days I will be standing in my brother's wedding. My brother is two years older than myself, and galaxies different in terms of personality. When I received a phone call this spring as I was boarding a plane to Scotland, the last person I thought it would be was my brother. Even more, the last thing I expected him to ask me was to stand in his wedding. We have never been incredibly close, and there was even a three year period of time when we were both in our teens that we probably spoke five times total.

It wasn't that we disliked each other, it was simply that we didn't always see eye-to-eye. He was a rebellious teenager, failing classes or having run-ins with the cops. As his straight-edged younger brother, I didn't understand it. I saw the turmoil and fights it brought within the family and couldn't see why someone would let that happen. I avoided the situation, and I avoided him. I remained focused on being an over-achieving straight A student, marching in the school band and being a competitive swimmer.

I remember one fall day as I was walking home from school, I saw him crouched down hiding in the bushes. He was smoking on the trail that separated the school from the street on which we lived, and when he saw me coming he hid. I pretended not to notice, feeling far too awkward to make the effort to approach him. Two brothers, not more than five feet from each other, unable to speak.

At the time I blamed him for a lot. Dare I say I even thought I was in some way 'better' than him, thinking that he deserved to be punished for the actions he took in his short 18 or so years in life. It was easy for me to do well in school, why can't he? How hard is it to be a law-abiding citizen?

Years have passed since those teenage years, and time has changed our relationship for the better. And while I spent so much time believing achievements and 'moral' standards defined the quality of a person, I quickly learned to know that you have to take a person as they are. We all have our struggles, and we all deal with them in different ways. And while I may not have been there for him in the past, I am happy to be there for him should anything go wrong now or in the future.

-----

I wrote the above entry not knowing of what was to come today, one day before the wedding. While standing in the hotel gym this morning doing bicep curls, my brother-in-law stopped in to tell me that my brother was in jail and his best man was in the hospital. I dropped the weights immediately, and rushed back to the room to find a way to tell my father of the situation and see what we could do to make sure this weekend still went as planned.

The details of my brother's arrest are irrelevant, but my family will be going to his dress rehearsal this evening without him. So will his future wife. And while it would be easy to place blame or be upset, our family is remaining strong in ensuring that this is a positive experience for both the bride and groom.

As my brother sits in jail with no way to ease the situation, I hope he knows how much we all love him. And when he is released at 9.00 pm tonight, I will be there with my family to hug him and tell him just that.

And tomorrow, as a groomsman in his wedding, we will be standing just five feet away from each other yet again unable to speak. But it won't be because of a sense of fear, but from a place of love. For he will be far too busy saying his vows to his future wife, and I will be far too choked up to speak a single word even if I tried.

As devastating as our relationship as brothers and this eventful weekend have been, I have no doubt that that moment in the wedding will be one of true and utter beauty.

My parents are the epitome of polite.  When my mother complains of her bad back, I silently whisper to myself that it's probably because she has spent her entire life bending over backwards for others.  I remember screaming at my dad because he would say my drawings for class were "amazing" or "perfect" even when he couldn't even tell me what was portrayed in the drawing.  My father is a teacher and my mother is a nurse.  Their jobs revolve around pleasing others.  They've mastered the art of knowing what people want to hear, rather than what they feel inside.  And while I've spent much of my life wishing they would just say what they felt, it wasn't until they did that I experienced the outright pain that the truth may bring.

In March 2006, I moved to Cork, Ireland after spending six exhilarating months in London, England.  While in London, I had come out as gay, met my first boyfriend, and experienced life away from my parents stuffy politeness.  I was feeling stronger than ever, open to exploring who I was as a person.  Trusting of the fact that I had the support of others even as I was growing and coming into myself.  Believing that by the time I returned to the USA, I would be stable enough to come out to my parents. 

As I sat down to check my email just two weeks into arriving in Ireland, I had no way of expecting the email I received from my sister telling me she had told my parents I was gay.  My entire body froze.  The world stopped.  Every ounce of energy I had was used to keep myself from falling apart in front of thirty or so people in a dingy internet cafe in Europe.  A small dose of hope rested in my mind that my parents relentless need to please would ensure that I still had their support.   But as I dashed out of the internet cafe into the pouring rain, searching for a payphone to call home, I somehow knew our impending conversation would not be so polite.

"Mom, I know you know," I blurted out.

"Chris...I don't know....I have to go," my mother responded. 

Click. The phone went dead.  Did my mother just hang up on me?

I rested the phone back on the register and stood crying in the small confines of the telephone booth.  I stared out at the rain with no desire to begin the walk back to my apartment.  Having just arrived, I knew no-one in the city.  My boyfriend was still in London.  I lived with a family from Hungary who spoke no English, and I certainly did not speak Hungarian. I felt more alone than I had ever felt in my life.  What the hell do I do?  I continued to cry. 

For the next two weeks I did not hear a single word from my parents.  I would send emails explaining myself and that I was still the person they've always known, but no responses came.  The first reply I eventually received was a short response from my mother saying that I "need to have a plan" for when I come home so I can get on with my life and be "independent."  Having been under my parents insurance at that time, they suggested I find my own.  

I couldn't help but feel as if I did something wrong, like I was being blamed for something I couldn't control.  Another email came from my dad telling me that he has supported me in a lot, but he didn't know if he could support me with this.  I was hurt.  As I left that same internet cafe that day, I clenched my fists as tight as I could as I walked down the streets of Cork trying not to cry.  

My family has always been very important to me, and to feel like I was losing them while I was thousands of miles away was devastating.  And to hear their words so bluntly, there was no room to believe they felt any different.  After several weeks of struggling with their angry replies, I decided to leave Ireland and fly back to Michigan to talk to my parents in person.  That first night, as I went for a walk with my mother, she told me she did not support gay marriage nor gay adoption.  I had a long battle ahead of me.

I spent the next few weeks wondering why I even came home.  I wished they would just say they were okay with it so that I could feel some sense of relief.  Couldn't they just have pretended to be supportive until they actually came to terms with it?  An empty hug would feel much better than that look of disappointment.  As much as I knew it would take time, it was hard to know that I even had to contemplate the possibility that they would never be as proud of me as their son as they had been before they knew I was gay.

However, just two weeks ago and three years after the incidents I've described, my mother looked at me and said that she expects grandchildren out of me, whether I adopt or choose to have my own.   And reminding myself of their honesty in first dealing with finding out I am gay, I knew this was in no way an empty gesture.  Because empty gestures may buy you time and ease the blow, but they leave you wondering for a long time after whether anything a person says is coming from the heart.  With my parents, I no longer have to wonder.

From monkeychildren ...

Reply to this meme by yelling "words!" and I will give you five words that remind me of you. Then you will make an entry explaining what those words mean to you.

Mine are as follows:

SWIMMING - When I think of how much time I used to spend in the pool, I am baffled.  When I swam the Teal Lake Swim this summer, I was nearly 20 minutes slower than I used to swim it in high school.  Swimming is a very consuming sport, intensified by the fact that your face is shoved in the water for most of it.  Whenever I miss swimming though, I get a whiff of chlorine and am reminded why I don't miss it all that much.  If I lived in a place where I could open water swim all year, I think I would still be swimming.  But chlorine = bad hair, bad skin, smelly sweat. ha. It clearly provided a TON of good times though, in both high school and college.  

SURVIVOR - Oh Survivor.  When I watched my first episode during season 1 I was INSTANTLY hooked.  I guess it exposed me to a world that in my sheltered little life I didn't know existed....something about being 'stranded' on an island seemed completely exhilarating, and something I wanted to do so badly.  monkeychildren and I even spent about a week in Houghton camping and living off of rice.  While fun, I think we got bored of the rice rather quickly...like when we intentionally burned it so that we could have a new flavor in our mouth.  Oh, and when we decided we wanted some Little Caesar's instead...and cheated a little bit. ;-)

TRAVELING - I travel a lot.  Sometimes too much.  Sometimes to the point of exhaustion.  I've traveled to places even when I didn't have anywhere to stay and had to sleep in bus stations/airports/random people's couches.  I've taken overnight trains just so I had a place to sleep.  I like to get lost when I travel....it exposes you to places you didn't really know existed.  My favorite places to visit have been Morocco, Greece, London.  My top places I want to go are Borneo (blame Survivor for this one), Mexico, and South America.

RANDOMNESS - I am seriously random.  monkeychildren is seriously random.  We have done some seriously RANDOM things in our lives.  Snowy badminton?  Drunken 'skating'. (NOT PEEING ON THE ICE). Recorded conversations. Hard candy spitting fights.  Finding endless humor in bagels.  Writing seriously random shit.....like:

I 22 Q JUICE  - Yes, monkeychildren and I wrote a book in high school.  It was appropriately titled "The Book."  It was filled with our nonsensical stories about magical kitty hairballs and sentences like "I 22 Q Juice."  I'm not sure even we understand what half of the book was about, but we still think it's hilarious regardless.  Funky little beefy chicken.

My therapist once described me as being much like Trafalgar Square, the famous area outside of the National Gallery in London, England.  At first glance, Trafalgar Square seems much like any other square, complete with a large column at the center, statues of notable figures, and fountains spraying a quiet mist among the millions of tourists that trample through the square each year.  But as three of the platforms holding statues have remained intact since the 1800s, the fourth platform has consisted of an array of controversial and downright strange artwork since it's construction in 1841.

Born and raised in the upper peninsula of Michigan, a large portion of who I am has been relatively consistent since I came screaming into the world just before midnight on October 31, 1982.   My terrible twos were spent running from my parents in stores and airports, laughing hysterically as I watched the panic on their faces when they couldn't catch me.  At 26, I still run, and my parents still chase me.  From a small marathon in northern Wisconsin to the Boston Marathon this spring, my parents have followed me to 7 of the 9 marathons I have completed in my 20s, each time bringing a smile to my face as I see them cheering along the course.   

With several family members working in the airlines over the years, I have been traveling since I was just one year old.   I believe my first trip was to Las Vegas with my parents and grandparents, but I was too young to remember.  And no, I'm not sure I can say I remember much of my most recent trip to Vegas either, but that's for slighly different reasons.  Since that first flight, I have traveled to five continents and lived in England, Ireland, and most recently New York City.  My love for travel led me to a degree in Anthropology and a minor in Chinese.  I feel anxious if I don't have a vacation planned in the near future and wonder if I will get to see all that I want to see before I die. 

While others might call it obsessed, I have always been VERY passionate about anything in which I take interest.  As a child it was 3-D puzzles and She-rah, in my teens it was Survivor and other reality shows, and in my twenties it has been fashion.  And thankfully, based on the introductions I've been able to read so far, this is a characteristic I seem to share with many others in this little game we call LJ Idol.  My passion motivates some and deters others, but it is the one thing I find very hard to tone down.  When I like something, you will know.

And then we come to that fourth platform of Trafalgar Square, which has featured everything from a wax figure of David Beckham (mmmm. sexy!!!!!) to a statue of a pregnant woman with no arms and legs.  It's that part of the landscape that drives tourists and locals mad, not because of a particular distaste for what is featured, but because of sheer and utter confusion. 

It's that part of myself that my therapist can only describe as one big contradiction.  That when people look beyond my quiet demeanor, they don't expect to see what is lurking underneath.  And to be honest, I don't always expect it myself. 

What exactly am I speaking of?  Well, you will have to just wait and see.  I was born on Halloween after all, and what is a good story without a little bit of mystery?  
 

 



 

I am officially declaring myself as a contestant for the new season of LJ Idol.  I followed last season and loved it...so I am putting myself in the running this year.  Heeeeere we goooo.............

therealljidol

I went to camp last night to spend the night out there by myself.  It was a much needed break.  I took a sauna, sat in the sun, and read a good chunk of my book.  I am reading Into Africa: The Epic Adventures of Stanley & Livingstone by Martin Dugard.  It is by far one of the best books I've read in a long time.  Every page I read makes me want to hop the next plane to Africa and go exploring.  

What I really like about this book is just how much history it covers as it discusses each expedition of the explorers of that time.  I've learned more about how slavery really started than I ever learned all through school, about the structure of the indigenous people and how they related to each other and foreigners, the landscape of Africa, the wildlife, disease.....I could go on and on.  Exploration really did define so much of what was going on in the world at the time, and the overlapping of stories and events that I have never really thought could relate had large impacts on the other.  

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I also ran 2 hours 45 minutes today.  Good times.  All trail running.  I felt better than I thought I would, but man did I EAT once I got home.  Munch. munch. munch.