inside outside upside down

…is the name of one of the first books I ever learned to read. Thanks, Stan & Jan!

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It is also a good descriptor for my mood this time of year, this year in particular. You guys remember when it was all sunny and lovely and perfectly fall and then smack it was gloomy and gray? That was fun.

I love fall — for the colors and boots & tights and the pumpkins and pumpkin-flavored things and the crisp air and crunchy leaves and Halloween — for all of that. But the grayer, cloudier, gloomier weather does not love me back. I just feel off. A little sad. A little upside down. And I feel like it punched my mood in the face a little harder this year.

But Imma fight back. Look out fall, I’m going to make you love me. Shorter days and darker skies, let’s turn that frown upside down. A wise new friend (and fan of the blog. shout out!) recently reminded me to make my own happiness. That’s a fun assignment.

I can make the most of gloomy days. Yesterday was the first scarf-at-work day, and you better believe I scarfed that up.

Exhibit A: scarf day

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(Yes, that is my new office. And yes, I was having a better day than it seems. I feel silly grinning for Photo Booth pics all by myself…)

And I can make the most of gloomy evenings. I went running tonight — the first long-sleeves run of the season — and it felt really good, cloudy sky and all. When I got back home, I plopped down in my front yard and looked at the sky for a while. Felt the breeze and some tiny sprinkles in the air. Breathed a little. And I realized that (even though saying this makes me sound like a full-on hippie) Emerson really did know what’s up: When our spirits need to find their source, the best thing we can do is go outside. Get all up in the out-of-doors. Even for 5 minutes. I swear my pulse slowed and my face relaxed (you know, the tense-and-scowly-when-worried parts) and I felt better. It’s like my brain hit the reset button, and all the gunk and work and drama and thinking and clicking and being just took a time out.

I wish I could say I’m the kind of English major who has all sorts of Emerson quotes in her back pocket for moments like these, but alas I do not. I do have google, and it led me to this, which is perfect:

Nature always wears the colors of the spirit.

Hear that, nature? You just go ahead being all gray if you want to, but my scarf and my spirit will stay crayon-box colorful. And I’ll make my own happiness, inside and outside. (but probably not upside down. I was never all that good at head stands.)

Q is for Quit it.

It’s a good thing I never started smoking.

That’s probably a weird thing to say, but I just know I wouldn’t be a casual smoker, the kind who make it look sexy by only doing it at parties or while writing on antique typewriters or something. No. I would be a chain-smoking, yellow-toothed, chimney-type person with free tobacco-branded jackets and such. It’s just my way.

I have trouble quitting things. Habits. Ideas. People. Problems.

(Quitting and finishing are two different things…but both are difficult for me. It’s kind of classic ENFP to start a bunch of projects and then have trouble finishing them. There are exceptions to this for me, of course. I manage to get things done, but it often means less sleep and more stress. I find it all the more amazing that I enjoy distancing running, because…that’s a big commitment, you guys, requiring planning and sustained commitment and follow-through. But I finished a marathon…Believe in miracles!!)

In its milder form, this tendency is the primary reason I’m chronically late. It’s hard to drag myself away from whatever it is I’m doing at any given moment in order to get myself to somewhere else. Nearly impossible (ask anyone who’s ever had to meet me, pick me up, wait for me, text me, “where the hell are you?”…). The less-mild form is some of the Groundhog Season business I was talking about yesterday. My “stuff” in the “we all have our stuff” sense, which I can’t quite quit.

So. Quitting bad habits or overcoming negative tendencies are not easy tasks. This fact accounted for roughly 60% of Oprah’s episodes. You wish for a genie, or that you could snap your fingers, or just write a check and voila! All better!! But it takes work, and sometimes desperate measures, just ask Lars.

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Lars and the Real Girl is one of my favorite, favorite movies. It reminds me of this time of year and these types of thoughts. So I watched it tonight, treating it like a little case study in getting over yourself.

Because ultimately Lars learns to quit his “stuff.” Sure, it takes months.
And it takes…Bianca.
And it takes a whole community standing behind him and supporting him to help him get better.

But the good news is that he does. And it gets me every time.

(In particular the Talking Heads solo-dancing moment. And the teddy bear noose. And when they go bowling. And the flowers on the porch. And that last shot. And the doctor. And his brother. It’s all real good.)

After the movie was over, I went for a run. In the rain. (and…a little lightning. Don’t worry about it.) Didn’t plan it that way, I just really wanted to go for a run, and it was raining. Why else do I own wicking fabrics and dry-fit hats and what-not?

It was easily the most fun I’ve had in a while, knowing I looked a little crazy to people driving by. There’s one thing I’ve learned from my boy Lars: if you want to get sane, sometimes you may have to act a little crazy.

D is also for Darrell…

…the new friend I just made on my perfect-fall-weather Saturday afternoon run. (and by “friend” I mean “stranger” and by “made” I mean “was forced upon me.”)
To his credit, this was late in my run, when I’m extra sweaty, frizzy and red-faced. Not among my finest moments, no matter how good I look in them runnin’ tights (which, fellas, is good). He must have said to himself, “there’s a girl who’s beautiful on the inside. I’d like to get to know her better.”

So I’m running along and this dude just appears on the sidewalk, from behind a tall wooden fence, which is where all good new friends hang out. He’s this young, African-American kid with two pairs of glasses on (eye glasses plus sunglasses atop his hat, hipster-style). In other words—unlike some of the unsavory characters I spy on the north side—with this kid, I’m not threatened. He just stands there, like he wants something, so I stop. (I know…I know…) Somewhat accustomed to being accosted downtown, I’m almost ready to give my spiel about not carrying cash when I run (or ID or, dear god, a cell phone…) but he doesn’t ask for anything. Just stands there.

So I strike up the conversation (I KNOW! I KNOW!), and it goes a little something like this:

SJ: “Um…can I help you?”

D: “Sup.” (meaning, “what’s up,” of course, not how Bible people say “eat”)

SJ: “Um…I’m just out running.” (Nervous-me gets very literal.)

D: (more silence, but keeps looking at his phone) “You live around here?”

SJ’s brain: HA HAHA HA HA Nice try! 

SJ: “Um…I’m a student.” (Lies.) “Okay so do you need something…or…?” (Nervous-me has helpful impulses, but would like to be the hell out of this situation.)

D: (looks at phone again, as if there’s a script in there called How To Creep Out Joggers) “I’s just wondering what your name is and how old you are.” (Nervous Darrell gets literal eventually, too, it seems. Or, possibly, he’s a Census-enthusiast.)

SJ: “My name’s Sarah. What’s yours?” (Manners. Nervous-me is still a lady.)

D: “Darrell. So how old are you?” (Wow. just. persistent. Okay.)

SJ’s brain: LIE! LIE TO HIM! SAY YOU ARE 22 AND SEE IF HE BUYS IT! 

SJ: “Twenty-eight.” (Truth.)

D: “Twenty-eight!” (his eyes going cartoon-wide, followed by another pause) “You didn’t seem that–” (aaaand stops himself. Smart man.)

SJ: “…Old? You were going to say old.” (Now I laugh. Because this is getting good.)

D: “Twenty-eight’s not old. It’s just…not…young.” (looks at phone, apparently at his chart called Ages That Are Not Young)

SJ: “Well, it was nice to meet you Darrell. Have a nice day. I’m going to keep running.”

And so I did. (Faster than I would normally, I might add.) And as Bright Eyes sang “Another Travelin’ Song” in my iPod, I couldn’t stop laughing. I can only assume that drivers-by thought I was crazy (or listening to a hilarious podcast, but who besides me would assume that?!), but I don’t care. It was perfect.

So thanks, Darrell; you have no idea how much this old lady needed that.