When LeBron James Was a First-Grader...

I'm no sports junkie, but my boyfriend is.  Usually I can sound somewhat intelligent by parroting what he and his friends have discussed in front of me and pretending that they're my own thoughts (sneaky, right?).  It's because of him that I know about the whole LeBron one-hour special tonight about his decision of where he'll play next, and because of him that I've formed the opinion that he is sort of acting childish in his request to have a prime-time special centering around his choice that would probably take up about a minute or two of the programming.  It would arguably take up that much time in the same slot even if he had released it in the way most of the other free agents had (given ESPN's propensity for beating the day's sports stories to death).

It made me think of what he might have been like as a first-grader, perhaps demanding that the kids watch him pick others to play on his team for that game with the big plastic basket and the different holes for the ball to come out.  He would definitely be the one shooting paper towels into the garbage can in the bathroom, chest-bumping his much smaller classmates who had not yet washed their hands.  It's because of him that all the students in my class would steal the sidewalk chalk from the communal bin during recess, rub it vigorously on their hands, and begin clapping clouds of dust into the air screeching "I'm the king!  I'm the king!"  (That really did happen pretty frequently).  Come to think of it, that's probably where his whole pre-game routine started- on the first grade playground.  Just some non-sports thoughts on a sports issue.

It's supposed to be!

I was going to save this anecdote for my Mother's Day post, but I had such a vivid recollection of it last night that I have to include it now.

When I was little we weren't allowed to quite anything.  NOTHING.  You signed up and you basically were in it for life (probably why I play volleyball through college).  My mom, being the avid swimmer, made us all take swimming lessons with the hope that one of us would carry on the Zaprowski family tradition.  A side note: this attempt was a complete failure, given that I can barely stay afloat in the deep end without swallowing a gallon of water and Jon swims like Diddy Kong.

One night at swim practice I was trying (as usual) to communicate that I hated any kind of movement at all and just wanted to sit on the heater, read a book, and eat a stick of margarine.  I got to the end of the pool after about 50 laps (realistically, it was probably one) and looked up at my mom.

"Mom," I whined.  "I want to get out.  This is hard."

She looked at me, vengeance and rage boiling up from her toes straight into her eyes.  "Hard?"  She barked.  "It's SUPPOSED to be hard!"  Then she threw her clipboard in the pool next to me, splashing water up my nose and nearly drowning me.

Maybe that's not exactly how it happened, but it's how I like to remember it.  It was a pretty defining moment for me.  What reminded me of it was my hot yoga class the other night... also known as an hour long wet t-shirt contest with stretching.  I had an unfortunate position by one of the heaters and to date it was the hottest class I've ever been to.  Uncomfortably hot.  Unbearably hot.  At the end I was just standing there.  Not in child's pose, showing that I was struggling and needed a break.  Just standing hunched over, breathing heavily through my mouth and thinking, "I want to get out.  This is hot."  That's when I had the image of my yoga instructor, reincarnated into a weird hybrid between my mom and dad, coming over and barking in my face, "Hot?!  It's SUPPOSED to be hot!"

And he would be right.  After all, it is hot yoga.  And most things- at least most things that are worthwhile-are supposed to be hard.

Sara's Attempt at a Sports Blog

Stolen material from Jack, when he recommended his roommate blog about it.  Proving that my blog is the best.



Awesome!!!!!!! (?? not quite sure what else to say... maybe I should stay away from sports blogging, especially about hockey)

Quickie Before Bed

I loved yoga tonight.  It reminded me of my college volleyball workout... sort of.  Like a yoga-for-volleyball type thing, definitely something my coach would've made us do.  We did a lot of lunges and crunches and planks and stuff, things that are normally worked in there somewhere, but this felt different.  I kept waiting for someone to crack a joke, or have their arms slide out from under them in forearm planks, or begin giggle uncontrollably, probably because that was a typical day at practice.  The reason we were so good at abs was because we were laughing (and snorting, some of us) through it all.  And let me tell you, doing a plank while you're laughing is a hell of a lot harder than when you're not.  Factor in trying to keep your grip on a gym floor that hasn't been cleaned since before pre-season and you've got yourself quite the workout.

I miss that.

How the First Year of Teaching is like Pigeon Pose in Yoga

They both suck.

Okay, I'll be a little bit more specific and articulate.  I thought about this while in pigeon today during yoga, one of my methods of coping with my hatred for this pose.  In case you didn't know what pigeon is, see below (I chose this for the randomness of an Asian lady in legwarmers doing yoga in her house and posting pictures on the internet).

1) They both suck (this must be said).  When you think about them in theory, these two seem like a good idea.  I know some of you are looking at the picture thinking "Come on!  I love that stretch!" in the same way a lot of people think of teaching- "Come on!  It's just hanging out with a bunch of kids all day!"  But in reality, it plays out differently.  Much differently.  After a minute and a half of pigeon (or teaching), you begin to think "Alright, this is starting to get kind of hard.  Can I get out of it already?"  And then when you're still doing it five minutes later, it becomes pure torture.

2)  They get easier with time.  Bullet number one is talking more about the FIRST time you teach or the FIRST time you do pigeon.  Admittedly, it does get less difficult as you become accustomed to it.  Or maybe you just get better at tuning out the difficulties.

3)  Just when you think they're easier, they're not.  It sucks again.  In teaching, just as you think it's getting better, you realize there's something more you can do.  There are more resources, more testing, more laminating, more everything.  In pigeon, just as you think it's getting better, your yoga instructor comes by and rips your hip out of its socket, making it feel like every tendon in your body is going to snap like a cut rubber band.

4) The pain is somehow rewarding.  No matter how much I want to snipe down my instructor after shoving my body further into the personal hell that pigeon is, I come out of it (very, very slowly I might add) and feel better.  Even though seconds before I was ready to scream "NOOOOO", my body (for some reason) thanks me after.  For teaching, as much as you complain and cry and wish the work would end, there are always those moments (usually in the calm of a three day weekend or after the rare "good day") where you appreciate all the miserable work you put into it.

A Lot of Random Stuff

1) In love with yoga. I went to my first yoga class ever on Monday night, after deciding Sunday that I was sick of whining about my lack of a life. "I'll do something for myself!" I exclaimed, and marched down (by marched I mean drove) to the studio by my apartment to sign up. The girl working the front desk was really friendly AND is starting an after-school tutoring program for Title I middle schools, so we got to talking about teaching stuff right off the bat. The class... was awesome. Yoga is a perfectionists paradise. I loved it because it was the first time in three months that I got to focus on the little things. And that I could be in control. I realized that I'm actually quite a competitive person (never really thought I was) and it doesn't really matter if I'm only in competition with myself... I still feed off of it. I got to obsess about moving my foot a half centimeter and breathing for two seconds longer, with no wise veterans looking over me tsk-ing at my inability to let the little things go. It was glorious. My instructor was a pregnant lady, who was hotter than any pregnant lady I've ever seen as well as hotter than some un-pregnant ladies I've seen. She was also not afraid to move your body- at one point she was straddling me to get my *insert yoga pose name here* correct. At the end, when you're just laying there thinking about how awesome you feel, she came around and put a cool wet washcloth on my forehead that was soaked in lavender. Again- AWESOME. The whole time I was thinking about how I couldn't wait to blog about it (kidding... sort of). How yogi-ish of me.

2) I had to use two board books to scrape the ice of my windows this morning (at 5:10 am). Just thought I'd share. I found it a little funny... and sad at the same time.

3) I've been thinking about posting on comfort a lot lately, because it seems to preoccupy my mind quite often. It's funny how it's something that can come really easily or not come at all. I think about friends I have and people I know and how some of them are just... easy. I can click instantly and feel like I'm snuggled up in sweatpants with my stinky and slightly challenged dog. Other people just make me feel out of place. It'd weird that things can change so much from person to person, and it's even weirder to wonder why we become friends with the people we become friends with and why we date the people we date.

Comfort is always in mind. "I'm too hot." "I'm too cold." "My feet hurt." "My head hurts." "I'm tired." "I'm lonely." When it comes down to it, life is all about being comfortable. You change how you're sitting, standing, chewing, breathing... LIVING, all in the name of comfort. Sometimes, it's as simple as shifting your body weight, or staying away from dairy. Other times, it's a little more complicated.

With people, I find it funny that some are just easier to get comfortable with than others. Especially when I think of the relationships I've spent months, even years finding a comfort level in comparison to the instant comfort I find with a special few. Some examples? My sister and I. Instant comfort. Granted, we came from the same womb, so generally anything you might want to hide goes out the window. There's no judgment, and if there is, it's right out there in the open. My new roommate, for another. We can laugh about anything from her crazy life coincidences to a cow with explosive diarrhea on the way to the outlets (FYI, that is a severe driving hazard. We almost got into a car accident we were laughing so hard). But beyond laughing, there's the ability to just sit in silence and not feel discomfort. That's hard to find. Of course I have the feeling of comfortable-ness (not a word, I know) with my boyfriend too. That silence factor is there, even on the phone. Silence on the phone is hard to write off as not awkward, but somehow, we manage to do it.

I just love finding that. Because usually it comes when you least expect it, when you're not looking for it. I remember the very early stages of my relationship thinking, "Oh my God I can actually talk to this person. Where did this come from?" And with my roommate... well, I asked her if she wanted to live together after three days, so I think the level of instant comfort is pretty obvious.

It's cool to me that even as we get older, we meet people that click with us instantly, that we can go to new places and be totally alone one minute and then BAM. Instant comfort the next. You think that relationships and friendships take all this work, but then you're reminded that they actually don't. Not when you find someone who understands your weirdness and occasional awkwardness (or someone who chooses to look beyond those things). Sure, you have to work a little to keep them up- staying in touch, remembering birthdays and anniversaries, but the really comfortable relationships come about effortlessly and without a whole lot of thought (most of the time anyway). I've been reminded lately that these comfortable relationships can be found all over the place- in family members, in new friends, in old friends, in boyfriends, in colleagues- and it's very... comforting... to me.


Alright enough random blogging. Time for bed. Gotta get ready for my next yoga class TOMORROW, maybe inspiring yet another blog. Or maybe it'll just be another episode of getting manhandled by a hot prego woman. Whatever.

Shared Misery

The bond of going through hell. I've thought about this theory for a long time, and I can't think of many situations in which it doesn't hold true.

Go through any awful experience with someone and chances are you'll come out of it best friends. When I think about the friendships I've formed over the years, I've realized that they usually stem from some really traumatic event, from the physically trying (3-a-day preseason practices) to the mentally stressful (this whole teaching without experience thing) to the really stupid (surviving champagne hangovers on Wednesday mornings). I think it's because if you can still stand someone after being in excessive amounts of physical/mental pain, you hedge your bets and figure you might as well keep them around. Think about it. It's easy to go to some perfectly lovely event and have a perfectly lovely time with even the most bland or boring person. BUT to be able to survive a hellish experience and be able to laugh about it with someone... now that's true friendship.

Just some thoughts. Maybe this means my kids and I will be best friends by the time May comes around...

In all seriousness, it's only hellish because I am a crazy control freak/perfectionist who hates being bad at anything. The kids are just kids.

The Importance of Running

I never liked running. Or athletics. Throughout my life, I have never considered myself to be an athletic person despite participating in sports and working out regularly. Part of the reason was my stubborn resistance to proving my parents right. Both are athletes who became gym teachers, my father a former marathoner and my mother a petite swimmer who sometimes practices her butterfly stroke on vacations, her aging arms slowly churning the water with the awkward motions of the movement. She, like my father, wears sneakers and lightweight sweat suits, mostly navy and black. Their occupations and general outlook on life are defined by this idea of being active, of competing in and following sports of all kinds, something that served as a major source of anxiety throughout my childhood and adolescence.

One event sticks out in my mind, a time that I'm still not sure if I actually remember it or if I have just heard the story so many times that I have internalized it as a tangible life experience. There I was, a nine-year old with a bad bowl cut, coming downstairs on a weekday and plopping myself down at our kitchen table. I let out an overdramatic sigh of surrender. My nine year old sigh was soaked in desperation, the kind of sigh that begs to be asked about.

“Sara,” my father had said. “What’s wrong?”

Again, the sigh was forced out. “It’s Wednesday.”

He was confused. “What’s wrong with Wednesdays?”

“It’s gym day.” I picked at my cereal. This is probably the last thing a P.E. teacher wants to hear their child to think, much less say out loud. Luckily, I’ve progressed from that day, learning slowly about the merits that fitness and athleticism had to offer.

It has taken me a long time to realize the importance of running. Going into college, I never thought I would be able to call myself an athlete, but a few years and couple hundred hours on the volleyball team forced me to become one. Still, I never got into running, pushing it away because I couldn't handle the type of endurance and mindset needed to be successful at it.

It wasn't until I reached a point in my life where I found myself hopelessly unhappy- unhappy with how I looked, with how I felt about myself, with how others saw me- that I found myself aching for something to pull me back up to a healthy state of mind. That something was running.

I started running while I was studying abroad in Italy, a semester away after a rough year involving my own personal struggles with body image and self-confidence. I didn't run that frequently- two to three times a week around a four mile loop on the Tiber River- but something about that semester changed me. Aside from gaining almost 20 pounds due to the excessive amounts of pesto, pizza, and red wine, I came back feeling completely different about myself. I was convinced the running had nothing to do with it, that the transformation came from the laid back Italian lifestyle and feeling of independence I cultivated while I was there.

But the running part stayed with me, increasing to five times a week. I ran my first race that summer. During all those miles I put in, I finally started to get it.

As long as I had thoughts to fuel my wanderings (and I have a lot of thoughts), I felt like I could run for hours. No wonder runners are so crazy. All they have to do on those outings was THINK. Just think. The only thing with you on those runs are your thoughts. And while running, I finally sorted my thoughts on the subject to figure out why it was so important. Here they are, as random as they came into my head:


-Sometimes there is merit in running away from things. Negativity, norms that hold you back, mindsets that keep you from loving yourself- there is no shame in running away from these things, so long as you are running towards things that are good for you.

-What a difference purpose makes. Run to a destination, and you always have to run back. Always. Run randomly, in circles, following back in steps you've already taken- you will never run as far, or as long, as when you run with a purpose and a destination in mind.

-You can always go faster. Or farther. Or longer. Very rarely do we push ourselves to our limits, and running reminds me of that. I just keep thinking, "A little faster. A little farther. A little longer." And usually, if I'm willing to put in the effort, I can do that.

-Running gives you balance. It's the one time in a day where it's just you, nobody else. You determine your pace (or lack of pace), you determine how hard you work. It's not that you can't make excuses, because frequently, you do. But every time that happens, you know it's an excuse. Every little "I just ate" or "I didn't get a lot of sleep" or "My leg's bothering me" lets you stop, but deep down you KNOW you're making excuses. I find myself doing that, justifying why I'm stopping or slowing down or going back home. But the bottom line is that I am in full control of whether I accept those excuses or overcome them, and that feeling of power allows me to gain confidence in myself when other parts of my life seem hopeless.


It would be dangerous if I could run and write at the same time. This entry would be much longer and more sporadic if that were possible. The bottom line is that I value running more now that I haven't been able (or willing) to do it. I miss that feeling of sweating out troubles, or just letting my mind go crazy while my feet hit the pavement. Even though I never ran all that fast, or fast at all, I have never given it enough credit in changing the way I thought about myself. That's where I found the importance of running.

Why Is It Always Cloudy On Sundays?!

You're totally cramping my style, Sunday. Cloudy AGAIN, just like last week. Actually, last week there was a mini monsoon that almost washed my roommates away in their cars when they went out, but I'm still grouping it in with cloudy. I was hoping that since this is my final day of summer vacation (some summer vacation it's been, working basically non stop) I could get some time by the glorious pool in my apartment complex but no, Sunday has to come along and ruin those plans. It's probably for the better, since today is supposed to be my big work day.

I never thought I'd be saying this (ever), but I'm really missing the idea of going back to Trin and starting pre-season workouts. NOW, before you go and call me crazy for pining away for two- and three-a-day practices, let me explain myself. Something about teaching that caught me off guard is the whole beg, borrow, steal part. Have a good idea? You share it. See something you like? You take it. The whole sense of competition is turned backwards and upside down. It's kind of disappeared. When it comes down to it, "competing" against other teachers really means competing against their kids. Which goes against every logical idea of equal education that I've ever heard.

I'm dying for competition. Or for someone to just kick my butt, making me run sprints until I wanna throw up or stand in ready position until my quads want to break in half. I don't have that anymore and I really, REALLY miss it. That feeling where even when you laugh you can feel the muscles you worked the day before. On that note- muscles? Mine are allllll gone. Interesting, because I've always want my legs to get smaller, but now it's only because all the muscle has melted away, leaving me barely able to squat down to pick up a broken crayon.

A couple other corps members and I are talking a lot about training for a half-marathon in December, which may be just what I need. IF (a big if) I can get myself to do the running. We'll see how that goes.

Anyone lucky enough to still be competing and on a sports team- a college sports team mainly, because there is no other feeling like that- DON'T TAKE IT FOR GRANTED. It is hands down the most positive experience of my life, even with all the times I said I hated it and thought I wanted to give up and quit. I'd love that have that back.