How Did I Get Here? A Five Act Debacle

Act I:  Blizzards

I have many phobias - one of the biggies on the phobia list is and has been fear of flying.

Unfortunately, we were doing lots of flying in late 2003 - looking for a job for my husband, EJ, that would repay the obscene debt he had accrued at Georgetown (thank goodness they had rejected me or else we would have been even deeper in the student debt hole) and provide us with a more livable lifestyle.  At that time, he was working copious overnight shifts and insane hours, and was often referred to as Snuffleupagus, i.e. my imaginary spouse.

On December 6, 2003, the job search was taking us to Maine.  I was quite confident we weren't going - snow was falling in Philly, and several inches had accumulated before we even boarded the plane. Everybody knows that even the glimpse of white shuts Philly down.   PANIC - our plane is called to board. I immediately refused to get on the plane, and was pacing in the jet bridge, insisting that EJ go alone. Furthermore, I had not consumed any alcohol, and surely I could not board this plane in a snow storm sober. His embarrassment level was through the roof,  but only escalated as the pilot came to speak with me.  In almost baby-talk, the pilot explained to me that it was safe to travel, and assured me that as the father of three (he showed me a photo of his three smiling children), he would not fly the plane in unsafe conditions.  He then walked me onto the plane, and had the flight attendant provide me with a beverage of my choice - alcoholic, obviously.

Further panic set in as the plane was de-iced - that process still mentally cripples me.  Then off we went.  We bounced all of the way to Maine, and upon landing, I was given a set of wings from the same flight attendant who liquored me up.  We were the last flight to land at the Portland Jet Port before it was closed due to the now blizzard conditions.

Apparently, we had not listened to the weather report, because we headed to the lovely Old Port area in Portland for a leisurely lunch, and then decided to drive to L.L. Bean's Flagship Store in Freeport - a good 20 minutes from Portland, and another 30 minutes to our final destination.  We were certainly well prepared in our rental car, which made a compact car look big, complete with nearly bare tires.

By the time we got to L.L. Bean snow was coming down hard.  I mean, it looked really pretty - L.L. Bean in the middle of Freeport all covered with white, fluffy snow - lovely.  After shopping for a bit, we came to our senses and figured we better get the f--k to our hotel.  As we traveled the highway, we watched well-equipped SUV's careen off the roads - what were we thinking screwing around in L.L. Bean like that?!  We were from Philly - we didn't know what to do in real snow storms!  No car shovel, no windshield scraper/brush, no clue where we were going - nothing.

We managed to get to the hotel, and were snowed in for 2 days.  25 inches of snow fell.  The hotel ran out of food, alcohol, and other necessities.  I felt like I was trapped somewhere between The Shining . . .

and Alive . . .

It was all bad.

Then, Monday morning rolled in and it was business as usual. Mainers dig out and they just move on. Blizzard done, off to the interview, and then onto The Blackwatch.  Spoiler - the Blackwatch had nothing to do with Scottish dry goods.

Well . . . How Did I Get Here?

I run.  

This, my friends, is a somewhat laughable statement.  While my body has the basic ability to run, it does so rarely, begrudgingly, and slowly.  And truth be told, I will never dare classify myself as a runner in light of the man/machine I live with whom logs in excess of 50 miles a week in road running – in the dead of winter – in Maine. 

I run for a couple of reasons.  One reason, is the gear.  I enjoy looking for the more comfy socks, most breathable tank, the right-length shorts (a near impossible feat), less slipable headband (found it! - see below*), and for God’s sake, a pair of running shoes through which my toes will not poke holes.  So ghetto, so embarrassing – always happens.  I refuse to believe that I have a toe problem vs. a shoe problem, so do not dare suggest that.  

A second reason I run is to burn calories and make way for the consumption of a slightly more ambitious meal later in the day.  If I know I am headed out or staying in for big eats, I lace up my hole-ridden shoes and gasp my way through a couple of miles all the while reminding myself that my husband ran 12 miles on ice-chunked road shoulders before I even woke up; I can certainly knock off 3 miles on a treadmill. . . ?  Hmmmm.  

The third, and perhaps most important reason I run is to listen to my ridiculous playlists.  As we all know, making a playlist is serious business.  With rare exception, my music taste and knowledge is stuck in the late 90’s, with some heavy emphasis on 70’s funk, reggae, jam bands, and some good old-fashioned, top 40 cheesy hits.  At best, my playlists are eclectic, but more likely, embarrassing if heard aloud. 

The timing on a running playlist is of the utmost import.  The thought process goes like this – “I’ll likely hit the hill about 8 minutes in, do I need a little Kanye or fast-paced Mumford and Sons?”  God knows I cannot rely on my body alone to get me up that hill – I need the perfect songs, in the perfect order.  Crucial choices.  Side note, my husband never runs with music and finds my preoccupation with the perfect playlist hilarious.  My fixation on the perfect headphones is another tale.      

One of the songs I frequently include on a playlist is The Talking Head’s classic, Once In A Lifetime.  This is not the push-me-up-the-hill song, but just one that really speaks to me.  As I listen to the words, “well . . . how did I get here?” I find myself sometimes echoing the words out loud.  There I am, running through the roads of rural Maine – pick-up trucks everywhere, snow plows attached, wildlife sightings common (often scary), people spread out – way out.  This place is a far cry from Philadelphia (in numbers alone, the population of the entire state of Maine is less than the City of Brotherly Love) – my last and much-beloved home, and even a far cry from Scranton – my first home.  Seriously – how did I get here?!  

This is Middle Maine.  We do not live on the Coast.  You’ve seen it – maybe in a movie like, In The Bedroom, and thought, man, I would love to live there.  Yep, that’s Camden, Maine, and it is awesome.  Breathtaking coastal views, independently-owned boutiques, sophisticated yet simple restaurants, a quaint but bustling town center complete with an Opera House, fabulous B&B’s, and plenty of celeb sightings.  

Camden is a good 2 hours away on two lane roads complete with lots of bottleneck traffic jam-ups.    

We also do not live in Portland, another amazing town (frequently named by Forbes and others as one of the most livable cities).  We do not live in the beautiful Lakes Region.  Nope.  We don’t live up North in ski country (not that I ski or desire to be any closer to life "off the grid," but some people like that.  Look up Eric Goodwin, Maine-born Renaissance man, who knows all things outdoorsy and possesses much knowledge of "off the grid" living.  Legend has it that he might even know a real hillbilly.).  


We live in Central Maine.  Central is good, I suppose.  You can get to all of the really good places – after driving a bit – sometimes a bit more.  We are right smack in the middle – kind of stuck in the middle in a lot of ways. 

Here’s what’s interesting.  We can’t leave – correction, won’t leave.  We can leave at any point, but now find that we don’t want to leave.  How did we get to the point where we don’t want to leave life in Middle Maine?!  Riddle me that (Batman). 

So, perhaps the real question is not “how did I get here,” but “how am I still here?” Almost eight years later, I am still unwrapping the riddle and figuring out just how life in Middle Maine has become tolerable, livable, and even enjoyable.   


*I LOVE Bondi Bands, especially if you have a mass of thick, gnarly hair like mine.  Score!  http://www.bondiband.com/