Changing views

It's been a rocky start to my son's senior year of high school.  He's a bright kid, and has always done well in school, but at the end of last year, he started skipping classes.  The year didn't end well, and, despite his dad and my best hopes he'd change his tune over the summer, it's been more of the same.  We've had meetings with counselors, talked and listened, worried, asked, and even pleaded, but every day is still a coin toss.  The past several months have not been without moments of sheer frustration for his dad and me, but, thus far, neither of us has given up on our son. When it's your child, how is that even an option?

In the meantime, I go ahead and schedule a haircut appointment to trim his thick, wavy hair that seems to grow in inches in proportion to his long, thin legs.  Mission accomplished, I schedule an appointment for a Saturday at noon with a local studio for senior pictures. The deadline for submitting pictures to the yearbook staff is rapidly approaching.

Once upon a time, I had purchased a family portrait package at the studio, and, at least half a dozen times  before my son was six years old, our family had pictures taken there. Family Christmas photos, photos of  my son and daughter, a mom and daughter photo for Mother's Day. Most have been put into frames at some point or tucked into envelopes with Christmas newsletters or birthday cards

Just before 11:00 a.m. on appointment day, my son shows up in the rain at my house after spending the night at a friend's. His hair is wet, his jeans damp, but he insists he's showered. I had nearly given up that he'd show up at all and am angry at his cheekiness, but iron his shirts anyway. I ask him to go brush his teeth, and we're off.

We check in and an overly enthusiastic young woman, just barely out of high school herself it seems, tells us she'll be his photographer. She shows us back to the assigned room and Griffin goes into the adjoining restroom to change.

I don't recognize the dark red backdrop covering the back well at first, but then I notice the artificial Christmas tree in the right back corner of the room. I then realize it is the same room where we'd had our last family picture taken. It was my daughter's first Christmas, and my son was about three-and-a-half-at the time. My daughter wore a jumper of burgundy plaid and black Mary Janes. My son sported his first pair of khaki plants, matching his father. I wore a black velvet dress. In the photo we selected to buy, I hold my daughter, whose eyes brim with unsure tears at the strange man telling us to smile. My husband stands behind our son, with his hand on his shoulder, as our son leans against his dad's leg.  We may divorce, graduate, grow older, and grow up, but, the rooms we enter and leave often remain the same.

My son comes out of the restroom wearing a red plaid shirt that compliments his sparking brown eyes and shiny hair. He is so handsome. The photographer starts directing him into various poses and he obliges. No fussing, no steadying hand of his father today.

He looks into the camera with a self confidence I'm still learning to grasp.  I know, though, that some of that outward fearlessness belies the anxiety he is experiencing about school, about what lies ahead.  I have no role but to sit back in the background, watch, and hope. Hope that he graduates. Hope that it's okay that we haven't been back here as a family of four. Hope that we are all doing okay. Hope that he'll be looking straight ahead always, with no regrets, long after the camera shutter stops clicking.

Twenty minute crush

I was a mile into the first of two three-mile loops at Green Lake when I noticed her. She was a long-legged woman with short, grey hair.  About six to ten years older than me, I’d guess.  I was just getting over the hump of stiff legs, my left Achilles and right hamstring beginning to loosen up, when I fell in behind her.  At first, I didn’t intentionally step into her stride, but as we continued along the gravel path, my interest in staying right there with her grew.  Neither of us wore watches, but I knew she was helping me pick up my usual, lazy pace.

I followed at enough distance so that the crunch of my steps didn’t distract her, watching her relaxed arms, her elongated posture, and fluid turnover.  She never looked around her, but I could easily tell she wasn’t working as hard as I was.  We continued our circle of the lake in the late afternoon's hazy sun.   As I began to match her smooth stride, I became conscious of my wild left arm swing, and tucked both arms in closer.  I straightened my back.  I lifted my feet slightly.  I began to relax, too.  The leg aches faded and then were gone.  My breathing slowed.

As we began the third mile, I had come upon her right side, so I moved to the other side of the trail.  At mile’s end, just before I veered off to use the rest room, I spoke to her, thanking her for pulling me along. Something prompted me to tell her that I thought she was a lovely runner.  She smiled and thanked me, and politely complimented me, too. We chatted a few moments before parting ways and I didn’t see her again.

I contemplated the shared run during my second loop and wondered if other women ever felt the same way while running – purely platonic admiration. A male runner friend recently told me that he often things about sex while running.  I can honestly say that in thirty years of running -- including many marathons that have been long, painful tests of a wandering mind -- sex has never crossed it while my feet are in motion.  Of course, I occasionally notice good looking, fit men while running, but have never consciously followed one, tried to emulate running like one, or even finished a run still thinking about him.

But, perhaps at times when I most need them, I have had fleeting girl crushes on women who leave a lasting impression long after my I’ve completed the last mile, my breathing has slowed, and the endorphin high has waned.  Beautiful women I want to be more like, the next time I run.