Saving Face


"My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem."

This is John Willoughby, a character in Austen's Sense & Sensibility. In the letter from which this text is lifted, JW is wiggling out of his very public love affair with one of the protagonists, the innocent and passionate Marianne Dashwood. He is being superficially gallant in blaming himself for her misunderstanding of his words and deeds.

Of all the authors I love and admire, I think Austen's rules for living life are the most practical, if not the most true. Her attention to the civilities is what keeps the wheels of social interaction turning. She puts the civil in civilization.

I have three sisters. I am very close with each of them. Their friends are my friends. They have included me in their plans, schemes and lives as far back as I can remember. My sister T has been my best friend all my life. We would joke that we did not need to make friends because we had each other. At my wedding she read a passage from the Book of Ruth that I particularly chose. As she recited "Wither thou goest, I will go," I knew we were referring to my husband and myself, but also to T and myself. We had referred to this passage always.

But up until about 6 months ago, she and I had not really even spoken for nearly 3 years. It is a trip to even type that phrase. We live less than 3 miles apart. Our children go to the same school. But we fell completely apart somewhere around 3 or 4 years ago. There was an erosion, and a few awful watershed incidents, and then silence. Judgemental, angry, hurt, egotistical silence. For years.

There never was any acknowledgement of the falling out, nor will there ever be. Somewhere around a few months ago, we began to reinvent our relationship.

It's distant and careful. I can live with this, because I am more guarded with her now than I have ever been with any person because I was so completely bereft when she and I crumbled. Pride goeth before the fall, I know. Yes, I am sure that of the Seven Deadly Sins, Pride is my weakness, and could easily lead to my downfall.

Here is where Austen creeps in: That there has never been an open discussion about what happened and why. No blame will ever be assigned. No purge. No Come to Jesus. None and never. She and I are each the most prideful people I have ever known, and in order to become friends again, it is by tacit agreement that we allow each other to save face entirely by just picking it up and moving on.

Austen would approve. Her characters are allowed to save face. Their pride is intact. They are never brought low by the truth being broadcast, regardless of their sin, because the truth usually hurts innocent parties as well. It is for the greater good that it be allowed to remain in the past.

But what happens to Austen's sinners? She leaves that to fate or karma or the Justice of God. It comes around.

Willoughby throws over Marianne, his true love, in order to engage himself to a cold but very rich woman. He needs the money, you see. As Marianne's sister later states:

"But does it thence follow that, had he married you, he would have been happy? The inconveniencies would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous -- always poor; and probably would soon have learnt to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife."

Karma bit Willoughby in the shorts. He has money but a wife he does not love. He broke faith with Marianne, but was allowed to get away with it without censure because to bring him to task would hurt Marianne, her family, her social standing, etc.

I am all for being allowed to save face. Pretending it did not happen is fine with me, if one is prepared to pay the price.

Regarding my sister, we communicate regularly now, but strangely enough, we communicate through music or movies or books. ALL we talk about are cbooks we have read, character analysis, motivations, music we are listening to recently, movies we have seen and our reactiosn to them. We communicate (sad but true) through the Netflix interface more than in person.

For now, it is almost fine with me. I feel like I'm learning to walk again after having casts on both legs for years. I'm really glad I'm walking, but I hate myself for being clumsy enough to allow the break to happen. Pride goeth before the fall.

Places I Did Not Know Existed

Sore, that is. Something about that boot camp class yesterday did me a bad turn. C was sore almost immediately, but I was fine. I was even fine as I set out on a 7-mile run today. But about halfway through I realized that my quads felt wooden and my shoulders hurt with every footfall. This evening I am in genuine pain, and I am not sure why. I can only attribute it to the explosive movements they had me performing, when I am used to more sustained, fluid movement. Either way, it adds another dimension of humiliation to the whole experience. But I am determined to repeat it.

I registered for a January marathon and also for a local 10K in November. The 10K is very very hilly, but historically I have done well in this particular event. The best thing about the 10K is the kids events on the high school track. Last year, Mr. T fell halfway through and was miserable with a nasty scraped elbow-knee combo. Angry, red and swollen. Still, we hiked three miles that afternoon.

My Cha-Cha broke her arm tonight. She slogged through the doctor visit, the X-ray and orthopedist, exhausted and tearful. Now tucked into a comforter on the couch with a book and some music on the stereo. She'll end up sleeping with me, I am sure, which is fine with me. I love it. Poor little thing with a big white cast on that tiny arm. I can't put my finger on why I am so sad tonight.

Stepping Back/Stepping Forward


Since June I have stepped back from running in order to let my husband surf. This sounds ridiculous, but think about it: If I am running long on Sunday mornings -- as I have been doing regularly since, well, for a few years now at least -- then he cannot take that time to hit the surf early. That block of time is prime real estate, and if I have staked my claim there, he does not have much of a chance to get his share. Saturday mornings are non-negotiable, as that is time spent together with the children. I would not interrupt that for anything.

I've had a lot of freedom this summer -- I've gone on a few running-related trips, done some great races locally and farther afield. I have missed some beautiful opportunities to be with my little spuds. So I offered to stop training for my October marathon and hand those Sundays over to C for surfing. Which means I am out for October's race. But there is no sacrifice without a reward. The mornings alone with my children are languid, relaxed, creative times. We've made more time for reading together, for church, for cooking together. There are also the rewards that come to my marriage. C surfs with J, the husband of one of my dearest friends. C and J have become very solid friends, and I love seeing how happy this makes my husband. J is also a very spiritual man, and for some reason I cannot fathom, he is able to discuss his faith with C, where usually this subject would be off-limits. I am quietly so grateful for this. Not running on a Sunday morning is a paltry sacrifice for such a bounty.

But I need to make a decision for a January marathon. My local event is held on the exact routes I use to train. I've done it before. It's hilly. Half of it is run along the ocean -- and very beautiful. Half is run through bland industrial parks. Not ugly, just...uninspiring. It's a slog. I gave up the pursuit of PRs and the like a couple of years back, so it would be just to keep me honest through the holidays. It would help me stay aerobically fit in preparaton for an ultra I have my eye on for Spring 07.

O God, I am remembering the local marathon here. It stands out in my memory as having some of the worst on-route musical "inspiration" ever ever ever. If Barry Manilow himself were to perform at Mile 22, it could not be any worse. I have to think about this.

For now, husband is surfing, and I'm cool with that.

Watched a Movie:

Dot The I

This came toward the end of a Gael Garcia Bernal bender. My husband really loves to watch movies in his native Spanish, and there are so many good ones out now due to some kind of Mexican film boom. We had seen Amores Perros (good), Y Tu Mama, Tambien (dismal), Bad Education (good!! FUNK!), and this one (Dot the I) was the only on actually in English. My husband, who knows I love language, colloquialisms and vernacular, likes to point out the differences among Mexican Spanish, South American dialects, and classical Castilian. Nice side benefit.

OK. Dot the I. It makes unfortunate comparisons to itself and Memento, which is insulting and preposterous. Just because this movie tells its story with out-of-order snippets, and hints at unseen motives and identities, does not make it Memento. It doen't even make it particularly good. I love James D'Arcy and I will see almost anything with Bernal in it, but this was no better than OK. You really want to watch the payoff of the mystery (one character is actually "acting" in what he calls the ultimate reality show...he is making an emotional snuff film), but when it comes, it's a shoulder-shrugger. Eh. It tries really hard, and it shows.

JA Factor: Zero
F Factor: 8 out of 10
Rated: R
What it should be rated: R. I would not let my 15-year old nephew watch it. Not with me, anyway.

Curve Balls From My Children

My children's favorite bed time song from me is a Madrigal I sang in high school. I was shocked that I remembered it when first I sang it to my infant son about 7 years ago. But it has become a standard, and the most requested one. Molly Malone, Home Again Kathleen, A Little Bit of Heaven and all the other Irish songs are nice, but this ineffably sad piece is the one they want most. We've dissected the lyrics, and extracted it's lachrymose meaning. They still love it:

The silver swan, who living had no note,
When death approach'd, unlock'd her silent throat;
Leaning her breast against the reedy shore,
Thus sung her first and last, and sang no more.
Farewell, all joys; O Death, come close mine eyes;
More geese than swans now live, more fools than wise.

---Orlando Gibbons, 1612

It is in keeping with many questions they are asking me lately about dying and death: specifically their own deaths, and my death. I answer then as honestly as I can, telling them what I believe. I struggle to respect my husband's beliefs as well, while trying not to frighten or insult them. I tell then I don't know for certain, but that I believe we will all be together again in His divine presence, in the arms of Our Lord.

I know their questions are similar to my own questions at their age. But my parents presented to me a united front -- an unshakeable belief and a solid answer. Consequently, I cannot recall fearing death as a child. Even now, the only death I truly fear is, ironically, that of my children.

Last week they stayed overnight with my mother. She is not the Warm, Cuddly grandma. She is more like a 90-lb version of John Wayne and George S Patton, dressed in immaculate Levis and a snow-white T shirt. But she brings a lot of history and opinion to the table. I know how they spent their sleepover: She probably showed them paintings of Civil War generals and old photographs of her father as a Southern California business pioneer in WWII.

I also know she showed them photographs of my father, who died when I was 17. We have pictures of him here...many pictures. But she showed them pictures of him as a child, as a young man, with his infant children. They ask about him constantly. Probably because we still talk and laugh about him constantly, as if he just left the room, as if he left just last week. Something else telling: They remark how I look exactly like my high school and college photos, except for all the lines on my face. They ask if the lines mean I will die soon.

I am laughing as I write this, yet I am a little sad for them, that they are already so anxious about this. Here's hoping it is a phase, because I have been able to field all the curve balls they have thrown me so far, but I am almost afraid to swing the bat on these.