Euphopric (ok, and slightly exhausted)

In line with Friday's post, I thought I would stick with the "adjective" theme. And so I am happy to tell you that for the past three days, I have been nothing but euphoric. And exhausted, but euphoric definitely wins out. Remember last Friday, when I wrote that I wasn't sure what I was thinking when I signed up for this half ironman? Well, apparently I did. Know what I was thinking, that is. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, I am proud to report that this was the best race I have done in years. Centuries, perhaps. No injuries, no racing for third and losing, no bugs on my bike, and no getting lost on the swim. Instead, there was a great camaraderie among the competitors, awesome crowd support, a PR that beat my planned finish time by an hour and fifteen minutes, and a second place in my age category.

Now, in all fairness, I should add some caveats (obviously, or I wouldn't be the eeyore I am)

For one, there were only eleven women in this entire race, making the competition in my age group fairly non-existent. And although husband-dear will tell you that's just a sign of how tough the race is, I'm more likely to tell you I got the plaque just by showing up. However, in the spirit of the moment, let's just keep that between you and me.

In addition, the swim was possibly the craziest open water even I have ever been in. First of all, it was in a river. A river, people. Not a calm, warm lake, no, a live, bustling river with some serious white water rapids down stream. So there was no wading into the lake before the start, getting yourself a little wet and gearing up for what was to come, oh no. You got on a floating pontoon, put on your goggles and your bright pink swimcap, and jumped off when the gun shot sounded. Into water that was about 60F, and moving at a fairly rapid pace. I'm not sure my heart has yet figured out what happened. It felt as though we had just jumped off the Titanic into the icy waters of death, or something equally dramatic. It was colder than a witch's tit, there were fish everywhere (not to mention people in boats casting off as though there weren't hundreds of swimmer freestyling by), and, oh, the water was actually so clear, you could see the bottom (and thus the broken bottles, rotter boats, and schools of fish), which I thought was really interesting ("Cool! You get to snorkel and race!"), but apparently really freaked out some of my fellow contestants. Third, the current was amazing. Really, it was. I swam the first .6 miles in 18 minutes, an absolute record for me. But then came the bright yellow turn-around buoy, and suddenly it was as though we were all swimming in one of those endless pools: working our butts off, but not actually getting anywhere. I swam, and swam, and swam, and swam, and somehow the boat dock that marked our finish was just not getting any closer. Then, finally, twenty-four glorious minutes later, the boat dock was within reach, and I tried to stand up. Tried, as the river was still as deep as it had been minutes before. Again, the lake-swimmer that I am, I expected a beach, or at least some sort of sloping bank. But no. And so I imitated every single swimmer before me, swam up to the sloping dock, grappled for a hold on the busted up boat dock, and crawled up on to the rough concrete (let me tell you, those swim-finish pictures are the best. ever).

Then came the bike. 56.1 long miles on a seat narrowed than my foot. The bike was the portion I was least worried about, but apparently, I should have been a little more concerned. Not about my ability, as the bike itself went great, but about the actual course. You see, this race was what us athletes optimistically call the "inaugural" race, which is a lovely euphemism for, "hey, this is the first time we're doing this, so crap might go really wrong. Just FYI" . Practically, it means that the race director probably does not have all the kinks figured out, and, you might end up cycling into Alabama on accident, as one competitor did, because the signs were non-existent. Although I didn't end up on the wrong side of the river (which is really quite the miracle, knowing my tendency to get lost in the "zone", and completely miss things such as signs and waving volunteers), I did end up having to stop at one particular intersection where all the signs had disappeared, and ask a group of onlookers which way all the cyclists had turned, which just makes you look somewhat dorky. Athletic, but dorky. And for those of you who really want all the nasty details, the bike leg did not have any port-a-potties either. None. Imagine hundreds of athletes who have just swallowed about five gallons of river water, who are hell bent on proper hydration, and who will maintain that 17mph that they were aiming for, and you can see what pretty much all of us ended up doing. In case you can't, think Tour de France, downhills, and "you gotta go when you gotta go". Yeah. I felt like such a bada**. A disgusting bada**, but still, a bada**.

So you've swam your heart out, you've finished the bike (and your butt has vowed to NEVER talk to you again), and then all that lies between you and the finish line is a 13.1 mile run. And in this race, the race director has decided to break this down into two loops. At first, this did not sound like a good idea to me at all, but once I started, I realized how great it was. You get to see all the athletes, who are all beyond excited with the idea that they will be done soon, and ready to cheer everyone on with a "Way to go 36!", "Hang in there number 15!", and since you pass by the same aid stations several times, the volunteers get to know your preferences, "Number 36, you can take your hat off, we got your ice ready for you!". It was so encouraging, and completely made up for the fact that some of the people in the city had not gotten the memo about the half iron, and thus spend their time waiting at blocked off intersections, cussing at the runners passing by. You can't win them all.

So I spend 6 hours, 26 minutes, and 8 seconds on my feet on Saturday. And had I not spent five minutes rolling around on the ground in the transition area, trying to get out of a very much stuck wetsuit, I might have even broken the 6 hours and twenty minutes mark. So obviously there will definitely be another half iron.

Now excuse me, I have a plaque to hang on my office wall.

Terrifyingly, confusedly elated

I'm not sure if the phrase "terrifyingly elated" makes any sense to you, but that's pretty much what I feel like right now. Actually, let's add "confused" and "nervous" to that. So "Nervously confused and terrifyingly elated". I did not think it was possible to feel all those things at once, and judging by the rumbling in my stomach, my body isn't very happy about it, but there you have it.

Let's start with the confusion. When I started to write this blog, I was merely terrified, nervous, and elated. But then, lo and behold, the change that Blogger has been threatening to implement is here, and oh-my-god-what-happened-to-my-dashboard. Everything is white, light, spacious, and, worst of all, completely different from how it used to look. It's just like with running shoes - you found a pair you like, and before the year is up, the maker decides to "improve" the "running experience" by "further adapting" to "today's runners' needs". Or whatever. I liked my blog the way it was, and now it's weird, different, and I'll have to relearn my way around it. And honestly, living in the south is confusing enough as it is. I don't want that on my blog. Call me neurotic, a type-A personality, whatever you like, a) you're probably right, and b) it doesn't change the fact that I don't like it.

Alright then, time to put Sheldon Cooper away, and move on to the elation. For a half-empty-gal like myself, just typing that word is odd. But it's true. I have been feeling elated. And for not just one, but two reasons. First of all, yesterday I heard that I had been nominated for and won the "Excellence in teaching" award at work. Apparently, several of my students nominated me, and I won.
I won, people. I never win anything. And now I not only won something, but I won because in spite of all the huffing, the puffing, the eye rolling, the whining, the complaining, my students like what I do. Enough to nominate me. That is enough to make me want to cry. Again. It makes it all worth it.

Second, I also just found out that Jimmie has made the high school marching band. In the south, where high school bands are on a par with football teams, that is a Big. Deal. Everyone who can't play football and isn't a girl (as cheerleading is still very much for girls around here), wants to be on the marching band. And so did Jimmie. He had been practicing his trumpet around the house for weeks, much to the joy of all of especially his four-legged housemates, but apparently all the loud screeches, the endless scales, and the constant hunt for chapstick for his cracked lips was worth it, as this morning the band director emailed us that he was in. And just because I am one proud momma, I'm going to tell you that our high school marching band is one of the best in the state, has won several championships, and marches like no other. I have not looked at the fee schedule, the summer camp schedule, or the weekly training schedule yet, as I'm sure those will take away some of my elation, but for now, I'm happy for Jimmie. For the little kid who used to get picked on so bad he didn't want to ride the bus to school. That same little kid who is now going to march with the best.

And the terrified part? Well, for some reason I don't remember myself, I will be getting up at around 4:30 tomorrow morning (pending negotiations with husband-dear regarding departure times), and together with several hundred other people swim 1.2 miles, bike 56.1 miles, and then finish it all off with a nice 13.1 mile run. Hopefully within eight hours. And it looks like it's going to rain. Terrified doesn't even begin to describe it.

So there you have it, it is possible to be happy, confused, and scared to death all at the same time.

The wrong side of the tracks

I have a thing with railroad tracks. Ever since I was a little girl learning how to ride her bike back in Holland, railroad tracks have scared the bejeezus out of me. There was something about the dark, gleaming iron tracks, with the treacherous gutters on either side just waiting to reach out and grab your tire, that made me want to avoid railroad crossings at all costs. When I was little I would cross railroad tracks at a snail's pace, until one near-crash made me realize that going slow was actually the antithesis of a solution. Over the years, I figured out that speed and angle was the solution, and so Dutch railroad tracks slowly lost their sense of doom for me.

But then I start riding a roadbike. A bicycle with tires no wider than my thumb. A tire that is just dying to get stuck in ruts in the road, lose its balance while crossing into the gutter, and cause a fall and certain death at railroad crossings. Fortunately, Georgia is not exactly awash in railroad crossings, so for the past few years, I have not had to worry about dealing with the slick iron, the uneven pavement, and the gaping gutters. But then we started adding on the miles, and there was simply no avoiding the ancient, poorly maintained, barely used, but oh so quaint railroad crossing south of our town.

The first time I had to cross the uneven, slippery tracks, I squealed and complained the entire road leading up to the crossing, then unclipped my left foot from its pedal, just in case I needed to stop and get off, and slowed down to about 7mph. As the months wore on, I got better at navigating the track, although husband-dear and I never got careless. Never.

That's why whenever we approached the tracks. we always slowed down, made sure we're not right behind each other, and took the tracks at as much of an angle as possible. That's why we always keep our eyes on the road, and keep our conversation to a minimum. That's why we don't draft, and give each other space to swerve or stop if need be.

So one would think that two experiences athletes like ourselves would know to be extra careful on the last long ride before this season's major race. We would know to make sure we took the crossing at an angle, keep our eye on the other person, and stay a couple of feet behind them just in case.

One would think, yes. One would. But obviously, last Saturday, neither husband-dear nor I did that. You know, think. Instead, we were having too much fun riding together, talking, and planning next week's race. And so when we came upon the railroad tracks, we were not at the angle we needed to be. I was right next to husband-dear. Oh, and we were far too close to the side of the road.

You can all imagine what happened next I'm sure, even though I still have a hard time remembering exactly how it happened. Husband-dear's front tire hit the little gutter at the wrong angle, and gut stuck. The bike slide out from underneath husband-dear, who went down with a loud thud and an even louder "Whoa!". Cycling right behind him, the only thing I could do to avoid hitting his bicycle was swerve to the right, in the direction of the railroad tracks. My front tire hit the gutter as well, my bike slid out from other me, and with an apparently amazing display of acrobatics, my right foot unclipped, my right leg swung up, and as my bike came down, my body twisted counter-clockwise, and swinging out my right arm, I was able to break my fall ever with a loud thud on the gravelly pavement.

Immediate triage revealed bent handlebars (my bike), a broken gear line (husband-dear's bike), a ripped pair of bike shorts (husband-dear), a chafed, bloody arm (me), a chafed, bloody hip (husband-dear), a bruised knee (both of us), and bruised thigh (me). And as so typical to the south, a passing runner with his dog stopped to see if he could help. And when he realized we were bruised, bloody, but fine, he, in good southern fashion too, stayed and chatted. About an upcoming race. Endlessly. 

So does this mean we're not racing on Satuday? Of course not. I might look, to quote one of my students today, as though I've been in a knife fight, and our local bike store owner might have once again been able to add to his retirement fund, but we. are. racing.

We just better check out the bike course to make sure there are no railroad tracks we need to cross. Because I will get off and walk.
For real.

Skinning the cat

Husband-dear is not one to use, or for that matter, like, any of the sayings that the Dutch are so fond of. Whenever I start a sentence with "Well, you know, in Dutch we have a saying that..." I can just feel him working his best to not start rolling his eyes. He's more the "tell it like it is" type, so all these sayings about trees, birds, big legs and wealth, and wells are just for him. And in case you're worried, no, he dislikes American sayings just as much. You will never even catch him use a word such as "doohickey", or "thingie" - husband-dear will in all cases think before he speaks, and so he never has to struggle for a word. That must be nice.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to get to is that during the past few months, I finally, after all those years, got husband-dear to get off his anti-saying high horse (sorry honey), and use a saying. Just one, the same one that he's been using over and over, but it's a start. Honestly, I don't even think he's aware of it (yet).

Lately, he's been telling that I have been "skinning the cat my own way". Yep, the very first American saying my husband ever uses, and he picks one that involves torturing fuzzy little animals with really big eyes and fluffy tails. Anyway, I digress. The question is, of course, why would my husband be telling me that I need to/am/will skin(ning) the cat my own way?

Well, the answer is that I've been doing something that I've been keeping a secret from pretty much everyone.
I have spent the past four months training for a half ironman.

In case you just went, "A what?", a half ironman is an insane sporting event created for die-hard, slightly derailed athletes who are not yet ready to completely sacrifice their lives and participate in a "real" ironman, and therefore sign up for a race that "only" entails a 1.2 mile swim, a 56.1 mile bike, and a 13.1 mile run. And the reason I haven't told anyone is because I was worried I wasn't going to make it through all my training with my knees and my legs and my feet, and didn't want to look some idiot who announces something to the world and then doesn't go through with it. Since the race is a week from tomorrow, I think my knees, legs, and feet will be OK (but let's all knock on wood right now anyway. Thanks).

So where does this poor furless cat come in? Well, most half-iron training schedules involve things like swimming three times a week, biking two hours twice a week, running an hour four times a week, and other things that assume that the athlete has a normal job, at a normal commuting distance. The idea is to spread out the heavy workouts as much as possible, so you don't overtrain and end up injured. Great idea. If you have a normal job and a normal commute. As you all know, I have neither. My days usually start at 5am, and if I'm home by 6:30pm and have only a little work to do, it's been a great day. So there is just no way I can come home, bike for two hours, and retain my sanity. Subsequently, husband-dear and I came up with an alternative, a very alternative, training schedule. One that involved scheduling minor workouts throughout the week, and three heavy workouts back to back on Fri-Sat-Sun (a swim, bike, and bike-run, if you want to know), which according to all serious half-iron training plans is an absolute no-no, but which, according to husband-dear would actually work out beautifully ("since you''ll be exhausted start the run portion of the tri, it's great that you're training yourself to run on Sundays, when you're tired and hurting from the other two workouts"). Oh, and it worked out beautifully, if you discount the fact that some Sundays I was so tired, I could barely stand up straight. And that training schedule, that was, according to husband-dear, where I "skinned the cat my way".


So anytime I would read an article or a blog about the ideal training program for a half-iron, and talk to husband-dear how there was NO way I could do a half-iron since my schedule was NOTHING like theirs, and I was so obviously going to COMPLETELY fail at this, husband-dear would just remind me that I was getting my training in, I was, well, skinning that furry little four-legged creature differently from everyone else.

Obviously, we won't know if this whole alternative skinning technique was effective at all until next week Saturday. So until then, I'll just keep mistreating this poor kitten my way, and we'll see how it turns out.

Learning how to be half-full: The gratitude journal

Besides being a sarcastic cynic, at least when it comes to things such as students following directions and meeting deadlines, one could also call me a glass half-empty kind of girl. Not in a depressing, woe-is-me Eeyore style, but more your typical Dutch Calvinist "we'll believe that when we see it" kind of way. Let's say you and I are planning a trip together, I will be the one worrying about missing planes, losing luggage, and making sure everyone is up to date on their shots and health insurance, as in spite of having never experienced anything I couldn't handle, I'm always convinced that THIS time will different, and we will all be royally up a creek without a paddle, unless I plan for and talk about every possible thing that could go wrong.

Life with me is just a bundle of joy, let me tell you.

At any rate, since the person suffering the most from this semi-doomsday attitude to life was me (well, and poor husband-dear, of course, since he gets to listen to all my bat-guano crazy ideas about how DOOM will befall us), I figured I would be pro-active and do something sbout it. And so at the beginning if this year I started a gratitude journal.

Usually, I'm far too down to earth for anything as hippy dippy as a journal (which is why this blog does not count as a journal...I consider it an anthropological account of my life down south, thankyouverymuch). But I also figured it was about time I started to become more aware of the good things in my life. The things that are going pretty dang well, and which also happen to be the things I usually take for granted (our paper got accepted for publication! Well, of course it did, I spent weeks, months obsessing about, and anyway, we probably only got in because they needed a filler. Now, what about our next publication?). So for the past few months, I have made myself write down five things for which I am grateful every day. At times, I've had to get really creative, as some days have just been as gratitude-filled as a mound of fireants, but I have, much to my own amazement, always been able to find five things. Sometimes even six. Now some of them are downright hilarious, and as I was reading them out to husband-dear last night, I realized that since you guys get so much Eeyore (fine! I'll admit, I'm Eeyore) from me, it would only be fair to share some of my ups with you too.

So without further ado, here is the top ten of my funniest, most endearing, and oddest things to be grateful for:

10. Got to drive the CRV to work.
You may remember we purchased a new car about a year ago. It has seat warmers, XM radio, an IPod hookup, cruise control, and leather seats. It's also, technically, husband-dear's. And since husband-dear has this insane theory about racking up too many miles on it, I only drive it to work every once in a while. But when I do, it's 90 miles of partying, people!

9. No drive to work! This one is always followed by an exclamation mark too.
There are some Fridays when I can work from home, and even though I get up at the same time I normally do, and work as much if not more as I do at work, I LOVE not having to get in my car. I love, love, love, love it. Seriously. It is just a tad sad to consider how much I detest driving, though, when you realize I drive about 16K a year. In ten months. Yes. But at least I have a job (oooh....there is hope for Eeyore after all!)

8. Dusted the house.
Yeah, I'm not sure sbout that one myself. I'm guessing it had been a while since our cleaning lady had been by, the dust had piled up so thick it had become visible, snd I sctually found time to dust. Finding time to do anything has been a miracle lately, so perhaps that is where the gratitude came from, but yeah, dusting. I know.

7. Slept like a dead person.
With my life, and a husband who is a) the lightest sleeper in the world, and who will b) request you stop talking in your sleep/snoring/ flailing around/breathing loudly in the middle of the night, this is a miracle. I love sleeping, and there is no greater accomplishment than waking up as though you just rose from the dead (sorry, Jesus).

6. Had fun grocery shopping.
Because of my hectic schedule, I don't get to go grocery shopping a lot. But when I do, I apparently love it to pieces. Even though I went to school for 22-odd years, I love nothing better than picking out our vegetavles for the week. I know.

5. Came home to our wedding song playing and a martini.
I did really marry a great guy. I'm honestly still trying to figure out what he sees in an Eeyore like me. It must be my sarcasm.

4. Great epic ride, followed the next day by: did not have to exercise.
The word "epic" in our family is used to describe insane rains, winds, or even tornado watches. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor anything reslly has ever stopped us from riding, and there is just an awesome sense of pride that comes from walking into your garage with water gushing from your bike shoes, your hair matted into a wet ball, and your clothes plastered to your body. At the same time, there is also nothing better than having a rest-day. I know, I'm complicated

3. Got to eat a ton of snacks today.
So you may remember that I started using Myfitnesspal this year. Basically, this means that I track my calories and my exercise. And there's just nothing better than having just burnt close to 3000 calories (see #1 and #2), and hearing a bag of pretzel pieces and a tub of ice cream calling your name.

2. Ran nine miles without ITB straps, and pain-free!!
I know, who in their right mind would run nine miles, and then be grateful for it, but when you have been battling knee issues for the past three years, running without pain and without braces is a gift. From. God. Seriously.

1. I got to bike 70 miles today, and it only took four hours and twenty minutes.
And yes, people, even tough this might make me truly certifiable, that is something to be grateful for. Really.

So there you have it, ten of my weirdest and greatest gratitude entries. And let me add that I'm grateful for every single one of my readers too.

Heaven help me

So the reason I've been somewhat absent on the blogging front lately is the same reason I'm grading papers at 9am on a Sunday morning. Easter Sunday morning, no less. It's because I once again do not have enough hours in a day to do all the things I promised I would. And also because husband-dear and I decided that there would be no better way to start our day than by getting up at 5:45am to attend the 7am Sunrise service. I figured that once my soul and body had been adequately fed (the sunrise service leads into a huge, scrumptious breakfast), I would be more than ready to face the latest slew of student creations.

I was wrong.

Not wanting to bore you with yet another list of heinous writing errors, I'll just remind you that not too long ago I posted about how Georgia students' scores on standardized tests had dropped again in the past years. It would seem that some of those students have made it into college now. I'll also remind you of all those times I complained about students not knowing the difference between "there", "they're", and "their". How I wish that was my biggest concern right now. I just finished grading two papers where I spent two pages debating if the students were high when they wrote the paper, turned in an assignment for another class, or had merely slept through all of my lectures. It wasn't just the lack of paragraphing or proper sentence structure. It was a complete and total lack of direction. It was the squirrel-dog from "Up" on speed.

I've considered following the path of the least resistance, the one favored by probably smarter non-tenured co-workers, and one that will probably ensure my tenure is a shoe-in. The one that would guarantee that I would be done with this by noon, and could still enjoy some semblance of Easter. All I would have to do would be to give everyone a passing grade. Not all As, mind you, there would be some Bs and Cs in there too. But no Ds, and definitely no Fs. Not even for the worst of the plagiarists. I would just write short little comments about major oversights and letting the "smaller" issues (like paragraphing, proper citations, and clarity) go. If a student plagiarized, I would pull out my blue (red has been proven to negatively affect students' self-esteem) pen, and write in an exclamation mark and a constructive little comment like, "Try not to do this in the future!". And if a paragraph makes absolutely no freaking sense, one might pen in something positive yet directive like, "Reread this paragraph, it might need some work."

My co-workers and most of the employees at the advising center call this type of feedback "student-centered" and argues that it takes the student's limitations into account, only pushing them on those areas in which they show the potential to improve. In practice, it means that if Sandy can't write a proper paragraph to save her life, just let it go. She's already indicated she wants to go into television production, so what does her inability to organize a paper matter? And if John keeps plagiarizing, it obviously means the instructor has not done a good job explaining how to avoid plagiarism. It all comes back to the instructor, after all. As for me, I say it means that you've given up. You've given up on your students and their ability to learn. You've given up on yourself as a teacher, your own morals and integrity. And you've given up on the idea that only really hard work pays off.

So if I believe all of that, and I know it's true, why can't I just grit my teeth and show these kids (again) how to write? Why am I tired, worn out, and starting to believe that maybe it's me, and maybe I'm not the inspiring and smart teacher I like to think I am? Why I do yearn for the days I taught at a Dutch university and all of my VWO-graduates would freak out if their paper was two pages over the maximum? Wow, how I miss my over-achieving, nitpicking, self-starting, and above all, motivated VWO-students. The kinds of kids who need just a "that's not quite what I was talking about" to completely rip their paper apart and start over. Not that I don't have students like that over here, as I do. It's just that the majority appears to hold me personally responsible for their progress or lack thereof.

You all know me long enough by now that I will keep grading. And I'll keep telling my students things like, "Writing "because" does not prove causality" and "you must quotation marks around a direct quote". And I'll keep believing in their ability to become great writers, thinkers, and scholars. Because I think that in spite how much they might have been shortchanged by the education system in the Great State of Georgia, they can all be as good if not better than my little VWO show-offs. It's just that every once in a while, I just want to shake each of my little darlings individually, give them their paper back, and tell them, "Now don't turn it in until you know it's good enough for Dr. D."

Maybe I just need some coffee.

Charging the groceries

Because husband-dear and I are all about being a hip, 21st century, equal opportunity married couple, we share the chores. When I work a 14-hour day, husband-dear will pick up the slack around the house, run errands, and take care of the kids, and whenever I'm home, I do the same for him. It seems to work well, other than whenever I'm home he still ends up doing the yard, since I still don't see what's wrong with overgrown bushes and scraggly grass, and whenever I'm working million-hour weeks, I still dust our furniture, as I'm convinced men just can't see the thin layer of grey so obvious to people like myself.

So during spring break, while husband-dear was off doing what were, I'm sure, vital things for the nation, I took care of our laundry, the house, the kids, the dogs, in short, I went all June Cleaverish on my boys. One of the chores I took care of this past week, was shopping for groceries. Shopping for groceries has really always been husband-dear's Area of Responsibility, and so whenever I take over, it requires nothing short of a change of command ceremony to make sure I come home with the right stuff. We write a list together, he specifies the brands where necessary,  substitutes brand names with really long descriptions ("not minced fish sticks, but "from whole", and it's in a yellow box with a fisherman on it. I think he has a beard) in case he can't remember the name, and makes sure I get the products we need ("so make sure you get healthy select low sodium soup. It has a green heart on it. If they don't have low sodium, then get the healthy request brand, as their sodium levels are OK"). I then re-write the list in the order of the aisles of the grocery store (yes, I'm a dork), and all usually goes well.

Well, this past Thursday all was almost not well, as the commissary's card readers were broken. They were only taking cash or checks. While pretty much all of the elderly retired folk read the sign, shrugged, said to no one in particular, "Well, now, this is why I always carry my checkbook in my purse", and kept on moving, most young(er) folk like myself stopped dead in their tracks. I don't know if it is a generational thing, but our checkbook sits at home in our filing cabinet, with our bank things, and I never carry more than $10 in cash on me. So there I was, at the grocery store, list in hand, feeling all Suzy Homemaker-ish, but with no way to pay. This would not have happened to June Cleaver, obviously. Obviously, the homemaker gods felt the same way, as just as I was about to turn around and drive to the bank on base, I noticed the ATM machine squeezed in between the bathrooms and the organic grapes.

With enough cash to pay for my groceries and feel like a gangster at the same time, I proceeded on my merry little way. And noticed the commissary was surprisingly empty. So empty, in fact, that I set a new DixieChick household record for time spent grocery shopping. At the register, I asked the cashier if it was me, or if there really were fewer customers.
"Oh no, there's fewer people around. I guess most people leave when they see the sign, but a lot of folks don't see the sign, they shop, and then find out here at the register, and then have to leave all their groceries."
"But why don't they just take cash out of the ATM?"
"Well, they charge their groceries, and the ATM won't let you do a cash advance on your credit card."

I actually stopped and asked if she meant that these people would put their groceries on their credit cards. And she did. Now am I the only one who finds that somewhat odd? I understand charging your groceries when you earn points/miles/money with your credit card, but, and it's very possible I'm hopelessly old-fashioned, shouldn't you make sure you have enough money in the bank to use said credit card?

Apparently the answer is no.
I know Americans love their credit cards the same way Dutch people love their potatoes, but this really blew me away. For the past four years, I have been surrounded by students who charge their entire lives, using their credit cards to pay for exorbitant spring breaks, expensive purses, and cars that are out of my budget, and I've grown accustomed to learned to not criticize this habit of spending money even when there is no money to spend. I've also finally figured out why so many Americans who would visit me in Europe would think we were all poor because most people drive around in older cars, and live in smaller homes than they're used to: it's because in Europe most people don't buy stuff unless they can pay for it in cash, while in the US, it's perfectly acceptable to have a $400 monthly car payment for five years or so.

But only being able to pay for your groceries when you can charge it to your credit card is new to me. And I really, truly could not imagine doing that. Even when I imagined being a young airman's wife with two little kids, a car payment, student loans, and not two pennies to rub together, I couldn't picture myself charging my groceries. We would, first of all, not have a car payment, we probably also wouldn't have two kids if we couldn't afford them, but even if we did, I know that I would coupon/ramen/mac-n-cheese/grow-your-own-vegetables/breastfeed-for-a-few-years/get-a-nighttime-job my way out of accruing credit card debt on top of all of that. Sorry about the breastfeeding imagine. But you get the idea.

Maybe I should be nicer. In fact, I know I should probably be nicer. But having been thoroughly raised in the "use it up, make do, or do without" school of thought, I'm having a hard time with this. So please excuse me while I go in search of some grace.