Lesson 15. Aesop=liar

I have decided that - although I am mightily proud of myself for finishing my 10k - I think I have the need to address a whole bunch of dirty lies that have been spread by some typically trustworthy individuals.

Aesop - you and your stupid slow turtle can go to hell.

And you, the little I think I can Engine, you can join them.

In fact, let's wrap up all the rags to riches, sweepers to princesses, and especially nerds to super athlete stories and thrown them in the rubbish bin.

Slow and steady wins the race???

Are you for serious?

No. The truth of the matter is that the rabbit always wins.

I don't know if it is nature or nurture, but that darn rabbit is just going to win against the stupid turtle. Frankly, it's an unfair setup.

This does not mean that the turtle has not done a brilliant job.

But a turtle is a turtle.

Slow and steady will place the turtle at the finish line, perhaps before the snails, sloths and the molasses, but definitely behind the rabbits, gazelles, and other faster land creatures.

I am all for self-improvement and self-empowerment, but I think before my next race, I have to ignore Aesop and try the rabbit on for size.

Lesson 14. When people say, it's not you, it's me...

... it's really you.

We watched The Wolfman this weekend.

Anthony (sorry... Sir Anthony) Hopkins.
Emily Blunt.
Benecio del Toro (reason enough to watch).

Unsurprisingly, Hopkins turned out to be... wait for it ... an evil Wolfman.

And once people found out... how quick they were to backpedal out of there, assuring him that it was not him, it was them.

Nonsense.

They did not want to be eaten.

Plus he was a lousy housekeeper.

I mean, terrible. Dude should've dusted.

Some of my classes at school have become ... unpopular.
Basically kids are dropping like flies.

And while I am being told the beginner of all breakups (It's not you...) I can't help but think, is it me?

Be it my Freudian transference, my underdeveloped self conscious, my professional desire for likability, I wonder.

But... JayZ still being my monthly inspiration (and first song on my 10k running playlist), I'm gonna opt to dust that dirt off my shoulders.

Lesson 13. Kill 'em with kindness.

I'm starting to think that Hamlet could have been more successful if - instead of acting all cuckoo for cocoa puffs - he just acted really grateful and sweet.

It would've driven Claudius nuts.

I mean it. I am a woman with so much Catholic guilt it often eeks out my ears.

If I did something naughty like Claudius, Hamlet being kind to me would drive me bonkers. Likely to my own confession.

No bloodshed.
No pirates.
No sad Horatio at the end and Ophelia in the water.

Lately, my mother has had to deal with a woman who - for much of her adult life - has been nothing but a thorn in her side.

A twisty jabbing awful thorn in your side.

That oozes.

And pusses.

And somehow always opens up on what should be good times.

And my mother... she should be sainted.

She is the very definition of grace and sweetness.

And not only does she win in the end, because grace and sweetness leave only positive karma, but everyone else is left scratching their heads and wishing they could make the comments that they had saved for this very instance.

Lesson 12. Brush that dirt off your shoulder.

Tomorrow is (predominantly) old school rap day.

And if there is one thing that I have learned from Jay Z, Eminem, and countless others, it's optimism.

I think part of me may mean this.

My earliest encounters with rap were Will Smith and the Beastie Boys.
I learned that I could go from being in West Philly relaxin all cool to being living large in Bel Air.
I learned that even the biggest geek could rename himself, mix in some bravado, and become Ad-Rock.

It's like rags to riches and Polyanna all wrapped into an urban, sometimes violent, often misogynistic package.

Basically, I am thinking that my (secret) love of (some) rap allows me to ignore bad things, bop my head a little while running, and to fall for mesmerizing, tantalizing, captivating, and devastating lyrics.

I'm definitely not saying that this lady is a pimp too... but there is something nice about the idea of leaving the dust of the day behind and to pat oneself on the back for mad flow.

Lesson 11. Me and Edmund Dantes.

What I learned from my billions of experiences with The Count of Monte Cristo is as follows.

Living well is the best revenge.

I know. I know.

The moral is supposed to be: God will give me justice.

But what I have learned is that Edmund got lots and lots of education, money, and prestige by being cranky.

Once he had these, he was able to make the people who hurt him pay.

And he got the bonus of an amusing sidekick, a beautiful wife, a kid without having to deal with pregnancy or the terrible twos.

Edmund won.

Now, I do not have a list of people on whom I want to seek revenge.

No one has stolen my love, my identity, or really much more than a bunch of cds (yes, back in the day when we had cds).

But this living well idea sounds fabulous.

So when I run, I look at houses I could live well in.

There is one, on the hill, that has - over the years - become my dream house.

It's the one that I tell Chris I want to Monte Cristo (drive up and buy it with a cart full of gold and jewels).

And now it's for sale!

The catch? It's 1.5 million dollars.

Not even I knew I had planned on living quite so good.

But don't worry. I have a plan.

By tomorrow, you will be able to name 2 lottery winners. Hurley... and me!

Lesson 10. It's not the heat; it's the humidity.

"When writers send characters south, it's so they can run amok" (Foster 171).

Foster's right - generally.

Heat is associated with loose morals, loose women, and loose tax laws.

I can't tell you how many books I have read where there is a life changing event in Mexico.

Because, in Mexico... anything is possible?

Why? Because it's hot.

And for some reason, we associate heat with relaxed atmospheres and less than Puritanical belief sets.

Which, I guess, when it comes to fiestas and siestas is true.

But it is weird... because when the heat comes North...

to say a classroom in North NJ...

that is over 98 degrees on the first day...

well, there is no passion, flavor, or flare.

There is just sweat and whining.

I don't know if I ever really understood this whole south-amok thing.
When I get hot, I get sleepy.