On Turning 40 and Other Marathons

With no noticeable deterioration, shrivelling, or crisis, I turned 40 three months ago. (Though, a student happily informed me that in his country, I was actually 41, having had my first year in utero). The day, a warm, sunny Tuesday, passed with little fanfare. I ate pate at my first “real” French restaurant and watched a World Cup match in a hipster pub. That week, co-workers were nicer than I expected and joined me for dinner and plied me with gifts. I went to a tiny island and I didn’t write a bucket list.

But something did take root. A desire for this decade to be better than the last, with fewer setbacks and mistakes and more accomplishments. I had listened to a TED Talk podcast about millennials. One speaker, Meg Jay, talked about her book, “The Defining Decade: Why Our 20s Matter”. It depressed me a bit to think about all the stupid and wasteful things I did in my 20s and how little I did to figure out what I wanted to do. It still astounds me that I never thought to travel. I can’t even get into my headspace of that time. So it is with a sense of having to catch up that I enter this new decade.

Maybe this desire to chase down lost and wasted time has manifested itself into the desire for literal running. As with many of my other life decisions, I woke up one morning and decided to see if I could run more than my usual 10km. I mapped out a route in my head and 12km later, I was panting and buzzing with those good endorphins. Without stopping to take a shower, I sat down and registered for the half marathon. The next 8 weeks I stuck to the plan and accomplished my goal of running 20km (13 miles) without stopping.

But as I write this my stomach is gurgling from being overfed chicken fajitas. I wanted four, ate three but should have only had one or two. In fact, I should have had lettuce wraps or a salad. How is it I can be so regimented about running four mornings a week, including a two-hour run on a Saturday morning, but I cannot put down a jar of peanut butter once opened, or better yet, not open the peanut butter jar to begin with? The weight never went down from my “Road to 40” goals and in fact, went up 2kg!

There are so many marathons yet to be run this decade. Self-discipline. Being less of an introvert, engaging more. (I prefer an hour of running to five minutes of small talk.) And the biggest hurdle of all: actually doing something and being less of a consumer than a producer.

In the meantime, there’s the mundane rituals of pleasure and pain to get me through the days. Endless choices of entertainment in English (pleasure!); working out at the gym and trying to master Pilates (pain!); planning and teaching advanced English 30 hours a week (pain!), but having students tell me I’m the best teacher (pleasure!); waiting months for a holiday (pain!); getting to go to France and Italy (pleasure!); having a wonderful partner and both of us enjoying good health (pleasure, pleasure, pleaure).

 

I've Joined the Club!

That morning, I sat scrolling through dozens of facebook posts as I usually do with my first cup of coffee. For some reason there were a few more touching than usual baby posts—a birthday of a ridiculously pretty three year old, the birth of a baby to a genuinely lovely, down to earth family. Some of these pictures of babies and young children were accompanied by a short message bursting at the seams to proclaim how amazing, awe-inspiring, life-changing, magical, maddening-and-frustrating-but-worth it, children are. I see dozens of these every time I log onto facebook and I believe them. I really do.

But the facebook status that stopped me in my tracks that day wasn’t a baby with a presumably sweet-smelling scalp or an adorable toddler saying adorably kooky things. It wasn’t even remotely child-related.

It was a fish.

Caught by my good friends who are currently living on the coast of Tunisia. They’d trekked through scorching heat to the deserted beach, put their line into the blue waves, and pulled out a big one, which they later fried and must surely have eaten with a bottle of wine as the surf pounded nearby.

I stared at the picture for a long time, marvelling at how jealous it made me feel and how whimsically it illustrated some of the reasons for a tough decision I made a couple of months ago to live a child-free existence.

There are, in fact,  several reasons it might be wonderful to have kids:

Jmaking this little creature that would be a mixture of me and the person I love most in the world

Jliving for something beyond myself

Jstrengthening the gene pool

Jpassing on the genetic code of the first people I loved most in the world

Jcreating a deeper bond with parents and relatives

Jgetting the good seats on buses

While I could intellectually realise all these great reasons, I just truly didn’t feel the desire to be a mother. I tried. I sat and meditated upon it, visualised it, thought of all the good things that could come from it. I willed myself to want it and occasionally a tug or two on the heartstrings and ovaries would happen, but usually washed away in a flood of relief each month. I just didn’t/couldn’t want it and had to ask S a thousand times, “Are we sure? Are you sure? Are we crazy? What’s wrong with us?”

And the feeling pervasively stuck between doubt and relief, was guilt. For the disappointment it would likely cause our families. For having one more thing that would keep me from connecting with others. For being so selfish and self-absorbed. For potentially robbing my husband of the chance of fatherhood should his feelings change down the line. For being able to (as far as I know) when so many other families cannot.

But that damn fish!!

Having children and having a hedonistic life of adventure are not mutually exclusive, I know. People I grew up with are scattered all over the world having amazing lives with offspring included. And let’s be honest, my current life of teaching during the day, cooking dinner at night and watching The Colbert Report isn’t exactly adventurous.

I could give several reasons (all true) about why I don’t want children: minimizing my carbon footprint; ending cycles of mental illness; etc, but it all boils down to one terrible, fundamental truth: If I wake up one day and want to catch a fish in the Mediterranean Sea and later cook it as the sun goes down, I want to be able to.

I went off the Pill for nearly a year, passing the buck on the decision-making to Fate, ready to take on the challenge of motherhood should Fate decide it so. But as each month passed, I started to realize I felt more dread and subsequent relief rather than disappointment and subsequent optimism. It occurred to me that it was absolutely idiotic to play this brand of Russian roulette.

And so, I popped a pill and joined the ranks of those who are Child-free, though I don’t feel a need to officially join any groups (they do exist) any more than I feel a need to join a group for people who don’t have pets. And now that I mention it, not being able to have a cat has been much harder to deal with than not having children. And there you have it.

 

A Day in the Life of a 40 Year-old TEFL Teacher

 

textbooks, cookbooks, laptop, star pants. very typical day

Last week I gave my students an assignment to write a blog about their daily lives while studying in Dublin. I showed them my "Day in the Life" blog from when I was living in Thailand. I then launched into an impromptu lecture about how we shouldn’t only capture the “great moments” —adventures, parties, and milestones--but that we should also record what our average day is like so that when we reread it, we are transported back in time. When I reread my "Day in the Life" blog from November of 2012, I can smell the sea air, the complexity of the curry, and the ever so musty damp smell of some of the classrooms. I see the students in their pressed white shirts and black trousers or skirts. I sea the greenish blue sea outside the classroom window. I hear the “sawadee ka’s” and motorbikes and tuk-tuk horns. I taste the chillies and cheap beer. I’m there.

So now that my life has fallen into a comfortable, stable rhythm here in Dublin, I’d like to do the same because who knows how long everyday will be like this one.



O'Connell Street art

 The Day Begins

I awaken at 5:00 am and trudge to the living room in my soft and yet to be washed turquoise robe with big blue stars. The seagulls seem to be in a drunken rage and the drunks are cooing to one another on the street below. I make my instant coffee, thinking as I do every day, that I should take the extra three minutes to make a quality cup with the caffeterria I bought in Bologna. I sit down and torture myself by looking at facebook. In the span of 15 minutes, I am disgusted, amused, and bored senseless. I no longer even look at memes.

At 5:30, I either run or plan my classes for the day. In the last year, I’ve experienced running in total darkness in winter, to midday like sunshine in summer. The extremity of the length of days in Ireland has been quite an adjustment. I run on busy streets to avoid being raped, mugged, or murdered, knowing full well that there’s a higher statistical probability that I’ll be hit by a car, bus, or the LUAS.

part of the morning run, often accompanied by the smell of roasted barley

After the run, I make my second cup of coffee and say good-bye to S as he heads to the gym. I quickly get ready, somehow always seem to be putting on my shoes at exactly 7:20. I put on a podcast (BBC, Freakonomics, Radiolab, WTF, etc). If I’ve run and/or the weather is crap, I walk to the bus stop on O’Connell Street, passing hordes of tourists who are queueing for various excursions in Ireland.  I try not to scowl at them. If the weather is nice as it was this entire past summer, I walk 45 minutes to the schwanky southside Dublin 6, where people drive Porsches and send their kids to private boarding schools. The difference between Dublin 1 and Dublin 6 can easily be seen by just looking at mothers and their prams. In Dublin 6, coifed hair, coordinating gym gear, expensive runners. Dublin 1, severe make-up, cigarette in one hand, and a lot of loud shouting (while pushing said pram).

view when crossing from north side to the south side

My school is in a lovely old Georgian house and nearly every classroom has a fireplace. Walking up the stairs, you can hear the creaking of decades-old wooden stairs. I’m always one of the first to arrive. I make my copies, go to my room, and run through the lesson in my head. Most teachers stroll (or rush) in at about 8:55. This goes against the grain of my Midwestern upbringing. Even living in Thailand didn’t beat the punctuality out of me.



my first classroom was the little one on the far left

Behind the old and lovely Georgian house is a modern building with more classrooms. This is where my first class is. From 9:00-11:00, I teach grammar. My current class is Intermediate Level and has a mix of East Asian, South American, and Saudi students. I adore them. Sometimes the dynamic of a class is just perfect and it’s actually a joy to teach. Just for fun, I’d like you to imagine how you’d explain when you use "the" and when you use "a/an". Just try. If it makes you want to stab your forehead with a fork then you know how some days are for me….



staff battle for a place to sit in the staff room

At 11:00 we have a break. The staff room is located off the main house and is the size and shape of a single trailer. It’s a narrow and cramped space and you can’t walk 5 feet without running into a person, chair, or bookshelf. This makes me feel nuts, so I usually go to my next classroom and just enjoy a bit of solitude and quiet. I try to make up for my anti-social behaviour at lunch, but not sure how gregarious I am there either. I’m just an introvert and I’ve found that not only can I not change my spots, I’m not sure I even want to. For the first few months, I found I could barely follow the conversations about world politics, film, books, theatre, and football (no surprise there). The teachers at my school seem to be mutant hybrids of academic scholars and pop culture experts.I often felt my brain was overloaded. I hadn’t had this level of workplace banter in years due to being the only native speaker where I was teaching.



how I feel amongst my brainiac cultured colleagues

The second class involves more speaking, listening, and vocabulary. Students generally regard this as the “fun” class, but I try to make my grammar classes and after break classes equally stimulating. By 1:00, we’re all starving but push through to 1:20 and lunch time. We have a canteen at our school where you can fill up a small plate for 4 euro with a lot of delicious looking things like pasta, ribs, potatoes, salad, sausages, etc. But in the one year I’ve worked at the school, I’ve never gotten food from there. I bring leftovers from what I cooked the night before. For two reasons: One, it’s cheaper and allows me to spend more money at the weekend and two, my leftovers are small portions which allows me to control some of my calorie intake. However, Nighttime Erika is such a bastard to Lunchtime Erika when it comes to putting part of the dinner away for the next day.



Lunchtime E will be lucky to get one meatball

After lunch, there are sometimes additional classes available to teach such as General English/Culture or IELTS. At the moment I’m teaching an IELTS group T-Th and though the extra prep makes for a long day, they’re a good group of 4 and the extra money is being squirrelled away for a holiday.



next trip: Lyon, France

At 4:15 I either dash out the door to catch the bus or take my time walking home. I listen to a podcast and try not to let my mind wander too much about what I’m going to cook for dinner or what I’m going to teach the next day. I’ve been trying to improve my listening skills. I heard in a TED lecture that people whose minds wander generally tend to be unhappy.

Every day I go to Moore Street, Tesco, or one of the many Asian food shops to get some things to make dinner. I know that most normal people do all their shopping at the weekend or in some cases, order their shopping on-line and have it delivered (this is way too weird for me). I like to be surrounded by colourful food and inhale the aromas of produce and spices. It calms me. Someday I’ll do a whole other blog about my culinary creations and adventures.

At home, if it’s not a gym day, the best moment of the day is removing the bra and changing into my "star pants" and t-shirt. If it is a gym day, I begrudgingly put on the gear and go to sweat it out amongst the thin-legged and oversized-armed boys. Back at home, I plan for the next day and then head into the kitchen for a little meditation and wine. Somewhere in there, S arrives home after his long 9:45-5:45 day. When dinner is ready, we eat while streaming The Daily Show, Colbert, or more recently, John Oliver’s new show. If an addictive series is on like Mad Men, Game of Thrones, or Orange is the New Black, we watch the latest of that. Then it’s back to work planning or for me usually, off to bed. Sadly, I go to bed about 8:30 to read or look at cookbooks and drift off around 9:00 or 9:30. Since I started running so early, I’ve no problems falling asleep. Sleep is a delicious, beautiful part of my day.
 

The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make in living in an English-speaking country other than trying to actually have intellectual conversations and not having a cat, is working a full Monday to Friday workweek. Looking back at my “Day in the Life” blogs doesn’t elucidate what I did with all my extra free time. Whereas before Saturday was just another day when I may or may not be teaching, now it is the weekly pot of gold at the end of tiring rainbow. The Weekend. The Days of Hedonism. Ah, another blog someday just for that.



getting served pate. a lot more delicious than it looks

 

 

 

 

 

A Lot of Dingle, No Berries

"Welcome to Dingle!"

When I found out there was an entire peninsula in Ireland called Dingle, I knew I had to go. Who doesn't chuckle at the thought of "dingle berry"? The problem with Dingle is that it is ALL the way on the southwest side of this tiny island. Distance, like time, is a funny relative thing. A three hour drive in Iowa seems a bit long, yes, but it won't even get you across the state. Here it gets you across the country.

view from the train

Living in the city centre next to a cinema and within walking distance of every amenity imaginable is fantastic. But I was beginning to need a break from the rubbish, daily puddles of vomit, and the other flotsam and jetsam of urban life. June 1 was the first day of "summer" and June 2 was a bank holiday, so it was a perfect time for a cross country journey.Three hours on the train through the countryside, on a sunny day, whilst drinking wine and sitting next to my favourite person was the best possible way to begin.

Dingle Harbour at 9:00 pm

Dingle town is a town of about 2000 people and is quaint enough to draw tourists but not too gimmicky to draw them by the busloads. We stayed at a little B&B off the main street and had the attic room. Huge room with great views!

view from the B&B attic window

As usual, we didn't think through our plan 100%. Walking in nature, seeing the sea, and having pints in little cozy pubs were on the list of things to do. But what we hadn't really anticipated was that to get to the top spots on the peninsula, you need a car. No trains or public transport exists.

coastal view about half way through the walk

Brave souls take 2 weeks or so from their everyday lives to walk The Dingle Way which covers all of the peninsula. We grabbed a map and knowing we'd have to circle back, tried to go as far as we could.

the biggest of Blasket Islands in the background

Along the way, we walked in the hills among farms and every so often at the top of a hill, were greeted by a stunning view of the Atlantic and the Blasket Islands. The best part for me was seeing some sheep. I'd seen many a sheep from a bus or train window but never up close and personal.

one of many groups of sheep who ignored us

 4 hours after beginning, we made it to the Famine Cottages before deciding we had to go back. I would have paid a hefty sum for someone to stop and pick me up, but a few nice surprises in the form of pubs made the 5 hour walk a bit more bearable.

pub opened by famous rival of Dublin's Gaelic football team

I didn't see the filming site of "Ryan's Daughter" nor did I see any of the famous surfing spots. But for 10 tiring, but blissful hours, I was surrounded by the low conversations of animals, the gossip of birds, and the wind. And ending the evening with a few pints and perfect fish & chips wasn't bad either.

on the Dingle Way

Dingle town at sunset

Dingle Way path

Blasket Islands

a young boy practising

cemetery!

Stephen ponders Paudie O'Shea's memorabilia

old medieval church

afternoon cloud action

hangin' with the DJs post walk

 

Dingle town at sunset

Dingle town



Fungi the town dophin

Dingle Way

view of Ventry from afar

fresh, fresh air!

happy cow

Blasket Islands

rolling farmland

the battle for blue sky

introverted sheep

2 sheep chill on a hill

and the weather clears just as we are nearly back to town

silent stretch

where's the bus stop?



home on the range