Money in the Bank

Today I am healthy. And not just in a way that denotes "not sick," but an actual feeling of wellness. A year ago, I was losing weight, and that felt kind of good. I needed to lose a little, but I lost way more than that and it was a little scary, I wasn't trying to lose weight but I just didn't have much of an appetite.

Since then, I have gained nearly all of the weight back. Probably a little bit more than I would have chose to, but it feels kind of good. I got up early this morning and drove to Kansas City to participate in the Susan G. Komen 5K race. I ran some and I walked some, but really, it was easy. Without much in the way of preparation, it was easy. I just woke up and did it. And today, I am not taking that for granted.

As I looked around the crowd, I saw people that were in the process of regaining health and regrowing hair. People in the process of losing weight. People that were challenging themselves and conquering hills that might have been unthinkable just a few months ago. I admire them and respect everything they were participating in today - the changes they were making, accepting and embracing in their lives. There were also many people that looked just like me - healthy, smiling people, participating in a 5k, celebrating struggle and wellness.

Today I am healthy and well and aware. Today, that is everything.

Snapshot

My day had been a series of syncapated half steps. A run run run, wait, sort of ordeal. A fingers crossed, under the breath traveler's prayer in the security/baggage line. But when I walked through the doors of Union Station, stranger in tow, my sister was pulling up to the curb. I let the stranger have shotgun and I crawled in the space where back seats usually reside.

We took the stranger and her yoga mat to the Library of Congress and then we commenced. I leaned against the back door, surrounded by tools and paper towels, spare shoes and snacks, stretching my legs. Aubrie was playing some new music she'd heard on Jimmy Fallon. We pause at a stop sign. She harmonizes with Mumford and Sons, cocks her sunglasses and turns, grinning at me. I can feel the sun, bouncing and refracting off of everything, but mostly her red/brown hair. And this one instant, overflows with a thousand things to remember. But mostly, just my sister - sun in her hair, cocking her sunglasses as she grins back at me.

Following Fievel

"The American Dream" is a phrase that, depending on the context, is either accompanied by a deep sigh and eye roll, or a catch of breath and poignant tear. It is sardonically applied to cosmetic surgery stats and deeply felt by first generation immigrants. Some days, here in the middle of America, it feels like a slow, 40 year march of cubicle days, performance evals and delayed gratification, weighing heavily on a mind that is trying to feel thankful while hitting the snooze button.

By all measures, I am a lucky person. And for me, "The American Dream" is an every day reality. And because it is my reality, on any given day, I take it for granted. But on any given day, something strikes me and I am reminded of how lucky I am to be a part of this place and this dream, with all of it's complex variations.

CBS has a new show out called Undercover Boss, in which CEOs of large corporations go out in the trenches to see what's really going on at the different levels of their operations. In one episode the CEO of 7-Eleven spends time with an overnight delivery man, an immigrant from Kazakhstan. He was cracking jokes, smiling, and by all accounts, thrilled with his life. He is living his American Dream.

Every March, America is overcome with Madness. Sure, not everyone cares, but the Madness is about as American as it gets. We thrive on the cinderellas, the rags to riches, the upsets that should never happen, and yet, sometimes do. This year is no different. Yesterday the overall #1 seed was knocked out in the second round by a #9 seed. And the man who sealed the victory was the son of an Iranian immigrant. His father played on the Iranian volleyball team in the 1980 Olympics, moved to America and married Cindy, from Iowa. Their son, Ali, probably had his last name mangled by more elementary and middle school teachers than he can remember, and yet now, every basketball fan in America knows it.

Relations between nations are, to say the least, complex. And often we only form impressions of other countries based on news clips and sound bytes. If you asked the average American citizen to give you their opinion on Iran, I doubt it would involve basketball. If you mention Kazakhstan, they'll point you in the direction of Borat. However, hopefully I am not the only person in America who takes note of the two examples above and will pause for a second to dig a little deeper into the dynamics and interactions that make all of this possible. And perhaps I am not the only person who finds themselves humbled when relatively recent transplants to this country so clearly remind us of what it means to be American and to daily live the dream.


As a disjointed side note:
Perhaps my sister summarized it best in a text she sent after researching Ali Farokhmanesh: "Persians are legit; just wish we could make that country not crazy."

We will always hope.




Here's a link to the clip from Undercover Boss:
http://www.cbs.com/primetime/undercover_boss/video/?pid=ExY7K9Rr_nm3SXYTOc5_N5odN1O6Ko1o&vs=Clips&play=true

And a link to an interesting column on Ali Farokhmanesh and his performance against Kansas:
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/366387-farokhmaneshd-northern-iowas-shrewd-conquerer