Ok, March, hit me with your best shot!

I've been dreading this month for awhile now. 

Mostly because I'm terrified of Chiropractic National Boards Part 1. 

But this evening on my three-hour drive back to Chicago after a weekend back home in Grand Rapids, I realized that the key to my survival is time management. The past several weeks of midterms have been rough, especially because of the distraction of the Olympics on television. And while I'm sad that the games are over, a part of me feels like I'm getting my life back. Perhaps I invested too much time and energy in cheering on the US Olympians. Perhaps I shouldn't have scheduled the past weekends around my favorite events. Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to run screaming around my living room when the US men's hockey team scored a tying goal with 24 seconds left in the game against Canada. 

But I think not. 

After all, the winter Olympics only come around every 4 years, and it would be un-patriotic of me not to watch. 

Just call me Kate "I-rationalize-all-frivolous-behavior" Lyzenga. 

HOWEVER, my goal in the next few days is to get my life back on track. And that starts with turning off the TV for a good long while. It continues with getting a solid hour of exercise at least 5 times a week. It means waking up at 7am every morning instead hitting snooze until 8:30. It means abstaining from junk food and drinking more water. 

Lindsey Vonn, Shaun White, and Apolo Ohno might be ready for a vacation right now, but I'm just beginning my own personal Olympics. And it's going to take every ounce of strength I possess. 

Unfortunately for all you folks at home, NBC is not interested in providing media coverage for all the exciting events taking place in my Olympic games this month (at least that's what I'm assuming, considering they won't return my calls). So instead I will do my best to keep you updated, reporting the thrills and spills that are sure to accompany these next four weeks of my little adventures. 

You can follow along on this site, as well as on facebook and twitter (yes, I finally caved) for the most up-to-date info including my medal count, my event schedule, and of course any and all inspirational revelations that I happen to have along the way. 

Oh, and if anyone knows of an interested sponsor, I've got a pile of student loans that need to get paid. AT&T? Nike? Vick's? Anybody?

Motivations

Watching the Olympics has caused me to ponder the motivations behind some of my actions. Athletes speak of "giving their all" or "the love of the sport" as the driving force propelling them to greatness. Some of them, like my favorite Olympian, want only to have "no regrets" at the end of competition, knowing that they did their best. 

All of this inspirational fru-fra made me wonder...what are some of the things that motivate me? 

As a warning, I'm about to be painfully honest here, so for all of you who think I'm a perfect person (all zero of you, that is), read at your own risk.

Sometimes I'm motivated by competition. I do things so that I will become better than my peers. The scholastic system is arranged to perpetuate this motive, and after 18-odd years of studenthood I have learned it well. More often than I'd like, I study for a test with the goal of "above average" or "better than the rest" instead of studying to really learn the material. I don't believe there is anything inherently wrong with the spirit of competition, but there is a danger of losing something precious in the process. Often, I get so caught up in being better that I forget solidarity. I forget that my colleagues will someday be my biggest asset, not just another hurdle to jump. Being part of a team is crucial for the learning process, and group effort has been at the heart of society since the beginning. While I will undoubtably always be a competitor at heart, I also hope to grow into a better teammate, partner, and colleague. 

Often I'm motivated by another's example. I see a successful doctor and I want to study more. I listen to a beautiful musical performance and I want to sing more. I read a good book and I want to write more. I watch an amazing athlete train and I want to hit the gym. Obviously, I do not pursue all of those impulses (especially the last one), but at least for a while I am inspired to better myself due to the dedication and skill of another. What's really fascinating is how these motivations ebb and flow as life moves forward. The drive and determination to follow through with a dream, a goal, or even just a small resolution has to be rooted in something deeper than the idolization of someone else for it to succeed. The day in, day out grind that is required of anyone who achieves personal victory is impossible unless one's motivation comes from within, not without. 

The fear of failure is a HUGE motivation in many aspects of my life. This is an especially dangerous motive because it frequently keeps us from trying new things and exploring our boundaries. Pushing the limits of one's ability is the only way to discover how high one can rise, but with it comes the risk of learning how far we all can fall. There have been many instances in my life where I've chosen the safer path because I was motivated by fear. Once upon a time, I considered a career as a singer. Blessed with a natural gift, I was admired and encouraged to pursue avenues in musical theatre and vocal performance. But I never had the guts to take even one voice lesson. I was so afraid of criticism and disappointment that I never stepped into the spotlight. On the flip side, I had an incredible collegiate career with our top choir, even traveling to compete in Europe with my fellow choristers, but part of me will always wonder if my fear of failure cheated me out of something special. But isn't it our nature to wonder about the past? Getting stuck there is what brings us down and takes our focus away from tomorrow. In the words of Lewis from the film "Meet the Robinsons," we just have to "Keep moving forward!"

Did I mention that I'm also highly motivated by funfetti cupcakes? Oh, and peanut butter M&M's. 

My new favorite Olympian

I'm a sucker for the Olympics. 

I'm not exactly sure why.

It might be the epic soundtrack that accompanies every event, or perhaps its the juxtaposition of crushing defeat and exhilarating victory. Or maybe its the record-breaking feats of athletic prowess that inspire me to personal achievement. 

It is, after all, the greatest sporting event in the world.

And yes, every 2 years I miraculously grow a spirit of patriotism...that lasts until about a week after the closing ceremonies. 

I think the real reason I buy into the Olympic hype is because of the athletes themselves. I love being able to live vicariously thru their journeys to greatness. The countless interviews that piece together their individual stories, tell of their dreams come true, and describe their dedication to their sport make me feel as if I was with them all along. The three-kleenex featurettes that dramatize the athletes' humble beginnings, personal struggles, and super-supportive families are relatable and ring true to me. 

For instance, during the 2008 summer Olympics in Beijing, you couldn't find a bigger Michael Phelps supporter than I. His quest for gold became my quest. Every race he swam felt like the greatest moment in history. I screamed at the television. I jumped up and down. I bit my nails to the quick. And I loved every moment of it. 

But the thing about Michael was, well, that he was Michael. His interactions with the media were a touch awkward, and he wore a blank expression (if not a sullen scowl) thru many of his interviews. He was standoffish, quiet. All arms, abs (wow, what abs), and feet, with precious few smiles offered to those of us watching his rise to the top. And once he was there, on the Wheaties box with his 8 gold metals displayed on his bare chest, he almost immediately tarnished his image. No one could blame the kid for his "party-hearty" rampage shortly after the games wrapped up, but when somebody took his picture while he was sucking on a bong, there was fallout. Sure, he still does the occasional Subway commercial, but personally, I've lost a lot of respect for the guy. Accurate or not, the Olympian that I was introduced to on TV was not the same Michael away from the pool. An amazing athlete, of course. A god among men, perhaps. Somebody I'd like to hang out with...probably not so much. 

IN CONTRAST, my new favorite Olympian would make a great best-buddy. In many ways, he is equally famous, equally dedicated to his sport, and equally physically fit. At 27, he is one of the oldest of his peers, and still consistently wins races. At this year's winter Olympics, he made history by collecting the 6th and 7th medals of his career, the most of any American winter Olympian. (know who I'm talking about yet?)

Besides this, Apolo Anton Ohno is a genuinely nice guy. 

With a quick smile and infectious giggle, Apolo has managed to bring publicity to a previously forgotten sport. Chaos has followed him in his three consecutive Olympic games, drawing attention to the volatility and drama of short track. He is the first to point out that anything can happen during a short track race, and his persistence has won him a few lucky medals, the latest example being the silver medal he won at these 2010 Olympics when the two Korean skaters ahead of him tripped each other up, turning his 4th place into 2nd. 

And I have to say, though he's sticking to the soul patch, he has finally decided it's ok to do an interview without a bandana on his head. Thank God. 

Did I mention he can dance? Well, he can. He fricken' won Dancing with the Stars. Now that's a guy who is secure in his masculinity. 

He's a well-spoken, glass-half-full maniac riding a pair of 17-inch knife blades at 40mph while wearing a butt-hugging lycra jumpsuit. What more could a girl want in a 7-time Olympic medalist? How about making that 9 medals, Apolo? 

Two more races to go, and you better believe I'll be watching them. And screaming. And jumping. 

No shame here. GO USA!!! GO APOLO!!!

Zzzz...

There are several forms of exhaustion. 

Tonight, I'm experiencing the mental variety. After a day of classes and an evening of cramming for tomorrow's cardiology midterm, the only synapses still firing with any organization are those vital to survival. The rest of my brain is an electrical storm of random activity, causing bits of information to swirl willy-nilly round my head despite my attempts to fall asleep. Yes, I am tired. But when mentally exhausted, sometimes dreamland is the hardest place to find. 

Last night, I experienced the physical variety, which I find to be much more pleasant. In fact, there's something wonderful about being good and tired at the end of a active day. I woke up early Monday morning, ran errands, got a massage (which is more like a workout than you'd imagine), and spent 4 grueling hours gripping the steering wheel of my car as I traveled from Grand Rapids to Chicago in whiteout conditions. At one point the stress overwhelmed my usually-pragmatic sensibilities and I found myself alone in my car, screaming, "WHERE IS THE DAMN ROAD?!? I CAN'T FIND THE ROAD!!! I'M GOING TO DIE!!!"

Not my proudest moment, I assure you. 

That considered, it was with much delight that I collapsed into bed, my limbs wobbly and my eyelids half closed, falling asleep almost instantly. Delicious. 

Emotional exhaustion is another animal altogether, but an equally potent sleep tonic. The dreamless slumber that follows a good cry is our soul's ultimate protective mechanism. When we just can't take any more grief or stress or anxiety, we find refuge by crawling under the covers. Granted, it might not do a thing to eradicate the source of said emotional exhaustion, but occasionally the old adage, "Everything looks better in the morning," is true. 

Learned that one from my mommy. Yes, sir-ee. 

Somewhat random thought: is anyone else creeped out by the Sandman folklore? I would never, EVER tell a child that a strange man was going to come into their room at night and sprinkle magic dust into their eyes. I mean, who thought that was ok? Is the Sandman a cousin of the Boogy-man? 

Quake, Rattle, and Roll!

Guys, you will never believe this. 

Last night, an earthquake hit Chicago. Ok, so technically it was early this morning, and technically nothing "got hit" or even remotely damaged by the measly 3.8 earthquake. NONETHELESS, it happened. And I felt it. Here's my story:

I fell asleep early last night, exhausted from an evening of studying, and slept like the dead until about 3:58am. When I opened my eyes, it was dark and quiet in my bedroom, and yet I was suddenly wide awake. 

"Hmm, that's curious." I thought. "Self, why are you awake?" 

AND THEN IT HAPPENED. 

I heard a distant rumble, and it was as if a giant, gentle hand nudged the house. Well, maybe it was more of a firm shove, because everything rocked back and forth, up and down for perhaps three seconds.

"Woah." I whispered as my bed continued to bounce even after the terra firma stopped doing so. And as I lay there, trying to reconcile what just happened with the logical part of my brain, my illogical self spoke up instead. 

"So, Self, next the house is going to collapse, and then you are going to die. I wonder when that part happens. Do you think it will hurt much?"

"Don't be stupid." piped up my logical self. "It was just a big gust of wind...or something."

"Oh, no it wasn't." replied Ms. Illogical. "You should probably run screaming into the street. Save yourself, for heaven's sake!"

"Now, calm down." I said aloud, fighting the stream of adrenaline that had been injected into my circulatory system. "This is ILLINOIS. There's a foot-and-a-half of snow out there! Besides, there's no faultline in Illinois. Go back to sleep."

And so I rolled over, shivering at the thought of poking one toe out of my bed, much less dashing outdoors (even if it was to escape my impending doom). Instead I snuggled back under my covers, already halfway back to slumberland. I had almost faded out when that pesky illogical voice made its final point.

"But, what if..."

"FINE! Fine." I relented, grabbing my phone from the headboard and checking the time. "4:00am, on the dot." said Logic smugly. "We'll see who's right in the morning."

Ms. Illogic, even you can get lucky sometimes. 

The "Warm Fan"

The furnace in my childhood home made a very distinct noise right before it turned on, and from a young age I learned to love that sound. At that characteristic "Woaw-woaw-waah," my ears pricked up, and I would grab a blanket and run to the nearest register, cocooning myself so that its warmth would be trapped around me. Sometimes, on especially chilly winter mornings, my two younger siblings and I would sit by the kitchen register together, soaking up the heat until our cheeks were rosy red and we unzipped our little footy sleeper outfits in a desperate attempt to regulate our rising body temperatures. Being a verbose youngster (imagine that, right?), I decided that the machine creating all this delicious heat should be called the "warm fan." After all, that's pretty much what a furnace is. 

Later in life, when waking up in the morning meant getting ready for grade school, I would place my socks in front of the register before hopping in the shower so that they would be toasty by the time I put them on. There were mornings when I was so miserably cold and cranky that I put all of my clothes in front of the register, just so that I would have a reason to get dressed instead of crawl back under the covers. 

Even today, I must admit I'm attracted to heaters and registers. The wonderful family that I'm living with has already deemed the floor in front of their heater "Kate's spot" because I frequent it so often. After all, a decent space heater is a poor man's fireplace! Even a microwaved beanbag can suffice, especially when warming my feet at the end of my bed or easing the strain on tired shoulders after a long day of studying. 

But there's nothing I love better than sitting with a blanket and a good book by the "warm fan." And that little furnace noise? It's music to my ears. 

Good morning Rooster

When I moved in with my friend and her parents in their delightfully suburban home in West Chicagoland, I expected a few things. For instance, I expected that we would be located moments from a gas station and a grocery store. I expected that the snowplow would come through in the dead of night and wake everyone up. I expected that the blinding lights of downtown Chicago would effectively obscure any and all stars from our view no matter what time of year it is. But what I did NOT expect was the rooster next door. 

No, your eyes do not deceive you. A ROOSTER lives next door. And every morning, bright and early, he crows long and loud, just like any self-respecting rooster would do. Not only do I open my eyes to a sky-scape painted on my ceiling, but the first sound to vibrate my little tympanic membrane is cock-a-doodle-doo! 

Actually, it's more like "cock-a-doodle-ACK!" because the poor bird is so fricken cold that his throat seizes up every time he tries to hail the sunrise. He's got a broken crow, and I'm sure all the little hens in his roost remind him of it daily. 

Despite Mr. Chanticleer's vocal deficiencies, his persistent attempts to fulfill his role manage to wake me all the same. Funnier still is my strange compulsion to greet everyone with a "mornin' y'all" or a "fine day, ain't it ma'am?"

There's just something about that rooster. 

It will be a sad, sad day when "she'll be coming around the mountain and they'll kill the old red rooster so we all have chicken and dumplings when she comes...(chop-chop) (yum-yum) (woot-woo!)"

Tomorrow is another day...

Many of you know that I have a rather unruly gastro-intestinal system, as of late. I've been struggling with digestive issues for awhile now, experiencing brief (but blissful) times of relief intermingled with severe discomfort. It's become something I've gotten used to dealing with, and for the most part I can fly under the radar even when I'm having trouble. But this weekend, I got sick. I mean, I just plain got sick!

And an amazing thing happened. 

Taking the advice of one very wise woman in my life, I decided to simply allow myself to be sick. Instead of rebelling against it, or working myself up into an anxious frenzy, I went home and slept. And slept. And slept some more. I sipped gatorade and munched on gluten-free toast, and then (you guessed it) I SLEPT. I did not let myself feel guilty, or worried, or even the slightest bit annoyed with my miserable body. I just let myself be sick. 

I've picked up a daily devotional book called Streams in the Desert, and yesterday's thoughts included this snippet from a poem by J. Danson Smith:

Sit still, my daughter! Just sit calmly still!

What higher service could you for Him fill?

It's hard, ah yes! But choicest things must cost!

For lack of losing all how much is lost.

It's hard, tis true! But then-- He gives you grace

To count the hardest spot the sweetest space

Takin' the Night Off

Sometimes you just need to slow down. And it's been nonstop this week. 

So, here I sit, in the recliner, wearing sweatpants and covered in a blanket. Oh, and the heater is cranking out warmth directly onto my little toes. Ahhhhh. 

I must make comment about dinner tonight, prepared lovingly by Mr. and Mrs. Sytsma (one set of my adopted parents here in Chicago). We had DE-lish salmon baked under a dill-cream sauce. The ingredients in the sauce rocked my little world: Dill, green onions, lemon juice, sour cream, and garlic. YUM. It added just the right amount of tang to the simple, flaky, juicy fish. Paired with the meat, we had smashed sweet potatoes with cheddar cheese mixed in, and a side of carrots. Yes, orange was the color scheme of the meal. :)

Despite my current GERD symptoms, I enjoyed every bite. 

Welp, back to relaxing for me. Tonight, even blogging is just a bit too strenuous.