for most, a memory of barbecue.
One year ago: I define the wussa americana.
Two years ago: Darin and I see The Opposite of Sex.
Three years ago: I had CT problems then too.
Today is Memorial Day. A day to remember those who have died for our country while in the armed services.
I wonder how typical my experience of the military in our culture is.
Wars and/or military action during my lifetime include Vietnam (don't remember it), Beirut (what were we doing there?), Granada (worth a stupid stunt while at college -- my dorm invaded another dorm named Granada), Somalia, the Gulf War, Haiti, and Kosovo. I'm sure I've left out a dozen or so. I don't know of anyone who served in any of these engagements.
I know a few people who have been in some branch of the military. My sister was ROTC. I once mentioned my fear of guns and my sister shrugged, saying, "They're no big deal." Then I remembered, "Oh yes, she can assemble an M16." I think my brother-in-law was in the army for a while. My dad was in the Navy during the Korean War -- his ship faithfully patrolled the Atlantic, and the Koreans never attacked the East Coast, now did they? (Sorry, old family joke.)
I don't know anyone who's died while in the military. I know my father had an uncle who died during World War II. But no immediate family member has died during a war. I don't think Darin's had any immediate family who's died during a war either.
Is my experience all that odd? I don't know. It's probably a class thing -- yes, I dare to use the "c" word. It definitely gives me a different perspective on the military. I honor the people who have given the ultimate committment to our national ideals. I don't have much of an opinion of the institution on a personal level, only on an intellectual one.
There are lots of American flags that go up in the neighborhoods around here. So there are quite a few people for whom this is more than a three-day weekend.
Sunday morning I said to Darin, "I'd like to go for a short run."
"Okay," he said. "I'll stay here and play with the baby. Oh, the things you make me do."
I got dressed -- took me a few minutes to find my running pants, which I haven't used in about 10 months -- put on my shoes, and went for a one mile run.
One mile: the distance from the stop sign nearest our house to the next stop sign to the east and back again.
I've gone for longer walks of late. Maybe three, maybe four miles round-trip. But I often stop during those walks, either to drop books off at the library or get something to drink. And I've gone to three yoga classes and acquitted myself admirably.
I set off down the hill -- yup, the first half is downhill -- and felt myself going too fast. Rome was not built in a day, I told myself, and I forced myself to slow down. I wanted to jog the whole way, not run the first half and then limp the half mile home. I kept to a nice, steady pace. It felt doable.
I got to the stop sign and checked all my signs: I was breathing steadily, my heart didn't feel as though it were racing, I wasn't sweating uncontrollably. It was like I'd never stopped.
I jogged the half mile home, exceedingly proud of myself. I was high. I felt good. And Sophia hadn't freaked out during the fifteen minutes I was gone. I often find myself really worried much of the time that she will get hungry and start screaming the second I set foot outside of the house.
Later in the day, my thighs felt a bit sore. Not terrible. But I could feel them.
Oh no. This is a bad sign. It can't be that bad, it was only a mile.
Today I am walking like a cripple.
I haven't been running for ten months. I guess it's a long road back, given what a non-athlete I am at heart. Well, I have to try.
Synchronicity alert: I read Stalking The Angel Saturday night (and finished the entry Sunday, so sue me), part of which takes place in Little Tokyo. Saturday day, Darin, Fernando, Sophia, and I actually drove to Little Tokyo from our brunch at John O'Groats, a drive that took us through Koreatown and the Ramparts district.
"So this is the famed Ramparts district," I said. "I'd really hate to be that beat cop standing on the corner." A uniformed cop stood on the street corner, watching the busy street scene. The Ramparts district is heavily Hispanic and reminded me of 14th Street in New York City and Fernando of Mexico City. Lots of shops open on the street, with tables of merchandise, and lots of pedestrians. There's a giant square in the middle, too, that was filled with people and jugglers and lots of colors, both of fabrics and of skin.
I saw more of Central LA during our drive from Century City to Little Tokyo than I ever had before.
I hadn't even known Little Tokyo existed. I used to live near Japantown in San Francisco. Of course, I didn't eat Japanese food until I went off to college, more fool I. After living in the suburbs -- here and Cupertino -- I forgot about ethnic districts. I've been to Chinatown here in LA and that's about it.
What cracked me up was how similar Little Tokyo was to Japantown. I know that sounds silly, but LA's Chinatown bears no relation whatsoever to San Francisco's Chinatown or Calgary's Chinatown for that matter. The mall we went into to buy the rice cooker was so similar in look and feel to the main Japantown mall (at least, last time I was there) -- the LA one is two stories instead of one, is all. And Little Tokyo is bigger, but probably not by much.
I learned Saturday night that the Yakuza is big in Little Tokyo. At least, according to Robert Crais. Dunno about Japantown.
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Copyright 2000 Diane Patterson
Send comments and questions to diane@nobody-knows-anything.com