A Greasy Love Affair

     My mother has always had a dislike for fast food. So, growing up, it was a treat for us to see the little speaker next to the car and tell the robotic voice within it what our order was going to be. Looking back, I feel bad for whoever was on the other end of that speaker. My younger sister and I would wait until we heard the bored, "What can I get you today?", and simultaneously begin to yell out our orders. "Chicken nuggets!" "I want a cheeseburger!" "Don't forget the french fries!" "Mom! Can I get a soda?!"

      I can still feel the edges of my seat belt digging into my collar bone, as I leaned forward as far as my car seat allowed, trying to look at the menu. The frustration at being a six-year-old still in a car seat, was always somewhat mollified by the sight of a steaming pile of my beloved chicken nuggets. After I had scraped the last of the barbecue sauce from it's tiny plastic home, I would start in on my french fries. Sharing a conspiratorial look with my sister, I would check to make sure my mother wasn't paying attention and dunk a handful of fries into my milkshake. Explosions of sweet and salty would awaken my taste buds, and a content grin always spread across my face.

      The sweet and salty mix of a pile of fries and a huge milkshake always used make me grin. One particular summer, I ate a double-double with a large order of fries and a vanilla shake from In-and-Out, at least once a week. Exhausted, my friends and I would pile into the car, and wheedle and beg until the parent of the day took us for burgers and fries. There were few things as satisfying as biting into a big piece of meat after an intense morning of summer camps or horse back riding.

      Now unfortunately, fast food is anything but satisfying. The suety, salty messes that fast food places try pass of as a "meal" only make my stomach turn. As I have gotten older, my tolerance for anything frozen, deep fried and then drowned in sauce, has plummeted. Although a large part of that is a psychological aversion, my regular diet is so far removed from the fast food world that it is hard for my body to process the overload of sodium and fat.

      At home, my family's diet is very health-conscious, and delicious. Just the other night we had mashed cauliflower (it is better than it sounds), roasted chicken, swiss chard and grilled potatoes. Each member of my family cooks, and as a result, my standard for food has become very high. Recently my mother and I had lunch at a Panda Express, and she said, "I can cook so much better than this. Why did we come here?"

      Despite my childhood adoration of fast food, I have out grown that greasy love affair. Now, my palate's expectations far exceed anything that a fast food joint could offer. The convenience, and cost of it may have it's place, but I for one, am done with fast food.

Perseverance

As I dragged myself back to the trailer, relying almost entirely on the fifty mile an hour winds to hold me up, my thoughts revolved around one thing. My questionable sanity. Because, one must obviously be mad to suffer through literal blood, sweat and tears, only to say: "Yes, I have ridden a horse fifty miles, in the middle of the desert, in horrible conditions, for no apparent reason."

On a miserable Saturday, at six am, in the middle of January, I was sitting on the steps of our trailer glaring at the ominous gray clouds that loomed above the deserts of Ridgecrest, California. I had been preparing for the Fire Mountain 2012 race, for months and now the weather seemed resolved to ruin it. Because of the conditions, the start of our race had been postponed by a half hour. While we were waiting, the thirty mile an hour winds howled their glee. During the wait, I went over in my head the layout of the ride. We had three loops, the first lasting twenty-two miles, the second, eighteen and the last only ten. Each one began and ended in camp, and we had mandatory thirty minute holds at the end of the first two loops. Vets were required to check our horses at each hold, ensuring that they were fit to continue. Finally it was time to go, and my trainer, Shelley, and I swung up onto our horses. Along with forty-one other riders, we set out onto the trail, the sound of one-hundred and sixty-four hooves marking the beginning of what was to be a grueling day.

Picking up a swift canter, Shelley and I flew down the trails of our first loop, calling, "On your left!" or "On your right!", warning riders of our intentions to pass. In no time at all we were leading the pack. Eventually we were so far ahead, that those behind us weren't even visible. Ahead of me, Shelley and her horse Impact, slowed to a brisk trot, not wanting to tire out our horses, but still keep good time. My mount, an average sized bay named Journey, quickly made his displeasure at his position in the rear known. Jerking his nose forward, he tried to yank the reigns from my hands, so he could rush to the front. Despite his lack of success on the first try, he continued to pull the reigns and toss his head. As the horses hooves ate up the miles, Journey's antics ate up my hands. At only a fifth of the way in to the ride, my hands were ripped and bleeding, the nerves in my hands waving pathetic white flags, begging to surrender. I ignored them, gritting my teeth and steeling myself to the pain. Almost two hours after the start, we arrived back at camp. Pulling my horse to a stop, I peeled the reigns from my hands, and grimaced at the raw, crimson digits. Peggy, a friend of Shelley's who had accompanied us, took Journey and had the vet check him over, while I tended to my hands. Our hold flew by, and it felt like only a moment passed between the end of first loop and the start of the second.

As we set off for the second time, the wind's enthusiasm rose. That morning the gusts had been thirty to forty miles an hour, now the gales had risen to a brutal sixty miles per hour. Pressing on, Shelley and I did our best not to be swept right out of our saddles. The horses dropped their heads against the wind and pinned back their ears. We trotted on. Then we kept trotting. And we trotted some more. I found myself almost in a trance, hypnotized by the steady motion, oblivious to the wails of the wind and screaming of my overused muscles. Abruptly, my blissful meditative state was interrupted.

"We lost the trail," Shelley announced. Disoriented, I scanned the area and realized she was right. The hoof prints we had been following had disappeared. As we retraced our steps, the muscles I had previously been unaware of began to clamor for my attention, like overzealous kittens with no regard for their claws. The rain that had previously been light enough that is was not a bother, chose that moment to release a furious downpour, soaking each of us and washing away our hoof prints. A poor imitation of Hansel and Gretel, we were forced to wait until another rider came by to redirect us. After what felt like hours shivering in the rain and wind, the clipping of hooves could be heard and a soggy blond and her bay could be seen heading towards us. We met them halfway, and working together made our way back onto the correct trail. Our second break and vet check, I slid off Journey, and with all the grace of a dead fish, collapsed on the ground.

Lying in the dirt, watching as stars twinkled in my vision, I prayed for the day to finish. Once again, Peggy took my horse, looked me over and banished me to the trailer for repairs. The wind that had once seemed like a curse, suddenly became the only thing between me and a face plant; the gusts formed hands that held me up till I flopped into the trailer. I took inventory of my body. Hands: shredded. Head: felt like it had been hit by a semi. Actually, everything felt like I had been hit by a semi. Shelley and Peggy eventually made their way back as well, and Shelley collapsed onto the bed next to me. Her wavy blond hair was matted around her head, and the black, waterproof rain jacket she wore now resembled a used garbage bag. Choking down a Gatorade and half a peanut butter sandwich, I drifted into restless unconsciousness. Peggy woke me twenty minutes later and pulled me to my feet.

"It's time for you to get back on." I swayed; she frowned. "You can quit if you want. No one will blame you." Quit? That had never occurred to me. I could stop now, and not have to suffer through those last ten miles of hell. However, in a sudden fit of madness, I pulled up my hood and stepped outside.

"I am going to finish this ride if it kills me." Peggy gave a satisfied nod while she helped me onto Journey. Fifteen minutes later, I was regretting ever having sat on a horse in my life. The desert looked as bad I felt. Its skeletal hands reached for us, trying to hold us in place; and it's screeches warned us of perils to come. Releasing its final act of fury, the sky liberated a nation of hail, that pounded us relentlessly. Each turn we made, I told myself the finish was just around the corner. After I had convinced my enervated body dozens of times to hold out just a moment longer, the finish line came into view. Never have I been so happy to see white chalk in my life. Summoning the remaining fumes of our energy, Journey and I stepped over the tarnished white boundary of the finish line that marked the joyous end of our race.

Trekking the short way from the finish line back into camp, my adrenaline spiked, giving me much-needed boost of energy. I was high off my accomplishment. Few people can say that, "Yes, I have ridden fifty miles, in the desert, on horseback, in seventy mile per hour winds, rain and hail." Journey and I won First Place Junior, and the plaque still sits on the fireplace mantle at home. When I look at it, I am reminded that if I can make it through fifty miles of hell, there is very little I can't do. Although I still wonder what in the world compelled me to get back on my horse for those last ten miles, I would do exactly the same thing again today. Whether I am at a race, or attempting to complete some other seemingly impossible task, this incident acts as my inspiration to continue. Fire Mountain taught me that, regardless of the circumstances, if you persevere you will be rewarded.

Half of You, For Half of Me

While I was contemplating the direction I wanted to take on my blog entry this week, I decided to make a quick trip to the thesaurus and type in 'marriage'. All kinds of things came up, but one word struck me as appropriate. Wedlock. In my head this word conjures up the image of a pair of delicate, white-lace trimmed handcuffs. Aja Gabel, in his essay 'The Marriage Crisis', shares the ideas of a psychology professor, Robert Emery, who believes that a definite cause for the decline in marriage is the substantial rise in divorce rates. Why? Because divorced couples who have children, run the very high risk of jading their children to the ideals of matrimony.

However, an unstable marriage can have just as must effect on a child's conscious and unconscious thoughts towards the idea. And as they say, children are our future. Although there are plenty children who come from happy families with no more than the usual amount of marital dysfunction, not all have that privilege. I believe that too many kids have seen parents, relatives, friends, etc., go through unsuccessful or even disastrous attempts at marriage and have become weary of the seemingly useless efforts. Many people would call me negative or say I am only playing devil's advocate. It is true I am fond of playing devil's advocate, but unfortunately I am not is this case. Marriage is an idea that gets tossed around amongst girls, and from what I have seen and heard, my generation is not exactly thrilled at it's implications.

This may be a good thing; a generation less willing to rush into marriage. That brings us to a new suggestion. Temporary marriage. Personally? I love this thought. In my second-hand experience, a lack of real understanding of each other is a frequent cause of unhappiness in matrimony; this would solve that. Turn in your temporary license, commit to each other for a limited time, and if you decide, "I cannot possibly stand [insert irritating habit/behavior here] for the rest of my life," you have a much less complicated situation on your hands. If you decide that spending the rest of your life together does sound wonderful, it is easy to then make the marriage permanent. A great fear of mine in regard to marriage is, finding a wonderful person whom I believe I could spend my life with, deciding to tie the knot and then suddenly I am living with a different person entirely. I have watched this happen to friends and family and have seen the awful repercussions such occurrences can have.

A likely cause of these issues, is that marriage is often not taken seriously enough. Getting married is not just vowing to love each other until one of you is pushing up daises, it is committing to sharing every aspect of yourself with another person. You have sworn to give the other half of yourself, and receive half of your chosen partner. Admittedly, I don't think it's possible to know every bit of a person, but I do think that if you are promising to give someone half of yourself, in return for half of them, it is wise to have a fairly good grasp on what you will be getting.

A Wardrobe of Names

"I am not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it." - Jerry Spinelli

If names were like shirts, I would have a whole dresser full of them. As a child I was steadfastly adhered to my given name, Madison. My mother spent years trying to convince me to allow her cute little pet names for me.

"Come here, my little kuulei." She would say. (This means little flower in Hawaiian.)

"My name is Madison." I'd respond coldly. Although I no longer remember a particular reason for sticking to my given name, friends and family tell me I was almost frightening in my rejection of all other names. However, this was not to be a permanent attachment.

In Kindergarten I began taking hula classes, and one of the traditions of a hula group is to give each girl a Hawaiian name. My mother and my kumu (teacher in Hawaiian), spent weeks deciding and in the end, named me after my grandmother. From then on, I was known to my dancing peers as Meipela, which means Mabel in Hawaiian. I wore this name for eleven years and recently, with the disbanding of our group, I was allowed to put that particular shirt into the closet for good.

Sometime in first grade, after I realized nicknames were not wholly evil, my mother wrote out a few ways to spell my new nickname, and asked me to chose one. There were so many options! Maddy, Maddie, Maddi, Mattie... After careful consideration, I wrote on the paper a sloppy M, crooked A, backwards D, and two squiggly I's. Madii. Little did I realize that the unusual spelling, that to my young mind had been cool and unique, was to be an eternal thorn in my side. Why? Because no one spells it right. Ever.

However, I suppose would rather have a name that is spelled wrong than pronounced wrong. Oh wait, never mind, I have both! My last name is Korean, and pronounced exactly the same as the word on. When read, it is actually phonetic, yet I have had to learn to respond to calls for, "Madison Ann!?"; then, with a polite smile, correct the speaker. Very rarely does anyone correctly pronounce my name on the first try. Just last month though, I was pleasantly surprised when, on the first day of class my professor said my right while taking attendance. On most other occasions we are in the Asian market, or somewhere that my last name is more commonplace.

The one name I have never had any issues with in regards of other people, is my middle name. That's not to say I've never had issues with it personally. My sister was given the pretty, traditional Japanese name, handed down from my grandmother on my father's side. I on the other hand got the plain, English name given to me from a great aunt I had never met. Jewel. Although it may make you think of sparkling gems and precious stones, it never quite had the exotic ring to it that I wanted.  

Regardless of my issues or frustrations with each of my names, first, last, middle and other, I wouldn't change any of them. They are like milestones; either from moments in my past, or in my families history, making them important in their own ways. Despite the fact that they may have holes in them, be stained, or just plain ugly, each one is a hypothetical shirt that I will never let go of.