Run DMZ

Screen actors, on the whole, tend to be boring in public. They are never as attractive, charismatic, or tall in real life. They can be witty during live interviews, but you get the impression that wasn't the first time they delivered that line. Even when trying to appear authentic, they somehow remind us this is work. That's not to say I don't love seeing celebrities. I mean, I've ben riding my chance encounter with an A-lister during a run in Del Mar for years now. I am the most annoying kind of name-dropper. I'll casually mention how BD Wong asked for sushi recommendations the other night when actually he threw the question to the La Jolla Playhouse stagehands standing next to me. (To be fair, the late Roger Rees really did look me in the eye and ask my opinion on a play he wrote and directed. I told him it was fascinating, even though it was still rough around the edges. No matter, it made it to Broadway.) That should mean I'm the type of attendee to be dis...

At 3:06 a.m. today I posted the above photo (of a photo) on my Instagram feed with this caption: You know you've officially grown old together when even your photos are middle-aged. Happy anniversary, boo. #circa1981 #vpi [as Virginia Tech was better known back then]. Didn't see it? That may be because at 3:18 a.m. I took it down. In those 12 minutes listening to someone's deep snores, I considered who might see the post, including friends who've failed at marriage a time or two.  I then spent the remainder of those dark hours trying to recall the details of this day 37 years ago. I remember feeling queasy -- in part because I'd spent an entire night unable to find a sister who'd gone AWOL and then shifted to worry what too much liquor at our afterparty might bode. I also was pregnant, but didn't know it.  Since then, I've wondered why we've succeeded where so many other relationships have not. Some of our friends had no choice; their spouses checked...

  My favorite holiday is 4th of July, where the vibe’s low-key, family is optional, primary colors rule, and day drinking is encouraged. Independence Day is especially big in our former neighborhood, which hosts a run, a ride, a party in the park, and a parade. We return every year, making the 4th as much a reunion as anything. It is surreal to see the kid from three doors down now showing off his pregnant wife and my daughter’s flower girls turning into teenagers. I show off my young grandsons too. Me, the former neighbor with egg-cracking calves that ran for hours every weekend, now unrecognizable with lighter hair and a lumpy midsection.  Everyone asks if I ran the shorter or longer race and, for the second year in a row, I explain I don’t run anymore. This explains a lot, I sense them thinking as they politely drift to the next person with a red cup. Next year, I’m doing the ride – the longer one -- I vow after the seventh sip of my mango mimosa.  The parade is pur...