This past Saturday, I was humbled. I did what I think was my fourteenth triathlon. I won the overall female award by quite a margin—would have beat all the men, too, if I hadn’t brought my boyfriend, Matt, along. But there was a much more impressive performance at this race.
The internet has none of this. There is no way, on the internet, to look into the face of your fellow conversation participant and be forced to acknowledge his or her humanity.
Now, you might be thinking, here’s another fitness nut gearing up to write glib posts about the joys of physical exercise. I am not that nut.
Rudi is a Catholic priest. He looks like Bavaria, if Bavaria were a person. What I mean by that is this: if the self-proclaimed Free State of Bavaria could pick a person, any person, to act as its mascot and all-purpose representative, it would be Rudi.
With marriage has come the inevitable marriage-y questions, which—don’t get me wrong—are fun to answer because it means I get to talk about myself. But I do feel like my answers are underwhelming.
It’s a rather pithy thing to say these days — “living intentionally” — devoid of overt meaning and explanation. But I try to remind myself of this anyways, truly trying to grasp what it would mean to live intentionally in this very moment.
’ve decided to ignore it and make peace with the familiar. It comes down to personal preference, I guess, but do we really need an adventure every other day of our lives? That sounds exhausting.
I was Reverse Culturally Baffled last week walking through my sister’s trim, manicured neighborhood. The playground sign near her house advised Indiana suburbia: NO guns or hunting allowed.
