Comfortable in My Skin

The other morning, about 6am, my eldest kid and I were running in the woods. It was dark, because it is December. But we had headlamps and the mountain lions dared not approach us with our trusty and fierce poodle at our side. We ran in the 38 degree, starry morning. All was good until my kid suddenly caught her foot and flew into the air, landing hard on her hand and arm. Thankfully no broken bones but her hand got good and ripped up.

The skin. Our largest organ. Just sitting out there for the world to abuse it and for people to see it. It is a great source of money for industries of beauty. It can get you shot, depending on the melanocyte count. It is waterproof, it stretches with holiday overeating, it keeps our bones from showing and it let's the world know what we do for a living or for fun. Farmer's tan? Red neck? Calloused fingers? Smooth and perfect skin of the white collar world? The finger bump of a writer, the shorts and sock tan of a runner, the "I wash my hands 700 times per day" red and dry hands of a healthcare worker, the wrinkled palms of a bath enthusiast, the speedo tan of the lifeguard, the scars of accidents, surgeries, and births. The hickey marks of a good date and the blisters of a soldier with ill-fitting boots. Our skin can show our diseases from autoimmunity or infection or heart disease or high cholesterol, like vitiligo, butterfly rash, Janeway Lesions, or my personal favorite, atopic dermatitis.



I take medications to suppress my immune system so it does not attack my skin quite so viciously. I need to work, after all. Have you ever had poison ivy or a bunch of mosquito bites? Imagine that 24/7, head to toe. Anyway, it could be worse. But the 60-100 mg of prednisone it can take to battle my inner demons has made me lose 1:30 minutes per mile speed on average in my running. And that just plain bites. I mean, gosh yes I am glad I can still run at all, and holy moly, things could be much much much worse. But I like to run, and I like to run fast, and I just cannot anymore, because the largest organ in my body is being dive bombed with a nuclear arsenal every second of the day.

Speaking of skin issues and nuclear arsenal.

But I digress.

My daughter's hand (back to our early morning run) will heal. That is the other thing that blows me away about skin. We can shoot each other, saw open the sternum and sew it back together, get blistering sunburns, and falls and accidents and we still can heal. And even when the skin is not broken, but our hearts are torn apart, we can heal. And even when hate seems to be the new love, as cool to us as a president who is stupider than most of us and somehow therefore makes us feel better about ourselves, even with that cold, hard fact-we can still heal.

My skin, well that is another story. But despite it being the most uncomfortable organ I own, I will still keep walking around in it. My Dad, who had a heart transplant, learned to be wth a brand new ticker. My Mom, who lost a breast to cancer, learned to stuff the fake breast into her bra and head out for the day. I cannot remove or transplant my skin but I can remember the strength my parents showed in hard times, and I can also appreciate the fact that beauty is skin deep.

And although all I want for Christmas is beautiful skin, like the kind of skin where I could bare my arms and legs and back and midriff and face without embarrassment, and the kind of skin that would allow me to be a fast runner again and the kind of immune system that didn't make me bald every couple of years and the kind of skin that did not make me feel like a freak of nature, I can see that things could be worse. I just wish the world was a kinder place and that how we looked did not matter quite so much. I fear the next four years will not offer us a leader who will be kind to those of us who are not beautiful, who have "too much" melanin, who have outward evidence of disease or imperfection. I hope the American spirit of kindness kicks in and saves us from descending into truly believing that hate is the new cool thing. I hope.

Darkness

The days are getting shorter. In a couple of weeks, we will have the least daylight of the year. Already the evening dog walks and runs are in darkness. We step through our backyard cathedral of redwood trees, headlamp as lucifer, the fog as incense. The dogs are unmoved by daylight savings. At first, they demanded dinner an hour early because their internal stomach clocks were not privy to the ways of humans. They seem to have adjusted. They do wonder at the live, piney tree with honest to God sap still flowing sitting in our living room. Once decorated, they will eat at least one ornament, as if it is their sacred duty.

Darkness seems appropriate as we complete this year. Certainly no year can be all out "bad". Years do not actually have feelings, qualities or actual existence. We create our calendar, our weeks, days, hours, minutes and seconds to define a life passing by us indescribably fast. Time is not real, but it is all we have. 2016 has brought us personal grief: a son in jail, death of loved ones. 2016 has brought us public grief: somehow hate has become OK, and we are soon to lose a leader of grace and decency. Also, he knows what the hell he is doing, and though one might not agree with his policies, one must at least agree, he studied for the job, and understood his duty.

Darkness might include getting rid of Medicare. So many people I have cared for over the years depend on Medicare.

Darkness might include registering my Muslim friends. Yep, I won't take that one.

Darkness might include disrespecting my brown daughter, my lesbian daughter, my son with mental illness.

Darkness might include disrespect for women.

After December 21, though, the light takes over again. It is cyclical, like many powerful things in this life. January 20 might try to be dark, but January 21 will involve women shining light upon many American cities. It is a time for us to be awake. Awake to poverty, racism, sexism, homophobia and xenophobia.

In the realm of running, I find solace. I go to the woods and the beach and realize I am a small part of a much bigger beauty. I count, but only insofar as I am aware and awake. I count on Mother Nature for healing and for getting dirty, quite literally. Mud, sand, redwood fronds and the rain soaking my clothes and shoes and dogs into a mess of smell. The floors I walk on cannot escape the detritus of our outdoor excursions. My home welcomes what the peace of wild things bring inside.

Time is irrelevant and irreverent. But it is what we have. As a doctor of elders, a mother of precious beings, a cousin of young mothers who have been lost to cancer, a daughter of parents gone too soon, I recommend never taking time for granted.

Also, Barack Obama? Yep, he knows what he is doing, and he cares. About all of us.

I think though, we have seen the light. And no one can ever take that away from us.

Full Catastrophe

Donald Trump is the newly elected President of the United States of America.

There, I said it.

I have people I love whom voted for him, and though I don't get that I admire them for at least showing up and voting. Why did almost 1/2 of our country not vote at all? Seriously, voting is an honor, a privilege, something people died for the right to do. This, maybe more than anything, is what infuriates me about this election.

I have been pondering the concept of giving up a lot lately. I mean, I have a kid in jail, I have barely tolerable health on risky immunosuppressant medications, I have become wildly out of shape, and my work, though I love it in many ways, is Sisyphusian.

My yard is overgrown, my driveway needs sweeping, my car needs cleaning, my piano needs tuning and there are a couple of upcoming presentations that I have written up and prepared only in my mind, which unless Spock teaches me to mind meld stat will do no good on the day people show up to hear my thoughts.

I was signed up for the California International Marathon in December, but deferred till next year, because...wildly out of shape My foot has been hurting. My work days lengthening. My energy ebbing.

My hair has the Obama effect, and though I am glad to have hair, I have more salt and pepper now than either of my parents did at age 60.

And then, a guy whom the KKK wants to cuddle with is my new President. Sheesh.

I am currently re-reading Full Catastrophe Living. It is a treatise of sorts, on mindfulness. I have been dubbed Zennifer at times in my life, but honestly I am so type A and so constantly on the move that I see myself as far away from Enlightenment as Sarah Palin is from cleaning the maggots off a homeless person's wound. Which I have done, but that's a story for another time. The other day I was cracking myself up: having 25 minutes to grab a bite to eat, I went to my local co-op (check-mindful), ordered some organic stuff (check-mindful), opened up my magazine with a lead article "Hope & Healing- Buddhist Wisdom for a Troubled Time" (check -mindful), then shoved down my food while reading the magazine and rushed back to work with a sort of leaden feeling in my belly (yeah....not so mindful).

For the doubters out there, mindful meditation has been shown to reduce pain, stress and other symptoms of chronic illness and of being human. You don't have to be Buddhist to do it. It is kind of all the rage right now, which makes me a little concerned that it is a potentially mis-used or poorly executed therapy or practice. Best to seek someone who knows what they are doing and learn how to meditate.

Learning to be mindful is like doing a mind meld with a toddler. Or a very old person with dementia. Can our experiences be distilled into a literal breath-to-breath wonderment? Can we let go of our talkative inner mind and allow space for something less judgmental and toxic?

Yep, I am pretty much a Californian now. Born in Michigan, raised in Wisconsin, and always, always drawn to the coast. My first ocean experience was the East Coast. As a kid, and this is the Gospel truth, the first time I saw the ocean I just sat there and stared for at least an hour. Now I am a connoisseur of the North coast of the Pacific. I love the smell, the wildness, the fog, the sharks, the sandy dunes and the steep cliffs and the complete lack of pretense. Unless you count my poodle, who could've been registered for his purebred glory, but I was too cheap to fork out the dough and too embarrassed by the prospect of giving him some weird name, like Sir Poops A Lot or whatever.

All of this is to say I could very easily quit. I could quit trying so hard. I could quit my country. I could quit reading and quit meditating and quit running and quit trying to heal the broken people who show up for care.

But then I turn off my mind's chatter and I just be.

There are certainties in life:
1) we will all die
2) this too shall pass
3) I was fast once, and again shall I be fast
4) number 3 refers to running, not some Trumpism about my female attributes
5) I could quit, but where is the fun in that?

You guys, if you are type A like me, this election is like the best, most challenging assignment any teacher or boss ever gave you in your entire life! And if you are better than I, i.e. Type B--well then, just breathe, and be kind, and most likely, things will sort themselves out.

The full catastrophe is life. Life is precious. People are generally good. We have some work to do.

First of which is I totally gotta get back to running.
Second of which is I better get my presentations out of my brain and on my computer.
Third of which is we ALL must fight tooth and nail for compassion, rights, and sanity in this, our country. We shall overcome.

Spirit Animals

I was running along the bay in San Francisco the other afternoon. It was a crisp, overcast but not foggy day. I was on the flip side of an 8 mile out and back, just going down the hill above Fort Mason that I had climbed on the way out, when a huge thing swooped next to me and alit on the branch of a cypress to my left.  I stopped, having identified it as a bird of prey. A red-tailed hawk, I believe.
It was not as if I had never seen such a hawk before, but the way it swooped in so close and landed there, then eyed me, in the middle of a city? That was different.

Hawk, SF, October 2016

Next morning, I ran before sunrise. I was running up Lombard and hit that weird dead end at the top at Kearny where you have to either break into someone's gated stairs down the big hill near Chinatown or run further up a hill around the corner to God knows where, and as I stopped to ponder what to do next I saw just ahead of me, in the middle of the street, a coyote. My head lamp made its eyes glow and I was not particularly scared. Just a little thrown off. Too thrown off to snap a photo. It finally trotted away after eyeing me for awhile. I am surprised it did not try to eat me. God knows I have enough meat on me these days to keep it hale for a good week. I turned around and found my way back to a feasible route. Headlamp was also helpful to avoid stepping on any of the homeless folk sleeping on the sidewalks.

I never get used to that. I bet they don't either.

I used to work for a mobile medical clinic in San Francisco, back in residency. We would search out the homeless in their various haunts (i.e. places they felt safest). I remember coming to work at clinic on that day we call 9-11 now. But clinic was cancelled, which I could just never quite figure out. The city was eerily quiet that day. Maybe the lack of airplanes flying over, and people just sort of huddling close together indoors. At least the people that had indoors to huddle within.

While driving home along the 101 today, there was a golden retriever in a truck. But not in the flatbed like you are picturing. He was in the cab with his people, sitting on his haunches but facing backward, and the middle back window was open. He had his paws up on the window frame and his head sticking out with the biggest smile on his face.

I count that as 3 spirit animal sightings in 3 days. Now I have always considered the whale my personal spirit animal. I seem to have intense dreams involving whales whenever something big is about to happen in my life. But I am open to the idea that we are constantly being offered messages from the world around us. We are mostly too busy with our nose in our iPhone screen to notice them. I am guilty as anyone of this. I also often stop to wonder what would happen if you plated out a culture from everyone's iPhone screens. But I digress, into potentially award-winning middle school science fair projects and my own insecurities thanks to my medical school infection and immunity professor. I only ever flush the toilet with my elbow, thanks to him.

According to my highly dubious sources, the hawk may represent being able to see meaning in ordinary experiences. Also seeing the bigger picture, having vision and intuition. It might be telling me to step back and look at a difficult situation with a new perspective. The hawk is telling me to pay attention. So I tried to ask it for more details, as I am a scientist and I want some details gorramit, but this is what it said:



I interpreted that as "See ya, sucker. You ask too many questions. Now go finish that run."

The coyote made me so happy. Apparently it is meant to make you stop taking yourself so seriously. It might be time to let go, and get on with things. Irony and a trickster spirit are its specialities. Wisdom and folly go hand in hand, and, for heaven's sakes play more often.

I told a friend about my sighting and she said if I see a roadrunner next she is calling a doctor for me.

That dog in the truck, well it could mean letting go of doubt, as there is plenty of knowledge, skill and support to achieve my goals. Also,  it is telling me to let go of material things and stay focused in the present moment.

OK I buy that last part. Has anyone out there ever in your entire life met a Golden Retriever not focused on the present moment? Or any dog, for that matter? OK, my dog Miles is often focused on getting to the beach, which is often in the future and past, but he is also an avid fan of television and likes to hump 12 year old Zoe the golden doodle in the window for all to see. So, Miles may not be the best example of the deep wisdom or spiritual awareness of dogs. He likes the Warriors (even after last night!), hates the Simpsons, and patiently watched the presidential debates. He prefers long beach runs to food, likes to lay on his back and stretch his front legs out as far as they go. He burps, snores and irritates the hell out of my teenaged daughter. He chews on good literature (literally) and doesn't mind butting my hands with his curly head in the middle of a technically difficult piano piece. He gets upset if the family plays raucous games with each other and likes to sit on our feet and lean against our legs till he slides over onto the floor. Mainly because he, like most other standard poodles, has no ass.

Tomorrow I board not one but 3 planes to go and see my beloved GodMom get married. She is just the best GodMother ever. I know for a fact she and my Mom used to hide in the bathtub, fully clothed, drinking coffee and chatting while 7 kids pounded on the door at various times looking for whatever it is kids look for from their ever-suffering parents. But aside from bath tub escapes, she, like my Mom, always has shown up. Shown up with spirit and tenderness and humor. Plus she rode on the Harry Potter ride with me at Universal Studios in Orlando a few years back. I thought I was going to have a heart attack, but she took it all in stride.

It has now been over 20 years since my Mom died. A few years after her death I found myself at a mindfulness retreat along the coast of California. I was out walking on a silent day, and there was a small wooden shed in the field on a cliff overlooking the Pacific ocean. I went in, and found it to be a shrine of sorts, with an altar and various significant pieces set there by many people over what appeared to be years. Some found, natural objects. Some photos and icons and treasure of sorts. As I sat there, I suddenly felt my Mom's presence. And then a small songbird flew in and fluttered about this small space while I sat there. It finally came to rest and we sat together for awhile. Then it spread its wings and sailed away from me.

Pay attention.
See the extraordinary.
Do not take yourself too seriously.
Consider play important, and material things overrated.
Sit quietly, and see what happens.
Show up for those whom you love, and those you don't love and those you don't even know.

Stop asking so many questions.

Finish the damn run.

The Blog Before the Storm

My dogs will not leave my side tonight. I am not sure why. There is a storm brewing. It has been brewing all day. I did my house calls early in the day for fear that weather would preclude reasonable travel later. A smattering of rain, some bit of wind. No major storm yet though. It is sitting there in the air, like an about to be lit stick of dynamite. I feel like it is inevitable that things will explode, so please, just touch the lighter to the wick already.

My dogs may sense the storm. They may know of a "big one"coming. They may think I am a big piece of bacon. It is hard to say for sure.

Maybe they read the news. What is happening in the world is certainly scary enough. And the coming election is like being stuck as a character in To Kill a Mockingbird. Racism is over, right? Nope. Sexism is passé, yes? Nope. Unwanted sexual contact is illegal, YES????

When I was 16, I was on a bus to the Vatican in Rome. It was packed. A man came from behind me and as I held onto the hand rail above me for dear life, he grinded into me from behind. I was horrified. It happened again in Venice, on a gondola. When I was 18, I was in college, walking home from a café at night. A man followed me, I quickened my steps, he followed closer, I got to my destination and nervously got inside. I have a dozen more similar stories. I hardly get through a day, much less a week in my profession without a comment on my appearance. It is not OK. It is not OK.

It is not OK, because I am human. Not because I am a Mom, a wife, a daughter, an Aunt, a sister.

I like to run. I like to study. I like to play piano. I like to read. I like to think I can walk in the wilderness alone. I like to travel. I like to be a Mom of daughters and also of sons.

Here is what I have been told:
To run is to be thin.
To study is geeky and not lady-like.
To play piano is to wear the right dress and to be presentable.
To read is to like chic lit.
To walk in the wilderness alone is dangerous.
To travel, as a woman, is also dangerous.
To be a Mom is to be perfect. To be an example of hard work, morality, and to make the best cookies in town (which I do, if I do say so myself). And to work but not too much. To be present at every major developmental stage. To keep your kid out of jail, and send them to a big name college. To be presentable, perfect, kind, adaptable, and pretty.
Be pretty most of all. It might become law if The Donald becomes president.

My dogs are probably mistaken. Nothing big ever happens when we expect it. But I respect their commitment to me, or my perception of their commitment. They love me, for sure. They are not filled with hate or prejudice or misogyny. They just like a good run, a soft place to sleep and the knowledge that they are part of a pack that matters.

I think my pack matters. I love my family, my community. I welcome the coming storm. I run from nothing. I run to everything. Everything that matters.

And, please, Michelle, can you run for president?

Big Business

I have read Runner's World magazine for most of my adult life. And why not? Every month there is a whole cover to cover magazine dedicated to the best sport ever! Granted, it does seem like there is a finite amount of things that can be said about putting on shoes (or not--barefoot running is in, after all) and going out the door to run. They always come up with something good though. And now there is even a new set of running magazines dedicated to trail running.

Trail running is becoming big business. There are hundreds of trail races all over the world, many of them ultra-marathons. People are starting to dope for them, so you know they are real competitions. They now have dogs sniffing the granola and gatorade at rest stops to ensure everyone is following the rules. Not really, but they might have to start doing this. They could have the athletes pee in a cup at mile 72, but their impending renal failure might preclude that, so dogs are probably the best option. I have long suspected that gatorade IS urine, derived and purified from the bladders of the athletes who advertise for them. It is magical and tastes a little like sucking on distilled kidney stone juice. Disclaimer: I am not getting any kickbacks from Gatorade corporation.

I love trail running. I am sort of bummed it is turning into such a thing, but I guess maybe I should be happy or at least a little pleased because it gets folks outdoors and has more people passionate about protecting our environment. They might be less likely to have the bumper sticker I saw this past week on a truck in front of me: "Environmentalism is a disease". When I pulled into work I immediately when to Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine to read up on the disease of environmentalism. It kept talking about how hurting the environment can be linked to the rise of certain diseases. Maybe that's what that guy meant with his/her bumper sticker? Anyway, trail running is a big business now. All the shoe companies make "trail running shoes". I used to think this was stupid till I ran the Headlands Marathon a couple of years ago, and was slip-sliding on these steep single track sandy, rocky, slick trails. I could of used some serious traction.

These days my running is pathetic. I am too sad about my son to run much, and have slowed down considerably. I suppose I will get it back at some point. I probably just need to drink more magical Gatorade.

I did visit my son, in jail, today. He is on day 61 or so. He has not seen the light of day except through a distant window. He does try to exercise during rec time. For awhile, he balled up papers to play basketball, as they had no ball. He also walks laps around the room. It takes 35 steps to circle the room. I may be choosing not to exercise as much, but honestly cannot imagine being barred (literally and figuratively) from moving my body, and from being outdoors. I get people in jail and prison are being punished, but I wonder exactly how helpful it is for making an 18 year old with addiction into a better person?

Prisons are a big business. Our president helped move along the phasing out of private federal prisons. This is a good step. The more profit in it, the more prisoners there will be, and prison is not always the right answer. Also, if you profit from someone being in prison, why would you want to rehabilitate them? I never pictured myself having a personal stake in this whole issue, but therein lies the rub. We need to care about stuff because it could affect others in our community, and maybe one day us. I think Jesus' whole thing about visiting the prisoners and tending to the sick is akin to doing the same for Him should be reason enough for the Christians in our country to give a shit about healthcare and justice equity. But I digress, and too many Christians see profit as a God-given right. Bah humbug.

Nursing homes: big business. Locally, we are facing the closure of 3 of 5 of our nursing homes, because they are not profitable. The mission of a nursing home should be rehabilitation (sound familiar?) and for those not rehabilitatable (now there is a mouthful), a place to be housed, fed, cared for, loved, kept clean, kept safe. How, exactly, should profit fit into this? I work for a program, PACE, that serves people at risk of losing their independence due to health issues and frailty. The nursing homes, under the company The Devil--oops I meant Rockport, decided last year they did not want to work with us because we "take away business from them". We found a solution to care for people who needed temporary or longer term placement for support and rehab. But my eyes were opened to the absolute folly of making care of other humans a profitable endeavor. Some things can be big business: running shoes, cell phones, um.....hold on. Do I want 10 year old in China making my running shoes or my iPhones? Dang, it is hard to be a good person in this day and age.

It is certainly an opportune time for our community to rethink how we care for seniors. I wrote about it a bit in my column this month on person-centered care. Maybe money is not the most important thing. I know Mother Teresa supposedly said "without money, there is no mission" but truth be told, the money to do good works is not nearly as much as the money it takes to please a board of directors to a big business. A community can decide to support a good cause. A community can help create change.

I am a preacher's daughter, as well as the niece of 6 other preachers, so forgive me if this is getting preachy.

Take home points:
-Environmentalism is not actually a disease. I looked this up.
-Trail running is awesome and does not take a magazine to tell you how to do it.
-For profit institutions meant to rehabilitate people are a really bad idea.
-The Netherlands gets it right. See below, if you don't believe me. This is well worth 20 minutes of your life to watch.
-I need to get back to my running.

Objectify Lesson

Today was the Fifth Avenue Mile. Jenny Simpson won. She and 4 others were just in Zurich. Let'sRun.com has it here:

"Four-time Fifth Avenue champion and Olympic 1500m bronze medalist Jenny Simpson; training partner and Olympic steeplechase bronze medalist Emma Coburn; British national record holder and 1500m Diamond League champion Laura Muir; American 800m national champion Kate Grace, and 2015 world championships steeplechase finalist Stephanie Garcia all will depart Zurich this morning –albeit a bit tired– and are ready to run down Fifth Avenue."

Man, they were fast. I mean, for women. 
Actually the press coverage of Fifth Ave is pretty balanced. Unlike the olympics. 

I might be a little touchy on this issue today. As a doctor, I am in a still male-dominated field, although that is changing when you see the breakdown of medical school classes by sex. And by sex I mean gender, not what happens in every call room every day during every episode of Grey's Anatomy.

Today on call, I was soundly treated with disrespect by both a physician (man) and nurse (woman). All while protecting and caring for a dying patient who was in agony but now has symptoms controlled. After I cooled down a bit from the idiotic discussions I had, I realized the following:

1) No one would EVER speak to a man doctor like that

2) Patient well-being is something I have to fight for on a regular basis, because if you want to do something right, you have to be able to take shit from others who are perhaps following the party line without one ounce of subtlety or compassion

3) It does me no good to get all upset about these things

4) I miss Matt Miller, who always had my back

Being a female physician who is bald and not particularly beautiful does not help the situation. 

Still, I know my stuff. I put patients first. And I can run faster than a lot of "boys" my age. Also, I have a kid in jail so I am totally bad ass.

It is actually too soon to joke about that, but I am trying to keep my chin up and be tough. 

I recently attended a wilderness medicine course (a very testosterone-heavy field, btw). I took a half day session on women in the wilderness, from an amazing nurse in her 60's who is a back country skier and can find her way around with a compass and map. No GPS needed. Anyway, I learned some great skills, including how to pee standing up without pulling down my pants, and while writing my name in the snow or dirt or whatever. This nurse is part of a team leading a medical mission trip to Guatemala next February, and my youngest daughter and I plan to go. My youngest daughter, age 15, is thinking she wants to be a general surgeon someday. She has the toughness, the dexterity and the work ethic for it for sure. I cannot wait to travel with her on our first medical mission trip together. That is, if I survive this call weekend.

Toughness: inherently male? Maybe. Though I do remember giving birth and that was pretty gnarly. Also, I remember being told my worth was based on prettiness, not how I moved through the world with others. Also, I recall that I cannot get through a single day at work without someone commenting on my looks, usually a patient. It is tiring, actually. I sometimes fantasize about looking like Cristina on Grey's Anatomy, thinking then everyone would love me for my looks AND my toughness.

Then I recall how my 15 year old Chinese-American daughter has to deal with assholes discussing her eye shape, or her skin tone, or "where she is from". So maybe Meredith is the better choice, though being blonde and slight probably carries its own struggles, when trying to be a serious player in the world of male professionals. .

Yeah, I definitely would go with Cristina. 

Or Jenny Simpson. Especially if I could have her 4:18 mile pace.

Here is the thing. Michelle Obama gets criticized for wearing no sleeve dresses. Hillary Clinton is ridiculed for wearing pants suits. Malala Yousafzai gets shot for trying to go to school. France wants Muslim women to wear bikinis at the beach. College women are taught how to avoid rape, instead of college men being taught how to not rape. Crazy.

I could write a list a mile long about the injustice and the idiocy and my righteous indignation. 

None of us should be objectified. None of us should be disrespected, afraid, or shamed. 

Now excuse me while I dismount from my high horse and share my absolute favorite moment from any olympics ever, with the coolest running cat in all history. First time the women were allowed to compete in the marathon in the olympics. I think it is (about damn) time for some other female firsts too.