Tag Archives: HRC

lorrin: day 8

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Miles: 3.1
Power song: On The Floor
Run dedicated to: Leanne Schmidt

I met my friend Leanne years ago at Pacifico, a Mexican place in our Brooklyn neighborhood that’s responsible for roughly 84% of my life’s worst hangovers.

Pre-baby, Dave and I used to meet up with our dear friends Charlotte and Kyle every Friday night at Pacifico to get food, get toasted and get into in a sloppy, philosophical debate or play a bizarrely heated tournament of Buck Hunter.

At the time Leanne was a waitress there. We first took notice of her not for her friendly demeanor or lovely smile, but for her seemingly horrific mathematical skills: Somehow, at the end of an evening, a $100 worth of food and booze would mysteriously translate into a $20 check.

After the third or fourth time we dumb-dumbs finally caught on and started requesting her section (supplementing the $20 checks with $50 tips). And it was at that time, between monolithic pours of Jamesons and free pitchers of margaritas, that a genuine friendship was born.

We learned, in addition to being extremely generous with other people’s food stuffs, that Leanne was a dancer and choreographer and that she ran her own dance company. And one night, after many months of growing to adore her, Leanne invited us to one of her shows.

I am not going to lie: I was nervous. The show was in a small but lovely venue called Triskelion Arts in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Which, being a Manhattan-bred, Boerum Hill-dwelling New Yorker, seemed to me to be about as close and welcoming as Sing Sing.

But what really scared me was the performance. I thought, well, great. This show is going to be on par with the self-choreographed, one woman “ballet” my 5th grade math teacher once performed in front of us wearing nothing but an electric blue leotard and ripped pantyhose.

I didn’t like dance. I didn’t know a thing about dance. And, I thought to myself, I’ll be in a theater so intimate, I will have to look into Leanne’s eyes as she dances for me. And then I will have to see her after the show. And I will have to lie to her face about how good it was. Which she will see right through. Which will make it awkward between us. Which will mean we’ll have to stop going to Pacifico. Which will mean no more free hangovers. Great.

But here’s the surprise: The show was fantastic. I literally laughed and cried. Leanne’s choreography was smart and heartbreaking and hysterical, sometimes all at once. I never imagined that someone could teach me something about myself using movement, facial expressions and simulated (comedic) sex acts. Nor did I imagine ever meeting anyone for whom bravery and talent could flow so effortlessly.

The beauty of Leanne’s approach, and indeed the mission of her company, is to make dance accessible to everyone: expert or amateur. And in my case, cynic. So at the end of the show, rather than dodging her gaze, I found myself seeking it out. ‘Cause I now had a certified, full-blown girl-crush on her.

So to Leanne, I dedicate today’s run. Because she is premiering her latest masterpiece this evening and I can’t wait to see it this weekend (info and tickets details below!) And because, while I’ve been shaking my booty to change the world for a mere eight days, she has been shaking her booty and making the world a better place her entire life. She forges great things for herself and she’s fearless, perhaps to a fault. Because only someone fearless would give someone like me access to childhood pictures like this:

See you at the show.

Event details:
Triskelion Arts Presents “The Ostrich’s Way of Dealing With Things is Hardly Productive“, Leanne Schmidt and Company’s sixth evening at Triskelion Arts offers a peculiar and unusual demonstration of how one might “bury their head in the sand” in order to avoid what inevitably needs to be addressed. Set to an epic soundtrack by Vivaldi and Chopin, collaborators Leanne Schmidt and Kimberly Goss poke fun at life’s mini-dramas and personal tragedies combining physicality, humor and honesty. The result is a journey that is rich in metaphor where the audience is bound to find candid similarities between themselves and the performers.

For tickets visit: http://www.triskelionarts.org/leanne-schmidt-company

the inspiration

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When I was in the eighth grade my mother took up jogging. She’d quit smoking a few years prior and had gained a modest amount of weight as a result. So, determined to remain the babe that she was, she laced up her Adidas and hit the pavement.

At the time, thinking of my mother running was like thinking of a toddler doing dead lifts. It was possible, I supposed. But it felt off. Shy of a few sets of living room sit-ups, performed in underpants that slipped down every time she rose, I don’t remember her working out at all. It wasn’t until years later, as I watched her fell giant trees on her land in Massachusetts—then drag them off into the wild with her bare hands—that I realized she even had muscles (and, as it turned out, impressive ones). But back then she was more likely to be found sitting on her corner of the couch, reading crime novels or clapping at Reagan.

Like anything she put her mind to, mom became committed to her runs. Most days she ran to Carl Schurz Park for a one mile loop to the river and back. Sometimes she ran stairs as well. Sometimes she ran one mile in the morning and another at the end of the day. And then, one day, this:

“Lorrin, maybe you should start running with me?”

I’d have been more enthusiastic had she asked me to murder the cat. I was, after all, the girl who took the bus five blocks to school to avoid even walking. The girl to whom “the 500-meter” in gym class wasn’t so much a dash as it was an annual, thigh-slapping shuffle.

Of course by asking me, my mom was looking for a partner who would push her to keep it up, keep on going. And I was a good choice as I was a pleaser by nature and would have never dared to say no outright. I also suspect she was afraid that the shapeless blob I used to carry my head from one place to another might actually be more permanent than pubescent. Rightfully so.

So we ran together. And what was for her a motivation was, for me, a nightmare that happened every day. Sometimes we ran one mile to the river and back. Sometimes we ran stairs. One time we ran around the track at Asphalt Green where she declared, “You have a nice line running down your leg.”  I hoped she meant muscle and not urine.

Needless to say, it took a total of two nanoseconds before the pleaser in me politely stepped aside to let the lazy slob through. That is to say, I told my mother I didn’t want to run with her anymore. I know it hurt her feelings, I could see it in her face. And I regretted it as soon as I said it (though not enough, God forbid, to ever run with her again).

Shortly thereafter my mom, too, quit running but not due to laziness. She simply traded one commitment for another, replacing her miles with the felling of said trees and the clearing of acres by hand on her land in Massachusetts. A place that became a heaven of her own making.

Today my mom is in that other heaven, the one of someone else’s making. And as I heal from the loss of her, I’ve realized I’d like to do something for the both of us. And perhaps commemorate her with an act of contrition. So, starting on April 12, 2012 I will run at least one mile. I’ll do it again on the 13th. And again on the 14th. And I will keep on doing it, every single day, until I wake up and it’s April 12, 2013.

I will run for my mom (if not with her) every day for one year. I’ll keep myself honest by posting all my runs to Facebook via Nike+. And I hope that you’ll join in my torture by sponsoring me at 50¢ per run (or any amount you can manage) to be donated at the end of the year to The Human Rights Campaign in my mother’s smart, funny, infinitely strong and sorely missed name.

To sponsor me (or Heather or Elly—they’re doing it too! Stay tuned for their challenges), simply respond to this post or write to me with your pledge. No money will be collected until the year is up.

Many thanks. Much love. And may the chaffing begin.
Lorrin