The Soundtrack of My Life
My not-so-secret dream in life is to have background music following me around all the time. Just in case my super interesting life is ever turned into the next blockbuster, I'm already prepared with the appropriate soundtrack. Each of the songs both somewhat represent that time in my life (either by lyrics, title or association) and was also popular during that general timeframe. Well, for the most part--I don't really remember my birth, I just had to pick something appropriate. Two things for you to comment on: What would be on YOUR soundtrack? and (more importantly) What should the name of my movie be?

Soundtrack to The Life and Times of an Average Girl
Birth... Daughters, John Mayer / Dare You to Move, Switchfoot
Early childhood... Glory Days, Bruce Springsteen
Cory is born... Let’s Hear It for the Boy, Deniece Williams
Summer, playing with my Dad and brothers... Summer of 69, Bryan Adams
Late Childhood... Don't Stop Believin', Journey
Early Jr. High... Hangin’ Tough, New Kids on the Block (or anything by them)
Late Jr. High... Forever Young, Alphaville
Early High School... Smells Like Teen Spirit, Nirvana
Late High School... When I Come Around, Green Day
Freshman year... Name, Goo Goo Dolls
Sophomore year... Wonderwall, Oasis
Junior year... Doing Time, MxPx
Senior year... Good Riddance (Time of Your Life), Green Day
Spring Breaks... MmmBop, Hanson
Post-college... All-Star, Smash Mouth
Moving... The Old Apartment, Barenaked Ladies
Love... In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel
Hurt... I Will Survive, Cake
Running... Dream On, Aerosmith/ Breathe, Michelle Branch
Driving/Car Trips... Wide Open Spaces, Dixie Chicks
Pap's funeral... For the Moments I Feel Faint, Relient K / Blessed Be Your Name, Matt Redman
Pittsburgh... We Are Family, Sister Sledge
Kentucky... Will I Ever Make It Home, Ingram Hill
Right Now... I Don’t Wanna Be, Gavin DeGraw

Picking Up the Pieces of My Broken Heart
Despite my ongoing hatred of the New England Patriots as a whole, I have, until last night, maintained that Tom Brady is the best looking guy in football, and still often referred to him as “my future husband” (to everyone’s immediate understanding as to whom I’m talking about). Well Brady, it’s over. I hope your immense grief over this news severely hinders your performance in the Super Bowl.

In the wake of last night’s 41-27 Steeler loss to the Patriots in the AFC Championship, it should be said that I’m not mad at Ben Roethisberger or Bill Cowher. Anyone who is, or who is calling for their immediate removal, is a fool. Cowher’s the best thing to happen to Pittsburgh since the heyday of the 70’s dynasty. Ben’s a rookie, and a darn good one at that. Take away the turnovers and we played a good game. We controlled the clock, had more total yards, and sacked Brady twice. Our turnovers were our obvious doom. But Ben had an amazing rookie year and will come back wiser and stronger next year.

That said, I am heartbroken. And not over Tom Brady. Despite all my claims prior to game time that I was “ready for anything to happen,” apparently losing still really smarts. On the long drive back to my apartment after the game, in between pressing “Ignore” on my incessantly ringing cell, I had a wide range of thoughts. Blinking back tears I thought, “That’s it, no more sports for me. Too stressful and I obviously get way too emotionally involved. It’s not worth it.” Knowing immediately that was never going to happen, I tried to gain some perspective on the situation. I thought of the mass devastation caused by the tsunami just a few weeks ago. I thought about people with real problems. However noting that there were real tragedies going on at that moment gave me absolutely no perspective. I was inconsolably disappointed. As my wise friend Jason said in an effort to make me feel better today, “It's like love. The person you're in love with both HURTS you the most, and makes you HAPPY the most. It's a trade-off.”

No matter how long your team has gone without winning a championship (now everyone knows how long the Red Sox fans waited), the time span in your mind is only as long you personally have been waiting. And I’ve been waiting my whole life. The two teams I root for, the Pirates and the Steelers, have a wonderful, rich tradition in my hometown. My Mum tells us stories of her Dad packing them all up in the car after the Bucs beat the Yankees in the 1960 World Series and driving them downtown to celebrate with the rest of the city. As I sit here typing, a print of the famous Life magazine photo from that series hangs on the wall above my computer. My Dad tells us stories of four Super Bowl championships in six years. A signed Lynn Swann Terrible Towel hangs in our house as a reminder of the time my Dad picked him up (walking to the stadium for practice—I’m not kidding) and gave him a ride to Three Rivers Stadium. I’ve seen footage of the “Immaculate Reception” so many times, sometimes I actually think I saw it happen the first time. The tradition is wonderful indeed—but it's also before my time. The last Super Bowl win was in 1980 – I was not quite 3 years old. That win doesn’t mean anything to Jerome Bettis, and it barely means anything to me. As far as I’m concerned, every time my team makes it to the post-season, we leave disappointed. But I will not stop cheering. The Pirates haven’t even had a remote shot at the playoffs since 1992, a fact which still leaves me (not to mention an entire city) bitter toward the Braves. But I love them, and if I’m 80 years old when their time comes back around, I’ll still be singing “Let’s go Bucs!” I hope the Steelers will not have to wait that long to get their “one for the thumb.” But if they do, you’ll find me waving my Terrible Towel with the rest of the city. Pick yourself up and move on Pittsburgh—our time will come again.

Steeler Obsession Takes New Form
I had a dream last night... in weird dream world, it was this Sunday and I turned on the TV sometime before 6:30 (AFC Championship Game start time). Not only was the game already on, but only the 4th quarter was left to play. The score was tied at 33. You'll all be happy to know that even though I didn't see the rest of the game (you know, I had to get on the road - dream world, whatever @@), that a nice gentleman in a convenience store let me know a few hours later that the Steelers had won. I calmly excused myself from the convenience store setting, went outside and screamed my head off. And I mean screamed. I wouldn't be surprised if I had actually screamed in my sleep.

It's official--I'm obsessed.

Why I Do It
The Thanksgiving to New Years holiday spread is known for a lot of things—shopping, family get-togethers, and time-off of work. It’s also known for busyness, parties, dinners, cookies, ham, candy, more ham… Amongst all the food and all that is going on, exercise habits tend to wane and eating habits tend toward the fourth deadly sin of gluttony. This holiday season was no different. Somehow maintaining my running schedule through Thanksgiving, it started to die down to “sporadic” about two weeks before Christmas, all the way to non-existent by the week prior.

So last weekend, already well into January, I knew I must take advantage of the rare 60 degree sunny afternoon and get back on the horse. It hadn’t even been 3 weeks, but the gaping space of time filled with cookies and sleeping in nonetheless left me worried about my ability to even run at all. Not trying to set any land speed records, I decided to just try for 3 miles (always my minimum distance) at whatever pace didn’t feel tortuous. My iPod was dead to the world, so I was left with my own thoughts for the 30 minute jaunt around Wilmore.

Sans iPod, I heard a few things that don’t normally reach my ears. One was the sound of my own breathing—in and out, in and out. The second thing I couldn’t help but notice was the pounding of my feet on the pavement. Paired with my panting, at first it sounded laborious, as I imagined my legs made of lead having to turn themselves over, again and again. I asked myself the question I’ve asked a million times before: Why do I do this?

But in the next moment, I was taken with how satisfying and liberating it was. The answer came as swift and sure as my doubt a moment before: Because I can. Because no matter how many times I’ve dreaded heading out there, I’ve never once regretted a run. Because I never wished I would have slept an extra 30 minutes (or 3 hours) instead of running. Because for once in my athletically-challenged life, I’ve found I can actually DO something with a small measure of talent. Because the more I run, the better I get. Because when I ignore my limitations, they start to fade away. Because there are people who can’t. Because there are people who can, but won’t.

Because I can—and will.

My Pap
On December 29, 2004, my grandpap's 78th birthday, he passed away unexpectedly from a heart attack. Sometime in the last year, I had written about losing my dog and that being the hardest loss I had ever experienced. Wow, does that seem trite now. He was by no means young, but unfortunately I had still be operating under the naive assumption that I'd have all my loved ones forever. His passing was an unpleasant wake-up call. He was a wonderful man, husband, dad and Pap. He dutifully served as a police officer for over 40 years, an occupation that made him eternally cool with both his kids and grandkids. He was so funny, loving, protecting and unselfish. His faith and quiet example are the reason I have such an amazing family today. In searching for silver linings, I can honestly say that it was a blessing that I had not yet left to return to Kentucky after Christmas. Not only did I get to kiss him and tell him I loved him the night before he passed, but I got to be with my family immediately, rather than making the long, emotional trip by myself. Another blessing was that God granted me a few moments of composure when I got up to share at his memorial service. For the many who didn't get to hear my little tribute to him, here it is.

Most of you know the man we are remembering here today as Bill Flora. Maybe to some it's Uncle Bill or Mr. Flora, and to a very few of you, it's Dad. But to me and three other people on this planet, his name was Pap. I told my mom last night that I remember clear as day being a little kid and thinking that his first name was actually Pap. Don't get me wrong - I understood the concept of grandparents having nicknames, and then having real names that adults used with them. But not my Pap - his first name was actually Pap. How lucky is that?! :-)

You might not have known my Pap the way I did, so let me tell you a little bit about him.

It was my Pap who started feeding me chewing gum practically before I could talk. Literally one of my first words was "gum," as I'd stand looking up to him, hand outstretched pleading for my favorite treat, "Gum, gum, gum..."

It was my Pap who started the famous family chant at Christmas when someone gave a particularly good gift. "Bud! Bud! Bud!..."

It was my Pap who sold us my very first car at a very reasonable price ;-) and who always reminded me to fill up with gas when it got to half a tank.

It was my Pap who consistently encouraged me to stay in the slow lane on the road, but who helped to push me forward in life.

My Pap regularly kept an eye on the weather in Kentucky, and always wanted a call when I returned safely home to PA.

My Pap never scolded his grandkids for "just being kids," but usually joined us in whatever shananigans we were up to at the time, thus becoming "one of us" and gaining our hard-earned respect.

And just this Christmas my Pap renewed my AAA membership for me, so that even when he couldn't do it himself, he'd know I was taken care of.

My Pap: my personal police officer, protector, gum provider, and friend.