life

At some point in the argument, which lasted days as neither of us was willing to cede to the other in this Important Thing™, my mom told her husband to give up, let me win. He (of course) resisted. Why should he give up to a 14 year old? A 14 year old! Any rational adult (especially one who had survived being shot down in a helicopter in Viet Nam) could outlast a stubborn 14 year old. Sheesh!

But then my mom told him about The Cereal Incident.

When I was little (as in really small, as in 3 years old), I ate my cereal the wrong way. In other words, I ate cereal the way everyone else does. Of course, I now eat cereal the correct way, but back then I was young and innocent. Basically, I ate my morning Cheerios by pouring a bowl of milk, opening the cereal box, pouring in the cereal, then eating really fast. You have to eat cereal fast because, as everyone knows, soggy cereal sucks.

So, one morning (did I mention I was three?), I poured my milk, poured my cereal, and started eating as fast as I could. Unfortunately, my Cheerios became soggy before I could get to the ones on the bottom.

Ick.

So, when I was down to the soggy cereal (ick!), I took my bowl to the sink to pour the remains down the drain and put my bowl in the sink. I don't know how Mom and Dad managed to train us kids to put our dishes in the sink after a meal, but I can't recall not doing so.

On this particular morning, Dad saw me walking to the sink with the bowl of milk and soggy cereal, and told me to sit back down and eat it.

Huh?

Eat this soggy cereal?

Why? It's soggy.

I'm sure he replied with something like, you shouldn't pour so much into your bowl if you can't eat it. I don't recall that detail. I assume he came over and took the bowl from me, putting it back on the table. He probably plunked me down in the chair, too.

According to Mom, Dad told me to eat that bowl of cereal.

I refused.

Dad countered with the threat, "You will sit there until you do."

And so I did.

I sat there all morning. I remember "reading" the back of the Cheerios box, really the only thing to do when you're three and stuck at the kitchen table all morning. There was a Winnie the Pooh on the back of the box. He was on the left side of the box.

I sat there all afternoon. Mom would wander in and out of the kitchen looking at the forlorn little girl draped over the chair in sheer boredom, and wonder who was going to win this battle of wills. Or as she recalled, "The thing I remember is your being draped across the chair, sitting up, then with your feet up over the back of the chair, then laying sideways on your back, then your tummy, then kneeling... I think one time you may have been on the floor with your hand on the seat..."

I sat there all evening. Dad would sometimes come in to see how I was doing. He'd find me sneaking off, and put me back in the chair. He wasn't able to go to work that day because I wasn't off at nursery school, so someone had to be home with the kid.

Still I sat there.

I was allowed to go to the bathroom, and eventually I was allowed to go to bed. I wasn't allowed any other food with the family at dinner because I hadn't finished my breakfast.

Dad was ever so kind as to put the bowl into the refrigerator for me to consume the next day.

Joy.

The next morning, I was back at the table with the bowl of sugared milk and nearly non-existent Cheerios. By this time, the Cheerios had all disintegrated. All I needed to do was choke down the milk.

But to do that required (what else?) Cheerios!

I put a small handful into the milk, and ate the delicious, crunchy Cheerios with the uncomformably sweetened milk. I was ravenous at this point. I finished the milk, one handful of cereal at a time, thereby discovering the correct way to eat cereal.

I'm still not sure who won that battle of wills with my Dad. Sure, I ate the cereal. But he didn't go to work or out that night.

And my mother's husband?

He gave in after he heard the tale of the Cereal Incident.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Thrice damned mother fucker.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!

3-3, I think.

Which isn't to say I haven't been disappointed more often than that in life (how boring would life be with no expectations and no hope), just that I've had only two of the really, really difficult to overcome disappointments.

And thankfully, only twice.

The first time was when I applied to graduate school at Caltech.

I was an undergraduate there, and through a bizarre series of course work counting snafus on both the registrar's and my parts, I missed graduating in four years by three credits. Those three credits are the equivalent of 1 credit at most universities, as 436 credits were needed to graduate from Caltech as an undergraduate.

So, there I was, not graduating, but needing only one small engineering elective to be done. Since I would already be enrolled for a full term, I figured I'd use the opportunity to get my Master's degree.

Caltech has a B.S./M.S. program where a student can take up to an extra year and receive both degrees. It seemed to be a good scenario for me, so I applied. I didn't apply for any funding, just the opportunity to get my Masters.

My application was declined.

I was devastated.

I was already taking the courses in anticipation of continuing my studies. As a result, I wasn't taking any spot away from another student for quotas. I wasn't expecting any funding, so I wasn't costing the school any money. My grades were, admittedly, not spectacular, but they were on par with my fellow classmates. I saw no reason for the declination.

I talked to various professors to appeal the decision, to no avail.

I left Tech bitter. Sure, with a B.S., but still bitter.

Eventually, my bitterness faded, and I can now remember the good parts of my undergraduate work, but it took a long time. Time. And the eventual recognition that my expectations were probably unreasonable. Although I still see no reason for declining my application, I also see no reason to accept it. I wasn't a stellar student, nor a successful researcher, so from the school's perspective, it was easier for them to just cut me lose.

Fair enough.

The second disappointment was far more recent. It is also based, tragically more so, on unrealistic expectations. In retrospect, completely and totally unrealistic expectations.

Earlier this year, I applied for Team USA, representing the United States in ultimate for the 2005 World Games in Germany on a mixed gender ultimate team.

Originally, the application process included an online application, tryouts and a by-committee team selection.

When applying, I had nothing to lose. I'm not a well known player (in terms of my play) in the ultimate community. I don't know most of the women's-only players, so I couldn't be intimidated by them. I had been training with Geno for months and had strength and quickness I had never possessed before.

No, I had nothing to lose.

Except the selection process didn't go as planned. I was training hard for the tryouts; they didn't happen. I had no chance to go up against the well known women's players. By name recognition only, I was a complete unknown.

Of all of the 37 woman applicants, I was the only one who was a true Mixed player. I've been playing mixed ultimate since I moved to the Bay Area in 1997. I've been playing with Kris since 1998. All the other women applicants play in the women's division. There was one other woman who recently "retired" to mixed, but no one else whose career was Mixed.

Which I believe helped me in the selection process: I made the first cut and was one of 14 women on the short list for 6 team spots and 2 alternates.

Exciting!!! (And, yes, that excitement deserved the usually avoided multiple exclamation points.)

Unfortunately, it also raised my expectations for making the team.

In a completely irrational way, I began to hope. Wow, I might make Team USA. Omigod, how unbelievably cool would that be?

I started working out even harder. My usual 3-4 hours / day, 6 days a week workouts became 4-5 hours / day, 6 days a week. I gained weight. I gained strength. I gained muscle like I'd never had before.

Yes, I was definitely excited and motivated. For the first time in my life, I was motivated to do well in sports. I wanted to make this team more than I thought imaginable. I worked out physically. I worked on my mental game. I did everything I could do. I ate, slept, dreamt ultimate.

Kris warned me.

He tried. Oh, he tried. He tried very hard to reduce my expectations. He knew what was coming. In retrospect, I should have, too.

Truly unsurprisingly, I didn't make the team. And rightly so, actually.

I can say this now. I realize now that I'm not at the elite women's player level of play. I can hold my own, but I'm really not a Team USA level player.

I can't say it's impossible for me to become physically capable of playing at the elite level. I've tried only once, and that was earlier this year.

What I can say, however, is that I don't have the confidence or mental game to play that game. I can also say if I had started playing years before I did, I might have learned that confidence. But I didn't. And I don't. And I can't play at that level.

Phew! That said (and I can say that now), at the time of team announcements, I was disappointed. Bone crushing, soul searing disappointed.

All the small injuries I had been ignored rushed at me. I lost any desire to play ultimate. Playing became a chore. Every failed throw, every bad cut, every drop became a demonstration of how bad of a player I was.

I stopped having fun.

So, I stopped playing.

I quit Mischief. I took my name off all the mailing lists and team signups. I stopped going to practice. I stopped going to tournaments. I stopped running.

Citing injuries, I started to fade from the local ultimate scene. I pulled away from my friends. I pulled away from Kris.

I wanted nothing to do with the thing that caused me so much hurt.

But it's hard to stay away from something that has been such a big part of my life for over a decade. From something that somewhat defines my relationship with Kris. From something that encompasses my social network in the same way most religious groups form communities.

It almost hurt not to play. It mostly hurt my relationship with Kris. We no longer had the strategy discussions, the after-tournament reviews, the workouts, the commuting time to and from practice and tournaments.

As Kris said, "I knew this day would come, I just wasn't expecting it so soon."

So, unlike my disappointment with Tech, I could actually do something about this disappointment. I started playing again. This time, though, on my own terms.

I've been playing the games I want to play, running the workouts I want to run, and learning, once again, you get out of life what you put in.

And I've learned to accept disappointment. It hasn't been easy, and it's a lesson I should have learned long ago, but at least it's (mostly) learned now.

When I have expectations, I have to be aware of potential disappointments. And the greater the expectation, the bigger the disappointment. I don't think I'll stop having expectations. I will, however, try to put them in perspective.

That way, when I swallow that bitter pill, maybe it won't be so big.

Good luck, Team USA.

The left lane is a straight or left turn lane. The right lane is a right turn only lane.

Usually, drivers on the street know what's going on and move into the correct lane before they get to the intersection.

Not so today.

With three of us (Kevin, Chris and me) leaving from my house for practice, carpooling makes sense. Especially with Kris driving back from practice with only him in the car.

Given I have a two seater, and Doyle's truck cab isn't quite comfortable for three, Kevin had the honors of driving the three of us to practice. Kevin has a four wheel drive car.

And isn't afraid to use it.

We approached the above mentioned intersection behind a huge SUV, a tahoe or suburban or whatever those hummer wannabe vehicles are. The truck stopped early, several car lengths behind from the intersection. Another car had stopped in front of it, trying to move from the fewer-cars-in-the-shorter right turn only into the more-cars-and-longer-wait left/straight turn lane. The attempt failed, and said car stopped, blocking both lanes. The huge SUV stopped behind the first car, and we stopped behind the SUV.

As we stopped, Doyle piped up, "You have a four wheel drive. There's enough room to go around." as he pointed to the sidewalk to the right. Kevin looked at the space, nodded and said "Uh huh."

I chimed in from the back seat, "Dollar."

Kevin turned to me with a smirk that said, "You just called dollar on that?" and yanked the wheel hard right.

Up and over the curb we went, with me giggling and laughing the whole way. Omigod it was hysterical! We passed the huge SUV, passed the cluster producing car and into the clear right turn lane just as the light turned green.

Zoom!

Oh, I was laughing so hard. Doyle was in the front seat, laughing, too. As we stopped in the left turn lane at the next light, the driver of the car behind us before Kevin's crazy-man move pulled up next to us.

"That was awesome, man" he said, wiping a laughter tear from his eyes.