Ruby's Colored Glasses

To the best of my recollection, I was about ten years old when someone figured out that I couldn't see very well. I have a memory of squinting quite a bit at the chalkboards at Our Lady of Visitation; of trying to pick out friends on the playground by the color of their coat; but mostly, I remember just wanting it to be easy to see clearly.

I remember my mom taking me to meet the eye doctor, and purchasing my first pair of contact lenses. Of course, there was some hideous eyewear purchased at that time. For years, I only wore my contacts because I was too embarrassed to wear frames. In fact, it was only about 10 years ago that I learned to use glasses as an accessory. Now, my second favorite place to shop is the eyeglass boutique on Lincoln. (And yes, there's probably a direct correlation between the fact that I can't fit into DKNY but I CAN purchase designer frames.)

The inventory keeps growing, but now, I love new glasses. I have a beautiful pair of French purple metallic frames with free-floating, cat-eye, asymetrical lenses. Then there's the pair of 2.5 gram plastic frames that, in my slightly blinded moments, make me believe I look like Nicole Kidman in The Interpreter (the frames, not the face, of course.) There are my current favorites: a brown tortoiseshell, square-framed set with a pink inlay that I'm never without. And then, there's the SUV of my glasses: the Smith Sliders - a black, lightweight athletic frame with interchangeable lenses. They've been on every athletic excursion with me in the past 5 years, and I wouldn't trade them for an entry into the Boston Marathon (with a permitted 10 hour finish, of course.) Because the coolest thing about them is that the interchangeable lenses come in three colors: dark (for sunny days); rose (for dawn and dusk); and yellow (for night, or low-light days).

I've always believed there are are positives and negatives to seeing clearly. Yesterday, I remembered the benefit of choosing the right color through which to view the world, too. I donned the low-light yellow lens Smiths for yesterday's 7:30 a.m. run along the lakefront, and two things struck me: first, it's amazing what manufacturing your own sunshine can do for a mood. It was, by all accounts, a tough day for a run. There were three fresh inches of snow on the ground, the wind was gusting at 25 MPH off the lake, and I hadn't run all week. But pulling those yellow lenses over my eyes, my world went from grey to sunny - in an instant.

Of course, they didn't quiet the heavy sounds of my feet, or the uh, slightly labored sound of my breathing (no, that's not a German shepard approaching, just me). Given my lack of recent training, nothing was going to make the run feel effortless. But the lighter feeling affordedby the sunny tint was - well - illuminating. It made Chicago feel more inviting; less grey. And that's damn nice on a day like yesterday.

As I headed North along the lagoon, I realized something else. I was struggling a bit, trying to get in a rhythm, and I found myself looking down at the path in front of me a lot. I do that sometimes, especially when I run alone and am feeling a bit - well, crappy. When I catch myself doing it, I try to remember some tried and true coaching advice. The advice is always the same: focus on a runner about 100 feet ahead; or a tree; or the skyline. In short: look up. Look ahead. Look someone in the eye. Don't put your head down. Don't hide. Tilt your chin up, put your shoulders back, and focus on something other than yourself.

For me that advice always, always works. Yesterday, three days away from leaving my dream job, one day away from a tense severance negotiation, I needed to focus on something else. So I looked up, and once again, the world opened. At first, it was routine. I said hello to some runners, and smiled - and they smiled back. (That always helps me out). I saw a group of people hitting the Saturday morning farmer's market at the Noteabart campus - and thought how brave they were to be out on a day like yesterday. And then came the really nice stuff.

In Lincoln Park, the leaves are all stripped from the trees; and the branches, in dark relief against the pale Chicago sky, are like a local Ansel Adams picture. And the Lincoln Park Zoo has an intricate sculpture that forms an archway, leading into the zoo, full of carvings that would entrance anyone not concerned with falling in the snow. I've run by that entrance hundreds of times - and until yesterday, I'd never noticed that sculpture.

And then there's General Grant. His bronze statue sits atop a small rise in the park, gazing down at the thousands, if not millions of people who come to visit Chicago each year. As I detoured from my route, running up along next to Grant, I found myself alone, staring at the skyline just South of me. I looked up at Grant, and smiled at the statue, where he sits with a straight back, and a chin tilted up, challenging someone to knock him off that horse. It was me and Grant there for a few minutes, and I'd be wrong if I didn't admit I was standing straighter when I left him.

I ran for sixty good minutes yesterday, and everything I saw, I saw clearly. And most of it got me thinking of something else other than me, and my life, and what I was feeling like at that very moment. Call it escapism, call it denial, call it rose-colored glasses. But when I find myself remembering all the good parts of that run, well, I think we could all use glasses like that sometimes.