What I'm about to say might shock you, but I stand behind it.

Ever since my third knee surgery, I've had incredible parking karma.

Take a second to soak that up. I don't know where you live, so this will mean different things depending on your location, but it's a true statement. I find parking spots close to entryways at rush hour, slip in just as a car is pulling out, or take a gander down a street with one strip of curb left for me so I can avoid paying for parking.

I don't think it's the universe feeling bad for me - I just think I accumulated some karma over the years. Without getting too murky or controversial, I'll just say that I don't have strong ties to spiritual beliefs or the Easter Bunny or anything. I do, however, believe in karma.

I don't think I'm rolling around in good deeds that shield me from life's tougher moments, but I do think I've put enough out there to have some lingering positive vibes awaiting an epic embrace. If that turns out to look like finding a parking spot in the Trader Joe's lot at 5:15pm on a work night, so be it.

There are, however, two sides of karma, and I believe in both of them. Over the weekend I told a group of my girlfriends about a petty incident I was involved in a few months back. It was during a game of musical chairs. Yes - you read that right - musical chairs. I had claimed a full seat with only a handful of people left, and when the judge turned his back, another participant came in and pushed me off of the chair! I couldn't believe it! Then when the judge asked, the player just kind of shrugged and gave a confused look. That cheater ended up winning the whole game.

Was karma defected? How was there a reward for such cruel, conniving behavior? There wasn't. Karma is never in a rush. It's not unfair. Karma doesn't take the cheaters and liars and thieves and bash them with trauma or tragedy - that's not Karma's MO. Karma is the swing vote in the moments that are close - the moments that matter - and the moments that level out a playing field. Karma, contrary to popular belief, is not a bitch.

Every gut-wrenching, life-changing, questionable moment in life does not equate to payback for a poor decision or action you've previously made; it's just life. Karma steps in when the time is right.

I sat down in my new office at my new computer as part of my new job yesterday. I was immediately put to work and handed a deck of responsibilities. I scrolled down quickly and began churning things out. After a few hours, I looked up at my screen, looking at a display of creative ideas, content creation and pitches, and I took a small, quiet breath and smiled to myself.

This is exactly where I wanted to be. And it was exactly what I was supposed to be doing. I worked hard to earn this job - I am qualified and educated and skilled - so landing it was not karma. The evolution and timeline, however, is a different story. I am chalking it up to karma. I am chalking up the sequence of events in my life - good and bad - to karma. The downward spiral of the "unfairness" led to the upward climb of accomplishment, and it feels awesome. The person who pushed me off of the chair doesn't deserve anything awful, but that karma lingers and waits to decide where the cards will fall just a bit differently when the time is right. 

Karma pushes us and teaches us and questions us. It doesn't hand us unwarranted gifts or punish us with blindsided grief. We don't win because helped someone with his/her groceries and we don't lose because we put a nail polish in our pocket in 3rd grade without paying for it. But we do win. And we do lose. Sometimes it's well-earned and sometimes karma is working for or against other elements that we can't see. Maybe karma keeps us safe during a loss or keeps us humble during a win. 

Whatever the case, I feel as though that feeling that I had yesterday - being exactly where I wanted to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing - was sprinkled with the right kind of karma. 

And, of course, I'm not mad about my parking karma either.

On April 1st, I signed off from this blog, declaring that my 28th year was the best it could be in less than 24 hours of that new, ripe age.

However...I'm back. I didn't lie, per say, because I have diligently been working on the projects that I promised to work on, and I have since been enjoying this 28th year as fervently as possible. This morning I woke up with a smile on my face and knew it was time to return here. Maybe it was because I had spent the prior evening dancing alongside my mother to our favorite live musician, Jackson Browne, in my small, but precious town, or maybe it was because our dog, Ginger greeted me with loving eyes and a two-paw hug.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I was reminded that an entire year has passed since I entered the operating room for the third time to succumb to the time and toll of recovering from an injury and everything that comes along with it. A year ago, I was determined to let my wit and will guide me through the recovery process better than the two time before, and I was almost giddy in my perseverance toward keeping a positive mind set.

I nailed it.

At least on August 12, 2014. The following days, weeks and months, as this timely tale so subtly, yet directly depicts, were full of trials and tribulations revolving around the injury and life itself despite my best efforts to rise above all. The moments that were supposed to feel so big often came with other subsets that I had not anticipated. The milestones - running, hiking, jumping - weren't quite as momentous as I had made them out to be.

I still ached (literally and figuratively) and I still needed help and attention and guidance. I didn't do it all on my own. For some reason, I had wanted to, but I am so thankful for the support of so many in various ways.

I gained weight, lost weight, felt good, felt awful, felt strong, felt weak, smiled, cried, made big life changes and delayed changing things at all.

All of those things are probably why the smile on my face this morning was so genuine. It's been 365 days since my 3rd knee surgery in 4 years. I worked out with one of my girlfriends yesterday morning, who is also the captain of the infamous football team where everything took place last year. We were doing these jump lunges over and over again - which, believe me, are hard no matter what type of knees you have. I was watching my trunk in the mirror, and when we took a break, we made eye contact and high fived each other.

"It's so great to see you doing all this!" she said.

She was right. Not only did that say a lot about her character, as an individual, invested in the health and recovery of one of her friends, but it allowed me to thank my body and all of those who contributed to its recover over the past year.

I've played in 3 full-day tournaments, took to the football field, rollerbladed, played soccer, jumped higher, run faster and pushed my muscles to new limits all in less than a full year of recovery. I still ice every day. Yes. EVERY day. I click and cringe and ache at times, but that is just part of the cycle. Reflecting on the past year feels quite similar - there are still reminders about things that have happened - lesser friendships, career changes and heartbreak are evident, but not limiting. They're almost a great reminder about the positive that comes from pushing through murky water. You're a little dirty, a little cold and a little run down, but you've crossed to the other side with new experiences and appreciation.

I asked for professional advice from one of my friends yesterday, and he gave it to me straight. "You're teetering between fear and comfort," he said. "You can either rest on the sure thing or you can reach out toward new challenges without security. You have to fail," he said. "Embrace that you're taking risks to better yourself and the fear will melt away."

I (truly) couldn't have said it better myself. Thanks to my amazing support group full of friends and family, my fitness instructors and physical therapist, I was able to eventually stop focusing on the fear of performing below the "old me" and, instead, start focusing on bettering the "current me."

Happy 1 year post-opiverssary to me. I can't wait to see what's in store for the next 365 days :-)

If someone would have told me that I'd spend my 28th birthday relishing in a surprise visit from my mother, a 4am alarm clock, and a club soda and iced tea any number of years ago, I would have guffawed feverishly. 

The same could be said for surviving a mere three knee surgeries in four short years. 

I don't know what I imagined myself doing at age 28. It's not a particularly daunting or exciting age. It's like month four of ACL recovery - fine, but not fully functional or dysfunctional. It just kind of...is. 

Unless I choose to call it something differently. And luckily for you, I do. I'm calling 28 the best year of my life, and it's only been 23 hours. Today I hiked for the first time since my blasted ligament last summer, and I did it with a close friend, my two best four-legged companions, and caught the notorious sunrise to welcome in a new year since I missed doing this personal tradition on THE new year. Essentially, I created a new tradition. Or continued one. However you want to frame it, it felt awesome, fulfilling and special. My knee handled it with poise and didn't put up an ounce of restraint.

Then I came home to a mother who had driven up, in traffic to simply show up on my doorstep and take me to dinner the eve of my birthday. She came with gifts, smiles and a helping hand in the kitchen. Through a year full of heartbreak, injury, and adventure, there was no better surprise that I could have been offered. I spent time with friends, family and myself. I raced through the day happily and without a second of self-doubt. 

I spent every moment of my 28th year completely happy. So yes, I'm calling it the best year of my life. 

I still thought about my knee. My heart. My job, my life, my family, my friends, others' feelings, and my own. I thought about everything really. I thought about the durability of my knee, the resilience and fervent push of my heart. I thought of the flexibility of my job, the integrity of my family, support of my friends, recognition of others' feelings, and insight to my own. I thought about the person and woman I am, mistakes, mishaps and melancholy included, and I thought about the rise and fall of all of the moments and missed moments that have led me here.

And I thought, damn, life is just so sweet.

Not because I'm healed, because I'm not in a sense. And not because it's easy, because that wouldn't be truthful either. It's sweet because of the constant ebb and flow of wanting, having, needing and losing. I started writing this blog last July to keep me from falling in the trenches of the teethed monster that is an ACL mind warp, but instead I just rode the wave of my life, which included recovering from a knee injury. 

Twenty-eight is the best year of my life because it's mine. It's here for me, and it's mysterious and predictable all in one. It's awesome because it's new and uncharted, which means no one has or will walk the path that I take except my future self. I am the absolute only person who gets to float along the minutes and hours and days my way, and that is incredibly special. 

I'm now 23 hour and 10 minutes into this new year, and it is STILL the best year of my life. 

I'll be honest though, I had a little personal push to set myself up for this day over the past month.

Much like the aimless days and nights where my knee feels useless and without progress, there were some trying times over the past couple of months that led me to wondering what the point of all my hard work was.

I was on the receiving end of a lot of apologies. "Sorry about your knee" or "sorry that I put you through hell." Regardless of the phrase following the word, the sorries seemed unfair and unjust for a girl who was simply doing things right.

That's me. I do things right. I tell the truth, follow directions, drive within 7mph of the speed limit and hold tight to others' secrets. I haven't always been like this, so when I started transitioning into doing things right, I recognized that this would clear away many of the problems that are associated with doing things in a different, slightly more wrongful manner. I would have healthier relationships, muscles and sleeping patterns because that's what happens when you do things right. You're in control. I'm in control.

Except that sometimes that's just not the case. Sometimes you can do right and get wronged or even vice versa. Sometimes you feel right and recognize that perhaps that isn't the case. Sometimes you can't control shit. And by you, I mean me.

I came to this realization after miserably failing to control my lingering despair over various issues a little while ago. Despite my best (and worst) efforts, I cannot, apparently, control the push and pull of emotional chaos.

I can however, control other things. My water consumption. The type of food I eat and how I prepare it. Whether or not I make my bed. How often I write. How I exercise, spend my time after work, and who I call.

So I took control of those things. I intentionally set challenges to drink a certain amount of water, write during specific windows, and push through foreboding cooking. I set myself up for 30 days merely as a way to keep myself accountable, and I have been more than pleasantly surprised with the results because of these challenges.

I spend less time thinking about what I cannot control. I spend more time enjoying myself. I enjoy making my bed. My refrigerator is always full. I'm proud of myself. My knee isn't an "issue;" it's part of me.

These challenges and elements of control are signs of employing myself to follow through and be better to myself, not wish I was a better self. Nothing felt easy or automatic or worthless; it felt tough, but manageable and appropriately challenging.

Hello, life metaphor. As if I need to draw the parallel with my knee - I think we've all gotten it by now. Nothing is easy, and nothing is completely in my control. Focusing on that will drive me completely nuts and keep me from growing and healing and hoping. The steps that got me to this moment are blurry, but also very clearly full of so many different things that I'll never fully shed. It's like the years leading to this one - they encompass so much that they're a huge part of today, but they don't own today.

I fucking own today. I own my knee, my body, and my brain and treating it like a wishing well is inconsiderate of my own need to rise above things. The past 9 months have been a lot of everything and nothing, but they have been about mending so much more than my third torn ligament. I guess I didn't realize that I'm always mending from something, even if I didn't know it was torn to begin with. 

The point is, this is the best year of my life. And it's now been 23 hours and 33 minutes. My goal this year isn't to make my bed everyday, or forbid foods, or set absolute deadlines. Those may be part of the year, but my goal is to take the year as my own and continue to make it the best damn year of my life until the next best year of my life. 

My knee isn't 100% and neither am I. We're both evolving and aging. We're not perfect or anywhere near it. We're flawed and scarred and scared, but we can't move forward with only a narrow focus.

The Lifestyle of the Torn and Triad is a complete mess, to be honest. It's a lifestyle that's real and raw and ridiculous at times. It's hidden and exposed, but it's too much of a cop out to hang my head on a string of ligament metaphors.

Sadly and proudly, this is the last blog entry for this epic journey through my 3rd knee surgery in my 20s. I rang in MY new year the best way I know how, and no matter if I score a touchdown, end up back on the operating table or face obstacles I can never see coming, my story has become clearer than an injury recovery. 

So alas, my blog turns to stone, and similarly, a step toward my next project, which I certainly hope you'll take interest in. I have no qualms about shamelessly plugging my aspirations to continue to write and dazzle your screen with epic nothingness of my thoughts, opinions and experiences. Please follow me here and brace yourself for the many pages that I am writing to eventually sprawl across the plethora of available reading materials.

Yes. I am writing a book.

Please feel free to share the torn and triad in all of its drawling glory to anyone going through the injury...or just as a time killer if you prefer. Thank you for a great literary journey that we'll never discuss.

P.S. I'm 23 hours and 53 minutes into my 28th birthday, and this just hasn't stopped being the best year of my life. What better time than now?!

WINNING!

Labels are a confusing indication of the best and the worst things about you. Ideally, labels are set out to help us identify things - foods, products, segments, etc. In a social context, however, labels can damage someone's reputation. I talk about this a lot with my teenagers. We often label people (or get labeled) and forget to look past anything. I don't think that women are the only ones subject to detrimental labels, but over the years, words like "slut" and "bitch" have become trendy despite being labels that are not only misused, but also degrading in every way. I'm no angel. I use them freely as well. 

Labels can also be seemingly positive, too. We can project people as inherently good, simply by classifying them as such. Most of the time, negative labels come attached to a single set of actions, but positive labels take a lifetime to build up to. That's only fair, right?

But are labels with a positive connotation detrimental as well? I've been struggling with this lately. Oftentimes with close relationships, I'll find myself blurting out these tiny "confessions" to ensure that I'm not masking who I truly am. It can be anything from admitting I don't know how to do something to eating a crappy meal. That way I can keep myself from being wrongfully labeled as "healthy" while I hide at home and cram popcorn and skittles down on a Friday night. There is one label that gets tossed my way on a somewhat consistent basis that makes me feel that twinge of guilt just a little bit more than any other. It's that notion of being misunderstood for something better than what I really am. It's that "if you only knew" mentality. 

That label is "tough."

Don't get me wrong; I do consider myself tough in some forms of the word. As an athlete, I am tough. I get back up, pursue success at all physical costs, and I don't think I'd ever be considered a quitter. I'm tough on myself. I set high expectations and go after them fervently. The kind of tough that makes me squirm, however, is the tough that means "you make it through."

In other words, you-handle-challenges-well-tough. This is where I go, "if you only knew." I'm not really sure how tough I am in that sense. What's the baseline? What's the norm? How long does it take to get over something? Through something? What type of reactions and outlets are acceptable? What's tough and what's really just stubborn? I imagine when people tell me that I'm tough that they imagine me shrugging off the hard stuff, making promises to better myself, and keeping them.

That would be nice. But that's not what happens.

I falter. I set boundaries and break them. I smile and laugh, but it's possible that I'm faking it. Eventually...I do get through it. But doesn't everyone? Does that really warrant the label of "tough?"

I caught myself becoming so inter-meshed with the idea of being wrongfully categorized - by "tough," but also by other labels (positive and negative) - that I finally had some moments of self-realization. Maybe the labels are just these words left for interpretation for the carrier of them, not the person who slings them at someone else. Maybe they're more of an evolution, rather than an absolute concept. Ya. This seems more reasonable.

My tough is a similar idea to what I blogged about months ago - my own skinny. It's not about what it means to other people. It's about what it means to me. I'm not always the type of tough I want to be. That doesn't lessen the label or characteristic though. It just makes me re-define it. 

Going through a third knee surgery has tested my self-perception of myself in a lot of ways, but most definitely in my toughness. When I have days that I don't do what I'm supposed to do, or when I complain, or when I feel sorry for myself, fall behind, I knock off points in the invisible scoring system. It's like breaking up with someone and promising not to contact them and then shamefully doing so only to delineate "weakness points" afterward.  Or promising that you'll never eat a cookie again. That's not toughness. That's criminal.

So screw it. Toughness doesn't exist because we never falter or struggle. It exists because we do and then get a little bit better. Or a lot better. Whatever. I'm not tough because I've had three knee surgeries - the only label that can absolutely come with that is "has had three knee surgeries." Not cursed or unlucky or clumsy or even athletic (though that's my favorite to rely on). These events can't define these labels - whatever they are. They can, however, delegate some self-recognition.

I ran my first mile in about 8 months on Friday. As Barney Stinson would say, "self high-five." Running that doesn't make me tough or fast or slow or athletic. It just makes me proud of myself. It's cool to feel good. It feels good to feel good! I've been so caught up in what these moments and reactions cast me as in the world of scary labels that I've forgotten to just appreciate the authenticity of moments - good and bad. I could make a big, declarative statement like, "I'll never let labels get to me again!"

But that's not true. Remember? Setting boundaries and breaking them? It happens. That's part of owning "tough" as my own, rather than as an ambiguous label to live up to. 

My high school English teacher, who is a hero of mine, came to see me last week. As I introduced him to a couple important people in my life, one of them asked him what I was like on the basketball court in high school. I braced myself for it. I know how people typically describe me from those days. Tough. Aggressive. Hustler. 

"She's Macie," he said. 

We shared a smile. I didn't have to worry about living up to a display of labels that I did or did not agree with or bear any that hurt my own self-perception. He left it open to interpretation without lessening my own appreciation for his description. I have no idea what makes people tough. I have those people in my life - they support me, are honest, and have certainly faced their own battles. They also get scared and break down and ask for help though. They're tough because of the way they carry themselves, not because of their actions in specific moments or hardships (though that adds to it).

I felt awesome after running a mile! It meant something to me. I don't want to add it to the list of reasons to carry on a specific label or shed a different one though. I just want to appreciate it. For me. I'm tougher than I was during my first and second knee surgery, but who can say what that means in terms of the label in and of itself? Not me, that's for sure.

Labels are tricky. "Slut" and "bitch" and these ugly words that cast shadows over people and highlight snapshots of opinions are dehumanizing. Similarly, labels that inflict a constant anxiety of being able to live up to them are dangerous, too. You're tough. And smart. And good. However that looks for you, not for me. 

Labels are for foods and products and segments. 

I'm not tough as nails. I'm just...tough as me.

There is something endearing about a certain level of self-deprecation in my eyes. It's nice to hear the "realness" behind hurt and harm and haphazardly cruel moments. There's also a fine line, however, that divides the "realness" from the truly detrimental edge of it. Sometimes I have these days that have the greatest and most awful moments in them. Yes. Both. And likely many trivial moments in between. Er...who knows? Maybe the greats and awfuls are trivial, too. It's all relative.

Then I sit back and kind of pick at myself. How can I feel low if _________ happened today? 

I try not to get too infused with the sorrows that may come at times here, but the truth is, they're part of life. Torn ACL or not. So I want to make some declarative statements. Just because I can.

1.) Today was the first time I truly ran since July 14, 2014. It was awesome.

2.) This past weekend was one of the best weekends of my life. More details to come.

3.) I am completely overcome by sadness for myself at the moment.

How are all of those things possible? How does sadness fit in the realm of running for the first time in 7 months and having an epic weekend adventure?! I want to like...give myself a kick for even allowing negative emotion to be present in such great and fortunate times. Logically, I know this. Logic, however, doesn't always get the goat. I think it's similar to that same game I play with my knees. Logically, I would stop competing in athletics, watch my step, and take all preventative caution to never do it again. But realistically, in the emotional "want" of schematic reasoning, I want to do what I want to do. It's hard to slow that voice down.

When I was really young, I was good at almost everything. I won academic and athletic accolades, had the boys chasing me on the playground and writing me love letters, and there was never a birthday party I wasn't invited to. I was charismatic and smart and tenacious. 

Obviously, that was short-lived. I discovered what it felt like to be teased, sit in the detention room, and fail a test. I lied, made poor decisions, and tried my hardest at things that I still was unable to be the best at. I recognized life. It didn't bother me, so much as eventually lead me to finding my own way of doing things in order to avoid feelings of discomfort, insecurity, and failure. It's a game you may very well know. I certainly don't think I'm alone in pushing those icky feelings away. We all do it differently though.

For me, I play the organizer. I arrive everywhere on time, meet every deadline, speak articulately, and take care of my relationships. I rarely lose my temper, say things I don't mean, or forget to do something important. I'm trusted - whether it be as a designated driver or a confidant, I generally can play the role of being dependable. These are the same traits that keep me on track with my physical therapy, keep my thoughts logical in my recovery, and keep me grounded and appreciative of what my body is capable of despite my flimsy ligaments. I think I allow myself to do these things because the antithesis of them reminds me of all of those icky feelings and characteristics that may very well still exist. I like to be organized. It makes me feel good to be on time, meet deadlines, speak articulately, and take care of my relationships. I'm also good at those things. 

But I'll tell you a secret. I am not that person 100% of the time. Sometimes, things get a little funky.

I spent the 4-day weekend travelling up and down the coast with one of my best friends in the type of road trip they make cheesy chick flicks about. We had no itinerary, huge smiles, and great attitudes. It was perfect in every sense of the word. To spare this ACL-laden blog with exact trip details, I won't give the play-by-play, but there were some highlights worth mentioning. Most importantly is Jack.

Jack is a 19-year-old Sophomore at Santa Clara college. I met Jack while he was running alongside the 1-South on Sunday morning during a small storm of bumper to bumper traffic. In true roadtrip fashion, I jumped out of our crawling Prius and caught up to him for a picture. After he was a great sport, posed, and chatted a bit, we asked him why he was out on the side of the road to begin with.

"I'm just in a little funk," Jack said. So we offered our backseat for a change of pace. He took us up on it.

Jack let us know that his Great Uncle had just passed away, he was crammed in a 5-seater sedan with 4 other boys, and that he just felt like he needed some space to shift his momentum. So he jumped out of their car. We told him we understood. He shared that he was from Brooklyn, loves to surf, and gave us some suggestions for our continued trip. 

"Well, I'm not gonna lie," Jack said. "I think I've gotten out of the funk. Thank you guys." And he shook our hands, jumped out, and tracked back to join his buddies. 

I can learn a lot from Jack.

My self-deprecating reality is that I, too, am in a funk. It's caused my flowy attributes of organizational power, promptness, and dependability to falter. Not in any sort of epic and atrocious way, but in a way that I am aware of it. My bookshelf is in the middle of my living room. I forgot my full canister of coffee on my way to work today. I seek attention in questionable places rather than take the time to take care of my relationships. I'm off my game. I'm in a funk.

It's not chronic. I promise I'm not dedicating this entry to admitting a full-fledged meltdown, but it's only fair that I allow room for that "realness." Funky is funky. But it's real. So I'm trying to channel my inner Jack. My road trip partner posed a great question this weekend - what if we treated life like a road trip? Low stress. Big smiles. Constant gratitude. 

And space to jump out of the funk in the middle of the highway and get through it.

Jack is going to be successful. If I would have removed myself from tight situations at that age and kept an open-mind to boot, I would be leaps and bounds ahead of where I'm at. (Not to say that I'm not content with where I am). Jack is special though. Feeling the funk is one thing. Getting out of it is a whole different beast. 

But why can't I approach things with a little more road-trip-savviness? Why can't I stop at every swingset, search for the best views, and laugh at the scary motels in the middle of no where after survival rather than resent them? There isn't a good reason as to why not. Yes, I have obligations, responsibilities, and "real life" to deal with, but what part of that is out of my hands? I think being in the funk means forgetting the type of control we have. In the funk, everything happens. Out of the funk, we make everything happen. We get out of the car, rather than sit and stew.

I'll admit it. Jack has a leg up on me at the moment. I felt free and focused running today, but I also reminded myself how much slower I am. I saw more in the stretch of 4 days than I have in years, and the minute I came crashing back to reality, I slapped myself back into the many accomplishments I have yet to meet - the many goals I have fallen short of. 

That's the kind of self-deprecation that stops being endearing.

Road trips aren't about the scary motels you accidentally book. They're not about missing the on ramp or hitting traffic. They're not about what you missed. So ya, my friend was right. Life should be more like a road trip. It shouldn't be about what I can't do with my bum knee(s) or funking up a stormy cloud of self-hatred. It should be about the shotgun riders who are in constant support mode and the unassuming exits that were discovered by accident. 

It doesn't matter if I used to be good at most things, or if I feel awesomes and awfuls in the span of one day. 

I'm not "the organizer" 100% of the time. The car isn't in constant motion. But if Jack can get out of the funk by sitting in the backseat of two blonde 20-something's snack-filled Prius, I can get out of mine. 

You know the expression "When it rains, it pours"? In other words, when things don't go your way, they're going to not go your way in many avenues and one after another. It's kind of an interesting saying when you think about it. It rained this weekend here, and honestly, I would hope that when it rains, it does pour. Literally. We need the water! So if it pours, does it have to mean that things are really bad? Or does it give us what we need in one, big blow? Geographical location may have a subjective pull on this, of course, but you get what I'm asking.

While you're mulling that question over...speaking of big blows...I blew my tire out on the freeway on Friday. I'm alive. And completely unharmed. After swerving around and panicking under the prickle of fear, I managed to get my car off of the freeway and crawled into an unruly parking lot. I was 30 minutes late for practice, but was able to hitch a ride and get there. Ironically, I had just admitted in this cute little blog space that I do NOT know how to change a tire. Well, my friends. The time came. My faux knight in shining armor unleashed life lesson magic onto me as the car was jacked up, the bulbs were removed, and the tires were exchanged. I now know that my car comes with 1) a spare tire and 2) a kit that allows you to put it on. Firstworldproblems.

I had this moment, watching the greasy hands and hiked up jeans bent over my car, of guilt. I wasn't doing anything. I was almost useless. 

"Need some help?" I asked. 

"Not at this point," he said. "I've changed quite a few tires, unfortunately. The worst was on my way to work, and I had to change it in my suit in the snow."

I wonder if that was one of those mornings where my tire savior thought, "When it rains, it pours."

"We" got the spare tire on, and I was set to go. I was told not to drive fast, on the freeway, or much at all. Driving felt ok. It was off, but good enough. Kind of like my knee! I can move, but certainly cannot exceed certain speeds or take the risk of keeping up with the flow of traffic. Little things, like backing out of the driveway felt almost no different at all. Other things, like turning on a slick corner, felt awful and out of whack. You see where I'm going with this, right?

That poor little donut tire. He has to bare the weight of the car frame, endure a foreign foot pushing and pulling and twisting and turning it, and try and keep up with three other massive and healthy guys. My knee empathizes. But alas, on a rainy Sunday morning, after taking side streets for a day and a half, I got a full, new tire, and my handy prius was back to business. Though the timing is off, the perspective is similar to my knee. Endure now. Enjoy the smooth ride later. The pouring rain is only temporary, and no storm, at least in my actual experience, has left me without a stronger sense of who I am and how to get out of bad weather. Read - next time, I can change the tire. And alas, the clouds will clear, and my knee will recover fully. I know this.

There are so many gleaming cliches that can just go right along with my train of thought here. Every dark day leads to a brighter one. I can see clearly now the rain is gone. The list goes on. I don't need these cliches to get my point across. Sometimes you're the windshield. And sometimes, you're the bug. Sometimes is always temporary though.

I keep having to remind myself that about my recovery. It's long - depending on who you ask (me). But it's temporary. Know how I know that? I've done it before. I truly cannot even remember the moment when I realized I was able to recover after the last two knee surgeries. All I know is that it happened, and I got healthy. I know that's the path I'm heading down. Not being healthy right NOW is temporary. Just like rain storms.

And anger. The emotional version of a storm. Anger is a funny thing - and by funny, I really just mean intriguingly awkward and heavy. A few years ago, in my early 20s, I did my first sort of "internal exploration," have you. I took some time to understand myself and maybe make the right adjustments. Somewhere along the way, I was asked the question, "Are you more afraid of being angry or of being sad?" It seemed like too deep and too ambiguous of a question, even though I knew it was probably a good one because I didn't know the answer right away. I didn't think I was too afraid of being sad. I've always been a risk-taker. So I explored the anger part. I used to have a really bad temper as a kid. I was wild, which was both fun and unruly for my parents to deal with. I wanted to do everything, be everywhere, and live fully before I even knew what those things meant. But when I was mad...I was MAD. Fists on the floor, heavy sobs, screaming obscenities MAD. Mad also meant mean.

I got in trouble when I was about 5 or 6 years old for yelling "I hate you" to my older brother. My mom said that's a phrase that is never to be said to anyone. While I learned the lesson, I also used that to knowingly "go mean." "Hate" became the below the belt phrase that was my silver bullet as a young child. Mad made me mean. 

And then I tamed it. For the most part. I mean...I'm human. I have obviously said mean things. But I seldom lash out in true anger. I am controlled, even when my blood boils. I yell as a coach, but otherwise, I stay collected. Unfortunately, that doesn't actually void me of anger. I think the answer to that question was a daunting one - I was more afraid of being angry...simply because I knew the capabilities that could lead me to. Just because I stay calm on the outside doesn't mean I'm not throwing knockout punches to my wrong-doers on the inside.

The truth is I am mad sometimes. About lots of things. But anger is just a sub-emotion of something else - fear, rejection, hurt - all those awesome truths. We compare the emotion of anger to stormy because it's unpredictable. I guess that's kind of the same deal with my blown tire and blown ACL. The anger behind both of them is really just hiding behind a curtain of all sorts of other things that have to be dealt with. Being angry is scary because being angry is likely being scared. Ya, I'm pissed that I'm not running right now...but why? Because I enjoy running for the purity of the act? That isn't true. I like the benefits. The way my body responds to it. The ability to be competitive and gain recognition for being athletic and fast. My gripe with the not running bit is selfish in the worst way. I'm scared of losing credibility for the things I'm good at. I'm not mad. I'm insecure.

Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me, right? I blew my tire. I learned how to change it. Next time, there is no damsel in distress phone call to be made. I just have to do it - otherwise that's on me. Having a tough time during an ACL recovery because I'm selfish and stubborn and opinionated can almost be qualified the first time around. By the third, I should know what I'm doing. So is that what I'm scared of? Knowing all of the right things to do and still messing up? Being an experienced ACL survivor and then doing it wrong again? Or worse, setting myself up to re-tear it? It can't be blamed on anyone but me at this point, right? 

Saying "when it rains, it pours" is so much easier than saying "I'm scared." Saying I don't know how to change a spare tire is socially acceptable until I throw it out there that I've now been taught. 

I live in Southern California. It rains, like...6 days a year. Yet, I always have an umbrella in my car. I've been caught in that mess before. I've learned. So ya, stormy anger, flat tires, and rain can set things back. They can be grueling to deal with and tedious in the now. But they make me a little bit wiser in the long run. They make me carry an umbrella in my trunk. Know where my spare tire is. Admit my fears and insecurities. Conquer my third knee surgery.

I've been pissed off a lot the past few weeks. Which means I've been in a whirlwind of fear and hurt. Angry isn't going to make my knee weather any type of storm. It's just going to make me mean. Mean to myself, or maybe other people. That definitely doesn't help things. I've got to simmer down and take the spare tire approach - slow and steady with the support of the strong, abled helpers around me. 

Bring on the rain.