Why me?

I think I cringed along with the rest of the world last week when I heard the news that President Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. I mean, reeeeally? Give the guy a break. No one wants that announcement to be followed by the (inevitable) question, "What has he even done to deserve it?" At least its been safe to ask that question in the past when you have no idea who Martti Ahtisaari is, let alone what he has done.

Ouch and ouch. By the time I got to work last Friday, the President had already made his speech to the press, so I filtered through CNN.com and found the video. "I don't deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who have been honored by this prize," he said. I held my breath, watching to see how he would manage to mask his surprise and, quite possibly, his discomfort. And, frankly, you can say what you want about this President, but one thing is clear: you can learn a hell of a lot about poise, humility, and public speaking when you listen to him address a crowd.

The only way he is going to pull it off, I thought, is to spread this out. Any leader worth the title on his or her nameplate knows that when an honor or a responsibility too great is bestowed upon a single person, the first thing you do is recognize the others to whom credit is due, or enlist their support. Look at Grammy winners, for instance. They are first to thank the producers, the collaborators, and the fans who help them achieve success. It is a natural response to assume that the honor is much greater than yourself.

The President continued on to name some of the men and women who have inspired him and who have inspired the world in their pursuit of peace --just as I thought he might. I let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't that long ago, in fact, that I was in a similarly uncomfortable position.

It was the summer after my freshman year in college and I had all but hung up my camp counselor headlamp for retirement when I received an unexpected phone call. On the other end of the line was a familiar voice, though we had never spoken over the phone. It was Mike Nichols, the owner of the summer camp I had grown up working at every summer since I could remember. Sounding tired, and even a little desperate, he asked me if I would be interested in co-directing the camp for the upcoming summer.

"Well.... um, I mean... really?" I stammered. My mind quickly flashed through all my wild, prank-ridden, skinny dipping, teenage summers at camp. Any Co-Director I had ever known was at least 35, going through some sort of mid-life rediscovery, and MALE. I was the shrimpy blonde counselor who led cycling trips and played the reckless female lead in the campfire Real World parodies. I wasn't even allowed to drive the diesel trucks, for god sakes, and I could think of at least ten other senior staff who were more intimidating and boss-like just off the top of my head!

There has been a lot of speculation about what went through Obama's head when he first heard the news over the phone, but I know what he said to himself: "Oh, shit. Why me?"

To make a long story short, I told Mike that I would do it. Had I been in my right mind, I might've confirmed that he dialed the right number and ask him if he even knew that I was only 19, but I was pretty much in shock. It wasn't really until a few days later that it all sunk in and I started feeling anxious about the stick-shift learning, tobacco-chewing, alliance-forming, intimidating, sexist summer that lie ahead. Shit. What was I thinking? Forget teaching me to drive the enormous camp truck, they were just going to run me over with it.

I took one look around the crowd, gathered outside and on the porch of the back cabin several weeks later, and my stomach dropped. Here were seventy-five of my friends, some who knew me better than I knew myself --half of them shirtless, tanned country boys, dripping sweat, bickering amongst themselves, waiting to criticize my every word. I took a deep breath and told them, "It could've been any one of us up here this summer." Because that was mostly true.

In the end, it was a wonderful, scary, humbling, and hilarious experience being the co-director that summer, and I was extremely lucky to have a supportive group of friends (Mere, Bradford, Austin, KGB, Mari) who watched my back and forced me out of camp on fun overnights when I took myself too seriously. Best of all, I was given some of the most valuable advice I've ever heard.

After a raucous of a staff meeting one night, my friend KG pulled me aside and said, "You know, there's always an audience for what you have to say." I looked at him puzzled, and he explained, "I mean that even when its not a popular thing to say or your voice comes out shaky and small, there are others in the crowd who will listen and who probably agree with you but are too afraid to speak up. You're giving them a voice." Wow, I thought. Sometimes its so easy to hear the loud, hurtful voices of criticism that we forget about the quiet, subtle nods from the rest of the crowd.

So what I will say is this: You may not be ready for what's coming your way. You may not think you deserve a certain honor or position or title or responsibility (or whatever), and in fact, you may not even deserve it yet. But sometimes, you have to trust what others see in you and do your best to speak from your heart, even when you're not sure who's listening.

Love, love to all of you today! Mmmmuuuuuuaaaaaaaa!

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours

Damn you, Boulder. Why is it that every time I make an actual plan to move and leave you behind, you wager with a cloudless, 70-degree day in the middle of Fall and taunt me with snow-covered mountains just within view?

I've been crazy about Colorado since visiting Boulder for the first time nine years ago. I mean, come on, after a half-dozen road trips to a handful of journalism school east of the Mississippi, I'm not sure if it was the fear of spending another eight hours in the backseat of the car with my sister or the Rocky Mountains that convinced me first. All I know is that if I had to choose where to spend my four years of college all over again, this would still be the place.

Back when I graduated high school (yawn), the University of Colorado was still a fairly balanced combination of "granola" culture, academic credibility, and airport proximity to appease most parents (generous enough to pay $30,000 a year). The four-state distance from my home town appealed to my budding independence, the liberal climate to my sense of rebellion, and the mountains to an artist's taste for aesthetics. I think I summed it up for my parents something like, "I just like the people."

My first winter in Summit County was a mind-eraser. After that, I couldn't remember what I ever used to do with the snow in Indiana. And from what I remember of growing up in Chicago, winter was nothing but wind and The Walnut Room.

Wow. Just thinking that I actually won't be living here past December stirs up a good wave of emotions in my stomach. Back to wind and pointless snow. Damn you, Colorado, for making me want to stay. ...For nurturing me and pushing me out of the nest, for having more sunny days than anywhere I'll move, and for the loads of sexy, athletic men more muscular than anyone should grow acostomed to.

In fact, this whole love letter to Boulder mentality was triggered by someone I met unexpectedly this weekend, yoga instructor, Richii Jai. (God bless male yoga instructors who inspire me to write, let alone contort my body for an hour and a half in a sweaty room.) I stumbled into Richii's class Saturday morning at the same studio that I go to every day, so I was surprised that we had never met. He is this tall, sinuey guy with tattoos up and down both arms, a shaved head (minus a grown-out mohawk rat tail or something...?) and this great spastic, hyper energy that I;m attracted to in just about anyone. Let me put it to you like this:

Think of how your mom is capable of making a meal so delicious, so favorite, the night before you leave for college that, even though its the same meal you've had a million times before, something about the way it smells, the way it tastes, makes you want to just throw in the towel, forget any plan to get on a plane the next day, and stay forever.

True. But lately it's felt like all my "moving" pieces have fallen into place, so I felt immune to all the local home cooking, so to speak. Nevertheless, Boulder cooked up one last meal that took my breath away this weekend --proving that it can still give me what I need when I least expect it. It happened during Saturday's yoga class --where Richii's incredible sense of humor, lightheartedness, wit, and spontaneity left me with hands-down the best mood I've had in months.

AND THAT'S WHAT BOULDER DOES TO YOU when you make a plan to move away. It gently, subtly reminds you what you'll be missing, such as the fact that no where will the skiing be as sunny nor the guys as "mountain men" gorgeous (as Mari would say).

Just when I thought something that I love as much as yoga couldn't get any better, I meet a great teacher who takes the practice not to the next, serious-spiritual level, but in a completely new direction (such as a crack-you-up, techno-blasting, quit-taking-this-shit-so-seriously direction) that makes it feel more comfortable, less-phony than ever before. So, there it is, and herein lies the lesson, I suppose: That when Boulder leaves you wanting more, it's time to take things in a completely new direction. Literally.