The uneventful miles

"You could totally bike that."

A coworker, whom I've never met, posted those words to me on a discussion forum 2 months ago. I work in downtown Minneapolis and live in an outer suburb, separated by 25 miles of busy freeways.

I am the highly suggestible type, and positive reinforcement works very well on me. That's why, today, I had a 2-hour, zero-emission, 1400-calorie-burning commute home.

After my coworker's bold assertion, I sent away for a map (a paper one!) of the awe-inspiring Hennepin County trail system. With the exception of a few blocks of city streets and a short jaunt near my house, I could make the entire trip on designated bike trails, safe from cars.

Frisbees and floor stains: The weight of 15 years

I'm typing this in a shiny, well-lit Macintosh computer lab in upper Sayles-Hill. 

It's very, very clean.

This room used to be a smoking lounge, filled with dark, ratty couches and overflowing plastic ashtrays and a stench that followed you home.

Best Memorial Day ever.

Spring in Minnesota isn't just a season; it's the fulfillment of a promise. It's the exhale after holding your breath for a little bit longer than was comfortable. It's the melodic resolution of a discordant line of music. It's the moment when you take off a pair of ill-fitting shoes or close the door behind an obnoxious house guest.

This winter was especially hard. We endured a Polar Vortex and an April blizzard. Sometimes, it seemed this day would never come.

And then it did.

Lent is over. Alleluia!

Happy Easter, friends.

It's a truly special day when Felix is wearing something other than a graphic t-shirt and running pants.

Here I am, at the end of my Lenten journey. Instead of giving something up, I took something on: I decided to write 40 blogs in 40(ish) days. The math got a little fuzzy toward the end, but we made it.

Why I run (even when I'm not being chased, or about to miss a bus)

For most of my life, I loathed running. I was the chubby, asthmatic kid who was the last to finish laps in gym class. As the workouts got tougher, I showed up at school with an inhaler and notes written on my dad's prescription pad: Monica cannot run.

I could walk for miles, but as soon as I raised my pace to a jog, my chest would burn, I'd gasp for air, and I'd feel a stabbing pain in my side.

Why do people make a hobby out of this? I wondered.

This is 36

I'm 36 years old.

It's not really a milestone of any kind; I'm now "over 35" and I can more confidently admit to remembering things that happened 30 years ago. But mostly, it's just a quiet acknowledgement that I'm moving along the journey of life and I'm firmly in this part.

In this part of my life, liquor store clerks apologize when they check my ID ("I'm sorry, ma'am, we have to card everyone, it's our policy" - Really? You can't just pretend you mistook me for 20? And what's with the ma'am?). In this part of my life, if I walk across a college campus, I am more likely to be mistaken for a professor than a student. In this part of my life, I sometimes look in the mirror and see the outlines of my parents' faces in a way that I never noticed before.

My weekend as a socialite

I'm not one of those fancy people you might see in the society pages, looking elegant at a charity fundraiser. 

But this weekend, it sure felt that way.

Friday, I spent the evening at a fashion show fundraiser for the United Way. It was at a hotel called Blu.

The drinks were blue.