Ramsey gave his account of what happened when Amanda Berry was able to get the attention of neighbors and escaped the house where she was held. After his apparently entertaining interview, he was lauded as a hero and the Internet went nuts meme-ifying, song-ifying and otherwise glorifying the man credited with rescuing Berry, Gina DeJesus and Michelle Knight.

Some say his efforts were heroic. Some say he is taking undue credit and that Angel Cordero, another man who does not speak English, was responsible for freeing the women. Others now say Ramsey’s the scumbag of the planet.

Wow, what a whirlwind of comments for just one man.

Here’s what we know about Charles Ramsey to be true:

• He lives near the house where the three women had been held since the early 2000s and knew Ariel Castro, the suspect in the kidnappings, on what seems to be a fairly casual level.
• He called 911 to report Amanda Berry’s escape from the house, and requested backup and aid for the woman.
• He makes for an entertaining interview subject.
• He was arrested on a number of charges, ranging from involvement with drugs to domestic abuse.

It’s that last one that is causing a stir.

I understand that a man who has been thrust into the public eye is going to be under more intense scrutiny now. What I really don’t understand is why we’re making a fuss about his prior arrests.

First: I don’t want to make excuses for Ramsey’s previous crimes. He committed them, was arrested, charged, and served jail time. These things will always be a part of his past, and he knows that they will probably continue to tarnish his reputation. I do not condone any of the activities related to his charges, and all I can do is hope that he doesn’t partake in such behavior in the future.

However, I really don’t care that he committed these crimes. I mean, as a normal person who doesn’t like drugs or abuse or crime in general, I do. It just has nothing to do with his role in the rescue of the women, and I don’t understand why the media or public need to know about any of it.

Sure, arrest history can be made public record. But his past activities have nothing to do with his role in helping free the women.

Of course, I don’t agree with calling him a hero or glorifying him. He did a great thing, and we should all be thankful. From what I’ve heard, he also wishes to donate money to the girls and their families, which is also very generous. We have no reason to be anything other than appreciative for his help.

What I think is that it should stop there.

A simple “Thank you, Charles Ramsey” really would suffice. Do we need shirts adorned with his face? No. Should we treat him with respect if we see him around town, and perhaps offer our thanks? Yes.

Why today’s culture has us fixated on people like this is beyond me. He helped the girls, he aided law enforcement, and he gave a statement to the media to inform the public of what was going on. After that, he should just return to being a private citizen and the rest of us should hope and pray the women receive justice for the crimes committed against them, and that they are able to somehow reconstruct normal lives after recovering from such a traumatic ordeal.

In-depth reporting about Ramsey’s “sordid past” are nothing but muckracking attempts meant to sensationalize a person who is currently in the spotlight. The media knows this man is popular, so they know stirring up conversation about him will increase their followers/web hits/viewers/readers. So thank you, Cleveland media*, for turning a private citizen into a spectacle.

Let’s just move on, folks. Nothing more to see here. Thank Ramsey for his help, and keep praying for justice and healing for the women.

*I’d also like to thank the media in Cleveland and on a broader level for the ridiculous crowding of these women as they are trying to recover. Crowding around their homes, shoving cameras at them in the hope of getting a statement, etc. It’s appalling.

I woke at 6 this morning, strapped on my running shoes, and hit the pavement. I jogged when I felt like it and walked when I felt like it. I didn’t want to push myself too hard, because I still have fears about the state of my back.

It was nice to get outside and breathe fresh air and be active, even if I’m still slow slow slow. Slow is better than immobile, right? Right!

Once I shuffled back to my apartment, I rolled out the yoga mat and got to work. I didn’t do any yoga, mind you. Instead, I dove straight into a workout I found on pinterest last night.

It was brutal. I think by the end of the day, my body is probably going to fail. Seriously.

Workout

I didn’t do the run part. And I threw in some pushups and dips, too. The fact that I retained enough energy to lift my arms to type this is impressive, quite honestly.

My back isn’t in agony, so I’ll call it a success. Even if I feel quite like death.

Considering I took a month off any sort of movement to recover from injury, this was probably a major win for me. But right now, I feel like the workout did me.

Send ice. And a nap. Thanks.

But right now I am impatient. Frustrated, even.

My entire fitness regimen was completely derailed that day I was hit by a car. Of course, walking away with minimal injuries is a blessing, and I am incredibly thankful it wasn’t any worse. A month later and my back is still recovering. I shouldn’t expect anything different–I’m still getting chiropractic care, and serious sprains are no joke. The back muscles also support practically your entire body. Injuring those muscles, in a word, sucks. And you certainly can’t expect them to heal quickly.

So here I am. One month later, and finally back to the gym. Except… it’s like I had to start all over. Like I’ve never jogged in my life.

Aerobically, I don’t get winded very quickly, so I guess I retained some level of fitness. This is good. My legs, however, are like jelly. I can’t figure out why they’re taking this so hard. My back feels some strain, which I expect, and isn’t bad enough to make me feel like I’m pushing myself too hard. I have to assume that the general level of soreness is just made worse because my back hurts. Or something.

Well, at least I’m trying, right? I had to get back on the horse–er, treadmill–eventually. I just feel like it will be so far before I can reach any goals I had previously set. It frustrates me so much. I had high hopes of running a couple five-milers early this summer, but that doesn’t seem likely now. If I can run 3 by the time I had hoped to run 5, I’ll consider that a success.

And that ab workout I was doing? Try doing that with a sprained back. No chance. I’m afraid to touch weights, because any upper body workout I would attempt would be supported by my back as well. So, walking and jogging is about all I can manage–and it’s a slow walk and jog at that.

It’s disappointing, to say the least. And I wish I didn’t have to be patient about it.

Slow and steady wins the race?

Or something.

Oh well. Here’s to another C25K workout completed today. And even if I’m struggling, I’m still doing better than I was when I was laying in pain on the couch. So, progress.

–I wish I had thought of Shit My Dad Says first. The things that come out of my father’s mouth are simply amazing. I am rather positive that I could make entire stand-up routines based solely on what my dad says to me. Example: After dental surgery on Monday, these delightful passages were among some of the first he uttered through his swollen cheeks:

• “I sound like an 80-year-old homo with a lisp.”
• “Wait. No. You know who I sound like? THAT GAY SLOTH FROM ICE AGE!”
• “I started watching The L-Word on Netflix for the tits. I was like, ‘Yeah! Tits!’ Now the tits don’t even arouse me and I care about the story. What? Am I turning into a chick?”

For the record: My father is not nearly as homophobic as those quotes might suggest. In fact, he once told me he LOVES gay guys because they leave more women for him, except for the lesbians. BUT, he loves lesbians, too, because they’re “way hot.”

–Last week’s constant stream of major news made me simultaneously glad and disappointed I no longer work in the news media. On the glad side, the news was so distressing that it would be pretty upsetting to have to cover in any way. On the disappointed side, I miss being in an environment where it is encouraged and necessary to absorb as many facts about breaking news as possible. I couldn’t turn away from the coverage, as tragic as it all was.

–I once told my boyfriend not to send me flowers at work, because being the center of attention would be embarrassing. Then he did it. I was mildly embarrassed for like a minute, but now I have really pretty flowers to look at so it’s OK now.** He also left a really funny card that I will probably keep forever.

Danielle,

Just figured I’d drop these off for you. It’s my way of showing I can occasionally be a decent boyfriend.

-Tony

–Speaking of my relationship, I must not be a horrible girlfriend. This thought actually came from my grandmother, as we were discussing Tony’s weekend work schedule; he works as a DJ every Friday and Saturday night. My grandmother said she thought most girls would get mad, and nag their boyfriends about how bored they are every weekend. I don’t do this. Partly because I really, truly do not mind being home alone on a weekend night. I’d rather have my boyfriend around, of course, but the alone time can be relaxing for me. I can be a homebody, so what? This Saturday I sat on the couch, read two books, and cuddled with my cat. It was cozy and relaxing and I loved it. Don’t judge me.

Anyway, I don’t like the idea of girls getting mad at their boyfriend because they’re bored when they’re not with him. Get a hobby. Make other friends. Whatever. In this day and age, there is no reason to be bored when you don’t have somebody else there to entertain you.

–What scares me most about Boston is that I imagine these scenarios before they happen more and more these days. Tony and I recently took a weekend trip to Buffalo and Niagara Falls. We went to a Sabres game in Buffalo, and there was quite a bit of construction happening around the arena when we were there. As we were leaving, the very large crowd was funneling through a pretty tight space between construction work, and there was a bit of backup and waiting as the crowd tried to squeeze through. The sad thing is, one of the first thoughts I had was, “Gee, this would be an opportune time for someone to bomb us or start shooting into the crowd.”

Depressing thought? Absolutely. But is the thought itself depressing, or the fact that there have been so many instances of people attacking crowds that I can picture something like that happening so easily?

This is a thought I had just days before the bombing at the Boston Marathon. So clearly I am not alone in picturing these scenarios–the difference being, of course, that I would never consider engaging in such horror. But if someone like me sees these situations and thinks it, obviously the enemy does, too.

The world is getting so much scarier.

–I wish I could escape the feeling that I’m a prisoner in my own body.  Call it “unlucky.” Call it “accident prone.” Whatever it is, I’m always hurting. Of course, I got hit by a car walking across the street (I had a walk, she drove away, I’m fine and seeing a chiropractor), so back pain is certainly expected. It still stinks when you’re getting into a good exercise groove and it is all derailed. Insert whining here.

*I have a feeling that Damien won’t even see this. Prove me wrong, Damien. I dare you.

**Wordpress wasn’t letting me add the photo, so I had to link to it. Dumb.

Also, planking is rather difficult when your cat decides she should jump on your back while you’re on the ground. Especially when you’re planking for over a minute. Planking is no joke.

Well, he didn’t actually *make* me do it. It was pretty much the one show he watched, and if I wanted to watch TV on Sundays nights, that was it.

The show started airing when I was 7, and I absolutely hated it. It was sooooooooo boooooring to my young brain. Frankly, looking back I realize now that the adult themes were probably of no interest to me, even though I was a pretty mature young kid. Adult drama was over my head, and I used to complain all the time to my dad that I wished we could watch ANYTHING else. I often sat there and read instead, probably Baby-Sitters Club, Goosebumps or Fear Street books.

Even though I liked the idea of superheros–especially if they were, let’s say, crime-fighting turtles or even power rangers (particularly the mighty morphin’ sort)–this incarnation of Superman was just above my head.

By the time the show ended in 1997, a fairly mature 7-year-old Danielle had aged into an even more mature 11-year-old Danielle. And, believe it or not, I had started actually liking my dad’s favorite TV show.

Maybe it was the consistent exposure that did it. Maybe I had grown so used to it, and had picked up on enough of the story that the habit of watching Clark Kent and Lois Lane duke it out with Lex Luthor became less daunting. Who knows.

26-year-old Danielle has another theory. I think my younger self had a crush on the Man of Steel.

Let’s face it: Dean Cain was quite a looker in that role. Tall, dark, handsome, charming… exactly how Superman should be. Any incarnation of the consumate superhero I saw after that just didn’t *fit* the role. Example: I caught Smallville when it debuted, but I just didn’t buy Tom Welling as the young Clark Kent. He didn’t have the same dark features. He struck me as more quiet and nerdy and “average” than anything. Which is fine for Clark Kent’s back story, I guess. Still. Even Clark in ‘New Adventures’ was a total smokeshow.

Related: What employee of that newspaper wouldn’t think Clark was a total babe? I find men in glasses to be extraordinarily sexy. Yeah, the early 90s version of Clark Kent had pretty dated glasses, sure. That’s no matter. If I were Lois Lane, I would have been instantly attracted to Clark before finding out he was Superman. But that’s just me.

Also related: Time has probably been kinder to Teri Hatcher than to Dean Cain. Although I’d venture to guess the latter has had less work done.

Also, also related: Henry Cavill in this summer’s expected “Man of Steel” film? *drool* He certainly fits my expectations better than Tom Welling ever could.

In my earlier years, my main celebrity crushes were on Devon Sawa, and both Joey and Matthew Lawrence. (I did a mean Joey-on-Blossom “woah” impression back in the day.) I didn’t really appreciate the hotness that was Dean Cain’s Superman until later. Naturally I was more likely to crush on stars that were slightly more age appropriate at the time. Did that mean I was completely oblivious to the sexy star of the series? Probably not. He just was too old to be fully on my radar while I was daydreaming about the human version of Casper the Friendly Ghost.

I guess it’s never too late to develop a childhood crush? Or remember one, anyway. Maybe one day I’ll suddenly discover I had the hots for another 90s sitcom star. You know, other than the usual suspects*.

*Rider Strong on Boy Meets World, Jonathan Taylor Thomas on Home Improvement, etc

I read about the fitbit on a blog, and I started coveting one the moment I saw that it was a pedometer that not only counted your steps but could be used to track sleep. I have had sleep problems for as long as I can remember, and I was intrigued at the thought of having data about my poor sleeping skills handy.

This January I pulled the trigger and bought one. It has since become an almost essential part of my being.

See how many times I wake up in the night? Not exactly restful sleep.

Seriously. I forgot it one day and was distraught about it for like a week because it skewed my stats. It has made me feel super motivated to achieve a high step count every day. My gym rest days make me all antsy because my step count is so low.

That’s really the most interesting part of having a pedometer. If it is suggested that we take 10,000 steps each day… well, I know first-hand that most Americans with desk jobs probably fail at that goal. Miserably.

On a day I go to the gym, I could hit and surpass 10,000 steps–that is, if I spend an hour on the treadmill. This past Tuesday I went to the gym to focus on strength training and only walked 2 miles, yet my step total for the day was just short of the 10,000 mark. I make a point to take the steps to and from my car in the parking garage, usually parked on the top floor, and if I don’t hit the treadmill that day… it doesn’t matter. I’m lucky to break 4,000 steps on a non-gym day.

An example of what my activity looks like after my 7 a.m. treadmill workout.

The average American cubicle slave? Well, chances are they are quite like me on days I don’t make a point to exercise. In fact, they are likely to take the elevator to their cars, so their step counts might even be lower.

Frankly, if this doesn’t help one to understand why Americans are obese, I don’t know what would. We just do not move enough.

I wish I could give every person a fitbit, or some sort of pedometer, just to open everyone’s eyes to how little movement most of do every day.

The moral of the story? GET UP AND WALK. Trust me. It’s probably the best thing you can do for yourself every day.

One of the other things I’ve done is check around the Internet for exercises or routines I could add into my schedule to supplement this month’s goals to tackle C25K. I found this gem on Pinterest that I decided to do.

If you don’t feel like clicking the link, it’s a day-by-day calendar of March (actually set for 2012, but who cares?) with how many sit-ups and push-ups to do, and an amount of time to plank. Each day these numbers gradually increase, so by the end of March you’re doing 100 sit-ups, 35 push-ups and planking for 2.5 minutes. YIKES.

So far I’ve followed it to a T. Granted, that means I’m only 6 days in, and today’s workout was only 20 crunches, 10 push-ups and a 30 second plank. I’m excited to see if I’m conditioned well enough to tackle that 2.5 minute plank at the end of the month. So far the plank has been the most difficult part, though I’m still able to finish each day’s requirements easily.

That’s all. Off to spend the rest of my day resting working.

Rewind to the first week of April 2010. I went for a jog on the first nice day in a long time. The next day I was very sore. “Oh well, walk through it,” I thought. The next two days, I went for walks. The soreness in my left quad slowly dissipated. The soreness in my right quad got severely worse. That weekend I attended a wedding and wore some pretty killer high heels. When I woke up the next day, I couldn’t put weight on my right leg.

I eventually made my way to the ER where the doctor thought it would be a stress fracture… until the x-ray showed a huge lump in the middle of my quad. Fearing the worst, I was given a script for vicodin and a referral to a specialist, and told to stay on crutches until further notice. After more x-rays and the longest MRI in the history of MRIs (4.5 hours spent in the machine, and I almost peed my pants), I was given a diagnosis of Myositis Ossificans.

Basically, the jog probably tore a bit of muscle deep in my quad, near the bone. Because it was so close to the bone, my body didn’t know how to heal it and started healing the muscle like it was bone. A chunk of my quad calcified and I essentially grew a bone in the middle of my leg. I spent 3 months on crutches in the worst pain of my life, taking the max amount of vicodin I was probably legally allowed. Once it was clear that my pain was subsiding and the calcification had stopped increasing, I was in physical therapy. I had to learn how to walk up stairs again.

Needless to say, all the inactivity and vicodin was not good for my waistline. I topped out at 150 pounds. Now, I’m about 5’5″, and have a relatively tiny frame. I’m pretty sure my wrists are about 5 inches around.

I looked, and felt, horrible.

August 2010–At 150 pounds.

By the start of 2011, I was finally ready–and physically able–to start shedding the excess weight. And I was dedicated. I was at the gym 5 days a week, walking and biking. I kept myself on a strict, well-balanced diet. By May, I was down to 128, and I felt GOOD.

En route from 150 to 128.

May 2011. 128 pounds. Running almost every day. Healthy.

Fast forward to today. I certainly have failed at keeping the weight off. Since I began dating Tony, I’d gained 10ish pounds (although today I weighed in at 136.8). Certainly not as bad as I was, but I’m ready to readjust my lifestyle and get it all off for GOOD.

So, here I am. I’m setting some monthly goals for myself, primarily based on fitness and not weight loss. I miss the way I felt when I was at 128–not just because of how I looked, but because I was active and eating well all the time.

Some of my goals:
1. Finish the C25K program.
2. Go from running 5k to 5 miles.
3. Finish the 100 push-ups and 200 sit-ups challenges.
4. To have people associate me with the word “active.”

Yeah, I gained weight. But what’s worse is what I lost: My level of fitness. My active lifestyle. That’s what I want to find again.

Granted, I haven’t completely lost it, but I wasn’t good at maintaining. This is changing. I’ve been at the gym every day but Tuesday this week, in fact. I’m not a lost cause. I just am not at my peak level of fitness anymore, and I haven’t felt as good in my own skin.

So I’m starting over. Reset. I will get back to that level of fitness. In fact, I’ll surpass it.

I took measurements of myself yesterday, as well as “before” photos. Assuming all goes as planned, by my birthday (July 7) I’ll have a very good set of afters–and I’ll be off to run 5 miles.

WISH ME LUCK!

Meanwhile, fast forward a year and some change later. Tony and I were discussing this game one day, although I cannot remember why. He showed me a photo on his phone that he took at the game. I’m pretty sure my jaw hit the floor. His photo was my exact view of Quicken Loans Arena that day as I watched my Bobcats beat the Zips.

During that game, I was seated directly behind the reporters covering the game for OU’s student-run paper, The Post. They were nice enough to keep giving me the box score updates they were getting. One guy sitting just to the right of the Post reporter in front of me was on his laptop. I kept squinting at it to try to read it, but it was hopeless.

I spent the game cheering for the Bobcats, chatting with friends in the media, and frantically waving at the members of the Marching 110 who had traveled up for the game. I even ran over to hug my former band director, Dr. Suk. Still, as I sat there, I kept looking at the guy’s laptop in front of me.

The guy with the laptop? I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that it was Tony. He and I were sitting feet away from each other. With how often the guy next to him kept turning around to hand me box scores, I have to imagine we made eye contact–more than once, even!–over the course of the game. We met just over a year later.

Tony has said a few times that he wishes he could see all the times in our past that our paths crossed and we had no idea. He used to play baseball at the park behind my grandmother’s house. He played games at the Catholic high school down the street from my childhood home. He was in the Kohl’s in Mentor once on a night I know I was working there. It’s one of those silly things we have talked about a few times, and I wonder all the time if our relationship was fate.

The romantic in me wants to believe it was fate. My curious side wonders how many times we were in similar situations. For now I’ll just be happy that–fate or not–eventually our paths did meet, and now we walk together. (D’awwwwwww!)