Exploring on Columbus Day

I would like to preface this by saying that NO ONE was to blame in this situation. Where some might see obstacles and suffering, others might see opportunity and celebration. And let's say if one WERE to assign blame, that blame would be distributed EQUALLY. Or at least 60/40. Or perhaps 70/30. Or 80/10/10 with that final ten percent blame being assigned to the negligent pastry shop who CURSED us by not having my requested white powder/white filling doughnut in supply. Naturally, I was flummoxed. I checked the name of the store. I glanced up at the flag blowing majestically in the breeze. "Is this NOT a doughnut shop?" I yelled across Deb into the drive-in speaker of my discontent. "Is this still America?" I shouted to the fates as I settled for my secondary doughnut selection. "Did you say a medium hot chocolate?" the disjointed voice that was the source of my disappointment DARED to ask. "NO I DID NOT," I bellowed, incensed by this rudimentary up-sale strategy. "I ordered a SMALL!" I whispered in Deb's ear as she clutched her steering wheel, "I hate her." I swiveled in my seat, pouting...brightening almost immediately. "Look, Deb...a trail!" Handing me my requested small hot chocolate, my friend assured me that our intended trail would be MUCH better. I giggle now. If only we had known.

It was Columbus Day and we had decided to resurrect our summer walking tradition. Deb, a native Mount Morrisan, decided to treat me to the famed Dam and Recreation Area. It was...in a word...delightful. We sat in a pavilion to enjoy our treats when I realized that I had selfishly taken a seat with optimal viewing. I apologized but Deb graciously waved me off, reassuring me that she'd been here before (when she was in the 3rd grade). Suddenly, the bright October sky was filled with flocks of migratory water fowl...captured and carried on air currents as they spiraled slowly down to the river. It was pure poetry. I described it to Deb in vivid detail. 

Having forgotten my mask, I waited outside as Deb ducked quickly into the Visitor Center. I investigated an unnecessary bridge situated in a traffic meridian, worried about the plight of the goldfish in the Visitor Center's decorative pool (With a little bit of foresight, the bridge could have been placed here) and then spotted a "Wildlife Trail" sign. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had been worried that our little adventure wasn't going to yield a very high step count. "I doubt we'll break 1,000 steps," I'd commented. I giggle now. If only we had known.

Deb erupted excitedly from the building. "You won't believe all that I've been through," she exclaimed, arms flapping. I stared at her, dumbfounded. "You've only been gone three minutes," I pointed out. I paused to review my own adventures in her absence and realized it was plausible. Since we'd both obviously been through a great deal in the last three minutes, I wasn't sure if we were ready to face the "Wildlife Trail." But in the great spirit of exploration, we decided to venture off into the great unknown.

With only our wits and yellow and blue splotches of paint to guide us, we set off. Deb may or may not have discovered a porcupine den but we were unconcerned as we felt we might be faster than the average quilled critter. It wasn't long before we entered a great meadow and I spotted a fox. With great stealth, Deb and I edged closer and closer to the clueless creature. "I thought they were supposed to be cunning," I whispered as we subtly snuck up on him. We took a picture and vanished before he even had an inkling of our presence.

We continued on our way, discussing poetry and world events...letting our hearts lead us. Before too long, we glimpsed a raccoon hidden in the shadows. Again, we inched along for the perfect shot...he never even moved a muscle as we took only a picture and left only a footprint. 

Resuming our walk, we noticed that our trail wound down through the forest. After we hand-fed a wild turkey, we noticed that the yellow paint splotches were arriving with much less regularity. "What is that noise?" I asked, delighted when Deb informed me that the sound originated from the local cannon factory. It had a symbolic symmetry that was pleasing as the originator of the Pledge of Allegiance was born in Mount Morris. Imagine my great dismay when she later corrected my misunderstanding. Canning factory. Not cannon factory.  Deb and I began to face the fact that our step-count was going to definitely break 1,000. "As long as we don't see the water tower, we should be okay," Deb reassured me. About twenty minutes later, we emerged into a small park clearing with a plethora of unnecessary bridges and a fountain. Rising imperially in the horizon, like a regal mountain, was a tall water tower. Oh. That was disappointing. Along with the fact that Deb didn't let me walk across every single bridge in the park. Something about conserving steps.

"I think we need to head back the way we came," Deb said. I scoffed. What did she know? Just because

she was raised in this area and I had spent maybe a sum total of two hours in this town...I decided to take charge. Our lives were at stake, after all. "Wouldn't it be better to walk along the road? It would be flatter (I giggle now. If only we had known.)." If Deb decided to accept this idiotic proposal, that's on her. 

What can I say? We were desperate. 

The rest of the walk was a blur. We experienced many highs and lows. A plastic swan perched up on a tall tree branch was a high. I took a picture to add to my thematic collection of cardboard animals that we'd seen today on the Wildlife Trail. We spotted a roadside puffball and sacrificed our dwindling number of remaining steps to investigate only to realize that it was a delipidated soccer ball. The passage that Deb declared as our road to redemption sported a "No Outlet" sign so we were forced to backtrack some. We discussed several scenarios that might induce a passing vehicle to stop and help us. We were past the point in our lives where showing a little leg was out. With enough notice, I could drop to the ground in a dramatic faint and Deb would fan me but me head-down in a ditch being dragged out by my ankles seemed more logistically plausible. Our morals took a hit as we began to consider a life of crime. We spotted a wheelbarrow. We could take turns pushing one another. Then we came upon a wheeled garbage bin that we could stuff ourselves into. A clueless landscaper guilelessly weed-whacked while we scoped out his roadside truck for keys. We were down but not out. We were determined. The wind was at our back. Lo...though we had suffered high winds...had been battered by severe storms...we were alone...afraid...and hungry (Those doughnuts had been HOURS ago)...we were uncertain of our path but stepped confidently towards our future. 

And then we were there.

At an intersection decorated with a sign announcing the presence of the Visitor's Center. Deb took a poignant picture of me hugging the sign and then solemnly told me that she suspected the intersected road was our "No Outlet" road. I was too tired to care.

I perused the park map before we got to the car and felt insane giggles bubbling up inside me. I pointed out the "You are here" section to Deb and then maniacally traced our dotted line path OFF the right-hand side of the map...OFF THE MAP...before we reappeared, Marauder's Map-style, back onto the left-hand side of the map. 

Also slightly-insane, Deb reset the odometer and we re-traced our trail of tears. Turns out the "No Outlet" road may have shaved some of the steps off our journey of self-discovery. "Some steps?" Deb blurted, somewhat imbalanced, "Some. Steps? It would have shaved off, like, 3/4s of our steps."

No matter. We survived and had come out on the other side, stronger and better people. Bent and broken. Bruised. Unable to walk or stand up straight. But INSIDE...stronger and better. We had forged our own way. Deb was the Meriwether Lewis to my Clark Griswold. We WENT OFF the freakin' map!

12,500 steps, 2 Pepsis, and a couple of Snickers bars later, we were home. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but it looked different. Brighter. Fresher. While our pain may have become more intense and concentrated, our world had suddenly become much bigger. Just goes to show...you never know.

I really don't enjoy nature all that much. but DAM...!

My daughters grew up hiking and wading at Wiscoy Falls. We slid down water shutes on old pizza boxes. They launched themselves from rocky perches into frigid water holes. Their first experience with leeches was learned there. Sydney's senior pictures were captured in front of one of its many breathtaking cascades. We LOVE Wiscoy Falls but I had resigned myself over the last few years to observation rather than participation. While my family can nimbly scramble up the loose, sliding slopes of shale, I very clearly picture a twisted ankle, broken hip, or even worse, my damaged ego. 

Sunday is Fritter Day and, more often than not, Brad and I will enjoy our sweet treat and coffee at the bridge over-looking Wiscoy Falls. It was a beautiful September Sunday. The leaves were just beginning to blush with color. Sweatshirt weather. Saturday night's frost kept Sunday morning bugs at bay. Gentle sun. Perfect. "Can we walk up a little way?" I asked my surprised husband. Trees provided perfect handrails as I ascended to the first falls. Water bugs skated across the surface of side streams. Minnows congregated in hidden holes. And still I climbed...resigned that I would inevitably return with dirt under my fingernails and muddy jeans. Memories of our daughters lurked in the hidden shadows of each place we paused. I found a painted rock resembling a snail and in a rare moment of restraint, left it there because it looked so natural. 

Without knowing it, somewhere along the way, a goal had been determined for me. A finish line that, as I continued my careful journey upward, I became more and more eager to see. Hidden from the road...a secret only shared by those who know and love Wiscoy...the great wall. The dam. Brad and I made the last ascent and he smiled as I limbo-ed under yet another low-hanging branch. "How do you plan to get down?" he asked, laughing. "Gravity," I grinned back, striding up to that structure that holds back a river of water. I reached the wall and felt my own crumble...swept up in emotion. So grateful for this day. For my husband. My daughters. My dogs. Friends. Family. Jobs. Health. My country. My tears spilled over as I realized I'd somehow found myself back in church...finally. Thank you, God.

 

To bee or not to bee...Felicia didn't really give me a choice

I'm a helper, by nature, so when my beloved friend Felicia needed a person to man a station for a wine tasting tour she was organizing for a bachelorette party, I was all in. I believe that my exact words were:

"Ugh...fine. What do I have to do?"

First on the agenda was to come up with a cider-themed name for my station. No problem. After some thought, I texted Felicia:

"You know what you call an apple with gas?
A TOOTIE-FRUITIE!"

So cute!

Sadly, Felicia was looking to go in a different direction:

"I'm gonna need your jokes to go from G to X-rated by next Saturday," she texted.

I'm ashamed to admit that this was a rather simple transition for me. I refuse to show you the very sophisticated sign that adorned my station because I am a lady and I respect you too much to pollute your wholesome spirit with such filth.

Next on the list was choosing a theme song. Well! That was a no-brainer. I immediately launched into that good ol' Sunday School favorite celebrating Johnny Appleseed: "Oh the Lord is good to me...and so I thank the Lord..." Tapping her foot impatiently along while waiting for me to conclude my enthusiastic chorus, Felicia gently suggested something a bit edgier. "About apples?" I said and then we were struck at the same time, growling out Flo Rida's club song, made popular by so many middle school dances. Done.

As the day loomed closer, I began to fret...worried that I wasn't woman enough for the job. "You should have asked Sarah," I pointed out, "She has an outfit for all occasions. She probably has the costume worn by the Fruit of the Loom guy. Or, at the very least, an apple print dress and hat." Felicia reassured me. "You're going to be fine. I believe in you." She dropped me off at my house as I mulled her words. She believes in me. Believes. Bee. WAIT! I have a twenty dollar bee costume that I vowed to wear twenty times so as to get my (friend Rachel's) moneys worth out of it. Bees pollinate apples! Perfect!

NOT so perfect on the day of the event when I realized that I would be wrapped in polyester and foam on an 85 degree afternoon, dancing on a dock before a busy lake, while spewing the raunchiest words known to mankind. As I sat there, sweating, while trying to appear inconspicuous, I really had time to think about my life choices. Well...not too much time. Felicia texted that the pontoon was on its way to my station. I could hear the rumble of the motor and the roar of laughter as the boat approached. I cued up my song and gyrated my way to the end of the dock. At fifty, I normally have trouble attaining the song's prerequisite "low...low...low...low...low...low...low...low" but my adrenaline was pumping. I tossed in a twerk and playfully spanked myself for good measure. The appreciative crowd went wild.

Oh.

Wrong crowd.

These were not my people.

They cheered, demanding an encore while, with flaming face, I waved good-naturedly with my muppet-mitten hand and debated drowning myself in the two feet of water beneath the dock.

Another pontoon boat approached but I'd been stung before so I cautiously edged my way along the length of the pier. It was still difficult to miss me...I WAS dressed like a giant bee, after all...but at least this time, I refrained from gyrating.

Good call. STILL not my boat.

Turns out...third time is the charm. And shame on me for not knowing because this boat was the LOUDEST on the lake.

Cue music. Gyrations. Twerking (Yes...the costume included a stinger). I managed to go "low...low...low...low" and STILL get up. My target boat went insane. So far so good.

We docked the pontoon boat and I got ready to launch into my rehearsed raunchy monologue of filth. Problem #1: All of the passengers needed a potty break. "Hold that thought," Felicia said, walking her weaving and wobbling women to the restroom. Problem #2: The pontoon boat was being piloted by a former 6th grade student (long since graduated), the brother of the bride. Oh brother, is right. I don't say crap in the classroom. Literally. My verbiage as an educator swings between strictly professional and preschool. My salty speech was not intended for this particular audience. So, as I became re-acquainted with this protege from my past (You didn't forget I was dressed like a bee, did you?), my ladies trickled back in during this unplanned intermission.

Felicia got everybody settled so I could begin (again). Imagine if Lincoln got interrupted at the start
of the Gettysburg Address...I'm sure that would have messed up his mojo, too. I hosted a quick trivia game with different-flavored shots as the prizes. Wonderful. Not surprisingly, my student won one of the rounds. He was always very bright. His flavor? Slippery Nipple. So proud of him. Now that's a product of good teaching.

How was it that I was the only one traumatized by this event?

It was time for the next station...thank goodness! I gave the bridal party barge a big muppet-mitten send-off and then faced the solitary walk of shame, back to my truck, dressed like a disheveled bee. I climbed out of my polyester/foam costume to scratch at the red, itchy blotches that decorated my arms, neck, and chest. Figures, I muttered as I got ready to drive home, that dressing like a bee would give me hives.

Running out of thyme in the spaghetti sauce aisle

I was lamenting over a friend's up-coming visit to the relatively nearby college town of Geneseo. "That's too bad," I sympathized, "you won't be able to get any Dunkin Donuts as they have shut down all their gas station locations." My friend looked at me, startled. "Amy, Geneseo has had a free-standing Dunkin Donut shop now for some time." I froze...realizing this is just further evidence of how small my world has become. I haven't been to Geneseo since December. Haven't had a haircut since Thanksgiving break and haven't seen the inside of a mall in over a year.

It takes all my strength just to walk into a grocery store.

We do not need to re-visit my mental health issues but reviewing my triggers is pretty entertaining. Experiencing them? Not so much.

Time spent in the building is a crucial factor as most of my melt-downs occur in the frozen food aisle. The donut display case is also a common location for emotional breakdowns. I was befuddled when my fritters were forced into pre-packaged plastic containers at the height of the pandemic. Now I realized that they were but a precursor to the plexi-glass isolation stations now facing my students. Brad, attentive to any possible environmental instability, was confused when, in July, I stood, silently weeping in the bakery department. "What's wrong?" he asked, ready to deploy Operation Abort-the-Aisle. "They're free," I gasped, pointing. As Brad looked for a price sign to confirm my emotional declaration, I tried again, "The fritters are free-range," I rejoiced, lifting my arms heavenward. As God intended. Surely this was a sign that my world was returning to normal.

Decision-making is torture for both Brad AND me. It would be so much easier, of course, for Brad to take over household purchases and just by-pass me altogether in making the decisions that affect our lives but we are both acutely aware that this is detrimental to my mental health AND the stability of our marriage. So...at least once a week, we torment one another in a public forum. An excellent example of this anguish was in the purchase of spaghetti sauce. Now...we should have been safe because it's a mid-store requisition but it is an aisle that exasperates me because for some unfathomable reason, spaghetti sauce and pasta is set in the same display aisle as diapers. It aesthetically throws me off every time.

I needed a jar of spaghetti. Simple.

Not.

Prego is my brand of choice but wasn't on sale. We don't hate Ragu and it WAS on sale. Barilla is an unfamiliar brand to us but its regular price was cheaper than Ragu's sale price. I like a garden-style chunky variety but am opposed to carrots in general. I love garlic but my pandemic belly has been a tad on the sensitive side. Brad, by this time, was banging his head against the wall but fortunately the diapers were softening the blow. "Have you decided?" he asked, trying to be gentle and patient but not coming off gentle and patient AT ALL. That did it. Cue tears. Cut to the end of that day's shopping adventure.

But each of these experiences are teaching us...laying the groundwork for helping me get better. When faced with a wall of infinite choices, Brad springs into action, selecting three options for me to annoyingly debate and decide. We do not leave a store empty-handed because the failure sends me into the fetal position for days. Every visit to the store adds another tactic to our always developing game-plan such as: Do not fill your cart beyond capacity and, most recently, never "leaf" your lettuce behind.

In my attempt to trick Brad and stay out of stores longer, I try to sweep everything on the shelves into our cart. Somehow...a ball of iceberg lettuce ended up in the middle of all my junk food. It was perched, liked an obscene cherry on top of our jiggling Jenga grocery cart sundae. As I wobbled my way out of the store, my salad spun out of control, dropping to the ground. Nothing was getting between me and the exit. I heartlessly ran over its head without pausing. Not willing to be a party to a hit-and-run, Brad checked on the victim, carrying the little carcass out to the van. "How is it?" I asked. "I'm afraid it'll be a vegetable for the rest of its life," Brad reported.

A masked encounter

It's been interesting...as mornings go. One positive thing that I have to say about the school year starting up again...it'll bring to an end, the insufferable walks that I have been coerced into by the up-beat, cheerful people in my life who INSIST that the day begins with the sunrise. 

Uh...no.

So there I was, plodding (unhappily) along my dirt road to meet my Monday Walking Buddy, Shanna...

"I thought she came to the house," Brad interrupted as I was recounting the adventure of my walk to him later. Thus began a philosophical question that I had failed to anticipate. "Well..." I told him, "That was the way it was initially planned. I would wait until Shanna concluded her ka-zillion mile morning jog...often remaining resistantly under the blankets until three minutes prior to our scheduled meeting. Occasionally, Shanna would be running...ha-ha...a bit late and I would wait impatiently for her until it finally dawned...NO ha-ha here...on me that that was a bit of a d!¢K move on my part...SO instead of waiting at the door like I was her nervous prom date, I could, gasp, show some initiative and start walking in her direction." 

There was a pause on the phone as Brad considered my explanation. 

Oops. 

No, he wasn't. 

Turns out...I has offended him with my masculine-related derogatory term. "What is the antonym for d!¢K move?" he asked me. Hmmmm....interesting question. Because if I were to go to opposite genitalia, that societal definition, excuse the expression, wouldn't fit. So where one term would often be utilized to mean "jerk," the other one is often applied as "weak." And to be fair, I would have gone ballistic (no pun intended here), if my husband had dropped THAT word casually into our conversation. Okay. He had a point. What's good for the goose is also good for the gander. It might be time to drop that particular term from my sophisticated vocabulary. 

"Can I please just tell you my story?" I asked when we were done editing the Mosiman Family dictionary (Yes...I giggled).

So there I was, plodding (unhappily) along my dirt road to meet my Monday Walking Buddy, Shanna...

...when, at the top of the hill, I spied a critter scuttling across. Too big for a cat. The animal began making its way down the hill towards me. Oh. It was a raccoon. I immediately struck up a conversation to alert it to my presence. "Late night?" I asked. "I can see from the dark circles around your eyes that you're not sleeping well." It never even paused. "Me too," I commiserated. "I would suspect drinking," I shared, "but you are walking a straight line better than most sober people I know." I was starting to get a little nervous as the animal drew even closer. "Walk of shame?" I ventured before immediately apologizing. Who am I to judge? 

We were now within ten feet of one another. It looked at me suddenly, shocked and surprised. I swear its mouth dropped open. The raccoon swung around to face me, hissed, and arched its back. I had been verbally admiring its shiny coat, glittering eyes, well-maintained striped tail, and the lack of foam erupting from its mouth so despite the fact that it wasn't carrying a certificate of rabies vaccination, I felt mildly confident that I wasn't dealing with an "Old Yeller" situation. And, the raccoon WAS thoughtfully wearing a mask so I also ruled out Covid. 

Was it deaf? I am very limited in my sign language acquisition. I signed, "Hello, Kitty" because that was the closest I could get to "raccoon" after ruling out "lion," "zebra," and "giraffe." It hissed again and stepped closer. Could I drop-kick a raccoon? Morally and/or physically? 

Was it stupid? Better yet...was I stupid? We were clearly NOT going to come to a consensus. Where I had thought that my presence would result in my gaining ground and the raccoon racing for cover...we were, instead, at a stand-off. 

Parallel to one another, we faced each other like gunfighters. I moved forward, up the hill (Signing "Bye, Kitty") while the raccoon took a backwards step, down the hill.  With enough space between us now, I could again breath (sort of...remember...I was walking UP a hill). 

I have heard enraged drivers yell, "What?!? Do you think you OWN the road?" And, no. I have NEVER thought that. It is presumptuous to think that because I'm a person, because I'm bigger, because I have a more-developed brain (said the woman who was considering playing Rock, Paper, Scissors with a raccoon), that I have a right to the road.  We all are on a journey, and when, along the way, you encounter a fellow traveler, share the road. But please, stay in your own lane! 

Lady in (a lot) of stress...so could you please shut up?

I was raised in the time of "mind-over-matter" and was expected "to pull myself up by my own boot-straps" (whatever THEY were...I wore sneakers all the time). Issues pertaining to mental health were viewed through the arrogant veil of condescending sympathy. "Poor honey," the right-minded would mutter, sometimes able to suppress their recipe of cerebral success, "so delicately fragile, the little dear."

I call "bullshit." And you know I'm right. Some of you all are just better at hiding it than the rest of us. We all have SOMETHING.

I had several "somethings." Prior to the pandemic, I had learned to live ungraciously with what I like to view as my little "quirks." Claustrophobia that no drug could touch. A paralyzing fear of crowds. Crisis-mode when touched by unfamiliar people. Difficulty making a decision when faced with a large selection.

But at least I was functional. Deep breaths (or no breaths at all) would get me from the entrance to the exit of Howes Caverns during school field trips. The technicians manning the MRI machine and my dental staff have been trained to ignore the tears streaming down my face during appointments and know to refrain from being nice OR administering "tough love." I have (mentally) fought my way through more airports than I can count to get to my daughters on the West Coast. My husband has termed this process, Risk versus Reward, and we utilize it a LOT now.

And then the pandemic and my Crazy Kraken was released. The Stay-At-Home Order. The classification of Essentials and Non-essentials. Separation from family, friends, and students. Fear (of what?). Uncertainty. Anxiety. Isolation. I was swept out of my tranquil pond into a dizzying, un-ending whirlpool. I was drowning. Brad had a tight hold of my wrist but even he can't shield me from the "You'll get over it" folks. I wish you all had color-coded t-shirts so I know who's going to hand me a life-preserver and who's going to weigh me down with a rock. I am a verbal processor who utilizes humor as a self-defense mechanism. I make fun of myself before others have a chance to do it. But sometimes I'm not quick enough.

I feel weak. Embarrassed. And ashamed. I apologize CONSTANTLY to the people around me for putting them in such an awkwardly mortifying position when we do manage to go out in public. Brad has resigned himself to looking like a domestic abuser as I pay for our groceries, stricken silent with tears as he stoically bags our produce and thanks the cashier because I'm not able to. I have researched every anxiety-reducing behavior modification technique in the book ("But please," Amy said sarcastically, "tell me how you would FIX me."). I intentionally focus on my five senses...I recite the Ten Commandments forwards and backwards, Brad quizzes me on the state capitals, I breathe, I swear...then I shake, I sweat, I can't breathe, and I cry. And then I swear some more.

It is SUPER helpful (Amy said, sarcastically) to tell me to "get over it." Or to "count my blessings." Or to realize how many people out there have it a LOT worse than me (like I didn't know THAT before). To explain how I'm being "enabled." Or to scoff and comment that I've obviously never experienced "real" difficulties in my life. I sink beneath the weight of those comments. Maybe I am just being a big baby.

Meanwhile, as I am battling to just keep my head above water, Brad is fighting the current with me. Making lists. Searching for patterns...triggers. Helping me to visualize store lay-outs and alerting me to any new rules or procedures. Celebrating small successes (even if I only make it as far as a parking lot). Letting me rant, rave, and claim to quit before encouraging me to continue. He can't feel when the air around me grows heavy and oppressive...he can't see the walls threatening to close in on me...he doesn't realize when my heart feels like it's going to explode out of my chest...but he knows when I've had enough. I hate that I have done this to him. I have brought an enemy into our home and Brad Mosiman cannot fight this demon for me. Swords and sai, choke-holds and strikes will not rid us of this invader. So Brad Mosiman has had to put aside his conventional weapons and the damsel in distress has had to pick up her's. No...he cannot fight this demon FOR me but with everything that he has, he is fighting it WITH me. Thank God for Brad Mosiman.

Be kind...EVERYONE  you meet is fighting a battle that you know nothing about.

Less is more: The trail I should not have taken

Rarely do I offer advice or recommendations regarding ANY sort of physical activity but a recent small jaunt that varied, in degrees from "damn" to "delightful," leads me to share my experience.  Residing in Wyoming County is the crown jewel of state parks but I tend to keep to the more popular haunts: High and Middle Falls, Wolf Creek, Tea Tables, Great Bend, and, occasionally, when I can muster the gumption, I tackle the stone steps leading to Lower Falls.

As New York's travel restrictions have evolved into an ever-changing BINGO board of acceptable states of which to visit...scratch that...in lieu of the marketing genius who just promoted the sale of "Letchworth-opoly"...congratulations, sir or madam, for being the ONLY non-government employee to actually break even or turn a profit during this crisis...scratch my BINGO analogy and replace it for Monopoly. 

• Land on a travel-restricted state, 
• fill out a privacy-intrusive form, 
• get investigated by our "democratic" government, 
• and submit to a state-sanctioned 14-day quarantine...
• DO NOT PASS GO...
• Do Not Collect a $600 subsidy check. 

So...since there were only fifteen possible states at my disposal and I would have to play a geographically-challenging version of hopscotch to get to any of them, I decided to investigate a trail I'd never tried at Letchworth (while I was still legally able).

"How did you hear about this particular trail?" my husband asked warily, having been burned by my trip-planning prowess in the past. "I researched it," I announced, boldly waltzing past the entrance gate, "I read the trail description!" 

Initially, I couldn't have been more pleased. A leaf-lined canopy shielded us from the afternoon sun as we made our way down a processional decorated with vine-ripened

blackberries. As promised by the site description, we quickly made it to the impressive fireplace left over from the CCC Officers barracks from the 1930s. Carefully trying to gauge my level of ambitiousness, Brad cautiously inquired whether our adventure was at its end or were we to proceed. Disgusted, I plowed ahead. An hour later, of course, I would come to regret that decision. 

I expertly led my little expedition to the beautiful Gibsonville Falls. Admiring my navigational skills, Brad asked where we were to go when Trails 19, 19a, and 20 converged. Observing my uncertainty, Brad reminded me of my research. "I didn't actually read the ENTIRE trail description," I admitted, "I more or less perused the summary." We continued the now (and for the next ba-zillion miles) uphill journey on the thankfully dry trail. As I pulled myself, hand-over-fist, sneakers scrabbling for purchase against tree roots, up steep inclines, I realized rain would quickly change this scenario into a "Romancing the Stone" situation. 

We passed an older couple who paused to encourage me as they scampered about like mountain goats.

Taking a break, I attempted to impress my husband by swinging on a vine only to learn that the "muscles" in my arm refuse to lift anything other than a twenty ounce Pepsi. Tragically...there was not a Pepsi in sight.

There were a delightful number of different varieties of fungi in assorted shapes, sizes, and colors. I exclaimed happily over them and took a picture of EACH and EVERY sighting.

We traipsed over a bridge straight out of a scene from "Game of Thrones" with railings made of cut logs sporting an armor of small branches. A careful bounce to test its safety unearthed a half-grown fawn from beneath us and I felt, for a minute, that we were characters in a fairy tale. 

And still, we walked. Up...up...up. Through groves of carefully-planted trees planted by men who also lived in a troubled time, who were fueled by the idea that, in work, there is dignity. The leaves were a legacy to their sacrifice. 

We plateaued. And then I walked, leaning backwards, resisting the gravity that would pull me painfully down this never-ending embankment. It was here that I discovered that I didn't like gooseberries. 

"How many steps do you think I recorded?" I asked Brad as I collapsed breathlessly onto the passenger seat. He paused...having also been burned by this question many times. He'd learned to shoot low with his prediction. "5,000?" he guessed. I laughed before checking my device. Surely I had surpassed 10,000 steps. The van was dead-quiet except for the thump...thump...thumping of my erractically-beating heart. 

4,300. 

How could it be? 

"I should have turned back at the fireplace," I muttered, "Or skipped this trail altogether."

"You are a credit to Robert Frost," Brad said.

Zippity-DON'T-Do-Zumba-Rita!

 All right...not ALL of my ideas are gems. But I really thought I'd stumbled onto something with the whole "Zumba-rita" thing. I mean, c'mon! What better way to make exercise more palatable than to combine it with alcohol? How on earth would I have ever predicted that only my healthy friends would show up?

I refuse to believe that "Zumba-rita" is a young person's game. My daughter, Sydney, out in San Diego was insanely enthusiastic about the event and apparently there is great interest in having her host one on the West Coast. But there were some hints that my crew might be past their fun-loving prime. "7 o'clock...at night?" came one response to my scheduled evening time (Even I don't start drinking THAT early). Several requested an afternoon session, citing early bedtimes as an excuse. I began to sense that I wouldn't be able to please ANYONE. Even my personal trainer, upon learning of my snack offering of guacamole and chips, texted, "What? No queso?"

As I snarfed down a white pizza and pre-party margarita with Geri (who was sporting her "Get out of Zumba-free shoulder sling), I brainstormed our after-Zumba PD watch party. "The last person to stand whenever the narrator says the word OSHA will have to either take a shot or complete a Shameful Act," I explained to Geri, snagging her half-full margarita glass. She looked slightly alarmed. "Here," I said, pulling out a crumbled list and handing it to her. She perused it quietly before editing anything having to do with piercings or battery-operated implements. I pouted. "All that's left is the Chicken Dance and saying the alphabet backwards," I complained.

I was alarmed when our guests arrived. These were all hard-core Zumba experts...fluent in left-to-right lateral movements and they could all stand up out of a squat WITHOUT assistance. I greeted them each with a foaming, frosty glass which they all politely declined. What would become of those four unclaimed beverages, I fretted. But you know what they say when it comes to exercise...sometimes you just have to push through and take one (or four) for the team.

Our Zumba instructor, Felicia, arrived, emerging from beneath her sleek curtain of hair after she tied her shoes from a STANDING position, to ask me where the speaker was. Huh. Was I responsible for that? "Amy, I asked you if I needed to bring anything and you said no." I chewed reflectively on my straw and then offered to sing her selections for the session. Instead...innovator and problem-solver that she is...Felicia parked her car in the middle of Geri's backyard. There! Good to go.

I parked myself in the back row with my friend Traci who is currently doing a 25 push-ups for 25 days challenge. I told her not to feel bad if she couldn't keep up with me. Sarah...our techno-wizard who scared me by mistakenly thinking that I'm a LOT smarter than I am (Showing me snazzy new digital learning platforms..."Amy, I can totally see you doing this!" Amy: eyes glazed and frightened, nodded numbly), refused to believe that Traci and I couldn't line-dance. "But that was taught in school," Sarah exclaimed while Traci gently explained that she and I were from the square dance generation which turns out not to translate well to Zumba. Maybe I can talk Felicia into adding "allemande" and "promenade" to her list of moves.

We concluded our Zumba session with my signature song. "Try to stay with me, girls," I encouraged as I writhed across Geri's lawn. Erin leaped in to partner with me, only to quickly discover how dangerous a dip is with a person with no muscle tone, dexterity, grace, or syncopated rhythm.  It is also IMPOSSIBLE to twirl a girl who has no equilibrium. For her own safety, Erin abandoned me to my own warped free-style flailing and fumbling.

Zumba over, we all hydrated...some more than others. My Watch Party was cancelled because all of my healthy friends are also ridiculously responsible and had already viewed ALL of the required training videos. Are you kidding me!?!?

So...Zumba-rita was a bust. Apparently EVERYBODY out there is already in GREAT shape and is of no need of socially-distanced interaction. FINE! As the only currency I  currently had was queso, I paid Felicia, packed up my guacamole, and went home. No more Zumba-rita for this senorita! What a bunch of excreta!

What is the "hole" point of marriage?

After thirty years of marriage, you would have thought that I'd learned at LEAST a few things. But, no. "Helping" with household projects is still a futile enterprise plagued with uncertain danger and certain emotional scarring.

Case-in-point: The Hole

Goal:  To re-direct an out-let pipe to circumvent the continued development of a swamp near our blackberry bushes.

My solution:  Plant a willow tree.

Brad's solution: Spend four days yelling at Amy.

Wednesday: Brad arrives home. Dishes are done. Bed is made. House is more or less tidy. To be fair, the man left for work at 4:30 am but who in their RIGHT mind asks their spouse what they've DONE ALL DAY? I had strategically refrained from completing extraneous chores as I knew, upon my husband's arrival from work, that I would be standing by a hole for HOURS until dark.

LESSON #1 THAT I SHOULD HAVE LEARNED AFTER 30 YEARS OF MARRIAGE:

• Never laugh: Sure, it was a deep, cavernous hole. Sure, just the word "hole" makes me giggle immaturely. But when your husband is systematically testing the depth of said hole with differing lengths of poles and unfortunately drops the smallest one in to be lost forever, this is a time for compassion and commiseration...not chuckling or out-right hysterical laughter.

LESSON #2 THAT I SHOULD HAVE LEARNED AFTER 30 YEARS OF MARRIAGE

• Be vigilante regarding dialog direction: Brad self-talks in a way that is not limited to just swearing. He will work out the complication in real time, muttering to himself as he establishes the solution to the problem and the possible consequences of his plan. His family has grown accustomed to this habit...to our own peril as, without warning, my husband will suddenly STOP talking to himself and begin talking TO us. Unfortunately, I will have been lulled into a peaceful day-dreaming state until he begins yelling. "Is it too much to ask you to listen to me?" he'll complain. Why, yes. Yes, it is too much to ask.

LESSON #3 THAT I SHOULD HAVE LEARNED AFTER 30 YEARS OF MARRIAGE

• Be fluent with synonyms: I am NOT fast on my feet; literally or metaphorically. But when Brad implements a plan, he does not present it in the forums that best reflect my learning acuity. I like to HEAR the idea, READ the directions, and PRACTICE the plan before implementation. It is also beneficial to have the directions be formulated in rhyme or song or at least have a helpful mnemonic. And of course, there should be lots of encouragement throughout the execution followed by cheering, compliments, and a reward. Instead, Brad snaps words at me like an auctioneer and then leaps into action, confused when I haven't moved. 
• During this particular project, I was in charge of the hose which led, of course, to a LOT of inappropriate comments on my part. I was constantly putting the hose IN the hole or taking the hose OUT of the hole. I was also asked, often, to "kink" the hose. Once I was able to stop giggling at that word, I became quite ept at the skill. However, during high-adrenaline moments, Brad would snap me out of my day-dreaming by shouting at me to "pinch" the hose or "clamp" the hose. Again...these are high-trigger words for me which puts my actions on delay as I attempt to forego the sexual innuendo and stick the hose in the proper end (-o).  Asking my husband to use consistent vocabulary did not go over well at that moment.  

As always, after a LOT of psychological damage and disrepair, the job got done. Brad will revel in this victory while I will thank God that it's finally over. Brad will take pride in the accomplishment that "we" successfully completed the project together while I devise more elaborate schemes to get  out of working on our next couple's activity. Thirty years is a long time to be married...you'd have thought that I would have learned, by now, NOT to shine the flashlight DIRECTLY into my husband's face. OR...you'd have thought that, by now, he'd have stopped asking me to help. Although, now that I think about it, the day he STOPS asking me to help will be the day that we actually have a real problem. 

This day was not "berry" fun

Nothing good EVER came out of the words:  "All we have to do is...."

Mistake number one was visiting my parents to learn that my 83-year-old mother had just gotten done with push-mowing her own lawn. Great. How was I suppose to sell the "Amy is a delicate flower" scenario when my 5-foot-tall matriarch was busy whacking weeds in the 85 degree heat?

So, that afternoon, I reluctantly agreed to mow less than my fair share of our lawn. I spent an hour and forty minutes alternately sweating & straining, huffing & puffing OR laying prone, in the middle of my yard, wishing for a quick death. Whilst mowing, I noticed something amiss but stoically remained silent. The grass didn't seem tall enough to cut as the whirring blades barely grazed over the tops but if Brad wanted the lawn mowed, by golly, I was going to mow it!

Then...the conversation of nightmares:

Amy: (sprawled on the ground after the mowers had finally been put away)  It didn't seem like my mower was actually mowing anything.

Brad: (Glancing at my less-than-half of the lawn) Did you lower the blade deck?

Amy: (Staring speechless. Horrified)

Has anyone in the world EVER even heard of a frickin' "blade deck?" And, if you have heard of it, do you know HOW to lower it?!?!?

Commiserating later, Sydney asked, "It wasn't even mowing the lawn?!?!?" To which I replied, "I may have trimmed its split ends."

But that's not the end of the story. Oh no. I had made the mistake of explaining to my husband that I refrain from picking the blackberries beneath our pine tree because they are nourished by an ever-present swamp resulting from an unfortunately-placed pipe. "But they are perfectly good," Brad tried to reason before I interrupted him by saying I could not, in good conscience, consume sewer-berries. Brad reminded me of the scene from "The Martian" where Matt Damon manages to inventively grow potatoes. "That movie was fiction," I snarled.

This led to his plan that "we" could re-direct the pipe. As in "now." AFTER I had, hypothetically-speaking, "mowed" less than my fair share of our lawn.

To be fair, I spent a great deal of the digging time sitting on a chair, sipping a cool beverage, and making helpful suggestions. I also kept our daughters apprised of the goings-on.

Me:  Daddy's digging a hole to re-direct the swamp resulting in our sewer-berry patch. He has a pick-ax.

This made me giggle because, after our legendary logging dilemma, I had nicknamed my husband, Paul Not-so-fun-yon. I think I might have been suffering from heat stroke at that time.

Me:  I'm frightened.

Me:  I don't see nachos in my future.

Me:  Maybe grilled cheese.

Sydney:  You need to escape.

I sent her a picture.

Add caption

Sydney:  Is that your grave?

Me:  If you don't hear from me again soon...fifteen paces from the newly-planted cherry tree.

Me:  It's getting worse. He got out the concrete cutter and there is a LOT of muttering.

A drill bit had somehow gotten sunk into some buried timber and a LOT of time was now being devoted to extracting it. The romantic in me likened it to The Sword and the Stone. "Did you try wiggling it?" I asked constructively. By this time, a host of power tools now littered my lawn. Shoulders deep into the hole, Brad peered manically out at me. Oh. Wrong literary tale. Forget King Arthur. Brad was Captain Ahab...I was the doomed crew...and that stubborn drill bit was his White Whale. I kissed any hope of a grilled cheese good-bye and glanced towards the shadow of the sewer-berry bush, outlined by the setting sun. How bad could they possibly be?

If Amy falls while stacking wood, will anyone hear her swear?

Our big, magnificent maple came down last week. Oh...how I loved that tree and mourned its tragic loss. Without fail, it surprised me each Spring as it heralded the arrival of a new season by slowly unfurling its translucently delicate green scrolls. My first glimpse of Fall would be burrowed in its branches. My children defied gravity in that tree. Squirrels scampered. Birds twittered. And, in the end, I cried.

Its mangled corpse lay littered in my lawn. In life, the tree book-marked the segue into each passing season. Now we were to bear witness to the reversal in this final season of death and decay. Little did I know that I would act as a pallbearer to a two-ton tree.

My husband is a man-of-action. We would not be sitting Shiva for our fallen friend. "Would you like to begin at 5:30 am, after our Sunday morning fritter run, or in the evening?" he asked me. Begin what? I wondered...I could not be-leaf what he was asking me to do! Bad enough that I witnessed the demise...now he wants me to be part of the embalming and burial process as well! "Evening," I said immediately, noting that he employed the teacher trick of offering choices that DID NOT include a loop-hole for refusal. Having accepted our offer to take the wood, I prayed that my neighbors would arrive well before that time.

It was not to be. We enjoyed our fritter, lamenting the lack of shade in our now empty back yard. Brushing the last crumb away, Brad leaped from his chair and began outlining his plan. I tried to reason with him to no avail. "I will not let my grass die without a fight," he declared with the righteous dignity of Nathan Hale. I was quickly assigned a job. "But Erin just did my nails," I objected. He admired them as he stuffed my hands into work gloves.

"Let me get this straight," I grumbled, "You want me to move this pile of cut wood over here to make another pile of cut wood?" I recited a long drawn-out version of the Greek myth about Sisyphus, keeping one eye out for activity from across the road. Surely my neighbors were going to arrive with trumpets blaring at any minute. I once lay prone in my snow-filled lawn, dramatically clutching a shovel to my body like funeral flowers until Jerry came over with the skid-loader and plowed my driveway. I eyed up my toppled tree and wondered how long I could lay under it before Jerry would feel compelled to rescue me.

After he enjoyed my story, Brad set me to work stacking wood. S-T-A-C-K-I-N-G  W-O-O-D. Let's just say that I NEVER win at Jenga...how on earth do people make neatly-arranged configurations of firewood? Brad was busy with the chainsaw so I was free to say every swear word in my repertoire as loudly as I wanted. Eventually I ran out of breath. Dripping with sweat, I was soon coated in sawdust, my skin stinging from the airborne nettles from the nearby field of wild parsley. "You were the one who asked Jerry not to cut it," Brad told me. "The field was full of fireflies," I cried, "I didn't know that it was full of Devil's Snare as well." I began singing "Wild Parsley" to the tune of a Rolling Stones song as I added to my precarious pile. Brad, fearing for our dachshund's life, shoo-ed her away from my self-created tower of terror. When my flaming face evolved from a rosy glow to an alarming shade of forest fire red, Brad called it a day. Sitting me down, he showed me the established Zones of Completion that we would tackle over the next several sessions. I began praying in earnest. I cursed my lack of foresight. I have lived next door to these people for a quarter of a century. How have we never gotten around to developing some sort of Bat signal?

The next day brought a wheel barrow. This could NOT be good. I looked at it in confusion. I knew a LOT about wheel barrows as I teach simple machines in the 4th grade. Simple machines were designed to make tasks easier. But let us not misunderstand this situation. If I now needed a wheel barrow, that means that my assignment today must be harder than yesterday's.  This added layer to my work load did not inspire confidence.

Oh. The logs were bigger.

But my "muscles" were still the same size.

Okay. Heave the log into the wheel barrow, praying that I wouldn't drop it on my foot. Repeat several times. Stagger like a drunk person as I weave my lopsided simple machine across the driveway to unload and "stack" it on my unstable stockpile.

And then, an intervention from heaven: The chain slipped.

I had already put in discreet (by feigning death on the ground) calls to Iowa, Alaska, and California, seeking help or sanctuary but the travel bans were really limiting any hope of escape. That dangling chain was the most beautiful sight in the whole world. The size 6 font in the instruction manual was further proof that the Lord was on my side in this whole scenario. I hovered nearby, pretending to be helpful as Brad diligently worked to fix the "problem."

Where is a beaver when you need one?  Dam(n). He fixed it. I knew he "wood."

The tree continues to slowly disappear and so does my will to live.

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

Recreationally Riled Up: Taking a break from our exercising to exercise (my right to complain)

Sometimes I have difficulty staying in my own lane…especially when that lane is covered in a squishy blue matting bordered by fake grass. Fake grass in a state park. You better believe that I had a “hay day” with that oxymoronic concept. “I really need to work on being more positive,” I confided to my friend Rachel the other day. She wisely nodded but said nothing lest my pessimistic petulance point at her. 

It hadn’t helped that Brad and I had recently decided to walk the dogs at our little town park. I was stunned at the out-dated, rusted-out playground equipment and splinter-seated sports benches. I stomped across the expanse of lawn that could accommodate a small aircraft landing. “What do you expect them to do?” Brad asked, pulling a metal sliver from his palm after a misguided try at the monkey bars. I vaguely wondered when was the last time my husband had had a tetanus shot before envisioning a reasonable plan for a Splash Pad and updated playground equipment. “Reasonable?” Brad scoffed, “It’s a small town with a small town budget.” Government budgets, with their ensnared, tangled marionette strings, exasperate me. Any system that punishes conservation of funds is inherently corrupt. I considered editing the entrance sign as we left from “Village Park” to “Village Parking Lot.”

This would, of course, be the same day when my state park would unveil a two-million-dollar  installation of an outdoor rec center that was funded by a grant initiative…I suspiciously contend that most grants lead to “Rome” as in “roaming in my wallet for taxpayer dollars.” Skeptically, I read the description of this recreational area and wondered how many park patrons visited with the intent of playing ping-pong and Pickle ball. “Why do you let yourself get so riled up?” Brad muttered, now using his teeth to try and grasp the metal shard stuck in his skin. “I’m not riled up,” I said, riled up.

“Where would you like to walk today?” my friend Deb asked the next morning. “Oh…it doesn’t matter to me…your choice,” I said generously. I listened as she made her selection before saying, “Sounds great! Or…”

Inexplicably, we ended up at the park to tour the new outdoor facility. “What a great way to get some exercise while you're exercising!” I exclaimed to the park employee who was there to check on grass growth. I was understandably confused until he pointed out the actual grass that was interspersed among the fake grass. How inventive!

Deb and I were, of course, delighted to get our picture in the built-to-scale canoe set adrift in the lazy “river” walk-way of blue spongy material. Why would anyone ever bother riding in an actual canoe when this one is available? It’s not like there’s an accessible river nearby or anything.

We then raced (walked) to the exercise apparatuses (apparati?). Thank goodness Deb has a rich background in physical education as I contorted my body at odd angles in order to awkwardly work the machines. When we were done “exercising,” we resumed our exercise. 

“Where are we going now?” Deb asked. “I heard that they blocked off the steps leading to the lower falls,” I said grumpily, huffing in disgust as we approached the barrier. Deb inspected the blockade before asking, “Would you have wanted to walk down?”  “Well…no,” I admitted, “but that’s not the point.”

On the way back, we encountered a new (to us, apparently) playground…a woodland nirvana wrapped in Covid-caution tape. Why were Deb and I allowed unrestricted access to caper about the adult playground? “Is the new rec center made of Corona-resistant material?” I wondered, itching to slip down a sliver-free slide.

Forgive me for my jaded outlook…my disillusionment. Right now, I am feeling rather peevish about what can be construed by some as unnecessary funding when so many people across our county, state, and nation are in need. I am frustrated by frivolous funding for recreation when so many were forced out of their jobs. That actual fitness centers and gyms are still being restricted but some government official deemed this acceptable. I know…I know…the money was already allotted…the center will pay for itself as countless people with a penchant for Pickleball will flock to the park…people who otherwise wouldn’t go to the park will gladly cough up the eight dollar entry fee to sit in canoe camped in the middle of tables with embedded checker boards. King me! No...eff you...this is still a democracy (Isn't it?)!

I am being a jerk.

Because I had a blast touring the new outdoor rec center. Sure, most of my fun was derived from making fun of it but that’s typical of every activity of which I embark. I hope that my sarcasm doesn’t diminish your enjoyment. You should absolutely enjoy it…because you helped pay for it. It was just what the tax payer ordered. Wasn’t it?

Getting on my feet is no small feat

Faced with the record-breaking heat of the day, I decided to forego Zumba and instead make chocolate pudding. Working up the courage to cancel my session, Felicia responded by saying, "We could do it tonight instead!" "There's a heat advisory," I typed back, frightened, "No!"

My last Zumba session underscored my deep-seated belief that I was destined to be dumpy. As Felicia scampered about like a fawn, weightless and wonderful, scarcely moving the dust on her driveway, I was frantically clomping along, digging a ditch. My physical trainer graciously permitted me a brief break in between sets and, after I doused myself in ice water and felt confident enough to take off the oxygen mask, I showed her the clear evidence of our differing exercise styles. "You have scarcely stirred up even a smidgen of a dust cloud," I told her, before pointing out the trench that could be mistaken for a quickly created grave. With a dismissive flick of her sleek, dark ponytail, she objected. "This only demonstrates your energy and enthusiasm."

She had just cued up the next set when she interrupted it abruptly. "Grapevine," she stressed. I looked about hopefully. Grapes sounded delightfully refreshing! "No...Amy...your feet...you know how to grapevine."

I was baffled. "I do?"

She huffed.

"It's line-dancing, Amy. You know how to line-dance."

Now I was really confused. "Why would you think I know how to line-dance?" I harkened back to my younger years when I was kicked out of ballet as a child.

"Well...you..." Felicia gestured at me from frown-to-ground, "Oh, never mind."

So as not to discourage her further, I decided to brighten her day with some inspiring news. "I have a goal." She was understandably both shocked, doubtful, and delighted. "A goal?!?" she squealed, clapping happily like I was going to share the Snickers Bar I had stowed away in my truck for the ride home, "What is it?" Oh no. What had I just done? I wasn't quick enough to come up with a reasonable goal (like drinking more water...yuck or gasp, bettering monitoring my snack consumption) so I was stuck. "Before summer is over," I told her, now feeling stupid, "is to be able to stand up from a seated position on the floor without needing the assistance of five to seven 4th graders." She regarded me solemnly, deliberating the seriousness of my goal. "What have you been doing so far to reach your goal?" she inquired. I proudly demonstrated how I firmly grasp a stable object to lower myself back onto my haunches before summoning all the shivering strength of my legs and quivering core to sort of right myself. "I do three of those a day!" I announced.

She grimaced (or maybe the sun was in her eyes). "How long have you been doing this?" she queried.

"One day," I answered.

"Good," she said, "We can stop you from doing irreparable damage."

NOTE-TO-SELF: Exercising causes irreparable damage. Stop doing it immediately.

Apparently but not surprisingly, I was doing EVERYTHING wrong. My heels were supposed to be FLAT on the ground (only if you nail them down, Felicia). My knees were supposed to hover OVER my feet (How am I ever supposed to know? My tummy is in the way!). My stance needs to be wider and my feet should be parallel ("This isn't geometry, Felicia!" I snapped.). Our Zumba lesson was moved indoors to a spacious living room. Felicia wanted to better assess my standing up process. Oh boy.

Step One:  Sit on the floor following your long-established ritual of endlessly circling like a dog bedding down for the night, then softly tap your feet rapidly like a kitten on a hot asphalt driveway before slowly collapsing in on yourself like an imploding building. There.

Felicia was speechless. I think I eventually heard her murmur, "We'll work on that later."

We sat there for a moment before Felicia said, "Are you going to stand up?"

Now? Usually there is about a ten minute hiatus between the sitting down and standing up process.

Step Two: I flopped over to my knees, lowering my neck while arching my back like an angry cat. Carefully, I drew one foot beneath me like a car jack while straining up using my shaking T-Rex arms. Optimistically, I toss the other foot like a horseshoe, hoping it'll land in close proximity to the other one. Then I slowly ratchet myself up.

Felicia was stunned. I understood. My friend Geri recently blew out her shoulder but still manages to gracefully lower herself by the pool edge to dangle her feet in the water before effortlessly rising, cumbersome sling and all, from her perch like a majestic swan. I more resemble a triceratops tanking in the tar pits.

"Do it again," my trainer told me as I tried to control my breathing from the extraneous exertion of standing up off the floor.

Not in a million lifetimes, I thought to myself.

Step Three: Watch as a list of reasonable exercises is written for you.

This I could handle. I am a seasoned veteran of ignoring lists...especially lists including physical activities.


List in hand, I thanked my physical trainer for her valuable time and expertise before crawling into my truck and unwrapping my Snickers Bar before I had even left her driveway. I contemplating never returning to Zumba despite the fact that I had bullied Felicia into helping me. By the time I'd reached my own house, though, I had an idea. With chocolate-coated fingers, I excitedly texted Felicia.

"Would you be willing to host Zumba-RITA? It would be 30 minutes of exercise followed by a dip in the pool and fun drinks!"

No answer.

A day later, our place of employment shared training videos to watch at our leisure.

I texted Felicia again.

"We could add a Watching Party with games to our Zumba-RITA event!"

No answer. Hmmm...

A day or so later, I tried again.

"I designed a logo for us!"

Nope.

Huh! Maybe...just like me...my dreams for Zumba-RITA weren't going to be able to get off the ground.