My "Virgil Vigil" was in vain

"When did you say he was arriving?" I asked, staring anxiously at the calendar as I held my own "Virgil Vigil" count-down. "I didn't," my husband replied, trying to reassure me by quoting our favorite singer/songwriter, the late, great Patrick Swayze, "You know he's like the wind." I stomped around my kitchen. Over three months of social isolation had left me desperate for company. "His plane arrived four days ago," I whined, re-checking his schedule. Brad then resorted to quoting the only literary man who could calm me:  C.S. Lewis. Speaking in the words of the character, Tirian, Brad said, "Who am I that I could make my brother appear at my bidding? He's not a tame lion."

Tame? Or timely? Or toe-nail-y? Okay...sorry. Got carried away with my penchant for alliterating. It was actually an infected thumbnail situation...if we want to stick with the lion theme, we could envision Androcles...that kept my brother-in-law more than an arm's distance away from us. That...and l'amore. It had been a long time since Virgil had been reunited with his lady love.

But finally...he (and his over-sized, swollen, infected thumb) arrived! I was so happy! But, of course, my vision of the perfect visit would be shattered...again and again. I had been biding my time, waiting for Virgil to visit so that we could indulge in a box of take-out margaritas. I called the restaurant to get the details of this transaction. Oh. We HAD to buy a food item too? Like a prosecuting attorney confronting a witness, I questioned the girl on the phone. "What is the cheapest selection on your menu? Did you check the sides? Did you consider the children's menu? What do you mean I can't pair a child's meal with alcohol? Isn't this still America?" I finally placed my order and provided a description of my truck for the transaction.

Brad drove, doubtful regarding the success of this mission. Virgil and I, however, were positively giddy, picturing our box of booze with its handy spout. We pulled into our numbered parking space and I placed the call, alerting the restaurant to our arrival. "Oh, I'm sure they're all waiting to meet you," my husband muttered as I suddenly panicked and told the staff that I WASN'T driving a black Titan but was, in fact, in a white cargo van. Brad and Virgil, who were currently sitting IN a black Titan, looked around, confused. "Let's just add alcohol to this situation," Brad said as I hurriedly straightened out my error. "They're going to breathalyze her before they let her have liquor," his brother predicted. Brad tried to repress his laughter as the servers brought out our order, handing us two styrofoam glasses and a brown paper bag-wrapped bottle of El Toro tequila. A seasoned bartender, my brother-in-law politely tried to refrain from curling his lip in disgust. I was too shocked to speak...a rare occurrence for which my husband was deeply grateful.

So, deeply disappointed, we drove home. We unpacked wings and calzones from our favorite place

and then faced the farce that was supposed to be our beloved box of margaritas. Using a deep voice and affecting an accent to resemble a matador, Virgil wielded the bottle like a red flag, yelling, El Toro! enthusiastically about the house. Both brothers broke into unrestrained laughter when, in sad confusion, I pulled a tiny lime out of the bag. "Fancy!" they shouted. They were even more delighted to learn that the restaurant had provided TWO limes! "It's too much to ask!"

So we drowned our sorrows in silence. Apparently I kept missing the meaningful glances being exchanged by the Brothers Grimm until Brad, as gently as possible, asked what type of calzone I had ordered them. "Chicken," I said, resolutely. "There just seems to be more broccoli in it than I remembered," Brad said carefully, have been the recipient of my countless melt-downs over the past few months. Virgil, blissfully unaware and bereaved by a besiegement of broccoli, had no such qualms. "Hey! I like vegetables as much as the next guy but I swear they included an entire head of broccoli in this calzone!"

My head swam with disappointment, embarrassment, and cheap tequila. I had wanted, so much, to provide a fun and entertaining visit for my brother-in-law and, instead, it was a disaster. I was devastated. It didn't get much better the next morning when my two jokesters were getting ready for breakfast. "Hey Virgil, what kind of coffee does a matador like?" he asked. "Cafe olé!"

The town isn't big enough for the two of my thighs

"Who's going to walk Amy today?" Crickets chirped. The silence lengthened to embarrassingly long proportions. Finally, a beleaguered sigh. "I'll take today's shift," Deb said.

The first hurdle, after convincing me to show up at 7 am, was to apply an indefensible shield between me and the cloud of biting bugs that we would be battling against as we fought our way through thick underbrush and dense forests. "You didn't bring repellent?" Deb asked, meeting me in her driveway, prying me from behind my steering wheel where I sat slumped, like a stunned sleepy statue. She whipped her's out of a handy holster and like an outlaw, heartlessly pulled the trigger until I was dripping in DEET. Stomping over to me in her well-worn hiking books, she frowned, inspecting my shoes. "Cloth sneakers?" she scoffed. Under her breath, I heard her bite back, "Tenderfoot."

We began our walk, reaching the rugged road that bears Deb's illustrious family name. Like a bunny, she effortlessly hopped over the chain that limited access to this magical passageway. She then reached over to grasp my left foot that I somehow managed to lift four inches off the ground to pull it up over the barrier. Hopping back over the chain, Deb then ratcheted my right leg over as well. This was exhausting.

"Maybe we'll get to see some critters," Deb said hopefully, trying to find the bright side of this whole situation. That dream died quickly as I then proceeded to loudly complain, nonstop, about EVERYTHING for the next thirty minutes. This was only interspersed by Deb having to constantly switch sides with me so I could avoid the mud, muck, and puddles that littered the lane.

When the walk was over, Deb gently helped me back into the truck, pulled her phone out of her other holster and called Shanna, "She's all your's," she said, relieved, waving a cheerful good-bye to me as I backed out of the drive-way.

Shanna. Thank goodness. Unlike Deb, she had qualities that I respected in a work-out partner. Take her inability to be punctual, for instance. With Shanna, there was always the (hopeful) chance that my exercise would be delayed or, gasp, NOT EVEN HAPPEN AT ALL! Devastating...I know. And, more often than not, exercise would often be concluded with, or even be replaced by, donuts and coffee!

My pride and dignity does take a hit, though, with my marathon-running pal. Devising a plan for our morning walk, Shanna decided to run to my house, walk with me the two miles BACK to her house, and then drive me home. "That just sounds ridiculous," I snapped. "Did you want to walk to my house and back?" she asked. Suddenly, her little scenario seemed idyllic.

"I have a little trouble with the hill right by my house," I confessed as we began our morning trek. "There's a hill by your house?" she asked, confused, as we were, at that moment, climbing a 45-degree incline. I was mid-complain when it became painfully apparent that I was going to have to choose between forcibly sucking air into my lungs or forming syllables. "Why don't you let me talk for a bit?" Shanna offered generously. She chattered happily along as I crawled up the mountain. "I don't understand," she said, looking alarmed as I collapsed at the pinnacle. "I see you walking up this road ALL the time!" "With...a...dachshund..." I gasped, breathing into the paper bag Shanna pulled from her holster, "...that...has...two-...inch....legs...and...stops...to...sniff... EVERY...blade...of...grass!" I bent at the waist, certain that I was going to die. "Just keep your head positioned OVER your heart," Shanna advised, whipping out her phone with the speed and precision of a sharp-shooter. "Your turn, Felicia," she said, buckling me into my seat-belt and taking me home."

Felicia, as a work-out partner, leaves little to be desired. Young, beautiful, fit...I absolutely detest her. And she shows NO MERCY. My scheduled twenty-minute work-out keeps mysteriously lengthening to thirty. And apparently, I perform EVERY move wrong! Even my patented "shake-the-poo-from-your-shoe" maneuver was incorrect. "What are you doing?" Felicia asked, as I confidently flailed my foot about. I demonstrated the steps that I had memorized months ago and Felicia, frankly, was appalled. "I am so sorry," she told me, "I failed you. I NEVER should have left you, unsupervised, for so long in the back row."

I'm not sure who is more traumatized during the cool-down...Felicia or me. "Do you feel that?" she asked, helping me stretch my calf? Heel? Second big toe? "Yes." I said, resolutely. She glanced at me. "No. I lied," I immediately admitted. She sighed. Our stretching sessions are rather exasperating as I seldom successfully stretch anything but the truth.

"Look, Felicia! I can touch the ground!" I squealed, excitedly, moments later. "That's great, Amy!" she said, encouragingly, "Of course, you'recurrently laying on the ground but it still counts!" As we stretched beneath the shade of my maple tree, Felicia, conscientiously aware of my balance issues and concerned for my safety, suddenly shrieked and pulled me back as I bent at the waist to pretend to touch my toes. "What?" I asked, looking around for a snake or a spider. "I just didn't want you to tip down that incline," she said. I was so touched.

And I am. Touched that I have so many friends that are willing to put up with my complaining and creaking muscles. Blessed that I am surrounded by people who encourage me...support me...and offer some sass when I slough off. My friends are the best! And while I'm never going to be the quick-drawing, sharp-shooting, rootingist-tootingist fitness fiends that my friends are...I'm OK with that...because this backsliding, bow-legged lady can't even keep her calves together! Maybe it's time to work on the guns instead!