More than a walk in the woods

I'm not sure if the murder attempt on my life was premeditated or spur-of-the-moment. Was it a crime of opportunity or was my demise months in the planning? We may never know. What we DO know, is there I was, altruistically walking my dogs when my world careened out-of-control and I was plunged into darkness; disoriented and afraid. That I successfully emerged on the other side of that nightmare is a testament of my tenacity. Neither man not nature will defeat Amy Mosiman.

I knew I was in trouble the first few steps along the trail. Brad, buffeted by a dark blue fleece, was shielded from the swarm of blood-seeking mosquitoes while I, outfitted in a fashionably sleek silk sleeveless number, was ineffectively flailing my arms about, windmill-style. "I'm done," I said, less than fifty feet into our little hike but my husband encouraged me to off-road it, claiming that the open field would be a deterrent to the horde of mini-missiles. So there I was, walking along the edge of a corn field, razor-sharp fronds slicing my bare legs, still besieged by bugs. The corn field led to a potato field that stretched as far as the eye could see. My fifteen minute walk was now more like fifty and I had not properly prepared for this situation. As I stumbled over the uneven terrain, I considered my options. Although I've been struggling to re-bound from my May kick-ball injury, my knee was not yet conditioned enough to adequately bear up for the challenge ahead. I'd worked my way up to a passable lunge but squat-thrusts were well beyond my reach. I took note of the forest that ran along the field and realized that I would have to put a slender sapling to creative use. Relieved when my load was lightened, I resumed this seemingly endless journey as the sun slowly began to set.

Although conversation between us, at this point, was considerably stilted, Brad took a moment to explain that cutting through the woods would significantly shorten the distance to get back home. Despite a childhood packed with warnings (ie Red Riding Hood, Hansel & Gretel), I ventured into the forest with a madman.  Darkness immediately enveloped me. Branches reached for me. Roots tripped me as I stumbled after my husband. He led and I blindly followed. My feet suddenly suctioned to the forest floor. Sinking sand! I thought in terror before remembering that that was a term assigned to quicksand by the little cartoon dinosaurs from "The Land Before Time" series. My anger at my husband immediately turned to fear. Clearly, Brad intended to kill me. Plan A: Have Amy get infected by the West Nile Virus. Plan B: Cause a gangrenous infection inflicted by machete-sharp corn leaves. Plan C: Precipitate a urinary tract infection by not providing proper restroom facilities on the trip. Plan D: Asphyxiation and convenient body disposal by quicksand. What my dastardly husband DIDN'T plan on was a wife who could and would systematically outwit each of these murderous little maneuvers.  

Claiming to be "scouting ahead," Brad kept disappearing from my sight (Plan E: Lose Amy in the woods to die a slow death). Without warning, I tripped, landing on my kick-ball knee, henceforth known as Wounded-in-the-woods knee. Brad immediately materialized (To gloat? To check my pulse?), yelling "What? What?" Curled in the fetal position, writhing in pain, distraught that there were leaves in my hair and, unlike movie star portrayals, I didn't look at all attractive, I gasped, "Give me a minute." He continued to yell, insisting that I outline my injuries in detail. Frustrated, I finally screamed out a regrettable profanity that echoed dramatically through the forest. Refusing that villain's supposed offer of help, I clawed my way up and began to Frankenstein-walk my way out of the woods.

Two hours from when we first began this little adventure, I spotted my house in the distance. I would not feel safe until I crossed that threshold. Bug-bitten, tear-stained, limping and forlorn, I returned home. I have to admit that Brad looked a tad less murderous in my living room. I don't think I'll be splunking or skydiving with him any time too soon but, to Brad's credit, those scenarios are much too obvious.  Should I perish in a bizarre badminton accident with a glancing shuttlecock blow to the temple or incur an allergic reaction in the bunny barn at Pike Fair, please notify the authorities immediately. I'll just tread real easy until then.