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.

Prayer Walk Settles Epic Debate: Baptism Through Sprinkling

I pray.

There. I said it.

Sort of in the way that Shirley MacLaine's character, Ouiser, growls it out in "Steel Magnolia's" but yes, I pray.

My prayers are pretty limited these days as I get overwhelmed easily...it's all just too much.

But not for God.

Buried for three months, I had to rely on my mantra of listing the names of my students alphabetically each night, quickly and efficiently, like an auctioneer...purposefully avoiding the two names that could destroy me if I uttered them. My kids were my kryptonite. I trusted God to protect my girls without needing my words because He knew my anguished heart.

And then Shanna invited me on a Prayer Walk. Oh great. Two things I was bad at. I am not sure how I fumbled into this friendship but our texting reveals a story of two women who can reach out through writing. And we learned that both of us have the ability to sift through the sarcasm to find the foundation of pain, fear, anxiety, insecurity, and rage upon which our dark humor rests. So, naturally, I first made fun of and soundly mocked the idea of a Prayer Walk and then, as we both knew I would, attended.

Knowing that about a dozen people had been invited, I suggested a quick trip to town for coffee and donuts. As I had pre-ordered these items, Shanna popped into the shop to pick them up. I waited in her car, feeling my anxiety growing and hating myself for it. I got out of the vehicle in an attempt to peer into the coffee shop's tinted windows. My panic grew as I feared that I had arranged for the wrong pick-up time. Shaking, I tried some self-talk...what was the worst that could possibly happen? But it is impossible trying to rationalize with an irrational person. Finally, Shanna emerged and I could breath again.

Three people total attended the Prayer Walk so there was plenty of coffee and donut holes for everyone.

Shanna diligently composed an organized and extensive list of things for us to pray for as I mentally wrote a strongly-worded letter to the doughnut shop demanding that plain fry cake donut holes be removed from their menu. I mean, really, what's the point?

As we strode around the perimeter of the school grounds, my friends spoke heart-felt eloquent prayers that, had they been in written form, would have been scripted with a fluffy feather quill and curved into decorative cursive. I, on the other hand, kept my eyes firmly on my feet, praying silently not to trip while trying to control my breathing from their quick pace and hoping no one noticed the streams of sweat pouring down my face.

As my friends wove their words around the school, the power of their positive prayers placated my weary heart...these were petitions for wisdom, selflessness, and sacrifice. For a freedom from fear...a cry for unity and fellowship...respect and love. I felt the words beginning to form and I spoke, in a shaking voice that had forgotten how to speak out loud to God...and as emotion overcame me, I returned to my mantra...the string that kept my balloon anchored to the ground in this raging hurricane...I choked out the names of my students as I walked around the building from which we were all abruptly pulled...Shanna's hand clutched mine as I baptized the ground with my tears.

It was powerful (and a little embarrassing, thanks to my emotional outburst). As we concluded our journey together, Shanna noticed some money hanging out of my pocket. After a quick inventory, we gasped as we realized that a twenty was missing from the change of our doughnut purchase. Time to back-track. As we scoured the ground for the missing money, I kept one eye on the sprinkler system set up in the middle of the field. Was this part of God's plan all along? I wondered. During our initial mission, I didn't dare interrupt with my selfish suggestion of cooling off...but now??? We were able to retrieve the formally bygone bill and, after a lot of whining on my part, headed toward the sprinkler. It was there, that two mature, sophisticated Women of God and I lost ourselves in the pure pleasure of a childhood past-time...racing beneath a rainbow of water...shrieking and giggling. Unlike my tears, it was a different kind of baptism...a friendship forged in fun...lifting our spirits...and, for a moment, washing away our worries. To every thing there is a season...this was a time to laugh, to dance, and for me, a time to begin to heal.

While sometimes inappropriate, fun is never MUNDANE

And now the truth comes out. The behind-the-scenes, if you will. Because, obviously, what YOU saw was a calm, competent professional~~seamlessly...effortlessly, pushing out high-quality lesson plans while maintaining a balanced, healthy lifestyle (You can stop laughing now). But now school is over, friends, and having spent over three months developing the most bizarre co-dependent relationships imaginable with students, parents, families, and colleagues, I feel that we have established the trust necessary to pull back the curtain to witness the woman who was clearly NOT in control of ANYTHING. I don't fear repercussions or judgement since nobody believes even half of what comes out of my mouth so...here we go. Believe what you will.

Just like your's, over-night, my world became one of those unrealistic and baffling math word problems where Esperanza buys 42 cantaloupes and must divide them among 3 housing units of 15 families that contain several generations from 4 countries. The internet...oh...the internet. A 12-minute video lesson (that took 2 hours to create and 5 hours to edit) would take 8 hours to upload from my house. The alternative would be for Brad and me to jump in the van and search the school parking lot for the wireless "sweet-spot" so that it would reduce my upload time to 2 hours. OR...we could choose to drive 40 minutes to Belfast to use my church's internet, cutting my upload time to 2 minutes. Did I mention that all of this usually occurred at 10 o'clock at night? My math problem became when a northbound train left the depot at 8:15 am and traveled at a rate of 45 miles per hour toward a train traveling southbound which departed 25 minutes later but traveled at a rate of 60 miles per hour, where would I have to stand so that they would both simultaneously run me over at the exact same time?

Certain seemingly innocuous comments from friends and family set me off.

• Must be nice to be at home all day...set your own hours...

• I developed a nervous twitch from my Pavlovian response to the notification tings on my phone. I was living in a lawless land where everyone had my home phone number. I was fielding calls, texts, and emails from 6:30 in the morning to close to 11 pm, seven days a week. I did not know how to put up boundaries. Like me, everyone was scared and confused and if I could provide a (false) sense of reassurance, than that was what I was going to do. I was creating and pushing out lesson plans, maintaining daily communication with families via social media, correcting student work and offering feedback in real time while playing educational multi-player games with 4th graders AND middle schoolers who wandered back into my life. On three glorious occasions, I had parents call to ask if I would please yell at their kids for them. Happy to do it. Yelling at kids is a hobby of mine. Notice that I am actively avoiding the topic of video conferencing. Three grade level meetings a week. One culminating student project meeting a week. Class meetings every Friday. Small group meetings every day. It will take YEARS of therapy to recover just from the number of times I had to tell my 9-year-old boys to please put on a shirt.

• Think of all the gas you saved...

• Brad scoffs at that one. Our first tour of 16 mailboxes in our school district in March took us over an hour and a half. Countless trips over the course of three months...well, let's just say that the last one took 4 hours. And let's not factor in the desperate drives to Belfast for the elusive internet. Yeah...we saved a LOT of gas.

So where was the outlet? I was subsiding on string cheese and miniature Peppermint Patties. Wasn't sleeping. Was manically brainstorming unrealistic and ridiculous outreach ideas to keep families and colleagues connected. Began developing what I hope is a mild and temporary case of Agoraphobia and believe that the stress of this situation (and my woeful inability to deal with it) may have pushed me into pre-menopause. Yay. Where was the release?

Part of the release...oddly enough, given my COMPLETE hatred of them, came, in part during video conferencing. Our sweet, kind, quiet, and completely professional special educator (who could have won the Olympic Medal in daily video conferencing calls) often had to attend both 4th grade and 3rd grade meetings at the same time which, once I quit complaining constantly, made her the perfect target for my shenanigans. She reluctantly became my pint-sized puppet on the screen as I worked as her video ventriloquist. Typing text instructions to Tyler on the 3rd grade team to have her touch her nose and  pull her ear for my personal amusement. Sadly, she DOES have boundaries because she refused to flap her arms like a chicken.

The end of the year brought teachers back into the building to assigned rooms to train for our new reading program. One full day of my virtual trainer telling me to proceed to the next page by pushing this button or that button while attempting to fill my already over-whelmed brain with a complicated curriculum outline was too much. The second day was just about survival. Our virtual trainer valiantly fought the good fight while each grade level attended along the border of her instructional screen...all attentively listening, absorbing, planning their approach for next year. Meanwhile, I was hissing at my librarian that I would pay her twenty dollars to perform a cartwheel across the front of our room to shake things up. She eyed the floor-to-ceiling ratio and then accused me of not having the money to back up my challenge.

Okay...that didn't work. Hmmmm....

Our virtual trainer offered us a 3-minute opportunity for questions or reflective comments at the end of every hour to be typed and displayed via video chat. After perusing Week One of our new program's vocabulary, I selected the word "mundane" and texted Tyler a challenge to incorporate that word into his question or reflective comment.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The end of the hour arrived but...instead of asking us to type our question or reflective comment, our trainer invited us to simply un-mute ourselves and share. We gasped when Tyler's voice suddenly filled our room and we held our collective breath waiting for the Word-of-the-Day. No surprise to anyone...he chickened out...offering us a sudden window to rise to the challenge. A frantic 3-second brainstorming session concluded with me racing to the Smartboard to un-mute. Heart racing, gasping for air, I shakily shared my question: "As educators we often struggle with the seemingly MUNDANE aspects of figurative language. Does your program weave these features into lessons consistently through the year or teach them in isolation?" We heard a shout echo down the dark, deserted school corridor as Tyler's room erupted into cheers...accepting our victory as their own. The very picture of camaraderie.

And THAT was the outlet. The only thing that kept any of us grounded. Camaraderie. Friendship. Relationships. Empathy. Patience. Compassion. Understanding. Flexibility. And fun.

What happened to us? For awhile there...we forgot to be fun. It takes some work...but THAT is the place we have to get back to. It's time to think outside of that damn box that only spews bad news and fear...break down the walls that were built up around us (literally and metaphorically)...and learn to laugh again. Or, at the very least, laugh at Tyler.