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.