Raising the brow (bar) of our friendship

My friend Deb texted me out of the blue to see if I was interested in a little outing. She offered me the choice of steps or snacks. Wow. Tough choice.

Armed with my five-year-old Vertical gift card, we headed out on our quest for a fun, themed beverage and an alarmingly-oversized pastry. God bless America.

I cringed the moment we walked in the door as we were immediately welcomed by the warm smile and exuberant greeting of our friend, Shanna who is the human equivalent of a golden retriever. After first feeding us emotionally by sweeping us up in her fiercely-determined hug (I cannot outrun her) and forcing us to provide detailed updates of our lives, Shanna then turned her attention to feeding us physically. As I feared, Shanna refused to accept the gift card (that she had given me), sliding it back with a grin. "You'll just have to come back," she teased, shoo-ing us to a pair of comfortable chairs as she prepared our order.

I asked Deb if we could enjoy our treat in the newly-renovated niche tucked next to the building. "You mean the alley?" Deb asked, balancing a cinnamon roll that could double as a beret. "No, no," I corrected, "Imagine an intimate Parisian passageway, tucked between two book-ended buildings like a love letter to be discovered, centuries later, by two wandering woman ready to embark upon a great adventure." We sat happily on rustic metal chairs, surrounded by bricks and a wild jungle of greenery, beneath magical strings of lights. It was a feast for the senses. 

A red light suddenly went off...signaling the river of traffic flowing perpendicularly before us to stop and the diesel tractor trailer idling in front of us flooded our narrow channel with a mystical gray mist...a fumigated fog embraced us. "I think I've had enough of my taste of Paris," Deb rasped as we raced back to Shanna in the clean, climate-controlled, cinnamon-scented coffee shop.

Returning to the vehicle, we noticed a beauty salon with an impressive and baffling list of services. As educated, world-wise women, we could figure most of the terms out but the "lash lift" and "brow lamination" occupied most of our conversation as we headed to our next destination. For a moment, we understandably confused "lamination" with "Lamentations" but as no other books of the Bible were represented on the narrow door, we dismissed that possibility. "I've seen those ladies that string your eyebrows at the mall," I had argued.  Plenty of opportunity for lamentation as they rip out those small, delicate hairs. 

We arrived just at the close of Vacation Bible School, approaching the registration table quietly as students were singing and dancing in the sanctuary. "Who are you here for?" the kind woman asked us. "My daughter, Linsey," Deb said, failing to keep a straight face as we jokingly signed out her 27-year-old offspring who had volunteered as VBS staff. We sat in the back as the program drew to an end, waiting with delight as Linsey, crowded into a group picture, finally spotted us and we waved like proud moms at a t-ball game.

We whisked Lins away for yet another themed beverage and tasty baked good. She translated brow lamination for us; describing it as an eyebrow perm...rendering Deb and me silent as we considered how on earth one perms one's eyebrows. The shoppe had a colorful display of macaroons so, to extend our  metaphorical Parisian trip, I selected one for each of us...we toasted our time together (lamenting the carbs). We were really on a roll!

"We'll go heavy on the protein next time," I promised as Deb dropped me off. an hour later "You butter believe it," she yelled. I went into the house and called up the salon to schedule brow lamination appointments for Deb and me for our next big adventure. The receptionist immediately penciled us in.

We made it by a hair

"Didn't you check Google before we decided to come here?" my husband asked glumly after we'd paid the ten dollars for parking from the machine that ignores his Veteran status. He ignored the Rumplestitskian-sized temper-tantrum I was currently throwing in front of the "detour" sign that was barring my way from the gorge trail AND the life-altering shuttle bus that would be waiting for me at the top of said gorge. 

I paused to glare at him. "No, I did not think to ask the interweb if a state park was open in JUNE."

We weighed our options. We could skip the park altogether (forfeiting our ten dollar parking fee) or attempt the dreaded rim trail. I watched a pair of elderly ladies carefully maneuver their walkers up the steps to the first landing. The delightful Belgium waffle I had enjoyed moments ago ("Whipped cream?" the waitress had asked. I had been confused. Was that even UP for debate?) weighed heavy in my belly. I remember clearly, Brad asking me if I wanted him to grab a water as I skipped happily across the ten-dollars-to-park parking lot. "Water's for suckers," I'd yelled. A woman with a stroller walked confidently toward the rim trail entrance. She was wearing flip-flops.

"What the hell, Katriel?" (I like this particular phrasing because it rhymes.)

As I staggered up the second set of stairs ascending to the rim trail, I began cursing my friend who had visited this park weeks ago and, to my admittedly absentminded recollection, had not said A WORD about not being able to access the gorge trail to this jewel of a state park. The gorge trail is the ONLY reason anyone would visit this state park. The parade of people lining up behind my snail pace of "progress" forced me into a theatrical pose of nonchalance as I assumed the character of "woman in shape." I quietly ("Quietly?" Brad asked.) bemoaned the lack of handrails, gripping the rock walls like I was scaling Half Dome. My orthopedic shoes were no match for the Olympic pool-sized puddles of which I was considering as a hydration source at this point. A three-year-old lad scampered by me sporting Crocs. 

By the third landing, I had added another to my blame list:

"How's it farin', Erin?" (See what I did there?)

Had it not been for Erin, I would not be on this death march (A contingency of tourists nudged past me, wearing sandals with socks. Their grandmother was bringing up the rear.). Instead, I would be at her house, seated on a counter stool, snarfing down ice cream for her annual First-Day-Out-of-School celebration. But...no-oo-oo. She had to cancel. Like driving one's mother to a doctor's appointment is SO much more important than feedng Amy Mosiman ice cream at 9:45 in the morning.

We'd been hiking ("Hiking?" Brad asked.) for hours ("Minutes," Brad clarified.) There was more sweat pouring off of me than water running through the gorge that I could hear but not see. According to Brad's report, I had turned an alarming shade of tomato red.

"How far do you plan on walking?" Brad asked. To be fair, the lack of oxygen to my head had caused any reasoning skills that I may have once had to completely shut down. I honestly didn't know. The grannies with walkers were still ahead of us. "There was a sign about a meeting at the suspension bridge for a tour," I muttered madly. "The suspension bridge is a mile ahead," Brad informed me as I sank to a plank bench, prone...immobile...defeated. 

No one else was turning back. They scampered happily along in their inappropriate footwear, lugging their
weight in water.

"A little further," I whispered hoarsely through my chapped lips and parched throat. My waffle was threatening to make a reappearance. Brad sighed as he hoisted me from the bench. 

Hours later ("It felt like hours," Brad remarked.), I stood, victorious, in the shadow of the suspension bridge. "Do you want to go up?" my husband asked. I looked at him like he was suddenly sporting socks with sandals. Why on earth would I want to do that? 

We made our way, slowly and carefully, ("That's accurate," Brad agreed.) back down the trail. My new goal was a container of close-to-boiling water locked in our van located in a ten-dollars-to-park parking lot.

Brad had larger aspirations for his waning wife. After escaping this hellhole, he pulled our vehicle into a roadside stop for some ginger ale (That waffle) and cheese curds. 

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I had gotten suddenly quiet.

Glancing at me, his eyes grew wide with alarm as I held up a rectangular piece of cheese curds for his inspection. Wrapped around it...coiled like a little snake...was a long brown hair. Brad rolled my window down for me so I could send it flying.

We sat in silence for a moment...reflecting on our day. Brad watched with some surprise as I reached into the container for another cheese curd. Noting his expression, I shrugged. I was going to drink out of a puddle today. A hair is hardly cause for concern. 

I don't want to split hairs but kayaking doesn't float my boat

It's tough to really pinpoint who is to blame...there are so many to choose from.

I guess we could start with Allison who, for some odd reason, loves this annual outing and COULD NOT BE CONTENT with just her and Katriel attending. Oh no...wouldn't it be just peachy if the ENTIRE 4th grade team participated? She knows I'm a sucker for camaraderie. But only when food is involved. Plus, she was sneaky...attaining Traci's enthusiastic approval first and THEN coming to me.

Which brings us to...Traci. Yeah. LOADS of blame lie upon her slender yet muscularly-defined shoulders. In the classic game of "Which one of these is not the same," one would look at a picture of Traci, Jennifer Aniston, and me, laugh out loud and confidently raise one's hand, certain of a win. Sure, these women are all the same age but two of them have elevated the age of 56 to an art form. They practically vibrate with good health, beauty, and vitality. They obviously work out, eat well, and take care of themselves. The third woman is well-insulated from the cold, fermented with decades of preservatives found in Pepsi, Twinkies, and Dove chocolate and brags about her daily intake of dairy in the form of six string cheeses. Squats are her mortal enemy. Traci KNEW that, by accepting Allison's diabolical invitation for a kayak outing, she was also signing my reluctant watery warrant. 

And then...there's Katriel, who has had to employ her vast knowledge of simple machines to hoist my prone
form off the floor on multiple occasions. Who KNOWS that lowering my unfit form into an unstable kayak would be an act of extreme concentration and heart-stopping skill. Imagine maneuvering an adorable blob of oobleck down the raised surface of a dining room table with the intention of having it drop neatly into a small Dixie cup positioned beneath the rim of the lowered side. No problem. Not embarrassing at all.

And let's not forget Spencer. Who was PERFECT. Kind. Accommodating. Supportive Spencer. Who would have happily set me up in the little ring of Adirondack chairs with a beverage and loudly declared that one member of our party MUST remain back for safety in case the kayakers met with an unfortunate meeting of the famed and feared Perry Sea Serpent. She would have proclaimed my actions "heroic" and "sacrificial" as I, alone, remained shore-side...a watchful eye on the horizon, awaiting the questionable return of our crew. I, alone, surviving to tell the tale. Instead, I latched onto Spencer's kayak and made her lug me about the lake.

Friends, I won't lie, I learned a lot about myself that day.

First of all...I look ADORABLE in a kayak. Naturally, I planned my outfit to represent the occasion. My long-sleeved, zippered-front, to-the-knee bathing suit (Warm robe waiting in the car) layered beneath my otter-patterned rash-guard. Brad found the one life-vest that fit over my ample bosum, zipping it up several times for me to ensure that it was working right. He almost made me late, so very thorough and extremely conscientious about safety is he. Cowboy hat and sunglasses? Ready to go! I was so confident in my wardrobe choices that it took me a moment to process that everyone else was just in sweatshirts and street wear. AND...were foregoing life vests. "Amy, it's right here," Allison told me, patting the strapped-down safety device BEHIND her. I will try to resist yelling "I told you so" when the thirty foot swell from a sudden tsunami takes her and her strapped-down life-vest O-U-T.  Amateurs. Our friend Jaime also joined us, outfitted with enough cardboard-colored Carhartt to be in a commercial if Carhartt made kayak-wear (They don't.). I worried that the water-logged Carhartt would make Jaimie sink like a stone when the tsunami arrived and I, naturally buoyant, a gift bestowed upon me by God, would be unable to save her. Allison, obviously, is on her own.

Not all of my self-discoveries were delightful.

Apparently, it is rare for me (these days) to be eye level with my knees.

Spencer paddled over, quickly and expertly, in response to my frightened gasp. "What's wrong?"

Shocked and repulsed, I pointed. "Look."

There. Just starboard of my knee, a single hair towered...the Sequoia of strands...a Truffula-tree of tresses...a harbinger of hope, perhaps? Or a portend of poor grooming? What next? Would my eyebrows slowly grow together? "I could use it as a towrope," I told Spencer glumly. "Toss me the line then," my friend grinned, "I'll pull you in."

I will spare you the sad tale of us floating, like hopeful little bobbers, outside our friend John's lakeside residence, waiting for him to happily discover us. His emailed reply to my inquiry of his whereabouts was "a meeting" but I strongly suspect that he was hiding behind his curtains, praying that a strong wind would sweep us away.

 I will also spare you Allison's super-human strength in lugging me to land. Look away, dear ones, as me and my long leg-hair awkwardly crawl from the kayak. 

It was a quiet drive home as my leg-hair knew the length of its life was being cut short with each passing mile. 

Brad met me in the driveway. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"

I handed him my life-jacket as I got gingerly out of the car, wrapped snugly in my warm robe. "I don't know," I told him, "it was a close shave."