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Showing posts from July, 2011

bears, snakes and heights.

The other day my son came home from his last day of camp and I was trying to get him to tell me what he did that day.
And mostly he talked about something called a Tarzan Swing. I’ve done my share of ropes course and I’ve seen this particular swing and was a little surprised that my son agreed to do it. Because even though he is silly and likes all kinds of things. Sometimes I have to push him.
Literally, off the dock. Down the slide. On a ride at the fair.
And sometimes the other parents stare at me, like I’m horribly miserably mean. Forcing my kid to do something he obviously is afraid of kicking and screaming.
But. I know my kid. And I know that by the time he gets to the bottom or in the water that he will be asking to do it again. (at least most of the time). And I don’t ever want fear to stop him from something good.
And so I asked him about the swing.
And he said he was a “little bit scared, but mostly that is was fun” and he thought about it for a little and then said it was …

meeting in the middle

A few months ago, in a conversation with a friend, about who we used to be, and how other people remembered us. She said something wise that I’m sure I’ll get wrong here. Something about how we are all pretty much the same. Who we are is essentially who we were. Maybe with a few more (or less) pounds, fresh highlights and with more insurance. I told her that I didn’t want that to be true. That I wanted to think that we all change and grow and get better. And I wasn’t sure that there was much of the 15 year old, or 18 year old or even 22 year old version of myself that I wanted to keep.

And today I realized that maybe she was mostly right. And there are a few things I don’t mind hanging on to after all.

It is July. And July to me means foot lockers packed with Sunday whites and Mohawk red. Not looking down on the catwalk. BBQ by the river. Sun In. The Wagon Wheel snack shop. Dancing in the alcove. Sticking to my mattress. Late night talks in bunks. Vinegar in my ear. Tipping canoes. I…

lace 'em up

I was not made to play sports. No one in my family played sports in school. My knees are bad. I’m slightly asthmatic. I got genes for long division and reading music and telling jokes, not ones for basketball or volleyball or even playing ping pong without hitting myself in the head. I have the coordination and natural athletic ability of Paul on the wonder years. When they did the flexibility test on me at the gym I think I scored about average for an 80 year old. My parents never signed me up for softball, even when I begged. I took PE instead of athletics in junior high. I quit dance when I was 6 because it was “too hard”. I quit gymnastics because it was too much like dance (read – again, too hard) and played the piano and violin and read books instead.


However.
I was not going to let those things stop me.
I ran across the driving range ducking and covering to take tennis lessons as a kid and would often spend hours banging a tennis ball back and forth on the side of my garage be…

talking about the weather

A few things I strongly dislike.
-Pix-Os. Those tiny little round balls that are supposed to magically stick together when you add water. But. so far all they have done is end up all over my floor.
-The fact that the last time I got a pedicure, the lady who was working on my feet asked if I had cut my own toenails last time. Laughed loudly when I confirmed her suspicions and then said something to the girl next to her in Vietnamese.
-That it is getting annoyingly difficult to stay up past 10:00 o’clock anymore.
-That the next week’s forecast all involve triple digits.
-That I will inevitably leave a bag on that little round bag holder and Wal Mart. And it will be the bag that had the most important item I came for in it.
…you get the idea.

But. one thing I really hate is small talk.

And I am really social and outgoing and completely extroverted, but on lots of days I’d rather have a root canal with no novocaine than have to endure much of it. I’d rather break out the vacuum than talk…

with vibrato

I have never been a detail girl. I am more of a close enough kind of girl.

I don’t follow recipes. I don’t measure accurately. I don’t edit or proofread.
Which is probably why I never did anything with research or medicine. Because I might really like my science. But I’m pretty sure no one would want me cutting them open or doing important research or even baking a soufflĂ©.

And I had a roommate who was puzzled by the fact that I played the violin.
Because it didn’t fit with my close enough attitude.
Because violins don’t have keys or frets to help you get the note right.
You have to put your finger in the exact right spot every time.
No fudging. No helping. And if you are off, even by a fraction of an inch. It sounds awful. But somehow, when I practiced enough my fingers knew where to go.
Exactly. Every time. Without even thinking about it.
And it has been years. And I don’t even want to think how rough I’d sound if someone put a fiddle in my hands. But I’d still know where to place m…

promises

Ten years ago I walked down the aisle. Trying not to cry and promised all kinds of things I didn’t comprehend.


Like I remember promising to have and to hold.
But nothing about remembering to wash out my bowl after eating cereal or oatmeal.
Or sitting through countless hours of sports on TV.
Or ever remembering to not leave my shoes in front of the front door. And I expected to be holding each other. Not babies and laundry and never the remote.

For richer or poorer.
Mostly I think I was hoping for the first part, but assumed that the second part would be cozy. Like college. A one bedroom apartment and a lot of ramen noodles. I don’t think most people spend a lot of time thinking about the in between. Fighting over how much coffee one girl needs to buy at starbucks or if we really need Xbox live or why plane tickets are a much better investment than our 401K.

In sickness and health.
And. thankfully mostly we have been the latter. But that the sickness part can take it’s toll. That str…