The place where things are learned
Four chambers of the heart
I have one shred of internet.
This time in my life is surreal. Our lodgings are so tranquil and removed, wooden houses settled into deep snow on a road of thick ice and frozen mud, the gold-floored yurt, a tree house, a hot tub in with a view of starlight through tall pines. The surrounding is in such stark contrast to what we are learning every day, the photos of brain matter and split skulls and shattered windshields.
We run into the woods carrying oxygen tanks during the day, finding our patients crumpled around trees, breathing rapidly with sucking chest wounds painted on with thick make up, and it's incredible how fast all our ABCs and patient assessment triangles evaporate. In the classroom I can carefully pen out what each of the DCAPBTLS stands for, but when I'm faced with a broken spine and dropping blood pressure- a fake broken spine and staged dropping blood pressure- I don't know what to do. Or, more accurately, I know what to do but I can't remember which order to do it in.
Here's why it's so surreal. Because everything we do during the week is staged, but on the weekends it becomes real. Two of the boys took the first clinical rounds last night, Friday night, as the rest of us were out in Leavenworth drinking beer in front of the outdoor fire at Icicle brewery. They returned early in the morning and we saw them over breakfast. They were pale and excited. They'd had a gun shot to the head and a full hospital lock down. They described seeing brain matter, blood, massive amounts of cerebral spinal fluid. They told about seeing his vitals drop and his blood pressure drop to nothing, and then they had to cut the clothes off of the corpse. They described hearing the family screaming in the waiting room, a gang fight that subsequently broke out and the endless amounts of cops streaming in and out. There was also a car crash, but that took the back burner in terms of excitement.
Meanwhile, we soaked in the hot tub in the fresh, chilled mountain air, fell asleep in our clean beds, and waited for our turn.
Surreal.
It's a funny mix we've got here in the woods. Late the other night, cramming for our first big exam, the FBI agent and the nuclear submarine man patiently went over the respiration process and the four chambers of the heart with me, over and over. Yesterday, Libby and I killed Tate many times over as he slipped into shock and we forgot his blood pressure, forgot to regulate his temperature and almost strangled him with a cervical collar. Girls are a rare commodity around here. When I go into town, I put my grandmother's opal ring on my left ring finger. Yesterday night at the bar in Leavenworth, a young man was asking over and over, "Where are you from? What are you doing here?" over and over, so much so that we thought he might have a head wound. And then he leaned closer and whispered, "I know how old you are. You're 23....going on sexy." My friend Tate, recognizing my symptoms of distress, draped his arm around me and said coolly, "I see you've met my wife?" I smiled, leaned into him, and flashed my left hand to the boy with the would-be head wound.
Later on, as we were leaving, a boy almost barreled me over he ran full speed down the empty street. Then, a few ahead, he tripped and fell flat upon his face, arms splayed, and lay still. Alright! I said to myself. Go time! "Are you okay?" I yelled, running to his side. But then my patient, my very first patient, jumped up with a startled look and a bloody nose, and kept on running.
Which is exactly how I've felt the past week. Disoriented, unsure of my footing, running, going somewhere, going very fast.
Pulse
This new life allows no time for writing. Or anything. I'm not sure, so far, if it's possible. At this point I'm wondering if I'll be able to complete this course- pass all my tests, survive the clinicals, keep up with all the reading. It's funny to feel this way knowing some people keep this up for years, those people in med school. I could never do med school, nor did I ever have any inclination to try.
At this point, I feel something I almost never feel: scared. Not just uneasy, not just intimidated, but scared. What if I can't keep up? What if I can't pass the exams and I've wasted all the money for the course? What if I do pass, but I can't deal with all the gore and bones and blood and sputum and vomit and infections and trauma? What if I can't stay up all night, for multiple nights? What if I can, but I hate it? Today our instructor was inserting a nasal cannula into the nostril of a (very brave) man from our class and she said, casually, "If there's no lube, just rub it in the patient's own vomit, that will do just fine." Everyone bent their heads down to write this note, and I did too, and I kept my face straight, but in my head I was thinking "Oh. That's. Gross." And then the realization, "something like that will be the least of my worries."
At least there is very little room to sit around and think about these things. Breakfast is at 7, we start taking vitals directly after, class starts at 8 and goes until 5. We're responsible for all the cooking, cleaning, fire making, everything but the cooking. Class is filled with tests, scenarios, and hands-on skills. During the class hours, at least, I'm fascinated. Scared and overwhelmed by all of it, but fascinated. Totally absorbed.
After class we start reading. We read and read and read and read. Dinner is at 6:30, and then we read and read and read some more. I brought all my climbing gear and running gear and hiking gear and yoga clothes. That stuff will sit in my room completely unused and laugh at me as I sit and read. So far we've been assigned seven chapters of the text book per night. That's about seven hours of reading, if you do it right. I don't do it right, and it's still impossible.
For the first two days, I was thrown a little. We all were, it was obvious. I missed my dog, and my people, and my freedom and routine. I felt actually a little homesick at times. It's tough because even though there are 21 one of us living side by side here, it still gets a little lonely because we can barely talk to one another in the evenings, because we have to be studying. It's too bad because between the lot of us- military men, mountain guides, the complete mysteries who keep quiet, firefighters, an FBI agent- I can just sense the stories and crazy experiences percolating just below the surface.
There's a hot tub, but we haven't touched it. There are miles of fields and woods and hiking trails that we haven't even glanced at. We're a few miles away from a mountain town filled with rocks and rivers and breweries that we can't even think about. There's not even enough time to have nice hand writing, or hang up my jackets in the closet, or run to my room to grab something. There is not enough time to take notes in the evening, or highlight- I just circle things in thin sharpie and move on. There isn't enough time to write this, obviously, but I don't want to lose my head.
It's fun though! As long as I can pass, this will be fun. But this struggle is new for me. Being a student was never hard for me. Essentially, I'm getting my ass kicked from here to Idaho.
Day One
This morning, I woke up at 4:30 am. I drove over this:
And I'm going to live here:
...and do nothing else. For an entire month.
I'm excited somewhere, but for now I feel mostly exhausted, running on just a few hours of sleep and a long list of things I forgot to pack.
What a fortuitous beginning! Wish me luck.
And study Wilderness Emergency Medicine:
Southeast Storytelling Festival
Like the complete amateur that I am, I wrote back and said that while I was honored and could not imagine a more exciting opportunity, I would not be able to afford the cost of travel.
I'll never forget the email I got in return, one of the best surprises of my life. The producers were a bit bemused. "We're inviting you as an artist," they wrote. "We're hiring you. We will pay for all your travel. And we'd like you to stay and perform for all five days of the festival."
Keeping this quiet has been tough, but, unlike everything else, I decided to wait until the funding was secure before broadcasting it everywhere.
Finally, here at the very beginning of March, I got the go-ahead message. "The funding for international performers is coming along well," they wrote. "Put it on the calendar!"
So, it's official. I'll be traveling East at the end of September to perform here, alongside a very talented roster of artists and performers, including the best singer on earth. I can't wait to return to Ireland- it was the first foreign country I ever visited, fourteen years ago. I've wanted to go back ever since.
So, from now until September....I'd better learn how to tell a story. How to really tell a story, I mean.
Strange Fish
Too sad now, and surreal, to play that song about running from the cold up in New England. In silence we tried to find more information on stubbornly slow phones that blinked in and out of reception.
I felt as if I was at the aquarium, watching strange fish swimming through their dark tank, palms pressed against the glass. Inches away from this weird, unrecognizable world, yet so completely removed.
That's what it was like to be in the car, breathing, watching the road through the windshield. In my head the sound of snow breaking over and over, wind roaring, the feel of a mountainside suddenly liquid and moving beneath my feet. I had to force my eyes open, sit up straight in the passenger seat. Not us, I said to myself. Not us.
Heaven is a mountain after you've stopped throwing up on it
Skiing back to the lodge wasn't an option because I'd lose everybody again and wind up spending the whole day skiing alone. Which wouldn't be the worst thing, but it wouldn't be the best thing either.
And taking off my skis and hiking into the woods like you can on the mountains in Vermont wasn't an option because if you take off your skis on that deep West coast powder you will sink into the snow and disappear forever.
My options were limited. Long story short, I exposed myself. In a white world, when one has magenta pants down around ones knees, one will find it difficult to blend in and be discreet. And anyone at the top of Chair Number 5 at approximately 1:45 in the afternoon, plus a handful of folks gliding by just feet from where I balanced, with great caution and focus, bore witness to the spectacle.
I wonder if anyone of those people had also seen a similarly bright pink spectacle throwing up roadside on the approach, and if so, if anyone made the connection.
It was only my second day of skiing in Washington, my second day on steep trails in deep powder, and my second day back skiing after eleven years. But I started, very reluctantly, to get a little braver and follow my friends down some real runs. Not without great protest and a level of shrillness that I am not proud to associate myself with, but I did follow them. And I did pretty well. Andrew describes it this way:
"I suggest a trail. You say you don't want to do it. Then we drop in, and you yell at me a lot. And then you do great. Then you get to the bottom and beg to do it again."
Oh Andrew, and Chris, and all of you, I'm sorry for my neurosis. Those scars come from years of kayaking behind maniacs, of seeing my fears dismissed and then, unfortunately, materialize, all the swims and underwater caves and unrunable rapids at the bottom of vertical canyons, from all the shit that got kicked out of me on those rivers and all the water up the nose....those scars and...aahh...'trust issues', let's call them....run deep.
Or maybe I'm just a wimp.
Either way, I'm working on it.
But skiing is so much more fun than all of that. So far.
Oh, and one more thing:
Whiskey Soured
On Saturday morning, snowflakes were sifting steadily from the sky and the clouds were the silver white color of a mottled pearl. It was difficult to discern where the sky ended and the snowdrifts began. All you could see through the icy windshield was the dark outline of the road cutting in wide turns through the whiteness.
Really, guys, did you ever think my perfect ski cabin weekend wouldn't start like this?
Andrew, Chris and I arrived at a cabin near Baker on Friday night. I had the tremendous luck of having just the right weekend off from work and a last minute invite to join a few friends for a birthday celebration at a ski cabin. As I carefully packed up the car, I could hear the satisfying click of the universe locking together. It was supposed to snow all weekend! There was a hot tub! Hallelujah!
As soon as we arrived, Andrew set to work making these sweet and refreshing Whiskey Sours.
I never once stopped to consider how dehydrating the whole evening was. How could a hot tub be dehydrating? There's water all around you! You probably absorb water. In fact I absorbed so much water I was sweating!
I felt happy, almost loopy happy, but of course I did. There was literally no where else on earth I wanted to be, nobody I'd rather be with. I was so content that I almost slipped down into the suspiciously murky waters of the hot tub and slept there all night. Glad I didn't, I would be dead.
I do have one little blink of memory where I felt the lightest touch of anxiety. As I crawled into the crimson sheets of my bed around two am and lay there, very still, I felt my body sinking deeper and deeper into a sort of bottomless crevas. My last cohernt thought was, "Oh." As in, "Oh, I'm very drunk." Then I crashed fully into a thick, black sleep and woke up five hours later when Brittany was calling us to breakfast.
And oh, how the world had changed overnight. It had become a painful, painful place.
I tottered out of bed into the living room. I was then peer pressured into having a few bites of eggs. My stomach clutched and protested. I drank a cup of coffee. Around me, the others were buzzing around like happy bees. Moving slowly, I gathered my things as best I could, leaving behind my fleece, my down jacket and my wallet, all arguably important things at an expensive ski area in a cold climate.
The car ride was too hot. The music was disorienting. The line on the access road was crawling because of a plethora of spun out cars. Andrew kept saying, "Oh, wow, we still have a long way to go."
It was the perfect storm.
I knew what was going to happen before it happened. I clutched at the door handle, hopped outside into the snow and threw up in a neat arc against the towering white wall. There were at least 20 stopped cars behind us with a perfect view, and no reason to look anywhere else. I was the only spot of color in a whited-out world. I got a few cheers of encouragement from some snowboarding bros in an Impreza. Evidently they wanted an encore. They got one.
Still feeling notsogood, I opened the car door and folded myself back inside. I knew I probably had to hurl again, but not for another few moments and I didn't want to freeze. "Hey Melina-" said Andrew, who was grinning, "Would you like a whiskey sandwich?"
Now, I still don't know where he came up with that or why he said it. But the image of such a thing- two pieces of bread soaked in alcohol, limp lettuce and cheese between them, gave me the courage to get up and do what needed to be done, which was throw up again. This time the cars were moving steadily. I had to jog slowly alongside the traffic to keep up.
Really, without such weekly humiliations, where would I be? I'd be enormously successful, I bet. Corporations would sponsor my life. I'd have no real friends. I'd be a real bitch.
Relieved to be by myself, I threw up twice more, then went upstairs to the lodge where the sad people with bag lunches are supposed to go so they can eat their little ham sandwiches without the torture of watching the wealthy eat hot chili out of bread bowls.
I poured myself a cup of water, took a few sips with a straw, and then my head dropped onto the table and I passed out for about 45 minutes.
It was not the most auspicious way in which to start our skiing extravaganza.
After the nap, however, I rallied. I really did. I clicked into my skis and got on the lift and then another lift to the top of the mountain. I shared the second ride with another single rider, to whom I enthusiastically recounted my morning's adventure, even though he didn't ask.
Time and the flying snow
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| Seattle by the remarkable Aly Lenon |
Well, Ammen and Steph had some ideas. And some magazines piled up with all the best places and next think i know we're charting out the most ridiculous, ambitious trek throughout the entire city.
Oh, we did it. And it took nine hours.
After the Arboretum we walked through Montlake, up the interlaken trail to Capitol hill with a stop at Volunteer Park Cafe.
We climbed the water tower at Volunteer park and then headed down the mossy staircases to Eastlake, where we walked down by the water and past the creaking wooden boats and their molding riggings.
We walked all the way down town in the rain, through Pike Place Market with a cold wind blowing through, taking the proffered cherries and sugared almonds.
I tried to catch a photo on the ferry home....clear, cold, and we shared a forty of Winter Porter out on the deck as the lights of downtown came into focus.
I failed.
The return home was rough as we grew ragged and tired. Walking through city is far more exhausting than hiking through forest. A long wait for two city buses took us to the edge of the Arboretum. We pushed through the dark gardens and the Witch hazel back to the car, which sat forlorn in the empty parking lot.
I started writing this blog long before I lived in North Carolina with Will, and during, and all the time after. And a lot of you have been reading that entire time, and I'm sure your wondering what it was like to see him again. And the answer was it wasn't bad. That's what time will do. As Gordon Bok would say:
Time and the flying snow.
And oh, that foolish river
running by
Release Party for The Wasted Ocean
Bellingham
A year and a half ago we met up again and went hiking in the Saw Tooths. We said a quick goodbye at a gas station in Idaho and I haven't seen him since. He went away to paddle the rivers of India, Nepal, Peru, and the Grand Canyon, again, this time at Christmas, this time without me.
So it was good to see him again, and we went to Bellingham for him to get a new boat. Here is a picture book of trees, Boundary Bay Brewery, and searching for sea glass on the moody beaches of Fairhaven. He finds it by the handful without even really looking.
(Damn happy dog.)
Half Days
The SUN! That warming thing in the sky!? WE SAW IT! It's REAL!
If you stay inside on a day like this in my city, it's a proven fact you'll lose a bit of your mind. Just a little piece. But it adds up.
Just please don't let me take another picture of another coffee cup at another coffee shop on another drizzling day, and don't let me take another picture of the way headlights shine and splinter when I'm running the dog in another downpour.
And, as always, climbing with friends, there is nothing better.
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| Thanks Chris Joose for the photo |
Crazy Bitch
So when one of the best ultimate players in the world, Ben, showed an interest in me, I was thrilled. When he said, "I'd like to date you, but with no rules, no commitment, and I get to flirt with girls, sleep with girls, travel with other girls, do absolutely whatever I want, and you have to be okay with that," I really thought about it. Initially, it did not seem like such a great idea. And then I considered what a good Frisbee player he was and I was like, "This seems like a really good deal for me. Onward!"
This was also a time of great enlightenment for me. I was a junior in college in Seattle, a very sex-positive city. I was taking all sorts of college classes, for college credit, towards my college degree, about sex. I took Sociology of Sexuality, Psychology of Sexuality and Psychobiology of Women. I remember my mom calling me and saying, "What's next? Poetry of Sexuality? Math of sexuality?" And I remember thinking, Those both sound good, I ought to look those up in the class directory.
At the same time, I was making a lot of new friends. Some were polyamorous, some were part of Seattle's "kink" community, and virtually everyone was bisexual.
I was learning all sorts of new things. I listened attentively, took a lot of notes, and always read the suggestive readings.
So when Ben suggested that we date- but that we pretend we're not dating around others so that he could keep his options open, I thought- fantastic! A chance to prove how super open minded I am!
I think open relationships can work. Never in my experience, but certainly in some situations. However, ours did not work. For many, many reasons, our relationship was terrible. Absolutely a disaster.
When you're a girl, and you're in a *terrible* relationship with a boy, it's easy to start to hate other girls. Girls are always hating on girls. We're encouraged to do that. So I made up my mind not to develop any negative feelings towards other women. That way, I'd be okay with everything always. I refused to become 'crazy' or 'needy' or 'clingy' or 'spiteful' or any of those other things that are a natural reaction to being fucked with.
Besides which, I thought this super-acceptance would really impress Ben. I was so easy to date! So convenient and open minded and accepting. I would literally have no needs or feelings. Between this and all the hair-straightening and outfit choosing I was doing, I might even be close to perfect.
And I'm sure he did appreciate it. I'm sure he was really impressed by me and appreciated how easy I made it for him. But he was so busy having sex with other girls that the conversation never really came up.
This went on for a long time. Whenever I felt like shit, I'd chalk it up to insecurity. And nobody wants to feel, or admit to feeling, insecure. When I felt jealous, I'd do some research. I'd literally google it like it was tonsillitis and there was a homeopathic cure. I once read that envy was just toxins in the body and a juice cleanse could clear it up forever. Totally game, I put on my book store outfit, hopped on the bus to Barnes and Nobles and bought a card deck of smoothie recipes and a blender.
I even read good books, books recommended by my Poly friends and my professors, like "The Ethical slut." And I was so desperate to make it work out with Ben that I'd warp all the information I got in those books to support this dysfunctional situation.
It's too bad I never stumbled, during this period of enlightenment, onto Dan Savage and his Savage Love Cast. I would have found out right away, in very straightforward terms, that my relationship was actually abusive (mentally, not physically), tormenting, manipulative and that I should GTFO. Get the Fuck out. But somehow I didn't find the Savage Love Cast till years later. Too bad!
I'd gone to an all-boys high school, so being around so many women was new to me. I started picking up on all the thing we do, like apologize about everything, and all the negative words we used that were anti-woman. Bitch, slut, cunt- the male equivalent of these words simply didn't exist.
Also, this idea of women being called crazy started to really get to me. Listen for it- people are constantly calling women crazy. "She broke up with me, but it's okay, she was crazy!" "Yeah, I met her once, she was crazy!" Nobody bats an eye. The going theory is that all women are crazy.
So I refused to call anyone crazy and I refused to call anyone a bitch and I was determined to like everyone, especially the girls who were sleeping with my boyfriend.
And then came the Seattle Ultimate Carnival. This is the biggest party of the year. All the Frisbee players in the Northwest come down to Seattle for the weekend. It's held in some hip warehouse downtown. The teams prepare routines and costumes and compete for Patagonia gear. I'd been dating Ben for five or six months by this point, so I kind of figured he'd go with me to this thing. But asking...er...confirming...that we'd go together was so conventional and close-minded. Also, it would make him feel penned in and trapped if I asked, and I certainly didn't want to make him feel that way. And besides, I was going with my team.
Then I'm at the party, everybody is at the party, and Ben is there with some other girl, this girl he went to high school with. And he is all over her. And I'm like, that's strange, because I'm right here. This feels a little weird. It's upsetting, but it's totally my fault because I shouldn't be feeling jealous.
Everybody notices what's going on. Ben is not a subtle person. Our friends keep looking at them, and looking at me in confusion. Some of them, his friends, his teammates, are pulling me aside and asking what is going on. A few ask, "Do you want me to ask them to leave? We can make that happen."
And I say no, because the last thing I want to do is to make a scene. I can't admit in front of everybody just how messed up this relationship is (of course they all know that, because it's painfully obvious, but that's something I don't understand yet.) I've come this far, I can put up with it for another night. And besides, she isn't doing anything wrong. She's obviously just a spirited gal (dressed in Japan-o-phile school girl outfit) having a good time. This is part of the agreement, this is cool.
Of course, this ruins the whole night for me. But finally, the party ends. Unfortunately, the after-party, which is even more fun and important that the actual event, it at my house.
So Ben takes this girl, this wacky girl nobody knows, and now they're in my house, in my living room. This girl is totally drunk, and she's falling all over everyone. She's one of those clingy, touchy, overwhelmingly physical drunk girls. She's starting to really annoy everybody.
My roommates pull me into the bathroom. "Who the hell is this girl?" They ask. "Do you want us to make her leave? What is wrong with Ben?" And what they don't ask but it's obvious they're thinking is, "What the hell is wrong with you?"
But I really don't want to make a scene. A scene where some girl is kicked out of the house and Ben is yelled at in front of everybody? I would suffer for that later. It would be awful. I'd rather just let it happen. Besides, this girl....I refuse to dislike her. She's not crazy, she's just wild. She's just drunk and having a good time. In fact, I think I like her. We'll get along. We'll become friends.
Finally, everybody else at the party has had enough of her. They stick her outside and lock the door. The after party is winding down anyway.
Apparently, she has a different idea because moments later, she punches through the glass window on the door and lets herself back in. We find her in the front hallway, laughing and holding tightly to a fist that is gushing blood. My roommates are like, "This Bitch is crazy." And I'm like, "No...no...."
But by this point, my roommates are beyond furious. The window to our house is broken, glass is everywhere, this will all have to be explained to our landlord who is notoriously uptight, and it will be expensive, and until it's fixed there is no way to lock the door. And this girl is still here, in our kitchen, dripping blood onto the floor as she eats grapes out of our fridge. And Ben is here, and he realizes the situation is out of hand, but when he realizes things are wrong and he's at fault he just gets more stubborn and difficult. That's why he's so hard to deal with.
For my roommates, this is no longer about Ben treating me poorly in front of everyone. This is about a psychopath being in our home at 2 in the morning.
One of the girls informs Ben that if he doesn't get her out of there she is going to call the police. So I sit on the steps and watch Ben wrestle this crazy girl back to his place for the night. He doesn't once make eye contact with me or acknowledge that I am a witness to all this. But, you know, this is what open relationships are all about. Making yourself invisible.
At this point, it is becoming difficult not to feel anything negative. I decide to put myself to bed and either deal with or repress everything in the morning. I go downstairs. Back in those days, I lived in a room that was a re-done garage. You had to go outside and re-enter my room through a separate door. So I do that. I lock the door behind me, then turn the light on. And I am about to fall into bed when I see the walls.
There is blood on my walls. Streaks of blood, as if some girl who had just shoved her fist through a window had gone into my room and rubbed her bloody wrist on my walls. Which is exactly what has happened.
You know, I can be a dramatic person. I like to tell stories and perform. But that doesn't mean I like invite this type of drama, the let's-pour-a-bucket-of-blood-on-that-girl-on-prom-night psycho drama. No way.
In that one exhausted moment, I realized, holy shit. That bitch is crazy.
And Ben is crazy. And if I stayed in this situation any more, I would become crazy.
My advice to you if you're involved in anything like this: good relationships, open or closed, monogamy or monogamish or polyamory, all of it, are based on honesty and support. Anything else is crazy. And you need to GTFO.
I still believe in supporting women and all of that, and I've since found actual, legitimate ways to do that. I became a high school teacher, I lead girls' trips in the wilderness, I speak with groups of teenage girls about writing and health education, and eventually I became a trained doula. Letting a crazy bitch punch through a window in my house and track her blood over my walls, just to prove to the jerk I was 'dating' how tolerant I was of his fucking around? This kind of thing is less of a priority these days.
Friday Night Neon
And, for my 608th post, an 80's party.
The Seattle Bouldering Project, a warehouse at the headwaters of 1-90 where I work a few days a week, continues to be a source of unending fun. Seriously. Working has never been such a good time. We get this DJ every other Friday night. He's always smiling and charming, you can just tell he's gotten away with a lot of good shit in his life.
This Friday, to celebrate it being January whateverthehell, we added four kegs of beer, neon, Madonna and Michael Jackson.
The resulting chaos was ridiculous- I've never seen the place so crowded. People were crawling all over the place, climbing under each other, falling on top of each other, lying in a heap underneath the walls. People were like, "Oh, it's 80s night, I guess we don't have to follow the rules."
The only vacant spot in the gym was the cave, which most people couldn't handle in their parachute pants. That meant my crave-worthy, mouth-wateringly magenta project was wide open for me to play around on during my scant 15 minute climbing breaks. I still haven't finished the thing.
This party was all about the ladies. Holy shit, everywhere you looked another fly girl with crimped hair was crushing the shit out of something in a unitard. Until the drinking really went off, at which point we couldn't handle the climbing and so we did the dancing.
So I guess we'll see you there next time.
This is for you, Will:
The kids on earth
this is the best
throwing off the light covers
feet on the cold floor
and buzzing around the house on espresso
Whenever I read a certain author for a few days, their unique style begins to permeate my thoughts. I begin to see things as I imagine they would see things. When I read Etgar Keret, the sharp and anguished voice of contemporary Israel, I feel compelled to do bizarre things just for the sake of doing them. I want to play tricks on everybody that I see, shrink down and hop into a glass of gin and tonic. I want to walk around with a knife blade. All so I can can live like the cutting, absurd characters inside The Nimrod Flip Out.
Lately, I've been listening to The Best Cigarette during the day and reading 1Q84 at night. Between Murakami's wrought-iron impossibilities and Collins simple, eloquent observations, my perspective in the past week has shifted. I am less caught up with how things feel, what they might mean, and absolutely entranced by how they appear on the surface.
I get absorbed in very simple things like texture, contrast, light, weather. I find myself staring at things.
That night we went touring through the narrow streets of Capitol hill, skis hissing as we skinned past the absurdly sized brick mansions. The snow glowed yellow in the sodium glare of street lights.
After a few days like this, the temperature inched up a few degrees and another type of storm took the reins. Rain began to pound, hour after hour. The snow crumbled into grey slush, which melted into streams that ran ankle deep in the streets. It was impossible to stay dry. Walking the dog was miserable. Driving was still not recommended. Just stay home, pleaded the man on the radio. So we stayed home. It was the only sane thing to do- seek out friends, pour more drinks, let the vacation continue. We're very safety minded.
And then, the very next day, the sun came out bright and hard, shrinking the last bits of snow. Suddenly there was green grass everywhere, and black shadows. Hardly a trace of winter at all. It felt like when someone yells at you all night long, exploding in anger, throwing dishes into walls. And then that person collapses in a chair, falls asleep, and wakes up the next morning smiling. How are you this morning? They ask. Would you like some coffee? Do you want to go for a walk? You hesitate. You want to believe that this peaceful spell will last, but you're walking on eggshells.
We don't trust sunlight.
The city felt like the rubbery rain planet in the Ray Bradbury story, the one that suggests children are cruel by nature. The rain stops only once every seven years. On that one single day when they can go outside, they shove the earth-kid into a closet and lock the door. When I ran into friends around the lake, they were doing the same thing as I was: looking around, blinking, grateful but bewildered. Feeling the almost alien sensation of solar heat on our bare arms.
In the middle of the night I woke up suddenly, sleeping like a star in my bed with my arms thrown out, every door and window banging loudly in the misaligned fixtures of the old wooden house.
trust, devotion
lust is like the sand where the beach meets the ocean
There was blue glass on top of the alter. Blue glass is a symbol for good luck in love. I read that in a book somewhere. I once wrote a short story that ended with a scene on the beach, two people smashing blue vodka bottles and throwing the pieces into the ocean for somebody else to find. I could never think of a proper beginning for that story.
That morning, I'd been collecting pieces of sea glass to put in the glass jar that lights up, a lantern Will made me for my 25th birthday. He'd given it to me halfway filled with Watauga river glass. I put the pieces I'd found on top of that pile of rocks instead. Good luck to somebody, somewhere. I hope it finds you, and you do good things with it. Try not to fuck it up. It's so easy to fuck it up.
Life Uncommon
You can't feel this good unless you earn it. Unless you wake up so early it hurts.
You must have the proper tires, so you can disappear from the city in the storm before the real chaos ensues. When the morning light is still blue.
To every worthwhile adventure, there is some degree of fear. That blissful drive home is earned only by the moment when you drop into a trail and realize you shouldn't be on it. On this day in the snow, I felt that familiar feeling of being on the river, confronted with a rapid I don't think I should run. I shouldn't be here. This is dangerous. This was a mistake. Whoever brought me here is going to die.
But then...
But then, when I look around and realize that the powder will protect your fall, and Chris is smiling at me, saying "We apologize!" and then floating away, especially when I remove my ego and my neurosis and realize it's not actually that bad, I'm not under water, after all.
Every day I spend paddling, incidently the happiest days of my life, had this one crystalized moment of fear. Where I close my eyes in panic, think how did I get here. How did I end up here, again? What did I do wrong?
Only now am I beginning to understand myself. I work hard to be here. I work hard to find these moments when every tissue is engaged and every synapse is focused and I'm alert with adrenaline and anger. When it's too deep, too steep, there are too many fucking trees, my skis are buried and lost and everyone is waiting for me.
I swear to God it's the only way I can learn anything.
But here's the difference between skiing and paddling. In skiing, you can breathe. As long as you remember to, you can breathe. Just try and keep warm.
And yeah, the pain in my feet from the last adventure made every movement a trial. I skied miserably. But who gives a shit? I mean that. Who gives a shit. Not them:
Which is exactly why I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.
(Except not that lucky, because the menu at Steven's does not include Chicken in a Basket. No mother fucking Chicken in a Basket. That's the only reason I skied from years 8-16 was to eat chicken strips at the lodge. Come on, North West, with all your vertical grade, with all your "pow", what is going on here? Why are you missing this most important thing. Thank God I'm old enough to drink beer. Even if most of the service industry in Washington State doesn't believe me.)
And it got a little easier, when I realized halfway through the day that I didn't have to follow anybody. Unlike every other sport, I could just go go it alone. Inbounds, it all ends at the same place.
And you know what, boys, we'll always have the chairlift.
And you know what, boys, we'll always have the chairlift.
Riding lifts is decadent. It's cold and it's all play.
And then the ride home.
You remember what it feels like because you've been there before. You sink deeper into the warm seat, blood returning to your fingertips, forehead against the cold glass of the window. Andrew is playing me Dylan songs and I'm playing Andrew The Weary Kind. You think, I have absolutely no interest in the world except for things that make me feel exactly like this. We stopped somewhere for what- coffee, milkshakes, water. I leaned towards the mirror in the bathroom and studied my wind-burned reflection.
Back on the road, I closed my eyes and let the whole day wash over me like a pleasant memory, but one that keeps on recording as soon as I open my eyes. The car is this bubble of music and safety from the harsh cold and the snow and the road, and I'm so tired I might be hallucinating, unless I'm really lucky and it's all real.
"then he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel
To be such a freak ?"
And you say, "Impossible"
- Bob Dylan
A Rousing Round of Pain Comparison
Last Saturday saw my complete transformation from a cool, composed, avalanche-savvy, skiing back country no-big-deal kind of hot shot to a crying, convulsing mass of wimp, writhing in the middle of a snow crusted parking lot as day trippers and their dogs gingerly stepped over me. In just under five hours!
A personal best.
****
You may be wondering, at this moment, about my use of hyperbole. "What she really such a hot shot at the beginning of the day? Was she actually convulsing? Could it be that she is just exaggerating to make me want to read this?"
Honorable questions.
I will say this. As we were gearing up at the trail head, I felt like a million bucks. My general pre-adventure excitement was laced with the clear-eyed, stoic certainty that comes with beginning a long journey. On this morning, I was finally becoming a backcountry skier, a process that began a year ago when I first started to aggregate the expensive and elaborate set up.
To everyone else, I looked like a normal girl with unusually thick hair putting on skis with maybe not so great balance. But sometimes I write about how things feel inside of my own head instead of how they are in reality. It's much more fun that way.
To answer the second question, yes, I was actually convulsing at the end of the day. Just my legs. But still.
You ready to hear the story now or what?
I've been downhill skiing since I was 8 and I love it. But the one bad thing about skiing is it requires you to wake up early. I have a really hard time with this. I'm so bad at it that even setting an alarm makes me anxious, and I have to distance myself from the reality of the situation. I'm like, 6:00? Yes, I recognize that those are numbers. I'm going to program this onto my phone and at some point it will make a noise, and I will rise from bed and I'll be awake, just like I am now. This will go fine.
Then 6:00 am rolls around and it's terrible. It feels like I'm deep under a pond of pain. I'm always surprised by just how bad it actually is. I've nearly pulled the plug on my life's best adventures because of how miserable I felt in the morning. I always toy with the idea of calling my friends and trying to explain the gravity of the situation-"you don't understand, I think there is actually something wrong with me. I feel very heavy. I can't move. I was having a dream and now I'm very disoriented. Go on without me."
But eventually I do get up, pull it together a little and slump my way to the shower. After the shower I sit on the bathroom floor with my head in my hands wondering what life is all about and why it has to hurt like it does. What kind of God are you? Then I put my clothes on. I load the car, turn on the radio, crank on the heater full blast, listen to a few good songs on low volume, sip some water and steer the vehicle towards somewhere that sells coffee.
If I can get to this point, I think -maybe. Maybe I can keep this up.
This is how Saturday morning begins. By the time I meet Erika and Chris at the park and ride, I'm just beginning to side with the the Let's stay awake and give this day a try side of my brain.
It's snowing heavily on the drive out to the Cascades. My extreme highway-in-snow anxiety is a nice perk up, and I'm wide awake by the time we get to the trail head. Awake and feelin good. As I pull my gear out of the car I have this really smug feeling because I'm on my new AT set up. I've got an avalanche beacon strapped to my chest and a shovel in my pack in case I have to dig out a comrade. And I'm going to be good at this, I can just feel it. I am one hell of an athlete, aren't I.
So I'm acting all confident, cracking a few jokes, attaching my skins, giving out nods to the people schlepping by in their snow shoes (slow shoes!) and cross country skis. Hang with me now, guys, but we're gonna blow past you and go places you can only dream about. Because I'm not sure if you've noticed, but these are AT skis I have here. All Terrain.
No wait- that's not right. Alpine Touring is what I meant to say. Damn it I do that every time. These are Alpine Touring skis. As in backcountry. As in, I ski backcountry all the time. As in 'I might not make your birthday party, depending on snow conditions in the backcountry.' It's just much cooler than anything else ever. Yeah, I earn my turns. Yeah, my cheeks are always this windblown. Is that my boyfriend on the cover of that magazine about snow? No, but it could be. He does look just like that.
I am one solid tour away from being that girl. It's all I've ever wanted.
Then I try and put on my boot, and this is when when things start to go wrongity wrong.
***
Getting your AT boots fitted is a relatively involved process. The dude at Second Ascent covers your feet in gel packs, heats the liners in a special oven and then presses your feet into different positions inside the shells for half an hour. In the end, the interior of the boots are perfectly molded to your feet and obviously very comfortable.
The one important thing to remember is that you, as the owner of your feet, have to do a little bit of communicating with the dude. As in, "That's too tight." Or, "I think my toes are jammed." Or, "Why don't we try a larger size? These don't feel right."
This is especially important for someone with severe frostbite scarring and needs extra room in the boots for warmers and three pairs of socks. I'm referring to myself here.
And I had a difficult time with it, the communicating part. Not because I have any problem stating my opinion or asking for what I want. Far from it. It's just that my self assertiveness goes up in smoke when someone touches me. I love being touched. I become the most agreeable and easy to get along with person on the planet. My best friends know this, and whenever I'm being overly excited or difficult about something (which never happens) they'll just reach out and stroke my arm and I'll become immediately quiet and docile.
One year ago, I went into my neighborhood gear store with the intention of buying a perfectly sized and extremely expensive ski set up. What ended up happening was that I got a kind-of foot massage for an hour and walked away with some boots perfectly fit for a twelve year old.
Also, the dude doing the fitting was a little suspect. He kept calling me 'Man.' He kept saying, "I only do this job so I can ski, man. Just so I can get out skiing. Man, I hate working retail." He'd push my foot down into the shell and it would hurt, but then the warmth of the boot lining would start to relax me. "I just hate working with people, man. I think I just hate working."
And I'm sorry to say it, but him squeezing around on my ankles was probably the most physical contact I'd had in months, so I probably started to connect with him and by the end of the conversation I was just like, you're right. This isn't about me and these boots I'm about to buy. That was rude of me to even think like that. Let's talk about you and how terrible it is that you have to have a job.
Then I gave him four hundred dollars and took the boots home. I did one quick tour with them, up and down at Hyak mountain, and was so busy congratulating myself for being such an adventurous jack of all trades that I didn't notice the blue and yellow bruising in my feet the next day. And then a year passed.
So here we are, it's this beautiful winter day, and I'm feeling like a total champ. Except I can't fit my foot into my boot. I shove my foot down, then raise the whole thing and whack the boot on the ground with all my might. My foot is being compressed in every direction- pushed in from above, up from below, in from both sides. It feels like something is trying to squeeze my toes to touch the bottom of my heal, making my foot into a loop. Foot loops.
After I squeeze both feet somewhat down there, then I have to fasten all the buckles, which is excruciating. There is no way I can leave the parking lot with my feet and shins in that much pain. But, if I leave the boots completely unfastened and pulled open at the top, I can sort of shuffle around. We start skinning up, and I immediately drop behind. I'm dragging my feet, not getting any distance into my strides.
I'd always thought that when I finally made it out touring I'd look really pretty doing it, but also unusual and mysterious, like Taylor Swift on skis. But I don't. I look like an old person trying to walk on the beach.
Chris waits for me around the first turn. "How do they feel?" He asks. My response is something confused and indefinite, like "....I feel.....ahhhh....?" I don't want to turn around, but I don't want him thinking that this is how I always look when I ski.
He frowns. "If your boots don't fit, we can just go into North Bend and get sauced. It's not worth suffering for." Erika nods in agreement. And I know they're both sincere about turning around and giving up a whole day of skiing. I've managed to sift through the masses of self involved assholes in this outdoor world and find the most un-selfish people in the whole tribe.
But there's no way I'm going to admit defeat this early. I've been so stuck in the city lately, feeling irritable and antsy, working in front of the computer convinced that this is it, my life is no longer fun, just put me on an ice flow for chrissake. I have to get out and ski. The thought of sitting around all day, then getting home before dark to sit around some more is far more excruciating then the pain in my feet.
Three hours later, when we're still skinning up, nothing is more excruciating than the pain in my feet. To keep my mind from shutting down, I play a little game. I call it the pain comparison game, and it's a lot of fun. "Is this more painful than...frostbite? Is this worse than migraines? Kidney Failure? That time I broke off the top of my pinkie in the door? Tonsillitis? What's worse- this, or that one time my foot caught on fire?"
You know when you start to fall in love with somebody new, and you are just out of control into them, and it dwarfs every feeling you've ever felt in the past? You say to yourself, This thing I feel for Luke is the real deal. The stuff before this was just child's play. And while most of you is in wholehearted agreement with this conviction, there's a little part of your brain going, 'But that's what you said about Cam two years ago' and you're like SHUT UP. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. THAT WAS NOTHING.
That's what severe pain is like. It's immediate amnesia. The bone-crushing steps of right now trump any flaming foot of back then.
And that's how I come to the decision that this is the worst pain I've ever felt, ever. The scenery, however, really is beautiful. Top notch.
But eventually, I give up. "I don't think I can go any further," I say, looking down at the ground. "I know we've just skinned up for three and a half hours and we haven't gotten to the skiing yet. I'll just sit here while you guys go up." Which is essentially saying, I'll just lie down here, remove my boots, and take a nap. When you come back, I will have died. But go- you deserve it.
Because Erika and Chris are not assholes, they refuse my offer and kindly suggest we ski back down on the track we skinned up on and call it a day.
To have any control whatsoever on the descent, I have to lean forward into the boot, which feels like driving a screw driver into shin splints. So I give up control. Fuck turns, I'm going straight down, gasping loudly the whole way. Not crying exactly, but crying out with every exhale, which makes it a lot better. I actually use some of the techniques I used in my doula class. And you know what? They don't work. Sorry ladies. Fuck the breathing. Take the epidural.
And this is how my backcountry career ends, at least for the day- all whimper, no bang. I keel over sideways besides the car, writhing and trying to rip my boots straight off. I want the jaws of life. I want to cut them open with a hack saw and then bash them to pieces with a monkey wrench because these boots have literally ruined my life.
Chris takes my boots off for me. My feet come out all bruised and alabaster and numb. I climb into the car, finish the rum, wrap a down jacket around my head and pass out, awash with self pity.
But! It only lasts for about twenty minutes, and then someone has propped me up at a table at the North Bend Bar and Grill in front of a plate of Super Nachos. I drink two beers, get immediately drunk, and start planning a multi day touring trip with Chris and Erika and all our friends. All of the friends! Because I did so very well on this tour.
The very next day, I limp into Second Ascent ready for war. But, you know, I'm polite about it. I'm re-fitted into new boots two whole sizes bigger than the first pair. "How did this happen the first time?" Asks the very nice guy who is helping me. I shrug. "I don't know, man. No idea."
By the very end of the day, I have new boots, new linings, inserts, and adjusted bindings. And just in time. A huge snow storm is whirling its way into Seattle, so Chris and Andrew and I are planning an early escape before the whole city falls apart. I set my alarm for 6 in the morning. This is going to go great.
Arcless: Without Arc
A few of those strangers introduced themselves last night. They told me they read this but had never met me in person. That's got to be the best perk of writing the blog ever, when that happens, it's always a burst of energy and happiness. I had to laugh, though, because three people last night - three!- told me they particularly loved the previous post and they wanted more like that.
My god, so do I! Those posts are the absolute most fun to write. They practically write themselves. I do hope that one day- preferably when I'm still pretty enough (oh, I'm going to get slammed by that sentence) the man will be a boringly perfect fit. Until that happens, whenever life delivers in the realms of dating disasters and poisoned hamburgers, I'll keep writing about it.
But what do I write about in the meantime?
Because I mean most of the time, I'm not out on a bad date, or any date at all really. They take so much energy. You have to schedule yourself a recovery week after those things. And by date, I'm really referring to any of the things that are fun to write about: big climbing trips, traveling, barfing, girl friends morphing into guy friends. Things that have a story arc.
A lot of my time is spent just going along, with no clearly defined rising action or falling action. No action of any kind. They look like this:
Last night I actually climbed. This was a big surprise for me. Imagine a climbing gym, if you can. Now imagine spending every evening of every weekday there, getting really strong and pretty good. Not crazy good, but good enough. And after a while, naturally, you start to get to know the people there. Everybody who works there and everybody who climbs there. Now picture a little drain in middle of the floor. And imagine yourself slipping into the drain and disappearing.
This is what I did. I fell into a hole. Ever since this past summer, all I've really wanted to do was write, work and take walks by myself. I don't know what hit me, but I went with it. I'd go to the gym every now and then, or stay late after work to boulder, but I was mostly just dicking around. The only time I felt truly happy climbing was outside, but that became difficult when winter came. I lost a lot of strength and the thought of building it up again, and getting those painful blisters that turn into callouses was depressing. I was like oh, shit, forget about it. Let's just do something else.
After Christmas though, I really started to miss it. I went a few times to different gyms and started getting it back. And last night, when I fought, fell but ultimately finished two 11B's and led a bunch of easier but overhanging stuff, I was like- oh, right, this! I really like this. I really like this. Everything about it. Maybe if I don't get exactly what I want- which is to be the head writer of SNL and live in New York, marry a Seth Meyers look alike, have two beautiful children and then retire and live richly outside of Montpelier Vermont without ever having to work again- I can still be happy.
It was quite the revelation.
And after the gym shut down, we went to the High Life. I think there were ten of us all together, and I knew less than half of them. So I met a few more people. We had nine pound porters, and these little pizzas, and some other things, and since nobody ever brought us a check we stayed there till almost midnight.
It must have tired me out, because I went home and slept for thirteen hours solid. In my dreams, I came up with a comedy piece about describing my own physical heart in an extremely complicated manner. It's not worth writing, of course, but I always to mention when I write something in my sleep. Something in there deserves the credit.
And then today happened, and it was a very slow and, as you can see, very dark. I woke up, basically, just in time for sunset. That's gloomy. I had no pressing deadlines, and the real job I have keeps getting pushed back and pushed back because of funding issues. So it's alright if I wake up late.
But I don't like it. It's disconcerting and disorienting. Why is it that I'll sleep and sleep and sleep for more than half the day? I don't know many people who do that. What is my brain doing? I'm certainly not getting any taller, sadly.
It makes me think of that Tom Waits song: What's he building in there?
So there you have it. The dreaded second act. Are you still reading? Are you still here?
Somebody help this man
On paper, as you can see, he was, and how do I put this without scaring you off- marriage material.
Off paper, I wasn't ready to make that leap. Our conversation during date number one was a little bit stilted, he wasn't the champion of asking follow up questions, and there were a few pockets of silence when we both studied our coffee cups as we returned them to their saucers, as if it were some sort of brain teaser that required our full attention. However, it went well enough, and his cheekbones were so pronounced, that a second date was still worthy of straightening my hair. Which, let the record show, takes four god damned hours.
We were having drinks at a really nice joint in Ballard, right on the water, a place that affords the most stunning views of Puget Sound and the Olympic mountain range. I'd ordered a gin and tonic. I dislike the taste of tonic (bitter? sour? sweet? umami? what the hell?) but I love the little slice of lime that accompanies it, and it sounds so much classier to order a gin and tonic than, say, the neon green Midori Sour that I want one hundred percent of the time.
After the slow to get going what-did-you-do-today banter (he went to work, I straightened my hair, which I wasn't going to admit, so I lied and said I went for a long run) it was clear that somebody was going to have to jump behind the wheel of the conversation and be the clearly defined trip leader of the evening. And that obviously was going to be me.
I tried to steer us towards his parents and his East-coast up bringing, but I had to pull a U-turn when he announced that his father was dead and he didn't talk to his mom at all. "Well, " I said, "In that case, what did you do for Christmas?" (Which is such a softball: I saw my brother and his family. I don't celebrate Christmas, I'm Jewish. I went skiing. I baked a cake. Any one of those would do, and so many more.)
So why we had to jump directly to his rash, I'll never understand.
"For Christmas? I came down with shingles."
It was too late to hit the brakes. We were going down this road.
I said, "I see."
I say "I see" whenever I'm at a total loss. A few weeks ago I was on first date with some other guy, and when I asked what he did for a living he said "Math" and offered no follow up. So I said, "I see." Which was better than "Jesus Christ, I hate math. I literally chose my college major because it was the only one which allowed me to get away with no math." Instead I just said "I see" and let it hang.
Just yesterday at improv, I was doing a scene with a guy named Joe. Joe handed me an imaginary Glock and told me he needed to buy it because in this post-apocalyptic world, it was the only thing that could save his family from the werewolves. Then he waited, poised for me to accept his offer and add to it, but my brain was not computing fast enough. I held out my arms, took the imaginary gun and said, "I see." There was a long long pause, and then the teacher had to stop the scene and we all learned a lesson about choking.
Only in real life, there is no teacher to stop the scene when the players are choking. And so, the date marched on.
"Shingles," I said, finally. "I know all about those. My ex-boyfriend once got that. They're stress induced."
"I thought shingles only showed up in older people."
I took a sip of my drink, contemplated my next move, and decided to just plow forward with the truth. "He was old. He was 15 years older than me."
"Oh." Pause. Pause. Kai takes his time setting his drink down and arranging the coaster so its angles lined up squarely with the table. "So, anyway, I was supposed to spend my Christmas break at a cabin in the Cascades with my friend and his family. But a few days before the trip, I start to feel something weird. It started in my right nipple. It was really itchy. And my nipple hasn't felt like that since puberty, you know?"
And here he actually stopped and waited for a response, maybe on the off chance that I had experienced male puberty. I didn't, but this is why we have imaginations. I nodded seriously and made a face that said, 'Totally. Absolutely. I'm with you one hundred percent.'
 |
| Not this face but I needed to add a photo. |
"Then I found out that you're only contagious if your rash is weeping....like, if it's pussing? And mine wasn't pussing. And it wasn't like I was going to take my shirt off and then take a cheese grater to my chest and then give out hugs."
I was still nodding along, as if I was thinking of course, of course, that all makes total sense. You're not going to rub a cheese grater against your rash and then hug a baby. Who would? But inside, my maternal instincts were screaming Help this man! Help this man! This man is drowning! And the rational part of me was going How?!
Shift the subject. Just gently slide it away from the rash.
"Shingles are caused by stress....were you going through some severe stress?"
Kai paused for a moment. I saw his eyes roll up and to the right, which meant he really was thinking. "No, I don't think so. I mean, I just broke up with my girlfriend of four years but...that wasn't all that stressful."
And now we have landed at the heart of the issue.
You just ended a four year relationship and you see no causality between that and this painful case of shingles that nearly ruined your Christmas? This is what I was thinking but you know, this was a second date. It was not my place to try and explain that stress can often be internalized. And I'd rather discuss all of the kitchen gadgets in the world that one could use to aggravate a rash than discuss this former girlfriend. So I just said, "I see."
And after that, the conversation had a hard time really going anywhere. Unfortunately, I've never had a rash, so it was difficult to relate. Well, once, when I got poison ivy, and I toyed with the idea of sharing that but the conversation would have gone something like this: 'I had poison ivy once. I got it from the poison ivy plant. But I put some cream on it and it went away.' I kept it to myself because as a rule, I don't like to discuss creams, ointments or any sort of topical medication until after date seven.
If only there had been vomiting in his story! I can kill with vomit stories.
Alas, all there was to do was look down at my watch, feign surprise and suggest we get the check.
That evening, I did not get to kiss that rugged man on his strongly jawed face, and it was clear I never would. Nor would I ever get an invite to his boat where maybe we'd play a board game and share a nightcap of whiskey before retiring into the berth to watch a few YouTube videos.
No. What I got was far better- the illustrious, wonderful, powerful story of a date thrown delightfully off of the tracks. The story of the man who said nipple, rash, and pus, the man who said cheese grater and pantomimed cheese grating his chest! He did! I saw him do it!
Even better, it's the kind of date story where nobody actually got their feelings hurt, or their heart broken, or actually became infected with a rash instead of just talking about one. Those stories are fun, but they come at a price.
It's too bad that we'll never share a ski adventure, that I'll never upload a whole adventurous album of the two of us onto Facebook, with the sole intent of having the men in my life scroll through it and weep with jealousy. But I did get this story, this gorgeous little punch of a story. And for that, I will always be grateful. Because I love- and maybe this is why things go so poorly so often- I really love to tell stories.
It's too bad that we'll never share a ski adventure, that I'll never upload a whole adventurous album of the two of us onto Facebook, with the sole intent of having the men in my life scroll through it and weep with jealousy. But I did get this story, this gorgeous little punch of a story. And for that, I will always be grateful. Because I love- and maybe this is why things go so poorly so often- I really love to tell stories.
My Life in Little Photographs
Here is what you need to know what I want to tell you. A picture book of the year 2012, as it's been so far:
Walking Alone with Colin Meloy
Between writing and walking with the dog, I spend a lot of time completely alone. When I don't spend a lot of time alone, I get really mean and cold to the people around me. Lately I take a lot of photos of things and listen to The Decemberists. I got to meet Colin Meloy a few weeks ago.
Things That Maybe Can't be Classified
Like drinking alone, Ella, reading Murakami Sedated on an airplane.
Boys Who Love Boys
Once a year in January the Sockeye boys throw a party that lasts three days. Old friends and people we played against for years fly in from across the country. This year had everything: black dresses with lace in Pioneer Square, a trip to the zoo, somebody throwing up behind the Moon Temple. Everything in between.
Citrus.
I think citrus is important. It's pretty and it's good for the skin. My New Years Resolution of 2012 is to eat more of it.
Fire
There are two things that make me feel as if I have everything I've ever wanted. One is standing at the bow of a sail boat with wind in my face. The other is bonfires. I spent New Years at a bonfire in a snowy field in Vermont. This winter, my friends and I, we'll pay more attention to the weather in the evenings. When it's not so rainy we'll go down to the beach and build fires.
Climbing & Food
A few hours of climbing with friends, then out to eat with the same friends. That combination is unbeatable. Still brings the most absolute joy into my life.
And beyond that?
I have a new job now- a real job that pays money. I'll be traveling a lot, across the country, and I can work from wherever I want. Whatever city I choose. So, I can always go back home. Just in case.
(Then again, why would I want to do that?)
