It has been brought to my attention that so many of my posts lately are, however appreciated or readable, so sad that a very special person in my life can no longer read them at work for fear of crying at her desk. So I am dedicating this post entirely to her, and it will contain only funny stuff. Three stories.
Also. She and I are embarking on a new book, reading in tandem The Radium Girls by Kate Moore. We will explore these 400 pages across time zones and while juggling very different lifestyles. I can’t wait to discuss it with her! And I will post a review when we finish.
Okay. Three short stories, all painfully true:
- False Alarm: After a good speed workout at my favorite four-mile loop, that one at a nearby reservoir that is so well patrolled by both local police and the sheriff’s department, I was stretching near my car. Really stretching, and actively celebrating a good run because I love my tendons and ligaments so much right now. A police officer with whom I have a hand-waving acquaintance sped over and circled up alongside my car. Kind of in a startling way. I thought for sure I was being arrested. (You know, for running too fast, ha!) He asked if I was ok, I confirmed that I was great but had I done something wrong officer, he said it looked like I was flagging him down for help. That, my friends, is some over-achieving stretch work!
- Zero Upper Body Strength: One afternoon this past week Handsome and I took Klaus to a nearby park to romp around and sniff things, two of his best hobbies. I spotted a small monkey bar and had no choice but to attempt an old-school penny drop. This was a staple back in childhood, something my neighborhood friends and I did from the swingset hundreds of times per day and eventually perfected so well that we often hosted backyard performances for Mom and Dad. Once they even brought popcorn and lemonade and offered us scores. It was like the Olympics! It was also the era of Mary Lou Retton, okay? We nailed all the landings back then.Well, back to 2018 and I am 44 and my penny drop days might be far behind me. Despite some recent efforts to lift a hexagon weight here and there, I could not even hoist myself up to the bar without a phenomenal, crawling and moaning, very awkward full body effort. The difficulty was stunning, especially compared to how buoyant and energetic I had felt all day. When I finally got my knees hooked over the bar, my fancy Old Navy workout pants made the whole situation so soft and slippery that my husband said something like, “Don’t break your teeth!” To which my brain added, “…again!!“SoI dismounted (that’s a gymnastics term, don’t worry about it) and aggressively scooched the purple compression fabric up over my knees, hoping some skin contact to the metal would help. It did not help, but it did summon happy memories of raw skin and summertime. Also, I am 5’8″ and the monkey bar was built for children, so once I stretched out upside down, my head almost touched the ground already.
So I dismounted again but didn’t exactly nail the landing. Really a fantastic anticlimax. Then I spent several uncomfortable minutes working to un-scooch the compression fabric back down to my ankles. It had sort of cut off the circulation at my knees.
A penny drop did not happen that day, but now I can’t stop thinking about it. Do I want this more than I want to beat my brother in a half marathon? Maybe.
- Staple Gun Drama & Marriage is Hard: Yesterday, just before the weather turned cold and ugly, I wandered outside to see what kind of protection the gardens would need overnight. So much has broken dormancy and has been growing well this month, I didn’t want to lose anything to the predicted frost and freeze. I carried to the raised veggie beds a large sheet of landscape fabric, buckets, and my husband’s staple gun. He offered to help me with the staple gun but I took such great offense to him obviously thinking I was too dumb and incapable to operate it myself that I said something sharp and refused all assistance. He went back inside, wounded a little but mostly stunned I think, and I proceeded to deal with the project at hand all by myself thank you very much.Guess what. I couldn’t load staples into the stupid staple gun. But rather than ask for help I went to my little tool cabinet and brought out a hammer and box of finishing nails instead. I hammered that white fabric to the wooden boxes as quietly as possible, tap-tap-tap, glancing furtively over my shoulder the whole time, lest my temporary opponent might hear the banging and feel victorious.Ok, as you might have guessed, he definitely heard the hammering and also saw through the upstairs window that I had abandoned the staple gun.Later I apologized for snapping at him and explained why my feelings were hurt but that I knew he had good intentions, is only ever trying to help and obviously he knows I am a genius. Obviously. He nodded enough to satisfy me then said that, actually, he had seen that I was trying to use a broken staple gun. Apparently, we own two. The End.
Sometimes life is easy-squeezy-lemon peasy.
Sometimes it is difficult-difficult-lemon-difficult.