Destress Signals

This was supposed to be a sweet little story about a life lesson learned in a grocery store parking lot – but it somehow turned a little darker and deeper.  And never one to shy away from exposing myself and my faults, I decided to just stick with it and see where it took me. But if you want to bail out now, I understand. In fact, if you read on, you’ll see that I would actually recommend not reading stuff like this. Talk about a Catch-22!

Anyway, for those still here, let me start by saying that I’m a pretty laid-back sort of guy.  But as strange as it sounds, it takes a lot of work to be as easy-going as I am. The secret to a stress-less existence (meaning less stress, not no stress) is to be proactive. You have to take steps to avoid putting yourself into stressful situations.

For an example, let’s look at the aforementioned parking lot story.  I have a two-year old son, and ever since he was a few weeks old, we’ve been taking him grocery shopping. And he has always sat in front “seat” of the cart, buckled in with his little legs dangling below the handle. As he got older, he became aware of the cute little car-shaped carts that they have, complete with steering wheel and horn. But knowing that the store we frequent only had two of those cars, I decided it best to never let him go in one, knowing then he would always want to go in one, and on the off chance that there wasn’t one available, I didn’t want to deal with the tears and disappointment.  It seemed like a logical way to prevent potential tantrums - plus he was happy enough in the regular carriage, so why mess with success?

Well, I messed with success a few weeks ago at Home Depot, when I let him go in one of their really cool truck carts, figuring we didn’t go there nearly as often as the supermarket, so what was the big deal? Plus, he had so much fun “steering” it, it made my shopping easier and more enjoyable.

Of course, since then, he only wants the car carts, no matter where we go, and I’ve decided to just let him. This sucks for my wife, who has a hard time pushing the much larger carriage, but I realized it was foolish to avoid something fun simply because that fun opportunity might not be available in the future. That’s what they mean by carpe diem, right? Roughly translated as ‘seize the cart!’

Anyway, this is about the point in the story where I would have stopped and wrapped things up with a silly little sentiment about not putting the shopping cart before the horse, or something like that. But my first draft started with what follows, where I began by discussing my decision making process and attitude in general. And while I didn't like how selfish and shallow I sounded, it made me realize that those are the very traits that help me handle pressure so well and avoid unnecessary stress. Pressure is good. It makes things happen. Put enough of it on some carbon, and you get diamonds. But if you stress the stuff, you're lucky to get pencil lead. I thrive under pressure and wilt under stress. Which is why I take so many steps to avoid it. Marathons worth.

Some of those steps are literal, as in stepping away from any argument or discussion that does not directly involve me. Which is pretty much every argument, as I have no tolerance for complainers. Most people like to argue about what’s right, and more commonly, what’s wrong, but few are willing to actually do anything about it. And I don’t see the point in getting all riled up if it’s not going to change anything, so I step away.

Along those lines, I also step back from watching TV news and reading the more sordid articles in the paper. Hearing about all the terrible things going on in the world just freaks me out and makes me feel awful, unsafe, and uncomfortable – and since I don’t have a cape, or millions of dollars at my disposal, what can I REALLY do about it? Yes, it is absolutely horrible what is happening in Somalia, and Afghanistan, and right down my very street. But what can I do in response to these events? Other than stress about them and send a couple bucks to make me feel better about it? So I step back.

But lest you think I’m a complete slacker, I do step up when the need arises. I just don’t get personally involved. I choose to keep my blinders on when it comes to problems like starving children and tsunami victims, but I take my wallet out to support charities like the Red Cross and United Way, and trust that they will take care of them for me.

As for caring for myself, I try to step forward whenever there is something with potential to cause me stress and deal with it before it becomes a problem. Sure, leaf-filled gutters aren’t a problem unless it rains, but they’re a lot easier to clean when the sun is shining. And if it’s something that is currently causing me stress, I fix it as soon as possible, rather than let it persist and hope it goes away on its own. Trust me, it won’t. It might feel like it does, but that’s really just you getting used to it, and personally, that’s the worst sort of stress, as you don’t even recognize it as the cause of whatever anxiety or discomfort you are (not) feeling. It’s like a Novocaine injection to your entire system - you may not immediately feel the effects, but the damage is being done. 

And lastly, I’m always willing to step down. I have no problem volunteering or taking on a leadership role in order to get things done, and often do – but once things are running smoothly, or someone else is willing to step in and do it for me, I have no problem relinquishing control.  I’ll make the hard decisions if I have to, but if someone else wants to? More power to them!

Stress can’t be avoided, but it can be minimized. What you have to recognize is it’s not the actual cause that’s the problem, it’s the effect. Think of cows, they seem pretty mellow, right? But when a wolf approaches, they all form a circle, with the weaker ones “safely” in the middle. But who is more stressed out? The cows in the middle, nervously waiting for the unseen attacker, feeling helpless and useless?  Or the ones on the outside who are dealing with the problem head on? And is the wolf the cause of their stress, or is it their reaction to him? To put it in human terms, what’s more stressful? Having the biopsy, or awaiting the results?

Or a more minor example: Say you’re on your way to work and find yourself in a traffic jam. You look at the clock and see that it’s 8:30, and at the rate you’re going, will make you at least half an hour late. Most people would start fussing and fuming at that point, and spend the entire time stressing about how the delay is going to impact their day. But in my mind, I’m not late until 9:01, so why worry about it until then? And even then, what’s worrying about it going to do? Or honking the horn, swearing at the driver in front of you, or driving dangerously through the breakdown lane? It just adds stress to the equation and makes it more difficult to solve.

So as you can see, I’m a very mellow guy. I don’t get all Zen or mystical. I don’t need yoga or tai chi (or chai tea for that matter) – I just need my immediate needs to be met.  And by keeping those needs simple, they usually are. Of course, everything comes at a cost, and the price for my peace of mind is that I have to miss out on experiencing certain interactions and emotions. It takes a selfish person to live a stressless life, as most stress comes from worrying about others.  And the reason more people don’t opt for such a carefree lifestyle is that most people do care – too much, in my opinion, but there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s the caring people out there who make it possible for people like me to care less.  It’s a lot easier for me to advocate “taking care of your own” knowing there are many who will disregard such advice and worry about the world around them. Which is fine with me, since that way I can concern myself with real problems, like not having a car-shaped shopping cart when I need one!

There's Water Over You (Dedicated to Joe Gorman)

First, I’d like to try a little experiment (of sorts) – it doesn’t require much, other than the ability to follow two simple instructions and the courage to post your honest reaction.  Sounds easy enough, right?

So…

Step 1: listen to the Youtube clip below, while reading the lyrics to the song, "There's Water Over You" by the remarkable Colin Hay

Step 2: scroll down and go straight to the comments. DO NOT READ THE EXPLANATION (or other’s posts!) until you have posted your own response to the song.  Nothing formal or elaborate, just a few sentences sharing your interpretation of the title and the meaning of the song. Only then, after clicking submit, can you go back and read the explanation that gives the “real” story behind the artist's inspiration for the song. Make sense? Good, then let's do it!

Be yourself, be brave, and be honest!

I can feel your love come shining

Over and across the sea

There never was a light more blinding

Ever watching over me

I walk into the swirling wind

It carries me away

Back to where my life begins

Can you hear me say?

I can see you where you're hiding

And there's water over you

I know that you are pretending

And there's water over you

I walk beside you on the wall

Oh, so far away

You will catch me if I fall

Can you hear me say?

Love and all security

These are things you give to me

I can touch you when I'm dreaming

Long into the lonely night

You hold me when I wake up screaming

 Everything will be alright

And if I had to choose

between meeting God or you

I would wake my king and queen

There's water over you

Love for all eternity

This and more you give to me




Now, skip the explanation and post your reaction/interpretation in the comments BEFORE reading on!

EXPLANATION: (Note, this is not a verbatim quote, just my recollection of the story Colin told prior to performing the song)

As a kid, Colin was a big fan of cowboy movies, especially ones with John Wayne, which he would watch repeatedly with his dad. They both found it amusing how when someone was knocked out by a punch, or passed out drunk, they could be instantly revived by a bucket of water getting dumped on them.

The act of throwing water became an inside joke between father and son. Often they would play hide and seek, and the dad would seek out hiding spots that would allow him to catch a quick nap while his son looked for him. When found, the dad would continue to pretend to be asleep, and Colin would be like, “Wake up Da’, c’mon. There’s water over you…” at which point the dad would pop up like one of the drenched cowboys in the movies.

As Colin got older, his dad would use the phrase to get his sleepy teenager out of bed. “Get up, Son, let’s go – there’s water over you.”

Of course, the dad gets older too, and Colin ends his story with a sad account of being at his dad’s wake, looking wistfully at the coffin and tearfully thinking, “C’mon Da’, it’s time to wake up. There’s water over you…”

****

I should close this by explaining that I just returned from a wake for the father of a good friend, and as such things go, you start to think about your own parents, etc. And on the way home,  this song started playing on the CD player, and having seen him perform it live, and hearing the backstory above, I found it to be a wonderfully apt and poignant song to be playing at that moment – but it got me wondering what others would think of the song who were not privy to the artist’s explanation.

And that’s my experiment. I told you it would be easy. The hard part comes next...

Go back and relisten to the song, knowing what you know now, and try not to get choked up.

Finally, for Casey and his family, and anyone who has lost their dad (and those still fortunate enough to have theirs around), remember that the world, and every human in it, is made up of 70% water - meaning there's ALWAYS water over you too. So if you're hanging on to resentment, let it be water under the bridge. If you're missing him, let it be tears. If you're angry, let it cool your heels. And if you love him, let it pour right out. I know Casey and I are fortunate to have had great relationships with our dads, so this may be easy for me to say, but if water can ease the effects of John Wayne's best punch, then it can be a wake-up call for you too.

Putting a Lid on It

It is with much regret that I must announce the end of an error. I know some of you have been following this saga on facebook for some months now, but for the rest of you, here’s what preceded yesterday’s events:

We bought a new house last year, and even though everything about it was bigger (and in most regards, better) than the last, one downside was the lack of a place to hide the garbage cans. I prefer storing them in the backyard, somewhere out of sight of the general public and out of reach of the critters, but close enough to the back door so as not to turn the simple chore of emptying the kitchen can into a trial. Plus, they have to be somewhat near the front curb in order to avoid turning weekly trash trips into Hefty treks.

But our new home offered no convenient space to keep them. The back deck ran the length of the house, but was too low to store them under it, and the rest of the yard was so nicely landscaped, it seemed a shame to ruin it with rubbish. The side yards were out, with one already cluttered with pool pumps and filters and the other impassable due to trees and bushes, leaving only the front yard as a viable option. (Note: We do have a semi-attached garage, but for some reason, I can’t stomach the thought of storing garbage in there.)

Resigned to the front of the house, the only logical place for them was a space to the right of the kitchen entry steps. They would be close to the door for (twice) daily household removal and a straight shot to the curb for weekly pick-up - but -  they would also be in plain sight of the neighbors and the first thing people saw when pulling into our driveway. With that in mind, I decided to retire my battle-worn Rubbermaids and class things up a bit with something nice, so I went to the local Sears hardware to check out my options. An hour and $90 later, I returned with a pair of shiny aluminum Oscar the Grouch style cans, figuring their hefty weight and price tag would be offset by their cool retro styling.  And I must admit, they did look pretty sweet sitting out there in front of the house – for about 12 hours.

THE VERY NEXT DAY all was ruined. It was Garbage Day and after transferring the trash from the old cans into the new ones and lugging them to the curb – one at a time, mind you, as their old school wire handles, and impossible to secure lids made it too difficult to take them two at a time like my old ones (plus, being metal I couldn’t drag them down the driveway without scarring the pavement and scaring the baby), I came home from work to find my shiny new cans all dented and dirty from being tossed aside by the garbagemen, and one lid flattened into a tinfoil pancake after getting run over at least several times by passing cars. 

My crushed lid :(

Disheartened, I carried the cans back to their spots (again, one at a time, as they no longer stacked neatly inside each other due to all the dents) and lamented what could have been.

Over the next few months, I stubbornly continued to use them. The one with the serviceable lid was always my first option, but come Monday, that would be full, leaving me no choice but to use the other. By Thursday (trash pick-up day) that can would also be full, its flattened lid uselessly balanced on top like a jaunty beret.  It got so I started to dread Wednesday evenings, when I’d have to carry them to the curb, hugging the heavy cans close to my chest while pressing my chin down on the lids to keep them from falling off. I was practically humping my garbage – and to think this all started because I thought having them in my garage was gross!

But I refuse to admit to defeat, so I carried on in this fashion for nearly 6 more months. And then summer came, bringing with it weekly picnics, hot humid temperatures, and lots and lots of trash. I soon found that leaving steaming bags of half-eaten hamburgers and left over potato salad in unsealed metal cans for a week in 90-degree heat does not lead to pleasant things. Besides the suppurating smell and buzzing of flies that seemingly flew straight in from Amityville, there were millions of maggots to deal with.

And that’s when I threw in the towel – from a safe distance of course.

So yesterday, an hour and $65 later, I returned from Home Depot with a pair of Rubbermaid 45-gallon cans…with wheels and attached lids.  Problem solved, right? Well sort of. Now I just have to figure out what to do with my old garbage cans. Do I just leave them at the curb, empty, and hope the garbagemen realize I’m not senile and just want them thrown away? Or do I fill them and leave a sign that says, “Toss the whole thing.” Or  should I crush them up and try to shove them into one of the new cans? Actually, come to think of it, since they’re aluminum, they probably should be recycled. Sheesh! What a pain in the trash. No wonder Oscar was such a grouch!

PS - Want a signed 8x10 of me in the trash? Just send me an email (mikewood_3@yahoo.com) listing all the garbage related puns you can find above - "winner" will be determined by who finds the most!

Summer-Size Me

NOTE: The picture above is proof that exercise and dieting are a "waist" of time, so I've decided to throw in the towel and just enjoy myself. What's that? You'd rather I cover myself with the towel instead? Fair enough - come to think of it, it might come in handy to mop up all that barbecue sauce I plan on devouring. Thanks for the tip. Now on to the main course...

It’s a weird world we live in when we routinely devote eight months of every year to dieting and exercise in order to get our bodies back in shape for the summer - only to spend the much anticipated season eating all the foods that got us so fat in the first place.  Except for watermelon and corn on the cob (minus the butter), I can’t think of another summer food that isn’t fattening or unhealthy.  Ice cream?  Fried clams?  Burgers?  Hot dogs?  Ribs?  Macaroni salad?   All so good…yet oh so bad.  But can we enjoy summer without them?  Or, as Hamlet might say: To eat, or not to eat, --that is the question: -- Whether ‘tis nobler to diet and suffer for the slings and thongs of outrageous swimsuits.  Or to take arms against a sea of potato salads, and by consuming, enjoy them.

Only it’s not just a question of will power – I’m sure many of us could deprive ourselves of the good foods mentioned above, but who’d want to? What’s a picnic, parade, beach or ballpark without them? The truth is, much of what we love about summer comes from what (and where) we eat.  And thanks to  the warm weather and long days, we have plenty of time to do just that.  Which explains why I usually only have about  a week or two in early May when I can walk around without my shirt on with any degree of confidence - because by the end of Memorial Day weekend, it’s all over.  I’m back to jiggling like a Jell-O mold.  And after two months of hitting every picnic like Yogi Bear coming out of hibernation, I’ve packed back on all the weight I lost (and then some) so that come the aptly named Labor Day, I look like I’m about to give birth.

But who cares? We have a whole year (minus those months between Halloween and Christmas) to work it back off.  Sure, it’s a vicious (but delicious) cycle, but that’s why they invented t-shirts and tankinis, so I say celebrate now and slim down later.  Are you with me? Then step right up (and off that scale) and say, “Summer-size me!”  

Eat those ribs until you can no longer see your own. Dig in to those fried clams - and go for the whole bellies, strips are for skinny people. Double up your paper plate and be the first in line at the next picnic, bypassing anything that's served with a fork. The stuff that must be spooned is bound to be better. And wash it all down with a couple of salty margaritas or frosty beers - keeping in mind that calories that aren't chewed don't count. 

The point is, summer is short, so enjoy yourself. And remember, it’s better to eat good than to look good.  Plus, the more you eat, the better I’ll look in comparison.

Aiming for Center Mass

When you spend a lot of time alone, be it biking, hiking, or sitting on the toilet, you tend to think about stuff. What you would do if you suddenly lost your job. Or how you would respond to a terrorist attack. Or why did you have that second bowl of chili?

And most times, I imagine, we imagine ourselves doing all the right things in the face of these dangers and difficulties, calmly stopping, dropping, and rolling our way through the countless catastrophes we conjure up.

But what would we do if something really happened?

I had the chance to see for myself a few years ago, when I walked out of the woods to find someone aiming a gun right at my head.

Did I duck and cover? Turn tail and sprint a zig zag pattern through the trees? Dive behind a boulder and pull out my own weapon?

That would be No to the third power.

No, what I did, when suddenly faced with the very real danger of a loaded pistol pointing at my face, was to casually tap my friend on the shoulder and say, “Dude, I think that guy is pointing a gun at us.”

There was no adrenaline rush. My life did not flash before my eyes. I did not feel scared, worried, angry, or anxious. Mostly I was curious. Like why was this guy pointing a gun at me?

So I waved and gave a loud, “Hello?”

 Now, as a society, we like to make fun of the characters in horror movies who investigate the strange sounds coming from the basement and end up getting chain sawed in the chest – but I’m no longer so sure they’re behaving all that bizarrely.

Curiosity does more than kill cats and make life challenging for the Man in the Yellow Hat – it encourages us to open doors that may lead to great opportunities…or homicidal maniacs in hockey masks!

But that’s not my point. My real purpose is to discuss how non-aroused I was by the whole situation. And not that kind of arousal, you pervs, I mean the 'fight or flight' arousal that supposedly helps all living things survive.  Either I’m an evolutionary marvel, or I’m missing something, because I really don’t get riled up or excited. About anything.

I could give a bunch of examples - none as dramatic as the gun pointed at my head - but all would share a common trait: basically, I have no pulse. Don’t get me wrong. I do get sad. I have a tough time seeing others in pain. And there are times when I feel stressed. But I just don’t get excited.  I don't have high highs or low lows. I have…mediums?

I’m sure I’m missing out on some wonderful feelings, but frankly, I think the trade off is worth it. Think of me as an emotional Goldilocks. Not too hot, not too cold. Everything is just right (so long as you ignore the broken furniture and wasted porridge I leave in my wake!) You might disagree, claiming that breaking even is not a win and a tie is not a victory, and you would be right. But when you think about how much more time is spent practicing than playing the game, then I come out ahead, because on average, I will have more average days than you have good or bad ones.

But back to the day in question. What happened was my friend and I had come out of the woods and into a clearing, where there were several picnic tables, so we sat down for a rest. While we were talking, I noticed a white pick-up coming down the access road, and watched as a uniformed man got out and started pointing his pistol at me.

And while the daydream version of me would have flipped the table over and taken cover behind it, the real me simply waved and hollered “Hello?”

Even from 100 yards away, I could see the look of panic on his face as he quickly holstered his gun upon hearing me call out. We hopped off the table and walked over to him to see what was going on.

It turned out to be (name omitted to protect the not so innocent), a man we were quite familiar with, as he was the only full-time park ranger in the town of (name omitted to protect the not so innocent) for the past 20 years and he often “checked in” on us during our many teenage camping excursions (meaning many of you have by now figured out who he is, but fuck him, he almost shot me!) Anyway, Ranger Doe nervously explained that he was due for his weapon qualification, and that he was simply testing his sights. “I wasn’t really gonna shoot,” he stammered. “I was just aiming…” he trailed off, knowing that the only way to test one’s aim was to pull the trigger and see what you hit.

“And you decided to aim at me?” I asked incredulously.

“No, no! God no! I was pointing at that sign,” he said, indicating a small plaque on a post that identified Campsite 3, “I didn’t even see you there. Where did you come from anyway,” he asked, changing his tone to more of a challenge, looking for a way to blame us for the near tragedy.

“The woods,” I explained helpfully, happy to have the (picnic) tables turned after so many years.  “And there are quite a few other hikers out there, you really should be more careful,” I added, more out of revenge for all the beer he took from us, the garbage he made us pick up, and the fires he made us put out, than for the fact that he nearly shot me in the head!

“And you really want to wear bright clothes when hiking, especially during hunting season,” he advised, trying to save face while distancing himself from the thought that he nearly put a bullet through mine.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” I said, shaking his still shaking hand. “And good luck with your qualifications. Try not to shoot the instructor!”

He nodded his head in defeat and got back into his truck, giving a friendly beep as he drove off.

As we walked through the settling dust from his hasty retreat, I found myself hoping he really did pass his test. I knew that being a ranger was his life, and even though he nearly took mine, I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Plus, like most things in my life, it was nothing to get excited about!

Turning the Other Cheek (a guest blog by Amy)

Hello friends and followers of Mike Wood,

After a few character crushing replies to this blog and sharing some message board mayhem, Mike had suggested to me that I may be blogworthy. As this is the only blog I frequent, he gave me a general idea of word count but beyond that was left to my own research. As a frantic femme I googled "How do you write a good blog" for instant gratification education. Over 286 million search replies resulted and since I don't have the time to study them all by my 48 hour deadline, I scanned for key phrases: Be yourself, be intimate, be personal, have a good foundation.

Behold, a foray into my intimate personal foundations.

Not actually into them per say but rather to share a few anecdotes on this subject that is so close to us all. It's a universal topic, unless of course you are a nudist, a lifestyle I often fantasize about while I am enduring my weekend laundrythons. Since I live in the wildly undulating and extreme climates of New England, and since I do not have a personal Hollywood special effects team, my brood will continue clothed even through sweltering summer.

As I write, I am unpeeling my legs off my pleather couch, a purchase which seemed like such a good deal from Bob's Discount Damage Room midwinter. A few years back in such summer heat I recall doing the same to my desk chair as worked through the night. Hair piled on my head, fans in the windows, I was agonizingly uncomfortable and frantic to finish. By the time I finished my project I was disconnected from reality and wanted to reward myself for a job well done. So off I went to the all night gas station to meet up with my friends Ben & Jerry.

There I enter the beautiful oasis of corporate funded central air and gravitate knowingly to the corner fridge to study the selection. My eyes move across the colorful array of B & J with all their fun names and combinations. The choice I make, hmm Half Baked. Brownies and cookie dough and ice cream…what could be more indulgent and delicious. And I did deserve it. I had worked so hard. 

In my dreamlike state I take my careful selection to the counter and the apathetic attendant assists me. The bells on the door sound as a teenage guy enters the shop. I study him in the reflection of the window behind the counter. I applaud him for giving me personal space, further convincing myself he stands 4 ft behind me in awe of my radiant femininity. I collect my change, give my thanks, and ring the bell as I exit. I encounter a night much cooler than the one I left, motion in the previously still air. I plunk myself down into my seat with a swoosh, and skin touches upholstery. In a place unlike before. I grimace, then grope, and fully note, I am exposed. At some point in the day between my carefully selected white shorts and VPL (visible panty line) evading thong, my pants had ceased to be covering my assets. 

So the kind young man behind my behind, I will never know, I hope, but must apologize for whatever he witnessed. And it was at this moment in my life I embraced a truth.  "They" were right, be aware of what you wear down there, as you never know when you'll be in an accident, even if that accident is your inexpensive shorts giving in on you. Into the bin went that pants that I was in, and never again did I return to buy my outer or undergarments in a retail store bearing the title words "Bug" or "Barn" or any establishment located in a strip mall or under the same roof as you might also purchase motor oil or macaroni.  

As only Marilyn can only tell which way the wind will blow, you must be ready at any moment for your close up. I realize as most you should never shop at Wal-Mart, but I made exception to my clothes purchasing rule as there I have found some silly frillies there that make me smile. In my day to day I dress for desk, and recently wore a somewhat chic shift to work. I felt sophisticated until I realized my floral and peace sign patterned panties were no secret to anyone who might catch me in fluorescent light. Yesterday when I was reflecting on this topic (in a judgment compromising 105 humid day) I wore my "Have a nice day" rainbow bottoms under a knee length skirt. The power of intention won, and there was no updraft up my skirt. While I'm amenable to sharing a smile, I am happy to say I made it across Center Street & Main without any loft.

In my unfailing preparedness for the next occasion my pants split open. I have replaced late night excursions for ice cream for visits to the gym. I first stop in the ladies room to make sure that my clothing has not spontaneously gone threadbare before I employ any challenge that puts my derriere in the air. Last week, as I was holding 15 pound dumbbells and doing single leg dead lifts, I realized I wasn't wearing "gym friendly" underwear till too late. I was fighting some creep as some creep was spying on me. He was employing a lackadaisical effort at his leg presses as he continued to glance in my direction. Taking the opportunity to be enlightened, I told myself that the better for him physically if he found some motivation to work out, and the better for me to remain otherwise focused on my task or I would be tempted to go over and correct him on his form.

At the gym, this objectification by men is not the norm, and further my most cherished accessories while I am attaining my fitness bliss are my iPod and my pink weight lifting gloves, from which I extend pinky out guzzling water between reps. While an annoyance, your panty lines may not be a secret while exercising, and on a similar note I must applaud Victoria for providing us with some structural support. My wardrobe chagrin wins again when I accidentally wear one of their emphatic push up bras under an ace bandage type athletic one, a phenomenon I have coined "Victoria's Xanax", as the girls must contend with such anxiety and confusion.

I'm working on my mindfulness and have to acknowledge that late night mishap for being a healthy moment in my healthy life. A misfortunate wardrobe malfunction can be a source for joy, and as the Buddha would say, "Your body is precious. It is our vehicle for awakening. Treat it with care."

ON the Beaten Path!

Now that summer is here, being a teacher, you’d think I’d have lots of free time, but in reality, I have no time. Without a schedule to stick to, hours (and days) just seem to disappear. So it came as quite a shock when someone pointed out that I was two weeks behind on my blog. Of course the most shocking part was that someone would actually notice my absence, but it was also rather concerning that I could lose track of so much time.

Not that I haven’t been busy. I run a movie making camp, which takes up a lot of my time. And with my son no longer in day care, keeping up with him keeps me quite occupied. But there is still no excuse for not finding half an hour to come up with a blog post. Perhaps the biggest problem is nothing really exciting has happened recently.  Sure, my book made a run at the Top 100 last week, and both the Michael Franti concert and Pickin’ & Fiddlin’ Festival were fun, but nothing blog worthy. You know, like Jell-O or the blemish on my big toe!

My big story so far, as far as you people go (since you seem to revel in my misfortune) would be the trouble I had blazing a bike trail. You see, my town is in the process of building a beautiful recreation path, which just so happens to connect several of my favorite off-road mountain bike trails. Except in one spot. And I thought it would be cool to make my own.

Well, we all know what happened to Thought* and so far, I’ve done major bodily harm THREE times in the exact same spot (well, spot on the trail, not my body!) The first, and most painful, came when I was building an “up and over” that would let me ride over a very large tree that had fallen. The tree had taken out several others in the area, so there were plenty of logs lying around to make ramps on both sides, and in less then fifteen minutes, I was done with the first side. But when I tried to test it out, I was nearly decapitated by a large dead branch that was hanging above the log.  Since it was four feet over my head, it wasn’t noticeable from the ground. But standing and peddling to get over the log brought me face to face with it. So I dismounted and rather than let my hard work go to waste, decided I would climb the tree, walk out onto the dead branch and bounce on it until it broke.

Now, I’m not a complete idiot – there was another, more solid branch about waist high above the dead one, so I placed most of my weight on that branch and figured I could hold on to it when the one below me broke. Three bounces later, I heard a loud snap, and suddenly I was falling.

I slammed onto the branch pretty much on my armpits, and frantically flailed my logs trying to wrap them around the tree koala-style, so as to not fall the ten feet into poison ivy and prickers. Somehow I managed to hang on and shimmy down the tree,  and with my underarms scraped and burning, continued on my ride.

I got home to find HUGE bruises on the underside of both arms, and lots of scrapes that made deodorant application rather painful for the next few days.And I couldn’t really turn my neck to the right all that well. But other than that, I was fine, and two days later I was ready to go back and finish the job.

Back at the tree, I needed to build the off ramp, and saw some nice dead logs on the other side (including the one I had “liberated”) which I put to immediate use.  I did my best to stay clear of the plentiful poison ivy, and quickly had my ramp built. This time when I tested it out, I nearly went over the handle bars, as the down ramp ended too abruptly. I needed one more log to lengthen the angle. So I got off the bike and tried to lift a log that I had earlier deemed too heavy.

It was fairly rotted, but wet, so when I went to pick it up, it broke about a quarter of the way down – which was perfect, since it was the exact length I needed. Problem is, some bees had already claimed the log as their own, and I was soon swarmed by the angry hive I have disturbed. Five painful stings later, I was back on my bike, continuing my ride while nursing my wounds and cursing my luck. And bees in general.

The next day, I went back, hit the log at full speed, went up and over perfectly, pedaled past the still swarming bees, splashed across a river, and was back on the main trail. Huzzah. Success. I had did it. I patted myself on the back for my perseverance and pedaled on. I returned home sweaty and happy. And itchy. Apparently I was not careful enough around the poison ivy and ended up with it all over my arms and legs.

So, in summation, one stiff neck, two bruised and battered arms, three days of working, four itchy limbs and five bee stings later, I had my trail – and the start of my own Christmas carol. Was it worth it? Probably not. But I have plenty of summer days left to heal and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Plus I’ll never have to wonder about the path not taken.

Speaking of new paths, my friend Amy is looking to branch out a bit, so I offered her a Guest Blogger slot for Thursday, so be sure to check her out. Hopefully she will have better luck than me!

* "Thought though he had to fart, but he shit his pants instead!" - my mom