thing 16: see an experimental play

i've participated in a show or two back in the day.  heck, i threw toilet paper and did the time warp dance just as much as any other rocky horror picture fan.  so, when a colleague told some of us about a play she saw and loved, a few of us decided to see it while i was in nyc for a way-too short trip.  it seemed to be a stroke of luck we were even able to get tickets to “sleep no more,” so surely that was a sign we were meant to go.  right?

“sleep no more” is not billed as a play; rather, it is an immersive experience.  it is loosely based on a 1930s version of macbeth, but i know macbeth - and i found it a stretch to follow and find connections.  (in fact, i may have to go back and fish out my copy to re-read and possibly change that statement.)  anyhow, the play takes place in the fictitious mckittrick hotel, which happens to be the old tunnel night club i went to in another lifetime, but that’s another story.  upon entering the hotel, each person got a playing card, and a host called up “guests” to enter based on their card suit - which meant groups were separated.  my friends and i could not bear the thought of enduring this alone, so we blatantly lied and huddled together in order to stay together as we boarded the elevator to who knows where.  during the ride, we were told to walk towards the light, be totally silent, never take off our masks, and to be willing to explore every nook and cranny.  i have to admit that i was more than a bit creeped out.

once the elevator reached its destination, we were directed down the initial dark hallway and ended up on a shop street with a tailor, an office with a coffin, which was filled with notes, someplace that had a bathtub and bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, which constantly got stuck in my hair, a candy store, a private investigator’s office.  from there, we watched a scene spontaneously unfold, and when the characters split, we randomly chose one and followed - with masses of other people, trying not to trip on one another.  depending on who you followed and when, dictated what you saw next.  it is simply impossible for everyone to see/experience the same thing, which explains why people come multiple times.  (thinking about it now, the idea may be to follow a single character and pursue him/her throughout the experience to get a more cohesive understanding on what the heck is happening.)

as you wandered (carefully and slowly) down dark corridors and winding back stairways, meandering into individual rooms, you were encouraged to be curious and poke around in
drawers, journals, trunks, and bookcases - and, if you know me, you know that just fed just my nosey tendencies.  that said, it was a very voyeuristic experience, and sometimes i felt uncomfortable as if i were spying on people’s private moments.  while you could do just about anything and go just about anywhere, silence was strictly enforced.  we even got shooshed for saying "excuse me" (when we bumped into people) or said "bless you" (after someone sneezed) by the ultra serious black masked and clothed people, who almost totally blended into the walls, which was freaky.  clearly, verbal nicities were not encouraged or even necessary.  not even the actors spoke. music was the cue to the mood - well, assuming you were not able to determine pitch darkness, the sound of scads of birds flapping their wings, and brief flashes of light meant something ominous was about to happen.

scenes varied from baths, fights, a mother nursing her baby, all sorts of dances, simulated sex in phone booths, characters leaving notes in rooms, a tailor mending a shirt, a witch gathering tears from a crying woman.  i thought the creepiest rooms were the children's bedrooms, the nursery with the headless baby mobile, the living area that had every picture and mirror turned to face the walls, the cemetery, which was pitch black with only white crosses visible - and it was cold with a breeze.  apparently, there were also hospital rooms, a padded room with straight jackets hanging all about, and an operating room, but we totally missed those - again, because of who you chose or chose not to follow.  there were at least four floors to explore.  it was a totally massive space, but you had no sense of where you were at any given time.

aside from the crowds, the smells, the smoke machines, and the bizarre scenes unfolding around every corner, the most annoying factor was the mask.  my beak (and everyone else’s, to be fair) protruded so much that when i bent down to inspect or to read something, i constantly pecked some surface or another - which, ultimately caused the mask to shift so that my eyeglasses were no longer in line with the mask eye holes.  i spent a good chunk of the night rearranging the mask to fit the eye holes to align with my glasses.  i realize everyone wears masks to signify being invisible, and this was reiterated when the actors ignored the patrons and just bumped into us as if we weren't there.  that said, there was some major group scrambling to avoid the naked man (save for an animal head) covered in blood, and more than a few random toes were crushed.

as mentioned earlier, everyone chased after their selected actor and saw totally individual scenes.  the only exception was the finale.  each character ends up at a banquet table - bringing the masses of people following them into the space.  suddenly, a noose descends from the ceiling, and a  way-too happy man, who was initially thrilled to put his head in the noose, changes his mind . . . but he's ignored, and, before you know it, he is swinging wildly into the crowd, struggling with the rope - above our heads and creating a much-needed breeze.  at this point, i was so done.

on the way out, a book was for sale to fill in the gaps and to explain the story and characters.  really, i just paid $80 to see this immersive production.  shouldn't i know the story by the end and not have to spend an additional $30 to explain what i just experienced?  while i still cannot figure out entire scenes, and the first sentence out of mouth when we could speak was "what the hell was that play all about,” i’m left wondering if everyone else understood what they just saw or am i just a simple girl who understands mama mia?

i'd say i didn't care for "sleep no more," but my friends and i have been talking about it for four days.  maybe the sign of an intriguing book/movie/play is its "staying with you power," as opposed to whether or not you enjoyed it.  i suppose you don't always have to like something for it to be considered good.  thankfully, i can now close my eyes and not see hundreds of white beaked people surrounding me.   i would not do this 44 thing again - well, maybe i could be convinced . . . if it was free, and i had a few drinks. . . 

my look for the evening . . .

on to thing 17 . . .

things 15: get certified in cpr

i am not particularly good in crisis-like situations. case in point . . . err, points . . . when jack got his head stuck in a fence, i just stood there, repeating somewhat frantically, "his head is stuck. his head is stuck. get it out."  when jack fell off the monkey bars and bit through his tongue, i barely kept my stomach together - even the doctor commented on how this accident "was no big deal" when she saw my reaction. (i have to admit though, this injury was fascinating to watch heal.) then there was the scooter accident that warranted nine stitches under jack's chin. all i could focus on while trying to get back home was arguing with john that it was serious enough to go to the hospital. afterwards, the only thing that got me to apply ointment to the area over the next week was knowing that if jack had a terrible scar, it would be my fault. (jack, on the other hand, wanted the scar since he decided it would be a cool story.  boys . . .)

everyday for the past seven years, no matter where we go, we have benadryl and an epi pen for jack, who has life-threatening allergies to all nuts. i am not exaggerating when i say that every few weeks, i take the demo epi pen out of my bag and practice on myself. i am convinced that should i ever need to use the epi pen, i will panic and bumble the entire process, sticking the needle into some random body part of some random person instead of where it needs to go in jack's thigh. my repeated practicing is in the hopes that should we ever be in that situation, i will go into auto pilot and just know what to do. this is what lead me to thinking about cpr . . . i've always thought it was a good idea to know how to perform cpr, but, in reality, i just kept pushing it aside. i made excuses about not having time or about not really ever needing it. after all, i've made it this far and have not needed to know. then again, when i thought about it, between jack and the volunteer work i do, there was no excuse not to know.

the class was cpr/aed for adult, children, and infants, as well as first aid. it was seven hours over two nights, and what amazed me during the introductions was that out of the seven people there, only one person was there because they had to take the class. the rest of us were there because this was just something we wanted to learn. the people were friendly and despite the serious nature of the class -- meaning, what we were learning and why -- it actually was fun. the instructor said she believed that humor helped people to learn and retain information, and she was right. she had a casual teaching style and said jokes that may (or may not) make some cringe. we were all engaged even when we had to partner with classmates and practice being the unconscious victim and/or responder and roll them over or practice being the chocking victim and/or responder, which did not have a mannequin like the cpa/aed part of the course. i'm really not a fan of strangers touching me (see spa blog) or lying on a dirty floor, but i let it go.

i studied my notes; i read the book; i lay in bed that night visualizing all of the procedures.  i was set to pass -- and i did.  that said, a few thoughts to pass along . . .

• let’s hope that if i ever need to use cpr, i instinctively follow what i learned without panicking (see first paragraph above).
• let’s both hope that if it’s you i need to rescue using cpr (1) the rescue people arrive in less than the average fifteen minute response time or (2) my arm muscles have strengthened or (3) you start breathing on your own somewhere around five minutes.

 

clara barton i am not, but i am hereby certified through 2013 . . .

 

on to thing 16 . . .

thing 14: compete in a mud run

i think we’ve already established i am not particularly outdoorsy or athletic, but i like the idea of being both of those things.  my favorite 44 thing friend and i have been running 5ks in an attempt to meet another goal when the idea of running in a mud run surfaced.  the dirty girl mud run popped up on our radar months ago and was billed as being unlike any event we’ve ever done before.  this female-only 5k with eleven military-inspired obstacles scattered every quarter mile was billed as having the obstacles be “unique but with just enough hell to keep your palms a bit sweaty.”  why wouldn’t we jump all over this adventure???

the idea of doing the dirty girl was just too much for two people to bear.  we needed to build a team if for nothing else than support and fun.  we went on a recruiting spree, and much to our surprise, every friend we asked jumped on board within thirty seconds. how amazing was that???  we met for “training sessions,” which, truth be told, involved drinks.  we contemplated the more serious aspects of the dirty girl.  you know, things like the very important team name and logo.  it’s amazing what a bunch of creative women can come up with -- and then goggle and whittle down after learning some phases had questionable connotations.  just a heads up that googling “women,” “dirty,” and “mud” in any way, shape, or form produces search results that could make you blush.  in the end, team mudlife crisis was born and was followed by the “watch us get dirty” tag line complete with a cutie drinking a dirty martini.  very appropriate on so many levels!

we were signed up for months, and at least once a week one of us would ask another, “so, have you been training for the dirty girl”?  during these conversations, we were talking about actual training as opposed to training/drinking.  no matter who asked who, the answer was the same, “not so much” followed by a half-hearted chuckle.  i started a running program and was doing great until a vacation in july.  that break of no running blew my routine, and i was starting to get more than a bit nervous.  i’ve long since learned my days of walking out the door with no preparation and running a race were o.v.e.r.  the added benefit of having to overcome obstacles was daunting, but the idea of being with my friends tackling these stations seemed kind of exciting.

with what seemed like a blink, the dirty girl was upon us.  driving to the run, windows down, singing every classic rock song that came on the radio at the top of our lungs was a riot.  all of a sudden, we saw a line of cars in the distance.  the venue was literally a farm . . . acres and acres of land . . . with a line of cars miles long.  it reminded me of “field of dreams,” and the “if you build it, they will come” line.  they built it, and 4,500 women were on their way.  it was a beautiful sunny day with temperatures in the 70s by 10:00.  what struck me immediately was how incredibly friendly the women were.  it was as if each group knew the other and had been long lost friends.  i was hugged by strangers, but it didn’t seem strange.  i happily took pictures of other teams, and they did the same for us.  i re-stuck logos on shirts and shorts and fluffed tutus.  creative team names seem to strike up easy conversations.  in fact, teams from earlier waves were chatting it up with us and telling us about the course and the obstacles, as well as giving us advice.  one team, in particular, told us, “whatever you do, don't avoid the mud, and you’ll have the best time.”  i was thinking to myself, “who does a mud run and tries to avoid the mud”?

our wave started with a bang . . . and katy perry’s “firework” blaring.  the first obstacle ahead of us was the “barn burner,” which was the hay bale climb.  jeesh that climb was high and mighty prickly.  we all were pumped once we got to the other side.  we ran to the next obstacle, which was the “h2omg water pit.”  the water was shocking and refreshing at the same time.  we started with the “going on a bear hunt” lines and decided we just had to go through it . . . and so we did.  never having run in totally drenched sneakers and socks before, i had no idea what to expect.  after the first water obstacle is when i started to wonder if the blogs recommending duck taping your sneakers to your ankles so that your sneakers didn’t get left in the mud or my friend’s clever husband saying we should run in hiking boots would have been a wise choice.  the run after the water was something like a squelch with every step down and a sucking noise with every step up.  somewhere headed to the third obstacle is when i had to go to the bathroom, which made the “tire pump” and “utopian tubes” (tunnel crawl) obstacles less than fun.  once i realized the corn field wasn’t going to provide me any relief (thanks to cowboys on horseback roaming and my performance issues in front of people), we headed towards “the hangover” (swinging tires).  i have to say, weaving through dangling tires hurt when they bonked you on the head bunches of times.  after another quarter mile, we came to a mud pit with a catchy name i can’t recall, but we had the best time splashing, throwing mud . . . and, then subsequently hugging random people, who were far too clean.  (these were the above-mentioned people, who managed to participate in a mud run and not get dirty.  i like to think they were happy for the mud hugs because they got to cross the finish line and look a bit filthy without having to trapes through mud puddles, which, clearly, they were avoiding.  they could have been annoyed, too, but we went on our merry way.)  “one ugly mudder,” which was scaling and then descending a mud hill a la a slip and slide was next.  you climbed up the mushy hill using a wet, muddy, slimy rope, which, as some team mudlife crisis members learned the hard way, became a wedgie-inducing device when the person at the top of the hill tried to help and jerked the rope too hard.  yikes!  you could get down the hill any way your heart desired.  i opted to go down on my belly, and i’m still not sure that was the best choice.  as i started out, the oh so kind man at the top, who was spraying the hill with water, hollered after me, “watch out for the tree root sticking up over there.”  seriously???  did i not have enough going on to then also think about becoming impaled on a root?  more running brought us to the “just get over it” wall climb.  i was dreading this climb, but i knew it was tiered, so i didn’t have to go over the highest point.  once we got there though, there was no way i wasn’t going straight up the middle.  it was challenging, but in a good way, and once i was on the other side, i was feeling kind of proud.  at this point, we realized there were only a few obstacles left, and the run was almost over, and that gave me, at least, a little burst of energy.  we tackled the “pms - pretty muddy stuff” mud crawl next, and that was just gross.  crawling under a low net with my face closer than i would like to the ground was stinky (literally and figuratively).  then, in the not so distant distance was the final obstacle . . . the “get a grip” cargo net climb.  from what i had read, this was the obstacle most people dreaded, but i wasn’t sure why . . . until i got closer.  it was shaped like a tent and was fairly high.  climbing up didn’t bother me, but the turn to go down did.  plus, whereas other obstacles did not have a backlog of people, this one did.  there were women everywhere, and trying to make sure your fingers did not get stepped on while not nudging someone in front of you was an effort.  we hugged and high fived when we all were on the other side and made a run for the finish line while holding hands - complete with smiles and teeth full of dirt.

we all were covered head to toe in filth.  there was wet dirt.  there was dry, crackly dirty.  there were pebbles, dirt balls, dried dirt crumbs, and hay stuck between my toes, buried in my hair, and literally every conceivable place in between -- and i wouldn’t have had it any other way.  the team who told us not to avoid the mud and to have a blast was right.  this wasn’t just about the run or the obstacles.  in order to fully enjoy the day, you had to jump in every possible way.  i’m happy to say the only injury i got was a knot on my leg courtesy of the porta potty even before the race began - and, really, i suppose that’s not much of a surprise, is it?

the dirty girl truly had a feeling of camaraderie.  it wasn’t individual teams participating.  rather, it was a bunch of women, who happened to be with different groups, participating together and cheering each other on.  these women were not running from the obstacles; rather, they were running towards them, which was truly amazing.  as for my team, there was no one more fortunate than me to be surrounded by such incredible friends.  kim kept me motivated and circled like a sheepdog to make sure we all were ok even when she clearly could have run the course three times to my one. (and when she hollered to run and give it our all at the end, she knew we could do it.) anita could make me laugh in a minute, shouting “slavic fest,” which became our race-friendly curse word - and she was also was my angel since she spied a porta potty at mile two, which i thought had to be a mirage.  sherri encouraged me at every point and made me feel incredible.  (little does she know that she’s way more incredible than i could ever hope to be.)  and then there was christy, my 44 friend for just about every thing so far . . . what can i say except she inspires me to achieve more, and, really, isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?  plus, she also mutters the obscenities i’m usually thinking (and not the race-friendly kind either).

two days and seven q-tips per ear later, i am almost dirt free.  however, the memories of this 44 thing will be with me forever.

team mudlife crisis - 2011

on to thing 15 . . .

thing 13: make amends

this week, i lied to jack.  actually, to be more specific, this week, jack caught me in a lie to him.  come on fellow parents, you have to admit to telling tall tales to your children like when you’ve reached your patience threshold and decide to take advantage of the fact they can’t tell time and announce “oh look, it’s bedtime already” or when you say their friend has plans, so they can’t have a play date when, in reality, you never called that child’s mom because you don’t really like the child.  (i swear i haven’t done this to any friends who may be reading this post - and “yes,” i realize the irony since this story is about lying, but just trust me.)

back to the lie heard round the house . . .  to me, it was a little, white lie, but to jack, it was a major betrayal - with a capital “b.”  who knows, maybe there are not degrees of lies, and a lie is a lie no matter how big or small the liar thinks.  if you can only respond “yes” or “no” if asked if you lied, maybe that’s the answer.  anyway, we had fished jack’s old high chair out of the basement to loan to a friend, and while i had taken it out of the box to make sure i had not put it away with any dried peas lurking between the creases, jack decided to climb up and make himself comfortable.  maybe it was the fact i missed his baby days and was feeling melancholy; maybe it was the sheer funniness of seeing an eight-year old, sitting in only his underpants in a high chair; maybe it was because i am just annoying when it comes to capturing all things related to jack, but i grabbed my camera.  jack, clearly thinking ahead where this type of picture could land, refused.  i managed to convince him with the promise of never showing anyone the picture.  bet you can guess my lie now.  no sooner had he hopped down did i text the picture to the friend i was loaning the high chair.  i re-packed the chair, went to bed, and did not give it a second thought.

the next day at school, jack and his friend came bounding out of the doors as they always do -- full of energy, joy, and busy competing to tell about their days.  my friend got out only a few words (and not even completed words) to jack -- something like “i saw a pic . . .” before i realized where the sentence was heading, and i frantically waved my arms above my head, mouthing “no, no.”  i was too late, and jack was too smart.  all of a sudden, he looked at me, his eyes became wider and wider, and giant tears started to form.  you know the kind, tears that would make a plop sound when they hit any surface.  instead of risk being embarrassed any further, jack quickly scattered away, and i had to jog to catch up with him.  his face was so pathetic, and he just kept saying, “why did you lie to me, mommy.”  i was heartbroken . . . because he was right . . . i did not keep my promise.

i spent the rest of the day and evening trying to make amends.  i sincerely apologized.  i admitted my mistake.  i called my mom and let jack hear me tell her my error.  i even offered to have jack give me a time out.  (i realize that maybe the time out suggestion wasn’t particularly sincere because who wouldn’t want to have some quiet time with a book and a glass of wine, sitting in a corner with no interruptions - especially if you follow the rule of thumb of one minute per year of age.)  nothing seemed to do the trick, and we both felt lousy.

a few days passed, and each having a moment when jack felt the need to point out my lie -- and then even add more.  apparently, to an eight-year old, hearing me tell a story about our incredible garden this year where “we have lettuce growing out of our ears” constitutes a lie and not an exaggeration.  it’s a fine line, i say.  jack seems to have forgiven me, but he has let me know he won’t forget.  i’ve learned that jack may have inherited his father’s stubborn side, but i’ve also learned the importance of not letting your child down.  i’m sure i’ll do it enough by accident throughout the coming years.  there’s no need to do it on purpose.

on to thing 14 . . .

thing 12: climb a 14er

months and months ago, i somehow managed to convince two friends to climb a 14er with me -- and i’m almost certain they “yes’d” me with the belief i would forget about this adventure by the time it was near.  (now that i think about it, this may have been another 44 thing discussed over beers . . . i’m seeing a pattern here.)  let’s face it, i’m not what you would call the outdoorsy type.  sometimes, i like to think i am, but, for the most part, not so much . . .

a “14er” is any mountain with a summit that’s over 14,000 feet with an increase of at least 300 feet above the connecting saddle.  in colorado, there is some debate over the exact number of 14ers in the state, but the general consensus seems to be there being a total of 54.  the tricky thing about 14ers is that the hike as a whole isn’t about any one thing.  it’s about the total miles, the elevation increase, the mountain exposure, the terrain, the altitude.  as altitude increases, oxygen density and moisture content in the air decreases, and as this happens, you have to work harder to breathe on top of focusing on the climb.  no 14er hike is easy, but we chose one of the easier ones compared to the rest -- mt. bierstadt.  this 14er is 14,065 and is a climbing class 2 (out of 5), which means (1) it’s a more difficult hike that is off-trail at some points; (2) it may require you to put your hands down to keep your balance; (3) it may include easy snow climbs; and (4) it may require hiking on rocky fragments and slopes.  to put a 14er into some perspective, the empire state building is 1,250 feet tall.

a few weeks before the climb, the woman leading the three of us sent out safety and gear guidelines.  reading this six-page document was enough to make all of us say “hmmmm,” but we were not to be deterred.  a few days before the climb, we were advised to drink at least 64 oz of water each day.  i may have taken that to the extreme and found myself constantly (1) drinking from my designated water bottle and monitoring my intake; or (2) going to the bathroom; or (3) refilling said water bottle.  even a trip to the post office up the street required planning lest i be away from the bathroom for more than 20 minutes.  another suggestion was not to drink alcohol because it causes dehydration.  since the information did not specifically say how far in advance to stop drinking, i started my sabbatical a week ahead.  thinking about it now, i’m pretty sure they meant on the hike itself or at the very least a day before, but why take chances.  if i was going to have a downfall on this 44 thing, it was not going to be for lack of water.

packing our backpacks required multiple conversations between us.  should we wear shorts or pants?  what were the pros and cons of hydration pouches versus water bottles?  exactly how broken in do hiking boots need to be?  packing my backpack was an event unto itself.  into it went snacks (specifically, trail mix, soyjoy bars, almonds, apples, snickers bar, dried apricots, yogurt covered raisins), a 71 oz hydration pouch, a bottle of gatorade, sunscreen, two hats, gloves, rain jacket, rain pants, headlamp (very stylish, i might add), first aid kit, moleskin, tissues, lip balm, wet wipes, excedrin, camera, toilet paper with three ziplock  bags.  (i have no idea why the gear list specified toilet paper with three ziplock bags, because based on my water consumption, i was pretty sure that wasn’t going to cut it, so i increased it to seven.)  i foolishly have to admit that when i read that particular gear item, i had to ask my husband why the ziplock bags were necessary.  i made it to the age of 44 without having to go to the bathroom outside, and i guess i hadn’t really thought about the bathroom (or lack thereof) situation or the “leave no trace behind” practice.  in fact, when i asked the guide about where you go to the bathroom above tree line, she laughed and said, “you’re so cute.”  trekking poles rounded out my load.  when i put on my packed backpack in the living room, i stumbled back two steps thanks to its weight.  i contemplated hiring my own sherpa, but that didn’t seem particularly realistic.

i had a nasty cough for two weeks prior to the hike, which stopped me from my running/walking routine.  since i coughed just about every time i exhaled, exerting myself wasn’t in the cards.  i was a bit nervous leading up to the hike, and i tried to comfort myself by reading other people’s trip reports regarding the mountain and altitude.  you know, sometimes too much information isn’t always a good thing . . . darn internet.  i felt the need to relay one particular trip report to my husband about two guys who climbed the mountain in an hour and a half, stayed on the summit for an hour and then were back at their car within two hours.  he felt the need to point out that they were two seventeen-year olds, who were probably in shape, and . . . well, “you aren’t,” so he told me.  when i pointed out the running routine i’ve been following, he sort of chortled and went about his business.  nice.  i was pretty certain i was going to be the weak link of my friends, but then one started having knee problems, and the other’s back was bothering her.  we were quite the trio, and all bets were off as to that particular link.  (not that i was relishing in anyone's injury!)

our day began 3:00 am.  not even starbucks is open at that hour, but i’m pretty sure coffee was not on the hydration list, so that could have worked in my favor; although, by 4:00 am, there is only so much chipper to go around without caffeine.  our nervous selves were on the trailhead at 6:30 . . . shivering in the 34 degree weather, ignoring our butterflies, looking out and up into the distance at the summit and trying not to wonder what the hell we were doing, and establishing some sort of comfortable pace.  our guide mentioned she thought it would take us between seven and eight hours to finish, and i guffawed loudly and realized it was not just in my head when she asked, “why, how long did you think it would take”?  i guess i’ll put this into the toilet paper category from above as something i just hadn't thought about . . . yet.  the start of this climb was unique in that you hike down before you start climbing up.  (in theory, this didn’t sound bad since it allowed us to acclimate, but at the end of the hike, when you have little left to give, it’s just downright cruel to have to walk up.)  we were soon treated to the most amazing sight of three moose in the lake -- and one looked like a baby.  you don’t get to see that everyday!  we hiked through masses and masses of willows, which were similar to corn mazes and found ourselves spontaneously repeating the lines from “we’re going on a bear hunt” -- “ . . . oh no, grass.  long, wavy grass.  we can’t go over it.  we can’t go under it.  oh, no.  we’ve got to go through it.  swishy swashy. swishy swashy. swishy swashy.”

the climb continued at various paces  . . . with the common theme of me being last, which was fine by me.  i kept remembering my husband’s advice from his 14er experiences, which was to go slow and steady.  for a while, i didn’t have to watch my feet and found myself just gazing around -- almost daydreaming.  before i knew it, that approach changed as quickly as the ecosystems.  it was amazing how fast i could feel the altitude shift.  i was so grateful when anyone stopped for any reason . . . food, bathroom, complaint . . . it didn’t matter to me.  we loaded up on water, food, advil on a regular basis.  when the rocks started appearing, i found myself being totally grateful for three steps of level dirt.  at one point, after climbing, and climbing, and climbing towards one false summit after another, i made a silent rule that i had to walk fifty steps before i could stop to catch my breath.  maybe it was the counting distraction, but it seemed to help.  before we knew it (and just in time for the snow flurries to begin), we were at the base at the summit, looking up at a steep mass of rocks.  why hadn’t anyone bothered to mention this is any trip report??  this was the slowest part of the hike; finding a stable rock and one by one making our way up to the top. oh my gosh though . . . once we got there, what an indescribable view.  it was almost as if we could touch the clouds.  i nearly cried . . . not because i was tired or hurt; but, rather, because it was just so beautiful.  (i realize that sounds odd, but it was just a total intense, emotional feeling.)  we took a few pictures, had some tea, marveled at our accomplishment, and then i got up, looked down, and started to panic.  that steep mass of rocks we had just climbed up, had to be climbed down.  i’ll blame this realization on being a tad oxygen deprived.  this is when you count on your fabulous friends (and even kind strangers) to tell you where (and where not) to step and that they’re not in any rush.  it didn’t help that clouds were moving in, a storm was approaching, and we knew we had to get down as quickly as possible.  our guide kept saying, “you have to keep you head in the game, and you’ll be fine.”  she was right.  half way down the pile of rocks, i felt more confident.

the descent felt good in that i could actually feel the altitude decreasing, but every pounding step made me think my legs were behaving like pogo stick bounces.  it didn’t bother me though, and, oddly, i found some surplus of energy.  we all seemed to move with more determination despite how long we had been hiking, how much was left, and headache/back and knee pain.  we took regular (although fewer) water/snack/advil breaks just as we did going up.  even though we were clearly moving faster going down than going up, it seemed more of a chore.  maybe this was because we reached our goal.  although, at some point, getting to the car seemed like a fantastic goal!  what seemed like hours later (probably because it was), we were in the willows, making swishy swashy sounds, groaning at the climb at the end of the trail.

seven and a half hours after we started, we were at the car, peeling off our backpacks, layers of clothes, and gazing up at the summit.  i thought about what my ski instructor told me after my first run down the mountain.  he had me turn around and look at the top and said, “honor what you did.”  and boy, at that moment in the parking lot, that's just what i did while looking up the summit.  we all summited and made it back with no breaks, sprains, or mishaps - and our senses of humor remained . . . as did our friendships, which could have been tested at 14,000+ feet!

thinking about it, here are a few reasons why going with your friends is better than going with your huband:

1.  your friends won't mumble, "you should have worn your other shoes" when you get a blister.
2.  your friends won't say, "i told you we should have gone this way" when you go one way and then realize that wasn't the best choice.  (they just turn around and go the better way.)
3.  your friends will demonstrate how to go to the bathroom outside -- and then rush to move your backpack when they realize they forgot to tell you to move all objects from the downstream path.

here's to friendship  . . .  at 14,065 feet!

i’d call this 44 thing a major success, and one i will never, ever forget (especially as long as my calves, thighs, and bottom hurt every time i stand up and take those first few steps).

on to thing 13 . . .

thing 11: get a passport stamp

every year, we plan a marsala family vacation.  traditionally, the vacation has taken place at a beach along the east coast.  i was more than a little hesitant when my mother suggested a cruise this year.  i just did not think i was a “cruise person” -- and, by that, i’m willing to confess i pictured “cruise people” as tending to be older, overweight, and lazy.  (i know . . . it’s not a particularly fair assessment.)  i couldn’t imagine being on a tin can (as my husband affectionately referred to the ship), sharing my vacation with 4,100 strangers, but, sometimes, you take a leap and see where that takes you.  in our case, we were heading to bermuda.

our room was small, but totally manageable -- and i was so happy our balcony was private.  i didn’t feel closed in or claustrophobic at all, which was a surprise.  that said, i lost count of how many times i bonked my head on jack's fold-out bed, which was exactly like a murphy bed, except that it came out of the ceiling.  you'd think i'd learn after the first whack, but “no, no i did not.”  i cannot even explain how tiny, yet efficient, the bathroom was.  the shower was a small, two foot, circular area, and once i closed the doors, i felt remarkably like an yolk in an egg.  shaving was akin to a cirque du soleil show, and the dynamics of where to place each leg is indescribable.  it even took me five days to figure out how to get anything other than luke warm water, and truth be told, i had to be shown.  the last shower of the trip was heaven.  lesson learned, speak up.  i heard someone say the bathroom was so small, you couldn't change your mind in it, and they most certainly had a point.  the hallway was less than the width of my outstretched arms, which could not be fully extended.  it was a dance every time we walked down the hallway and saw people approaching from the opposite direction.  actually, it was similar to a first kiss in that you wondered would they turn right, would i turn left, would each of us assume the other was shifting, and we’d end up colliding?  

i spent the first night lying in bed, desperately trying not to think about the fact we were in the middle of the ocean, trapped in the tin can - albeit a beautiful can. it was a funny feeling to know that you are totally trapped . . . with no escape . . . with 4,100 people (in case you missed that tidbit above) for the foreseeable future.  i even invoked my lamaze breathing from eight years ago to calm down and fall asleep.  i opted not to have a drink to relax since as it was, i found myself swaying back and forth as if i had three drinks.  i had to use sea bands, and, if not familiar with them, they look remarkably like wrist sweat bands -- and they are every bit as stylish as you would imagine.  (think will ferrell in “kicking and screaming” - although, mine weren't tiger stripes.)

the ship was amazing in that it had a movie theatre, an ice skating rink, a mini-golf course, a rock climbing wall, a roller blading area, a basketball court, a disco, a shopping mall, bunches of bars, several restaurants, a spa, a gym, and on and on . . .  there was never a shortage of things to do, and with 4,100 people on board, you never had to worry about doing anything alone.  it also was smack in the middle of the ocean (naturally, because it’s not a cruise if it were on land), and i was petrified of jack climbing the rails and falling over into the water - and wondered how i would ever be able to explain it.  i must have scared jack enough though because he told me not to worry because he had a plan in case it happened.  i didn't have the heart to tell him his plan had more than a few flaws, starting with the fact it assumed he would live after he hit the water.  i’m happy to report that jack never had to put his plan into action.

some cruise observations:

1. it seems that tube tops and dresses came back in style (assuming they ever really were) without anyone telling me.
2. related to point one, the women who needed the most support (if you know what i mean) were the ones wearing this style.  (and, by the way, the same theory held true for bikinis.)
3. the majority of people consume disgusting amounts of food because it’s free (although not really if you think about it).  (for me, by last few days, i wasn't even interested in the floating food court’s dessert station.  you could wave a napoleon in front of me, and i wouldn't flinch.  well, that theory was never actually tested.)
4. listening to new jersians holler “chris-ta-fer,” “antny,” and “yous guys” never gets old.
5. we all should buy stock in purell because there were multiple stations lining the entrance into the restaurants.  in fact, you could not get in without passing through a station and a somewhat militant-like woman scowling at you if you did not take a much too large dose.  (really, if i didn't take a purell shot, it was because i had just washed my hands and not touched the handrails leading to the restaurants.  the militant lady should have targeted someone other than me of that I am certain.)

i am an ocean girl at heart, and water just calms me.  i grew up spending summers in rhode island and went to college at the most beautiful school and was just steps away from the atlantic ocean.  i love the smell of the ocean; the way salt water makes my skin sticky and tight by the end of the day; the fact that i can put on a never totally dry bathing suit despite it being outside to dry.  it's just in me, and whenever i needed a break, i would escape to our balcony.  i would sit on our balcony, stare at the ocean, watch the pattern of the water, and listen to the waves.  it was so beyond peaceful, and i was totally oblivious to the 4,100 people behind me.  in fact, at one point, i decided i would be happy being the person who rolled an estimated 12,000 napkin/silverware bundles each day -- as long as i could be outside or at a minimum inside looking out at the beautiful ocean views -- and not in the hull of the ship like my mom suggested.

bermuda was truly beautiful and exactly as i imagined -- pastel and bright colored houses and water every direction i looked.  i also learned i could not afford to live in bermuda thanks to (1) gas being almost $10 a gallon; (2) there being a severe shortage of rain, so people must purchase their water; and (3) a small two bedroom, one bath house on the road costing $750,000.

some cruise highlights:

1. spending the day at horseshoe bay beach.  at one point, we were in the ocean having an incredible time, and it started to rain.  we stayed in the water and continued to play though.  jack swam out to me, climbed into my arms, and while rain drops were falling, he said, "mommy, there's nothing better than this, is there"?
2. participating in the team scavenger hunt: (1) watching jack propose marriage to a stranger; (2) having to serenade a group of strangers while singing “i will survive;” (3) doing a kick line in front of the casino while singing "i’m in the money" -- all while video taping the tasks.  
3. learning, thankfully, that jack did not inherit my lousy sense of direction because he was able to find any activity, our room, and the frozen yogurt bar without a compass, as opposed to me, who never learned which staircase and elevator bank to use. (at least i wasn't the person who asked the cruise director which elevator takes you to the front of the ship.)
4. listening to jack howl in fits of laughter while watching a comedian hurl rolls of toilet paper into the audience -- and then having them thrown back, so he could catch them in a toilet seat basketball net, then scoop up four rolls of unrolled toilet paper and hand the messy pile to someone, saying, "don't worry.  you can take this through customs - it's duty free.”  (and, this this can still make jack laugh.  clearly, he did inherit my sense of humor.)
5. watching jack make it to the top of the rock climbing wall and listening to the crowd behind him whoop and holler for him.
6. spending any given day changing between flip flops and skates (of the ice or roller variety).
7. going on a night-time glass bottom boat tour over reefs, a shipwreck, and part of the bermuda triangle.  (note:  a glass bottom boat does not really have bottom made entirely of glass.  it just has two glasses areas you and 60 or so of your closest boat buddies peer over.)
8. watching jack and his cousins, which was truly memorable and priceless.
9. getting my first passport stamp - and having jack make a big deal over it.

my first passport stamp

overall, it was a great trip, and i will always treasure the memories - and smile whenever  i smell purell.  i’m not sure if i’d take another cruise, but if i do, my sea bands are ready.

meet you on the lido deck . . . 

on to thing 12 . . .

thing 10: have a spa day

i realize it may not seem much of a stretch for me to have a spa day, but if you know me, you know i don’t really like strangers touching me -- well, i suppose, who really does?  i don’t find it relaxing, which is why the thought of having a spa day never has never been very appealing to me.  i also have a difficult time spending money on myself -- call it being frugal.  it’s why i don’t have a housekeeper.  how can i pay someone to do something i can do myself?  well, that and the fact i’m a tad fussy about how things get done.  i know . . . shocking . . .

i digress . . . i have never had a facial and have only had two massages.  i rarely get manicures and have only had one single pedicure ever. certainly, i have not had an entire day of pampering.   the facial and massage fall into the dislike bucket because of the touching.  the manicure belongs in the “i can do it myself” category, and the pedicure . . . well, honestly, i am horrified at the thought of anyone seeing my feet and actually touching them.  heck, it’s not even my favorite thing to do.  when i’m stressed, i have a terrible, awful, no good habit of picking at things.  over the years, i’ve settled upon picking at the bottom of my feet, where no one can see, and i can do this to the point where it hurts to stand on them in the shower.  if i’m really stressed, i’ll start to pick at my cuticles around my fingernails.  a remarkably accurate barometer of how my life is going at any given time can be determined by looking at my cuticles and the bottom of my feet.  and, let’s just say it has been a rough couple of months.

i decided to plan a spa day, but i gave myself a three-week lead time, so that i could get my fingers and mootsie tootises in order.  in fact, when i made the appointment, the receptionist said, “you can come earlier,” but no, no i couldn’t.  i ped egg’d my feet every night to a layer away from the possible last layer before who knows what.  i used the funny v-like cuticle instrument to do some clean-up on my fingers.  i moisturized my hands until objects slid out of them.  my feet were so slick that in the morning while i was in the shower shaving, the leg up against the wall slowly slid down the wall, while the foot on the floor slowly slid backwards.  it was a mad shaving rush to see which would happen first -- each leg getting shaved or my feet slipping out from under me.  (thankfully, bare legs won out every time, and i may have earned a speed record for shaving . . . well, assuming there was an actual record.)  and, “yes,” i realize this spa prep work is akin to someone cleaning their house the day before the housekeeper comes.

my spa day included:

(1) an elemental nature massage, which promised to be an experience based on nature’s philosophy and my favorite aromas.

(2) an elemental nature facial, which was going to restore balance to my skin.

(3) a renewing eye treatment, which was going to revitalize, nourish, and correct fine lines and puffiness around my eyes.

(4) a foot relieving pedicure, which included relaxing in a “throne with vibrating pulse points”  (their words, not mine) while my feet soaked in aroma-therapeutic bath salts.

(5) a skin renewing manicure, which was going to renew and repair my aging skin and generate skin protection from environmental aggressors and increase barrier strength.  (i have absolutely no idea what that means, but surely i need to fight environmental aggressors every way i can.  right?)

i was snugly wrapped in the most wonderful robe, sitting in the most serene relaxation area, trying not to think about (1) the fact i wasn’t wearing underwear and (2) how much this day was costing.  while i was deep in thought wondering how to accomplish these things, a woman, who was surrounded by an aura of calmness, told me it was time for my massage.

the massage table and blankets were heated, and when i climbed under the covers and was told to relax and to just let the therapist do all the work, i was thinking this might not be so bad.  the scents of peppermint and citrus were surrounding me, and i wasn’t just sinking into the table; i was becoming one with it.  the room was dark, the music was peaceful, and the smells were intoxicating.  with the exception of trains periodically tooting their whistles in the background, it was so restful.  at some point, i thought the therapist was going to have to peel me off of the table -- much like you have to do with the stray noodles that never seem to want to leave the pot when you drain it. each time she finished with one area, and I felt the covers being replaced, i wanted to holler, "no, don't stop," but even if that was ok to do, i literally could not speak.  the massage was sublime, and i’m hooked.  tammy is my new best friend, and i made another appointment on the way out.  (after all, i have to come back regularly to work on my neck and shoulders.  those knots aren’t going to untie themselves, you know.)

next up, a quiet lunch by myself surrounded by music and fountains. 

i don’t like anyone looking at me very closely.  i feel uncomfortable, self-conscious, and usually start to giggle.  the thought of someone examining my pores through a giant magnifying mirror seemed awful.  imagine my surprise when once again, there was a heated table and blankets, and i was told this facial was more about relaxing, cleansing, and putting moisture into my skin.  i was warm and snug on the massage table, the room was dim, and the music was so calming.  my neck, shoulders, face, and scalp were massaged to within a minute of me falling asleep.  in fact, i’m not even sure i didn’t nod off.  instead of my pores being poked, pricked, and extracted, they were cleaned, detoxed, and hydrated.  there were so many layers of cleansers and lotions applied, that i was starting to feel like a 9-layer dip.  each cream smelled so beautiful, and the facialist’s fingers moved over my skin in perfect rhythm to the music much like a choreographed dance.   it was really incredible.

next up, a rest (because clearly i hadn’t been horizontal enough) in the waterfall chair.  this chair was really a chaise with circular bamboo slats.  it was situated by a waterfall, and scented steam came up from underneath.  it was a hat trick for my senses.

the manicure and pedicure rounded out of the day.  the manicure was fine, but really nothing special.  i was dreading the pedicure not because my feet looked scary (thanks to my prep work); rather because i am beyond ticklish.  no form of distraction could stop me from laughing and squirming.  thankfully, the manicurist wasn’t hurt during the pedicure with any involuntary kicking.  my toes look pretty, and my fingers, well, i mistakenly chose polish that is reminiscent of white lightening (and, frankly, that color didn’t work in the early 80s either).

by the end of the day, i had been massaged, scrubbed, detoxed, hydrated, groomed,  exfoliated, pampered, and polished -- and i know i’ve seen some of those terms at the car wash, too.   i glowed, but that very well could have been because of all of the oils and lotions.  i kept inhaling my skin, which smelled like a mix of peppermint, lemon, lime, orange, wintergreen, rosemary, mint, and pachouli, and i decided that spa smell is better than new car smell.

i hope i can make zen lynne stay around for as long as possible. . .

color = mr. right now (who comes up with these names?)

to the friends who suggested this 44 thing, i think you should have to help subsidize my possible new habit.

on to thing 11 . . . 

thing 9: shoot a gun

i grew up in a house with guns.  both my sister and i knew where they were.  we were told never to touch them.  we listened.

my dad was an avid hunter.  the excitement of hunting season for me was not seeing a deer hanging in the neighbor’s yard (there were no hoa’s back then) or opening the freezer and seeing nondescript brown butcher-paper tied blocks of meat filling the space (and then wondering for months after exactly what kind of meat we were eating for dinner).  nope, for my sister and me, the exciting part was getting to go to mcdonald’s because that was the only time we ever got to go when we were younger.  (and, for you hunters, there is no need to point out that fresh deer meat is better to eat than anything from mcdonald’s.)

it continues to fascinate me to find out the skills my friends have learned over the years -- and how these things seem to pop up at random times.  turns out one friend started shooting at the age of six and did it competitively.  really, you don’t learn these things waiting at the school’s walker door, i tell you.  so, it was decided over drinks one night -- because all good ideas come after three beers -- to go to the shooting range. (to clarify, we decided to go later that week; not to actually go that somewhat drunken night.)

while driving to the shooting range, my friend asked me why it is that i was afraid to do one particular 44 thing we’ve been talking about (because i said i was afraid of dying and don’t have a will yet), but i wasn’t afraid to go and shoot a gun.  funny, but i hadn’t given that a thought until she mentioned it.  and, then, once that statement was out there, it just hung in the air . . . like a skunk’s noxious spray . . . following me . . .  

i didn’t know what to expect, but i found it oddly comforting that the shooting range was sort of like the driving range, just with guns.  there were individual stalls, and, as i could have guessed, there were primarily men in each.  ok, all men, with the exception of the three of us.  despite wearing ear protection, you could still hear people around you because everyone was forced to yell.  how very welcoming it was to have heard one man utter to his friend, “i want to see the women shoot.”  bet they wouldn’t have said that to sarah palin.  you betcha’ they wouldn’t.  

we settled into our stall and went over safety, including the basics from loading the gun, lining up the sights, aiming, pulling the trigger, resting the gun against the shoulder, releasing the spent bullet shell.  it continued to amaze me that i had a weapon in my hand, and i only had to turn over my driver’s license at the front desk.  my first shot was with a .22 rifle, and i have to admit, it was kind of exciting.  my heart started beating faster, and my hands got a bit sweaty, but it wasn’t what i expected.  it was very quiet -- just a little pop -- and there was little to no recoil.  low and behold, i even hit the target . . . and my target at that!  after several rounds of the .22 and getting more comfortable (and i say that word loosely because i don’t think i ever would be comfortable with any weapon), i moved on to the .38 pistol.  in my head, this was what a real gun looked like -- you know, the one the cops use.  holding it in my hand just felt real (and i realize that sounds ridiculous), but it was somewhat compact, heavy, and didn’t have a safety, which scared the daylights out of me.  let’s be honest, if you know me, the word “clumsy” is in your vocabulary.  my hands were shaking while i carefully loaded each of the five bullets in their chambers.  this was a louder, more powerful shot, and it packed a punch.  it was so out of my comfort zone that after one shot, i was done with it.  my nerves were already a tad raw courtesy of the shooter with the oh so very loud .44 next to us, but this gun just scared me - especially as i looked at the black powder left on my hands.

back to rifle shooting i went, and when of the one of the instructors came over to chat, we started talking about the .22 as opposed to the .38 -- ok, he was talking, and i was listening because there really wasn’t anything for me to contribute other than a nod here and there.  he likened it to a 16-year old learning to drive and explained that if you had keys to a mini van and keys to a porsche, which would the parent choose for their child’s lesson?  the mini van -- hence the .22.  apparently, i am a mini van in the gun world.  (subsequently, i learned that boy scouts use the .22 rifle to earn their merit badge.  i’m still in awe of it . . . boy scouts aside.)

to the gentlemen who wanted to see how the women shoot, turns out, the women are not too shabby.  i won’t be compared to annie oakley any time soon, but i don’t think i looked too out of place - well, maybe with the exception of showing up with a coral cable knit sweater tied around my neck.  i’d say the nra isn’t getting a new member any time soon, but, boy, was that not a ho-hum experience.

many thanks and much love to my friends for this 44 thing!!

on to thing 10 . . .