J (jokingly): "Shut up."
C: "Hey, kind words."
J: "Close your beautiful mouth. Please."
~~~
J: "Babe? Why did you just fall to the ground?"
C: "Orthostatic hypotension."
J.: "I'm not a dictionary."
C: "I stood up too fast."
J: "Oh."
~~~
C: "That was back when you still romanced me."
J: "Hey! I still romance you! I did the dishes!"
C: "Good point."
~~~
C: "I love you."
J: "I love you too... even when you're being a nut sack."
~~~
I'm so blessed to have a husband that loves me even when I'm being a nut sack.
:D
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
dark angel
I don't remember much about that day, but I must have been looking at my feet a lot because I remember wearing brown leather sandals that made my feet stink and jean shorts. I also remember that Sal had stuck playing cards in my spokes and that half way there I stopped to take them out. The sound was annoying me. I also remember going to Nugget Market and selecting a small carton of Dreyer's coffee ice cream, my grandmother's favorite. I remember going to the deli area and asking for a plastic spoon and thinking how smart I was to think ahead. I looped the plastic bag on my handle bars and headed to the nursing home. My big green eyes could barely see over the countertop as I told the nurse I was there to see Helen Gray. She handed me a clip board to sign in. I looked at all the fancy cursive signatures and clearly printed mine. I bet they don't get many 11 year olds around here, I thought. The nurse smiled at me and said, "do you remember which room, sweetie?" I hated when people called me pet names like that. "Yes, ma'am." I remembered to say "ma'am." My parents would have been happy.
I know now that she was terribly emaciated and that her organs were failing, but the only thing I remember making note of was her lips. They were so dry and stuck to together and she struggled to part them. I was thankful it was hot outside because the ice cream was soft enough for my plastic spoon and soft enough for her to eat. I gave her one bite and she laid her head back and closed her eyes. I put the lid back on because I thought she had fallen asleep. She turned her head back towards me with open eyes and mouth. I smiled. She looked like a baby. This continued for a long time until she had eaten the entire small carton.
After she finished her ice cream, I didn't know what to do. She was staring at me and I felt awkward. I saw a Bible sitting on the table next to her bed. It was heavy and had a red cover. "Do you want me to read to you?" I think that's what people do when their loved ones are in the hospital. She didn't respond. I picked up the big Bible and opened it toward the middle. Puh-salms? No, I think the "p" is silent, I coached myself. I wasn't a Christian yet, but I did like to read. I started reading aloud until she fell asleep. I left and found my bike propped up outside where I left it. It was my idea to visit her, but I was thankful I could go play now. I rode home with a fury. My grandmother died shortly after.
A few years later, I learned about the Holocaust. Many kids in class, myself included, exclaimed that if we were those Allied soldiers we would have brought pizza or at least given them our food. The teacher then explained that when someone is so emaciated like that, they can't just eat a ton of food or they might die. She explained that it would be too much for their bodies' to handle. Oh no. It hit me. That's what I did with my grandma. I killed Grandma Helen. My parents assured me that I did not kill her, but that I gave her a wonderful going away present. I still felt weird. I shouldn't have done that. Why didn't the nurses say anything? Her body couldn't handle it. I killed grandma. I'm like that boy angel on Touched by an Angel that nobody wants to see because he's the one that "carries them to heaven." My teenage mind whirled.
I know enough now to know that I didn't kill grandma and that the nurses didn't stop me because they knew she was going to die soon anyway. I've dealt with death on many accounts since then and sometimes wonder why. I've had a very sick toddler die in my arms. I've witnessed a still birth and was instructed to handle the baby's crushed skull gently as I prepared it for burial. I've been to hospitals where children go to die and where the line between life and death is very fine. I've visited a woman bound to her sick mat in a small hut who died a just a few days after I prayed over her. She told me she could see angels. I cried. I cried a lot. Some people thought that maybe I couldn't handle the sadness of someone dying. Truth be told, that's the first time I've been in a situation like that and cried. Most of the time I worry why things like rows and rows of tiny beds holding tiny dying bodies doesn't bring me to tears. I hate injustice. I hate death. I hate disease. I once asked that God would break my heart for the things that break His and He did. But I know that with that broken heart, comes strength and boldness. I'm not afraid to go near death. I'm not afraid to take the time to find a spot on a child's skin that isn't covered in an open sore so that I can touch him there, skin to skin. Being surrounded by death and dying has caused me to live in a position that tries to balance God-given brokenness and strength. And I think that's exactly where He wants us.
I know now that she was terribly emaciated and that her organs were failing, but the only thing I remember making note of was her lips. They were so dry and stuck to together and she struggled to part them. I was thankful it was hot outside because the ice cream was soft enough for my plastic spoon and soft enough for her to eat. I gave her one bite and she laid her head back and closed her eyes. I put the lid back on because I thought she had fallen asleep. She turned her head back towards me with open eyes and mouth. I smiled. She looked like a baby. This continued for a long time until she had eaten the entire small carton.
After she finished her ice cream, I didn't know what to do. She was staring at me and I felt awkward. I saw a Bible sitting on the table next to her bed. It was heavy and had a red cover. "Do you want me to read to you?" I think that's what people do when their loved ones are in the hospital. She didn't respond. I picked up the big Bible and opened it toward the middle. Puh-salms? No, I think the "p" is silent, I coached myself. I wasn't a Christian yet, but I did like to read. I started reading aloud until she fell asleep. I left and found my bike propped up outside where I left it. It was my idea to visit her, but I was thankful I could go play now. I rode home with a fury. My grandmother died shortly after.
A few years later, I learned about the Holocaust. Many kids in class, myself included, exclaimed that if we were those Allied soldiers we would have brought pizza or at least given them our food. The teacher then explained that when someone is so emaciated like that, they can't just eat a ton of food or they might die. She explained that it would be too much for their bodies' to handle. Oh no. It hit me. That's what I did with my grandma. I killed Grandma Helen. My parents assured me that I did not kill her, but that I gave her a wonderful going away present. I still felt weird. I shouldn't have done that. Why didn't the nurses say anything? Her body couldn't handle it. I killed grandma. I'm like that boy angel on Touched by an Angel that nobody wants to see because he's the one that "carries them to heaven." My teenage mind whirled.
I know enough now to know that I didn't kill grandma and that the nurses didn't stop me because they knew she was going to die soon anyway. I've dealt with death on many accounts since then and sometimes wonder why. I've had a very sick toddler die in my arms. I've witnessed a still birth and was instructed to handle the baby's crushed skull gently as I prepared it for burial. I've been to hospitals where children go to die and where the line between life and death is very fine. I've visited a woman bound to her sick mat in a small hut who died a just a few days after I prayed over her. She told me she could see angels. I cried. I cried a lot. Some people thought that maybe I couldn't handle the sadness of someone dying. Truth be told, that's the first time I've been in a situation like that and cried. Most of the time I worry why things like rows and rows of tiny beds holding tiny dying bodies doesn't bring me to tears. I hate injustice. I hate death. I hate disease. I once asked that God would break my heart for the things that break His and He did. But I know that with that broken heart, comes strength and boldness. I'm not afraid to go near death. I'm not afraid to take the time to find a spot on a child's skin that isn't covered in an open sore so that I can touch him there, skin to skin. Being surrounded by death and dying has caused me to live in a position that tries to balance God-given brokenness and strength. And I think that's exactly where He wants us.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Things My Mother Taught Me
- it's better to overdress than to underdress. when in doubt, dress up.
- do a "ten minute tidy" before dad gets home. everyone will be happier.
- dust before you vacuum and wipe the counters down before you sweep.
- how to make yummy guacamole and a mean margarita.
- wear pretty panties, even if no one is going to see them.
- don't be afraid to ask. you'd be surprised at how many yeses you will get.
- go pee after sex to help prevent a UTI.
- if it's broken, you can probably fix it. if not, oh well, it was already broken!
- sometimes people are mean because they are hurting. don't get so offended.
- change and wash your sheets often.
- tear lettuce, not cut it. it won't turn brown as fast.
- don't take no for answer. sometimes you have to fight for what you want.
- stay hydrated.
- just do it.
- do a "ten minute tidy" before dad gets home. everyone will be happier.
- dust before you vacuum and wipe the counters down before you sweep.
- how to make yummy guacamole and a mean margarita.
- wear pretty panties, even if no one is going to see them.
- don't be afraid to ask. you'd be surprised at how many yeses you will get.
- go pee after sex to help prevent a UTI.
- if it's broken, you can probably fix it. if not, oh well, it was already broken!
- sometimes people are mean because they are hurting. don't get so offended.
- change and wash your sheets often.
- tear lettuce, not cut it. it won't turn brown as fast.
- don't take no for answer. sometimes you have to fight for what you want.
- stay hydrated.
- just do it.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
zumba, anyone?
I've been in Texas for a month and since I'm currently jobless and school-less, I decided I needed to do something to get my butt out of the house before I melt into the couch, never to be found again. I searched and found the perfect solution: Zumba. In case you're totally out of touch with social media (Zumba was featured on the Today Show, duh.), Zumba is an aerobic fitness class using moves based on Latin dance. It's loud, fast, and a more fun way to burn calories than to trudge on the treadmill for an hour.
So I drove my booty over to the community center on Thursday to pay for my class. The guy at the desk asked if I'd ever done Zumba before. He said, "Ok, don't worry, she's really energetic, but there are some older ladies in there so it's not as extreme as some Zumba classes." I didn't know I had cause for worry, but thanks community-center-desk-guy, now I am. I went home and YouTubed (yes, it's a verb) some Zumba videos. All the instructors are these sexy Latina mamas with tanned skin, perfectly round booties, and hips that don't lie. Envy. I must channel my girls J.Lo and Shakira.
I was getting ready to go to and the hubs asked "What are you going to wear?" He's learning. He knows this is a legitimate discussion. From what I saw on the videos, the appropriate attire is more along the lines of dance wear: tank tops, Danskin style tight pants, and sleek shoes that look like a firmer style of jazz shoes. I surveyed my clothes collection. Hmmmm....yoga pants, nasty t-shirt, and chunky running shoes will have to do. I got into my car and blasted some Peas. You're mine, Zumba. Let's do this.
I've never taken any sort of Latin dance classes. Expect that one time I went to a tango class with Justin Day at the Cascade Theater. But that doesn't count because he was super good and basically pushed and pulled me into submission. He might as well have been dancing with a broom. So besides that, these feet have never known salsa, mambo, merengue, samba, or cha cha cha. Ok, maybe a little cha cha cha.
I pulled up to the community center and there were quite a few women heading to class. I got inside, signed in, and waited. All the women were standing in the center of the room stretching. Man, this is serious business. So I sat up against the wall in the corner and did a little stretching. The instructor came in and was wearing a "Zumba: Join the Party" tank top. She put on a Brittany Spears-esque microphone and then said "Is tonight anyone's first night?" Like the chump I am, I didn't say anything. "So, everyone here has done Zumba before? Anyone's first night?" she repeated. My cheeks got warm. I mustered up a raise of my hand. "Anyone's first time?" This chick wasn't gonna give up. "Mine!" I finally yelled as I waved my hand again. I felt like someone from the Price is Right. She took off her microphone and came over to me. She told me to not worry about messing up, to have fun, and to just get the foot work down and the arms will come later. Gulp.
These women are insane. I shouldn't be staring at their middle aged booties, but I can't help it. These ladies can shake their thangs and I love them for it. It wasn't as scary as all the build up led it to seem. There were a few instances when I looked like a 13 year old boy at his first dance, but overall I kept up. I was definitely smiling and sweating by the end, which I think was the whole point. I think Zumba is a keeper.
So I drove my booty over to the community center on Thursday to pay for my class. The guy at the desk asked if I'd ever done Zumba before. He said, "Ok, don't worry, she's really energetic, but there are some older ladies in there so it's not as extreme as some Zumba classes." I didn't know I had cause for worry, but thanks community-center-desk-guy, now I am. I went home and YouTubed (yes, it's a verb) some Zumba videos. All the instructors are these sexy Latina mamas with tanned skin, perfectly round booties, and hips that don't lie. Envy. I must channel my girls J.Lo and Shakira.
I was getting ready to go to and the hubs asked "What are you going to wear?" He's learning. He knows this is a legitimate discussion. From what I saw on the videos, the appropriate attire is more along the lines of dance wear: tank tops, Danskin style tight pants, and sleek shoes that look like a firmer style of jazz shoes. I surveyed my clothes collection. Hmmmm....yoga pants, nasty t-shirt, and chunky running shoes will have to do. I got into my car and blasted some Peas. You're mine, Zumba. Let's do this.
I've never taken any sort of Latin dance classes. Expect that one time I went to a tango class with Justin Day at the Cascade Theater. But that doesn't count because he was super good and basically pushed and pulled me into submission. He might as well have been dancing with a broom. So besides that, these feet have never known salsa, mambo, merengue, samba, or cha cha cha. Ok, maybe a little cha cha cha.
I pulled up to the community center and there were quite a few women heading to class. I got inside, signed in, and waited. All the women were standing in the center of the room stretching. Man, this is serious business. So I sat up against the wall in the corner and did a little stretching. The instructor came in and was wearing a "Zumba: Join the Party" tank top. She put on a Brittany Spears-esque microphone and then said "Is tonight anyone's first night?" Like the chump I am, I didn't say anything. "So, everyone here has done Zumba before? Anyone's first night?" she repeated. My cheeks got warm. I mustered up a raise of my hand. "Anyone's first time?" This chick wasn't gonna give up. "Mine!" I finally yelled as I waved my hand again. I felt like someone from the Price is Right. She took off her microphone and came over to me. She told me to not worry about messing up, to have fun, and to just get the foot work down and the arms will come later. Gulp.
These women are insane. I shouldn't be staring at their middle aged booties, but I can't help it. These ladies can shake their thangs and I love them for it. It wasn't as scary as all the build up led it to seem. There were a few instances when I looked like a 13 year old boy at his first dance, but overall I kept up. I was definitely smiling and sweating by the end, which I think was the whole point. I think Zumba is a keeper.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
pimples and insecurities
The other morning I woke up with a few zits on my chin. I know, "big deal Carsen", right? But here's the thing, I never had acne in high school so I thought I had dodged that bullet. Nope. I had it pretty easy in high school, zero acne for starters gets you a long way. I wasn't very popular, super smart, crazy talented, wildly funny, impressively athletic, or any of those things that high school movies are made of. But I had some friends, my grades were decent, and I didn't do too bad in the extracurriculars. However, the one thing I had going for me was my self confidence. Rarely was I haunted by any disturbing social rejections. On the rare occasion, I would come home and lament to my mom and say girls don't like me! Most of them would never even give me the chance. My mom would console me by telling that they are probably just intimidated by me. That made no sense to me. How can I be intimidating? I'm not even 100 lbs. My mom preceded to tell me that I have more self confidence and security than most people ever dream of, let alone awkward teenage girls. "I do?" I never considered myself to be any of those things. In fact, these girls that rejected me were prettier, smarter, better dressed, more popular, and seemingly more confident that I ever thought I was. I felt like the awkward one; how could I be intimidating?
Now here I am, with high school 5 years behind me and I'm feeling more pimply and insecure than ever and thinking aren't these things for teenagers? Aren't you supposed to grow up, leave old insecurities behind, get your braces off and laugh at your childish ways? Why is it now that after I've married my handsome husband, that I feel less than confident? I think it's because marriage is a bit invasive. When you're dating you can spend an hour getting ready at your place and your mate shows up to see the finished product. When you're dating, your boyfriend drops you off at home and you let out that big fart you've been holding in all night. When you're dating, you brush your teeth before you ever have to see that person. When you're dating, you filter your emotions and can keep the ugly ones concealed. Marriage is a whole 'nother game. Now certainly my husband saw me without make up, witnessed me angry or upset, and heard me rip one while we were dating. As he likes to affectionately remind me, "he knew what he was getting into."
I just can't help but notice that this kind of intimacy shakes my confidence. Bed head, morning breath, and gas is just the tip of the iceberg. I won't get into sex or emotions because those are much too private to divulge in public, but those can be the most unnerving of them all. I think pre-marriage I had a lot of neat little (healthy) barriers protecting from being too exposed. Now those are being ripped off, one layer at a time, leaving me often feeling like a teenager wondering who will take me to prom. And like a younger person, I still very much want to impress my husband. This crazy ride isn't for the faint of heart.
Now here I am, with high school 5 years behind me and I'm feeling more pimply and insecure than ever and thinking aren't these things for teenagers? Aren't you supposed to grow up, leave old insecurities behind, get your braces off and laugh at your childish ways? Why is it now that after I've married my handsome husband, that I feel less than confident? I think it's because marriage is a bit invasive. When you're dating you can spend an hour getting ready at your place and your mate shows up to see the finished product. When you're dating, your boyfriend drops you off at home and you let out that big fart you've been holding in all night. When you're dating, you brush your teeth before you ever have to see that person. When you're dating, you filter your emotions and can keep the ugly ones concealed. Marriage is a whole 'nother game. Now certainly my husband saw me without make up, witnessed me angry or upset, and heard me rip one while we were dating. As he likes to affectionately remind me, "he knew what he was getting into."
I just can't help but notice that this kind of intimacy shakes my confidence. Bed head, morning breath, and gas is just the tip of the iceberg. I won't get into sex or emotions because those are much too private to divulge in public, but those can be the most unnerving of them all. I think pre-marriage I had a lot of neat little (healthy) barriers protecting from being too exposed. Now those are being ripped off, one layer at a time, leaving me often feeling like a teenager wondering who will take me to prom. And like a younger person, I still very much want to impress my husband. This crazy ride isn't for the faint of heart.
Friday, May 20, 2011
title-less
I was sitting in my bed playing solitaire on my laptop when she came into my room. She sat down on the floor by my bed, with her back on the wall. Her worried expression told me something was up. I closed my laptop and moved to the edge of my bed, waiting for her to speak. Words never came. In their place came tears. The hot, heavy, sticky kind of tears. The kind of tears that have been held back for so long that they have collected so much raw human emotion, you tangibly see their burn when they finally break free of their prison. The kind of tears you feel in your soul, not just your heart.
We've cried together on more than one occasion. The kind of job we had, where we lived wasn't easy. Especially for the ones we loved all around us, the ones we fought for on a daily basis. Many times we had seen each other cry. Injustice, death, disappointment, disease, frustration were all common causes of our sensitive hearts' tears. But this was different.
I held her as she sobbed. She said nothing except for a few words of exasperation. She knew that she didn't have to speak literal words or tell me what was wrong. Friends are like that. They just know. Except I didn't. I waited for her to tell me, but she never did. She quietly wiped off her tears and left. I sat on the floor awhile longer, wondering what just happened, wondering if I should go upstairs and talk to her. I had been urging her to take a test for so long that it never occurred to me that she finally did. I knew the possibility was always on her mind, lurking around every corner like a creepy stalker that just wouldn't leave her alone. I just didn't know that she finally faced him.
I woke up the next morning and went to her little apartment upstairs for breakfast and for answers. She was still crying and so was our friend who came for her shift that morning. I felt like a little child watching her parents' marriage fall apart, wanting answers, wanting to understand the adult world, wanting to know "is it my fault?" But I also didn't want to smother her with questions or prod or be in the way or do anything abrasive. We hadn't been friends long and in this highly intense situation, I felt like I didn't know what to do because I was afraid I didn't know her.
I had just kind of showed up one day and she was just kind of there. I watched her take command over the crazy ship she captained, intimidated by her position. I just wanted to please, to work with my hands, to make a difference. I thought this would be easy when I showed up. I showed up saying, "here I am!" heart and hands open wide, thinking that would be enough. I thought I could be a strong and hardworking deckhand, happily about my business changing the world. I had never imagined the storms would be so strong, nor the waves so large, so overwhelming.
We finally exchanged words and my dense mind wholly understood. "So you did take a test?" She looked confused, like her tears had already done the talking for her. "Yes, that's what last night was about." My nineteen years of life experience had failed me. My head understood before my heart did, as always; which is why I like it better. My heart is too slow to comprehend, to believe, to let go. It's finicky like that. So I followed my head. I quickly got the supplies I needed and asked her to pee in a cup. I walked over to the clinic with specimen in hand and performed my own test. I needed to do it more than I needed to hear it. It didn't take long to turn positive. And in that dark, damp, concrete clinic in a small country surrounded by a big ocean, I cried. I cried those same hot, heavy, sticky tears that had been collecting since August. I cried tears that burned when they broke free, the kind I could feel in my soul. My best friend was pregnant.
We've cried together on more than one occasion. The kind of job we had, where we lived wasn't easy. Especially for the ones we loved all around us, the ones we fought for on a daily basis. Many times we had seen each other cry. Injustice, death, disappointment, disease, frustration were all common causes of our sensitive hearts' tears. But this was different.
I held her as she sobbed. She said nothing except for a few words of exasperation. She knew that she didn't have to speak literal words or tell me what was wrong. Friends are like that. They just know. Except I didn't. I waited for her to tell me, but she never did. She quietly wiped off her tears and left. I sat on the floor awhile longer, wondering what just happened, wondering if I should go upstairs and talk to her. I had been urging her to take a test for so long that it never occurred to me that she finally did. I knew the possibility was always on her mind, lurking around every corner like a creepy stalker that just wouldn't leave her alone. I just didn't know that she finally faced him.
I woke up the next morning and went to her little apartment upstairs for breakfast and for answers. She was still crying and so was our friend who came for her shift that morning. I felt like a little child watching her parents' marriage fall apart, wanting answers, wanting to understand the adult world, wanting to know "is it my fault?" But I also didn't want to smother her with questions or prod or be in the way or do anything abrasive. We hadn't been friends long and in this highly intense situation, I felt like I didn't know what to do because I was afraid I didn't know her.
I had just kind of showed up one day and she was just kind of there. I watched her take command over the crazy ship she captained, intimidated by her position. I just wanted to please, to work with my hands, to make a difference. I thought this would be easy when I showed up. I showed up saying, "here I am!" heart and hands open wide, thinking that would be enough. I thought I could be a strong and hardworking deckhand, happily about my business changing the world. I had never imagined the storms would be so strong, nor the waves so large, so overwhelming.
We finally exchanged words and my dense mind wholly understood. "So you did take a test?" She looked confused, like her tears had already done the talking for her. "Yes, that's what last night was about." My nineteen years of life experience had failed me. My head understood before my heart did, as always; which is why I like it better. My heart is too slow to comprehend, to believe, to let go. It's finicky like that. So I followed my head. I quickly got the supplies I needed and asked her to pee in a cup. I walked over to the clinic with specimen in hand and performed my own test. I needed to do it more than I needed to hear it. It didn't take long to turn positive. And in that dark, damp, concrete clinic in a small country surrounded by a big ocean, I cried. I cried those same hot, heavy, sticky tears that had been collecting since August. I cried tears that burned when they broke free, the kind I could feel in my soul. My best friend was pregnant.
"Babe, if you're not good at something the first time you try it, you have to practice."
I gave John "the look." Silly man, when will he learn. We were about to go ice skating together on a quaint outdoor rink in Walnut Creek. It was no Central Park, but I've always wanted to go ice skating outside with my beau. John played ice hockey for many years, but this was my first time to try out the sport. Knowing that I'm competitive and am sorely grumpy if I suck at something, John was trying to give me a pep talk as we laced up our skates. "You can't be good at everything the first time you try it," he continued. "Is that a challenge?" I asked. (When you're competitive, everything is a challenge.) "No, I just don't want a grumpy girlfriend if you're not good at this." I grinned because it feels good to be known. I grinned because he was worried I'd fall on my butt. I grinned because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge.
There are a lot of things I am not good at. I've never been exceptionally good at sports, yet held my own because I am insanely tough, determined, and mostly stubborn. So while I can count on both hands how many points I scored my two years playing basketball, I was always the fastest down the court and if we were running man-on-man or a half court press, I couldn't be stopped. Just don't give me the ball. My coach actually told me if I ever had the ball, just pass it to a "big ugly." I guess that's what she called the players who could actually do something productive with the ball. Being five feet tall doesn't help my case either. I'm really not good at video games. As soon as I get a controller into my hand, the tongue comes out and before long I'm hurling insults at inanimate objects. It isn't pretty. And don't even get me started on my math skills. But the things that I am good at, I was good the first time I tried it.
I learned how to swim when I was 2 years old. It just sort of happened. My mom decided it was a good idea to enroll me into swimming lessons to hone the skill. In one summer, I passed all the levels that the swimming school offered. The instructor told my mom, "you need to get that girl on a team." And so she did. I certainly got better with practice, and I was never some Olympic star, but I was a "lean, mean, swimming machine" as my dad called me.
I felt awkward in those heavy skates. "It's just like roller blading," I tell myself, a hobby I enjoyed many years ago. The rink is smaller than I expected and there are so many children to dodge. We start out along the wall as John gives me a few pointers. I'm bored already. "Can we go faster?" He smiles that smile that sucked me in so long ago, one corner turned down, the other up, with his eye brows mimicking the same little boy cock-eyedness."I don't know, can you?" he smirks. I'm feeling a bit uneasy on the ice, but that doesn't stop my need for speed. I push off from the wall and start taking baby steps unassisted. With one fearless push of my feet, I'm gliding like an ice princess. He's ahead of me now, showing off his skills. Not to leave me behind, he turns around and waits for me. He sees that I'm doing pretty well for my first time around and shakes his head. I can't help but laugh. I love watching him skate, like he's in his element. He stops and carves into the ice gracefully, he shows me some tricks, with some prodding from me. My cheeks are flushed and ears sting from the cold air, but a smile is plastered on my face. He says "Babe, you get faster and faster with every lap." He knows how to make me smile. "Want to try backwards?" "Don't push it, buddy."
We're married now and I got the same lecture as I was tying up my tennis shoe laces, off to my first Zumba class. "Even if you aren't good, just have fun, ok?" His little pep talks always feel like a challenge to me; maybe that's why I love him so much. I think about this little conversation as I walk in through our front door. "Well how was it? Did you have fun?" he asks as I kick off my shoes. "Yes, love," I say as I bend down to kiss him. "And guess what? I was pretty good too."
I gave John "the look." Silly man, when will he learn. We were about to go ice skating together on a quaint outdoor rink in Walnut Creek. It was no Central Park, but I've always wanted to go ice skating outside with my beau. John played ice hockey for many years, but this was my first time to try out the sport. Knowing that I'm competitive and am sorely grumpy if I suck at something, John was trying to give me a pep talk as we laced up our skates. "You can't be good at everything the first time you try it," he continued. "Is that a challenge?" I asked. (When you're competitive, everything is a challenge.) "No, I just don't want a grumpy girlfriend if you're not good at this." I grinned because it feels good to be known. I grinned because he was worried I'd fall on my butt. I grinned because that sounded an awful lot like a challenge.
There are a lot of things I am not good at. I've never been exceptionally good at sports, yet held my own because I am insanely tough, determined, and mostly stubborn. So while I can count on both hands how many points I scored my two years playing basketball, I was always the fastest down the court and if we were running man-on-man or a half court press, I couldn't be stopped. Just don't give me the ball. My coach actually told me if I ever had the ball, just pass it to a "big ugly." I guess that's what she called the players who could actually do something productive with the ball. Being five feet tall doesn't help my case either. I'm really not good at video games. As soon as I get a controller into my hand, the tongue comes out and before long I'm hurling insults at inanimate objects. It isn't pretty. And don't even get me started on my math skills. But the things that I am good at, I was good the first time I tried it.
I learned how to swim when I was 2 years old. It just sort of happened. My mom decided it was a good idea to enroll me into swimming lessons to hone the skill. In one summer, I passed all the levels that the swimming school offered. The instructor told my mom, "you need to get that girl on a team." And so she did. I certainly got better with practice, and I was never some Olympic star, but I was a "lean, mean, swimming machine" as my dad called me.
I felt awkward in those heavy skates. "It's just like roller blading," I tell myself, a hobby I enjoyed many years ago. The rink is smaller than I expected and there are so many children to dodge. We start out along the wall as John gives me a few pointers. I'm bored already. "Can we go faster?" He smiles that smile that sucked me in so long ago, one corner turned down, the other up, with his eye brows mimicking the same little boy cock-eyedness."I don't know, can you?" he smirks. I'm feeling a bit uneasy on the ice, but that doesn't stop my need for speed. I push off from the wall and start taking baby steps unassisted. With one fearless push of my feet, I'm gliding like an ice princess. He's ahead of me now, showing off his skills. Not to leave me behind, he turns around and waits for me. He sees that I'm doing pretty well for my first time around and shakes his head. I can't help but laugh. I love watching him skate, like he's in his element. He stops and carves into the ice gracefully, he shows me some tricks, with some prodding from me. My cheeks are flushed and ears sting from the cold air, but a smile is plastered on my face. He says "Babe, you get faster and faster with every lap." He knows how to make me smile. "Want to try backwards?" "Don't push it, buddy."
We're married now and I got the same lecture as I was tying up my tennis shoe laces, off to my first Zumba class. "Even if you aren't good, just have fun, ok?" His little pep talks always feel like a challenge to me; maybe that's why I love him so much. I think about this little conversation as I walk in through our front door. "Well how was it? Did you have fun?" he asks as I kick off my shoes. "Yes, love," I say as I bend down to kiss him. "And guess what? I was pretty good too."
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