Walking Holiday

(Internet photo)

I have nurtured, for many years, a fascination with walking. And not just walking, but long-distance walking, like, to another town. This is the woman who will just come back tomorrow if there isn’t an empty parking spot right in front of our Main Street drug store.

My fascination with long-distance walking is specifically centered on taking a walking holiday in England. That’s what they call it there - a walking holiday – which figures largely in my fascination, frankly.  Unlike the U.S., where walking is for fitness and for getting from the parking lot to the mall, the English have long embraced walking for the sake of walking and there are miles and miles of public paths across the country. I long to traipse across the countryside over English stiles, through English gates and across English pastures past English cows. I imagine walking through little villages, past thatched cottages and cathedrals, stopping at pubs and inns that have catered to walkers for decades. A walking holiday in England has been on my bucket list since it was just called a “Things I Would Like to Do Someday” list.

Besides the obvious challenges of expense and vacation time from work, there are the tiny little snags of being in ridiculously bad shape and being pretty much accustomed to avoiding walking whenever possible.

A friend invited me to join her group of friends for a day hike into the Salmon River mountains. I was all set and planning my lunch until I started thinking of all the walking a hikes entails. Lots of it. In fact, it’s practically all walking. I imagined the merry group of hikers stepping gingerly over my unconscious body on their way back down the trail. I bowed out of that excursion with promises to join them when I turn into a new person. I mean, when I’m in better shape.

So I decided to get back into walking every day and get this couch potato business behind me. The first day out, I came back home feeling all winded, successful and sort of athletic with flushed face. Then I realized I’d been gone exactly 17 minutes.

I have a little ways to go before I can tackle 10 miles a day across England unless I plan to be buried on foreign soil. That’s OK, though, because it will also take me a while to build up a travel fund and some vacation time. Let the training and saving and building up begin!

(Internet photo)

Shaking It With Wilma

As long as you’re here, I might as well tell you about my first crush. I was 7 years old and in the 2^nd grade.

Hold it right there. It seems that I’ve been liking boys for 48 years with a hideous lack of success. This revelation has just ruined my evening, thank you.

Pass the Kleenex and fudge, and let’s get back to my story.

I was a pleasant little girl with a big smile and a forehead to go with it. (See class photo below)

I can’t remember which of the boys in my class had caught my eye. Take your pick; they're all dreamy. I do remember that he often rode his bike down our street.

One Saturday morning I was on the front step of our house shaking the throw rugs while Mom mopped the floor inside. I was pretty proud of this chore and hoped that everyone driving by was noticing how big I was to have such an important job.

One of the rugs was brown shag, and as I shook it, it fluffed up and began to look a lot like fur. Well, like fur to a 7-year-old, anyway. It looked like something the Flintstones might wear and was just the right size to wrap around my body.  Hey, this was neat. People driving by would think Wilma Flintstone was shaking our rugs!

I continued shaking the rest of the rugs, which was more difficult now that I had to hold my arms pressed to my sides in order to keep my fur dress on.  In fact, I shook them all again because the neighbors were probably enjoying seeing Wilma Flintstone helping my mom with housework.

When I spotted the boy from my class coming down the street on his bike, I hugged my fur dress a little tighter and shook those rugs a little harder, hoping to get his attention as he pedaled past. After all, what boy wouldn’t be impressed with a girl who looked exactly like Wilma Flintstone?

He kept his eyes straight ahead as he went by, but I’m pretty sure he saw me. And I’m pretty sure he fell in love with me in my Wilma dress that day. And he never let on. I'm thinking he figured I was out of his league, poor boy.

The Downside of Hermitville

 

I work with people all day, and when I come home, I don’t feel like seeing or speaking to anyone until I go back to work in the morning. It’s not very warm and fuzzy, but it’s true. It has recently come to my attention that, because of this tendency toward hermitville, I have successfully eliminated nearly all opportunities for face-to-face encounters with human beings outside of work.

 

While this satisfies my hermit tendencies perfectly, it was decidedly inconvenient when I needed to talk over a big and possibly life-changing decision recently.

 

As I made and weighed lists and struggled with the pros and cons of the decision, I longed to kick it all around with a real person, someone who knew me well and was somewhat obligated to listen to me yammer on and on.

 

I am between BFFs and between men at the moment. (Note: It is best if these two states are not experienced simultaneously.) Therefore, there is no one in my life to perform the task of Sounding Board. Don’t feel sorry for me. I prefer this most of the time and created the situation myself. And, to be fair, I do have my parents and my children, but they all go into “Play it safe and don’t forget to keep your gas tank topped off” mode, as they should. I really wanted someone to weigh all the facts, know my heart and still possibly say, “Oh, just go for it. You only live once. What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

So, where was I going to find that someone on short notice?  You don't exactly drag in a Facebook acquaintance for a deep heart-to-heart about your future any more than you'd ask them to come take a look at a questionable mole on your back.

 

Speaking of impossible-to-see moles, I made an appointment to have my doctor look at a mole on my back that had me worried. He said it was just a patch of dry skin. Really?? I was paying roughly $185 for a patch of dry skin that a BFF or male companion could have diagnosed for free?

 

I was really tempted to get my money’s worth out of that visit: “So, Doc. I have a big decision I’d like to run by you….” He was somewhat obligated to listen to me, after all.

 

No, I didn’t drag him into it, but if I insist on maintaining this otherwise agreeable hermit status, I might just sneak in a BFF-ish chat next time I go in for a check-up. It’s nice to know there is someone somewhat obligated to listen to me yammer on and on, after all.

 

Exquisite Power of Belly Dancing

I came upon a little woven bag while cleaning out my closet, and poured the contents out onto my bed: a chiffon hip scarf covered with “gold” beads and coins, and brass finger cymbals. Ah, yes. The belly dancing adventure.

When I saw a notice of an upcoming beginning belly dancing class, I was excited. I had not been divorced long and my children were all away at college. It was certainly my “Who Am I Now?” phase. Perhaps, under my conservative librarian mom exterior, I was a belly dancer. A richly veiled, seductive belly dancer with heavy eyeliner and wearing gold slippers.

My friend Sue and I walked into the elementary school gym/cafeteria on the first night of class, checked in with the instructor and selected a hip scarf from a pile of bright chiffon. The earlier arrivals had claimed the scarves dripping with crocheted fringe, beads and fake gold coins, and we late arrivals got the unadorned leftovers. Sue eyed the fancy scarves and decided to find some online, ASAP.  

After the warm-up with our arms and hands doing all sorts of cool belly dancer things, such as “snake arms,” we learned to sway, shifting our weight gently from side to side. Ooo, that felt good! I was using muscles I’d never met.

During that next week, I swayed while waiting for the microwave. I did hip circles at the copy machine at work. I even did a sort of shimmy while driving.

Sue ordered hip scarves, as promised, and they arrived before our next class. Mine had three rows of jangling coins and beads that accentuated every move. (Side note: I selected dark brown. Was that my last grasp for librarian/mom?) How satisfying to hear my hips jingle with every hip drop. The more I moved, the better I felt. The gentle awakening of all those forgotten muscles sent a message to my brain: Wake up, you sexy goddess!

I was a belly dancer. I was bursting with feminine power and ancient female wisdom. I was a part of the great Circle of Women.

I loved the shimmy. I loved how it felt, loved that my hips were capable of that behavior and loved the absurdly satisfying sound my hip scarf made when it was fully in action. Our instructor kept us shimmying as she went around to check our technique. I was shimmying like mad and starting to break a sweat when Sue called from behind me, “Don’t stop, Krista. I’m starting to get kinda turned on back here.” Oh my. I had to stop and hold my legs together to keep from wetting my hip scarf.

We were putting on our shoes after class when a woman beside me said, “I like your hips.”

She liked my hips. At first I was stunned.  Then I reasoned, “Of course she likes my hips. I’m an Exquisite and Voluptuous Goddess, apparently irresistible to men AND women. I must learn to use my power wisely.”

I carried the Exquisite and Voluptuous Goddess magic with me the rest of the week. It influenced every action. I spoke and moved with confidence and grace. I was a delicious and powerful dollop of womanhood. I suddenly wanted to eat more vegetables and eliminate sugar from my diet. I wanted to throw out every crew neck t-shirt in my closet. From now on, it was V-necks only, baby, and the deeper the better. Andy why did I not own anything slinky? This had to be remedied.

I’m not into women, but I will admit I was also pretty proud that a younger and very nice-looking woman liked my hips.  How exciting was that?? I practiced my figure eights in front of the mirror, watching my hips with new appreciation.

On the last night of class, I strode my Exquisite and Voluptuous Belly Dancer Goddess self into the gym, shoulders back and head held high, my regal exterior just managing to conceal the raw sexuality smoldering within.

As I was taking off my shoes, the gal with a crush on me said, “I seriously do love your hip scarf, Krista. Where did you find it?”

She liked my hip SCARF. Oh, OK. I wasn’t altogether comfortable with that other, anyway.

We learned a new traveling step that last night. It was a hip lift-and-drop and we practiced by moving around the circle in single file.  Gosh, I was getting good at this. I dropped my hip with an extra flair that set my coins in motion. Maybe this would be my signature move.

As I moved around the circle, I felt my heavy hip scarf shifting lower and lower on my hips, searching for a place to rest. Hip drop, step, scarf slip. Hip drop, step, scarf slip. It wasn’t long before my hip scarf found a place to rest. Five pounds of beads and fake gold coins slipped down my legs and onto the gym floor with a clatter.

Everyone turned at the sound and stared at the puddle of glamourous chiffon and glittering gold puddled at my feet. I’m sure I saw several Exquisite and Voluptuous Goddess endorphins scurrying away from the scarf like rats from a ship.

I have not done any belly dancing since that series of classes. I’m a little afraid, to be honest. I came dangerously close to letting my new-found taste of feminine power rule my existence and make over my wardrobe. Who knows what might have happened if I’d actually learned to use the finger cymbals?

I slipped the lovely hip scarf and cymbals back into the bag and put it on the closet self - not hidden in the back where I’d found it, but right out in front where I’ll see it and acknowledge the power of the Exquisite and Voluptuous Goddess every day.

And when I’m ready and think I can handle the power responsibly, watch out world!

 

 

In Praise of Single Life

After years on match.com, a short-lived marriage/long date and several 6-week-long relationships (seems to be my cut-off point), I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m just not motivated enough to have a man in my life.  The idealist in me is surprisingly realistic on the subject: I’m happiest when I’m single.

Sure, I miss having someone take me in his arms at the end of the day and whisper, “What’s for dinner?”  And when I’m outside sweating over heavy yardwork, I miss having my man come outside to bring me a glass of water and ask, “Are you going to do any laundry today? I’m out of socks.”

Maybe I’m happiest when I’m single because there is still the dream that someone wonderful will come along and I’ll live even more happily ever after. When I’m in a relationship, however, common courtesy demands that I not dream about Mr. Wonderful.  Apparently a girl is obligated to hang in there for a decent length of time to see if this guy could possibly work out, and maybe I should dial back on my expectations, and smelling like an unwashed old man and eating his own boogers are not hanging offenses, after all.

I have to admit that not having a man in my life makes it very easy to maintain my pattern of starting and abandoning self-improvement projects. A man would surely question the No Bake Cookies cooling on the counter if I’m supposed to be on a diet. He would undoubtedly ask me if I took my walk today or spent time writing. Being single makes it very easy to convince myself that it’s too cold to walk and 3 little cookies never killed anyone. 

Still, it would be nice to have someone take me out to dinner. Someone for whom I’m the most important person in the world. Someone who tells me I’m wonderful.  Someone who gets me the most ergonomic snow shovel they can find and insists that I wear a hat and good boots when I use it.

I'll Never Be Much of a Fisherman

I don’t think I’ll ever be much of a fisherman. I just don’t care about catching a fish. There. I’ve said it.

When someone tells me about a good fishing spot, saying, “You catch one every time you put a hook in the water,” I can’t help but think that sounds a lot busier than I like to be when I’m fishing.

I’m more about location and atmosphere than process and results.

I find no pleasure in the notion of owning a tackle box to house my collection of lures, no eagerness to learn to tie a sinker/hook system, no shame in being unable to read a stream and knowing whether that riffle is likely to be where the big one is.

I do like casting, however. I love the fluid beauty of the line zipping through the eyelets on the pole and through the air. If it hits the water, I’m happy. I’ll be reeling it in as soon as possible so I can cast again, anyway. This practice tends to set me apart from serious fishermen right away.

For me, the best thing about fishing is being outdoors beside the water, listening to bird calls and the rush of the water as it races to the ocean. I love drinking in the smell of the river carrying the rich essence of the trees and grasses it has passed on its way to me.

I like to stand or sit perfectly still and hope to see something wild - other than a wolf, bear or cougar - and preferably at some distance in case it is rabid, but close enough that it will show up clearly on a photo for Facebook.

A group of friends invited me for a day of fishing on the Salmon River recently. Sitting on the beach basking in the sun of an unseasonably warm winter day was blissful. The fact that I didn’t have a line in the water didn’t matter one bit. I was busy listening to birds, smelling the
river and watching for rabid otters. Too happily occupied, really, to mess with catching a fish, anyway.

The only thing I took home was some sand in my shoes and the smell of the river in my clothes.

Just the way I like it.

My Great Blue Messenger

I love Great Blue Herons.

Whenever I see one, it feels like God is saying, "Everything is going to be fine," or "Yes, you're making the right decision." Sometimes the heron's message is "Have you forgotten me? I haven't forgotten you." Seeing a heron reminds me that Someone is watching out.

Once, a heron flew beside my car for a few yards as I drove down the highway. It was so close, I could see its eyes quite clearly. I admit I wasn't paying much attention to the road as I marveled at my messenger.

Another time I was nervous about driving in an unfamiliar city when I caught a glimpse of something unusual out of the corner of my eye. It was a Great Blue Heron soaring high above the tall buildings.

Anyone else might spot a heron standing in the shallows of a river and think nothing of it. Not me. I know it's a whisper of support and love meant just for me.

A few years ago I was unsure about spending the time and money to attend a conference in Florida, but when I opened the hotel Web site and saw a photo of a heron, I knew that booking the trip was the right thing to do.

I glanced out the window early one morning during a rough period of my life and there was a heron standing on the roofline of my neighbor's house. I don't care if my neighbor happened to have a garden pond stocked with coi. It was still a message from God: "Hang in there, girl!"

The next time you spot a Great Blue Heron, don't look the other way. Take a message for me, would you?

And.....She's Back.

Well, I'm back after my short and unsuccessful run in the contemporary drama, The Kennewick Project, in which I played The Current Wife. It was a bit part in a dramatic production and I’m the first to admit I was miscast.

I auditioned and was offered the role with high expectations all around. However, I realized pretty early in the run that I basically stunk at the part. I guess my heart wasn’t in it. While the other actors did their best to carry me along by helping me with my lines and coaching me, my part was finally cut from the play altogether.

Do I regret my involvement in The Kennewick Project? Not at all.
I am the sum of my experiences, and I’m sure I’ll be discovering many ways in which I have grown because of my short marriage and life in Kennewick. I know I’m a different person than the one who left in 2009. Improved, really.

Don't talk to strangers

I met a man on my walk this morning who greeted me with, “Well, hello there, old lady!” Because (A) I am a good sport, and (B) I know most people are stupid, I responded with a hearty, “Good morning! Isn't it a gorgeous day?”

I walked on past and mulled over his bizarre salutation. Seriously? Do I look that old? He was older than I am, for Pete’s sake. I might be fat, but I'm not old. Why in the world would someone say that?? Maybe he has some mental problems. I do look old, don't I?

Grousing over the greeting fueled my power walk up the last incline to my house, then it hit me. “Old Navy,” not “old lady.” I was wearing an Old Navy shirt. Oh.

Good thing I hadn’t followed my inclination to administer an atomic wedgie. I’d be feeling really bad right now.

And that power walk probably did me a lot of good. I should have someone insult me every morning.

Bikin' 4 Boobz post show

My husband's step-son from a previous marriage plays in a band and he invited us to come watch them perform at a local sports bar on Saturday night. Now, I'm not much of a bar person and I don't stay up past 9:30, so I was feeling pretty much put-upon with this whole plan.

Then I found out the band was part of the entertainment line-up for the bar's annual "Bikin' 4 Boobz" event. Oh my. Heart be still. Motorcycles AND boobs??

But we knew Don would be so pleased if we showed up, so off we went. (I didn't wear any makeup, though. I wanted to be ready for bed as soon as we got home.)

We had driven by the bar earlier that day and were stunned by the number of motorcycles in the parking lot. They had a huge crowd!

At 10:00, however, the event was winding down and those smart bike owners were home in bed. The only ones left at the bar were the regulars, still trying to hang onto the magic of the boob festival. Women were sporting strings of party beads - do we want to know how they earned those? - and wore event tank tops reading, "Hanging onto them for life," with skeleton hands strategically placed over the breasts. Men wore t-shirts that read, "We stare because we care."

For a person who loves to watch people, this was heaven. I was fascinated by the gritty, bleached hair women with over-exposed breasts being hit upon by middle-aged men with shirts unbuttoned to the navel. Slinky guys lurked near the doorways and very drunk young women danced seductively, seemingly unaware they were alone.

It was all such a delightfully tawdry spectacle and I was happily entertained for a good hour until Clay decided he'd had enough of my elbow nudging and pointing, and we left.

At home I fell into bed and dreamed I was cruising down the open road on my Harley, skeleton hands cupping my breasts and party beads streaming out behind me in the wind.

Jack-sons' Bikin' 4 Boobz event drew more than 420 bikes and they raised $22,000 for the Susan B. Komen Foundation. Wow!

Dream a little dream with me

I dream of having a vintage camper, particularly a Shasta. I haven’t camped since I was 12 years old, but my heart beats a little faster when I think of camping in a tiny, cute, refurbished camp trailer.

Of course the dream camper has room only for me and maybe a dog or two, if they lie down. I’d park near a lake or creek and just relax, read, write and listen to the breeze in the treetops.

Wait. Stop. Change of dream.

Let’s park the Shasta on a secluded beach at the ocean. I’d enjoy warm sun, sand and palm trees during the day and have a little campfire for marshmallow roasting in the evening.

I’d wake up early to sit outside and watch the sunrise with a big cup of coffee while I dig my toes into the cool sand.

That, my friends, is my idea of bliss. And no, you can’t come with. Find your own camper and beach, but come over for margaritas on Saturday afternoon after my nap.

I'm in for it

My 6-month old grandson at bathtime.

I think I'm in for a very rough time resisting this face. I hope he learns to use his powers wisely and doesn't take advantage of Grandma Honey every chance he gets.