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.