Risk Management 101: Aim to Fail

My middle school years were difficult, as I allude to frequently here  on the blog – probably frequently enough that you are ready for me to gosh, stop talking about it already.  As I watch Milo, at a bit over one year old, spend his mornings grinding puzzle pieces and Cheerios of questionable age into the wool carpet, I can only hope and pray that his experience will be different, and prepare for the worst by investing in both a Sam's membership (for the bulk-wrapped Kleenex boxes) and a punch card for mom therapy sessions, also known as Time Alone.  They make punch cards for that, right?

If you can’t tell, I am preparing for the worst: that he will take after me.

Which he might.  

Who really knows these things?

However, something magical happened one day in 1997, during the spring of my eighth grade school year.  It took place in a badly lit, undersized gymnasium, which if I remember correctly, had dark wood paneling all the way to the ceiling, and which alternately housed school lunch tables and rousing games of wallyball (which apparently, to my gawking amazement, is a real thing).  In an effort to lure me from my isolated, ever-shrinking shell of social anxiety, my parents had encouraged me to attend some open gym volleyball sessions, hosted by the coach of what would later be my high school varsity team, Chris.  I didn't know it then, but that day would be another link in a chain of significant transformation in my life.  And it happened like this (Disclaimer: probably not verbatim. Aka, definitely not verbatim.):

Chris: "Until I say to stop, run back and forth across the gym with your arms at your side.  Pretend that you only have shoulders, and that anything distal exists in the flexible state of orange jello: wiggly and formless and completely out of control."

Now, don't get me wrong - wiggly and formless and completely out of control is my natural state of being, but at that time, asking this behavior of me constituted the emotional risk of breakdancing my way to the front of a prison firing squad.  My anxiety level was at DEFCON 1.

However, of all the things I was at the time – including my excessive knack for apprehension – a submissive spirit topped the list, and so off I went, reluctantly but promptly skittering across the gym.

I ran around that room like a tightly wound doll, but quickly transformed into the human equivalent of a young basset hound, with my arms and hands wagging around like floppy ears and droopy jowls and my body sweat dripping to the floor like drool from a dog’s mouth.  I recall having to remind myself to relaxrelaxrelax, consciously making an effort to let my body parts behave as if I were unconscious.  I was focusing so hard on flailing that I'm amazed I didn't accidentally slam into a preteen or trip on my shoelaces.  

I can only imagine how ridiculous we looked, the wiggly crew of us, but in that small exercise, as was true of my previous venture into synchronized swimming, my life was beginning to change.  It didn't happen overnight, and I didn't transform into an entirely new person.  That said, I did become what I know was a better, more healthy version of the girl that hid underneath that bashful, anxious exterior.  

Physical risk is powerful.  Taking risks can stimulate change or reinforce stagnancy.  Risk can be a path to social and emotional growth, or it can be a manner of escape.  I would guess that more often than not, you and I would choose to take a physical challenge over an emotional one if we were given the chance.  See, we know that the outcomes of physical risk are predictable.   When bungee jumping, the risk is normally death or critical injury due to a high velocity smash into the ground.  Two of the many risks of climbing Everest are HAPE or HACE.  The risk of swimming across the Pacific is SHARK (not an acronym, just scary as all getout).  On the other hand, if you are confronting a deep personal fear, for example, the risk is... a little more complicated, a little more elusive, and can feel surprisingly more dangerous than something tangible or visible.

What is so special to me about this awkward memory is the fact that such small physical risks like this one reset my course toward a path of more healthy interaction with emotional and social risks for years to come.  I made friends and enjoyed school, and developed a sense of self, and faith, and even found a cool guy who was willing to flail through life with me.

WHAAAT? 

Miracles happen everyday, folks.

I attended a few Zumba classes this spring, which was significantly more fun and fabulous than I ever imagined.  With that said, I'll admit that it's still not easy for me to walk into a room of strangers, and let all of this flap around like a squirrel in flight.  While Zumba-ing, I inhabit a lateral swath of maple gymnasium floor with my arms and legs whipping back and forth in a room full of other bodies, fellow men and women flailing away to a latin beat. This experience has felt pretty much the same as that evening of open gym so many years ago, only that much more of me jiggles now.  I felt happy.  I giggled through much of each workout, occasionally interrupting my laughter with bouts of intense focus on the instructor's footwork and stopping for frequent water breaks and gasps for air.

In both of these stories, I have felt like a total oddball, which is scary for me, like I’m standing within a crowd wearing only blaze orange underwear.  But because in each of these cases I was surrounded by what was, in each moment, a sea of oddballs, I felt safe.  Now, I know that we aren’t always able to jump out of our comfort zones in the company of others, but if you are, it can be a great way to prime your engine for taking some individual risk in the future.  I’m an advocate for that, because if peer pressure is really a thing, well, we might as well be doing some good with it, right?

Parent Sidebar: As I write this, I am recalling how often enough I hear parents comment on how they need to be more conservative about what risks they take, as they have little ones to care for and can’t risk breaking their leg or missing time at work.  Hear me:  I understand.  I would never want to put my life at risk for the sake of momentary enjoyment or selfish ambition.  But with that said, if I don’t risk anything at any time for any reason, will Milo risk anything ever?  Will he take a risk when it’s worth it?  If I don’t, and he doesn’t, who wins in that scenario?  I’ll tell you:  No one.  In fact, in that scenario, everyone loses.  We may have remained safe by not assuming the risks, but we’ve completely missed out on the resulting growth.

Among other injuries due to grabbing adventure by the horns, my dad tore his MCL and meniscus skiing when I was in elementary school.  Missing work and suffering through PT, recovering, and some quality time with the doc:  not cool for dad.  A father who busts himself skiing a killer line because he isn’t afraid to tackle something hard?  So cool.  And more than cool, it was, for a young me, a picture of courage, which was something I desperately needed to identify and embrace.

Risks are risks because they are at some level inherently unsafe, but know that I am not advising anyone to head out for a run this afternoon in Death Valley or something of an obvious, dangerous nature.  If you want to train to run in Death Valley, fine.  Unfortunately, I have a sinking feeling you'll be training alone, 

because that sounds terrible.

So in conclusion, let's take some risks.  Let's get out of our comfort zones.  I know that  I need to, and perhaps, just perhaps, it's not just me.  The next time you get invited to trapeze class, or to hike the Long Trail or have to change the Jeep tire alone on the side of a deserted logging road in a skirt and sandals, remember that your sweat and nerves are only the beginning of something much greater.  The physical struggle will make you question your resolve, your strength and your fundamentals, but if you persevere, you’ll find out that you are made for so much more than you ever imagined.  

Under Every Great Accomplishment Lies A Wasted Distraction

Here are a few photos to help you get through hump-day.  

_____

Since a friend spotted this at an area surplus store, I'm assuming that there's a marketable crowd out there who really enjoys getting behind a boat, carving a great wake, and doing 360s in the sun.  

People who like to, you know, waterboard.  

If you spend your summer months waterboarding all day, every day, you're probably pretty tired at night.  When you're tired at night after that kind of activity, chances are you have some strange dreams.  When you have a strange dream after that kind of day, I bet it basically looks like this:

because I know that in all of my dreams, I'm the Pied Piper of cats, hiking through a kelp forest with slices of spiral ham strewn across the grass.  Oh, and it's not grass.  It's asphalt.  

And I'm wearing an army helmet.

Last, but not least, if you spend your days waterboarding until you're exhausted and your nights dreaming about leading a million-cat march through Gotham, chances are you'd be just the type to keep one of these out back for those humid evenings in August:

Good gravy.  Does anyone else feel awkward looking at this, or is it just me?

Because sometimes, when I think something's awkward, it really is just me.

______

Press on, friends.  Thursday is right around the bend.

Down The Rabbit Hole

As I was sweeping cabins earlier today,  I got to thinking, "Good-night, M, if you don't post something on that silly blog of yours soon, they'll all suspect you've gone off the deep end".  They'll wonder if you've finally become a forest dwelling, ax-swinging nut with a propensity for off-roading in inappropriate vehicles and having long [audible] conversations with herself.

Phew.  Glad I've avoided that.

My brainchild occurred only a an hour or so after Helen, a new (and awesome) year-long staffer, pulled a mouse out of the washing machine.

And the thought came just a little while before my husband and two of our neighbors/co-workers/fellow woodsman went outside to try and shoot a skunk that is living in our woodpile.

A woodpile located directly below our front deck,

which also happens to sit right outside my office window.

Fine, the woodpile basically is my office window.

While the chase ensued, I tackled my own challenge: eating half of a watermelon.  This comes to no one's surprise.

Why is no one surprised?  Because eating entire melons and chasing woodland creatures is beginning to feel normal.  The strange-but-true reality of life here has slowly pulled a foggy haze over my perceptions of what to should expect out of a day.

For example, I've recently managed to:

• overflow the pot in the Bunn coffee maker, multiple - ok, dozens - of times.  
• shake someone's hand while holding a pirate's hook in my sleeve (we'd never met before)
• spray water all over the dish pit, ceiling included.  

         [Since we're on the subject, here's a brief life lesson:

    In the battle of human dishwasher vs. ladle, 

there are no winners - only losers.

It looks so harmless.

 

    I'd compare it to running an ultra-marathon naked, 

in Manitoba, 

in February

 or 

to drinking questionable milk]

I've also managed to...

• stay upright in a kayak through most of the Kennebec Gorge (read: most)
• drive a four-wheeler 
• pet a black bear.  It actually felt quite like my cat, only larger and less alive.
• plunge the single-most-foul toilet I've ever encountered.  If I close my eyes, I can still see it.
• shoot archery with a gaggle of sweet Dominican grandmothers.
• start wearing hats.  Thank you to my friend Cathy, state food service laws, and that one retreat guest who left me a fedora.  Her fedora.  On purpose.  I look too much like a little boy to pull it off [without looking like a little boy].
• stop sleeping in.  This seems simultaneously gluttonous and tragic, and yet I will probably attempt to return it to my skill set pronto.
• take one day off in a month.  Though it may sound like I'm flaunting some big accomplishment here, what I'm really saying is that this kind of behavior is particularly unadvisable and likely a result of your own bad planning.  Plan better next time. 
• live in a state of heightened anxiety and panic (see above).
• remain in wedded bliss weddedness.  Considering the previous truth, this is a miracle.  I'd have banished me.  

I keep thinking that I should maintain a list of the unique happenings that that take place here in the woods, and perhaps I really ought to, but as time goes on, the instances themselves become less and less unique and, consequently, more and more everyday.

In conclusion, I suppose I will start on that list...

providing something really weird happens.

If You Think Your Figure Needs Work...

I awoke this morning to a deep, lingering question:

Did the first human have a belly button?

Yes, I, in my genius, am really asking.  What do you think?

(Please leave your answers in the comments section, or this debacle might haunt me another night.)

source

If that doesn't keep me awake, this sure will.

For the rest of my life.

So please... post me some of that hidden wisdom.

That's Why I Keep Lobster Bibs In The Top Drawer

Not 5 minutes after crossing the threshold of the beach resort where we’d spend our day on Grand Bahama island, I found myself peering curiously at a group of four transparent pitchers holding a variety of colored liquids: pastel yellow, soft orange, mint green, and on the right, a dusty pink.  After sniffing them thoroughly [and thereby killing any fellow interest], I was still having a hard time getting a whiff of the pink stuff on the right, which was the pitcher that really intrigued me, because hey - it could be a strawberry smoothie or something really good like that, right?

My plan was to pour a small “tasting” amount of the beverage into my glass, but there was this stubborn plug of fruit pulp in the neck of the bottle that was blocking the flow.  The mixture was frustratingly resistant to gravity until suddenly, when I had it practically upside-down, it wasn’t.  That's the moment I found myself standing in a large puddle of creamy watermelon juice that extended over to the dripping buffet counter and also coated my arms like runny oven mitts.

Post-spill.  I got a nice full glass.

I wish this event didn’t throw me into a foaming wave of pasty pink flashbacks, but unsurprisingly, it does.  During my four years of undergrad, I developed a somewhat regrettable relationship with the cafeteria frozen yogurt machine.   I’m the first person to encourage a dessert course, whether it’s after breakfast, lunch, dinner, or a snack, so it should come as no surprise that I was a frequent visitor to the frozen goodie station of our dining hall. 

One weekday after an early lunch, I strode over to the dessert counter, blindly reached for a sugar cone (which I could have done in my sleep), and held it in my left hand under the Columbo yogurt nozzle (flavor of the day: raspberry) while I pulled the white lever with my right hand.  Instantly, the device began gushing pink, frothy, room-temperature liquid in a 4-foot circle around my feet… all in view of 400 or so peers who I would spend the next month trying not to look in the eye.

To challenge any generous assumption that I’m a fast and thorough learner, an identical event happened on a second occasion, this time leading to strawberry- flavored results.  I eventually did get the message: Don’t try to satisfy a fro-yo fix before 1 o’clock; DON'T DO IT.  Because if I do decide to pull that lever and try my luck, I’ll just have to waste another Rhetorical Theory class showering syrup the color of Pepto-Bismol off of my legs, and I doubt that Dr. Chase is inclined to accept that excuse more than twice.  At least not without laughing in my face first.

Despite many years scattered with a multitude of bittersweet accidents, I want to encourage each of you to keep on filling that sugar cone.  However, if you’re standing in line and you feel even a shred of doubt, just go ahead and let someone else pull that lever, because while you can clean up the sugary stink, there’s simply no sponge in the world that can scrub away the shame.

Could You Please Pass The Awkward?

The other day I was telling a friend about another friend who cleans his hair solely with baby shampoo, and mistakenly said he swore not by washing with baby shampoo but by washing with baby hair.

Last night I ordered a veggie sub.  I asked them to make it with turkey.

I once told a friend with a glass eye to sleep with one eye open.  

The glass eye was always open.

Do these things happen to everyone, or is it just me?  There are days when I feel like I might have hatched on the face of another planet and stowed away to earth on the underbelly of the mars space rover.  After so many foot-in-mouth moments and ridiculous physical happenings, you start to wonder if maybe it’s only you that seems to need around-the-clock safety gear and a shock collar muzzle. 

I’ve mentioned the eating tuna under the dining room table episode, as well as the toxic poisoning from feeding dolls cough syrup incident.  Other happenings include sliding underneath a horse while riding behind the saddle and having a tiny deer tongue a twenty-dollar bill from the depths of my pant pocket while visiting the zoo (the first time my parents let me hold my own money).  I’ve skied into a metal pole and had the ice cream machine in my college dining hall explode on me.  Twice.

In elementary school I talked to frogs and my toothbrush, but not to men with beards.

I used to unravel paperclips and wrap them around my teeth to pretend I had a retainer like my sister.  I must have envied the way she had to clean out food debris after meals and soak it in Fixodent before bed, which as you know, is totally understandable.

When I was a sophomore in college, I sported a hairstyle that is now commonly referred to by my friends and husband as the crow.  It was an attempt at a short, hip cut, but looked more like I had gotten gum stuck in my hair, and had to chop off all the sticky bits.

Another danger contained by the good work of the New York Football Giants.

Only they were everywhere.  I looked like an inverted tulip after a terrible rendezvous with a weedwacker.

As children, my sister and I might have lacked all common sense and any grip on reality.   During much of our youth, half of our house was in the framing stage of construction, and rather than play with dolls or stuffed animals, Renee and I would nail or staple lace veils to random timber slats and draw faces on them.  While Ken and Barbie were hitting Rodeo Drive in her pink convertible, our wooden babies were getting married in a construction work zone. 

One of these days all of my bad stories, incoherent jokes and bodily accidents are going to catch up with me, and humankind is going to put me in a permanent time out.  Which will be followed by an awkward, uncomfortable silence, because even Mars won’t want me back.