Just a Day at the Gym

It was a regular day at the gym . . . except it wasn't.

I'd done a Zumba class (fun) and was convincing myself to add 20 minutes in the weight room (not fun). I had lots of excuses - I was tired. I had a lot to do. I'd done Zumba, for heaven sake. Enough is enough!

For whatever reason, I lost the argument . . . or won, depending on how you look at it. I committed to showing up at the weight room, ready to heft barbells, do a few miserable squats, and attempt a 30-second plank. I wouldn't enjoy it, because strength training isn't my thing. But I'd made a goal, so I'd go for it.

I walked in and headed to the rack of silvery weights. Then I noticed a guy working out with his trainer. The trainer was throwing a ball at him, and he was catching it with his abdomen. Sweat dripped down his face, and he lunged at that ball. No half-hearted efforts.

And did I mention he had no arms or legs?

I was immediately chagrined and humbled. How dare I whine when this man had gone through tremendous efforts just to get to the gym, let alone work out? I watched him out of the corner of my eye, with awe and admiration.

Then I picked up those weights. Heavier ones than usual.

They’re Back

The turtles like hanging out in the pond too.

Last year I discovered white pelicans in my own back yard. Well, almost. They were actually in a pond on a walking trail close to my back yard.

I don’t know why, but it made me happy to see pelicans in land-locked Colorado. I’ve always loved pelicans and been fascinated with them since studying them in third grade.

I think of pelicans as sea birds, so it surprised me to discover them. Last summer, I loved pausing in a five-mile walk to watch them dive and dip, over and over, with grace and gusto. As birds do, the pelicans left in the fall.

But they’re back. During this week’s walk, there were five of them, diving and dipping with beauty and ease. The cycle continues, and I welcome them to their summer home.  

You Can Do It, Mom. You’re Strong.

It’s probably not very smart for me to hike with my 20-something sons. They’re young and fast and adventuresome. I love to hike, but I’m slow. I say I like to stop and smell the wildflowers and enjoy the view. It’s true. But I’m also all too aware of the impact of an injury, so I’m careful.

It usually works out. I make it to the summit. I eventually arrive at the end of the trail. I dip my toes in the alpine lake.

But maybe hiking isn’t just about getting somewhere.  A few years ago, I started to learn one of the lessons of hiking . . . and I learned it from one of those 20-something sons. 

We were hiking to a hidden waterfall in Colorado’s San Luis Valley. It wasn’t a particularly difficult hike, elevation-wise, nor was it miles long. But it was tricky.  Heavy snow that year had melted, so rocky nooks and crannies and ponds overflowed.  Water rushed through creeks that usually trickled.  

The sound of roaring water filled my ears as I clung to the side of the mountain, trying to stay dry. It was a useless venture. The cold water chilled my feet while my shoes slipped on the slick black rocks. I balanced while wading through the frigid water and steadied myself atop a rickety log bridge. I kept picturing myself splatting into the water or tripping on one of those glassy boulders. We were miles from medical help, and a fall would ruin the trip.

I decided to sit and wait while my husband and sons went ahead. I didn’t want to hold them back, and I I didn’t want to fall or stumble or topple into that rushing water. It wasn’t a bad deal to sit in the Colorado sunshine, while waiting, I told myself. I could inhale the smell of damp earth and enjoy cool breezes that wafted by on the hot summer’s day.

Then my son, Bryce, turned back and said, “Come on, Mom. You can do it. You’re strong.”

You’re strong.

The words jolted me. He was right.

I am strong.

I didn’t need to sit in the sunshine or be afraid of getting my feet wet.

I am strong.

Decades of life experience had made me strong. I could certainly finish this hike.

So I kept moving forward. Slowly. Carefully. But one foot in front of the other. The waterfall was glorious, and I shared the sheer beauty of it with my husband and sons.

Since that day, I’ve kept Bryce’s words in my mind. “You can do it, Mom. You’re strong.” 

He may be wrong about a lot of things – politics, pizza toppings, and red peppers. But on this point, he’s right. I just have to remember it.  

 

Bryce. One of my favorite sons.

Ten Things I Hate about Summer

I feel like a crabby contrarian every summer. Why? Because I hate this season.

It is heretical to say such a thing. A sacrilege to lemonade and the Fourth of July, swimming pools and a blistering sun. But say it I will. Here are the reasons why summer is highly overrated:

1. It's hot, people! Heat does not feel good. It feels sweaty and sticky and bloaty and puffy.

2. It's like an extended holiday where you're supposed to be happy and freespirited. Way too much pressure.

3. Traffic is a mess. I live in Colorado, and people flock to our mountains, clogging up the freeways.

4. Swimming suits. Need I say more?

5. Anybody who has seen me has noticed that my skin is white-white. Not pale, not fair. Blindingly white. And you know what that means? (Or perhaps you don't, unless you're a ginger.)  See no. 6.

6. I wear sunscreen year-round, but I go through gallons of the stuff during the summer. It's guggy and sticky and thick. (Have you noticed I've taken to creating my own words? Another side effect of summer.)

7. My brain doesn't feel at its best in the summer. Brains get soggy in the summer.

8. Crime goes up in the summer. It's true! Give me a cozy home in January where it's too cold for criminals.

9. Airports are crowded. Summer travel = crammed planes, long lines, delayed flights, and packed parking lots. Can you tell I just returned from California, where I experienced all of the above.

10. Heat. I know I already mentioned it, but it bears repeating. It's too darned hot! 

The Travel Saga Continues

It’s a good thing I like travel, because I am being forced to go back to Europe sometime this year.

Yup, they’re forcing me. I have to go.

In my previous post, I didn’t mention the two miserable days we spent in airports during our return trip to the states. First, our plane was diverted because of mechanical problems. Day one hanging around the Rome airport. When we arrived in New York, we saw this sign. 

Day two hanging around the airport.

We just found out, though, that Air Italia is giving us a travel voucher to make up for our inconvenience. So, I’ll sacrifice and do what I have to do.

Gotta use that voucher. Darn.

Glorious Italy: Adventures andT Misadventures

I just got back from a wonderful trip to Italy. I could write about the beauty of Tuscany’s rolling hills, soldier-straight cypresses, and misty mornings. I could write about Italy’s fabulous food – the tang of real parmesan cheese, the perfect bite of pasta, and the joy of a country that serves Nutella-slathered pastries for breakfast. I could even venture into the literary territory of trying to describe the spectacular mosaics of San Marco in Venice, the exquisite frescoes of Giotto in the Scrovegni Chapel, or the architecture of jaw-dropping cathedrals.

Beautiful, rain-soaked San Marco Basilica, Venice

But I’m not going to write about any of those things. I want to write about the ugly side of travel. The mishaps and misadventures, the fatigue at the end of a day spent on one’s feet, the scary feeling of unfamiliarity. Travel is all about beauty and experiencing something new and seeing the world. But it’s also about feeling vulnerable and out of control. It’s about missing trains and being frustrated at not being able to express ourselves. It’s about making dumb mistakes . . . and paying for them.

You would think these misadventures would be enough to kill the travel bug. But that’s not the case. In fact, these experiences might feed it.

We had a lot of mishaps on this trip, perhaps more than usual. I don’t know why. I went on this trip with seasoned traveler friends, Richard and Melody Manwaring, and my two sisters, who have also donned their travel shoes quite a few times. You’d think we would know that you have to scoot down to get off the train when they call the stop so we wouldn’t end up in a tiny town that a tourist has never seen. You’d think we’d remember to validate train tickets, so we wouldn’t be fined. You’d think we wouldn’t get lost or forget to pay a hotel bill or lose sight of fellow travelers or end up paying more for something than we’d planned.

But all of those things happened. I asked myself, are we too old to travel? Have we lost the touch? Was our group too unwieldy?

Nope. None of those things. We were traveling.  Stuff happens when you travel. Period.

The ironic thing is that travel mishaps often end up being the best memories of the trip. For example, when we missed our train stop and ended up in the tiny, dark town? We discovered a restaurant that apparently was the hot spot for the entire community. We ate calzones as big as our heads, while we observed enormous tables of men gesturing wildly, talking animatedly, laughing and clearly enjoying each other’s company. It seemed a familiar ritual. We watched them as we tried bruschetta twelve ways – not only the traditional tomatoes and olive oil, but also topped with salt cod, offal, sugar-coated pancetta, briny olives, and other unidentifiable pastes and pates. We agreed this was the best food we’d eaten during the entire trip, and the people welcomed us, like we were one of the party.

Of course, not every travel adventure has a happy ending. The last time I went to Italy, I went home with a broken arm. That wasn’t fun. But it’s all part of the journey . . . and it makes a good story.

If I wanted to avoid risk, I’d stay home and never leave my house . . . and never see the world.

Nah, I don’t think so. I’ll take my chances.  

The Ponte Vecchio in Florence - No mishaps here, just the best gelato we had in Italy      

Melody Manwaring, Bonnie Kennan, Leanna Crockett, Lisa Turner

Singing Puccini arias outside the Puccini museum in Lucca. The head of the Puccini Foundation heard us singing and came out and told us all about Puccini and his importance to Italians. A bit of travel serendipity!