The Forest for the Trees

For the most part, my typical interaction with nature goes something like this:

“Hey, Scott, can you can come down here?” I request over the intercom to my coworker.

“Yeah, be right down,” he innocently offers, a few seconds later arriving at my desk.

“Can you kill that?” I ask while pointing to a multi-legged animal crawling up the wall near my bulletin board. Then I place both feet on the floor and roll me and my office chair out of the way.

End scene.

Last Thursday I departed Philadelphia and set out on a four day journey to a state that thrives on all things nature. A place where the air is tinged with the aromatic scent of pine trees and crisp earth. A place where snow capped mountains melt into babbling brooks and rushing streams as the turbid waters pass down the hills. A place where moose hang out in the front yard and hunting stores outnumber fashion retailers. Plain and simple, I was venturing to a foreign land.

Friday morning, I awoke, breathed in the fresh air, showered and dressed. In a sassy green cargo skirt, t-shirt, fleece vest and Cole Haan flip-flops, I stepped out to greet my host.

“I’m ready,” I gaily announced from the landing.

“Will you be able to hike in that?” he asked while focusing on my skirt.

“Um, be right back,” I said as I ducked back into the room and dug around for something more hike-y. Within a few seconds, the skirt was back in my suitcase and I was wearing a pair of black, dry clean only, cuffed shorts and my trail runners.

We hopped in his truck and wound our way down to the main road. From there we ran some errands, fetched some food and ultimately ended up at the edge of a trail lined with century old trees.

“Listen, if we see a bear, don’t run. Just get right beside me,” he calmy suggested.

“Um, I’m getting right behind you,” I replied.

“No, next to me. Together we can look bigger than the bear.”

“Okay,” I fibbed knowing full well that once the mauling began, I was using him as my Kevlar.

Around a quarter of a mile into our hike, my companion noted the presence of a moose. Sure enough, around fifty feet off the trail was an antlered behemoth munching on the forest floor. I mustered a soft ‘wow’ as I observed the creature in its natural habitat. As I stood on the periphery, I learned we would be holding back. Just to make sure it was okay to continue on. Because breaking the line that connects a mama moose and a baby moose will undoubtedly result in the mama charging. At us. My companion wanted to linger to confirm there wasn’t a baby moose nearby.

“And if it attacks, we just lie down and pretend we’re dead?” I asked.

“Hell no. Then she’ll just trample you. Find a tree and whatever you do, keep it between you and the moose,” he instructed.

My eyes darted all over in search of a tree that was sturdy enough to sustain the aggressive efforts of an agitated animal weighing more than a thousand pounds. Just as I was about to call dibs on the strongest trunk within sprinting range, my companion said it was safe to go on our way. I tiptoed down the path, keeping one eye on the munching beast and the other on my tree of choice. You know, just in case.

Resuming our hike, we eventually came across a stream. We stepped off the main path and traversed a rocky stretch before settling next to passing waters, runoff from all the snow that accumulated during the winter months. The sound of the current bounced off the rocks as the water rushed past. Not too far in the distance, some birds chimed in with their echoing chirps. And as I lifted my eyes off the water and raised them upward, I noticed the mountains in the distance. The base a springtime green that graduated to a rich year round fir and finished in snow. The gentle blue sky embracing all of it.

As I soaked in all that my senses could absorb, I took in a deep breath and paused before speaking.

“Okay, this is amazing,” I confessed. I had scratches on my shins from brushing against some shrubs, there wasn’t a Starbucks or a Wholefoods or a Capogiro to be found and yet this, this was as close to perfect as I had ever experienced.

Putting It All Together

I think you could say I travel quite a bit. One weekend I’m jetting to Atlanta to hang with Leslie and the next I’m driving the Northeastern corridor en route to Maine for lobster and antiques. As far as I am concerned, there is always some place worth exploring. And no matter which way I’m heading, I’m always properly packed. Travel enough and you start to settle into a suitcase routine.

For me, it starts with a pile of athletic gear. At the foot of my bed I neatly place gym shorts, sport bra, sneakers and socks. Oh and in the off chance I have to exercise in front of people and thereby expose the general public to my bah-dunk-a-dunk, I toss in a long sleeve cotton t-shirt that properly doubles as a lovely butt cape. I know it doesn’t fool anyone but it makes me feel less exposed.

Once that’s all squared away, I tackle intimates. I’m not going to lie; I have an issue with underwear. I always bring enough to allow me the luxury of changing every twelve hours. Okay, fine. Every eight hours. Bite me. Listen, you never know what the day may bring. If I work out at four in the afternoon, you can bet your ass I’m not putting that sweaty thong back on after I shower. Ugh, the mere thought of it makes me ill.

Next up is clothing. When I’m in Philly, I dabble in colorful blazers, three inch peep toe pumps and colorful tops. It’s all about making a statement. When I’m away, I rely on jeans, white t-shirts and cardigans. Yeah, it’s completely boring and 95% of my closet misses out on seeing the world but it also means I look put together without too much effort. Think Garanimals for grownups.

Of course some minor adjustments are made depending on my destination. Like if I’m heading to Nantucket, I add grosgrain flip-flops and something Lilly. If I’m heading to Sarasota, I toss in a skirt and a bathing suit. Otherwise the packing routine is simple and predetermined. Well, all of that went right out the window last night.

I was two hours in and half of my closet was messily tossed on my bed. The other half was strewn across the floor. I was wearing a two inch, black, strappy sandal on my right foot and a trail running sneaker on my left. I’d tried on two cardigans, three pairs of jeans and four skirts and I still hadn’t set a single thing aside. No matter what I put on, no matter what I pulled off, I had no idea what to pack for my weekend trip to Alaska. The weather report had temps in the forties and fifties with rain predicted throughout my stay. Should I pack wool for the nights? Should I bother with a cargo skirt for the days? Do I want my fleece vest or fleece jacket? Did I want to crawl into bed looking like a sexy vamp or a sexy coed? There were far too many questions and not a single answer.

As I hobbled around my walk-in closet in search of some direction, I suddenly realized my spinning head had nothing to do with what I looked like on the outside but what I was feeling on the inside. I was awash in emotions. Love collided with vulnerability. Uncertainty banged up against confidence. Happiness battled it out with fear. Standing under the dim glow of my closet light, I realized that when I land in Anchorage, it won’t matter what shoes I’m wearing. The color of my sweater, the length of my skirt and the barrette in my hair will all be irrelevant. The only thing that’ll matter will be the stuff on the inside - the thoughts in my head and the feelings in my heart. Not even that sassy braided belt from Banana Republic could make a bit of difference.

I kicked off my mismatched footwear, stopped all of my thinking and restarted my packing efforts. Before long, I had a neat pile that included two pairs of jeans, three cardigans, four white t-shirts and everything else I typically toss in my suitcase. Content with my selection, I stepped back and calmly did a once over to make sure nothing was missing. And that’s when I realized that the items I had pulled together were exactly the combination I create when heading to a place that no matter how unfamiliar still feels like home. The kind of place that is comfortable and safe and just where you want to be at the end of the day.

I flipped the top down on the suitcase, zipped it closed and set it off to the side. I brushed my teeth, slipped into a tank top and crawled between the sheets. Then my head started acting up again. I started feeling doubts. I teetered on the edge of uncertainty. And that is when I decided for the second time that night to just stop thinking. Because no matter the journey, putting it all together sometimes has nothing to do with figuring it out and everything to do with just letting it happen.

Mama Needs a New Pair of Shoes

If I didn't have to lop off my toes to make them fit, I'd already be wearing the Louboutin's.

Ladies, stop reading and go SHOPPING!

To Be Filed Under: What the Fuck Was I Thinking

Saturday afternoon, I ran to Wholefoods to fetch some lunch. I hit a few aisles to collect a few things and with my basket full, I strolled over to a register.

“You must really like these,” the cashier said as she passed a bag of golden red cherries to the bagger boy lingering at the edge of the conveyor belt.

I looked up at the running total of my purchases:

Fuji Water 6 Pack - $8.99
Flax Seed Tortilla Chips - $2.65
Salad Bar - $3.49 @ $7.99/lb
Rainier Cherries - $18.97 @ $9.99/lb

“Yeah, I guess I do,” I said, too embarrassed to admit the ridiculousness of my indulgence.

Cost per cherry - $0.43


Later that night, I headed into the city to meet Joe and Barry for dinner, dessert and drinks. I got dressed in jeans and a blazer and then twirled in front of my mirror. I don’t mean to brag but I looked really cute. So cute I felt inspired to break out my recently purchased perfume. The one I wasn’t sure about but bought anyway because I decided the spring season warranted a new scent. Even if the price per ounce exceeded that of imported caviar.

“You look hot as usual. Love the jacket,” Joe said as he slid into the front seat of my car and touched my arm. “Don’t mind Barry, he’s still asleep.”

“Hey sweetie,” Barry mumbled from the rear.

“Okay, listen, I just bought a new fragrance and I need your opinion. Personally, I think it smells a little bit like, well, the way I smell after spending an entire summer day on the beach,” I said as I pushed up the sleeve on my blazer and shoved my exposed wrist in Joe’s direction.

He took a delicate sniff and paused to digest the mingling scents.

“Oh my God. That’s horrible. Like Coppertone layered with perspiration.”

The next day I listed the perfume on eBay, claiming I adored the fragrance but couldn’t wear it because my beau was deathly allergic. Listen, I’m in sales. Saying it smelled like day old beach sweat wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Luck of luck, someone bit and bought the bottle for $79.99.

Cost per spritz - $2.58



Last Thursday I emailed an astrologer. Yeah, you read that right and no I can’t believe I just admitted it. But listen, based on random behaviors of this past week - completing 80% of an application for a job in San Fransisco, pricing out a Jeep so I could more easily relocate my mountain bike to trails, and spending a ridiculous amount of time pondering my love life - consulting an astrologer sounded borderline intelligent.

Today I finally got an email response to my inquiry: Mary is booked until November. Would you be interested in a half hour or full hour session?

November? I can’t wait that long to get my life in order. I forwarded the message to Leslie who responded with a phone call.

“I have a magic eight ball. Ask me a something you want to know.”

While I’ve never believed in those things, I suddenly found myself bombarding Leslie with question after question. About my upcoming trip to Alaska (favorable). About me leaving Philadelphia (favorable). About me ever getting published (it may be so). About me finding true love (favorable). In light of the magic eight ball spewing appealing answers to my current uncertainties, I was starting to think my recent quandary about life and love was for nought.

“Okay, one last question. My arm is getting tired and I have work to do.”

“Will I kill your mother?” I asked before popping a rationed Rainier cherry into my mouth.

“Hold on, it’s lining up. Okay - more time is needed, ask again later,” Leslie answered. “Wow, this thing really is accurate!”

Cost per question - $0.00



At the end of the day, it appears consulting the magic eight ball was the most financially sound decision I have made these last few days. And to think I have clients who trust me to assist them with decisions that cost hundreds of thousands of dollars.

You Can Never Have Too Many Bags

Shop away, my lady friends. Shop away!

Puddle Of The Unknown

Sometime on Monday night, my dad sent an email to let everyone in the office know he had an appointment the following morning down at Penn. Since he was scheduled to meet with the one and only local PLS specialist, he joked he wouldn’t be in at his usual time of 6:57am. Someone else was going to have to take care of fetching the donuts and coffee. This from the man who rarely shows up to work before ten thirty.

On the way back from the appointment, my parents rang to see if I wanted to have lunch with them at a spot a few blocks from the office. It was a beautiful day, I was up to my eyeballs with work and I had absolutely no interest in being inside. I grabbed my things and leisurely strolled up the street.

We were led to an outside table anchored with an umbrella. A gentle breeze of warm spring air randomly rustled the canvas flaps. With everyone situated and the food ordered, we started talking about my dad’s morning trek to Penn.

“So, are you cured?” I asked as I fished a stray lemon seed from the bottom of my Diet Coke.

“Of course, can’t you tell?” my dad responded, throwing his arms out in a ta-da motion.

“PJ, did you know there are only 600 people who have PLS?” my mom asked.

“In Philly?”

“No, in the entire country,” she answered.

“Wow. No offense dad but how can someone legitimately request research funding when there’s such a small number of people impacted by the illness?”

“None taken ‘cause I was thinking the same thing,” my dad answered. “But there’s someone at Northwestern studying blood samples.”

“Northwestern? Really? Not Johns Hopkins? You know, there’s gotta be more than 600 people with PLS. They just haven’t been properly diagnosed. Look at you, traipsing along for twenty-five years under the MS umbrella. Speaking of which, I still say you have MS. It involves less explanation.”

The server delivered our plates and all conversation ceased. My dad salted his eggs, my mom stole some homefries off my plate and I took a bite of my lightly buttered toast. As our bellies became full, we each slowed up and sat back in our chairs.

“I asked the doctor about heredity,” my mom said as she set her fork down on the wooden placemat.

I got quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every noise sound exaggerated and out of place. The kind of quiet that says more than any words or sound ever could. The kind of quiet that halts all breathing.

“So,” my mom continued as I curled my fingers around the arms of my chair. “They know of a family where three of the four kids have PLS though interestingly the parents are healthy. Isn’t that,” my mom halted mid-sentence so as to leave the adjective up to the listener.

I plugged in ‘scary as all fuck’ as my throat tightened. My dad plugged in ‘can we have the check’ as he motioned a signal to the server. I think I heard my mom say something about a recessive gene but I could be wrong. By that point, I was too wrapped up in the what-if to continue on in the conversation.

My dad paid the bill, my mom reapplied her lipstick and I quietly collected my things. I helped my dad to his walker as my mom fished around in her handbag for the car keys. Lingering next to the table, I thanked them for lunch, kissed them goodbye and headed out to the sidewalk.

“The office is that way,” my mom said as she pointed in the exact opposite direction I was facing.

“Yeah, I know. I need a cookie,” I replied.

In reality, my need was undefined. I really just felt the urge to hold onto something that could make my suddenly trembling world become still. All along, I’ve safely stood on the periphery of my father’s illness. And now for the first time ever, his sickness was bleeding onto me. No longer was he standing alone in that puddle of the unknown.

Mamma Said, Mamma Said

Sometimes my mom says things without thinking. I guess everyone sometimes says things without thinking but her comments can occasionally have an unwarranted bite. The kind of zing that is okay to think but not okay to speak or at the very least not okay to speak while conversing with the person the zinger is about.

Like a few weeks ago, I went shopping with her on the Main Line. She needed to buy make-up and I needed to peruse the shoe collection at Sak’s. And yes, it was a need. The same way I need oxygen and chocolate. Anyway, I got out of the car and sauntered through the parking lot toward the store. My mom trailed a few feet behind.

“Have you lost weight?” she asked with disbelief. Because me shedding pounds is about as conceivable as Lindsay Lohan winning an Oscar.

“I think I ate a grand total of three hundred calories last week, so yeah, I lost some weight,” I answered as I pulled my sunglasses off and tucked them away in the case.

“That’s right, you were sick. Well, you’ll gain those pounds right back,” she replied with a wave of her hand. The kind of gesture that partners perfectly with the dismissal of something deemed silly or foolish.

Truth be told, I didn’t disagree with her. The pounds shed during my feverish trembles and foggy haze were probably going to return. But was it really necessary to point it out? Couldn’t she just let me enjoy the momentary bliss of my skirt resting on my hips instead of at my waist?

A couple of days later, my mom unexpectedly stopped by the office. One second I was working on a presentation and the next I was being asked banal questions as she hovered over the candy dish and gently moved the selection aside in search of a peanut-butter cup.

“What are you doing tonight?” she asked.

“Working out,” I replied while scanning a spreadsheet.

“So you don’t have plans.”

“I have plans to work out. And actually, mom, I’m really busy right now. I have a meeting tomorrow I need to prep for.”

“What are you working on?” she said, her eyes straying from the candy dish only long enough to glance at the paperwork scattered across my desk.

“Work. What? You think I come in here and do nothing?” I sarcastically asked.

“Actually, yes,” she answered with a deadpan tone before plucking a peanut-butter cup from the glass bowl. “Tell dad to call me when he’s done for the night,” she said before turning on her heels and heading for the door.

For the record, August will mark my ninth year working in this business. Ninth! For the last five I have single-handedly kept my dad’s side of the company afloat and he’d be the first to agree. But forget all of that. If you’re going to accuse me of not working, perhaps you should do it when I’m, uh, not working.

Then last Sunday I set out for the kickball field. We were scheduled to play a team with one-one record, not that it mattered. Our opponent had previously provided two players to ref the one and only game my team had lost all season and at the risk of sounding cranky, that game hinged on crappy calls consistently made against us. It may be a silly game of kickball but this time around we were out for blood.

“So, did you win?” my mom asked when I answered her call later that night.

“Not only did we win but the score was four to zero. Wait, and our opponent holds practice!” I exclaimed in between giggles.

“Don’t you find this rather unchallenging?” she asked.

I immediately froze recalling the instructions I was given many summers back about black bears in the woods - when one starts to attack, just play dead.

“I mean it seems like a rather easy effort considering how often you win,” my mom continued. “Why bother playing?”

Listen, I understand the urge to be judgmental. I spent this past Friday night volunteering at an event and there was this gal in a red dress? I think it was a dress. It might have been a shirt. Belted. And paired with four inch black platform pumps. The kind of pumps usually reserved for pole dancing. Anyway, there were three of us responsible for greeting guests and we collectively spent the better part of the evening trying to understand that outfit. All curiosity went out the window when the lady in red dropped her cocktail napkin. I quietly mumbled ‘don’t do it, don’t do it’ and another girl uttered ‘avert your eyes’ just before the gal began to bend at the waist. My point is I’m capable of being judgmental. There, I admitted it.

But for the love of fucking God, can someone please explain to me where the flaw is in excelling at something? That’s like criticizing Cormac McCarthy for winning the Pulitzer for Fiction. Or finding fault with Oprah Winfrey and Bill Gates for using their endless financial resources to better the world. Or considering Food Network extraordinaire Rachel Ray talentless in the kitchen as she creatively blends a melange of canned goods into a thirty-minute-meal. Okay, bad example. But you get my point.

These recent exchanges with my mother are what ran through my head yesterday as I pulled over one block shy of a family get together. Still having to write out my cards, I lingered curbside while I willed my inner literary genius to construct a personalized sentiment. Something sincere and genuine and worth reading. Five minutes later, I had nothing and I was officially late for the party. And so in large loopy print that took up the better part of the empty space, I wrote Happy Mother’s Day. I was tempted to sign it:

Love,
Your Thinner, Hard Working, Kickball Captain Daughter.

But I didn’t.

Making Plans

“I cannot get over how much of a dump this place is,” Ex exclaimed as he exited the bathroom and peered around the space we were scheduled to call home for the next three nights.

I was standing a few feet from the bed and trying my darnedest to avoid coming in contact with anything. I glanced down to the floor, my eyes following a long and suspicious collection of stains dotting the carpet. The only thing missing was a chalk outline and some yellow tape.

“Okay, so we’ll keep our shoes on,” he said with a sigh before fetching some towels from the bathroom and placing them over the area I had been studying moments earlier. “We just drove eight hours and it’s late. Let’s go to bed and try to find something better tomorrow morning,” he suggested as he reached for the comforter and pulled back the linens.

“There’s a hair,” I grumbled while using my chin to indicate where to look. “All of those in favor of sleeping in the car raise your hand,” I announced as I thrust my arm upward.

“Sleeping in the car is utterly ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as this fucking room costing $280 a night. I’m going down to the front desk to get this all sorted out. Do not, I repeat do not go anywhere,” he said as he straightened his sport coat and turned for the door.

I knew full well that his last statement to stay put had nothing to do with fear of me stranding him solo. No, it had everything to do with me remaining at least ten feet away from the front desk. Ex always preferred subtlety and charm when it came to resolving a problem. And listen, I agree that can be a good approach. But I refuse to be an ass kisser when the problem isn’t mine to fix. This difference between us became most apparent the first time we dined at Citronelle. Ex relayed his dissatisfaction with the service by leaving a piddly tip. I relayed my dissatisfaction by pulling the maitre d’ aside as we departed so I could personally relay all of the unacceptable aspects of the evening. I don’t care how French you are, squab is never supposed to be served raw.

“Someone’s coming upstairs to change the sheets,” Ex said as he came through the door.

“Um, is that the good news or the bad news?” I asked.

“The good news. I’d tell you to sit down for the bad news but I’m not sure it’s safe to touch any surfaces. Lock your knees because the bad news is the Vermont Tourism Bureau is claiming there isn’t a single room available for the remainder of the weekend.”

In a sarcastic tone, I responded. “Gee, could it be because you decided twenty-four hours ago it would be brilliant to head to Vermont during one of the busiest weekends of the year without properly planning?”

A few seconds later, a woman clad in cornflower blue mom jeans came into the room and stripped the bed down before making it back up with new linens. I averted my eyes for fear of what I might see on the bare mattress. When the woman left, Ex and I set the alarm for the early morning, crawled into bed and fell off to sleep.

At the crack of dawn, we awoke, gathered our things, piled into the car and worked our way down the mountain road leading into Rutland. It was there that we stopped for breakfast. Over a towering pile of syrupy pancakes, we pondered our options. We both refused to accept that the entire state of Vermont was blinking No Vacancy. So we hopped back in the car and with the engine idling started ringing up places listed in a guidebook. Two calls in we hit the jackpot, landing a room at a resort that had been previously noted as sold out. We immediately mapped our journey and headed to our destination.

A few hours later and we were wrapped up in fluffy white robes and sitting on oversized chairs circling a crackling fireplace.

“So you know we only ended up here because we traveled my way, right? If we had planned, we would have ended up at The Woodstock Inn surrounded by old farts,” Ex said as he leaned closer to the flames.

“Miss, are you ready to go back for your massage?” an attendant asked as she extended a glass of cucumber infused water.

“Just need a second,” I answered after taking a sip. And then I turned to Ex, let out a childish sigh and begrudgingly said, “Yeah, I get it. Fine, you’re right - no matter how much we could have planned we would have never landed here. Are you happy now?”

“That hurt, didn’t it?” he asked.

“More than you will ever know,” I said as I hoisted myself out of the chair and scuffed away down the feng shui corridor leading to my massage.

I Can-ish

In the summer of ’89, my parents sent me off on a bike trip through Europe. Not one of those prissy teen tours where you leisurely pedaled on flat roads while an air conditioned support vehicle trailed behind. No, this was a six week journey comprised of thirteen kids, two adults and three countries. You carried your own gear, you carried your share of the group gear and if you didn’t feel like biking that day, well, then you got left behind.

A few months before my departure I went over to a local bicycle shop to be outfitted for a two-wheeler. A guy with greasy fingernails adjusted the handlebars and the seat before sending me out to the rear parking lot for a test drive. I completely freaked out. You see unlike my previous bike - a purple, metallic, banana-seat, Schwinn I’d inherited from Leslie - this one felt wobbly. The tires were thin, the handlebars were low and only my tippy toes could reach the ground. My hands trembled as I swerved to avoid a dumpster. Just after my life flashed before my eyes but before I clumsily hopped off the seat and crashed my clitoris down on the middle bar, I silently questioned if spending the entire summer on a bicycle was a smart idea.

A few days later, with my crotch still throbbing and my new and unused bike propped up against the lawnmower in the garage, a packet with training instructions arrived. I was told to get comfortable cycling for at least twenty-five miles. That once I worked my way up to that I should add my panniers and gradually weigh them down. I read the packet through twice and then started to train.

When it came to my relationship with the bike, I was hesitant and untrusting. As if the two-wheeler was a horse that could buck me off at any old time. Like I always walked my bike down the driveway, fearing the pitch was so steep I’d lose control. Or I’d only mount my bike from the curb so I could always start with one foot firmly planted flat on the ground. Or to avoid ever releasing a white knuckled hand from the curled handlebars, I always kept the 21-speed bike in seventh gear. Always. Regardless of the incline. Listen, the shifts were two little levers on the middle bar. Changing speeds involved not only steering with one hand but looking down. Yeah, no. Perpetually pedaling in seventh gear was really my only option.

In early July, I flew out from JFK for Europe. The trip started with a few days touring Rome and from there we hopped on our bikes and cycled out to Pisa. As the group reached the campground for the night, I gently tapped the brakes and worked my way in amongst the crowd. One leader was announcing what we should do next, assigning Jon and Vicki to get dinner going and instructing everyone else to pitch the tents. Not wanting to highlight my tardy arrival, I quietly kicked my left foot free from the toe clip and shifted my body in that direction.

Well, I must have pushed the handlebars as I steadied myself on one leg. Or maybe my pre-trip training pedaling along the suburban streets of Philadelphia with my panniers containing all of three history textbooks didn’t properly prepare me for what it really felt like to balance a bike loaded down with fifty pounds of crap. Either way, when my body went to the left, the bike went to the right. And since my right foot wasn’t fully released from the clip, I ended up being flipped over the middle bar like a rag doll as the bike crashed to the ground in a thunderous thud.

“I’m okay,” I yelped from the puff of dust surrounding me. “And good news, the helmet works,” I announced as I struggled to untangle myself.

I suddenly felt like that girl. The one picked last off the wall when teams are parceled out on the playground. The one the coach merely tolerates while he shuffles off to mentor the true athletes on the team. Luckily that crash in Pisa was merely a hiccup. Sure I spent the better part of that summer sporting a greasy tattoo of bike chain on my right calf but I also managed to cycle the switchbacks up to the top of Grimsel Pass. And that my friend is what life is all about.

It’s been more than fifteen years since that trip and I suddenly find myself wanting to relive that summer. So last night I sat down and evaluated various adventures. And as I figured out which trips tempted me the most, that Pisa tumble suddenly came back to me. I could feel the aching pain as my hip slammed into the earth. I could hear the echo of my helmet as it cracked against the ground. And above all, I could recall the self-doubt that resulted.

I may work out five days a week but I also play kickball. I may own a treadmill, a bench press and a balance ball but I also own a road bike and a mountain bike that have spent the last year and a half collecting cobwebs in my parent’s garage. I may own six pairs of running sneakers but four of them were purchased solely according to how cute they’d look as I prance around town running errands. What I’m saying is I know I can manage some adventure travel but I just don’t know how much some really is. And if I ever get around to ironing it all out, I question if my version of some will be accurate or shaped cautiously by fear.

Maybe the problem isn’t whether I can conquer a twelve day journey that involves hiking ten miles on Monday and biking thirty miles on Tuesday. Maybe the real problem is whether I can finally conquer my self doubt. Whether I can stop thinking in terms of sorta-kinda-can-ish and just believe I can.

To Tread or To Trek

When I bought my condo, the better part of the space was covered with a royal blue shag rug. It was old and dirty and told quite a story, though not the kind of story I was interested in knowing. Think Grover on a debaucherous bender. His skinny blue legs up in the air as he gurgles back a funnel worth of beer. His fur matted into patches of knots as he nuzzles his nose in Miss Piggy’s bosom. My floor was pretty much a muppetous stretch of Grover the morning after a night of sex, drugs and rock & roll.

Eight hours after I closed on my condo, I started removing the carpet. Over the course of the next few days, I yanked up, cut down and dragged out every last thread of that royal blue rug. It took three blades on my utility knife and ten trips to the dumpster but I eventually met with success. In its place was the original parquet flooring. Or at least most of the original parquet flooring.

Yeah, um, when I aggressively yanked Grover free, I yanked some wood tiles with it. Turns out some of the carpet was stuck to some of the padding. This wouldn’t have been a problem except that some of the padding was adhered to some of the parquet and some of the parquet was no longer glued to the cement floor. The whole thing led to a rather large expanse of exposed concrete and a Tourretes like outburst of fuckermotherfuckershitshitshit. I eventually calmed down, pondered my options and settled on a temporary solution of creatively placing the furniture. And then I added ‘figure out flooring’ to my renovation list.

Two years later, I have a fantastic new kitchen, a somewhat updated bathroom and improved recessed lighting. I also still have that stretch by the balcony where some parquet is missing. It isn’t that I haven’t priced out options. Whether I install lush Berber or lay slats of rich cherry wood, the price is the same. Actually, at the end of the day my delay has nothing to with money.

Listen, I hate when I walk through my bedroom and a stray parquet strip sticks to my heel and joins me on my journey to the toilet. And I cringe when I step out to my balcony and have to teeter across uneven flooring en route. But whenever I get close to purchasing new floors, I start thinking about how that same chunk of change could buy me a round trip ticket to Russia or Greece or Costa Rica. I think about how I can either tread across freshly laid flooring inside my 750 square foot apartment or trek across the open landscape of foreign lands.

Last week I sat around a table with my friend Samantha and her cousin Daniel and the three of us scanned a ginormous Atlas. The kind of Atlas that WASPs buy. Jews never bother with that stuff because the only destinations of importance are Florida, Israel and New York and we all know where they are. Anyway, with wine in hand and an aromatic leg of lamb grilling a few feet away, Daniel pointed out Bhutan, the one place he truly wants to visit again. He spoke about the people, the culture and the mountains that span in the near distance. I sat their salivating, not for the pending lamb feast but for the prospect of traveling.

And then today after I worked out but before I formally got a start on my day, I checked this blog. As I read the part about having traveled to forty different countries, my mouth again started to water. Sure, I’ve climbed the craggy path that leads out of Zermatt. I’ve biked the rolling hills of Tuscany. I’ve roamed the cobble stone walkways that meander through Barcelona. I’ve run my fingers across the intricate tile work of the Palace in Sintra. I’ve passed through the cavernous halls that link the rooms of Chenonceau. But at the end of the day, all of those experiences start to run together. Europe is sorta like Epcot in the sense that France is different from Italy but the food all comes from the same kitchen.

Every time I think about replacing my floors, I think about the fact that I am simply passing up the opportunity to add one more international stamp in my passport. I want to sit in an open Jeep and watch giraffes and elephants as they wander across the landscape. I want to return to the place my dad’s family so hurriedly fled, soaking in the past along with the present. I want to venture into other cultures and other environments for the sake of experiencing that which I don’t know. New floors are nice and all but I just don’t believe they’ll leave a lasting impression. At least not as lasting as strapping myself into a harness and zipping through the treetops of a rain forest in Costa Rica.