I’m afraid of heights and frequently have dreams in which I’m waaay too far from the ground. My fear is a known quantity in my household. So when I announced before leaving for Crested Butte a couple weeks ago that I was going to ride the ski-lift, Zebu’s response was a skeptical/worried “Really?”
Then I arrived and watched the lift from our rental balcony. My heart picked up the pace and my chest got tight. Zippy suggested we check it out and then I could decide, assuring me it was okay to back out. We walked to the lift-line filled with people in helmets, body armor, and mountain bikes. Turns out Wednesday evenings allow unlimited lifts up the mountain for bikers wanting to ride the trails to the bottom. I was in line next to little girls not only brave enough to ride the chair lift but to bomb down the mountain on bikes! Those two young sisters listened politely as their dad reassured this grown-ass woman I’d be fine on the lift.
And I was.
On the ride down the mountain (which was much easier and more relaxing for me, to the extent I released my death grips on the lap bar and Zippy’s shirt), we passed the biker girls and their dad riding up the mountain again. We all waved and one of the girls shouted, “Enjoy your ride!”
Thanks in no small part to their example. Girl power!
I’ve been writing today so, of course, I’ve also done a fair amount of wandering into the kitchen to see what was happening in the food department. A few minutes ago I spotted a lone orange in the fruit bowl and picked it up with the intention of eating it slowly so as to
procrastinate as long as possible promote healthy digestion. But then I realized it was one of those oranges. You know, an orange with that thin kind of rind that’s so difficult to remove you end up with a high percentage of orange still attached to the peel and/or because of aggressive peeling you end up gouging out chunks of orange with your thumbs? I know you know what I’m talking about.
Anyway, I put the orange back in the bowl and remarked to Zebu that I didn’t have the enthusiasm to mess with the peel. To which Zebu replied, “Roll it.”
Yes, people. Roll those oranges!
Note there are no thumb gouges in this specimen.
I rolled that orange on the table for about thirty seconds and then proceeded to remove the rind in one piece! It’s a freaking fruit miracle! This experience has expanded my world view to the extent that I will no longer avoid thin-peeled oranges. Because of what I learned today, I will face ALL citrus fruits with confidence.
When I told Zebu I was going to share this information as a Public Service Announcement he replied, “I think everyone already knows this, Mom.”
It’s probably true. I didn’t learn about apple slicers until Wildebeest was in kindergarten and one of the other moms used that awesome tool during a class party. (Confession: I also got really excited about that fruit technique.)
So maybe you already know how to roll. If that’s so, congratulations! But if not, then please go forth and roll those oranges!
Zippy and I went for a run this morning and it wasn’t until our cool-down walk that I noticed this:
A spit trail down my thigh. Apparently the wind caught my saliva rocket and returned it to me.
When I got home and started my stretches, I realized I’m basically an all-around rag-tag runner gal wearing holey socks and a ripped 20+-year-old polypro long underwear shirt:
I do, however, have a fairly new Garmin watch in fashionista chartreuse:
Look for me on the nearest runway. I’ll be the one rockin’ the groovy watch and sweat-stained togs. I promise not to spit.
(1) I did not work on my YA at all today, but instead worked on a non-writing project, using my Front Office Mind, and really hope my Middle Mind was thinking YA-related thoughts in preparation for tomorrow’s writing.
(2) I’ve suffered bed-head all day, proudly embracing Zebu’s assertion that I resemble Woody Woodpecker.