Maybe.

But what about when you force change? What about when you really want change to happen, so much so that you make it happen? What then?

No one ever warned me that change like that…change for the sake of change…is playing with fire. Silly me, I somehow believed I was simply taking control of life. That I was making a command decision. That I was in charge.

I got burned.

I forced a change in my relationship and moved in with my then boyfriend. An oversimplified summary of events perhaps, but we both knew it was a bad decision beforehand and we both went through with it anyway. No matter how I describe it or the months that followed…it ruined us.

And now I’m alone. Again.

The thing is, I like being alone. I haven’t always felt that way, but over time I’ve learned to embrace it, relish it even. I’ve learned that being alone is actually easier in a lot of ways. But I threw that thinking away. I chose to stop watching my life and what happened in it. I chose to open myself up to the change of living with a man I loved, of taking that risk, of believing that what may come eventually might as well come now.

I was wrong. I regret the decision. I regret what it’s done to me. And I regret what it’s done to him.

Everyone always says that change is a good thing. Maybe that’s true. But what I know, what I’ve experienced, is something altogether different.

Change, in my case, is moving into a one bedroom apartment in a place named Bittersweet.

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It has not escaped my notice that I still have not written about moving in with my boyfriend; about the move itself, the changes that living together has brought (or not brought rather), nor the state of “things.” I will. I almost have. But not yet.

Instead, I simply wish to say thank you for the thoughtfully kind emails, tweets, and texts that so many of you have sent over the past month. Although I’m not always the quickest in replying to them, I have read each and every message. I continue to keep your words close and reread them often, pulling them from a place of hope in my heart where they reside.

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Generally, when this sort of invasive statement is flung at me and my frightened ovaries, my go-to response is to laugh it off. Me? With kids? Ha! What a HOOT! But, truth be told, who’s to say I wouldn’t be a Great Parent? Especially when I imagine how I would talk to a child, let alone actually “parent” one. I flash forward and see myself reacting thusly…

Yes, sweetie, I see that you are VERY upset right now about this LONG ASS line at the Jewel…what’s that? Oh, okay. That’s cool. Maybe kick and scream a little louder though. It looks like you’re starting to scare people away.

…………………….

So….about this outfit you have on. What’s your mind frame in terms of functionality? I mean, do you really think a superhero cape will be necessary for sleeping? I’m not saying it isn’t, but you know, blankets are warm too and we don’t want to be discriminatory of various textiles.

…………………….

Let me get this straight- you went into the bathroom, conducted your “business meeting,” reported all went well and that you ALLEGEDLY washed your hands, and then you realized you forgot to remove the appropriate layer of clothing required for said business? Do you realize you just fast forwarded to what your frat years will be like?

…………………….

Wow, you’re really hitting that Go-Gurt hard today. Big plans later? A scuffle on the playground? A mid-afternoon nap date? A texting- triathlon after African drums class? Yes? No? Maybe so?

…………………….

Um, excuse me. Did you just say “shit head” and use it in the right context? Where did you…never mind. Carry on. Just don’t let your teacher hear you call him that.

…………………….

No, of course we don’t love the dog more than we love you. You’re our kid and you’re MAGICAL and irreplaceable. It’s just…the dog can’t talk back and that’s kind of awesome.

…………………….

I don’t know, kid. I mean, yeah, this year’s carnival rides are kind of crappy. But look at this way: you’re only six and now you know how most of the rest of your life is going to feel.

Ah, parenthood! Come to think of it…yes. Yes, I would make a magnificent parent! Obviously.

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Game On

I am officially in training. No, not for a marathon or a half-marathon or any other 3 or 5K run or walk thingamajig. And no, I’m not doing the 7 Day Shred or the Couch to 5K Challenge or whatever that’s called. Kudos to all of you who are by the way! Instead, the training I’m undergoing is of a very different nature.

I am officially in training for Napa Valley. In a matter of weeks, Graphic Designer Friend (who we’re just going to call Fancy from here on out because a) she’s fancy, and b) that’s what I call her anyway) and I are heading to San Francisco and the wine country. Which means, much of my free time these days involves reading about and, oh yeah, drinking wine.*

Each night for the next couple of weeks, I’ll be training my palette and raising my tolerance level. My end goal is to get used to imbibing wine on the regular (ideally 3 glasses in a sitting) without automatically RSVPing to a headache brunch in the morning.

This training is also necessary as my subconscious appears to be sincerely worried about my drinking abilities “in the field.” Namely, the other night I dreamed that owing to my surly drunkenness, Fancy and I ended up missing our Super Awesome Dinner Reservations at Foreign Cinema in San Fran, as well as Girl & the Fig and Mustard’s Grill in Napa and didn’t even realize it until the fourth day.

It should be noted that the terror with which I pointed this out to her was such that we both broke into a drunken snotfest of tears on the side of a dirt road where we kicked tree trunks and wailed into the folds of our wine-stained sundresses. Why we were on the side of a road and not in our rental or on the kickass Wine Train (!) is still a mystery, but suffice it to say, Napa had defeated us. Quelle nightmare!

Thus, my concern and need for training is obviously real. And we need to be on our game.

Our trip to wine country is singularly important. To us, it is a pilgrimage. Some people journey to the Holy Land, others to Mecca. Fancy and I? We’re sojourning to the cathedrals of Mumm and Trefethen, et. al. And, like good little believers, we’ll be prepared body and soul.

*This “drinking in my free time” thing is a short-term necessity and strictly professional. I promise, there is no need for you to plan an intervention. Unless, it’s with Dr. Drew. Then, be my guest. On a related note, Fancy informs me that there’s currently six bottles of wine and a case of “summer brews” chillaxing on her desk because somebody went to Cost Plus World Market on somebody’s lunch hour.

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I got the idea from reading Alice Steinbach’s Without Reservations, which I very much enjoyed and would recommend.

So, six weeks ago I sat down with a croissant, a café au lait, and a pen and I wrote. I wanted to capture the moment, the little and the great, the feeling of being there if only for four days. When I finished my breakfast, I sent my words on their way, then promptly forgot them. Until, that is, they returned to me this past Monday, a particularly bad day…

Like a miracle, the worn paper fell from a pile of junk mail I was about to throw out. As I picked it up, the recognition was that of seeing a lost friend. It couldn’t be! But it is. That’s right, I had almost forgotten! On the back I had written:

Sunrise spot. Napping in the shade. Coffee in the afternoon at Taino. Learning the bachata. Fruit smoothies. Hablo espanol un poquito. The color of the ocean. The beach waiter, Henry, always ready with another drink. Writing “bliss” in the sand at dusk. Listening to the downpour from the balcony rocking chair. Birds at sunrise. Massage on the beach. Wiggly toes in the sand. Feeling all at once- happy. Not being able to turn and walk away.

As I read each word again, I couldn’t help but smile, remembering. And I felt grateful for even this small kindness that I’d found a way to extend to myself.

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I’ve been unwashed and covered in DEET. I’ve woken in a tent to the sounds of moose grazing through my camp site. I’ve gone for a walk in the woods that lasted eight days and covered 82 miles, crossed ice fields in June at elevations of 8,000 and above, backpacked to the summit of Triple Divide Pass where fallen precipitation heads in one of three directions- to the Pacific, Atlantic, or Arctic Ocean. I’ve carried bear spray and read their tracks in hopes of never seeing one. I’ve “made water” and a no-bake cheesecake in a tin can. I’ve run my fingers through the powder soft pollen of bear grass flowers. I’ve swam in glacier fed lakes, then sprinted out of them screaming from near frost bite. I’ve picked wild huckleberries along the trail, disbelieving the tales of backpackers’ huckleberry-stained fingers being eaten off by grizzlies.

All of these versions of “me” happened a long time ago now- fifteen years ago in fact. But while I may have put away my rain gear and hiking boots, I still bear the scar on my left shoulder from backpacking in Glacier National Park (carrying a 55 pound backpack 18 miles in one day will do that, I guess). I wear that scar proudly now; a token of one of my happiest memories.

From National Geographic- Grinell Glacier in Glacier National Park in 1940 and 2004.

Ever since, I’ve been telling myself I’ll go back. I always thought I had the luxury of going whenever I got tired of taking beach vacations or touring crowded cities. As it turns out, the real luxury is that I saw Glacier as it was nearly two decades ago.

So it comes as no surprise that I was saddened to read this article on Glacier* and its recent loss of two glaciers. I realize that it’s just melting ice and snow, that it’s not one of those poor polar bears swimming endlessly trying to find food and/or ice to rest on. But in some ways reading this news does feel like an irrevocable loss, almost as though something has suffered and died. 

It’s more than unsettling for me to know that a place in which I experienced beauty and happiness 15 years ago won’t be there in 15 more. Glacier will still be a beautiful park with the same mountains and trails, but its namesake will be gone.

*My time in Glacier National Park’s backcountry was organized and led by guides contracted through Glacier Guides in West Glacier, Montana. One of the men quoted in the article, Denny Gignoux, just so happens to be the guide of my first backpacking trip. Small world.

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And yet, the comment never posted, was never approved. In finding that to be the case, I immediately felt insulted, incensed even. And then, I laughed at the absurdity of the blogger who refused to share my advice with the rest of the readers, to allow my words to be a part of the conversation. I had been censored.

As a blogger for four years, I’ve only ever committed the same error of judgment on one occasion. It was my own ignorance that prompted me to do so. My commenter had written what I thought was “IMAO,” and I immediately had to google it to learn what it meant. In my arrogant opinion. Huh. Well, that’s just stupid and hateful, I thought at the time. And then I realized that the “I” wasn’t an “I” at all but instead a lower case “L.” Laughing my ass off. Oh. I immediately undid what I had done, but was embarrassed nonetheless.

Since that mistaken understanding of modern day acronyms, I’ve encountered a few barbs here and there from commenters. I’ve approved them each time. And in some cases, deliberately. The comments were judgmental maybe, critical of my life choices and/or my writing of them. I’ve been accused of such things as whining and being selfish. Maybe I am whiny and selfish. More likely than not.

But, whereas I may not have liked what was written about me, I approved the comments as an accurate depiction of my reading audience. And- perhaps selfishly- I also wound up throwing those commenters to the wolves. The wolves being my longtime and loyal readers. In my own general refusal to respond to such comments, my readers picked up the slack and questioned the kindness and consideration of the offending commenters. Thank you.

I’ve been quite lucky in that regard and in general as far as pure hateful comments go. I’ve managed to avoid the distasteful character attacks that some of my fellow bloggers have come up against. Those kind of comments are ridiculous and simply uncalled for. The ethical dilemma of whether to approve such comments is in fact an easy one to decide.

As for my unapproved comment, I chose to drop that blog from my reader. Good luck and good riddance, I say. Despite the very serious and concerning drama about which the blogger writes, I must assume they are uninterested in my thoughts or advice, and therefore can do without my support as a reader as well.

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