I'm so sorry about not posting the last few days. I am under the weather. As soon as I am able to hold on to more than a glass of water, I'll be back. In the meantime, please see the video below. Maybe a few bucks spent on some lessons might have helped.
Yesterday, after work, the kids and I went back to the Harley dealership to pick up the Sportster. Dave, who was in my motorcycle class, just happened to be the person who got the bike ready for pick up. He made it shine. I apologize for the photos. I have no picture taking talent.
After supper, while the kids were getting ready for bed, I took her out for a quick spin through my neighbourhood. She is so much more responsive in the lower gears and much, much lighter than big boy. Two hundred pounds makes all of the difference. I am so much more confident riding this bike. Little girl has come home!
And now, I've officially become one of THOSE people who talk about their motorized vehicles like they live and breathe. But they do, don't they? I haven't named her... yet (does "Little Girl" count?), so I suppose my metamorphosis into a total motorhead is not fully realized.
The kids are with their dad this weekend. Guess what I'm going to be doing?
Live to ride, baby.
I have known for quite some time that I am really not girlfriend material. I just can't seem to get too excited about the prospect of being committed, except perhaps to an asylum.
You see, the trouble begins with my inability to pick appropriate men. I look back on the serious romantic relationships in my life and they look like something out of a poorly acted soap opera.
The first boy I ever loved with a heart old enough to purchase alcohol was this tall, dark, wild child from Indiana. He had moved up to Canada for the summer to play AAA baseball. He was a year younger than me, drove a Mustang and he could throw a 91 mile an hour fastball. We met by accident when he fell through the evergreen hedges into my back yard. We had the best summer as only two young twenty-somethings can but we always knew that he would go home to Indiana. We tried to do the long distance thing for a while and he was so decent about answering his phone even though I called like a total lunatic a bazillion times a day. However, on some level, I knew that I would never have to commit to this man because he LIVED IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! We are still good friends and I have already purchased the most insulting 40th birthday card I could find for him.
Then came the Honda CBR boy. He dropped into my life at a party. He was 6'5", dark haired and brooding. I mistook the quiet, unsmiling persona as mysterious and Marlon Brando-like. Wrong. He was just plain miserable. And gay. Not that there is anything wrong with that.....except that he asked me to marry him and I DID. Call me crazy but when a man asks a woman to walk down the aisle, the woman doesn't think to inquire if he might bat for the other team. Looking back, it was clear that on some level, I had to have known. After all, if it waddles, quacks and accessorizes better than me, it's a duck.
After that kick to my fragile feminine ego, I went out and found the biggest, most masculine, most Neanderthal-like man on the planet. If you looked sideways at him when he wasn't watching, you might have been able to catch his knuckles brushing the ground. Everything was a-ok as long as I was content playing cave woman. I fell hard and it was so easy because he was married to someone else at the time. We were still great friends, though. We'd have lunch and talk about everything under the sun using very. simple. words. He'd complain about his wife (red flag) and I commiserated because EVERYONE knows that the wife is the problem, right? I thought he was the second coming and I pined for him from afar.
Then, he did the unthinkable and left his wife. To compound the horror, he confessed that he was in love with me and wanted to pursue a relationship (danger sign, danger sign). I felt tremendous guilt along the lines of "be careful what you ask for...", so I married him, of course. Because nothing screams validation like being the new, much younger wife of a man in the throes of mid-life crisis. He is the father of my children.
I lasted a decade with him until one morning, I woke up and seriously contemplated the physics that would be necessary to smother him to death. You think that I am kidding...
Dallas is sweet and I have no regrets but he's still licking some pretty serious wounds. We have arrived at a comfortable place, though. I have a friend in another town who I dated for a few weeks and who treated me like a queen so naturally, I sprinted away from him. We're still friends, too. Something has changed, though because I have been asked out more often in the last two months than the last four years. Grocery store, line at the dry cleaners, Harley dealership, neighbour, etc. have all resulted in perfect strangers asking to exchange digits.
For instance, the other day I was at the hand car wash cleaning my vehicle to get it ready for trade in. I had my iPod on and I walked over to the vending machine to get some Turtle wax wipes (I like wipes-all kinds of wipes). I turned around and this guy started to make small talk about the bill changer and did I have any left over coins I might want to sell him. When I told him I had used my debit card, that launched a whole other discussion which ended with, "Gee. Your boyfriend? (pause while he waited for a confirm or deny which never came) is a lucky guy to be able to stay at home watching football while you're out washing the car." Big, bad, obvious fish for info but I just didn't feel like pursuing it so I smiled and went back to my car.
Well, I'm back out there again. I still do not trust my judgment because my track record is beyond pathetic. While I'm confident that my gaydar is now finely tuned, I'm not so sure about my ability to discern any other characteristic. One thing I do know for certain is that men must find commitment-phobes to be irresistible because my dance card is full.
Yesterday, I walked into work like it was any other day. I dropped the kids off with Laura (we carpool) and had the music jacked on my way in. There is nothing like a little "Jet" to start the day off right and after the heavy breather at the crack of dawn, I needed music that didn't require effort to appreciate.
I usually arrive to work somewhere around 7:15 am and I absolutely love this time to myself. I plunk down at my desk, plug in my laptop, plug in my iPod, answer email and plan my day for the next thirty minutes. I have a travel mug full of hot, perfectly brewed, Tim Horton's coffee and sometimes, if email is light, I get the chance to skim my blogroll. It is the most peace one can get outside of the bathroom.
Today, Michael came in early, which was out of the ordinary. This was his first day back from a week long holiday at the beach. He and his wife, Laura are close friends of mine and they generously took my son on vacation with them. Our boys are very tight and our daughters have been best friends since they were in diapers. I love these people.
I started to give Michael a hard time about something and he ambled down the hallway telling me to come to his office to discuss. I walked in and he was clearly preoccupied. I started teasing him about how his office looks like crap and how he ought to get a lamp or a plant or a PULSE to warm it up. He replied,
"It doesn't matter, now. I got called up this weekend." I looked at him, not comprehending what he was telling me.
"Wha...what?"
"I got my orders. I have to report for duty October 1st."
Michael is National Guard Reserve. We've all been dodging the inevitability of this day for the past five years. The shock of hearing him say it out loud surprised me. I felt my eyes start to fill and I excused myself so I wouldn't embarrass either one of us. I also recognized the first, unconscious stirrings of unadulterated, it's-not-fair rage and decided that expressing those emotions wouldn't do anyone any good.
When I got myself composed, we talked through it. Later, I watched as he walked to the president's office to break the news. He was remarkably stoic. I couldn't seem to shake the sick feeling I had in the pit of my stomach. It wasn't fear or apprehension though. It was this mismash of non specific ick.
Just before leaving for the day, I walked out into our hallway and I could hear Michael tap, tap, tapping his pencil on his desk. He was on the phone when suddenly, he broke out into his trademark laugh which is infectious, loud and genuine. It was then that I finally understood. That unidentified thing I was feeling was sadness.
I'm going to miss him.
Terribly.
I woke up this morning to the sick wail that is my alarm clock. I've had the thing for years and when I first bought it, the Timex "Indiglo" was all the rage. I could look over in the middle of the night as a new mother and get a clear reading of how sleep deprived I really was.
The clock hums and I quickly became used to the sound and the flourescent green blue colour that was projected from the face. I remember my ex husband barking at me to cover the damn thing up because the light ostensibly kept him awake.
Oh, please.
The only thing that kept him awake was sex and since that wasn't a prolonged affair, he always managed to get his 10 hours a night.
Anyway, this morning when the alarm went off, it sounded funky. Instead of that sharp, set your teeth on edge blare that I've grown to loathe with a fury, I got this weak beep, beep, beep that sounded like a car door alarm going off....in Vietnam. It was a whisper. I hit snooze but didn't really have to because I probably could have slept through it just fine. The trouble was that I perceived this other sound and it made the hair on the back of my neck stand straight up.
At first, I thought it must be my sleep haze and I was just listening to the rise and fall of my own chest. Then, I held my breath and the sound was still there. Someone or something was breathing loudly, rhythmically and RIGHT OUTSIDE OF MY OPEN WINDOW. Do you remember as a kid irrationally being frightened to get out of your bed for fear that a hand would shoot out from underneath the dust ruffle and grab you like Carrie?
Umm...that was me this morning. I was terrified. I tried talking myself out of the panic. My internal dialogue usually works like a charm with scary things like wicked turbulence over the Pacific in the dead of night. I just imagine the plane bathed in a pure white light of protection (as suggested by Birkenstock wearing mother) and soon, I'm focused on happy thoughts instead of assuming the crash position. Well, none of it was working at 4:30 am. I turned ever so slightly and looked out of the window. The whole side of my house was shrouded in fog.
Of course.
Because apparently, it's not spooky enough that there was an unidentified species respirating under my window like Michael from Hallowe'en in the fricking face mask. Jesus.
I lay there nearly paralyzed, hating myself for being such a goober. Meanwhile, my wheezy old alarm clock hummed through the last few seconds of my nine minute snooze and then positively SHRIEKED. Every organ in my body plunged right to my bowel. I flew off the mattress and quickly realized my ankles were vulnerable to an under bed attack so I sprinted to my bathroom, threw on the light and caught a glimpse of my wild-eyed, panicked, whack-a-do, self in the mirror. And then, I giggled because let's face it, I'm a nutter.
Even though I could still feel my heart pounding in my ears, I put on a pair of sweats and wandered over to the window.
The breathing sound was gone.
Creepy.
Saturday morning marked my one week anniversary as a motorcycle operator. I took the Harley out for a short spin in my neighbourhood and confirmed that my model is designed for experienced riders. The Street Glider is a touring bike and it performs like a dream at higher speeds but tooling around in second or third gear makes it feel heavy and cumbersome for someone who still has to think about EVERY single operation.
Scan ahead. See stop sign. Get ready to gear down to first. Check mirrors for traffic behind. Pull in clutch. Gear down with left foot. Check mirrors for traffic, again. Use right foot and find rear brake. Decide on left or right turn. Steer to proper lane position. Roll off throttle. Apply front brake GENTLY with right hand. Get ready to put feet down. Left foot down. Right foot down. Steady....
This thought process is automatic for anyone who has ridden for any period of time. For me, it is an exhausting brain drain. Looking back, I have always learned like this. In university, I bought a five speed car without knowing how to operate a stick. I took a two minute lesson from the kid who washed the cars and then I DROVE the car off the lot. The first stop light I encountered had me on an incline. I stalled, cranked it back up, stalled again, missed the light, had traffic beeping at me from behind, shed a few tears, turned it over again, put it into first and when the light changed, I gave it way too much gas, let go of the clutch and squealed through the intersection. I was sick to my stomach by the time I made it home. The next morning I got up, saw my keys laying on the hall table and decided that I was going to take the car over to one of the university parking lots to practise. I never looked back.
The experience with my motorcycle is slightly different, though. Now, I am twenty years older and I understand that I am mortal. I am keenly aware that a serious accident on my bike could leave my kids without a mum or worse, with a burden that needs to be fed and changed. My cousin, Ashley, suggested that I park my baby and buy an inexpensive smaller bike to use to develop my skills. Dallas had advised something similar.
So, I went back to the dealership. While there, I ran into Tim and we chatted for a bit. I asked for his advice, as well, since he was intimately familiar with my riding skills (or lack thereof). I was trying to decide between a Buell Blast (which I had learned on) and a 2002 Harley-Davidson 1200cc Sportster. Without hesitation, Tim recommended the Sportster as a good bridge. He felt the Buell would not be challenging enough. I tested the Sportster out back on the range and she was lighter and more responsive at lower speeds.
I put a deposit down and I'll probably pick her up today if I get the right price. Tomorrow, you'll be able to find me on the corner panhandling for food money.
I have had no less than ten people welcome me to the Harley-Davidson family. I've been told about the local chapter of lady riders and encouraged to join. I've been directed to an incredible network of people who all share this same passion and plugged into a ton of events.
I have never been more at peace with a decision of mine.
My new ride made it home last night courtesy of a friend and this morning, before the sun and the neighbour dog were up, I crept into my garage to have another look. I had to pinch myself.
Even my coffee tasted better this morning.
Beautiful, eh?
The Harley saga continues....
Yesterday, I went down to the dealership to give them all of the documentation they needed and it occured to me that there might be an unsavoury element who try to obtain financing through Harley Davidson. Why do I say this? Well, for starters,the refinancing of my house (update on that coming soon) was less arduous than this deal.
My driver's license address did not match my application so I had to provide proof of residence because when repossessing, I imagine it is easier for Harley D to know where to find the bike. The trouble is, all of my home utilities are under my nickname, not my nunnery name (peace be with you, my child) and apparently, it was too much of a stretch to connect the dots between "Elizabeth" and "Beth".
Then, my birthdate was cut off the copy of my driver's license that was sent over. Then, there was something else.
While waiting for the bank to decide if they wanted a kidney and my right arm, I went out onto the range behind the dealership to test drive the bike. Within a few minutes, I felt comfortable except for the fact that the bike is a BEAST. Holy crap! I knew that there would be a difference between the small Buell I learned on and the big hog I bought but I was humbled by the difference in weight. I could hear Tim and Trey's voices in my head telling me to "walk with the bike", "practise stopping", "do your figure eight's" and I wished for them to be there to demonstrate like they did before every course exercise. Total student/teacher separation anxiety.
After tooling around on the range for awhile, I rode very slowly through the parking lot and was about to pull into a space when a friend beeped at me. Being the highly skilled rider that I am, I got all flustered and dumped my brand new bike. GAH!!!!
I was fine, the bike was fine and nothing got bruised except for my ego. And let me tell you right now. I will be practising getting that bike up off the ground over and over and over from the safe confines of my garage because I think that the odds are pretty good that I'll dump it again before it's all said and done. This is not negative thinking..just a smack of reality and the last thing I want is to be stuck somewhere.
Well, late last night, after promising my first born grandchild, my sales guy called to tell me that we were square and I could sign the documents today. A friend of mine is going to ride it home for me and this weekend, I'm meeting a classmate out at the range to practise. Someday soon, when I'm all grown up, I'll be able to ride on the streets like the big kids. For now, though, I'm content to walk the beast through the undeveloped portions of my neighbourhood and learn how to become one with the hog.
I passed! I passed!
On a cerebral level, I knew that there was no possibility that I was going to fail my written test because unlike some of my university courses, I actually attended the classes. However, being slightly type A, I felt it necessary to suffer through small pockets of apprehension until it was confirmed that I was an official Rider's Edge graduate. I have not wanted anything this badly in a very long time.
After our test, we had a few minutes to peruse the showroom floor before our graduation party got underway. I was so grateful for this time because I FINALLY made a decision on a bike. For days, I had been eyeballing this beautiful, red, Road Glide with a fixed fairing but I wasn't happy with the aesthetics of the nose and I couldn't put my finger on what actually bothered me about it. Then Chad, a fellow classmate, cleared it all up.
"Looks like a Gold Wing." And it does.
So, I left that one behind and took a closer look at the Street Glides. This is the bike that makes my heart quicken so.....
I bought it.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go put my head between my legs and breathe deeply.
I spent this entire weekend on a motorcycle. It was beyond awesome. Nirvana.
Thursday night started my Rider's Edge course, which is sponsored by the Harley Davidson dealership in my town. The class was comprised of twelve people and four of us were women. We had a blast. On Thursday, we had just over three hours of class time. Friday was the same. The time you have to spend with your nose in a book is very similar to sitting through the whole "rules" portion of the Academy Awards. A necessary evil but not especially scintillating.
Saturday was different. For the bulk of the day, we were on the bikes. Did I mention that we had torrential rain? Oh, it was awful. We got through three exercises with a little light rain. I asked one of my instructors if I should get my rain pants on and he said he thought it might pass. Well, on the fourth exercise, the sky opened up and we got soaked. I am not talking damp where you might be a bit uncomfortable. This was run your hand down the leg of your pants and water streams off. Absolutely miserable. I actually wrung out my leather gloves.
Lest you think that there wasn't a silver lining....soaking wet jeans called for emergency action. I had to shop.
Determined, I strode into the merchandising section of the dealership and tried on a pair of Harley jeans. I came out and the sales girl looked at them and said, "You are floating in those. Can I get you a smaller size?" This would be the part in the story where I heard harp music and the sales girl was suddenly bathed in a beautiful white light.
"Why, yes. I will take a smaller size." I don't know if is my amped up exercise program or if Harley Davidson is just generous in their sizing but who cares? The whole experience made my day. I ended up buying two pairs of jeans and a black belt with silver studs that just screams biker chick. Nirvana, I tell you.
Anyway, we had classwork to finish so we chose to do it during the downpour. Later on, the rain had slowed to a steady sprinkle and we tried again. It's funny how perspective can change. By the time we were able to get back on the bikes, we were grateful for the drizzle and the opportunity to be one with our rides. The only mishap was one of the girls laid down her bike. For those that don't know, this means that she lost control and the bike went over. We cheered, though, because we were told that at least one student does this with each class. We were glad that Sarah had taken the brunt for the rest of us.
Sunday morning, I woke up and felt like I had been beaten with a blunt object, particularly around my tailbone. My thighs were on fire and my left hand was sore from the clutch. It didn't matter, though. I couldn't wait to get back on a bike. We rode ALL day, drill after drill.
Early afternoon, while doing a challenging drill through a curve, I LAID MY BIKE DOWN...just barely. Part of the problem was the fact that I couldn't straighten my left arm but I knew that and I should have compensated. Ah well. It was the source of genuine concern from my fellow riders and then gentle abuse once everyone could see that I didn't suffer a scratch. The great thing was that it wasn't the $25,000 bike I'm planning to purchase. I also learned how to pick a bike up, the knowledge of which I plan never ever to need again.
Ten minutes later, Jeanie laid her bike down too. So, along with Sarah, we three became crash sistahs for life. And no, it isn't a woman driver thing. Plenty of the guys weebled and wobbled but didn't fall down because they were strong enough to counter gravity. This is what I will tell myself so that I'll sleep at night.
Later afternoon, I made up for it. On my riding test, during the quick stop drill, I came at the instructor in second gear going about 26 miles per hour (roughly double the required speed). At that velocity, I was able to stop the bike in 11 feet, which happened to be the best of the class. My instructor, Tim, said my performance caused him to have a religious moment. Anxiety will do that for you. I will say that when I crossed the cones, Tim's eyes were as big as saucers and his mouth formed a perfect "O"...
....like Mr. Bill.
So, I passed the riding portion of my exam and the written test is tonight. My favourite motorcycle is sitting on the dealership floor and every time I walk by, he calls out like a siren:
"Buy me, Beth. Think of the times we'll have together. Just you and me and the open road. You know you want me. Come. Be one with the hog."
I may just lose that September 15th bet after all.
This has been a weird week.
On Tuesday, my daughter claimed to be ill. She came downstairs, refused her favourite breakfast and said she didn't feel well. She looked pale and felt clammy to the touch. I suspected that a visit to the toilet might do her a world of good but she insisted that she'd already been there and done that. I explained to her that staying home from school meant she would have to stay in bed all day without TV, sidewalk chalk or her bicycle. She made the choice to go back upstairs to bed. Well, I thought, she MUST be sick. About an hour later, I heard her up in the bathroom and fearing she would vomit in the sink (her usual MO), I flew up the stairs but stopped abruptly at the top because I could hear music. In her special little girl voice punctuated with new kindergarten moxy, Olivia was softly singing:
"I didn't have to go to school to-day. I stayed home with Mummmmmmmy".
I turned around and went back downstairs to my bathroom so I would have the benefit of a mirror while removing the giant hook from my mouth. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the day in bed with nary a hint of sensory stimulation. That night, she dramatically wiped her brow with her hand and told me she was soooo happy that she felt sooo much better. Uh huh. Let me tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf.....
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Wednesday, I went out for a run in my neighbourhood and noticed that the sidewalks were filled with toads. I guess when the sun goes down, these warty creatures come out and hug the cement for warmth. I was convinced that I was witnessing the Apocalypse in my subdivision since "plague" is only loosely defined in Revelations. They were gross. I tried to take a picture to show you how one toad's eyes defied the laws of physics but the iPhone doesn't have a flash. The worst part is that I don't see well in the dark. I am not a feline, bat or an owl so jumping off the sidewalk onto the road is always a crap shoot for me. One day it could be success, the next could mean knee surgery. Anyway, the queerest thing was that the toads WOULD NOT HOP AWAY. My feet were pounding down right beside them and they didn't move. I had visions of scraping squished amphibian out of my shoe treads and it was more than I could bear. I moved to the street where every leaf looked like a tarantula and every stick resembled a snake. When I got home, I was relieved to find the children still in their beds so the Rapture hadn't happened after all. I won't be running at night anymore.
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Yesterday, I got to see my favourite Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and when I left his office, I was feeling positively sassy. He told me that I was a "stud" because I had healed so well and had such great use of my arm. He lavished me in superlatives and I basked in all of that good patient glory. On the way out he asked me to wait because he had something to show me. Then, he goes into this office and comes out with his brand new iPhone. He tells me that he got it because of me. Small talk and more basking ensued. I told him I was learning how to ride a hog this weekend and he lifted up my pant legs apparently to see what my shins looked like before I tore the skin off of them. Now, that is just not positive thinking but no matter. I still have a crush.
And speaking of my Rider's Edge course, I learned one major thing tonight. Motorcycles are a little bit like pregnancy. Everyone has a horror story about some friend of a friend. So far, the other eleven people in the class seem great. I met one guy who just turned forty in January and like me, his fascination with Harley Davidson has roots in a mid-life crisis although I don't think he would actually coin it that way.
And hey, I know that I appear to be the poster child for the whole crisis scenario but I am having the time of my life right now and I wouldn't change one thing. This isn't a crisis! It's EVERYTHING I would have done in my twenties if I'd had two nickels to rub together. In class tonight, I learned that one of the other instructors owns the most reputable tatoo parlour in town. Coincidence? I think not.
It's good to be forty.
Can men and women truly be friends? Umm....maybe?
If you had asked me this question a couple of months ago, my answer would have been a definitive, unequivocal, NO. Nada. No way. You're kidding, right?
But now, I've changed my mind. I think that we can commune with the opposite sex under very controlled circumstances.
First, there are work friends. For instance, there is this man who toils out of one of our satellite offices and we work together on several projects. There are times that I talk with him and I laugh until I have tears streaming down my face. I can't discuss the hilarity with another soul (except Steph the Magnificent) because often, it involves politics and the two of us are the only blue in a company teaming with red. I have been known to call him for a fix and he never lets me down. However, I wouldn't never call him up, like one of my girlfriends and gush about a date (unless it was crappy). That would just be all kinds of weird for both of us.
Second, there are the friends by proxy: other people's husbands. Now, I know that all you have to do is open up a Hustler magazine and read all about how this husband was making house calls to that neighbour or how the BFF of some poor, unsuspecting wife was shagging the groom but really, does that happen that often? To real people? (Fingers in my ears...la la la, I can't hear you) In my world, I can talk with my married male friends without worry. However, as these men age and shed the twenty year old's machismo, they are a surprisingly tender bunch. As I got ready to start dating again, they were a welcomed source of information like, "Don't cut your hair. Men love long hair". Turns out to be true. "At least offer to pay. Don't fight him to the death over the cheque but at least offer. It's respectful." True, again.
Third, there are our gay male friends. I live in the south so the gay men in my town are communicating through sonar from their closets. Rainbow decals are not a popular bumper sticker choice. Nope. Down here, any suggestion of an "alternative" lifestyle is tucked neatly under a ready-to-wear suit. There is one exception. Retail. And this is why I love, love , love to shop. Even in a place where there are more livestock than people, I can drive 2.6 miles and have the prettiest men in the world give me straight up, sage fashion advice. They know shoes and accessories and they have a sixth sense for the "break up" vibe. Two of these men have become real friends to me. We talk regularly and sometimes more openly than I do with my girlfriends.
The final category is the most dangerous. In this one, the man and woman have explored a relationship, ended it and the sexual tension that normally exists between members of the opposite sex has been somewhat diffused. This is the scenario where hearts can be blown to smithereens. There is always genuine affection here. Sometimes there is love.
The relationship may not have worked out but people vow to be "friends" because the heart hasn't let go and the brain isn't firing correctly. The heart might convince you that if you just hang in there, time will take care of the issues. Maybe. But it's like betting the farm on the million to one horse or holding your breath for a really, really long time.
The other version of this is when two people decide to be friends with benefits. Tightrope. Over shark infested waters. With no safety net. In hurricane force winds.
For the rare few, the relationship is more important than the details and the heart and brain are content to assume the friendship role and shift from lover to cheerleader. They are sincere in their desire to see the other succeed in life..and love. Think Jerry and Elaine. Now try to think of ONE more example. See...I'm stumped, too. Rare, I tell you.
So, yes. I guess men and women can be friends but it is not a natural state. It's those pictures you see of a kitten sleeping in the crook of a dog's arm. Delicate balance. Sometimes there is harmony but I suspect that most of the time, there's a rabbit boiling on the stove.
Have you ever noticed that when you are in emotional turmoil, every song you hear feels like it was written with your particular angst in mind? On the other hand, sometimes all you need is the opening few bars of some song and you are immediately transported back in time to a great memory.
Take "Stairway to Heaven" (Led Zeppelin). I don't know if it is a Canadian thing or not but every school dance from the grade seven through graduation ended with this song. I hear it and think about that innocent, awkward, embrace and how I could always feel my dance mate's heart racing through his best rugby shirt.
I hear "You Shook Me All Night Long" (AC/DC) and I am instantly back to grade eight and my first kiss. It was here that my weakness for bad boys began to take shape. One such lad let me borrow his Back in Black album until I earned enough from babysitting to buy my own. I wore that album out. Tab and blue mascara figured largely in my life then and I was keenly interested to know who shot J.R.
I cannot listen to "Roxanne" (Police) without remembering Paul and John (their parents apparent Beatles fans) who were brothers, much older than me and they lived in my neighborhood. They were British, professional motor cross racers and just a bit dangerous. I had a terrible crush on both of them. They treated me like a younger sister and taught me the basic mechanics of motorcycles. I learned to change oil and filters and to be very quiet because often, they would discuss the pros and cons of their dates forgetting that I was there listening to them. I just wish I had written some of those nuggets down.
The first time I smoked a cigarette and some of that wacky tabacky (I didn't inhale...much), Comfortably Numb (Pink Floyd) was playing. Any song from The Wall shoots me back in time to the precise moment when I officially left common sense at my father's doorstep and became the type of teenager that causes parents to attend support groups.
"Shout" (Tears For Fears) was the anthem of my graduating class. We were going to set the world on fire. We were the generation that would find the cure for cancer, solve the problem of world hunger and broker world peace. Of course, all of this would have to wait until after the season finale of "Miami Vice". I still see the reflection of the street lights on the hood of the Ferrari that Crockett was driving when I listen to "In The Air Tonight" (Phil Collins). Admit it. You've air drummed that solo, haven't you?
In the twenty odd years since graduating from high school, I've acquired a whole library of music that is punctuated with memories. My iPod is filled with everything from classical to head banging rock and I am just grateful that all I need to do to change a mood is plug in.
The first few notes of the song below have been sung to me REPEATEDLY by men in various stages of inebriation. It always occurred the same way. University hang out, Friday night, frat boy sticks his hand out to introduce himself. I shake and tell him my name. Then he breaks out into song. It happened. A lot. The memory of it still makes me smile.
Last week, I started a "program". I'm not talking a twelve stepper or anything. I had just decided that now that I have been smoke free for over three months, I was going to have a closer look at my overall health. Below are some of my notes to self.
The second directive was that I must wear long sleeved shirts. I am in the south and the weather is likely to stay a balmy 85 degrees well into this month so I figured that if I am going to sweat, I might as well do it in style.
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