REACHING NEW HEIGHTS

REACHING NEW HEIGHTS

“Many waters cannot quench love; neither can rivers drown it.  If a man tried to buy love with everything he owned, his offer would be utterly despised.”  Song of Songs 8:7, NLT

Our 25^th anniversary was at hand and some generous family members joined resources to send us to the hills of West Virginia.  Not that they were trying to get rid of us, or anything. Their initial plan was an anniversary party, which I successfully squelched after discovering my not-so-subtle mother perusing the October family calendar on my refrigerator.  I still maintain that relief was her dominant emotion when she called me to share how appalled she was at my ruination of her surprise.

We left in good time, early on a Friday afternoon.  Imagining that West Virginia was just the tiny blip of state through which we passed on the way to Harrisonburg, Virginia, I was wretchedly mistaken.  Apparently the state continues off to the west in a most disorganized fashion.  At least it felt disorganized to those of us who originally imagined it to be a tiny blip.  I was thinking it would take us maybe four hours from home.  Six hours later we were still traversing the winding roads in search of our destination.  And we hadn’t taken any wrong turns.  I was somewhat unprepared for the stark lack of civilization.  Not that the West Virginians are uncivilized.  It is just that the buildings marking their civilization are so few and far between.  There was one particular stretch of road which seemed to go on forever.  And in the creepy darkness it seemed even more vacant.  After miles and miles of nothing but shadows, we noticed a great illumination off in the distance.  It looked large and it was lit up like a birthday cake.  There it was- large, glowing, and sitting in the middle of nowhere.  Predictable, yet depressing.  A WalMart.

The final 8 miles were the most ridiculous of all.  We were to turn left onto Smoke Hole Road.  And we did.  As the car climbed, my ears began to pop. Jim started talking about how this might be a perfect setting for a horror film or disturbing novel, thus causing me to become further creeped out by the lack of humanity in our immediate surroundings.  We had lost cell phone service about 90 minutes earlier so nobody would answer if I dialed 911.  And then the meandering began.  My steering wheel has never before seen so much action.   The word serpentine does not do it justice.  And in the dark it was unsettling to imagine that with one false turn of the wheel we’d be off the edge.  The only sight we came upon during our ascent up Smoke Hole Road was a gathering or two of tarps, tents and vehicles.  We later discovered that the tents did not contain weekend campers, but big game hunters. These outdoorsmen were apparently trying to get a jumpstart on hunting season which was to begin just two short hours after our arrival at the Inn.  Squirrel season to be exact.  The cute little furry buggers who steal the bird seeds from the feeders my back porch.  My floofy-tailed friends.  An apparent meat source.  Go figure.

Finding the sign at the end of the driveway, we climbed the impressive hill with tires spinning and no small amount of uncertainty. It was so very dark.  And late.  We were nothing short of ecstatic to reach our destination and find not just a comfortable place to lodge, but a beautiful inn with a very welcoming innkeeper.  Her name was Carol and she was like a Mom waiting at the end of a long school day.  She even came with a jar of homemade cookies.  And we had our very own hideaway cabin for the weekend.  With a swing on the porch and a quilt on the bed.

So as the weekend progressed and despite nearly reaching 900 miles from Friday afternoon to Sunday evening, all went well.  Delicious food by Chef Ed (Carol’s husband and resident culinary expert), neighborhood herds of deer visiting to receive handfuls of corn from the tourists (including us), amazing scenery with jagged rocks, beautiful leaves changing and transforming the mountains into a blaze of color, and a plan to visit our son for dinner on Saturday night.  

On Saturday morning after breakfast, we decided to venture up into the woods on a trail which would connect to the Monongahela National Park trails.  There was a nice little path to follow which exited the lovely herb garden at the inn.  The hike would be about 4 miles roundtrip, following a marked trail with red indicators and cairns, snaking over to an old logging road and then picking up the blue trail farther up the mountain.  I could do that, no problem.  We packed our little bag and set off.  It didn’t take long to realize that we were going up a lot more than we were going down.  And the going up got old quick.  At least for me.  Gravity is not my friend.  When I begin to whine, Jim is generally pretty good at not whining.  We balance each other well after all this time.  So I’m not sure if I was the only wimp who was hiking that day, but I strongly suspect that I was.  I’d like to believe that I’m in relatively good shape for a woman who has been married for 25 years.  That theory was tested at several points during the hike.  These were a few moments during which I would refuse to continue, landing on the nearest moss-covered rock to fix my errant socks, or to speak of my misery to Jim.  He, in turn, listened with practiced patience while cheerfully remarking about how amazing the scenery was….how much he was enjoying the hike…. “well, we can go back if you want to”…. blah blah blah….  I tried to hear his optimism but it was difficult to aspire to his hopefulness with my heart pounding so loudly in my ears.  Yes, there were rest stops.  All for me.  By the time we nearly reached the summit, I had startlingly clocked my heart at about 160 beats per minute.  I’ve got a pretty speedy resting heart rate normally, but 160 beats is just plain preposterous.  Not to be outdone by a mountain on a beautiful day or worse yet by my glaring athletic deficiency, I pressed on.  Of course the pressing on involved saying things to myself like, “I am SO never hiking this mountain again!”  But I persisted just the same.  Despite my discomfort.  Despite the overwhelming desire to go back to the inn and jump in the hot tub.  Despite the fact that there were no prudent cardiac warnings posted at the trailhead on the bottom of the mountain. 

And finally at the top was my reward.  Jim suggested we depart from the marked trail and look over the side of the mountain.  And as usual, he was right.  It was amazing, breathtaking and beautiful.  We saw huge birds soaring, valleys of green lush grass and water, and competing mountains of colorful trees looking like so many big bowls of Trix cereal.  We spotted two black bear and they were gratefully far enough away as not to cause increased distress to my overtaxed heart.  Jim insisted upon climbing the approximately three-story rock pile we discovered down the trail.  And I tried not to watch since the rock pile was skirting the mountain precisely at the point of severe drop-off to certain death.  He stood at the top calling and waving happily as though it were perfectly normal to risk life and limb without one’s proper climbing shoes. 

It mercifully happened that the hike took a turn for the better when we started down the hill. In fact, Jim noted my remarkable trailblazing skills when going downhill.  He was practically eating my dust.  And it was in close proximity to the bottom when I realized that the 4 mile hike needed a new name.   I believe strongly that the hike should be renamed ‘Childbirth Hike..’  I suggested this to the innkeeper because as I advanced to the top, I would have sworn never to do this EVER AGAIN, but by the time we reached the bottom, I was pleased and overcome with what a “lovely walk” we had just taken. 

And now since I’ve forgotten the pain I might just do it again. Just like a relationship.  There were years along our marriage trail when I was ready to give up because it felt too hard.  But you find out that the downhill climb is not only easier, it’s actually quite fun compared to those early years.  It is true that the things you found adorable while dating will make you insane after a few years together.  But if you stick to the plan and focus on the commitment rather than the way your heart is racing or the miserable way you sometimes feel, those things that were driving you crazy will probably make you smile again.  (Maybe a shaking your head with a sigh smile - but a smile just the same.)  And you discover that the one you married is just the one you want to be with when all the dust settles.   Another 25 years sounds good to me. 

WHEN THEY LEAVE THE NEST

I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from his love.  Death can’t, and life can’t.  The angels can’t, and the demons can’t.  Our fears for today, or worries about tomorrow, and even the powers of hell can’t keep God’s love away.  Whether we are high above the sky or in the deepest ocean, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.    Romans 8:38-39

I think I will start campaigning that parents of teenagers attend a mandatory class (maybe even get a degree) to prepare us to respond when sons and daughters leave the nest and embark on life after High School.   I convince myself that I am good at this.  I can give him all the freedom he needs.  While attempting to hand him this freedom, I do admittedly have some mantras that I repeat to him continually.  I sound like a broken record.  “Please be careful….Drive slowly….Don’t take chances….Walk with someone else in the city….Call me when you get there……Wear your seatbelt……etc….etc…..”   In a perfect world, the whole ‘letting them go’ thing makes perfect sense. In reality, however, it feels like cutting the apron strings over a pool of sharks.

Last month I received a disturbing call from one of my son’s friends.  He began like this, “Mrs. Shelly, We’ve had a mishap.”  As my heart climbed out of my chest and into my throat, he went on to explain that they had been 4-wheeling.   My traveling heart at that point enlarged and began to occlude any effective airflow.  Assuming that my son was not the caller because he could no longer speak, I waited for the other shoe to drop.  Alex calmly explained that my son’s friend Brad was driving too fast, flipped his 4-wheeler, and……injured his arm.  The pounding in my head grew louder as I stood there, suspended in time with the phone to my ear waiting for Alex to tell me that my son was unspeakably damaged under the wreck.  The other shoe didn’t drop.  I gathered my courage and asked him if Isaac was okay.  “Sure, he just wanted me to call you to say he’d be late because we’re going to stop by the ER with Brad.”  I’m not sure whether relief or agitation was the dominant emotion at that moment, but I managed to ask, “Why didn’t Isaac call me HIMSELF?”  Alex logically explained that Isaac’s hands were muddy as he was hosing off the 4-wheelers and he didn’t want to get the phone dirty.  I determined that I may have to kill him myself.   I suppose I should be grateful that my son reports when he will arrive home late, it was just the delivery of the message with which I struggled.   I attempted a rational explanation later that night.  I told my son, in no uncertain terms, that he should NEVER let a friend call me with frightening information again, as my motherly composure is easily disrupted when I think he’s DEAD.

Fast forward to this weekend.  Jim and I decided we needed a get-away weekend for our birthdays.  We traveled to Cape May and leaving the chaos of our lives behind, we arrived late at a restaurant for dinner.  My cell phone rang.  “Mrs. Shelly, this is Brian.”  I could barely hear him.  Brian is my son’s good friend at his inner city university.  My blood pressure began to rise as I started walking out toward the restaurant entrance to take the call.  He continued, “It’s okay, but I need to tell you that Isaac got mugged.”  Trying to ignore the bells and whistles of adrenalin rush and panic in my head, I stood there numbly listening to the details.  All the while, I imagined the worst- why else would Isaac let his friend call me?  When Ryan started talking again, I lost feeling in my feet and my ankles turned to rubber so I sat down.  Apparently, Isaac had walked to the train station to await his friend’s train.  He was alone when he noticed two thugs coming up behind him.  One of them wielded a gun.  My son was intelligent enough to start removing the wallet from his pocket immediately, and probably all but threw it at them.  He told them he didn’t want any trouble and after they patted him down for additional goods, they told him he’d better get out of there.  He wisely did.  He met the train and then went immediately to the police station.  The Philadelphia police drove him around in the back of a squad car so he could look at the people on the street and see if he spotted the thieves.  Next he had to spend some time pouring over mug shots at the police station.  Not surprisingly, he couldn’t clearly identify any faces.  It seems that once his eyes were riveted to the gun in the robber’s hand, his otherwise sharp assessment skills were effectively blurred.  He is $50.00 lighter and has to apply for another MAC card and driver’s license, but does not seem obviously distraught over this episode. 

Not counting the initial shock of the phone call, the most difficult time for me came in the nearly 90 minutes we waited for Isaac to finish with the police and call us.  Should we go to Philadelphia?  Where would we go and what would we do when we got there?  Is he really okay?  Is he just putting on a brave face for his friend?  It was excruciating feeling so helpless.  Jim kept reminding me that this is the kind of life learning that teaches a person how to responsibly function on their own.  Sure, leave it to my husband to be completely rational while I’m busy panicking.  It is hard for me to keep those annoying growth opportunities in perspective when we’re talking about the little boy who needed me to remind him of his homework just a few years ago.  Jim called Brian again while we waited, and we felt a little better when he reported having just received a photo from Isaac’s phone.  The image was of Isaac and his friend making faces in the back of a police cruiser….. 

I am so very thankful that there were no sutures or ambulance rides involved.  When Isaac finally phoned, my nervous resolve completely dissolved into a puddle of sobs upon hearing his voice.  “I’m fine Mom.  Don’t cut your weekend short to come up here, I’m fine….”  When I finally managed to stop sobbing and let a few words escape from my mouth, I said, “You’re transferring to BLUFFTON!”   We had visited that tiny town when we were ‘college shopping.’   By the conclusion of our visit and despite my conviction to the contrary - Isaac had determined that he would perish from monotony within the first semester were we to leave him there so far from city access. 

At any rate, he did not seem to appreciate the wisdom of my transfer suggestion.  He did admit that he probably should have been waiting for the train with the crowd of people at the other end of the station, so maybe something was accomplished along with the new gray hairs I feel emerging from my scalp.    I highly recommend the distribution of a broad parachute of prayer as children jump from the protected home nest into the rest of their lives.  I know we’ve changed the prayer terminology at the Shelly house from “hedges of protection” to “big stinking WALLS.”

ACCESSORIES OF JOY

ACCESORIES OF JOY 

Since God chose you to be the holy people whom he loves, you must clothe yourselves with tenderhearted mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.  You must make allowance for each other’s faults and forgive the person who offends you.  Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.  And the most important piece of clothing you must wear is love.  Love is what binds us all together in perfect harmony.  And let the peace that comes from Christ rule in your hearts.  For as members of one body you are called to live in peace.  And always be thankful.    Colossians 3:12-15, NLV

Let it never be said that my daughter swims with the crowd.  She has always been a creative dresser; her sense of personal style takes her from the sublime to the ridiculous.  She has absolutely no desire to dress like her peers.  Tie-dye apparel, painstakingly draped scarves, wild color combinations, and cartoon high-top sneakers are some of her clothing staples. 

We made a stop at the thrift store on the way home from school today.  This was the result of approximately two weeks of begging.  She had the notion that a pair of long gloves was in order.  Her plan was to purchase a long-sleeved shirt several sizes too small for comfort.  She also desired a pair of cloth gloves.  She imagined severing the sleeves from the shirt and attaching them instead to the gloves.  It was a matter of NEED.

I relented and we found a shirt that matched her specifications.  After consulting with one of the ladies at the store, we were directed to a basket of ancient cloth gloves.  I’m sure every pair was older than me.  Aubrey immediately donned a pair of tan ones, declaring them perfect for her project.  Before we could take our items to the register, she practically shrieked with pleasure at another discovery.  Resting in the basket was a pair of elegant, ivory elbow-length gloves.  They were festooned with long rows of stitching from one end to the other.  Aubrey’s yearning was immediate. She had to have them.  As though glue were involved, she put them on and couldn’t take them off.   I conceded. 

Her delighted murmurs of admiration flowed freely from the back seat of the car as she beamed at her hands and arms all the way home.  She was already imagining the outfits she could embellish with this, her latest accessory.  She was beside herself with bliss.

Not quite two hours later, she descended from her bedroom wearing the following:  A green fabric hat (reminiscent of a 40s flapper), a t-shirt and tan pair of overall shorts, sandals, and ivory elbow-length gloves.  Though I know in my heart that allowing my daughter to display free expression will result in wonderful things, I balked as only a ‘stick-in-the mud’ mother would.   I practically begged her not to wear the gloves.  The hat I could tolerate.  The gloves were just over the top.   We were going to see many people at the gathering.  I just knew that the gloves would draw unwanted attention. I asked her to reconsider.  Realizing that the lines on her face were heading for ‘crushed spirit’ territory, I caved.  It was my pride, after all, that wanted those gloves to remain in the non-public arena.

No sooner had we entered the building, one of my dearest friends asked her pointblank, “Why are you wearing those gloves?”  Aubrey’s answer was swift and unapologetic.  “Because my mother couldn’t talk me out of it.”    That’s pretty much how the evening went; though most others asked me discreetly with a casual whisper, “What’s up with the gloves?”  At one moment our friend Dorothy entered the scene with mild concern as from a distance the gloves were easily mistaken for arm casts.  I assured her without words that the only fracture was one of traditional fashion sense.  Choosing her words carefully, Aubrey’s hero Pastor Enid was thankfully and graciously complimentary of my daughter’s recent acquisition. 

The whole scene makes me smile now.  After considering my gut reaction, it occurs to me that my more dominant emotion is not one of embarrassment.  What I feel rather, is a measure of amused wonder at this zany and wonderful daughter of mine.  How freeing it would be to experience true unconcern about what others may think of me.  How truly amazing it must be to possess the gift that turns unwanted rags into banners of radiant joy.  

Picture below is many years later and with several friends who are also wonderful at BEING without stressing. Love those girls. 

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE SPEECH

After over 6 years, my car STILL has this annoying habit.  But now I know what to do.

My firstborn is graduating from High School.  To put it very lightly, I have been an emotional dishrag for weeks in anticipation of this whole series of tear-jerking events.  One of the most trying events for me was Isaac’s senior presentation at his school.  Each student speaks to family and friends for at least 20 minutes as part of the graduation requirement.  His home timing of the speech took up every minute of the 30 minute maximum speech allowance.  I have been anticipating that his speech would be the most emotional aspect for me; probably more so than the baccalaureate service and graduation ceremonies to come. 

I wanted to leave work at precisely 3:30 p.m. to arrive at his school, Christopher Dock Mennonite High School, in plenty of time to relax and get myself together for his 5:00 timeslot. This didn’t happen as a student with a swelling foot arrived at my office door as I was going outside to do car-pool duty at 3:05.  I finally managed to leave work at 4:00.  Aubrey and I were snaking around a back road toward Isaac’s school and we talked about maybe stopping somewhere to pick up some corny flowers to give Isaac after he was done speaking.  Just after making a turn, as if by providence, we approached the sign for a local florist.  I suggested we stop.  “Perfect!” Aubrey responded.  I pulled into their back driveway, effectively blocking the entire thing, and parked “briefly” as I was just planning to run in for a quick purchase and come right back out.  Though the inside door was open, there was a CLOSED sign hanging on the door and I decided to forgo the flower idea. 

Starting up the car, I attempted to put my Volvo into reverse.  It wouldn’t budge from PARK.  I tapped the break, turned the steering wheel, and tried again.  Nothing.  I turned off the car and tried the entire process again without success.  I began to panic.  I attempted to squeeze the shifter (clearly the wrong terminology) and lift it up slightly.  An alarming silver rod suddenly poked up through the leather covering.  This was not a good thing.  Even I know that little silver rod belongs inside the ball I’m holding.  I tried to lift the ball to get the silver rod back into place and an even more alarming thing occurred. 

The entire shifter, complete with leather covering, appalling silver rod, and now the entire fake mahogany console LIFTED OUT from the center of my car.  “Mommy, I’m scared!,”  came from the back seat.  “This can’t be happening!”  came from the front. 

I tried to call Jim at work.  His phone line was busy.  I ran back up to the florist door and started pounding.  There was no answer.  I tried Jim again. Still busy.  I noted the phone number on the sign in the front yard and left the following (now hysterical and nearly sobbing) message on the machine.  “My name is Brenda Shelly.  I’m really sorry, but my car is stuck in your driveway and is blocking everything from going in or out.  I was on my way to my son’s senior speech at his school (sob, sob) and tried to stop to pick up some flowers to give him when he was done (sob, sob) and I didn’t think I would get stuck in your driveway (sob, sob) and now I’m afraid I won’t even get to hear him speak (sob, sob) and I can’t believe this is happening to me (sob, sob) and my husband won’t hang up the stupid phone at work so I can call him (sob, sob) and I’m really sorry, and I’ll get my car out of your driveway as soon as I can (sob, sob) and my phone number is 215-368-XXXX (sob, sob!) 

I hung up and tried Jim again.  Still busy.  I called his office again and this time asked for Jim’s boss.  In my entire life I’ve only spoken to this man once or twice.  This time a little more controlled, but still hysterically crying, “This is an emergency!  Jim has been on his stupid phone forever and I need him to HANG UP NOW and call me on my cell phone.”  My phone rang moments later, and I tried to explain my plight to my husband.  He reassured me, told me he would come and get us, and that we would make it to the speech on time.  “Daddy’s coming!”  I told Aubrey.  My dear daughter, all this while, was sitting in the back seat praying hard “Please don’t let my mother lose it.  Please God, I want to hear my brother’s speech….” 

We gathered our things and waited outside the car in the shade of a tree.  Five minutes later my phone rang.  It was Jim.  “You’re not going to believe this, but I’ve got a flat tire.”  I totally LOST IT.  Jim started asking me questions again about what exactly happened with my car.  I cut him off.  “WE’RE WASTING TIME!  You’ve got to find a ride; I’VE got to find a ride!”  We hung up. 

I tried to make out the names on the face of my cell phone screen to call my father’s cell phone as he would be on his way over to the school right at that moment.  I couldn’t see past the stupid tears in my eyes. 

Just at that moment, an older woman emerges from the flower shop.  “Oh Honey!  I just heard your message!  Where are you trying to go?”  “Christopher Dock!” I sobbed.  She ran back into the shop for her car keys.

She came out moments later and we got into a tiny sports car, a two-seater; and Aubrey climbed back into the hatchback.  The kind lady couldn’t get her car around my stranded vehicle, and as I began a new panic, she took control.  “Don’t worry honey; we’re going through the lawn!”  She drove over bumps and mounds and out onto the road without batting an eye.  I couldn’t stop the flow of tears and couldn’t speak too coherently, but there was some conversation in the car without my help.  The woman kept saying things like, “There, there, honey – it’s all going to be okay – we’re going to get you there in time – it’s going to be a happy time – don’t worry about your car – we’re almost there…”  Aubrey, by way of explanation from her squashed position in the back of the car offered, “My mom has been pretty emotional all week….” 

I’m certain she must have been extremely thankful to get me and my nose-honking slobbery out of her car.  Soon after she efficiently dropped us off at the front door of the school, my cell phone rang again.  It was Jim.  He had explained his dilemma to the mechanics at the company garage and they quickly plugged his tire for him.  He was on his way.

Isaac’s speech was beautiful.  Having spent most, if not all of my tears on the drive to the speech, I was pretty composed for the actual event.  We enjoyed a lovely dinner afterward.  Jim went back to the scene of the crime and somehow managed to put all of the offending pieces of my car back into the correct order.  I drove my car home that night. We discovered some weeks later that if the key is not turned to the exactly correct position, the engine will start but little things like window controls and putting the car into gear will not function.

I’m wondering if Jim would have made it to the speech with his flat tire, had he not received the distress call which caused him to attempt departure sooner than anticipated. 

It was one more story for the collection of nonsense and the sometimes painstakingly slow wisdom which defines and ultimately helps direct my life. One more moment to be thankful that I am surrounded by people who will laugh and cry with me; not the least of whom was an angel, who is apparently also a florist.   

RELAX....AS IF.....

This story is quite dated also.  I should say, I have since found a wonderful masseuse, this time a woman.  Everyone should have one..... 

For years my close friends have been telling me that I need to learn the art of relaxation.  This is not something that comes naturally to me.

Last year for my birthday, Dorothy purchased a gift certificate and urged me to get a massage.  She extolled the virtues of said massage, explaining that she feels like jelly when she attempts to walk to her car thereafter.  The certificate is still in my possession.  I just haven’t been able to bring myself to make the call.

Dear Donna is less casual in her approach.  For Christmas, I received gift certificates to a spa; this time for massage, pedicure and manicure.  I’ve done the pedicure and manicure thing before, and yes, I find it fun and relaxing.  However, this whole massage notion still seemed like an uncomfortable concept.

To assure compliance, Donna hounded me until I agreed to a date on Spring Break week and then she efficiently scheduled us for these relaxation services together.   Not taking any chances, she even picked me up for the outing.

For weeks before the grand event and for the entire ride to the spa, she continued to prime me.   “It will be fine.  You won’t need to worry about anything.  It may seem strange at first, but just relax and it will be great.  When we get there, they will ask you some questions.  They’ll show you to a little room where you get changed.  You take off all your jewelry and slip into a nice fluffy robe.” (warning sirens, red flags……)  “No really, it will be fine.  She will be very careful to keep the parts of you she isn’t working on ‘covered.’  They’ll ask you if you want light, medium, or deep massage.  They’ll ask you about what scents you prefer.”  Okay, I had a question.  How do I know if I prefer light, medium, or deep pressure when the only massages I’ve ever had were from Jim?  “It will be fine.  The massage therapists are very professional.  I’ve had 50 massages.  Don’t worry.”

We were running a bit late.  We drove into the parking lot with our internet directions in hand.  There were more reassurances from Donna.  She could hardly wait to see my reaction.

We were shown to dressing rooms, side by side.  I heard the first massage therapist arrive.  She asked Donna if she was ready and they were off.   I am apparently slow to disrobe when I am tense with trepidation.  Taking some deep breaths which were learned with childbirth, I exited the dressing room.

“Hi, I’m Darren”…………. (Hi, I’m leaving……) My massage therapist unfortunately arrived sporting a Y chromosome.  The previously grape-sized lump in my throat grew to a kiwi.  Should I run?  Should I explain that I would most rather sustain a fractured femur than follow this man in white up the stairs to the massage table?  Should I scream for Donna to come and save me?  “Would you like to use the facilities before we go up?”  Finding my voice, I answered yes so that I could lock a door between us, look into the mirror and scream soundlessly.

Sadly realizing I couldn’t hide in the rest room forever I attempted to gather my wits about me and convince myself that this was a professional massage therapist.  I reluctantly followed him to the dreaded massage table.

“Make yourself comfortable.  This is your home for the next hour.”  I began to realize that chances were pretty good this would be the longest 60 minutes of my life.  The music was ‘pling plinging’ in a most annoying manner akin to Chinese water torture.  The lights were low and there were scents wafting from the cabinets.   The odors were from all manner of bottle and jar; the result of which was a somewhat nauseating potpourri.  Granted on a normal day with nobody about to massage me, and especially no male-type person, these scents may have been considered pleasing.

As I lay face down with my head in this strange holder and my eyes at full panic, I calculated how many steps it would take to grab the white robe (which was now hanging on the door) and scream loud enough for Donna (in the room across the hall) to hear me as I continued down the stairs and out the door.  Since I’d have to pause long enough to retrieve the pink sandals, my guess was that it would be a less than smooth retreat.  I tried instead to take more of those deep breaths.

He asked the question I was told to anticipate.  Light, medium, or deep?  (I have no possible basis on which to answer that question and I would really prefer a chai latte and my clothing back!) so instead I stammered, “I’ve never done this before.”  Of course by that point I’m sure it was obvious.  He started dripping warm things which smelled like Yankee candles on my back.  Okay, the dripping wasn’t so bad, but then the massaging thing started. 

I’m sure Darren tried his best to make me feel at ease; however, I mostly felt that this massage table would make a very effective torture device.  I believe Darren chose ‘deep massage’ on his own and I say that because it is the only possible explanation I have for the sensation of having every muscle in my body (who knew I had that many?!) kneaded and abused.  Sure, you wonder why I didn’t open my mouth to say, “Ouch!  The pain is excruciating!”  Well I’ve thought about that too.  With the benefit of hindsight I believe it was because by that point I had effectively mentally left my body altogether and was just floating nearby in shock that someone would go have this kind of treatment on purpose.  I’ve honestly checked my legs three times this morning as I’m convinced I will find bruising.  Nothing so far. 

The whole ‘wondering what was to come next’ may have been the worst part.  You just never knew which part was going to be uncovered for the next round of assault.  A caution to never massage legs was a familiar theme during my nursing school years.  Massaging legs increases a patient’s risk for the release of blood clots.  Just great.  What a place to die of a stroke or a pulmonary embolus.  I was ever so thankful that most of the massage took place while I could face downward and that the nice little fabric covered my eyes when flipped over like a pancake.  I couldn’t wait for it all to end.

I was surprised and relieved to discover that the treatment for arms, hands and scalp was nearly relaxing and fortunately came near the end when every nerve ending was at full frazzle.  

After 60 minutes of hard labor, his words, “I’m going to bring you back to earth now” may have been the most wonderful and anticipated of my life.  I could hardly wait to don my robe and get downstairs to my manicure.

Having chosen my nail color and sipped my stemmed glass of ice water, Donna soon arrived.  She looked completely relaxed and refreshed.  She attempted to catch my eye to see what I thought, but there was not at first opportunity to share.

Donna and I were assigned two lovely manicurists to finish our day.  They looked like they work out 6 hours each day, have personal hair stylists, and recently took turns stepping out of a glamour magazine.  Thankfully they were sweet.  After our manicures, we proceeded to the fabulous pedicure stations (I REALLY need one of those at home…)and were finally side-by-side to have a chat.  Donna attempted the massage chair but as I had already experienced enough massage to last for a year or so, I declined.   When both of our manicurists were otherwise occupied, I leaned over to Donna and gave her three simple words.  “Hi, I’m Darren.”   Her horror was instant.  “What?!  You have to be kidding me!  They don’t even HAVE a male massage therapist!”  I assured her they do.  When she saw him many moments later she did little to put my fears to rest as she deemed him every bit male.  In the following hour or so, I watched Donna’s emotions surge between the original shocked horror to something resembling indignant resolution.  On top of that, I have never seen her so apologetic.  That was such a sad thing as her original intent was so caring and generous.  As her feet were soaked, scrubbed and painted, she began practicing her speech to the spa owner. It was at that point I began begging that she use the comment box instead.  Unfortunately, our two manicurists had now returned and seemed to be just as appalled as Donna that she was not informed of the Y chromosome when making the appointment.  They effectively egged her on until she could not help but enlighten the owner as we got ready to leave.  Mid-way through her conversation (which likely appeared a tirade to unknowing onlookers) I was in enough discomfort to TAKE the keys she had offered me earlier and go wait in the car.  It felt like being rescued by my mother. 

Well, our nails look fabulous.  I’m afraid any relaxation Donna received from her massage (which DID by the way practically put her to SLEEP) was completely worn off before we even left the spa.  She had to phone her husband Todd, who predictably had evil things to say between hoots of laughter.  We had a nice dinner, disturbed only by the occasional rehashing of massage tales.

I learned a lot of important lessons during my evening out.  I learned that one should say “light” when ordering a massage.  I learned that one should always ask the gender of the masseuse.  I learned that it is much easier to find yourself in a vulnerable position than one might think.  I learned that my friends love me dearly.  I learned that I probably should have used that gift certificate from that nice girl Dorothy knows so I would have known what to expect.  (I may actually DO that now as how could it be any worse?!)  Donna is many amazing things.  She is loyal, helpful, generous to a fault, and ready to give you the clothes off her back (or heaven forbid, MY back as recently evidenced…) But until last night I didn’t realize what an incredible CHICKEN she is.  She refused to come inside with me to view my new quilt top as she was convinced Jim would assign blame for our stress therapy debacle.  My wonderful husband was less than thrilled when I told him about my evening, but he has no intention of pressing charges J  I told him I don’t ever have to do that again, and he assured me without hesitation that I WOULDN’T.   Yet another episode for the annals of my life.  Perhaps the most important thing I’ve discovered through this experience?  I can now tell my friends with certainty that relaxation is highly overrated. 

LAST MINUTE MAYHEM

Last Minute Mayhem

This was written 6 years ago.  I suspect our trip to CA this summer will be comparable. 

We can make our plans, but the Lord determines our steps.      Proverbs 16:9

It becomes obvious to me, in these hours prior to departure, that not everyone experiences preparatory tension the way I do.

We are leaving at 4:00 a.m. for a ten-day trip to Maine.  I’ve been planning, reading tour guides, scheming, packing, and making lists for several months.  I’m running on adrenalin by this point, having finished packing list minute items and completed the cleaning of the entire house.  One can’t leave for vacation with anything out of place at home, you know.

Isaac is now 18.  It is practically incomprehensible that I have ever given birth to this big hairy teenager. He has just about mastered the task of making his compulsive mother insane.  His plan for our trip?  He will be arriving home from his girlfriend’s house at just about 15 minutes past midnight.  I remind you – we are hoping to pull out of the driveway at 4:00 a.m.  He hasn’t packed yet.  He says it is no problem to pack when he gets home.  This is the man-child who mumbles incoherently from the couch when he falls asleep from staying up too late at night.  This same man-child, who predictably whines and moans from his loft bed when I try to stir him from slumber in the morning and manages to ignore the siren volume of the ninth snooze alarm from his bedside clock.  I’m sure he will be accomplishing his post-midnight packing with the same considerate quiet he maintains when he arrives home each and every night.  We will first notice his arrival when we hear the rhythmic thud of the speakers inside his car. This chest-thudding is second only to the subwoofer residing in the trunk of my husband’s Saab.  Soon thereafter, a car door slam will follow.   The next and louder slam will come from the front door as he enters.   At some point soon to follow, there will be feet stomping up the stairs and moving items around in his bedroom that sound like granite boulders.  I’m sure nobody who has gone to bed at a decent hour in anticipation of vacation departure will notice when he gets home…  I’m trying to take deep breaths…

His father, my dear husband, has also yet to open a suitcase.  I used to pack clothes for him when we went away.  It was during one of those trips, many years ago, when he said and I quote, “You expect me to wear THAT?!”  He began (happily I might add) packing clothing for himself.  In all fairness, I’ve seen him do this ‘packing’ and am astounded and a bit envious of the way he spends a literal five minutes throwing clothing haphazardly into the tiny suitcase yet manages to remain clothed for an entire vacation without the least concern for his attire.  It’s a handy trick.  I wish I could master it. 

Aubrey is something completely different when it comes to packing.  What concerns her most of all, is that as many stuffed friends as possible be jammed into whatever traveling bag will accompany her in the car.  Putting them in her proper suitcase with her clothing would never do.  They wouldn’t be able to see anything.  Suppose they MISS something along the way?  And how to choose?  “Do you want to go?” she’ll ask the stuffed pig.  Emily the pig responds wordlessly and Aubrey continues a similar dialogue with various species of creature until all of their little stuffed bodies are squashed into her ‘car bag.’  Some come clothed and others au-natural.  All are spoiled beyond belief.  Aside from a mountain of reading material, a soft blanket, and something comfy to sleep in, not much else is required as far as she is concerned.  Mommy takes care of the rest. 

Jasmine the cat has been trying to pack herself for days.  She keeps climbing into the suitcases while I’m in ‘mid-pack.’  She wiggled her way into the green fabric duffel bag yesterday and I didn’t notice she was there.  I finished packing jackets and shoes into the bag and zipped it up.  When I was tossing the suitcases, backpacks and assorted other bags onto the pile a few minutes later, I heard a feline whimper of despair.  She was in the flung bag.  I unzipped it immediately and her little fuzzy ears and giant blue eyes poked out.  She looked at me as if I had intentionally tossed her into an abyss.  Since she is sitting contentedly purring on my lap now, I will assume I’ve been forgiven. 

I hope Isaac manages to get a little sleep as I anticipate he will be bargaining with his father for the driver’s seat before we reach New England.  I am going to bed shortly as to increase my chances of falling into some coveted R.E.M. sleep before he comes home to quietly pack his things.  I’m sure his mood will be excellent as he will have to say goodbye to his beloved girl for the 10-day vacation separation.  The newly purchased calling card won’t go far in making him feel better, but it is the best I can do.  Bar Harbor, here we come...and I hope I haven’t forgotten anything.

ONE MORE TIME

ONE MORE TIME

 My husband’s mode of transportation (I am hesitant to refer to it as a car) continues to be a source of angst.  Though at times it masquerades as a dependable station wagon, we at the Shelly house know the truth.  At inconvenient and unpredictable intervals, the car just ceases to go.  This could happen just as Jim is starting out or perhaps after he has been driving for miles and miles.  It does not distinguish between the icy winter and the heat of summer.  There is no rhyme or reason (except the recent observance that when Jim dares to think to himself, “hmmmm, it has been some time since this car has left me stranded…” the car seems to read his mind and comply with expectations in short order.)

It has now been years with this same mystifying condition; a state which refuses to be diagnosed. When finally Jim’s frustration swells, my longsuffering spouse takes the maddening vehicle into the garage for repair.  The mechanics attempt to replicate the disorder.  But to no avail.  He took it again last month and they once again could find nothing awry.  Yet on his drive home from the garage, the beast (somehow affectionately called Lola by Jim and my magnanimous daughter) shut off once more.  

One might wonder why, on earth, such an intelligent man would not just push such a car over the nearest cliff.  Incomparable frugality is the only answer.  If his wife or child were driving the car and it left one of us sitting in the intersection, it would have been traded years ago.  But his prudence when the article only causes inconvenience to him is an unparalleled wonder.  The only silver lining in this annoying cloud of disrepair is that the car’s episodes are fairly predictable in resolution.  If one waits the appointed time (approximately 5 minutes) the car will start up with a grin, as though woken from a nap and refreshed for the next 200 or more miles.  And so with tolerance beyond my own, my husband sits and patiently waits for Lola to come to her senses.  I suspect that if I were the one repeatedly left stranded, there would be a great deal more fuming and kicking involved. 

And so it was, earlier this week, my husband phoned me from his office parking lot.  The car refused to budge and having persisted in his usual 12 or 13 hour workday, he was already late for supper.  He thought he might just wait a few minutes and then start it up and be on his way.  He did arrive home shortly thereafter and so I assumed things went as planned.  But apparently Lola had again refused to come home, so Jim caught a ride with a coworker.  Upon eating his slightly dried-out dinner, he casually mentioned that the gasoline indicator light was shining at him in the wee hours as he drove to work that morning.  To his credit, there truly aren’t any gas stations open at the ridiculous hour he begins his day, so he was unable to make a stop.  Thinking perhaps the car was out of gas, we poured a can of gas in her tank later that evening and he drove her home, naively assuming that gasoline was the problem.

Well last night the scenario was similar. Only this time Lola let Jim get far enough from the office to be marooned at a nearby intersection.  Predictably, dinner was past due once again.  While I was practicing my deep breathing, he was going to wait a little while and attempt to launch once more.  A second call had him sounding a bit more peeved and he refused my offer to come and pick him up.  He would decide what to do with his car (which was clogging the road) and call me back. 

When next we spoke, he was fairly winded.  This was the result of pushing and steering the annoying vehicle (by himself) to the driveway of the nearby Lowes.  And since Lola was now off the road (and he was exhausted from pushing hundreds of pounds in the heat and humidity) he agreed to a ride.

I arrived at the scene with an orange sign for the back of his car and a roll of scotch tape.  The sign explained that the car had died and would be removed from the driveway by morning.  Being a nurse, I am usually happy to be the rescuer, so despite the second dry supper of the week, I was in pretty good spirits.  In the meantime Jim had spoken to a man in the garage at work.  The man could not leave to attend the problem, but he did offer the use of a truck with which to tow the offending car back to the company garage.  Though we were pressed for time (an evening meeting) we dashed over to the garage to pick up the tow truck.

It was sort of a nice adventure, riding in the uncomfortably warm cab of a tow truck with my husband.  It was just a short distance, so I completely sanctioned this turn of events.  It was what Jim said as we got out of the tow truck that caused a red flag of alarm to rise in my otherwise agreeable demeanor. 

I should have noticed that the truck had no flatbed on which to place another vehicle.  If I were paying attention I might have noticed that there was not even a noticeable hook.  There was, however, a rather skimpy-looking flat rope which was apparently going to fasten between the truck and Lola.  I imagined a wayward dog on a leash, tugging against its owner and making wider turns than necessary….  Sweat was now breaking out on my previously dry forehead.  Jim informed me that I would be directing his car.  As in steering and braking.  “Do the brakes actually work when the car isn’t running?” I asked, foolishly.  Jim’s answer did nothing to cheer me.  Actually expecting me to have no trouble fairly STANDING on the breaks and yanking on the steering wheel while attempting NOT to hit the back of his company’s truck, he seemed not worried in the least.  “I’ll drive the tow truck”, I decided.  I did not want to be responsible for denting the back bumper of the tow truck.  “Well, it isn’t really easy to tow something either….and the truck does belong to the company…”  With a sense of impending doom and resignation, I climbed behind the wheel of Lola.  Jim directed me to turn the key until the red lights lit.  I tried one more time to start her up before embarking on the crazy rope-pulling expedition to the garage.  And she purred once again like a cat waking from her nap.  Stupid car. 

Against my suggestion that we drive her to the garage and LEAVE her there, Jim had already forgiven her trespasses and was happy to take her home with us. 

He is a patient and merciful man.  I know this because Lola and I have something in common.   I too am a recurring recipient of clemency.  I’d like to insist that Jim sell her disloyal carcass on EBay for parts; but forgiveness is a marvelous thing to watch and to receive.  Okay Lola.  One more time.