A Whale of a Good Time

February 17, 2012 / roughwighting / 6 Comments

People ask me, “What are you doing for fun on your vacation?”

I’m afraid to answer.

Walking. Wandering cliff sides and warm sandy beaches. Watching whales.

To many, these skimpy answers do not constitute F U N.

Yet, as I peruse the Pacific Ocean from our balcony, or the bar, or the lounge chair, I can’t help but feel the simple joy of walking, wandering, and watching whales as they cavort just seemingly hundreds of yards away.

First I view fountains of water spouting out from the ocean up into the air. Some thing, or things, out there are having a whale of a good time.

They prove it by defying gravity and jumping out of the water, their tons of blubber slapping back down with priceless delight. From my vantage point on the beach, I can see the monumental splashes the whales produce.

I swear, they are having fun out there!

The thought brings me to a scene a decade ago, when our son attended college 20 miles away, but we rarely saw him unless he needed gas, cash, or homemade cookies.

One Saturday he surprised us when he came home at 8 p.m. unannounced or forewarned. As he entered the living room my man and I guiltily jumped apart.

Yes, he caught us, cuddling on the couch, glasses of cabernet half sipped, immersed in the movie we’d rented.

Sonny Boy shook his head in sorrow. “You guys are so boring,” he said sadly.

We laughed about it when he left (for a frat party). We thought we were having fun!

I guess it’s all in the perspective. I choose to follow the whale’s theory: just splash around and enjoy the simple pleasures in life.

Just for fun.

(Note: Whales are mammals, so they are warm blooded, breathe air, and give birth. These gentle giants of the oceans are also extremely intelligent. It’s believed that the average Beluga whale has an IQ of 155 – in human terms that’s a genius. Furthermore neuroscientist Professor Patrick Hof at the Mount Sinai School of Medicine in New York and Dr. Estel van der Gucht of the New York Consortium in Evolutionary Primatology have discovered that the brain of whales contain a special cell that is thought to make humans loving and caring. The neurons (known as spindle cells) allow humans to experience self-consciousness and to interact socially. Previously it was thought that these spindle brain cells, which allow us to feel empathy, were only found in humans and greater apes. However, the research conducted by Professor Hof has found these same cells in whales, and they are also located in the same brain region as humans, suggesting not only they are extremely intelligent but they are also able to experience empathy and love …. And, I would add, fun.)

Fear of (Not) Flying

February 10, 2012 / roughwighting / 11 Comments

I’m not a flyer.

As passengers stand in line to board the plane (after they’ve all scurried like scared squirrels to have tickets checked, hurrying through the tunnel just to stand and wait), I stay behind.

I do not want to enter that metal tube until absolutely necessary.

I’m not afraid of the actual flying part. I understand the physics of how the plane’s engine boosts us up into the sky, the dynamics of keeping us up there, the mechanism of getting us, and the plane, down in one piece.

That’s the easy part. The difficulty, for me, is being squished in that flying tube with 200 other people, with nowhere to go. What if I decide, mid-flight, that I really don’t want to be up there? That in fact, I want to touch earth, now, and walk a mile or so to stretch my legs, or maybe find a burger joint and eat real food, or, even more possibly, go pee someplace more private than a 3 inch by 3 inch box with a suspiciously sticky floor and tiny sink full of used water and strands of hair.

What do I do then?

I hyperventilate. Sweat pours off my forehead and down my back. My skin gets itchy, my lungs get smaller, and my heart starts racing faster than the jet. My mouth opens so I can scream, “let me out!” but my brain takes over and demands, “shut up, Pam.”

Most times, my brain wins over. I grab my paperback and delve into the story, urging my thoughts to go there, into the characters’ setting, into their dilemmas and fears, so I can ignore mine.

But sometimes, my desire for freedom (read: my claustrophobia), wins.

Like the time my man and I meander off one large plane knowing we have a 3-hour wait for the next smaller one to reach our vacation destination, but are told we can rush to the gate and make an earlier flight instead. We’re elated – we can get to the beach, and a drink, even sooner!

But we’re the last ones on the plane, and the flight attendant points us to our seats – in the last row. Gamely, I follow my guy down the aisle, talking to myself all the way “you’ll be fine, just 30 minutes, suck it up.”

Until we sit down, the flight attendant starts her safety spiel, and I pop up like a broken jack-in-the-box (in this case, Pam-in-a-box) and literally run back up the aisle to freedom. I dimly hear my dear seatmate shout, “where are you going?” and the attendant yell, “but the door’s already closed.” I don’t care. I Am Getting Out of There.

As I pass Row 5, a passenger on the aisle grabs my arm softly and whispers, “it’s okay,” treating me like a wild horse, and she the horse whisperer. “I’ll switch,” she continues, urging me to take her seat while she trudges down down down the narrow aisle to sit next to my bemused mate.

Thus, not only do I make it to our vacation island, still married (to an understanding man), but my love for all humanity has tripled.

Nonetheless, every time my guy and I travel together, he holds my hand a bit too firmly as we enter the plane and sit in our (as-close-to-the-front-as-possible) seats. But there’s no need for him to hold tight.

I realize that my biggest fear now is not flying, and thus missing out on visiting enchanting people, like grandchildren, and exotic places, like New Jersey.

Currently my mantra as I enter a plane is:

“it’s the destination, not the journey!” (Apologies to Siddhartha)

plane, crowds, claustrophobia

Firm Support

February 3, 2012February 3, 2012 / roughwighting / 5 Comments

I open my dresser drawer to pull out a bra – my favorite one with the lace and no underwire, just right for a day of writing and relaxation. My hand hovers over the array of other ‘stuff’ in the drawer.

Between the three white bras and one black one, I shuffle through the small bag of potpourri, the sales tags from Nordstrom from three years ago, the tiny antique frame that needs to be mended, as it has for the four years it’s sat in that drawer, and to the right, the pile of greeting cards.

Knowing I shouldn’t, I pull the cards out. I hesitate, then put them back in their spot. I just do not have time to do this now. I look at the clock – 8:12 – and pull them out again. Okay, just a few.

The first one is a picture of bright yellow California poppies in a field. The last Mother’s day card from my son. I open it up and smile. In his scrunched up, manly handwriting I read, “to an amazing person and an even more amazing mother. May you always know I appreciate everything you have done for me, and I love you very much.” I feel tingly goose bumps roll up my spine. This time he didn’t sign it with his first and last name, as in other years. Looking through my pile, I see his Mother’s day card from two years ago, and another from years before that.

But next I pull out a birthday card from my daughter. Last year? Two years ago? It’s not dated, and I wish I had put a year on it. The cover of the orange, new agey-looking card proclaims, “I know a woman of strength and beauty. I have watched her for years.” Inside, in script is added, “She is my mother. Happy Birthday.” I feel my eyes water (as they do every time I read the card), and then look at the added words, written with orange and blue magic markers. In blue she writes: “Mom, when I saw this card I immediately thought of you, because it says exactly what I think of you. I am blessed to not only know you, but to have you for my mom!”

The words from both my children never fail to touch me deep deep down in my gut, and I allow myself a good cry for three minutes.

I have a pile of at least 20 cards I could go through, from husband, the kids, my mom, friends, that remind me how extremely fortunate I am.

If I’m down and having a particularly tough day, I don’t need to go to the medicine cabinet for a pill, a picker upper. I just go to my bra drawer.

That’s where I always find lots of firm support.

Football and Hits

January 26, 2012 / roughwighting / 10 Comments

I’m a middle-aged woman who can’t watch violent movies and who shies away from angry words or, really, any kind of confrontation.

But, I absolutely LOVE football. Go figure!

My love affair began in 1985, living in San Francisco, watching Joe Montana and the 49ers.

Of course, I’d watched football before then – didn’t ‘get’ it. What was the fuss all about? I dated a quarterback in high school. He was cute, and my popularity increased because I was seen with the BMOC, but the football games were for hot dogs, dancing to the band, and dishing about the cheerleaders, not watching the game.

In college I went out with a guy who tried to inspire passion through round pretzels. No, really. He wanted me to understand the game of football, so he pulled out a bag of those small round pretzels (do they make those kind anymore?) and made the dorm lobby’s glass-topped table a football field.

“Here’s the quarterback,” he’d try. “Now this guy on defense will try and get away from the offensive line..” (the pretzels would be moved in position) “and hit the quarterback so he can’t throw the ball.”

The guy lost me at “hit.” Any game that involved hitting just wasn’t my cup of tea, or in those days, my mug of beer.

But Montana happened, and then Steve Young, and ‘The Catch,’ and 49er fever throughout the Bay Area. I had an ‘aha’ moment, and I began to love football, and its strategy, and understand the necessity of hits.

Segue to this past weekend, with two exciting football playoff games, a New England friend visiting me, a TV in a sun-filled Bay Area condo, and pure silliness.

MA and I began to root for different teams in the beginning of the afternoon, but by the end of the day, I’d pulled her onto my side. We danced with a field goal, pranced with a touchdown, sang bird tunes with a first down, and groaned like sick seals after a sack.

The man of the house, not a football fan like his darling wife (after all, he never had a pretzel lesson, nor did he understand the appeal of the amazing male physiques, ur, athletes) hid in the other room with the newspaper and a good book. But I did see him hide a smile once or twice.

The moral of my post is this: hits can be good, if used properly in Football.

Or Blogs.

Roughwighting has been “hit” over 2,100 times! (That means a reader goes directly into my blog and reads my post. WordPress then documents a “hit.”)

I thank all of you who read my wighting words in my blog and enjoy them, who comment when moved, who are touched in some small way from my shared revelations.

Hit me again.

And Go Patriots!