So. Yesterday my husband asked me about facials. “Um, what happens, what’s it like,” he asked unsuspectingly. Hm. We’re not really allowed to provide that information. I mean, who would believe that someone would submit themselves to that? Apart from the EXTREME moisturizing (the good part), there’s other stuff involving hot wax and steam and tweezers moving at high speed. My aestetician, Annemarie, is Rumanian. Very good. Much calmer since Obama won the election. It was pretty iffy there for a while, not calming the way these visit are supposed to be. I was pretty tense for the duration. Never mind. It’s all good. Her friends in Rumania no longer think we’re a nation of narcissistic, deluded psychopaths. In spite of the world recession, they’re feeling much calmer, too. They’ve put their guns back in the bedside table. S.(plural) When Annemarie smiles, I smile. And I have more eyebrow, as well. Um, if you know who I’m talking about, no more chocolate, please. Annemarie is over the top with chocolate this year, thanks. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Women of “a certain age” have to have facials. It’s not funny. I know you’re out there. so I shall say no more. Bottom line = with facials, life is elastic; one can smile and look cautiously optimistic, as after an especially rewarding yoga session. Without facials? Don’t go there. Don’t open the door. If they run out of moisturizer, I’m going for blood.

[Translate]

powered by

Spent the better part of the week up in Estes Park, trekking through the National Forest, admiring the turning of aspen leaves, listening to the bugling of elk, and gazing on a sky full of stars. The hard part was doing it all with 21 kids, my gifted students, who love a life lived loud. I mean, they’re fine kids, full of curiosity and in love with Nature, but I did feel outnumbered. There were three other adults with me, 2 young women whose combined ages are still 12 years short of mine. And Ryan, the experiential instructor who MIGHT be 30. Who spends all his free time climbing challenging rock faces. He would look at me with compassionate curiosity whenever I’d stop along the trail and gasp for air. Or wince and whimper about my knees. He was patient and kind.

[Translate]

powered by

Now it’s fishing that has my eye. NO, I haven’t gone fishing yet, other than the occasional metaphor, but after yesterday, I’m giving the activity serious consideration. Mostly because anglers look so serene, so completely part of the river and the sunlight, that I want to join them. To be scrupulously honest, I’m probably happier driving by in the car with my husband and my dog. The South Platte River looked very cold yesterday. Golden, spangled with September sun beneath a prefect blue sky, but cold. It looks like you have to stand there a very long time, too. You don’t HAVE to get wet, not with the waders, and not if you are sure of foot, but what if you drop something? So, we were in the car, somewhere near Decker CO, looking for a place to stop and have a picnic by the river. We must’ve passed 18 anglers, fly fishing mostly. These guys (and they looked to be mostly guys) each had their own little stretch of water, and they looked completely happy to be standing there, staring at the water, or fiddling with a lure, all by themselves. No wife, no dog, no car, just the pole, the line playing out along the moving water. Each man was a poem unto himself. I waved once, to a big guy in a red shirt who happened to be glancing at the road as we passed. He smiled and gave a low wave back, not jeopardizing his fishing gear but apparently pleased that a passer by would recognize his perfect happiness. Marc and I found a place by the river where a couple chunks of granite provided warm seats and room to get in and out of the small cooler that held our sandwiches. Being completely in the moment when we set off on this trek, we had stopped by Fresh Foods to pick up a couple of awesome sandwiches, green grapes, and lemon tea. As you know, beauty famishes, so as soon as we sat down we started munching. A few yellow jackets found us, but the dog kept them at bay. Aja wandered behind some low willows, playing out her leash. When the leash would give no more, she kept tugging, so we hopped up to see what she was up to. We found her in the river, sniffing at the water, perfectly at home. Maybe dogs have zen moments, too. Probably more than people, come to think of it. All 3 of us were blissed out, listening to the same music in our souls.

[Translate]

powered by

Yes, bowling. A colleague of mine, John, who is exactly half my age, decided to celebrate the big 3-0 at a bowling alley near his home in Lakewood. John is a sweetie, an excellent teacher, beloved by children. I like him a lot. It was the long Labor Day weekend, bowling sounded like fun. It had been 15 years since the last time we went bowling, but what the hell, we were game! Paramount Bowl is not your neon-glitzy-ya-ya bowl-a-rama. It’s pretty small. We had to drive around the strip mall parking lot twice before we actually found it, tucked away in a corner, if that’s possible. The place was tres retro, the kind of place you’d have gone bowling when you were a kid. I don’t actually remember bowling as a kid, but this would’ve been the place. Spotless. The bowling balls were old, the shoes were clean and new, the beverage of choice was Bud Light by the pitcher. Oh, yeah. John and his wife, Aubrey, were the only ones in the place when we arrived. The owner was giving the lanes a fresh coat of oil with something that looked like a baby zamboni. We shared our first pitcher of ice-cold BL, and I gave John his birthday present: an electric Spider Man toothbrush. Anybody half my age will be forever young. Fortunately for me, John is a fan of Spidey. Smiles all around. Then, John’s college roommate, Micah arrived with his wife, Crista. They’d stopped at the fruit stand outside in the parking lot and had a basket of juicy Colorado peaches with them. Peaches and beer! We had the place to ourselves for most of the first set. In honor of John’s birthday, I chose Spider as my game name (or whatever it’s called) and Marc chose Mac, the name of a fictional character from my books. A hot fictional character. The reason, no doubt, that Marc was able to break 100. I broke 50. I was pumped. Had to sit out the second set, though, due to arthritis in my right thumb. Only the truly tough can handle a bowling ball with two fingers. That or an insect race of fanatical bowlers from outer space. At some point another party arrived, a tweener named Lisa also celebrating her birthday with 5 or 6 friends and family. They fired up the jukebox, which added a je ne sais quoi to the proceedings. Somewhere into the thrid pitcher of BL, I decided that music was cute. Bouncy. The owner cut into the music with his microphone and requested that we all sing Happy Birthday to Lisa and John. Which we did with gusto, cheering and jumping at the finale. I’m still pondering the imponderables of bowling, like why the balls are so heavy, why the sound of pins falling is so cool, why God made Bud Light, and why I don’t watch “The Big Lubowski” more often. At a dollar a game, bowling is a national treasure. Very much like The Dude.

[Translate]

powered by