A Successful Walk

Well, darling invisible friend, the 3-Day Walk of 2010 is over. Roommate walked through rain and wind and wackadoodle heat. She climbed vicious hills. She developed blisters the size of San Diego. She figured out how to inflate the air mattress, since I wasn't there to do it for her. Despite a walking partner's [her lovely teammate, Crystal] injury/potential stress fracture that kept her from walking with alongside of her, roommate walked and walked and walked.

Okay, yeah, she rode the bus a little. But hey! Blisters the size of San Diego! Do you blame her???? At least the drivers didn't all know her by name. When I did the walk last year, they knew my name. Of course, instead of the frequency of my patronage of the vehicles, it could have been the fact that I said in my usual dulcet tones upon boarding the "sweeper" van,

"Oh my Gawd, I'm sweating like a whore in church!"

Some people might find that memorable. Hm. Maybe. Anyway.

In a moment of solemnity [don't worry, it won't last] I'd like everyone to think about the women [and men!] in our lives affected by breast cancer. I'd like you to think about the sixty miles my roommate walked to help end this vicious, conscienceless, heartless disease. And I'd really like it if you could consider donating to this incredible effort. In fact, here's the link:

http://www.the3day.org/site/TR/2010/SeattleEvent2010?px=3044525&pg=personal&fr_id=1471

Send it to your friends. Your family. Your coworkers. Donate because you loved someone and lost her to breast cancer. Donate because you love someone who fought the beast and won. Donate because you love someone who battles today and everyday to survive. Donate because you don't want your daughters and granddaughters and nieces to feel the fear and pain and suffering that goes with this.

Donate because this disease must be stopped.

Donate.

That's all I'm saying.

Word to the Moderately Wise

Dating site photos are very often unflattering. They are. Oh, sure, I know plenty of people post the glamour shot pictures or that "one picture that I really, really like/captures the essence of me" on their dating profiles---even if the picture is twenty-five years old and they haven't looked even close to that since the '90s---but so many of the pictures are truly hideous. They're cell phone pictures. They're cropped from a work photo featuring 200 colleagues and are grainy and blurry. They're taken by someone who has my skill level of photography, AKA no skill at all. I really try not to judge a potential date/mate based on his picture. It's not fair. It's not right. And even if the picture is accurate, it's the book-by-its-cover thing. I know I don't like it when someone takes one look at me and can't even be bothered to learn anything about me.

It's only fair to give people a chance. After all, most of the planet isn't mouthwateringly gorgeous.

But...at some point I must say, "Gosh, you seem super, but I have a small problem dating a yeti."

I even had gluten-free Jen look at one man's profile and emails. Words like "sweet" and "simple" were used, but even she [possibly one of the nicest people on the planet] had to agree, this fellow made the Geico cavemen look civilized and...well, hot.

She did ask where we'd go on a date, snowshoeing through the Andes? Obviously, GF Jen has been married way too long, because you never travel that far on the first date. If Yeti and I did go out, it would have to be closer to home. Possibly a nearby forest. We could do a little foraging, like pigs for truffles. But the Andes? I don't even know if he'd have all of his shots and tags for international travel. And a kennel for that long a flight...not fun. Not comfortable.

But as usual, I digress.

I feel a little bad, being this judgemental. Not bad enough to stop, but bad.

Oh, my dear invisible friend, my dear fictional reader, I implore you. If you are in a relationship, and nothing too ghastly is occurring there, do what you can to make it work. Do not join me in this morass of single life, this level of hell called dating. In this case, the grass is not greener.

Trust me.

What To Say

I heard myself saying something and had a moment of realization, a realization that I, myself, should never never never never use certain phrases. A friend of mine made some innocuous comment and I replied, "That's who I am. It is, in fact, how I roll."

I know. I know.

This is why my spicy Cuban friend refers to me as "past white."

It's true. Although I prefer the terms Pasty American and pigmentally challenged, I recognize that I am overly Caucasian. Most of the time, I accept that. Every now and again, I wish I could step beyond the boundaries that have been set for me.

Let me be clear here. I do not think my skin color determines my ability to use certain phrases or assume certain attitudes. I think that this is a bone-deep quality of me, of who I am. I will never be able to wear the clothing of the day, no matter what day it is. I will never be able to pull off the savvy phrases and slang. And no matter how many dances classes or Zumba sessions or open minded young people there are in the world, there are certain moves I should never even attempt.

For this, dear Lord, let us be truly thankful.

Maureen, my Cuban friend, once said to me, "You white people take salsa lessons. We just start moving our hips." Really, I cannot think of a better way to define it.

It reminds me of that part in the first "Airplane!" movie in which the flight attendant is attempting to converse with two black men and is having a very difficult time. Finally, a woman who looks like a Norman Rockwell version of a grandmother steps forward and say, "Excuse me, I speak jive."

I don't.