I hate running outside in the -30 degree weather, so I got a membership at the community league in our neighborhood and started swimming in the evenings.  It was a great workout and didn’t require me to wear all of the cold weather gear that I owned.

Then people started asking questions.  “What are you training for?”

My mouth opened and what came out shocked even me.  “Umm…a triathlon.”

Apparently I was ashamed about my desire to wear size 8 pants and completing a triathlon sounded so much better.  Before I knew what was happening, most of my friends and family heard that I was going to compete in a triathlon

I found myself cross training, weight lifting, and completing workouts that involved swimming, biking, AND running.  That’s the thing with words…once they are out there, you can’t get them back.  So I decided to go for it.  After all, how hard could it actually be?  Right?

The big day came in the middle of summer and was sunny and full of promise.  I was grouchy and full of fear.  I braided my hair, donned my Speedo swimsuit and biking/running outfit, and begrudgingly got in the car.

Upon arrival, I encountered hundreds of spandex clad people excitedly jumping around and stretching.  I went directly to the tent to pick up my race package and have a strange man use the biggest sharpie I have ever seen in my life to write my race number, 803, on my calves and arms.

What the heck have I gotten myself into?!

After being branded, we were herded like cattle down to the waterfront where I got news that there were leeches in the lake.  My stomach was already queasy and the toast that I had for breakfast threatened to come up as an unexplainable fear gripped my heart.  I started to look for an escape route, but ducking under the pylons and running at top speed past my husband and best friend would probably be noticed, so I tried to breathe while I waited for the race to start.

Before the swim....oh so nervous!

When the starting gun finally went off, all of the women aged 24 – 29 ran towards the leech infested water like their lives depended on it.  After avoiding being trampled, I jogged cautiously towards the waterfront and dove into the very shallow lake.  The water broiled with body parts and after a near kick to the head and getting a bird’s eye view of a very large armpit, I decided to hold back.  I waited in the ankle deep, leech infested silt for the crazed athletic women to swim by before I started up again.

To my immediate dismay, I couldn’t see a darn thing in the water!  It was like sticking your head into a bowl of chocolate pudding.  Panic set in and I employed the doggie paddle while my mind feverishly worked out a solution.  I started to hear a high-pitched whine and then realized I was the one making the noise.  I was officially hyperventilating and even the doggie paddle was too much.  I didn’t want to be disqualified, so I employed a panic inspired back float.  While looking up into the sky, wondering what the world I was going to do, the heads of two men in a canoe came into my view.

Two Men in a Canoe:  “Miss, are you ok?  Would you like us to help you?”
DL: (awkwardly treading the waist deep water) YES!  But wait!  Does that mean I am disqualified?
Two Men in a Canoe:  Well, yes…but if you’re struggling, perhaps we should take you out.
DL: (tears starting to fill up the goggles) I have worked so hard to get here!!  I have to finish.  I have to keep going.  Can you just row next to me, just to make sure I don’t die?
Two Men in a Canoe: Well…umm, there are a lot more people in the race and we have to watch all of them.  Uhh…we can check on you later though…
DL:  (in a very wobbly voice) Ok….thank you?
Two Men in a Canoe: And by the way, you’re floating off course.  You’re going to want to go that way….

The longest swim of my life ensued.  Battling panic, hyperventilation, and being lapped by a group of men swimmers took every single ounce of energy that I had.  Jon and Nancy were forced to watch a floundering woman use a doggie paddle and back float method to complete a swim that took 6 times longer than it should have.

When I finally emerged victorious from the leech infested, waist deep lake I could barely walk.  There were three canoes with men paddling alongside of me, cheering me on.  It was the most cheerleaders I have ever had for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I hobbled over to the transition area to get ready for the bike.  Most people pull on shorts and get biking.  I plopped to the ground, ate a granola bar, and drank a ton of water.  There was no active recovery happening at this point, just relief that I was still alive.

The very hilly bike ride was surprisingly uneventful.  I made good time and even passed some people.  It felt good to not need any supervision to complete this leg of the race.

I entered the run tired, but the finish line was visible.  I was actually going to live through this adventure!  Much to the surprise of my athletic husband, I took off with a fresh burst of energy.  He was so impressed by my sudden energy that he decided to run alongside of me and interview me on video.  His focus was on me and not the street signs that were on the road.  Suddenly he ran head first into one and went down.  Blood was coming from his temple and the medical team was called.

I just kept running.  I mean, what was I supposed to do?  I had already lost 40 minutes in the swim, I didn’t want to lose more time in the run.  I decided that Jon would understand.

Sore, tired, and somewhat demoralized, but almost done!

He was fine and before I knew it, he was running alongside of me again.

Crossing the finish line was one of the most glorious feelings in the world.  I completed a huge feat and lived.  Sure, there was no one else crossing the finish line with me, but who cares?  I finished.

We enjoyed the rest of the hot summer day and watched the professional tri-athletes complete the course.  None of them used the doggie paddle / back float method to complete the swim.

That evening I used a strong soap to wash the ‘803’ off of my arms and calves.  Within about 30 seconds it became very obvious that I should have applied waterproof sunscreen that morning.  I was VERY burnt.  Did you know that sharpies are a great sunscreen? ‘803” was branded into both of my upper arms and calves.  Due to the way they wrote the numbers it actually looked more like ‘BOB’ than ‘803’.

Sunscreen really is a great invention....

The stiffness in my legs, especially my left leg was intense after the race.  The next morning I could barely walk without screaming in pain.  That wouldn’t have been enough to keep me from work, but I couldn’t even put my left heel on the ground and my calf was the size of a small basketball.

This didn’t seem like normal triathlon wear and tear, so off to the hospital I went.

I hobbled into the ER and waited.  Then I continued to wait 6 hours while random people with very random illnesses came in.  Some even came in with buckets of specimens to show the admitting clerk in an effort to gain quicker access to a doctor.  I just looked away and hoped they would go away.

There was concern that I had a blood clot, so I was sent for an ultrasound.  Have I mentioned that I am ticklish?  Screaming out in painful laughter while an ultrasound tech is shoving an ultrasound wand in your leg joint is apparently frowned upon.  I just couldn’t help it.  It was either laugh or cry, so I opted to laugh and laugh quite loudly.

Due to my big mouth I got crutches and a cast, a torn calf muscle, and a summer of strangers asking me, “Who’s Bob?”.

THIS is not size 8 pants!

Honesty really is the best policy.  Next time someone asks me something, I am going to just tell the truth even if it’s as ridiculous as ‘Size 8 pants”.

• Don’t work out to lose weight, eat to lose weight.
• Work out to shape your body into what you want it to be.
• If it’s a fruit, vegetable, or you can kill it; eat it.

I immediately implemented the Primal Eating plan. I went home, baked some brownies, and KILLED them.

Then I felt bad. For the next 3 days leading up to my first training session I followed the eating plan without fault. An hour before I left to get my muffin top’s butt kicked, I consumed a heaping plate of spring mix, bell peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, and half an avocado. I was stuffed and proud of myself.

I went to the gym early to warm up so that I wouldn’t pull anything during the training session. The gym was freezing, so I kept my sweat pants and warm up jacket on during my brisk jog. At the one-mile point on the run I was on the verge of heat stroke. In order to cool down, I attempted to strip off the outer layer of clothing while running.

Word of advice: Press pause on the treadmill before taking off any warm up clothing. It results in less near death experiences.

We started the training session, which turned out to be a circuit of weight lifting with running mixed in. I anxiously completed the first exercise and started to feel rather nauseated. I really, really wanted to do well.

Then came the step-ups.

I was pouring sweat and we were only 3 minutes into the work out. Upon completion of the step-ups I started to see black dots and had to sit down. Then lay down.

My trainer looked quite concerned. I looked quite pale, deathly pale.

I drank some water and tried to get a grip.

Muffin Top Slayer: Are you ok? Do you need some Gatorade? You look really pale.
DL: I’m good. I just need a minute. GOSH.  Apparently I am totally out of shape.
MTS: It’s always eye opening for people, but I am surprised seeing how you workout every day. What did you eat today?
DL: I did really well. I even had a huge salad an hour ago.
MTS: Ahh…that’s the problem. You should eat a piece of fruit before a work out. Here eat my apple.

I sheepishly ate the Gala while sitting on an exercise bike and chatted about random things.  The black spots slowly disappeared and five minutes later I felt like a new woman. I completed the rest of the work out like a woman on a mission and felt fabulous at the end.

Another valuable lesson learned from the school of hard knocks. Eat an apple a day to keep the ambulance away!

Can you only imagine the chaos that would have ensued if I had fainted? Am I the only one that these things happen to?

Even though I am a woman I was never sure why we went in groups; so one day I broke the rule and went alone.

My best friend Nancy and I were out shopping at our favorite store looking for high-end jeans and designer shoes on clearance.  We grabbed a latte to sustain us during our intensive shopping and started combing the racks for fabulous deals.

Halfway through the jeans section my very efficient kidneys got to work on my partially finished latte. I looked up and Nancy was nowhere in sight.  Due to the conditioning of going to the bathroom as a group, I searched the perimeter of the store to see if she wanted to come along to the bathroom.  I couldn’t find her and my kidneys were hard at work.

I went to the bathroom alone.

Exiting the stall, I grabbed my latte and tried to unlatch the door.  It would not open.  I put the latte down and used both hands and all my might, but the door remained firmly locked.  I pushed, pounded, jiggled, and shook the door, yet I remained in the bathroom stall…all alone.

Bewildered as what to do next, I sat down and waited for an unsuspecting woman to use the stall without toilet paper.  I devised a plan that was dependent on the woman not checking the paper supply.

Women in Paperless Stall – Oh my!  There seems to be no toilet paper in here.
DL – Oh boy!  That’s not good!  Do you want me to pass you some toilet paper?
WiPS – Yes please.  That would be splendid.
DL – OK.  One condition though.
WiPS – Conditional toilet paper?
DL – Yes.  I am stuck in here and require a Phillips screwdriver to remove the door of the stall.  I will give you toilet paper if you promise to come back with the necessary tools to free me from this stall.
WiPS – Ummm…OK….

I waited patiently for 20 minutes, yet no one came.

I tried using a dime to remove the door from the stall to no avail.

I was reduced to yelling for help.

Still no one came.

My latte was finished as well as my patience.  I took matters into my own hands.  There were only 2 options of escape; over or under.  Taking into account my tendency to fall over and near death experiences, I chose under.  Taking a deep breath and an assessment of the public bathroom floor’s lack of cleanliness, I dropped to the ground, shoved my purse out ahead of me, and started the task of birthing myself out of the stall.

Halfway through my escape I heard the creak of the door open to reveal a very shocked woman looking down at me.

After 25 minutes of being locked in a public bathroom stall I merely continued emerging from my bathroom prison, stood up, and gathered as much dignity as possible while brushing about a week’s worth of bathroom grime off my chest.

My explanation of, “Umm…Hello…I was locked in…” didn’t help to wipe the look of complete confusion and amazement off the woman’s face.

I was so happy to be free that I just continued to brush off the grime that accumulated on my body during my escape, washed my hands, and went in search of an employee to let them know they were down one stall in the ladies room.

Now I know why women go to the bathroom in groups.  You never know when you need someone to watch your latte or go in search of power tools to free you from a bathroom stall.

I learned my lesson the hard way and haven’t gone alone since.

For awhile I led a one woman campaign against the wearing of nylons by refusing to wear them, no matter how cold it was outside.  It could be -40 Celsius outside and I would still refuse to wear them.

Then some of my running women from the YMCA pointed me towards tights.  It’s the lesser of two evils, but still evil nonetheless.  To be fair to tights, they rarely run when you snag them and have a greater resistance to gravity, but I still hate them.

Why doesn’t society force men to wear hosiery under their clothing that sometimes goes up to their armpits and creates havoc on their whole day?

It’s just not fair.

Yesterday I broke down and wore tights with my cute Kenneth Cole dress and Jump red boots. The only reasons I opted for tights was because the dress is shorter than I usually wear to work and it’s winter up here in the arctic.

Boy, am I glad I decided to be a proper woman in society!

There I was walking downtown with one of my male co-workers; portfolio in one hand and a cup of hot, hot coffee in the other.  Suddenly a gust of wind picked up the hem of my cute Kenneth Cole dress and I became Marilyn Monroe for a moment.

I always thought it would be fun to have a Marilyn moment, but not when you’re working and don’t have the ability to keep the dress in place due to your hands being full.  If this happens, you become a screaming woman with a dress flying up in your face while squatting to the ground in an attempt to blend into the concrete. 

Just so you know, the screaming and squatting just makes it worse. 

As quickly as the wind came up, it died down.

I handed the coffee to my bemused co-worker, straightened my dress out, and asked that he carry the coffee to the car so that another ridiculous event didn’t happen.

I was just glad I was wearing black tights.  They made it a smidgen less awkward when the wind made an attempt to show off my fuchsia underwear. 

From this day forward, I won’t curse tights; I will wear them with thankfulness in my heart.

While talking to a woman, don’t comment on her size – big or small.  Keep it to yourself.

Petite women don’t want to hear things like:

• You’re sooooo CUTE! And little.  Tiny actually.
• You’re how old?  28?  I thought you were 15 because of how small you are.
• Wow!  You’re SO TINY!  I nearly didn’t see you all the way down there.

While listening to these kinds of comments the petite woman can only fume as you’ve just made her into an inconsequential child when she just wants to be taken seriously as a woman.

I’m anything but petite and have been told this very thing time and time again.  I am merely 5’8”, but wear heels that make me up to 6 feet tall on any given day.

From my personal experience non-petite women don’t want to hear things like:

• Wow.  You’re a large woman.
• Where are you from?  The Nordic countries?  All their women are robust like you.
• Can you help me move this?  Looks like you have no problem carrying things with the size of those shoulders.

Ok, so I’m not the typical woman.  But I’m not Attila the Hun either!  I may have been built to work the farm, but it doesn’t mean people should comment on it.

My favorite happened just the other week.

You’re big for a woman, but you carry it well. Then the comment was punctuated by a big slap on the left shoulder.

If you can’t keep your thoughts on the stature of the woman you’re talking with to yourself, make sure to use words like slender, vivacious, and lovely.  If you think you’re about to say something derogatory, please remove yourself from the conversation before you maim her with your observations.

And if you see this woman,

This woman does not want to be described as large or big, thank you very much!

please refrain from telling her she’s large.

The mountains are absolutely gorgeous this time of year, so I was easily convinced to go for a run in them with my friends despite their superior fitness.

Gorgeous town nestled in the foothills.

Halfway through the run, they noticed I was lagging behind.  They slowed down to let me huff and puff my way to them.  At that point I realized, despite the gorgeous view, I had to let them go on without me.

I bravely accepted the key for the condo and headed back the way I came.  My girlfriend let me know the condo was on 6^th and 3^rd.  Ave, Street, Boulevard?  Heck as if I knew or asked for that matter!  So I just kept running…wondering when I needed to turn.

Unfortunately for me, I did not pay attention to the path we took.  I had been enjoying the mountains and river whenever I was able to take full breath in.  After about 20 minutes on the journey back, I found myself on a lonely path with some strange men on it.  My heart jumped into my throat.

To avoid being raped and pillaged while running without a phone, ID, or any sort of defense mechanism; I quickly pulled a switchback.

Now completely lost, the beauty of the mountains mocked me as I ran about wondering where in heavens name I was.  A peppy looking young blonde wandered onto the path, so I asked her for directions.

DL – Hello.  Can you tell me how to get to 6^th and 3^rd?
Peppy Looking Young Blonde – Ummm…no.  I have lived here my whole life, but have no idea where that is.  Is that by the park?
DL – Not too sure.  I am totally lost and just need to get back to the condo before my girlfriends arrive back.  I have the key.
PLYB – I can’t help you.  I don’t know any of the street numbers.

Ok, Canmore is a very small mountain town.  How is it possible that a life long resident wouldn’t know the street numbers of where she lives?

Somewhat frantic at this point, I ran through the trees and into the town only to scare a nice looking couple.  I can only imagine that the frazzled, sweaty, lost DL isn’t a woman you want to encounter on a romantic walk.  They also lived in the town but had no concept of addresses, only landmarks.

I finally used my own navigating skills to get back to the condo using a new route, without the help of any mountain-esque people.  As I turned the corner after my jaunt through most of the town, I saw my girlfriends about 800 meters ahead of me heading down the home stretch to the condo.

Out of breath, tired, and embarrassed, I started to close the gap while they cooled down.  We arrived at nearly the same time.  I was completely worn out while they looked energized and happy.

All I could do was blame the happy, directionally challenged people of the mountains for my tour of the town on my way back to the condo while gasping for air.

Now I know; if you can’t keep up…maybe you shouldn’t go in the first place.  No matter how fantastic the view is!

For the first time in my life, I have suffered from a lingering back problem that persisted throughout the whole summer. When a person lives in the arctic as I do, the summer is the time to live! As soon as the snow starts to melt, we throw on shorts and tank tops and start enjoying the outdoors with gusto. It’s as though we are finally able to breathe and feel it all the way to the bottom of our lungs. Edmontonians start running, walking, cycling, picnicking, bbq-ing, and playing all manner of sports outdoors once the ground begins to thaw.

Instead of cycling, running, and pretending to be able to play tennis this summer, I have been walking slower than a slug while bent awkwardly at the waist. If I dropped something on the floor, instead of bending over to pick it up, I would merely stare at it and utter, “huh.” My patience was tested while I waited for Jon to come home from work so he could pick something up for me. It was horrible. A girl just wants to be able to put her own socks on!

In order to get me back into shape, I enlisted the help of an athletic therapist. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Upon arrival, I shook the very firm hand of a man with a cheerful disposition and determined focus.

He immediately asked me to do things that weren’t possible without white hot pain shooting throughout my whole body. Things like touching my toes and standing up straight. Then he tested on my flexibility, which made me want to scream out in pain. Since I wasn’t the only one at physio, I clenched my teeth hard enough to hear them grinding together in order to keep the screams from escaping.

After I was able to breathe normally, he let me know that I was all out of alignment and that ‘pressure points’ were going to happen. Lying on the table, a small amount of panic gripped my heart. I looked around at the other patients and they seemed to be fine, so I didn’t run away in terror.

The first pressure point was my hip flexors. This involves the therapist finding a pressure point UNDER your hip bone to release it.

Have I mentioned that I am EXTREMELY ticklish?

Suddenly, I was laughing hysterically and in an epic amount of pain as a hand went wrist deep under my hip bone to release the tension. I have never felt such incredible pain and ticklishness at the same time in my life. I was no longer able to keep the screams in, and inadvertently caused the man to bleed a bit from the scratches I gave him while trying to free myself from the “pressure points”. It was intense to say the least.

The next pressure points were on my lower back and butt. I couldn’t see what was happening, but he must have been at least elbow deep on those ones. I managed not to scream, but felt a bit like dying for those few moments of my life.

Amazingly enough, after the torture was over, I could actually stand up straight and touch my toes. Unfortunately, my back was so messed up that it wouldn’t last for more than a day.

After three weeks of physio and pressure points, things weren’t getting better because I refused to just lie around and ice my back as directed by the cheerful, yet determined athletic therapist. I went to work, sat all day, and even put my own socks on. Apparently the ‘Donloree Puts Her Socks On While Her Back Is Hurt’ is horrible to watch. I had women at the gym offering to help me put my socks on because it was painful to watch me struggle to reach my toes.

During the third week of physio, I was in extreme pain and very low. I was unable to do any of the exercises and was near tears most of the time due to pain and discouragement. After not being able to complete leg lifts, bridges, or squats, I was instructed to do back raises.

Athletic Therapist – Lift up, squeeze your shoulder blades together and count to five.
DL – Ok. Onetwothreefourfive!
Athletic Therapist – Um…I only counted to 2. Was that five seconds?
DL – I counted to five. You didn’t specify seconds.
Athletic Therapist – (laughing) Ok. Five SECONDS. 20 reps. Go.

At this point, I got the giggles. It was either sob, or laugh. So laugh I did, hysterically.

I desperately tried to stop laughing while doing back raises on the table while a man did leg lifts and I woman rode a stationary bike. I am sure they thought I had lost my mind.

I was finally able to hold the laughter in after a few reps. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and burst into hysterical giggles and spit all over a stack of fitness magazines. I just couldn’t get a handle on the laughter. I did all 20 back raises while silent laughter made my shoulders shake uncontrollably.

I was so ashamed of my inability to keep the emotions under control that I nearly bailed on the next appointment. I am glad I kept the appointment, as it only got better from that day forward.

There are very few people that I don’t want to ever see again in my life. It’s a relatively short list, and now the cheerful, yet determined man is on the list. It’s nothing personal, but I don’t want to endure any more pressure points, and if I have to see him it’s most likely because I can’t stand or walk. I will be happy to never see him again, despite his cheerful, yet determined disposition.

In most cases, if I say white, he would say black.

I grew up reading books.  He grew up playing sports.

He loves a crowd and tons of people around all day long.  I love the solitude of an empty, quiet house.

I know many people wonder how we ended up together.  Some days I wonder too….but then there are some days that I know we are meant to be together.

Jon came into our marriage with 2 large Japanese windsocks, boxes of papers, clothes, sporting equipment, and a lack of domestic skills.  I came into our marriage with art, coordinating linens, clothes, and an overflow of domestic skills.

In an attempt to balance out the domestic responsibilities in our first few years of marriage, I tried to teach him how to cook.  This resulted in rice sandwiches for supper.  I quickly realized cooking was not a good idea for this man, even if it meant we got rid of all the leftovers.  Or perhaps he has an iron stomach.  I never gave us the opportunity to find out for sure, I just took back all the cooking responsibilities.

After awhile, I realized that laundry was possibly his sweet spot.  He quickly learned a few things about doing laundry:

• ALWAYS check the pockets.  Pens tend to explode in the dryer.
• Bleach does a great job of getting a stain out, but it also takes all the color out of your pants…
• Gum travels quickly to all garments when left in your favorite pair of shorts. 
• Jeans and white dress shirts do not make good load mates…

After awhile, it seemed Jon was really getting the hang of doing the laundry.  So much so, that I decided it was safe to put my clothes in his capable hands.

He gathered, sorted, washed, and dried those clothes like a pro.  One day I went to see how the laundry was progressing and was so happy to observe that he had a complete load of only pink and reds.  He was washing his winter coat that happened to be red and put only appropriate items with it.  What a guy!  My whites were safe in his hands. 

While Jon perfected his laundry skills, the winter temperature dropped abruptly and he found himself wearing his newly laundered red coat to NAIT every day.  It was so cold some days that he had to pull his hood up and cinch it up around his chin so he didn’t get frostbite while walking from the far off neighborhood where he parked the car for free.  He was often so cold from the walk in, that he wore his coat, hood and all, for quite some time indoors in an effort to warm up.

About a week later, he reached in to his locker to grab his clean, red winter coat only to feel something very soft, something very out of place, in this accounting student’s locker.  To his shock and horror, he found a pair of my red underwear stuck to the Velcro on the hood of his clean, red winter jacket.  The underwear had cleverly spread out and attached itself to the whole hood of the coat by finding 4 or so points of contact with Velcro.

He quickly ripped my matching red underwear off his hood and shoved them into the pocket of his coat.  How many people noticed the underwear stuck to his head, but failed to mention it to him?  He walked down the halls of NAIT with a pair of my underwear stuck to his head for about a week, yet no one said a word.  Not a single word.

Perhaps sorting laundry according to color is not always the best choice.

Now we each do our own laundry – it’s just safer that way.

The thing is, we bought it this way.  Yup, we bought this car from our friends that were driving it when it got rammed in.  We were so excited to have the car and finally get rid of the Death Trap, or Crap-alier as dubbed with great distain by my sister, that we jumped for joy.  Literally.  

I get many, many questions about this car from random men in parking lots.

Random Man – Wow, someone sure hit you good
DL – Yup.  They did it up good.
RM – You gonna get that fixed?  (The strange man is now very close to my car, assessing the damage for himself.  Some men even try to pry the broken parts off the car.)
DL – Well, I have been sourcing out parts to replace everything, but since I bought it this way, I’m happy.
RM – You BOUGHT it this way?  No.
DL – No.  I really purchased this car this way.  It was quite reasonably priced.
RM – No, no one buys a car like this.
DL – Well…I guess I do.  It runs well, doesn’t lock me in, I can roll the windows down, the radiator isn’t leaking, and it has air conditioning.  Do you have any idea how hot a car gets in summer when there is no air conditioning and you can’t roll the window down?
RM – Ok then…(At this point in the conversation, the random man has started to slowly back away from the happy woman with the smashed up car)

For the most part, I love this car.  It has really only caused me grief a few times in the year and a half that we have had it.  The first time was when I got a flat tire and had to crawl over the back seat and into the hatch to extract the spare tire.  It was good that Andrea was there to catch the items as I hucked them out of the hatch, otherwise I would have had to throw myself over everything like a beached whale to get out of the hatch.  The second time was when we had to haul 3 kayaks, and the roof rack could only accommodate two kayaks.  It’s amazing what you can fit in a car by moving the front passenger seat completely forward and rolling down the window.  The third time was when Nancy and I ended up holding down a large painting to the roof of the car with our womanly strength while driving from the west end of the city.  No matter what we tried, that darned painting just wouldn’t fit in!

The other night I found myself in the fourth situation of stress from the car with the smashed in backend.  I went out to the car to drive to my favorite neighborhood coffee shop, only to find a very grandma-esque, hunter green sedan parked within inches of my bumper.  In order to make it into the parking zone, she has to snug right up to the smashed in car.  I took a careful assessment of how close she was so that I could wriggle my way out of the extremely tight spot.  I slowly started to back up, only to hit her car within half a second.  Heat spread over my whole body as I started to panic about what happened to the grandma-esque, hunter green sedan.  I inched back and forth 8 times to get out of the spot.  Once I had clear view of her bumper in my rearview mirror, my eyes became the size of loonies.  There appeared to be two large indentations on her bumper from what I surmised to be the two large plastic pieces sticking out from my bumper.  I didn’t know what to do!  Do I leave a note?  Do I hit and run?  What does a woman do in a situation like this?  During all of this thinking I was sitting in traffic, and so I drove off.

In my mind, I rationalized that it was the safest choice – just get out of the danger zone and think about what to do next.  Within a split second, I became a hit and run person!  How does that happen?  I drove slowly to the coffee shop thinking about the car that I just hit.  Should I drive back and leave a note?  Wouldn’t I want a person to leave a note?  Yes.  When that person hit my Death Trap of a car and knocked the driver’s mirror off, all I could say was, “WHAT?  You can’t even leave a note?  Any decent person leaves a note!”  I was officially no longer decent as of that moment, and by my own personal standards nonetheless!

So I turned the smashed in car around and drove with purpose to the grandma-esque, hunter green sedan to make amends.  The poor parking skills of the grandma-esque, hunter green sedan owner doesn’t justify my hitting her while back up at .5 kmph.  On the drive back, I drafted the letter in my head that I was going to leave on her car.

Dear Hunter Green Sedan Owner,

As you can see, your bumper has two large dents in it.  I realize that these dents are new to you.  This is where I come in.  I am the woman that made those dents in your bumper.  You did in fact park so close to me that if I sneezed I would have bumped into you, BUT that is not the point.  The point is that I damaged the your hunter green sedan and would like to make amends.  I still, to this day, hate the man in what I can only imagine was a large truck that ran into my car and ripped the driver’s mirror off my car and didn’t have the decency to leave a note.  I hope that when you assess the damage done to your hunter green sedan, you take into consideration the decency I have shown by leaving this note.

Regrettably,

Donloree

Upon arrival of the crime scene, I got out with snotepad and pen in hand prepared to face the music.  While commencing the letter, I looked again at the bumper to realize that the dents are PART OF THE DESIGN of the car!  For goodness sake!  How is a flustered woman with a smashed in car to tell the difference between design and damage?  Relief flooded my veins, only to be followed by shame.  In the face of a moral dilemma, I turned tail and ran only to come slinking back later to do the right thing.  Next time, I will do the right thing the first time, despite how close the car behind me is parked!

A good morning involves strolling out onto a deck in Hawaii with a cappuccino in hand or waking up with the sun streaming down on your face as a gentle breeze wafts through your window while the birds serenade you.

A bad morning involves parking at the YMCA, grabbing your workout gear, locking the door to your car and hopping out quickly, only to realize that your car is rolling backwards towards a BMW.  Not only if it is moving without you in it, its picking up speed at a frightening rate.

At this point in the bad morning, a complete awakening happens.  All of the synapses are firing at once and words you wouldn’t want to repeat start flowing out of your mouth.

I threw down my workout gear and tried to open the car door to no avail.  Somehow I noticed that the back door of the car was unlocked, so I thought about getting in the back and trying to stop the car from there.  Luckily, I realized my lack of solid reasoning before committing to that plan.

I grabbed my purse and dug for my keys while chasing the car down.  The car was moving very quickly at this point.  I hucked my purse down, contents flying everywhere, and unlocked the car door.  I was able to grab the e-brake and bring the car to a stop before my car had an unfortunate meeting with the BMW.

I stuck the keys in and quickly drove it back into the stall it rolled out of so the three cars queued up to park could go by.  With shame and legs that could barely hold me upright, I meekly gathered the contents of my purse strewn about the YMCA parking lot.

Suddenly I was more awake than if I had drank 8 espressos in a row.  It’s not a good way to start the morning, but it’s a sure fire way to wake up in a hurry!