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About a Kagillion years ago, I paddled.  And by paddled I mean I kayaked white water.  (Get your minds out of the gutter already!)  I used to drive from Columbus, Ohio to anything white and frothy that I wasn’t too skeeered of in Pennsylvania and West Virginia.

***Wasn’t Too Skeered Of*** being the important part of that sentence.

During these crazy years, I knew a mountain of a man named Keith.  Keith was / is a ball of energy and sarcasm and intelligence and foolhardiness all wrapped up in a silly grin.

He’s a ton of fun to hang out with.

During the first season, as I was learning to paddle, I was introduced to several new concepts.  First off:  Peeing in the woods.   But that is for another story altogether.   Second:  Wet Suits, and how to live in them.

My first couple of weekends on the water, I actually rented my wet suits, because I didn’t know if I would enjoy the sport enough to plunk down the money to buy my own.   I’ll never forget my mortification when I was being sized and the shop renting the wetsuit put me in an FXXL.

To this day, I don’t actually know what FXXL stands for, but you can imagine what my paddling buddies suggested.

I’m telling ya, with friends like these….

Back to Keith.  We were paddling down the river, and I had to PEE.  I couldn’t hold it any longer, and the thought of getting out and peeling all of my wet, clingy layers off to pee in the woods and then layer them back on was too daunting.  I asked Keith how on earth he dealt with it.  I’ll never forget his response:

“Pam, there are two kinds of people in this world:  Those that pee in their wetsuits, and those that lie about peeing in their wetsuits.”

Now, it’s funny, yes.  But imagine you are wearing a RENTED USED wetsuit when you hear it.

EEEEWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!

Needless to say, I own my own wetsuit now.

(Size FXXL)

Welp, I did it.

I finally succumbed to peer pressure and bought a pair of black knit yoga pants.

Apparently these have become the new stand-by for women who don’t want to wear jeans or shorts.

I have been teasing my yoga-pant wearing friends mercilessly.  Asking them if they want some Ginseng with their coffee now.  Asking them if they find they are more limber when the run their errands or do their other motherly duties.

I have been condemning them for jumping on the popular style bandwagon.  Not because I’m a judgemental person, but rather because I like to give people a hard time.

And then it happened:  I didn’t feel like wearing jeans or shorts.

And my sweats were too hot.

I bought a pair of Champion brand yoga pants.   Capris, actually.

I put ’em on this morning. Oh. My. Lord.  They are so comfortable.

And I SWEAR I can suddenly touch my toes.

I am so sad.  Last night during Varmint’s softball team’s bonfire, we told ghost stories.  I told a hum-dinger of a ghost story.  I even set it up with Coach Doug beforehand where he would go hide behind a tree near the bonfire and at just the right time,  moan like a monster and then come out to scare the jumpin gee willikers out of the bunch of 10-year-old girls.

I set up the scene admirably.  I had a guy mysteriously murdered centuries ago at about the same spot where the old tree behind them grew.  I told gruesome details.  I explained how, in the dark of the night, if you were still enough, you could hear the old murdered man moaning by the tree.

Coach Doug Moaned.

I mean, it was a scary moment for ME and I was telling the story!

And the girls.  These young, imaginative, impressionable, innocent girls, laughed.

They laughed!

This incredibly wrought, complex, totally realistic and believable story that had chills going down my own spine….and they laughed.

Either they are growing up too fast, or I am an enormous sissy.  I cannot believe at 10 years old I would have been so nonchalant about such a story – complete with moaning man in the dark in the background.

Maybe they are numb from all the violence on TV?

Maybe they had a false sense of security because they were en masse?

Maybe Coach Doug needs to work on his moaning.

I need to come up with a better story before the next bonfire.   I want to have them screaming at the end of it.  Maybe I’ll tell them something REALLY scary, like how big the country’s deficit will be when their generation is old enough to be responsible for it.

That ought to make them scream, and run to the hills.

My mother, God love her, has had a love affair with the South West for as long as I can remember.  The Jewelry, the food, the people…and the flora.  And by flora, I mean Cacti.  She has owned (and killed) hundreds of cacti in various forms since I was a munchkin in the ’70’s.  So I learned at an early age to stay the heck away from the pricky things.

If you are unfamiliar with cacti, you must know that there are two essential kinds:  The long-needled kind that can impale, and the tiny, hair-like, short invisible bristles that get under your skin like fiberglass and don’t leave for days, no matter how hard you scrub.

Either way, they are awful and I hate them.  They are a scourge on this earth and must be removed.

A few months ago we were having a family dinner at my mom’s house (we often do) and I backed into one of the tiny fiber-like kinds of cacti…with my rear….in non-bristle-repelling sweat-pants.  I had no armour on at all.  I yelped like Scooby Doo, and then set out a string of explicatives worthy of any sailor.  They were so bad, I had to rip my pants off right there in the dining room and then drive home (pantless) to get a new pair of pants.

Believe me when I tell you that me ripping off my pants in the dining room was enough to ruin that particular dinner recipe for my kids for decades.

I cussed all the way home, fervently hoping I didn’t have any cause to attract attention.  I could envision me having an accident or requiring a police stop and having to explain my current bottom-less situation.

But I made it, and weeks of counseling had helped me with the post traumatic stress I experienced afterwards.

Time heals all wounds.

And then Tuesday afternoon, My Captain, Varmint (who was home sick) and I were over at my Mom’s again..only this time to move an enormous plant, and it happened again!! 

I backed into one of her &!*#!&!! cacti on the back deck.  The good news is that I had jeans on, the bad news is that it was the impaling variety of cacti.

Jeans do not stop long sharp needles from slicing through the soft helpless flesh of one’s buttocks.

I cussed like a sailor again.  I’m getting creative in my cursing.

And my mom, the creator of all of this pain, the harbinger of these malevolent horticultural torture devices, has the nerve, the nerve to tell me she doesn’t like it when I use such strong language around my Varmint.

My Varmint who at that moment was being the perfect example of ROFLOL.

(For those of you who aren’t texting savy, that means Rolling On Floor, Laughing Out Loud. Which is different than LOLPIP, which is Laughing Out Loud, Peeing In Pants.)

So I lovingly and respectfully informed my mother that when one is repeatedly subjected to being stabbed by hundreds of tiny little pricks in one’s bottom, one is allowed to cuss like a sailor on leave.

Which set her off on a peel of laughter.  Apparently she thought the phrase ‘hundreds of tiny pricks in one’s bottom’ was something to laugh at.

I hate the South West.

I was sitting between two fantastically handsome men. Both tall.  Both dark.  Both handsome.  They both found me witty, charming, and smart.  I was delighted!

No, this wasn’t a dream, thank you.  It was real.

(All women reading this give me a “No Way!”  and I will reply, “WAY!”)

It happened a few days ago.  Sure, my husband was one of them.  Sure, the other one was his oldest and bestest friend.  Sure, we were in the middle of Medic Recert.  But none of those things change the fact that I was sitting between two hunks.

Life was good.

Until…..

Don’t you hate how there is always an ‘Until’ in my stories?  I sure as heck do.

Until….

My husband’s oldest and best friend leaned over and whispered in my ear,…..

“Have you got any Ibuprofen?”

I whispered back, “Sure!” and rummaged in my bag to pull out a bottle of chewable, (grape flavored, thank you very much) Motrin.  I always have some for the kids.

I handed him 6, and he chuckled, “I figured you would.  You can always count on Mommys to have stuff like that in their bags.  As big as yours is, I knew you would.”

POP.  SSSSSSssssssssssss.

I don’t need to be liked, or popular, or seen as anything remarkable.  But I WOULD like it if I weren’t thought of as a dependable pack mule.

Oh well.  If I cry about it, I’m sure I’ll find some tissues in my bag….