I am feeling marvelous sitting here in my bicycling gear, enthused about today's ride. I don't question the source of my great mood: I know exactly what it is. I have a shuddering flashback to a darker time when padded shorts did not live in my closet. Let me go back…



A couple years ago, I spent what seemed like an embarrassing amount of money on a pair of padded bike shorts. We were at Trek waiting for our bikes to be serviced before our first ride of the season. (It's one of the perks of buying a Trek bike: free annual maintenance.)

Nick already had a pair of padded bike shorts for our bicycling adventures. He was very diligent about wearing them, and I thought it was the silliest thing I had ever heard of. You see, I didn't bike much before dating Nick; I'm still learning how to be one of the cool kids. When I spotted the display of pricey shorts that day, a war waged in me.

All of my medical issues, procedures, and whatnot involve my very low back. Due to the proximity of this boo-boo, Nick and I refer these as my "butt" problems. Not entirely accurate, but it injects a bit of gaiety into the situation. Anyway, I'll be honest that one of my most persuasive arguments FOR buying the most expensive pair of padded bike shorts on the rack was this: if my HMO was willing (or forced) to put six figures into my butt, I should be able to justify three.

After signing my name on the dotted line, I changed in one of the the store's dressing rooms. After I came out, we continued to wait for the bikes to be ready. I did not sit until we were in the car on the way to the trail head…and I think I actually moaned in unbridled pleasure. I felt like I was sitting on a cloud, and it was luxurious. I wasn't even on my bike yet and I was wondering how I could fit these shorts into my everyday wardrobe.

Once my backside was happy, all kinds of doors opened for me. I smiled easier. I was more outgoing. I was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed all the time. I had no idea what kind of pull my posterior had on my perspective…but now that I know, I feel the need to give this knowledge to the world (you know, for the good of mankind).

In retrospect, it was one of the best three-figures I've ever spent. Life-changing. Epic.

My only regret is that I still haven't found a way to work them under a pencil skirt.

So, I believe myself to be the traffic light whisperer.

I get a thrill when I approach the red light facing me and see the green light in the corner of my eye change to yellow. That was all me, baby. I made that light change! Yeah!

This awesome, amazing, astonishing, and astounding talent extends to left arrow lights, and we happen to have such a light in one of our last turns on the evening commute.

When I am the first car in the left turn lane, I know where the sweet spot is on the pavement. If you stop too early or too late, the lights will cycle through without ever giving you the arrow…EVER. Throughout most of the day, that's not a big deal because the intersection isn't that busy. But at rush hour, well, that's a different story. Left-turners are screwed if the front car doesn't know the sweet spot. Most of the time, I hate that first car.

Some of the time, that first car is my husband. For years, he denied my talent. He could not believe that a human could in any way tame such a wild thing. I think he is starting to believe…stopped first at the aforementioned left turn lane several weeks ago, he asked ME if he was going to get the arrow. (I patted his hand and told him that he overshot the spot…again.)

I started coming down with a head cold today. By the time I left work, I could no longer hear out of my left ear or breathe out of my nose. My head throbbed. I was in an understandably lousy mood as I slid behind the wheel. When I reached my left turn lane as the first car, I didn't immediately feel the power that was building beneath my hands. I didn't even register that I got the left turn arrow because I always get it: old hat.

But, as I made my turn, I looked at my rear view mirror. A parade of happy little cars and trucks turned behind me, all excited to have the fortune of the arrow to end their day. With my painful head congestion, I nodded at the mirror and mumbled, "You're welcob."

The situation does not present itself often, but every now and then Nick gets home after I am in bed and long asleep. I wouldn't say that I am either a sound sleeper or a light sleeper…I'm just a…sleeper. Being middle-of-the-road as I am in this is probably a little frustrating to interpret—the extremes of anything are much easier to temper.

Nick tries to be a nice guy and keep all lights off, making as little noise as possible as he climbs the steps to head toward our bedroom. His efforts are not completely wasted: I do not wake up from such understated sensory stimulus. I do, however, wake up as soon as a strange man—who I know can't be my husband because my husband is not home—crawls into bed with me.

I jump out of my skin every. single. time.

This situation does not happen when I am the one to get in late. Nick is a very sound sleeper, and I'm pretty sure that I could practice my tambourine skills during the night without him ever knowing that I left the bed.

Obviously not a lot of logic goes into my gasping reaction, or I would take a moment to appreciate my would-be attacker's manners in stacking the decorative bed pillows from his side of the bed in a neat little tower in the corner. But, no. I wake up so suddenly that I think the suddenness of my consciousness is just as startling as what woke me in the first place. I gasp sharply, perhaps trying to inflate my lungs to get a good scream out, when it comes to me that I need to take it down a notch (or several notches). Simmer down now!

In the aftermath, I am wide awake and wired; Nick feels awful that he scared me. Something must change.

He went to a baseball game with a coworker the other day. I fully planned to be in bed by the time the game ended and he drove home from the stadium. I wished him goodnight that morning, and he promised me that he would turn on every light in the house and make as many crashing sounds as possible when he arrived home. His words may have seemed mean-spirited, but I find inconsiderate klutzes much easier to disregard than stealthy bed hoppers!

I have very sensitive teeth. My sensitivity is primarily to cold things, but sugar can also bother me from time to time. I have had this sensitivity for a very long time. I started complaining to my dentist about it before I was a teenager, and by the time I was 19, they thought they had identified a naughty tooth with a crack from an old filling. I have a crown to show for it. My dentist was sure that this would fix my cold sensitivity…but it was not to be.

In the years since, several exposed roots have been identified. Can you say smoking gun? Yes, well…here I thought my mouth was in harmony when my gums and teeth are so at odds that they can't stand to be near each other. I have some desensitizing paste that helps a bit, but mainly I just avoid eating cold foods.

That's really the simplest solution, isn't it?

—"It hurts when I touch it!"
—"Then stop touching it."

We planned a picnic lunch and hike at Devil's Lake today. That sounds nice, doesn't it?



The temperatures have dipped about 40 degrees from just three days ago. I haven't been paying attention to weather and was totally unprepared for the chill in the air. We decided to forgo the hike (the picture is from an excursion last May), but we sat at a picnic table and ate since Nick had already packed our lunch. Turkey sandwiches and apples...all encased between two ice packs. Oh, this was going to be fun, I thought to myself.

"What is wrong with you!?" I teased. "What's so bad about room temperature anyway?"

It was very chilly outside, and we ate in record time to get back to the car. I really wanted my apple, but it felt like a block of ice. I had been trying to warm it in my hands, but they were useless. I put it under my first shirt layer (I was wearing two), but that made my tummy cold and seemed to give me shivers everywhere. I decided to hold the apple in my hands again and just breathe warm air on it. I REALLY wanted that apple. I was on a mission!

I was still breathing on the apple when we made it back to the car. As we drove out of the park, Nick grabbed the apple from me and turned on the heat, full blast. He held the apple before the vent (I assume to make fun of me). I smirked at him and took the apple back…but then decided that was a pretty good idea and held it up again. I couldn't help but laugh at this scene. Does anyone else feel like life makes you a little nutty sometimes?

By the way, the apple was juicy and delicious—totally worth all that work.

I come from a family that strongly believes in the necessity of indoor plumbing. I tell people that I am very fond of electricity, and I am—but I think I could learn to live by candlelight as long as the toilet still flushed. Our idea of roughing it consisted of a "cabin" that was really part of a resort. There was dingy wood paneling and a couch from the 60s—so it was rough! But seriously, this caught the gist of the idea of separating oneself from the grind of everyday life without needing an outhouse.

Due in part to this affection for running water, I had safely gone almost 25 whole years without ever camping. As children, Charlie and I had a tent that we set up in the living room and spread out in sleeping bags while we watched Happy Days reruns through the flap; I feel that this was adequate camping experience. Also, my cousin and I did try to use the tent outside (in the backyard) one time, but we were sprinting to the house by 9:00 because there were unnatural noises outside the tent (well, unnatural to us)! I've never been tempted to enter a tent as an adult. It's just silly.

—All this buildup…when is she going to get to the point?
—Now.

Nick camped with this family as a child. By the time I met him, he had a neat little pile of camping equipment. I tried to get out of the camping and kayaking trip that he and his friends had planned before I came into the picture…but he wouldn't take "I have to wash my hair" as a valid reason for not joining in: so not sensitive to subtleties. So, I went.

It wasn't all bad. There were parts that I really liked, and parts that I really didn't (read paragraph on plumbing)…I have to admit that he did offer to drive me to the big bathroom complex with the flushing toilets whenever I felt the urge. We went twice that year. I was able to put Nick off from camping for the next couple years. He must have thought my hair was really dirty with as often as I had to wash it! But, in 2009, he came to me with his pleading puppy dog eyes asking if I would camp with him a single night. I couldn't say no: my hair smelled like a salon.

This was right after my back pain became unbearable and days before it was diagnosed. I didn't mind the one night of camping, I will admit (but it still seemed like an awful lot of work for a vacation). My biggest complaint was that it was hard for me to get in and out of the tent, and this argument held for awhile because he knew how much it hurt for me to bend that way. When he needed more reasons why camping wasn't an option, I told him the tent was too small. When the statute of limitations wore out on that one, I told him that the air mattress was uncomfortable.

Really, this was all just code for "I don't wanna" (even though everything I told him was also true).

Enter this year. He wanted to go camping for a couple of nights with a bunch of friends for his birthday weekend. I was scheduled for surgery that would essentially squash the rest of our summer activities. Between the two extenuating circumstances (birthday+guilt), I consented. I think he saw this as a time to finally make me fall in love with camping.

So, he bought this:



He was going to set it up in the living room before leaving to figure out the setup, but he couldn't because the tent was bigger than our living room. It has three rooms, fits 10 people, and the door is tall enough that I (with my shortness) barely have to tilt my head to walk in. Also, he borrowed two cots for us to try out before buying our own.

All of my clever reasons! Squashed, just like that!

I feel my grip sliding on this tug of war. He's definitely winning…it took me years to come up with actual parts of camping that I dislike. I think I may have to go back to the old "but dirt is so…DIRTY!" Because, honestly, if he would just clear the area of dirt and bugs and sanitize everything in Lysol, I'd probably be a very happy camper!