Hands Up!

Yesterday morning I woke up to a text from a girlfriend with a selfie that said “This is why it’s important my man be taller than I am.” It was a cute pic of her making a smoochy face, but I wondered why she’d sent it.

Then I saw it. The pic she took first. The view from down under. The picture she wouldn’t let me post here. I don’t know if I can express to you how much joy the laughter brought. Kinda the way you laugh at somebody who just fell up some steps. Every female friend on the thread woke up to the best laugh of the day. So, like good friends, we joined in by adding similar selfies to the thread. None of them flattering. Blackmail worthy in fact. I have been forbidden from sharing most of them, in fact.

The selfies brought to mind lots of thoughts.  First – my kids taunting me about my lack of selfie-skill. I always took them from down under. And the results were always disastrous. How was I to know you don’t want to see into my sinuses, the chicken skin on my neck, the gobbler on my chin, or my jowls in general?  My kids taught me that I must, under all circumstances, raise my hand above my head when selfie-ing. That’s a lot to remember.

Here’s another thought: My sweetie is a nerd, so he sent me a journal article about how men and women use pics in different ways. We ladies put ourselves in a lower position in the pic to look young and dewey. Dudes post pics where they are in a higher position so they look like the big banana. To sum it up, ladies take pics from overhead to look like hotties and men take pics from down under to show they are the powerful commander of their nose hair. Got it.

Final thought: I work as an on-air personality and just reported that for online dating profiles, selfies pale in comparison to candids. In pictures, women should look off-camera and smile. Men should look into the camera but shouldn’t show any teeth. Sporty pics; good. Posing in sunglasses; bad. Going potty in private; good. Bathroom selfie; bad. That’s a lot to remember.

Enjoy these pics. They are me, my friend Sarah, and my daughter Glynn. This story is dedicated to Katherine….the one who texted that pic yesterday.

medium.com/…/hinge-the-relationship-app-28f1000d5e76

journals.sagepub.com/…77/0956797616688885

Luxurious: Being Able to Take Everything for Granted

I’m a firstie on the daily prompts.  I generally have a lot of ideas of things I want to write about.  I take for granted I can get to writing one of these, whenever.  I have a computer and electricity and fingers.  And all that.

Yesterday I was watching a news channel and saw a segment about a ship that does humanitarian medical work all around the world.  They’d stopped in the Congo.  Or is it just Congo.  It’s “Republic of the Congo.”  Hmmm.  I just take it for granted that I can go Googlin’ while the people in Congo wait in line to see a doctor for seven hours.  The report said some of the adults had never seen a doctor.  Ever.  I remember how sick some of them looked.  I think of getting in to see my doctor – often the same day.  I had a heart attack a few years ago.  I got flown on a helicopter to another set of doctors.  I was always grateful.  But I know I took that level of care, for granted.

I recently went to Europe for a couple of weeks.  It was hot.  I remember eating inside a restaurant at night and sweating.  I take air-conditioning inside restaurants for granted.  I remember sweating while I was peeing.  I take air-conditioning inside toilet stalls for granted.  I was riding inside a subway car and sweating.  I take the air-conditioning inside subway cars for granted.  Some people I know tell me they don’t have AC. I gasp. I take being a wuss for granted.

I take it for granted that stuff just works.  The TV comes on.  The ice maker makes. The microwave nukes.  I have eyeglasses.  When those things don’t work anymore, I get new ones. The places I shop have food and stuff on the shelves.  If they are out one day, they will get more.  And then I can go back and get more.

My friends are there when I need them.  And even when I just want to hang out.

My students come to class.  And they do what I ask them to.

My son will get off the bus.  My oldest daughter will go to the gym and my other daughter will come for dinner when we’re having red meat.  These things just happen.  And my stepson will come over on Notre Dame game night.

My husband brings me coffee in bed every morning he is home.  He cooks on those days.  And he vacuums and does the shopping.  I take it for granted I can just do job stuff those days.

It’s good to have moments to think about things taken for granted.  What is the saying – “you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone?”

I am grateful I can take things for granted.

untitled (by Taylor)

I never thought I’d love another women as much as I did in that moment; I was lucky to have a friend like Amy.  We both knew exactly what was going on once that phone rang.  I was in a state of shock listening to my mother talk to Penny, and Amy was just watching everything unravel.  I put my head down in my pillow and lost all control.  Everything I had been holding in the past few months was let loose as I sat there crying, gasping for air.  The next thing I knew I felt the bed cave in next to me, and a hand rubbing smoothly on my back.  I was never one for theatrics, tears, or being “mushy” in any sense; and knowing that, my best friend just sat there rubbing my back.  Nothing was said; she sat there knowing that there was really nothing to say.  And that was exactly what I needed.  After a few minutes my mom came out, somewhat distraught, now knowing that I too knew exactly what had happened.  My grandpa, her father, had passed away that night.

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She came out gave me a hug and told me “Focus on what you need to do today, we can always be sad later”.  I wiped my tears, gave my mom and best friend a hug and started getting ready for the competition.  Getting ready was always a process with our mothers, so Amy and I always took to doing it ourselves to avoid a fight about whether our poof was crooked or not, because in the scope of things, especially today, that didn’t matter.  The entire morning was a blur for me, the only distinct details being that Starbucks burnt my first bagel and had to make me a second one, and the fact that I did my hair by myself.

Since cheerleading is mostly mental my mom was worried about how I would preform under this kind of pressure.  My grandpa’s death was on my mind all day, and memories of my childhood kept hitting me in waves.  I recollected playing in the pool over the summer, going shopping with my grandmother, and listening to his old navy stories as my sister and I lay with him by the fireplace.  My mom thought it would be a good idea to let my coach, Mark, know the situation, so he wouldn’t have to ask me about why I seemed “out of it”.  He must have told the gym manager about it, because before I knew it half of my friends were coming up to me asking me if I was okay, and half of them would just stare and see how I was reacting.  Amy helped deflect most of the comments about it and distracted me with anything else to get my mind off of it.  She kept me calm and focused during stretches and warm ups, and did everything she could to make me laugh.  As we moved backstage for my last performance of the year we did our proud circle and shimmied out our nerves into Mark’s invisible garbage bag.  Before they left Mark and my other coach Dre, made sure to come up to me and give me a hug, knowing that I would be okay.  Amy shot them both a look as if to say, “Don’t say anything!” which must have worked because they gave me my hug and a kiss on the cheek with a simple “Good luck T, we’re proud of you” before they left. Amy and I gathered our team into a circle, to give them one last pep talk before we hit the mat.  She hugged me after the team dispersed again, shaking out all of their final nerves, and said “You’ve got this”.

We held hands as our team name was called up to the mat, and separated into our spots.  Our friend Elyse called out “One, Two, Three….” And the whole team jumped into the air yelling “WOO!”.  I landed clean on the mat, everyone was frozen, with our heads down until the music started.  I gave our routine everything I had in me that day, putting on the best performance, for me, to date.  I was so proud of myself and relieved to be done.  When the routine was over I frantically searched for my best friend, sprinting to give her a hug.  She grabbed my hand and we walked back stage again to talk to our coaches.  I felt great, everything that I did, hit and I was ecstatic.  Our coaches told us we were good, but a stunt fell at the beginning, Amy’s stunt.  After watching the video everyone knew it wasn’t her fault and she did everything she could have to save it.  After some final words from our coaches we ran out into the sea of parents waiting for their children, and searched for our moms.  People kept trying to pull me and talk to me but Amy and I just pushed past them for our mothers.  I ran to my mom and gave her a huge hug.  She hugged me back and said “Your grandpa would have been so proud of you!”.  That was when reality set in.

It all started in early November, just after my birthday when I had come home from practice.  I remember having a horrible practice that night and being in a really bitchy mood already, so when my mom asked if we could talk my snarky response was “What now, did someone die too?”.  She just looked down and said “Your grandfather is in the hospital, they think he has a bad case of pneumonia”.  I instantly felt horrible for what I had said and tried consoling my mom that it would be okay.  But it wasn’t.  Within the next few weeks, the pneumonia medicine wasn’t working and he kept going in and out of the hospital, until he was diagnosed with lung cancer in late December.  We would visit the hospital whenever he was there, and as his stays got longer our visits became more frequent.  Cheerleading picked up and I was at the gym three hours a day every day almost right after school, and I wasn’t able to be there for my grandpa as much as the rest of my family.  But that was okay in my mind because I had talked myself into believing that everything was going to be fine.  But I could only lie to myself for so long.  I realized how serious things were mid competition season in March when he was put in hospice, given six months to live, a fact that my mother could never get up the courage to say.  Balancing visits to the hospital, three teams, and schoolwork every day was tough, but Amy helped me through it all.

Right before I left for U.S. Finals, the week before he died, my mom and I went to their house, where they had an in-house nurse taking care of him for the time being.  I gave him a big hug while he laid in his favorite recliner and helped him in anyway I could have.  We talked about school and cheer like we always do, and he wished me good luck at my competition.  It’s always upset me that that was my last goodbye.  I always thought last goodbyes are these big important moments of your life and that you just know when they’re going to happen, but I didn’t and it was just like an ordinary day for my grandpa and I.  And maybe that was the best last goodbye, at least for me, because although not knowing hurts, I feel as if I had known that would have been much worse.

Two days after the fastest eight-hour car ride home from the competition, was the funeral.  Something that I thought I wouldn’t have to face for quite a few more years.  Walking into the cold weird room with my family was the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do.  It appeared as something straight out of one of my worst nightmares.  After seeing the pained faces of my family, especially my mother who was in hysterics nearly the whole time, the reality hit me.  I couldn’t be in that room any more.  How could the rest of my family expect me to be here for such a sad, morbid event?  I had to excuse myself to the nearest bathroom where I could just sit down and collect my thoughts for a few minutes.  I needed a distraction, I didn’t care what it was but I couldn’t be in that room alone.  After a few minutes of collecting myself I went back into the room and sat with my sister.  She was always the “emotionless” one.  I always admired how she could keep herself together at times like this.  I looked to her to help keep my mind from racing.  Our conversations were helping, but soon people from our other side of the family kept coming up to us and talking about it.  They clearly didn’t know how I handled things like this.  No one did.

I tuned out of the conversation with my sister and my dad’s parents and looked to my mother, who had appeared with the person that I needed most.  I ran up to Aim for a much needed distraction.  Amy and her parents were all here.  I was ecstatic.  The second she walked in we immediately started talking about our teams rank in the country.  Since we won first at the competition we had just got back from, we were likely to place first overall in the country, against the other branches of competitions.  She was telling me how she checked all the scores on line and how we had had the highest so far in our division, and we were most likely going to be awarded the banner for being the best team in the country.

Interrupting our conversation, a small, older man that appeared to be in his fifties announced that he would like to say a few words about my grandfather. The man was with my Grandpa’s chapter of the Knights of Columbus, which my grandfather never attended, because he hated everyone there.  I sat with Amy, and my sister, Katy, as we listened to the man speak.  I was somber the entire speech until the man said “Richard was a very honest man with respect for the law”, that was when my sister and I lost it.  My mom must have heard us because I saw her shoulders move up and down repeatedly, as I tried to maintain my own laughter.  My grandpa was known for always taking a few extra screws from Home Depot and putting them in his pocket before he left, or eating a couple grapes from the counter at the grocery store.  Not that he ever committed any felonies but he most certainly did not have “the highest respect for the law”.  I slowly regained control of my laughing fit with my sister and told Amy that we would tell her later when it wasn’t so obvious.  After the speech Katy and I filled Amy in, as my mom came over to us and yelled at us for making her laugh during the man’s speech.  The service was nearly over and people were beginning to leave, but Amy and her family stayed longer than most.  Before she left she gave me a big hug and told me she would see me later at practice that week.  Her parents gave their condolences to my mom and dad and they left us alone with the rest of my mom’s family.

That was definitely the hardest weekend of my life, and I’ll always remember what Amy did for me those few days, and the weeks leading up to that weekend.  Whether it was the silent gesture of just rubbing my back when I found out, or completely distracting me at the service when I needed her most, she was my rock.  I honestly don’t know what I would have been able to do without her at the competition and at home for the next few weeks.  After all, you never forget losing someone, that I’ll always know.  Ever since that day, May 1st 2010, I’ve been taking the time to appreciate the people I love more, because I’m so lucky to have them in my life.  Especially my best friend, who knows me better than anyone else, and who I love more than words can describe.

Untitled (by Benjamin Bobo)

I took a step forward. My left hand reached out towards the box. My fingers tightly curled around its smooth wooden handle. “One, Two, Three, lift.” I thought that the casket would tug on my shoulders and cause my arms to stretch and ache, as my grandmother’s casket had. With a small pine box, carried by me, my brother, my five uncles and grandfather it was quite light. I took a step forward, pointing my feet outwards, so that I would not step on my grandfather’s shoes in front of me. I lifted my head up, my eyes finding the shoulders of my grandfather and took another step.

As I took my step, I pictured myself sitting in 111 Forum for microeconomics less than a week ago. I was sitting there trying to pay attention. I had just taken a chemistry test the evening before. I was anxious about the Math 251 test I had that Tuesday evening and the physics test I would have the following night. I was counting the minutes before the class ended, so that I could run back to my dorm and use my last hour I had before the test to study. All this was going through my head when my pocket started to vibrate. I woke up from my little zone of taking notes and pretending to care about the material. My pocket vibrated again, I reached my hand inside my pocket, slipping it along the jean and pulling out my phone.  I look at it and it was from my mother. I pressed the big red upside down phone symbol. I sent her a text asking if it was important, she responded that it was.

After scooting past a few students with some difficulty, I made my way to the hallway in forum where I called my mother back. “Hi, honey…” she said when I called her. I knew something horrible at happened. With these two words, I could hear the sadness in her voice. From these two words I could tell that someone in my immediate family had died. It wasn’t her and it wasn’t me. This left my brother and my father. Looking back, from the loneliness I heard in her voice, from the croaking sound that came from fighting through tears, I should have been able to predict who it was. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but… your father has died.” All I could responded with was a half sobering-in-disbelief “what?” The ground rushed up towards my face and I had to block it from hitting me with my arm. I had lost control of all my other muscles except the muscles keeping the phone to my ear and the ground slamming into my face. The first thing that came to my mind is that my father would not be driving to pick me up in a few weeks. Other students would be picked up by their parents and be driven back home at the end of the semester. I, however, would now only be picked up by my mother. It would be a long, sad nine hour drive home. So, there I was lying flat on the soft carpet floor, in the hallway in forum with cold tears wiggling their way down my face. My mother then went on to explain how she was going about her daily routines. That she thought my dad was just sleeping in, so she didn’t wake him. Eventually, he didn’t get up and when she went to check on him, he was dead.

statue

I took another step. I looked to my right and saw my father’s friend. She was staring at the ground, near our feet. Her body sort of dropped, her body language showing that she could not face the pain of looking up into our eyes. I turned my head to the left, slowly, trying to savor the moment, yet at the same time trying to let it go. I forced my eyes open, trying not to blink, so that I would not miss a second. On my left was my mother’s friend. Tears were falling down her cheeks. She tried to give me and my brother a smile. You could tell in her eyes and from the dimples formed by the smile that she was proud of us, but she had a deep sorrow for what we were going through. I took another step.

I started thinking about how two months ago I thought what I had to look forward to at home had disappeared. Two months ago me and my girlfriend of two years broke up. It was a long distance relationship, but I thought out of all my friends that we could be the ones to make it through. I turned out to be wrong. I knew it wasn’t the end of the world, but I thought I had lost a good chunk of what was waiting for me back home. I had lost a part of my life back home, it wasn’t quite as shiny as it was before. After a week or so I came to realize that, I had a great family and lots of caring friends back home. I had a few really close friends, a brother, a mother and a father that still loved me. Like most break-ups, I eventually discovered there might be someone else waiting out there for me in the future.

I took another step. To say this was much worse would be an understatement. They weren’t even comparable. My grandfather had described it as a punch in the stomach. However, this punch felt as if it was from Hercules. This punch, is what caused me to lose control of my muscles in the Forum building. This punch will bring any grown man or woman to his or her knees. This punch sent me aching for weeks. It gave me a headache for about two days and gave my stomach pain for a few weeks. I took another step.

I tilted my head to the left. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my brother one person ahead and one person to the left. I looked at my brother and saw, that with his slouched shoulders, clamped jaw, tense neck, but flexing forearm he was thinking something similar to me. What if that Tuesday I had never received a phone call? What if I had sat through the entire class, continued on to take my math test and then my physics test? What if, on Wednesday night I had called my father to tell him my tests were over with? On Tuesday I was beginning to feel the end of the semester. There were a little over four weeks left, all I had to do was get through that week and finals and I would be home for the summer. I had been home for less than fifteen days since august. I was looking forward to seeing my mother and my father, even watching a movie at night as we always did. The one thing that had helped me get through my breakup and the rest of the school year was that I would still have a wonderful, happy and complete family to come home to.

In the coming weeks it would have been easy to slip into a false reality. It would have been as easy as reaching out and turning on a sink faucet. I could have tricked my brain into believing he was still alive, that he was just away on a work trip. I could trick myself into believing that he would pick me up once my finals were over. All I had to do was reach out. I eventually learned to walk away from this faucet and accepted the reality that was handed to me.

I took another step. I took a deep breath and sighed. Not a sigh as if it had been a long day. This sigh came from deep from within the lungs, like the breath of someone about to dive into water. This breath came from deeper within, it came from the heart. I tensed my neck. I was not going to dwell on sad thoughts, I had to keep moving forward and put one foot in front of the other. I took another step.

I started giving some thought as to what the future would be like. It would not be the large things that I missed. I would miss him as a person, a father and a friend. The biggest pain, however, would come from the smallest things. I would miss the weekly call from him and how he worked so hard to keep my single pet fish alive. When I get home, it will be the absence of the soft sound of a shoe against a sock, him taking off his shoes. It will be him setting gently briefcase down with a little clunk sound after work. It will be him handing me his black Ace comb that had a few teeth missing to comb my hair before we went into church. Once again, I tried not to dwell on the sad things, I tried to focus on the good. I took another step forward.

I readjusted and tightened my grip on the now warm wooden handle. I looked to my left and saw the man who had read at my baptism. He did his best to stand tall and with his dark grey and shining blue eyes, he looked at me. I gave a slight nod of my head, to show that I see him and appreciate him being there. He stood strong, looked back at me and blinked his eyes, telling me that he was confident I could get through this. That it is horrible, but when you get through with this, I am here for you. I took another step.

I turned my head forward, turning my head slightly to look at all of the people in the back row. Most of them were people I did not know. But all of them had the same expression. All watching us intently, trying to see what we were going through, pitying us for what we were going through. I took another step.

The doors of the sanctuary were before us. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was supposed to be in State college, just getting up and making my way to the dining hall. My father was supposed to die in about twenty or more years, after I had graduated and maybe even started a family. He was supposed to die an old man, like in the movies when the family kneels around his bed and listens to his last words. My father had no known health conditions or any symptoms. It was as if someone or something had snapped its fingers. It had just woke up one morning and decided that my father would live no more. It had decided that my brother and I would not have a father, my mother would not have a husband; my grandparents would not have a son; my uncles and aunt would not have a brother. Until this moment, I had not fully understood the fragility of life. Death had always been something that was reserved for the old and unhealthy. For dangerous activities and freak accidents. Never could I have imagined that life could be there, and the next moment not. Never could I have imagined that in between weekly phone calls, my father would be gone. My father who had raised me to be the person I am. My father who did so many things for me. My father who showed me what friendship, kindness and love is. My father who I was looking forward to seeing when I got home. My father who wouldn’t be there to pick me up when the semester ends.

Once again I took a deep, deep breath. I took another step out of the sanctuary. Eventually we made our way down the steps of the church. We then lifted up the pine box, put the box to rest in the hearse and closed the door. And that is the last time I ever saw my father.

Pre-Barcelona: Men have it easy. (by me)

My husband didn’t have to pack any bras.  I guess that’s a good thing. (It’s one thing to be 52.  It another to be 52 and have moobs. Luckily, he doesn’t have any).  I digress. His lack of having to pack any bras points to a much bigger, and much more serious issue:  Packing.  Packing and the battle of the sexes.

The eve of our trip, Pat was giving me a hard time due to the late hour and the detail that I’d not yet put one item into a suitcase.  I didn’t see it as a problem due to my nightowlyness.  When asked if he’d finished packing, his response was, of course, “yes.”  This is because he likes to do things early.  He doesn’t fiddlefart around like me (I know this is what he is thinking most of the time).  It is also because he owns a scrotum.  Those scrotum-toters can pack for a two-week European trip in about four minutes.

When I asked what he packed he replied “Five pair of Dockers, a bunch of polo shirts, a pair of jeans, some shorts, a bunch of those colored t-shirts, a few pair of shoes and some underwear.”  Oh, he may have mentioned a pair of bathing trunks.  Wow. The stress. He was packing for a work trip to Barcelona and the Cambridge, England area; hence the Dockers and polos.  The hardest decision was whether the khaki-colored pants looked better with light blue or navy.  So I ventured up the stairs to the bedroom and got a gander at his packed suitcase.  It sat, mocking me.  The man suitcase.  Boring. Simple.  Packed.

Then I ventured into my closet.  And my clothes hung there, mocking me.  I started putting things on the floor.  Simple enough.  These four skirts, and these eight shirts.  These jeans and these two shirts.  This sundress. This pair of capris and these shirts.  A few light sweaters.  These pants and these two shirts. And so on.  I figured if I had a few shirt options for each bottom, I’d be set.  It all seems simple enough at this point, right?  It’s still way more complicted than the man-pack described above, but so far, it’s not too bad.

Then it hits.  Reality sets in.  This is when your husband walks into the closet and sees you just standing there.  Or so he thinks. He thinks you are just fiddlefarting around.  But, THIS is where the real packing begins. The real torture.  The reason I waited until 11 PM the night before.  It’s time to pack the under layer.  The accessories.  Jewelry. All the stuff you have to think about for each outfit.  All the stuff men don’t have to worry about.  Well, at least not my husband. (His beauty kit outweighs mine though.  That’s another story.)

bra

Which bra goes with THAT shirt?  Oh yeah, I need the racerback bra for that one.  And a few of the packed blouses need a strapless bra.  Now is not the time to become bohemian. And one shirt in particular calls for a black bra because occasionally the straps become visible.  And how horrific would it be for my nude straps to show.  How pedestrian!  How teenager.  And some of the shirts can’t take a traditional bra at all – they call for a more casual, colored jog-bra type contraption.  But wait – there’s more – one of the blouses is so sheer that I need to pack a shelf-bra type camisole top for it!  Some of you gals may be thinking “convertible bra.”  I think I tried one before.  No thanks.  I like to keep things complicated.

Now we move onto underwear.  The husband has two types.  Boxers and non-boxers.  (The non-boxers are NOT tightie whities.  They have been banned.  I told him if I ever see those again I’d whip out the female version – big white briefs a la Bridget Jones.)  Again, for each outfit I have to stand in the closet and think of my ass.  This is a topic that gives me enough stress as-is; now I have to think of it from a pantyline POV.  Which outfilts can handle regular panties?  Which pants call for a thong?  Do any of these skirts need a slip so I don’t look like a skank-ho walking through town? Spanx. Spanx?  Thank God I haven’t gone there yet.

Now it’s time for jewelry.  By now I’ve decided I should have been born a scrotum-toter.  This is all just a bunch of bull shit.  So I just throw my most-worn jewelry into my jewelry bag.  But, of course, one cannot just throw it all into a bag.  It becomes a complicated system of this necklace going into this ziploc baggie, and these two necklaces going into that baggie, and so on.  This, in the hopes I will not be fighting to untangle anything on the other side of the Atlantic.  Earrings.  Crapfest.  I have to get earrings.  Do I really need earrings?

Shoes.  I’d been worrying about this dilemma for weeks prior to the trip. My feet, calves, and knees hurt all the time.  The doc says it’s just old lady syndrome.  OK.  That’s not what he said.  But I need arch support and tape on my right knee.  (At the end of a few miles it all hurts nonetheless.)  So, I have a few pair of shoes that are okay looking.  So they are packed.  I really want to wear my bright purple Asics every day, but I am loathe to look like an American tourist.  Plus, I’ve never worn sneakers with a skirt.  Never.  I don’t plan to start now.  But on our first eve in Barcelona I did see these on a guy.  He even posed for a pic.  He was French.  Or at least he was speaking French.  After this sighting I decided I would wear my bright purple Asics as I may be the toast of the town.  Or at least the toast of French teenagers in Barcelona.

nike

These Nikes with pink laces were on a teenage guy. I guess my purple sneakers won’t be so offensive after all.

I also saw these shoes on a gal.  I think she wore these just to rub it in my face:  “Ha, old lady American!  I am petite and I have good arches.  Take that!”

Back to packing:  I didn’t even talk about belts.  That’s because for this trip I only had to pack one.  And I skipped over the beauty kit section.  And medicine.  And the purse I use when traveling.  And the Clif bars I pack.   At this point I’m tired of talking about packing.  I really hate packing.

Unpacking is much worse.

blue shoes