July 3, 2002
Exploding Calendars

miles to go: 1190.16

After months and months of not very much going on -- at least, not very much besides work and bike-riding and work and bike-riding some more, with the occasional BOOB sighting or Tot Crisis tossed in for chuckles -- all of a sudden David and I find ourselves with more appointments on our calendar than the local botox clinic during Two-For-One Month.

To tell you the truth,  it's a little overwhelming.

It kicks off with The Fourth of July tomorrow -- a one-day trip to Nevada City, for brunch with friends from the old Baby Boomer Chat Room -- and it continues right on through the next few weeks with a high school reunion (his), a trip to TicTac (hers) and a romantic anniversary weekend for two (his-AND-hers). Along the way we're also going to try and squeeze in a mammogram, a professional bike-fitting, a camping trip, a two-day Professional Development Seminar, a couple of mandatory family occasions, a veritable PARADE of out-of-town visitors, and -- unless God is merciful disaster strikes and we're hit with a blinding snowstorm during the third weekend of July -- our first *big* organized ride. 

All of this, mind you, on top of our regularly-scheduled work and bike-riding and work and bike-riding some more.

"This is going to be great!" says David happily, as we're discussing the intricacies and logistics of our suddenly-amazingly-complicated schedule. "Think of all the material you'll have for *FootNotes*!"

Privately, Cranky/Lazy/Antisocial Secra isn't so sure.

She looks at her overstuffed calendar, and at all of these new obligations coming up -- social, personal, professional, "other" -- and wonders if she has the internal *oomph* to get through them all. (Not to mention the vacation time, the wardrobe, the room on her credit card, the UV protection.) "Can't we just stay home and read People Magazine all summer?" she says ... hoping she doesn't sound as whiney as she feels.

David looks at her knowingly.

He knows that Cranky/Lazy/Antisocial Secra isn't really all that cranky. She's had sort of a tough few weeks, hormonally, and she's been feeling a little beat-up and raggedy , but otherwise she's her usual annoyingly optimistic self, 84.99276% of the time. She really isn't all that lazy, either. She's simply grown accustomed to the ease and the comfort of an uncomplicated lifestyle. (Read this: if it doesn't involve unplugging the phone and slipping into a pair of Happy Pants,  you're probably going to have to drag her into it, kicking and screaming.)

She isn't even all that antisocial, truth be told. She likes other people just fine. (As long as she doesn't have to -- you know -- TALK to them.)

Still, Not-Really-All-That Cranky/Lazy/Antisocial Secra understands that she is married to a people-person: that *he* thrives on conversation and social interaction almost as much as *she* thrives on sitting alone in a dark quiet empty apartment for five hours every Sunday afternoon. She understands, too, that part of her continuing evolution as a person/a recovering alcoholic/a cyclist/a writer is stretching herself in ways that may not always be comfortable ... literally or figuratively.

Furthermore, she understands that *FootNotes* needs the occasional infusion of fresh experiences to remain interesting. (She feels that lately we've all been spending entirely too much time inside her head AND her reproductive system.)

So she's gearing herself up for a whirlwind few weeks of sweating, swearing, shaking hands, allowing complete strangers to touch her inappropriately, eating food she wouldn't ordinarily eat, spending money she wouldn't ordinarily spend, posing for pictures, exchanging polite uncomfortable chit-chat, and smiling until her smile muscles threaten to collapse, right there on her face. She hopes that parts of it are fun. She hopes that the parts of it that aren't fun are at least journal-worthy. She hopes that she remembers to say "Please" and "Passing on your left" and "Oh god oh god oh baby oh baby." (Or maybe she'll just stick to "Thank you.")  She hopes that she doesn't cry or spill food on herself or fall down in front of anyone. She hopes there is at least one decent picture taken of her and David for the anniversary album. She hopes that there are occasional Happy Pants Moments, along the way, so she can stop and catch her breath at least.

And she hopes that her calendar -- plus a few fireworks, here and there -- are the ONLY things that explode this summer.

Have a safe and happy Fourth of July, everybody.

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probably the second-to-last weekend in august: we're still
working out the details.