Maybe a little too friendly...

I have been told that Americans are stereotyped as extremely friendly. I was never sure if I believed it until I starting frequenting Target and the bus here. Let's just look at Target for now. The other day I grabbed a snack from the deli/food court thing. The woman paying before me seemed quite frazzled as she searched for something. She kept saying something about how it wasn't a diamond but it was still a couple hundred dollars. I finally asked what she was looking for, and she said it was her engagement ring. The cashier asked if it had just now fallen off and the woman started talking about doing the dishes earlier. I was confused as to how she came to the conclusion that it was here with us rather than, perhaps, on her kitchen counter, but I felt bad for her. As she pushed her stroller forward my X-ray vision caught something under the counter. I asked her if that was it. Indeed it was. The woman was elated (or gassy-somewhere in that zone) as could be expected. She was talking in a rather constant stream, as could also be expected, I suppose. Then she reached out and hugged me. I saw it coming as if in slow motion. Stranger's arms coming toward me. I braced myself. After completing her hug she continued talking and thanking me. Then she said she'd kiss me if it wouldn't result in a lawsuit. I was ok with the gratitude stopping there. I'm certain I would not have taken legal action, but I won't lie, if she wants to use that reason to not kiss me, then I shan't argue with her logic. I guess people are just friendly here. Maybe a little too friendly. Minus all the lawsuits.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

It's called Realism

I had to work pretty hard to convince myself to come back to my old stomping grounds. It felt like defeat, walking away from my crazy adventures and unpredictability. I assured myself that it would only be temporary and made lists in my head of reasons that "it'll be great". But I didn't know if I actually believed me. But I was right--at least, the voice inside that made those lists was. And here I sit, utterly content with exactly where I am right now and, for possibly the first time in forever, not needing to run away. I've never been known for my optimism. In fact I've been called a pessimist (although I vehemently argue that "realist" is the appropriate term). But the reality is that this time it seems like all the ordinary goings on of life are adventures.
I have a job. A steady, same-schedule-all-week, weekends-off kind of job. And I love it.
I have to use an alarm to get up in the morning. And I love it.
I'm learning the need for a reasonable bedtime. And I... am getting used to it.
I'm busy all day and exhausted at bedtime. And I love it.
I can go out on the weekends. And I'm getting used to it.
I've had to learn a particular life skill that I skipped in my human development-it's called asking for help. And I'm starting to not dread it as much. 
I bike when I need to get somewhere, and when I get tired I just remember how fit I'm going to be by the time I leave here. And then I love it.
I remember how lucky I am to have a job to go to and a body that is capable of riding a bike. I'm lucky to have people around to ask for help and hopefully return that service to. I'm now torn between the two lifestyles that I've come to appreciate. And I can actually say that the grass is green on my side.

Curveball? Bring It.

Bicycles. Until recently, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone more opposed to being on one. Not because I never learned to ride, or because I had a traumatic experience. Just because I'm stubborn. But Germany got me to give them a shot, and they weren't as bad as I remembered. So, when I returned to good ol' suburban USA and the harsh reality that I couldn't hop on public transportation at every corner and at any time of night hit, my stubborn side decided I would just have to use my own two legs. And a bike I borrowed from a friend. And there I found myself, biking what google maps said was 8 miles. I disagree. It went on forever. Back roads, cow smells, sidewalklessness, railroad tracks, and a trailer park. Yes a trailer park. Things I had no idea I lived so close to. And yet there they were. And other than them it was just me and the darkness. And the mountains. There's something about the mountains that always cheers me up. Maybe they give me a sense of protection. Maybe it's because they're constant and reliable. Maybe they are a reminder that the world is so much bigger than me. Maybe it's just because they're pretty. Maybe I'll figure it out some day. Maybe I won't. But there they are and there they were. I road past the "sites" and it gave me a lot to think about, in spite of the fact that, upon my arrival at home, I crawled up the stairs and declared my inability to do that again.

I was wrong. Not too long after that I made the trip again. Although this time I did not heed what google maps said was the appropriate path for a bike. Down main roads and past road construction I rode. I had forgotten that in order to go downhill I'd have to make it uphill first. I got way too close to some roadkill on the side of the road. And the mountains were still there cheering me on. And this time I marched triumphantly into my house with cold toes and rosy cheeks being my only battle wounds. I tell you it gets easier every time.

The next time I was certain I smelled skunk and cautiously looked about, bracing myself for the horror. I survived. Barely. Ok fine, I never actually saw it.

By the fourth or fifth time I managed a total of 17ish miles throughout the day. The end is when the dreaded snow hit. "There's no way I can do this," I thought as it started. But I did. And it actually kept me cool as I was going. What can I say, I like a good challenge. And then my tire went flat. Luckily it wasn't while I was riding.  I couldn't help but chuckle to myself as I realized that there is a lesson that I have no choice but to learn. I will continue getting thrown curveballs until I learn my lesson. And this one was that I can't do everything, and that sometimes it's ok to ask for help (although I still stubbornly hold out as long as I reasonably can). And a new adventure came along-learning to fix a bike. I stubbornly insisted upon figuring it out on my own. It sent me back to the good ol' days of working maintenance. I pulled out the tools and watched my hands get black with grease that doesn't all go away with just one wash. And after a little while I may or may not have had to ask for help. Just a little. But I'll know how to do it myself for next time. Until something new is inevitably sprung upon me. And I have just two words: Bring it.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.