Thursday, December 4, 2008

The season to drag up the past and all that...


Don't we all have stories? Crazy, cool, true stories that feel like the point of life? I've decided I want to start randomly sharing past stories here when they come to mind. Since I don't expect I will ever sit to write a memoir, I might as well put them here. Since there are those places that can make your blog into a book, then some day I might just do so for my kids and say, "Here. Now stop whining that you don't have baby books." And it would be nice to have some of my 'good' stories thrown in. So why not? Let's get down to some of the good stuff, yes?


In my early twenties I wandered. For awhile I lived with my biological dad near Seattle. His family's friends were quick to take me in and soon I was hiking with some of them regularly. One in particular was interesting to me. (Read, hot and intense.) He was a Romanian immigrant that was passionate about raising awareness for the plight of teenage girls turned out of the orphanages in Romania. He had seen so much hideousness in his life, fighting for things I've always taken for granted. He climbed mountains barefoot and called chipmunks timber tigers, though the way he said it was 'teem-bur tie-gurs'. Crazy sexy.

My first time mountain climbing was with this group. I am not afraid of heights and was pretty strong at this point in my life, but it was all rather like spitting in death's face so I was shaky. We climbed up to the point where we all would sit there unhooked, waiting our turn to climb. That's when you learn the difference between people who climb mountains and those that just like to walk around on big rocks, bouldering. The so-called starting point where everyone just lounged around and read and told stories was a little ledge about forty or fifty feet in the air, one large sneeze away from death. It took a bit to get used to.

So it was my turn to climb. I was the one on the ropes with someone else on belay, everyone waiting for me to climb up already so they could have their turn. I wanted to climb. I knew I could do it. But my hands just wouldn't find the holds. I wasn't going up. So my Romanian friend, perhaps showing off a bit in his sexy bare feet, basically enveloped me and told me he'd help me start. I argued with him. It was insane. I was on ropes and he was not. If I fell, I could kill him. I told him it was too dangerous, and he told me the thing that changed my perception on life forever. I know that sounds all cheesy and cheap-novelish, but half way up a mountain, wrapped in the embrace of a hot foreign man - deep statements etch themselves onto you.

He told me, "Safety is an illusion. We are all in danger, all of the time. Sometimes, we just know it more than others."

At that point the only two choices I had were to climb the damn mountain or to molest the man. But since the process of turning around would throw him off the mountain, I climbed. Holy lord, I climbed the damn mountain. And it was awesome.

No, I didn't end up even kissing that wonderful, intelligent, sensitive man, and yes I wanted to very much. I was way too much a ball of turmoil and he was ready for some stability. He deserved stability. So the most I allowed for was a very intense session of hand holding after a concert one night, but it was world-shifting hand holding. And if you don't know what I am talking about, you haven't been holding hands well enough. But that is a different story altogether.


Katherine said...

TIMBER TIGERS?! I just fell in love. That is a great story. Thanks for sharing. :)

Mommylion said...

You have to say it with a Romanian accent for the ultimate cuteness :)