Acorn squash and reminders

I had no idea I would react like that. Least expected. The smell was amazing. The bite. That’s what did it. One bite was all it took. The memories came flooding back. The tears came. Running down my face. The lump in my throat, trying to stop them. But why? Just live them I told myself. Just let them happen. 

Trigger. I prefer a different word. That word always seems negative to me. I will call them reminders. Reminders of things happy. When a simple acorn squash was enjoyed. The smell, the taste, the memory, and then so many years later, the reminder. 

It is the holidays? That seems to press the reminder button for a lot of things. Missing loved ones. Missing the gone ones. Missing the memories. Not being able to make new ones. Cherishing the ones we have. 

The squash did it to me. Dad loved squash. The minute I took the bite I was with him eating dinner at the kitchen table. The Prospect house. Him saying my name the way he did. Talking, discussing, laughing. The best squash and the best way to cook it. The best memories and the best reminders. 

Never knowing when a reminder will appear. Letting it play out when it does. I’ll take that. Enjoy the squash up there.

One Year Sober – October 21, 2019

At night, when the air is ever so clear, a million things go through my head. A million ideas. A million what ifs, a million thank Gods. Because, really, this is when you feel things more. It’s when you tune in to your body more. It’s when you tune into your feelings more. The things you think about, the things you wonder about and the things you can’t control.

It’s been a year, one year, 365 days, 12 months since I quit drinking. Yes, I will now call it quit drinking, instead of since I had an alcoholic beverage. I have thought about it often. The first few months I thought about it what seemed like all the time. Now I rarely think about it. It’s a habit. It’s a behavior I choose to do it. It may last another year, it may not. I don’t feel any urge or impulse or pressure to drink. 

It seems when a person is contemplating either cutting down on alcohol or abstaining all together, we have a lot of fear about that. Fear of losing our identity. Because we had fun when we drank and we were the life of the party when we drank. We fear we might not be able to have fun or even be fun if we aren’t drinking. We fear we may lose friends. We fear we may lose a part of ourselves. 

All that, that’s on them, not us. 

So we start wondering and thinking and fearing and then wondering some more. Can we just stop. The idea can be overwhelming. I mean, we immediately put ourselves into the mindset that we can’t have it, which of course makes us want it more. And usually pushes us right back over the deep end. Just the idea of that truth can be an obstacle. The truth can be hard to face. But, knowing we need to make a change and thinking about making a change and then actually making the change can take some time. Truth is knocking all the time, but we usually don’t listen. I know I didn’t listen for a long time. 

The tipping point for me. The it’s time to do this point for me. The just fucking do it point for me. The last time I drank. The last time I got drunk. October 21, 2018. That was it. I was done. I drank four glasses of wine. I could feel things slipping away. My senses, my sense of okay you don’t need to drink anymore. You know that feeling, when you are on the brink of too much, but you just want a little bit more. Which always turns into not ever needing that last one. Always and never. 

I feel amazing. I feel like I own my health now. I felt out of control before. I feel like I can do anything. I didn’t before. I don’t miss the lost mornings. I don’t miss burning off the fog with the caffeine. I don’t miss the fuzzy thinking and trying to think clearly, but it just not being there. I wasted so much time. I wasted so much time on weekends. Wasted, as in sitting around waiting for some energy to kick in. Sitting around watching TV. Sitting around, doing nothing. 

The experts say that there is usually an underlying issue when it comes to drinking. Usually to mask emotions or numb emotions or because of something that has happened in the past, or whatever number of reasons. I don’t know if there is anything with me. I think I just drank to drink. I liked the taste of wine. 

Whatever my reasons, I’m happy to be done. It’s time for me to shine and keep working on myself and process things without alcohol. And I’m absolutely fine with that. 

Tracing Back The Lines

Sometimes I have written about a topic and then months later something sparks the topic again. I will have a fleeting thought or a solid, stick around and wallow around in it thought. This thought was exactly that. I may have touched on it in one of my previous posts, or I may not have. I don’t know what prompted it or why I thought of it. I just did. 

It was junior high. It was at the YMCA. The Y was at the Masonic Temple building beside the Zesto. The Y was in the basement of the building and that is where everyone hung out. It was fun, it was social and it was discovering. We didn’t know who we were yet. We didn’t know what we wanted to be or where we wanted to go in life. Life was carefree and fun. Teenage angst and teenage problems. 

It was a time in life when body image for me started to rear its ugly head. A time in life when it seemed like everyone around me was skinny. I was athletic. I felt bigger. I was muscular. I felt huge. 

I try to trace back the lines. They are too jagged and too convoluted to follow. I want to know what started it. I can’t find it. I want to know why. I can’t see it. The trace starts here and the thought shoots to another time and then another.

I was talking to a friend named Dennis. I was sitting on the wall and he was standing talking to me. I was wearing shorts and I looked down at my thighs. You know how thighs look when you are sitting down. They looked massive. They looked fat. They made me feel insecure and they made me feel strange. I immediately put my hands underneath my thighs to the side of my thighs so they wouldn’t look so big. I know he didn’t notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. I wasn’t trying to impress him, we were just friends. I was trying to impress myself, I guess. The thoughts, so strange and now they seem so foreign. I am past that point, thank God. I am past that point of caring what people think about me. I can own myself. I can own my own skin. I don’t have to feel validated by anyone. 

The next thought from there travels to the football field. Behind the football field by the railroad tracks in the trees. Dennis is there again and a few other people, Pat and others I can’t remember. We called the valley in the trees California and Czechoslovakia The drinking place. The place where kids went to drink. I had my first beer there. PBR or Pabst Blue Ribbon if being specific. 

The next thought thread travels out to the dam. Swimming and having fun. Same people. Same carefreeness of teenagers. Good times with good people. Remembering being self-conscious about wearing a swimming suit. Wondering how I looked, feeling and emotion tied in with the wonder. Trying not to care. Always caring. 

Fleeting thoughts of always wanting to look better. Fleeting thoughts of always wanting to fit in. Always better friends with the boys than the girls. Fleeting thoughts, still trying to trace back the lines.

Shift The Blame

You want it to be someone or something else’s fault. It couldn’t be you. Why would you do that to yourself? It’s so easy to play that game, but it’s a game you will never win. You will never win. Yep, I repeated that, because it’s true. You might be able to hang there for a little while, but it won’t last. Overeating is a hard truth that happens to many, many people. Especially when we work out like a dog. Especially when we are cardio-ing our little hearts out. Especially when we do this 6 or 7 days a week.

When we up our activity sometimes we think we are entitled to eat more. Not true. We feel like it’s okay to eat more now because we did more. It doesn’t quite work that way. Maybe if you are an elite athlete, but you’re not. So when you start eating more, you will start gaining more. If you are okay with that, awesome. If not, change your way of thinking. Changing your way of how you evaluate things, of how you evaluate yourself, of how you evaluate everything in your life will bring about the change. 

I have dozens of nutrition clients and behavior change and owning up to our stuff is a big part of what we do. You have to. That’s what it’s all about. Nothing is just about weight loss. Nothing is just about overeating. Nothing is just about self sabotage. That nothing is all mindset and how we have so many things ingrained in our heads from when we were little, or from when we were in grade school, or junior high, or high school. There is always something that happened to us that formed those behaviors. Something that formed those habits. Something that makes it so hard to change. But, we are doing it. We are changing. We are learning and we are progressing. THAT is what it is about. Owning up to what you are doing and owning up to yourself and being honest with yourself is what it’s about. 

You know if you are eating too much. You know if you don’t enter your numbers and eat it anyway. You know your progress is going to be slow. You need to want your results. You need to quit blaming and start listening and looking at what you are doing. 

It is so easy to blame other things and other situations. Shift that blame back to where it belongs. Shift it back to you. Blame yourself. Because it is you. Hard truths can be hard, but hard truths are what a lot of people really need.

It Was Just A Ruler

The sticky note was on my computer for about two weeks. Two 3×3 yellow sheets of square shaped paper with the written words. Sitting there. Waiting to be written. Forming the words in my head and my heart. Thinking how to write it. Thinking about how certain things trigger memories. Thinking about it. Letting it swish and swirl around in my head. Still waiting to be written. Every time I opened my laptop, there it was, reminding me. Reminding me of her memory. Waiting to be written. 

It was just a ruler. A wooden ruler. It was an 18 inch ruler though, not the standard 12 inch ruler. That was kind of odd. But, it’s just a ruler. Why is this ruler a thing? I wondered, what’s so special about this ruler? Then I saw it. It was her ruler. 

He came out of his office to show me. He said he always thought it gave him good luck. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. It was just a ruler. Then he flipped it over and on the back side was a name. The letters were written in black Sharpie. The letters were written in all caps. The letters formed a name. It was her name. It was her writing. I recognized it right away. That recognition never goes away, no matter how long it’s been. I tried to hide the emotions. I’m sure he saw it. It caught me off guard. 

It’s fitting, or ironic, a coincidence or a message from her. Her absolute favorite holiday was the 4th of July. Tomorrow. Manana. She said that to me every day when she left the office…manana. 

She was always so excited for the 4th. Her neighborhood had their own parade. Pretty much their own holiday. Sunshine. She would set up a table in the yard to launch her fireworks. She was giddy with excitement. It was the kind of excitement that was contagious. Just like her smile…contagious. Just like her. Full of life and full of sunshine and full of beauty. 

I see her now. Walking around, a glass of wine in her hand or if the day called for it, a glass of scotch. Ice cubes clanking against the glass, making her music. Her hair flowing and her head tilted back with laughter. She loved to laugh. She loved to live. She was a beautiful soul. Gone way too soon. 

So, when I saw the ruler, the name on the ruler, I knew it was her. I knew she was there. I get goosebumps now thinking about her and how she touched my life. I can’t imagine never having known her. I miss you Sandy. Light it up tomorrow!

You Just Never Know…

It was a day like any other summer day. It was June 3rd. The year was 2000 It was early morning. We were just lying in bed. Talking to each other like we always did. We could her the birds chirping and the waves against the rocks. The river was our backyard. We were still in bed when the phone rang. It was the kind of ring where you can feel something. The kind where you can feel something is off, but you can’t quite put your finger on it. The kind you don’t want to answer. I remember feeling different, not normal. I knew something was wrong. I felt it. Deep down in my guts. With all my being, I knew.

“It’s your dad,” mom said. “He died.” I was stunned. How could that be. I felt like someone had kicked me in the gut. Not just once, but over and over. The doubled over pain, the white hot pain, the hard to describe pain. The words will never be enough pain.

They had just been at our house the night before for supper. He had just been playing with Tayler and smiling at her the night before. He had just said he was tired and wanted to go home, the night before. That was it. The last time. The last time he saw Tayler. The last time he saw us. The last time.

The next hours were a whirlwind. We got dressed. I know I put on jeans and a T-shirt. That’s what I always wore. I couldn’t get my thoughts together. I couldn’t grasp what was happening. I just knew he was gone. I just knew I wouldn’t see him again.

It felt like it took forever to get there. We lived in fort Pierre at that time. We hurriedly got in the pickup. I seriously cannot remember getting Tayler ready to go. I can’t remember if the bigs were there. I don’t know if it was our weekend. I can’t remember those little details that feel like they should have been big details.

The drive to their house was excruciating. We crossed the bridge into Pierre and each street, each block, each mile seemed like forever. They lived by the golf course. We got there after what seemed like hours and went in the house. It felt eerie and stale and odd and crazy. It felt lifeless. It felt like a dream. It felt like a movie. The kind where you are watching what is going on without feeling like you are in the moment. Because you don’t want to be in the moment, but you are.

I wanted to see him. John and I walked back to the bedroom, the last door on the right, down the hallway. He looked like he was just sleeping. He was covered with his sheet. I touched his hand. It didn’t feel cold or warm. It didn’t feel like anything, except dad. He looked the same, only different. The life was gone. The smile was gone. The father was gone. I bent down over him, gingerly, with trepidation almost. I kissed his forehead and told him goodbye.

The Edge

Why did I start? I told you what the straw was, or what it wasn’t. I had to start. I needed that edge so I could be pushed. It was there, the edge. I had to do something. The pain and emotion of feeling fake and non-committal were real. I was ashamed of how much I let my body go, of how much I let my life go. So I did something. 

I started eating macro style. Macros are what our foods are made up of – protein, carbs and fats. So what that means is that everything I ate was put into a tracking app and my job was to eat according to what my assigned macros were. It was my accountability. It was my purpose, it was my goal. I wasn’t going to fail. That was my option. I wasn’t going to give myself permission to do that. Have you ever done that? Given yourself permission to fuck up. Given yourself permission to fail? I bet you have. We all have. It comes down to how bad you really want something? Is what you are doing worth it? 

If you are doing something, making a choice to do something, that is not in line with what you told yourself you were going to do, you are making that choice. You just gave yourself permission. So, I told myself I wasn’t going to do the same thing I had always done. That would be to stick to something for a week or so and then make the choice — because that is exactly what it is — to fail or to fuck up or to whatever the shiny adjective is this month. However you want to describe it. Quit and go back to the usual suspect. The usual permission. I wanted new permission. 

Lifestyle changes and forming new habits can be hard, really hard. We are so used to being bombarded with the next best thing or the newest trend or try this, or try that, that we become so overwhelmed we don’t even know what the hell to do or even where to start. Ever felt that way? Me too. 

Tracking your food is a good first step. It makes you aware of all the choices you have been making that continue to drive you down the road to the nearest hospital or worse yet, cemetery. If you feel like you are getting more and more unhealthy every day, you need to show up. Show up for yourself. You need to take a good, hard, and honest look in the mirror and tell that reflection it’s time. It’s time to make a change before it’s too late. 

You can find macro calculators all over the internet. Pretty much plug and play. Find one. Set up your app and start tracking. I think you will be pretty surprised about what is going on. Most people are overeating fat and carbs because honestly, they taste fucking great. It’s okay sometimes, but the portion sizes are what gets most of us in trouble. Also, make sure your protein is on point. if you want to maintain muscle mass and not be a hangry bitch all the time, protein is key. 

Anybody can do it. The coach part is what I help you with. That is where the finesse comes in. That is where the tough love comes in. But, don’t be afraid to experiment on your own. What’s it going to hurt? What’s going to happen? You might just get healthy in the process. 

Butterscotch

She always seemed so old, as I saw her through my kid eyes. She didn’t come to visit very often. It seemed like we visited at her house more than she visited here. Her name was Hulda. Her husband was Hans. My great grandparents on my mom’s side. 

They lived in Viborg, South Dakota. My place of birth. Their house always smelled like coffee. Always. It’s what they did. And they apparently did it all day long. The house also smelled like moth balls. Weird. Such a strange smell. I wonder what they used them for. I liked their small and cozy little house. Boy did she make us mind our manners. It was always please and thank you and you better not forget it. I wish I could remember her voice. I try and try to go back to her house and play out a scene, trying to hear what she is saying. She let us drink coffee with sugar cubes  and she gave us butterscotch hard candy. I thought that was cool. I just can’t quite get her voice yet. It’s so close. I just wish I could get it. I would love to hear it. 

An Interesting side note about butterscotch. A few days ago when I was walking back into the office from lunch, and out of nowhere the word “butterscotch” popped into my head. I had no idea why. I wonder now if it was because of Grandma Nelsen. I have been thinking of her quite a bit. Trying to remember the bits and pieces of our kid life with her and visiting her and grandpa at their house in Viborg. It was inviting and warm and cozy. I loved it there. 

I remember one time Grandma Nelsen coming to visit us in Pierre. I think she came with Grandma Esther.  We were super excited because on Saturday of that weekend, we were going to go to rummage sales. Grandmas and rummage sales were a killer combination.

Grandma Nelsen always wore a dress. The grandma kind of dresses. She seemed kind of heavy set. The grandma kind of heavy set. She gave squishy hugs. The grandma kind of hugs. 

It’s funny at that time it was always the last name with the Grandma. Now it’s usually the first name with the Grandma. I wonder when that changed. It was always Grandma Nelsen. When we were younger and would visit Vermillion, we called Granda Esther, Grandma Anglin, and then eventually as we got older, it shifted to Grandma Esther. 

Grandma Nelsen died in 1974. She was 78. I can vaguely remember her funeral. I do remember walking from the parking lot to the church. It was so bitterly cold and windy. I wasn’t quite 10 years old. We did it again two years later when grandpa died. He was 80. Same month, January. He missed her. He was such a sweet old man. 

On this particular visit we couldn’t wait to go to rummage sales with the grandmas. Sherry and I went with them. Grandma actually reminded me of Vicki Lawrence on Mama’s family. Not the hair, but the way she dressed and the purse she carried. The grandma purse. No over the shoulder strap for these ladies; in the crook of the elbow and nowhere else. That is where purses belonged. 

We went to a rummage sale on one of the President streets. Polk it seemed like. Grandmas knew their way around rummage sales. I remember just watching. She would pick up something and move it around in her hands and set it back down. She would go to the next thing and do the same thing. Always looking for the best deal. The best price. The best quality. 

I found a coin purse. It was small. The kind that clipped together at the top. It had some type of pattern on it and I thought it was amazing. Why did I feel like I needed a coin purse? I didn’t even have a purse and this tom boy would not be carrying one any time soon. Maybe I thought I could just put this in my pocket and never need a purse. Grandma Nelsen bought it for me. 

We had a great day rummaging. She and Grandma Esther bought us small trinkets or books or whatever great deals we thought we couldn’t live without. It was nice to get spoiled by our grandmas. It was a special day. It just felt that way.

Diary of a Former Chubby Trainer/Nutrition Coach – another entry

Diary of a Former Chubby Trainer/Nutrition Coach

My story starts in grade school. My story is a long one and it’s not a pretty one. It’s full of winding roads and uphill climbs and some straight roads. I feel like I have been aware of my body image and aware of food my whole life. It became evident to me that my body wasn’t ideal. It became evident when a coach, someone I looked up to, would be the one to tell me my body wasn’t ideal. This started a snowball effect of dieting and bingeing and purging. The snowball got bigger and bigger and bigger. 

I was told to lose ten pounds when I was in gymnastics. I was a sophomore in high school. I weighed 116 at the time. Not 115, not 120, but 116. I remember that detail like it was yesterday. On my 5 feet 4 inch frame that is pretty much considered “ideal.” I have never considered myself ideal. 

There was a time previous though that it was also evident. I was in 6th grade and the school lunch program came out with weight watchers meals. Not the business Weight Watchers, just weight watchers as in watching our weight and what we were eating. In other words they were letting us chubby girls know that we should change. Our school lunch program gave us that option, in 6th grade, a billion years ago. Why? I remember eating tuna, with nothing on it. It came in a styrofoam cup container with carrots and celery. As I type this right now, I wonder if I was even chubby then. I mean, I must have been, right? The indecision runs deep. The trap runs deep. The emotions run deep. 

I take responsibility for my own actions and while I am not very damn happy about my gymnastics coach having a hand in really pushing me over the edge into an eating disorder, I know I made the choices. I did. It was me. I tried every diet. I really did. I couldn’t stick to anything. My after school-before practice-snack was a Reese’s double peanut butter cup and some kind of diet pop. Tab was a favorite. Because the diet pop canceled out all those extra calories, right? Interesting, the ignorance, the irony. 

I always wanted to be skinny. I was always muscular. I was always strong. I thought that was good. I thought it was what it took to succeed in gymnastics. It did take strength and muscles, but at that age, how was I to know I could be strong and muscular and not overweight. That train of thought carried me for years. Strong and muscular became my motto.

I struggled with my weight for what seemed like forever. Years and years. If I tried a diet I would lose some weight, never over ten pounds, but then would just eat what I wanted again. I could never maintain a weight loss. This yo-yo dieting was ridiculous. Bulimia became my eating disorder. It owned me. I couldn’t control it. I finally overcame the eating disorder after a few years. I was very fortunate I didn’t damage my body. 

The way we perceive ourselves is real. The negative self-talk is real. Have you ever looked in the mirror and called yourself a fat ass? I have. Have you ever looked in the mirror and told yourself you were a fucking pig or a lard ass? I have. 

Fast forward to about 2010. That sounds weird to fast forward to the past, but you know that I mean. I became a trainer and a coach. A personal trainer and nutrition coach, something I had always wanted to do. I am not sure what held me back. As I unpack things in my life and am growing in figuring my shit out, I actually think it may have been because I felt like I couldn’t be a trainer because I wasn’t skinny. I didn’t really look the part. I was muscular and strong. One would think that is what a trainer should look like, but in reality that was an excuse. It was an excuse for being overweight. I steadily gained every year. Up by 5s. 

I used strong and muscular as my excuse, my go to excuse. I used it all the time. I TOLD myself this all the time. I told myself I looked good. I was getting really good at lying to myself. 

I got fed up with it though. Every time I weighed myself, which wasn’t that often, because hey, you go by how your clothes fit, or hey, you go by how you feel, so why should I need a scale. Well, when your biggest pair of jeans become tight, it’s fucking time to pull out the scale and take a peek. I was shocked. How could this happen? I told myself again, I was muscular and strong. I let this go on for months. I kept gaining and gaining some more. Here I was a personal trainer AND a nutrition coach. What the hell? 

I was done. Bottom line is I didn’t have a slow metabolism. I didn’t have any thyroid problems (I got tested). It wasn’t my hormones. I didn’t have any kind of disease that would cause the weight gain. I was eating like an asshole, plain and simple. This was not rocket science, not at all. This was called eating way too much. No calorie deficit for this girl, no fucking way. I was eating way tooooo much. That was the problem, not that I was strong and muscular. 

I told myself to wake the fuck up. It was time to take responsibility. I was the only one who could change this. I had to. I was feeling like crap. I was tired all the damn time and I didn’t even care if I worked out. My skin looked like crap and my sleep was miserable. I had hit rock bottom. It was time to change.

I hired a coach. Shocker, right? It shouldn’t be. Even though I am a trainer and nutrition coach, I needed the accountability. I really needed it. You would be surprised how many trainers have coaches. Everybody needs a coach. 

I could feel this time was going to be different though. There was something different about this way of eating, whatever you want to call it, flexible dieting or if it fits your macros or macro budgeting. There was no magic pill. There were no magic powders or wraps. It was hard work. It was changing what I normally did. It was holding myself accountable. It was not eating whatever the hell I wanted when I wanted. It was portion control, which is really what I needed.

My excuses were done. 

I am still in a losing phase and so far am down 38 pounds and about 11 inches off my waist. I made myself a promise that I would never go back to that ridiculous number on the scale. Who cares if I am strong and muscular. That was an excuse and a big whopper of an excuse. 

No more. Losing weight is easy. The hard part is keeping it off. I plan to show up for the hard part. I plan to do the hard part. I plan to make myself a priority and to respect myself enough to stay on track. 

I am doing it. I have finally connected the daisy chain into healthy habits, into learning, into being accountable, into not eating like an asshole anymore. I feel like I am the healthiest I have probably ever been. At 55, I’ll take it. 

The pic is in black and white. Why? Because in color it seems so much worse. I still struggle a little bit seeing the before pics. I know I have come a long, long way, but there is still that inner voice, who sometimes has to pop in and just give you that tiny bit of doubt. I can squash it most of the time and I really, really do. It’s just once in a while…

I can say I finally have my shit together. It only took 55 years. If you need help getting yours together, get a hold of me. I would love to help you!

Screaming, Yelling, Blood and Tattling

It was just another day at the Euclid House. Yelling, screaming, tattling. It must have been a weekend because mom was home. It could have been evening, but it seemed like it was during the day. 

As you have seen from previous blog posts, we were just a little bit naughty. Some people may say we were just kids being kids. Okay then.  

We had been playing in my and Sherry’s room a big part of the day. I wonder where Jeff’s room was, and Wendy’s. I can’t remember. Strange how some parts of the house have faded away. This part hasn’t though. Our room was right by the laundry room. In fact, the sound of the washer and dryer would put me to sleep at night. There was a bathroom at the end of the laundry room area. The other way was the kitchen, dining room and living room. The house kind of went in a circle. You could get to the bathroom from two sides. Maybe the master bedroom was at the other side of the bathroom. Apparently Wendy and Jeff didn’t have bedrooms, because I can’t remember them. 

There was a weird root cellar room that you could get to from the kitchen. Maybe it was just a kind of basement. It had a dirt floor and wooden shelves. Anyway, that’s a story for another time. 

On this day other than screaming yelling and Sherry tattling about everything, we were kind of getting along playing in our room. We usually were doing things we weren’t supposed to, like lighting matches and starting fires. Today was different. We were playing Superman or All Star Wrestling, without the wrestling, just the flying through the air. We climbed up on the dresser which was one of those five drawer tall ones. It was against the wall by the closet. I think the paint was kind of a faded pink or peach color. It was solid wood. No tipping over when kids climbed up it. The bed was against the far wall. We pushed it there so we could get more air time. 

Shit got serious in that bedroom when the butter knife went in the door frame to lock the door. It was happening. Obviously, we knew we shouldn’t be doing what we were doing. Everything was set in place; the bed, the dresser and the knife. I was going first. I didn’t care if Jeff was older. I climbed up on top of the dresser and took a flying leap to the bed. I landed face first on the bed. The bed scooted further along the floor until it was fully against the wall. Oh My God was that fun!!! I wanted to do it again and again and again. I felt like I was flying. I was squealing with delight.

Back up to the top of the dresser. Jeff climbed up and we were both crouched down on the dresser. We couldn’t stand completely up because the ceiling was too low. Jeff was going to take his turn. I told him to just count to 3 and go. It was easy. Just jump out and fly. I wanted him to hurry up so I could jump again, but he was taking his sweet time. I was wondering what his problem was. There was absolutely nothing scary about this. Nothing. Then I noticed, he slipped as he was trying to jump. He had socks on. Why??? 

He was sprawled out like a starfish. I saw him land beside the bed on the floor. Oh wow, it looked like his face hit the bed frame. Dang! I thought oh, at least he didn’t get hurt. Then he got up and blood was running down his face. Oh No! We were going to be in big trouble. As soon as the blood started, he started screaming. Of course. Now we were really going to be in trouble. I was trying to get him to be quiet because I didn’t want to get in trouble. Not good. 

Pretty soon, mom was banging on the door trying to get in the room. “Um, just a minute,” I said. She asked what the hell was going on in there. I opened the door and Jeff ran out to the kitchen. Blood was running down his face. Mom sat him up on the counter and was wiping the blood off his face. Holy crap! He had giant gaping cut right above his eye. I could see the bone.  It was really cool!! Now, I kind of felt sorry for him. Until he opened his mouth. I was so worried about him, until he opened his mouth. He told mom I pushed him! What???? I didn’t push him. He slipped. What the hell did he think was going to happen when a person wears SOCKS to jump off of something. Seriously! What did he think would happen?

I got the death stare. You all know that one your mom gives you when she doesn’t have time to beat your ass, but wants you to know it isn’t over. Yeah, that one. 

Saved by the cut. They left for the ER to get stitches on the eye. 

Moral of that story is that your brother shouldn’t be so accident prone.