Carnival: Mission Style

The South American celebration of Carnival (Carnivahhhhl, if you will) has been transplanted to my neighborhood here in San Francisco. I often refer to my hood as Little Guatemala as when walking, biking or taking any type of public transport, you feel like you are in another country. My neighbors, the hombres that hang out on the corners and the women at the produce markets don't really speak English. I can't count my choppy Spanish as conversational so really, I often feel like I am abroad. It is the most amazing place I have ever lived. Here are some pictures of the celebration...

The parade started right on my corner. Apparently every year they festivities kick off following this Aztec blessing. Their feathers were pretty radical.

Next years halloween costume? You can't really see them but her anklets are loud and awesome.

Although it feels like Latin America...the reality remains San Francisco through and through.

Omnipresent.

My newest goal...including socks and hat.

This mans belly kept rubbing my arm and my back, and my hand (now that I think about it), as I leaned over the rail. He looks like Santa but when he smiles his missing teeth just look scary. He said I was the nicest person he has ever met.

I really can't say enough great things about where I live. I see the sense of community in every thread and thumping beat. In the loud music that often expels from each corner dive bar. From the bumping of low riding cars adorned with bright orange flames. To the magnificent murals that paint the sides of the building and alleyways. The smell of tortilla and frijoles linger from the early mornings late into the nights, and is often replaced by the smell of urine in our front stoop planters. The sound of clanking bottles and cans stroll by as random passersby wheel them away in their stolen grocery carts. My roommate and I just heard a gunshot and after I called 911, I had a real sense of belonging; like I really am becoming apart of something. Such a wonderful and charming neighborhood. It is.

Goodnight to the life of leisure. Tomorrow I start my job in the ER where I am sure to see some of my smiling neighbors as patients....for a number of reasons. Bienvenido!

Can I have your attention please?

It felt less like an airplane and more like a lounge, really. It is nearly midnight. Fluorescent purple lights line the row of black leathered seats. A red glow bounces off the drawn window shades from the individual television sets that adorn the back of each headrest. You can't pick out the flight attendants easily because they are not wearing a common uniform nor do they pin their names to their chest on generic winged badges. You just assume the man greeting you, cell phone in hand, helping you with your overhead carryon is an employee. Smooth jazz music plays over the speaker. Virgin America is ranking high in my book.

I make my way to row 19...and glance to seat E. The sleepy and handsome Indian man sitting in seat D stands to let me in. The window seat is unoccupied and I silently hope that F remains empty for the remainder of the flight, so that I can rest my feet maybe on the window sill and my head maybe on my neighbors shoulder? I nestle in and begin to read the screen in front of me. What? WiFi? Yes, WiFi. Virgin America not only appeals to very attractive people...as that is all I see on this aircraft, but it also offers wireless internet service. Is this a dream?

All the overhead bins fill and the flight attendants begin to close them for takeoff.  My eyes wander to the numbered rows and I notice that I am a huge moron. I have mistakenly sat in row 20...not 19. I start to get just a bit nervous as I am already crammed into my seat. The sleepy Indian man has already comfortably relaxed, with his arms folded nicely into his lap. I would feel like a fool to make such a tired man move because I messed up. I turn to him and say "this isn't row 19 is it?"

He glances at the number, 20, that looms above. "No, it's not." 

I exhale loudly...maybe too loud? and express my deepest hope that no one else boards. The man looks up and we both witness an empty hallway. "Looks like you may get lucky," he says. This is when I notice that he is really attractive and wonder if the luck will get me a new york date.

And then it starts. An hour or so of small talk. He is originally from India (fist pump) but lives in New York as a banker. But he isn't as lame as most New York bankers because he lives in the Bronx and I give home extra points for that. I can't resist. I tell him my crazy thievery story of Delhi and he tells me that it is the most incredible thing he has ever heard. Because it is. He likes that I am from Utah and tells me about the camping trip he took just last year. He says that Delicate Arch is the most beautiful thing his eyes have ever laid upon. What he MEANT to say is that Delicate Arch is ok...but you!...you are stunning! 

We both yawn (it is the Red Eye you know) and he says he unfortunately has to work in the morning. I agree that some sleep is in order, I mean, I have to shop for my maid of honors dress in the morning. Exhausting.

Just as my eyelids meet each other for some rest, an announcement is made. "Can I please have your attention. We are experiencing a medical emergency. If there is a Nurse or Doctor on board could you please ring your call light. Thank You."

Now, if I recall, the last red-eye flight I took, this same exact thing happened. Lesson learned. Is this a nightmare? No matter how many life threatening situations one encounters in a hospital there is something that remains calming...you are in a hospital. 

I reach my hand up and hit the call light. I notice that 2 or 3 other lights go off and some relief lays over my nerves. But the relief dissipates...the others 'refused' to help. Assholes. So me and a man stand in the aisle, offering up our services. Apparently, a lady found her way to the back of the plane so that she could barf all of her insides up. A nice deed as that bag could have easily been her neighbors lap. We glance at her sorry state. "You know, I'm just a medic. You're the nurse...you should go." Then, the man I thought was a helper; a renegade; a man with no fear, turned around and sat his selfish self right back down in his seat...19 F. My should-have-been neighbor.

The ailing, vomiting passenger couldn't have been much older than myself. She looked so sick. Her elbows resting supportive on her thighs, her head bowed and leaning forward, perfect and proper throw up posture. An oxygen mask held up to her mouth by the female flight attendant. Her hair was a little wet from the sweat that dripped down her face. Her skin was clammy and cold to touch. Her body convulsing.

"I don't know what is wrong. I just don't feel right," she was able to mutter. It was clear her anxiety was increasing as the number of people staring at her rose. She was starting to panic. The male flight attendant in a not calm enough manner shouts "HERE! Take this!", as if we were in an action film. It was a small black bag, the size of a carryon perhaps. I unzip it to reveal a mini clinic. Clinic in a bag. Every emergency drug you could imagine. 

I ask her the basics. Are you pregnant? Are you allergic to anything? Did you eat something that just isn't sitting right? When did it start? Blah blah blah. She told me she had just spent three days in Vegas. "Ohhh so you are really hungover?" She denies that she even drank (shaw right) but claims the pizza she had for lunch came up in the airport bathroom. Her vital signs are normal, including a mild temperature of 98.1. I give her some Phenergan and hope that she can stomach it. Of course she doesn't and all the fingers point to me, again, to syphon through her puke to see if the pill had come up with the pepperoni. I am surrounded by Assholes. I feel bad as there is nothing I can really do for her. I tie her hair up and rub her back assuring she will live to eat pizza another day. 

I ask her name. When she responds it gets drowned out by the loudness of propelling engines which made it really difficult to be a personable nurse when I didn't know what to call her. The flight attendants didn't remember either. I try to make small talk. 

"So what do you do in New York?", I crouch and ask her...loudly so she wouldn't have to puke and try to decipher what I was asking at the same time. 

"I'm...(gag)..unemployed." Shoot.

It all pointed toward the flu, which at 30,000 feet above the earths surface can feel like the plague. The congregation of the young flight crew stared at me in awe. They wanted to be nurses. They wanted the ability to break that little plastic lock on the anti-nausea zipper. They wanted the pilot to be nice to them, the way he was to me when he realized that I could probably save this persons life (my back rubbing skills are that good).  They asked me what is takes to go to nursing school and soon, the attention is no longer on the patient but all 6 sets of eyes are on me.

"You know, nursing is hard. It is a lot of bull shit sometimes. But so much reward comes from the work I do. Especially when people are grateful for your help." I smile , casting a bling in my pearly whites.

"Is it like Grey's Anatomy? Are nurses and Doctors hooking up all the time?"

"Well, I can't say that it is, however, I can say that most anesthesiologists are pretty hot and eager to meet nurses. Especially if they are Indian...as in from India. They will even cheat on their wives for a night of a wintry makeout session...so I hear. Especially if they are Indian. They are very smart and intellectually stimulating. Mostly the Indian ones." So then every single flight attendant on board is circling around me, as my patient remains puking, and I tell them about all the scandals of the nurse/anesthesiologist love triangles. They are loving it and I have them all convinced that they indeed need to trade the swanky flight attire and those neat can opening rings for that of scrubs and a stethoscope.  Their eyes grow big and round and almost in unison I hear them say "wow...ane..sthes...iologists...huh?"

"Yeah, pretty slimy characters but quick with an epidural and quite fun to look at." I turn to the patient who seems un-entertained by our conversation as her body is twitching with each dry heave. 

"My uncle is an anesthesiologist," she says. I look up to the others, creasing my lips in a manner that without speaking says 'oops'.  "He's not from India, though right?"

We clear a row for her to lay down and she can't stop thanking me. Thank you for this and thank you for that. I tell her that it was my pleasure to fish through her puke, hold her hair, remind her she doesn't have a job and pretty much say, in so many words, that her uncle  is most likely cheating on her aunt with an attractive young nurse. I tell her that I really hope she can find calm in all the turbulence that is happening now and likely for the remaining hour and half of the flight. "I also really hope you can find a job...the market is just so bad right now." She closes her eyes. The look of disgust remains on her lips.

She lays her head down on the tiny plane pillow, her knees as crawled into a fetal position as she can manage, her face looking miserable. 

Yes, the life of a nurse. The feeling of accomplishment. The feeling of knowing you have helped someone. Really saving a life when it is on the brink of ending. Ahhh, what a sense of satisfaction. 

I sit back down and tell my heroic story to the my 20th row crush. He says he is glad that I was able to help. "Does it make you want to ask me on a date?"...is what I want to say but I just describe to him in detail what her throw up looked like. Then I start to get pensive. How much life saving did I really just do? Eh. I close my eyes and begin thinking about how I could wiggle my way into 19 D's life, saving it of course from a life of boring banking. 

Only on a red eye flight...

Life of the party

Ahhh, Farmers Market Saturdays, my favorite day of the week. Oh glorious mounds of fresh, expensive organic produce, how you long to be taken home with me, placed in the fridge and hoped to be eaten before time rots you away. My crazy schedule has kept us apart and I recognize that the lull in our weekly (sometimes bi-weekly) encounter has been long and hard on our relationship. Don't feel neglected. I haven't cheated on you. Oh...how can I lie? I have. I have bought my fruits and veg from grocers scattered throughout the Bay Area. It has been convenient, but I say with earnest that it hasn't been fun. 

Yesterday my new roommate Ellie and I hiked our way through our neighboring hood of Bernal Heights to make it to the Alemany Farmers market. I had read that this particular market was renowned for its' amazing bounty. We looped our way over the winding hills that pass through this very charming and sleepy section of the city. I wanted to take it home and put it on my shelf...it is adorable.

The pita man and first stand we see has a delicious spread of fried pita chips decorated in both lemon and garlic and our excited fingers reach into the bag to sample. The pita man loves that we are girls so he flirts to try and get us to purchase one of his fluorescent orange dips. We explain that no purchase can be made at a farmers market until a full circle has been made through the vendors, eyeing all that is out for offer. I remember his eyes and gigantic smile though, and know that I will be back for an exchange. 

The next stand brings us to a Sikh man selling samosas and chutneys. "Wahe Guru Ji Ka Khalsa, Wahe Guru Ji Ki Feteh!" My hands meet at heart center, my head slightly bowed as I greet him a Satnam. The look on his face is the same as all Indian Sikhs face when I greet them like so. I see the wheels in their thoughts turning...how the hell does she know that? She neither dons a turban nor a sari. Then I ask where he lives and that I have been to his homeland where I was robbed and didn't get to see the Golden Temple. We taste his yummy compotes and move it on down the line to the bread man...where we don't even stop.

The produce stalls. My favorite. Hoards of various shades of green in piles and piles. Swiss chard, spinach and basils of many varieties. The monotone of envy bleeds into the glowing balls of optimism where oranges and tangerines and clementines fight for the top spot on the mound where greedy hands will grab and peel and devour their insides. Walnuts. Boxes and boxes of walnuts summoning us with Omega-3 promises of brain power and stamina. We buy a bag and spot cherries. How can you resist cherries? You can't. So we buy some of those too.

I want mushrooms but this market has none so we make out way back to the Sikh table for some provisions. There are now 2 tan leathered faces, silvered beards and dimpled cheeks. The original hits on Ellie and asks her on a date. The newest addition tells me that he has not been back to the Punjab in 12 whole years and that I must marry a Khalsa (a Sikh man) or I will not live a happy life. I tell him that my good friends live in Amritsar and he says he knows them but that is impossible. I think he just doesn't understand English that well? I buy a batch of his cilantro chutney and we Namaste each a happy, long eternal life.

The rounds have been made and this little market that I thought was going to be much grander is closing up shop. We stop back at the Pita man stand and I buy some 5 whole wheat rounds. "This will make some good dipping triangles for the chutney," I tell Ellie.  "I will bring it to the party tonight...it will be such a smashing hit."

We stop at the store for some cake baking ingredients and head home to get lost in chocolate cake batter. Ellie's boyfriend is also a Taurus which means he has recently celebrated a birthday. Him and their friends are hosting a little celebration so we thought that we would bring some delicious food so that people would like us more.

Upon arrival to the party I note the chips and dip that are strewn about on the table are looking meager. I quickly introduce myself to the crowd telling them they are not to worry, more pupus have arrived. I lay out the tantalizing green dip and watch some hungry hands attack the plate. Someone mentions the smell is garlicky. Everyone nods in agreeance as they chew.

"Yeah, and there are peanuts in it too. Weird huh? Peanuts. An odd ingredient for a cilantro chutney...if I would say so," I announced. "Beware if anyone has a nut allergy."

A sudden look of seriousness drowns my once potential new friends. I may have said something to bother.

"What? You're kidding right," says Josh.

"No way. Oh no." Says someone else.

I lift the lid that lists the recipe and there, the only element in capital letters, is the words PEANUTS. 

"I am afraid so," I shyly mutter.

"Great...see you all tomorrow," Josh whispers.

He takes a swig of his beer and disappears to his neighboring apartment in search for an epinephrine pen. My Cilantro Chutney bought from my Sikh friend Simran is now causing this poor, innocent party-goer an anaphylactic reaction. This response to peanuts can be fatal and certainly can end a night of drinking early. I suppose I saw that all going a bit different. I was so wrong in thinking I would be the life of the party because I brought munchies to a group of munchers. Oh how I was wrong. 

"It's not your fault," some reassured. "He needs to be more careful," others reinforced. But still...I couldn't drop the guilt.

Throughout the night we were fed reports on his status.

"He's fine. However, he accidentally used an expired epi pen so now he is nervous and unsure if he she use another, legit one. If he calms down I am sure he will be ok."

"He called his dad for advice on what to do. He wants to be left alone."

"We will go check on him. Too many people might make him anxious. It is best if we go alone."

"We are taking him to the hospital...just...in...case."

I certainly altered the dynamic of the party. Instead of enjoying culinary masterpieces from around the world and enjoying homemade chocolate cake, people were concerned that my lame hors d'oeuvre was slowly killing their friend. Tiny whispers were made in intimate conversations. "Did you hear Josh is going to the hospital?" 

Hmmmm, will I later be coined a killer and ruiner of all things fun within this realm of friends? Maybe it was the less of two evils. What if I had brought the cherries instead. I would feel even worse had we been chomping cherries and in saying something hilarious and witty caused someone to choke violently on a pit. And since I am the nurse it would have been added pressure not only to provide safe and edible-for-everyone food but also the CPR and Heimlich maneuver. I couldn't show my face again had that concept slipped through my hands. Yes, I am reassured that the chutney was the better option. 

So let this be a lesson. Either never bring food to parties or always pre-warn guests with a detailed list of ingredients in all dishes. You never know when a sensitive allergist is on the inside circle.

A visit to Snowbird

The alarm goes off and it is my last day as a 25 year old. The sun is shining a bright smile so I decide to take my first run on the slopes this year....on this last day of the first quarter century, of my life.

I step into the dusty garage to search for a vision of my moms skis. Not only do I share the same face, body structure and Gemini energy as my mom, but we also interchange shoes, distance from seat to steering wheel in the car and sporting equipment. Something I have no shame taking full advantage of. I spot them just past the hairy, dirt laden stuffed orangutan whose smile is a stitched piece of string now un-stitched from a life of too many hugs, and a revealed pink butt. My dad won him for me in Vegas for my 12th Vegas. I sat and watched him throw baseballs at fake milk bottles in a Nevada heat wave and chose him amongst various other disturbing ape-like animals because of his uncanny resemblance to Chewbacca. I was a bad guardian though as I left him in the hotel room of MGM Grand with no one to hug him. Maybe the cleaning lady who found him gave him a little squeeze but not in the same choke-hold-strangling-to-death way I would. I was so nervous that if I didn't hug him tight enough, he would get lost. I cried on the plane all the home to Salt Lake until I was able to call the hotel and have him safely shipped home to me. His name is Butch and tomorrow is his 14th birthday.

Instead of front and center on my bed, his home is now our dark, damp garage. 

I load the car with all the essentials: my moms gloves, her jacket, her boots, (even) her socks, maybe Charlie's poles?, her hat and her skis. I know that I shouldn't, but I decide to pick up a cup of Satan's nectar on my way.  I sip my delicious coffee and I feel my heart rate start booming inside my chest; the poison digging it's relentless power throughout my caffeine non-resistant blood stream. I turn the radio up and smile...on this last day of mine at 25.

Of all the places that Utah has to offer and for as long as I can remember, I have held Snowbird as number one in my heart. It is here, at just walking age, that I was shoved in between the legs of my mom or dad or step mom or aunt or uncle (it takes a village), their poles lodged under my armpits, the tips of my red and white skis bungied together with the "wedgie" a gadget that positioned your legs in a perpetual snowplow, in which I learn to ski. I would be dressed in my mostly white, one piece snow suit with browned butt cheeks that showed evidence that I spent more time sliding down the hill on my ass than on my two feet. My boy haircut confused people when they noted I was wearing hot pink and black goggles (thanks mom) and from afar I looked like a squatty, swollen marshmallow spastically flying down the mountain.

The bend in my legs I learned those developmental years was by physical default; I had no control of my speed because I refused to turn so I automatically squatted to compensate, which come to find out, just makes you go faster.  Which would explain the numerous wipe outs and the nearly broken arm that time I face-planted directly into a tree. My snowplows were worthless in the fate of my incredible velocity. No amount of practice bettered my form and unfortunately it has stuck with me through the years. It is no more graceful watching me ski then say, the gutting of a wild boar or an all-you-can-eat hot dog contest. (Those visuals are not full of grace...and neither is my skiing...is all I am saying.) But it has been over 8 years since I have traded in the double life of those very skis for a much more nimble vehicle of descent known as the snowboard; I thought I would give it a go. 

I buckled the stiff boots in the parking lot. I was excruciatingly astonished. It has nearly been a DECADE since I put a pair of these on and the ski bum experts have still not been able to engineer a comfortable boot. Men and women (without murmurs) have pioneered their way to the moon and various other destinations in our galaxy, in space shuttles, wearing CO2 non-rebreather space suits, but no human mind has the know how to design a painless boot. It felt like I was placing my foot into a tight mold, where quick drying cement was then poured over it, constricting it to a long life of no movement and complete agony. But since it is my last day of my early twenties I suck it up...because that is what young people do. 

I make it to the Tram where I am herded like a cow (grass fed) into a corral full of skiers and boarders alike. It hurts my shins to stand normal so I lean my body forward and slight bend my knees. I am so close to the man next to me that my face smashes against his helmet, the word Giro neatly imprinting onto my cheek. I see that over half the crowd is wearing a helmet. Shoot. I forgot my helmet. Now I am sure to pull a Sonny Bono or Natasha Richardson on my last day at 25. Nearly everyone has a hat. I got too warm putting all my gear on so I decided to leave it in the car. Will it be too cold? Why would I do that? My skis (my moms skis) are shorter than me and very wide at the ends. I see that most others are taller than their owners, sleek and slim. Are these powder skis? (Mom, are your skis powder skis?) My poles (Charlies poles?) are up to my chest. I look around and most poles are waist level. My high speed, coffee induced thoughts start firing like a torpedo. My lip begins to twitch.

Our 24,390 pound weight capacity machine, that has just hurried us UP A MOUNTAIN, comes to a halt and we all push our way to the fresh air. It is a bit windy but I am happy I left the hat in the car. The weather is perfect. Sleek streaks of white scatter above with the strongest blue sky imaginable. The grandiose of neighboring peeks poke their crown high as if they were soldiers on parade, standing side-by-side. The light smell of pine wafts about as the breeze rustles my jacket (my moms jacket).  I marvel in the magnitude of what I see.  In every direction a panoramic view of stunning valleys and ridges protruding forward. Splotches of leftover snow patches dotting the cliffs. The trees standing solid and unwavering. How is it possible for a place to be so beautiful? All of a sudden, the twitch in my lip disappears.

I snap my boots in and glide in the direction of Mineral Basin. I remember this catwalk. I remember my calf muscles screaming for mercy as I edged my snowboard along this very steep ledge looking over to a bowl of roundly shaped moguls and a 22% grade. The air was silent. Save the 17 other people on the mountain, I was alone...in solitary bliss this day before I turn 26. 

When you ski with others it is a slight faux pas to bring along your ipod. What? You don't want to engage in hilarious banter while we dangle hundreds of feet above jagged rocks, swaying like helpless worms about to be tossed as vicious bait? However, when you are a solo skier, like me today, an iPod is the next best thing to an efficient layer of long underwear. I put my earphones in and press play to a random selection of songs. I teeter my tips over the rim of this amphitheater and plummet into the snowy abyss.

My out-of-retirement ski legs questioned what the hell I was doing. They immediately assume their squatting position. I start to carve through the sticky substance, hearing intermittent shards of of ice scrape against the bottom of my sleds. The first song to flow to my ears is Let My Love Open the Door and the gladness that overflows me and creates a visual of a soft eyed, lightly bearded, curly haired brunette strum his six-string as he serenades me begging for me to be his companion. (Perhaps it is the man sitting across from me at this coffee shop? Why not.) The too-tall-for-me poles don't really do much as they are too high for me to sufficiently plant them into the snow, but I make my way towards the bottom.

Beyonce then comes on and I think - I wonder if I am a better skier then Beyonce? Then I remember, black people don't ski, it is such an elitist white sport. The only person I know who is both black and a mountain man is Lee...and he is just half black. Now that Barack Obama is president I bet he will give the slopes a run. Now that he is surrounded by white men who partake in elitist-like activities. He will like skiing because it makes you feel free and active and is a good way to alleviate stress, especially during a recession. He too will probably be one of the only ones on the slope...because we are in a recession and it is a sport for elitist.

I am now on the chairlift and Keane starts singing Somewhere Only We Know. A flood of memories fill my head as I practically lay myself across the bench-like chair. Like the time we came here years ago on a cold, overcast day. I starting smearing sunblock on my face and when I offered it to the rest of my family (Susan) I was told "don't be silly Jake, it is cloudy today...we don't need any." I smiled when later that night, the red faces of my family stared across me at the dinner table; burnt. I am the smartest person I know. It crosses my mind that I turn 26 tomorrow. Susan was my age when I was born. I wonder if somewhere out there, kids are being born that will one day be my step children?

Then I remembered the time my dad dropped one of his gloves off the chairlift and had to ski the rest of the day with a cold hand.  His outfits were the best...totally mismatched. When my hands would be numb and blue from the negative temperatures that we were forced to endure, my dad would put his man gloves over my petite digits so they could defrost. So it looked like my dad was crazy skiing with no gloves and I looked like a large handed circus freak.  And once his Mighty Mouse hat was swept off his thick haired head leaving his poor ears to freeze in the winter wonderland. I wish I could return the favor but I am sure his hands are warm all the time now. 

Then there was the time when my mom was leading us through a maze of trees, her favorite terrain to ski. (Sidenote: My mom is the cutest snow bunny on the mountain. Always the best dressed and equipped. Her form is something to revel over and she is my motivation for most things in life. I would follow her anywhere.) So we, her children, are following in tow, dodging inconveniently fallen limbs and revealed chunks of rock. Dancing in circles around tall pine trees in a rhythmic waltz. "Follow me Kids!" she yells over her shoulder slightly glancing to make sure we are there. She turns to face forward and SMACK. Her forehead meets the impressive force of a branch and lays her out cold. Shortly after, we are sitting in the medic tent watching a male nurse fix the gash in our moms head. Last time we follow you Mom.

Wiseman by Slightly Stoopid is now playing. My favorite quote is how old would you be if you didn't know when your birthday was? The quote is anonymous but I am willing to bet it was a man who said it. That is one wise man...

On my second run of the day, my quadriceps start talking to me:

Quads: Hey, this is a lot of work you know. 

Me: Yeah, you certainly have some work cut out for you today. Are you excited that you are the chosen muscle that feels most of the effects of my activity today?

Quads: Not really. My nemesis, Lactic Acid, is already starting to boil and it is only your second round. How long do you plan on putting me through this?

Me: Well, it is supposed to be sunny all day. I told my mom I would mow the lawn before I leave Salt Lake tonight. So I was thinking just 3 or 4 hours. Wait until tomorrow. That is when you will really hate me.

Quads: You're an asshole. Just don't pull any of my surrounding strings.

Now that I am all warmed up, I start getting more courageous. I swish and swash all the way down without stopping. Look at me go! I should have been a professional skier. I am sure somewhere between Olympic gymnast and horseback rider it was a legitimate desire. My reality as a do-gooder, bringing life into this world, being there for people at the exact time they need you the most, soon-to-be-saving the lives of those victimized by things like a gunshot wound to the spleen or a massive heart attack or perhaps the swine flu, could have been so much more fulfilling had I chosen a job like Slalom champion. Or Free skiing gold medalist.

M.I.A and her smash hit Paper Planes brings me to scenes of Slumdog Millionaire. I laugh at the scene when Jamal falls into the 'toilet'. And get sentimental when his mom is killed. Then I remember when all my stuff was stolen in India (x2), likely by someone with similarly skinny arms. I don't dwell on it too much because I only have a few more hours of being 25 and I don't want to get cancer. So I let it go, being grateful that anything that could possibly get stolen today belongs to, not me, but my mom.

This time on the chairlift I share the bench with a man with long, stringy gray hair. We chat for a second about the beauty of the day and how lucky we are that we have the use of our legs to take part in such an amazing endeavor as skiing.  About 7 years ago, my mom sat next to a short, moustached man named Gary as they cranked their way up the mountain. They struck up conversation and spent the day skiing together. "Follow me!" I am sure she said to him. A few months later that short mustachioed man became her boyfriend. Gary made a valid effort trying to warm to the three people my mom called children, even though he hated every second of it. At this very same ski resort I recall following Gary down a run labeled with 2 black diamonds. Gary is a good skier, I am not. But I followed because my mom loved him. Three minutes into it, I found my right ski sticking directly into a mogul...my body and ski in a perfect 90 degree angle. I hung mid air for a few moments cursing the awkward single skier/chairlift sharing dilemma that led to this short, moustached man, leading me to my death. Gary was so lame.

Moral of the story: never trust the lone stranger with whom you share a ride on a chairlift with. And never trust a man with a moustache unless he has an accompanying beard. 

In light of keeping this day full of surprise, I switch the scene to a different area of the mountain. I steer towards the north face and arrive at Little Cloud. A much steeper slope and much icier because of its strategic positioning that allows limited sunlight. I start gaining and gaining more and more speed. All of sudden I am out of control. My edge hits a patch of ice and I fly. Oh my god...oh my god...Natasha Richardson...oh my god...oh my god...don't die...don't die...Natasha Richardson...Sonny Bono...Soooooonny Bonoooooooo...ohhhhh my god....oh my god...

Big breath. Bigger snowplow. 

I make it down alive and head back to Mineral Basin where the snow is slushier and much more forgiving.

Me: Snow... you are so heavy and slushy today. My tired legs can't lift these heavy skis with you on top of them.

Snow: It is springtime. The sun is warming me right up. 

Me: Can't you try to be more powdery?

Snow: Beggars can't be choosers.

Then I fall for the first time today. I fall perfectly into pigeon pose with my left leg at a perpendicular angle and my right straight back behind me. It feels good so I take a deep breath in and stretch my hip. Then I switch sides because at 25 going on 26 I need to practice equanimity for a long and balanced life.

But now the lactic acid is so hot it feels like volcanic lava spreading over the little town of my muscle fibers. My sarcoplasmic reticulum's of my lower limbs are fighting for their lives. They say "Hey Peekaboo Street, if you want to be able to walk on your birthday, get us the hell out of here...we are smoldering under this fascia." So, for the sake of my being, I say ok...this is my last run. 

Like the amount of good, date-worthy men in this world, the life of my ipod battery is numbered. But because God, or something like that, is on my side, Steve Winwood and a little Higher Love plays for my last smidgen of music. My thoughts are taken to my siblings and the many hours we have spent frolicking in the snow. Charlie was the first in the family to attempt snowboarding and of course was bought the best of the best by his spoiling father. Yet, when Charlie hit his teens and puberty set in, he got himself a job at Brighton, teaching ski school to young kids. "Wait. So what your telling me is that I can't teach impressionable kids how to ski, while on a snowboard?" Thus he was forced to take up the skis. All of a sudden he became amazing. A premature Shane McConkey. One day he was like "Watch this sisters." Sam and I stared up to the crowd of his daredevil ski buddies and watched our little, fat bastard race towards a ramp where he continued to land a perfectly executed reverse flip. Our jaws dropped and in my view he became the coolest of us three. We would be shredding on our boards, right behind our younger brother, and all of a sudden he would be facing us, skiing backwards. I was so proud.

But powder days with my sister is what has brought me the most fun. Her on her perfectly sized board and me on the board that was bought for and by my mom, and passed down after she fell and hit her head so hard she diagnosed her self as comatose. She would never snowboard again and blames her lack of remembering if she breastfed us and birthday calls on that one, head busting crash. I can't complain...it was free. However, It was a bit too tall for me and the boots just a tad large. My heels inched out of the boot each time I leaned forward...so any bad form in this arena, I can blame on that.

The feeling of drifting down hill on a snowboard is as close to the feeling of floating I can gather. We would get lost in the trees and find ourselves compacted under chest-high snowfall. Attempting to dig ourselves out brought too much laughter and we would exhaust ourselves into stitches as we witnessed the other fall repeatedly over. 

My ipod dies and the silence returns. I let the hypnosis of this day escort me to my last ride up the chair. My next chosen route will lead me back to the car, where I will de-boot myself and put on my comfortable crocs (my moms comfortable crocs.)

In line,  a solo boarder slides next to me.  "Can I join you?" he asks. I would rather you didn't. I can't trust a sole man on a chair lift. Is what I wanted to say. Be he was without a moustache and looked taller than Gary, so what I really said was 'sure'.  

He was really cute and a student of Law at the U. I usually don't think this but maybe you should be like Gary and ask me to be your girlfriend. I can be like my mom and say ok. We can date long distance because you live here and I live in California, like Gary and my mom did. It will only last a few years because if there is one life lesson I will take home with me is that you can never trust a man who rides the lift alone. Tomorrow is my 26th birthday and the palm reader that Bhani and I saw in India said I will meet a significant lover at the age of 26. But he also said that I would meet one at the age of 28 so maybe you and I won't last a few years but rather a couple. 

"What a perfect day huh?" he says.

"God, it just doesn't get better than this." I follow. Except if you were to put your arm around me and perhaps tell me your name. "My legs are spent, so unfortunately this is my last run."

And so it goes. We talk jobs and blah blah blah. We exchange "the best for the rest of your day!" and go our own ways. 

My last run is flawless and my mind tries to talk my legs into just one more, but they quickly remind my logic that people always jack themselves up on the 'last run of the day.' Like the time Charlie and I went on Thanksgiving one year. He tried to do some spiffy trick on a ramp which landed him a quarter size hole in his kneecap. It was my idea to go on "just ONE MORE RUN". The flow of blood that ran down his leg and the hours we spent in the ER instead of eating carrot soufle, will always remind me that one last run isn't always necessary.

I de-gear and sit my jelly-esque body in the drivers seat. My face is both wind burnt and kissed my the spring rays. I drive down the canyon for the very last time as a not-yet-26-year old (actually I coast down in neutral as the gas light is on in my car (my moms car)). 

How old would you be if you didn't know when your birthday was? Today...I feel infinite.