He waits for me up ahead and when I come flush with his bike, he matches my pace. The ride is leisurely, but he doesn’t mind. He’s looking around and taking in the scenery. A few people sit on the grass near the beach, picnic baskets open and blankets covered with cold lunches. The cricket game falls behind us, and the jubilant shouts dim to make way for kids splashing in the lake. The water’s too cold for me, but us adults tire of swimming way before kids do. Birds fly back and forth across the bike path, some skimming our heads, and hated Canada geese group on either side of the path. Sometimes I think the geese are worse than pigeons, clogging up the roads in the suburbs and spreading to the Cities.
“You’re doing great!” says Greg beside me, but I don’t look at him. I’m afraid if I take my eyes off the road ahead, I might careen out of control.
“Can you tell I haven’t ridden in a while?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “But you’re fine. Riding a bike’s easy. And if you fall off, that body armor’s sure to protect you.”
“The guy at the shop said I should get this stuff if I felt nervous about biking,” I say, planning to sulk later. It’s not my fault my friends have sick senses of humor. Honestly. Me on a bike? I’d rather be shopping. Why can’t dates be more like buying shoes?
“I thought you liked cycling?”
“I do, it’s just I haven’t had much time to get out lately.” I hope that covers my tracks, and Greg doesn’t answer right away.
“Your bike’s new too. Really nice.” He sounds suspicious. Better head him off.
“Had a birthday in May. Present from a friend.” Neither outright lies, but I feel terrible deceiving him. He didn’t ask to go out with a head case whose cheerleading section’s gone off its rocker. Better get off the subject. “You climb mountains?” I am so lame.
“Yes,” he says, enthusiastic. I’ve hit a good subject. Maybe he’ll talk through this date and we can get off the damn bikes. “I’ve climbed most of the big peaks in the States, a few in Central America, and K2 of course. That’s the crown jewel in my collection. I’m tackling Annapurna next year, and that has the highest mortality rate of any mountain.”
“Ah,” I say. What would possess someone to climb something that might kill him? Avalanches, extreme cold, and no oxygen sound like tons of fun. “Do you enjoy it? The temperatures must be terrible. I’m not a heights fan.”
“There’s nothing like reaching a summit and staring out over the land you’ve covered. Just imagine an Amazon jungle or snow-covered peak. The adrenaline’s unbelievable! It’s mind-boggling that more people don’t do it.”
“Most people aren’t as fit as you.” He smiles at me as I look over for the first time. Maybe he’s not so bad. Even if he is a bit short for my taste, he has a way with words. When I refocus on the trail my bike makes its move and I almost go down. As I struggle to right myself, something flies into my cheek and falls in my lap. I look down and hold back a shriek. It’s a massive wasp. The bulging body skitters across my lap and flies up my billowing shirt, and the legs and wings tickle my stomach.
“Oh shit!” I yell and swerve around. Greg dodges me and hangs back, looking annoyed. He has no idea what happened. I’m allergic! “There’s a wasp in my—”
It stings me, more than once but I only feel the first. I smack my stomach with my right fist and fail to hit it, so the damn thing sticks me again and again as I flail about trying to kill it. The bike can only take so much, and I lose my balance and fall to the side. I land on my shoulder and cry out as gravel digs into the skin and grass flies. I tear my shirt off and the wasp is gone, probably squashed but maybe royally peeved and flying away. Large angry welts cover my torso, and I realize I left my EpiPen, which is an epinephrine shot used to combat anaphylactic shock, on the bathroom sink. We’re half a mile away from my car.
“That looks bad,” says Greg, who stands over me, looking concerned. “Are you allergic?” Before I can answer I pass out.
I wake up to an unfamiliar ceiling and try to raise my head, but it feels like lead weights are holding it down. Ugh, what happened? Why do my lips feel puffy? Why does my entire body ache? The wasp! That bastard flew at me like a kamikaze pilot.
I hate hospitals. That’s why I bought the EpiPen, so I would never have to come here after an allergic reaction. They tell you to go to the hospital even with the shot, but who wants to do that?
I’m wearing a revealing hospital gown and hope Greg didn’t see me in it. How did he get me here anyway? He probably strapped my unconscious body to his back like a rucksack and biked here.
I sit up and grasp my head, but the thin plastic tube attached to my arm yanks me back in pain. Stupid IV. Stupid wasp. Stupid date. Where the hell is he? Why is no one in here with me? What if I died? And all for a blind date! Maybe the wasp is a sign that this needs to stop. My throbbing torso is evidence enough that things have gotten out of control. Even the sturdiest arguments are not going to win me over.
And I must look dreadful.
I smooth my hair down with one hand and look around. It’s a standard hospital room, and I’m surprised it’s private. They must have been afraid for me, because the lights are low, and the door closed. Yikes.
As I pull at the IV and wince, the door opens, and Greg pokes his head in. He glances around, sees I’m awake, and walks in, flowers in hand. How sweet! A small rose quiver, they smell wonderful and make me feel woozy again, but in a good way. There are many things a man can do to impress a woman, and flowers are on that list. Sure, they don’t live long and my cat would eat them, but their simple beauty can win over even the surliest girl.
“Feeling better? It got scary for a bit.”
“You didn’t have to stay,” I say. “I’ll be okay.”
“You look a little…”
“What?” Oh God I’m a monster. Why don’t they give patients masks? The doctors get masks!
“Just tired. Your body’s been trying to kill you for three hours.”
“I’ve been out that long?” Crap. It was bad. A honeybee stung me in the foot on the grade school playground, and it swelled to the size of a melon. My teacher freaked out and called the paramedics. That was before the EpiPens, but the reaction was slow enough that the ambulance reached me in time. As I got older, the reaction got worse. My freshman year in college is often remembered by my family as “the year we almost lost Cassie,” because I stepped on a hornet’s nest when I stumbled back to my dorm, drunk off peppermint schnapps. Whoever said bees sleep during the night is nuts, because they attacked my stupid ass at one in the morning.
“The doctor said you’d be okay, but I had to wait. If I left, I’d feel terrible.” He looks sheepish, holding the bouquet and swinging it back and forth like a child. “It was my idea to go for a bike ride.”
“Don’t feel bad,” I say. “I should have brought my EpiPen thing.”
“Maybe next time you will.”
“Next time?” What’s he talking about. If I were him, I’d get away from me as fast as I could cycle. This episode is bad juju if I ever saw it. They’ll tell tales of my misfortune centuries from now: the girl who ruined perfectly good dates with her atrocious luck.
“You owe me one picnic.”
My question is: if he didn’t bring his car, where was the picnic basket? Because it certainly wasn’t on his bike.
Mom comes and sits with me at my apartment. I’m taking it easy this weekend and even asked Kelly if I could stay home on Monday. Excited that I would take time off for myself, even if it is to heal from massive wasp stings, Kelly exuberantly said, “It’s about time you did this for yourself without having to be coerced! How is the book coming?” Unsure if she means my date journal or the romance novel, I tell her, “fine.” Her laughter tinkles in my ear, and she says goodbye before wishing me a swift recovery.
“Oh, pish posh, Cassie. Those don’t look so bad,” says Mom when I pull up my shirt to survey the damage.
“It looks like a medieval knight stabbed me
repeatedly with a mace, Mom.”
“Nothing a few band-aids and calamine lotion can’t fix. Cheer up. You got a second date out of the damsel in distress act, didn’t you?”
“This is not like having the chicken pox. And I didn’t make that wasp fly up my shirt and try to kill me.”
“Don’t sulk. It’s unattractive.” She fluffs my pillow and goes into the kitchen to retrieve my hot tea. “Chamomile or Irish Breakfast?”
“No caffeine!”
“Really dear do you want to sleep the afternoon away? This isn’t like you.” Mom scrunches her nose and shakes her head when concerned or condescending. She thinks that everyone should be like her and go to work when they’re sick, unless they’re vomiting. Since I haven’t puked in her presence it’s time to get up, slap on make-up, and go to work. “You can’t make money in bed,” she often quotes Grandma Joyce, “unless you’re a prostitute.”
“I was in the hospital, and the doctor said to rest for the weekend.”
“It’s Monday. Fun times are over.”
“He also said if I didn’t feel better to take an extra day off. It won’t kill me to miss one day.” I can’t believe I just said that. Maybe it’s ire for my mother, or maybe the girls are rubbing off on me. Keeley and Lindsey think nothing of taking time away from their jobs, and Alicia was the call-in-sick queen in college. I rub my forehead and sip the scalding tea. Mom’s opinion of tea mirrors my own: the hotter and stronger the better, but it burns my tongue, so I put the cup down to cool.
“You certainly wouldn’t find me loafing about feeling sorry for myself,” she says and sits on the over-stuffed chair across from me. She gives me the disapproving stare all mothers have in their arsenal and sighs. “What’s that boy like?”
My mom has the aloof talent of calling my boyfriends “that boy” and avoiding first names. She didn’t call Pete by his given name until we’d been dating six months.
“Do you mean Greg?”
“Who else would I mean?” she asks in the most obnoxious “you must not be very bright” voice.
“He’s very athletic, likes to climb mountains when not rescuing me,” I say and glare at her. “A bit taller than me and slim.”
“Is he thinner than you?” Why do mothers have to bring up weight whenever they see their children? She tells Joel he’s too thin when he comes for visits, and she swears that as I get older, I get thicker around the middle, even though my waist has been twenty-six inches around for over a year. She knows I run every morning, but she never brings that up, or how miraculous it is that I lost sixty pounds over the last three years. Why can’t she talk about my accomplishments instead of recalling my downfalls?
“No. He’s more in shape than I am, but not by that much. I run in the mornings, Mom. It’s not like I’m overweight.”
“You have a tendency to hold on to extra pounds. I’m just watching out for you, so you don’t slip again.”
“I won’t slip. It’s been two years since I was really overweight.” I want desperately to change the subject, but she can’t help herself. Once she’s in the nitpicking mode it’s difficult to stop.
“But you’re still moping about Pete. All this time. You must be running away from him every morning when you go jogging.”
“Have you been reading Dad’s blog?” I ask, furious with her. She’s the only one who talks boldly about Pete around me. When we dated, she couldn’t stand him, but once he left she couldn’t tell me enough that I let the best catch in the Twin Cities go. Bringing up Dad’s love life will teach her a lesson.
“He’s quite the lady’s man,” says Mom stiffly, rising from the chair. “He’s still wound around his little tart, but now that I’m seeing someone too, I don’t care who or what he does.”
“Come again? You’re dating someone?”
“His name is Gideon, and I met him through Connie at work,” she says and primly smooths her blouse. “He’s sweet and considerate and quite nimble in bed.”
Mother!” Why she thinks I need to know anything about her sex life is beyond me.
“Don’t be a prude. It’s only sex.” But she’s a prude about everything else! God forbid Joel or I swore in the house or watched R-rated movies without her consent. Jesus, she never talked about her sex life with Dad, so why do I have to hear about…
“Gideon?”
“Yes. Beautiful name.” I didn’t think anyone would name their child Gideon outside of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, but I could be mistaken. “From the Bible.”
“How long have you been seeing him?”
“About two months.” So right after her Dad’s blog freak out. Interesting. Now they’re in a dating competition? Can’t I have normal parents? Don’t I deserve something ordinary?
The welts on my body hurt and itch, but I fight the urge to scratch them. Is Mom making me itchier or is it just the stings? Is it possible that your family can discourage the healing process? Mom is the opposite of rest and relaxation. She wants to attack my illness and head it off at the pass. Unfortunately, she’s too late to kill the damn wasp before it stung me.
“I want to take a nap now.” I get up and fold the blanket on the couch. Prospero peeks from my bedroom and looks around. He doesn’t like my mom. She always picks him up and messes with his ears, nose, and teeth as if she were his vet.
“Okay. Do you want me to bring you anything for lunch? I’ll have a break around noon.” She looks excited at the thought of catering to me, but I decline. I can only take so much of my mom when I’m ill.
“I’m not hungry right now, and I doubt I’ll eat lunch.”
“You should eat something. I’ll pop back with some soup. Chicken noodle suit you?”
I love being part of the Fraternity of Runners. It’s like a private club where only the brave may enter. Okay maybe not the brave, but at least the ones courageous enough to exercise through rain, snow, or sun. Running is almost like a religion. Not to sound blasphemous, but I’ll bet more people belong to the running church than the actual church nowadays. Sorry Grandma, who’s up in Heaven playing slots with Jesus, but at least I go to church at Easter and Christmas. I find more peace and serenity when racing down the sidewalk.
There is a strict sidewalk hierarchy in the city, probably on any walking trail, and being near the top is exhilarating. First come cyclists, who, as the biggest, get the right of way. Sure, they could be on the road with the cars, but I would choose life, so the sidewalk is a viable option. Next come skaters and runners. Both are faster than walkers yet slower than cyclists. Skaters often think they are above us hoofers, but they’re sadly mistaken. Our sheer numbers would overwhelm them. Walkers of any sort be they with strollers, dogs, or just ambling along with earphones in, come last. Walkers are the lowest on the trail chain of importance because they’re not putting out as much energy as the rest of us, nor do they have cyclist size. When a runner is coming at you, this means you walkers, please get out of the way. It takes focus and concentration to keep pace, and you make it difficult when we’re forced to take cruise control off to get around you. I get out of cyclist’s ways, so please clear the path for me. It’s polite.
ou may be wondering what brought on that bitter tirade. I’ll tell you why in a moment. Just one more thing about running.
It’s my way of relaxing; getting the day’s toxins out. I run the first three miles all out, no thoughts or troubles rolling around. The pavement feels right and true under my feet. It will never change nor judge me nor leave me alone. I may get hot or tired, but it will always be there. I like things that are constant. The last three miles are open for pleasant thoughts and daydreams. I try not to think about work, my family, or anything negative when running. It’s cleansing to have one part of your day that nothing can touch.
But today my run was ruined. All I could think about was Greg and the things he said yesterday. If you can’t tell, our second date did not go very well. Afterwards, I went to the drug store and bought the biggest Russell Stover’
s box of chocolates they had, went home, and ate every piece in an hour. Chocolate used to be my go-to depression snack, and after finishing the last truffle, not only did I feel sick, I felt like I did three years ago: sixty pounds heavier and without a fiancé.
Our picnic starts well. He brings a huge wicker basket brimming with healthy goodies: wheat bread, fresh cheese, organic fruit and veggies, and a bottle of organic wine, something I have never sampled.
We decide to avoid Lake Harriet and settle in Como Park, home of the free zoo and conservatory. I wonder if he’d like to walk around the conservatory when we finish. I love the flowers and calm atmosphere inside, and it’s a school day so no loud kids and harried adults chasing them.
The sun is pleasant, about seventy degrees in the open, and a cool breeze plays with my hair. Bright leaves occasionally drop and the air smells fresh and peppery from fire-pits. It’s a good day to be outdoors and away from work (I took another day off! Well, a half-day.)
He prepares everything: spreads the blanket, arranges the dishes and silverware, opens the wine and pours half glasses for us, so it doesn’t get too warm.
“You have to try the wine with this Gouda,” he says. “It’s amazing.” He places the cheese and knife in front of me, and I cut a small slice, ready to savor the flavor. It’s wonderful by itself, creamy and not too salty, but the white wine shows it off perfectly.
“Mmm, this is great! I haven’t had cheese and wine alfresco in a long time.”
“That’s a crime,” he says and pulls another cheese wedge out of the basket. “I try to eat outdoors as often as I can. It feels free, I suppose.” He slices the bread and inquires to my jam preferences: “There’s no strawberry allergy I hope?”
“Nope. Only insects with stingers,” I laugh and grab the jam jar. “You should see the pictures of me from freshman year when I trampled a hornet’s nest.”
Men of the Year Page 10