Potato

I mowed the lawn last night for an hour and a half, came inside, and iced my swollen and very sore ankle. I know. I know. I should have it looked at. I know.

Since we're in a state of flux right now--I'm working a lot and have no car while Groom is working a lot two hours away--last night's dinner was takeout from Shere Punjab that Groom picked up on his way home. And it was delightful. Local eating after a bit of activity is what this is all about. I did take a short walk today, but again I'm wary of further damaging my poor, broken-down ankle. As I watched the cars stream to Popham Beach, I had a terrible thought:

It's getting close to the end of summer. I get more exercise in the winter, ironically, than your average couch potato, so I know I'll soon be in better shape than I am now, but still. It's getting close to the end of summer. I'm headed back to ski country soon.

Groom and I made the conscious decision to move to a ski resort back in 2005/06. At the time, we had rented a house near a mountain and decided from that point forward we would continue with that lifestyle. I don't know. It was like a retirement in a lot of ways. He wanted to fish all summer and I wanted to get out of the career I had created for myself. So we got work at a ski resort, he more aggressively and successfully than I.

When we met, Groom and I were much more active. We used to hike portions (admittedly short portions) of the Appalachian Trail and we spent most of our time outside, doing things outside. I remember for a while thinking we were going to spend our lives whitewater paddling and sailing for a living. I even went so far as to take a course in whitewater paddling--nothing too daunting, enough to make me feel as though someone was under my canoe trying to tip it over, but nowhere near what you see extreme paddlers handling. I was never what you would call "athletic."

I remember being slightly shocked and extremely horrified when, after I met Groom's grandparents--who were yachty and money and scary--Groom's grandmother referred to me as "okay" for him since "she seems very...outdoorsy." The italics here are very much meant to imply judgement. It didn't help that I was from the North Shore while his family was from the South Shore, or the Irish Riviera as some people like to say. His family was "lace curtain Irish," which is an insult in the rough-and-tumble Irish community, but my family? We were shanty Irish disguising ourselves as lace curtain, which is an insult on top of an insult in the rough-and-tumble Irish community. My family was more Southie than Groom's family, but we pretended we weren't because of some underlying...I don't know...guilt? Shame?

I grew up with the sense that we had to keep our heads down as Irish but we had to fight the good fight as people. I was raised to be strong but not proud, to remain independent yet recognize others who needed to be helped. But, proclaiming the merits of being Irish? No. In fact, I remember recommending the book How the Irish Saved Civilization to my dad. His response was, "That's ridiculous."

The book was recommended to me by Groom's father, Groom-in-Law. (Oh, huh. That's a weird title.)

But that's your nutshell, the difference between our families.

I can't believe I went off on another tangent. I'm just trying to say.... When Boyfriend-now-Groom and I were courting, I was way more active. I didn't feel or fear pain as much as I do now. Back then, getting flipped in a boat, gasping for air, and feeling the scrape of branches against my leg didn't bother me. I didn't recognize the difference between immediate pain (tolerable) and healing pain (unbearable). A gash in the arm, in the moment, is easy to handle. A crusted up red and puffy wound the next day is just awful. And you can get a nasty infection too!

Really, the only things I remember now from that whitewater paddling course are A) rely on your J stroke, B) be wary of shifting horizons, and C) never paddle in water that you don't want to swim. Sadly, my little life experiment here is guided by those rules and I still live by that advice: constantly altering my course, getting freaked out by major change, and turning into a fearful little couch potato who doesn't swim.