breaking rules

I’m not particularly proud of what I’m about to say, but I seek solace in the fact that I know at least of few of you have done the same.

So here goes: I park my big-ass station wagon in the parking spaces that are clearly reserved for “compact” cars.
And I don’t give a flying fig.
I really don’t.
I’ve wasted enough of my precious life circling the Trader Joe’s parking lot that I’m willing to brave the sideways stares and heckling in order to salvage what little time I have left. And truth be told, nobody’s ever said a word. I even have a little speech prepared, one that informs the self-appointed parking-pain-in-the-ass that as shocking as it may seem, the radius of my car’s chassis is equivalent to that of a Jolt. I have no idea if that’s true and I’ve never had to give the damn speech because nobody cares!

So why do they label them that way if we all disregard their “suggestion”?

It’s for our public safety. Let me explain.

The “compact” spaces are not any shorter than your average space; where they differ is in the width.
How do I know that?
Because every time I park my station wagon in a “compact” space’; an angel gets its wings—not really—but close.
Every time I park my vehicle in a space barely three feet wide (they insist it’s nine, but who are they kidding?) I leave a little of my vagina on the stick shift. Seriously.

As hard as I try, I cannot get enough space between my car and the one next to me to be able to open my door wider than my mouth, and I don’t know if you’ve tried lately but I cannot, even if I suck in my stomach, fit my entire body in my mouth. A large apple, maybe—a gigantic piece of pie, sure—a fist? Don’t ask.

But I cannot squeeze my entire personage through a space that small.

I also don’t want the Prius driver next to me to go all passive-aggressive and dent my driver’s side door.
So I park thisclose to their passenger side in the hopes that they have no friends, and I give myself the space on the other side—the Tesla driver’s side—so they can’t ding me.

But that leaves me in a pickle.

I have to climb around in my front seat, arms and legs akimbo, in order to get my entire self OVER the middle console, my purse, the phone holder/car charger gizmo, and the dreaded stick shift in order to climb out my passenger side door.
(As an aside, this can be extremely narrow as well. I usually fast that morning, stretch, and wear my yoga pants.)
My friend Steph transforms herself into a mist. Swear to god, I’ve seen her do it.
So, this bold move across the console is where I generally lose my va-jay-jay. Not because I want to! Because it’s hazard I’m not able to avoid! Have I mentioned I’m 61 and I’m not as bendy as I used to be?

Oh, don’t get your panties in a bunch—it grows back.

And besides that, it’s worth the sacrifice! I rarely have to circle more than once which leaves me more time for all the things in life that really matter. Like jaywalking and running with scissors.

Carry on,
Xox

“It is easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission”

This quote is attributed to Grace Hopper, a crusty old broad who, if given the choice, I’d want to sit next to at most dinner parties. Except she’s dead.

It should be attributed to my husband since he swears by it, lives it and quotes it almost daily.

He’s also pretty crusty and he breaks the rules. Rules are just suggestions to him. Gentle recommendations that are made to be broken. I find that quality sexy in a person. In men in particular. Really sexy. (I’m going to see if he’s still at his desk and tell him so. I’ll be back in…thirty…)

So sorry about that. Please forgive me.
Anyhow…

When you see a No Trespassing sign do you turn around or do you keep going? I keep going. I can’t help it.

I trespassed the shit out of my hikes around the hills of Soquel this week and it unleashed my inspiration.

My pup and I explored all sorts of forbidden paths, trails and otherwise off-limits parts of this gorgeous backcountry. Several Ted Kaczynski’s unleashed their hounds on us (no biggie, my dog is a one-woman welcoming committee, like the head of the local PTA, and the hounds all loved her. They’ve organized a bake sale and are coming over for tea at three.)

We happened upon a babbling brook, found someone’s abandoned Airstream trailer, stopped, kept from making eye contact, and turned around when we came across a guy, in the middle of nowhere, sitting in his junk heap of a pick-up truck, staring at us while he listened to a banjo strum slowly on the radio.
I’m not kidding.

Undeterred, we kept on walking the road less traveled (in the other direction), and two things came to mind.

In LA I powerwalk. I try to notice my surroundings but most days I’m focused on completing my 10,000 steps and getting my day started. These hikes among the pines, oaks, and lush green hills are food for my soul. I walk slowly, inhaling the scent of the moist, dark earth, moss, wet grass and the occasional field of wildflowers.

One road we trespassed on became so steep in the middle that I had to practice my yoga breathing in order to keep my heart INSIDE of my chest where it belongs when I noticed all of the delicious smells I’d been enjoying were gone. That’s just one of the things I hate about cardio (there are at least 500 more. I have a list.), it robs you of your senses.

My mouth was open so wide, gasping for air like a naked astronaut on the surface of Mars—that I couldn’t smell a thing.

So, number one: You must walk at a leisurely pace in order to smell the roses, so to speak. A full sensory experience cannot be had at 135 beats per minute.

Number two: Nothing interesting or noteworthy happens on the beaten path. It’s the safe route. Well traveled. Crowded actually. Every rock has been turned, every idea hatched.

I am convinced that in order to reach inspiration you must NEVER ask permission because more than likely—the answer will be NO.

Nope. You must trespass in life—then beg for forgiveness…then bring pie.

Carry on
xox