On Bicycling

Not my actual bike. Mine did not have a speedometer.

Today's somewhat embarrassing story is brought to you by 15-year-old me.

The other day my beautiful wife (sucking up to my editor never hurts!) and I got my daughter to bed around 8 pm (her normal bedtime) and were just kicking back, ready to chill for the rest of the night. Something was bothering me, though. I knew I was forgetting something, but I didn't know what it was. I needed to go out for some reason after my wife got off of work but couldn't remember why. Then it hit me. Earlier that day I had dropped my car off at the garage to get its annual inspection. I had returned when it was finished, paid and got my keys. This was all done while my wife was working and while using her car, so I couldn't drive both cars home by myself (well I could have, but it would have been complicated) and I figured I'd just have her drive me over later in the day. Unfortunately, I forgot, later in the day came and went, and I was not going to wake up my daughter to have my wife drop me off at the garage.

The solution to this dilemma was very simple, as my wife would suggest. She works out of our home, and our daycare is only a block from our house, so she really didn't need her car for anything. "Just take my car tomorrow and we'll pick up your car after we are both done with work," she said. Simple! Uncomplicated! But in the back of my mind, a plan of my own started to form.

I have been cursed with an overwhelming need to not inconvenience people. I am the type of person that, if someone is blocking the aisle in a grocery store, will turn around and go up a different aisle to get behind them, instead of just saying "excuse me". The thought of leaving my wife without a car was unacceptable. Different plans started bouncing around my head, but I quickly narrowed it down to two. The first was to get up really early and walk to the car. The place where the car was sitting was only about 3 miles away, so it wouldn't take me that long. I've walked further, and in worse conditions (i.e. winter) to get to work in the past. But I really didn't want to walk, especially when there was another option, the second plan.

My three older kids each have bicycles. I picked up two 10 speeds at a lawn sale last year for my oldest two, sprayed them down with WD-40 and my son and daughter have been happily riding them ever since. Besides the little test ride which totaled maybe 300 feet, I hadn't ridden either of the bikes. In fact, the last time I rode a bike of any sort for any distance had to be before I got my license when I was 17 years old. This would put it at about 25 years since I really road a bicycle, so of course, this was the plan that I decided to execute. I decided that I would get up at 4 am, ride my son's bike to the car, stuff the bike into the car and then drive to work. The plan was brilliant! What could possibly go wrong? 

At this point I should disclose the fact that I did not mention anything about my intentions to my wife. If I had told her my ingenious plan, I'm sure she would have resorted to using underhanded tactics like logic and common sense to point out that my plan was absolutely ridiculous. She would have insisted that I just take her car and not to put myself through all the added stress. She would have been right, but I'd show her the brilliance of my plan!

After a not-so-great night of sleep, I jumped out of bed a little before 4 am, all ready to get my Lance Armstrong on (minus the doping). I grabbed my stuff and put it all in a little backpack, instead of using the classy Walmart bag that I usually carry my things around in, and headed out to the garage. I grabbed the bike, tested the brakes and the air pressure and walked it out to the road. I double checked a couple of times to make sure I had my car keys, which I did (forgetting my keys on top of everything else would have made this story epic). I said a prayer to the patron saint of bicycles (Pee Wee Herman?) and set out on my big adventure.

The weather was pleasant, there was no rain and the temperature was comfortable. I started peddling, made a couple of adjustments to the gears and continued peddling. I'd like to say I got a mile or two before the burn in my legs kicked in, but the truth is I traveled about 8 houses before the muscles in my leg said, "Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" But, since I don't talk to my legs, I just ignored them. When I set my mind to something, especially something stupid like this bike ride, I am committed (or should be). 

I peddled, and I peddled, muscles that have been dormant for 25 years protesting with every turn. When people try to convince others that they will not forget how to do something they haven't done in a long time they use the phrase "It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget." Oh, I forgot all right. I forgot that bicycling requires someone to be in at least a little bit of shape. I forgot that muscles that go unused for a long period of time don't just start working without any protest. I forgot that when you exert yourself, you sweat (and boy, did I sweat!). 

I peddled, and peddled, almost praying that I would arrive at this little hill about half way to my destination. It became my goal. I'd hit that and I could just coast for a while... weeeeeee! Sweet relief from the peddling! Then, I got to the hill, and my brain said "Please try to remember, you paid $10 dollars for this bike. You shouldn't just open it up." I did listen to my brain in this case; it has kept me alive for many years and usually has much better advice than my legs -- usually (this whole bike ride being an example of when I shouldn't listen to my brain). I rode the brakes down the hill, so I didn't get quite as long of a respite as I was hoping, but it was a glorious 3 seconds of not-peddling.

The only problem with hills is the fact that if you go down a hill, you usually have to go up one. I peddled and peddled some more and I knew with a growing joy that my destination was almost at hand. Unfortunately, I also remembered that there were a couple of small hills ahead. As I approached the first one, I realized that it wasn't really a hill. I've seen handicapped entry ramps steeper than this "hill". I approached it, started thinking about building up some speed to "tackle" it but then just stopped the bike and got off. I walked it up. Pathetic, I know! I got to the "summit" and thought about just walking the rest of the way (or setting up a base camp, and trying to get up "K-2"--the second hill--the next day). I also decided that if I just walked the rest of the way to my car I was just going to toss my son's bike in the tall grass on the side of the road and pick it up on the way home. Digging deep into my resolve, I threw away the thoughts of abandoning the bike and pushed (literally) on. 

I rode the bike about 30 feet until the second hill started. This one was a lot steeper than the first, but in the book of the world's steepest inclines, it would have not even been a footnote. I pushed the bike to the top, and saddled up again. I traveled across the road and through the Super Kmart parking lot, and there was the spot I parked the car... and it was there. (You thought I was going to say it was gone or something, didn't you?) I opened the hatchback, pushed the back seat down and stuffed the bike in. I fired up the car and headed down the street. My legs felt like jelly and the fact that it is a manual transmission meant working the clutch was fun, fun, fun. I took my sweaty shirt off and dangled it out the window, to try to dry it out some. I of course did not even think about bringing a change of clothes, but then again, with such a leisurely bicycle ride to my car, why would I even think I would need one?

I got to work. My shirt was pretty dry, and went into the bathroom and ran my head under the water. Of course, this was annoying due to the fact that the faucet is run off of a motion sensor so there was not a steady stream of water. I had made it to work by 4:53 am, so despite all the aches and pain, I was quite pleased with myself. My legs eventually stopped throbbing at some point during the day and I have to say, if this situation ever comes up again, I will just listen to my wife! 15-year-old me can take his banana-seat-riding, curly-handle-bar-using self and his bike (which was named Excalibur, I kid you not) and get lost! And Freddy Mercury, shut up! You may want to ride your bicycle, but I don't. 

Those last few sentiments were brought to you by my legs.     

  

On Kid-Wrangling and Pooping in the Woods

I tried to write my last post about something topical, and it did not go over very well, so I'm going back to telling embarrassing stories about myself. This one happened back in the dark days, when I was married to my ex-wife. The kids were very little and we were all out lawn-saling in Argyle. I believe it was the town-wide lawn sale because I remember that we had all been out in the car for a while.

Being veteran lawn-salers, we had established a basic plan for dealing with our kids while out. When we got to a lawn sale, one of the adults would get out and "scout" ahead; the other would stay in the car with the kids. If the scout saw something the other person would be interested in, then they would signal, and the car-bound adult would get the kids out of the car and bring them to the sale.

I like browsing, but it only takes me about 2 minutes to size up your average lawn sale, and figure out if there is anything I have interest in. It would have made more sense for me to be the scout, but 99% of the time it was my ex-wife. She would spend what seemed to be an eternity looking around, and I would sit in the car with the children. The kids would steadily get less happy about being strapped into their car seats, as one would expect. When the kids were very young, lawn saling was a lot easier, because they would usually just snooze in the car. While they slept, I had time to draw, write or read. As the kids got older, however, they became interested in the items they saw at the lawn sale and began begging to get out of the car. I obliged them more often than not.

My role at that point became, not a fellow lawn sale customer, as one would expect, but a kid-wrangler. My job was basically to manage the children and make sure that they did not destroy things at the lawn sale we were visiting. Kid-wrangling is not a fun job, especially when you have kids with ADHD. Let me tell you, everyone always knew the names of my kids, because I was constantly "yelling" at them to put stuff down, not to touch fragile items and to watch out for other lawn-salers, etc.

Kid-wrangling was not just my role at lawn sales -- it was one of my major roles in my marriage. Whenever we went out in public, it was what I did. I kid-wrangled at parties, grocery stores and anywhere there was a potential for unattended kids to cause major property damage. I should hire myself out, since I am pretty good at it. I remember going to a lot of parties at my ex-wife's family's homes, and all I did was chase the kids around. I barely seemed to get a chance to just sit, relax and visit. Anytime I tried to chill, I would eventually hear my ex-wife say something about how the kids were running amok, which was my cue to get up and deal with it. There were many times I just took the kids outside and sat alone with my plate of food and let the kids run crazy. I wasn't being anti-social; it was just the easiest way to wrangle the kids without having to hear my ex complain, after the party, about how she didn't get to talk to her family because she had to chase the kids all day (which is just one of a thousand reasons why we split up.)

Okay, lets get back to the story. One this particular day, we stopped at a promising lawn sale on the outskirts of town and my ex-wife hopped out and started looking around. I figured she would be a while because this sale had a lot of clothes for sale, and so I was just settling in for a long wait. The kids were comfortably chilling in their car seats, and all was fine.

Well, not quite everything.

I had been slowly feeling the build up of a pretty nasty bowel movement. I had mentioned to my ex-wife that we should probably stop somewhere soon, and we had decided we would find a place I could take care of business after the lawn sale we had just stopped at. Apparently, we forgot to consult my excretory system about our plan, because after sitting there for about 5 minutes I realized, after some pretty violent cramps, that the poop was coming very, very soon. Whether I was ready for it, or not.

It turned into one of those rare moments when you start having very dark debates with yourself. We were basically in the middle of nowhere -- well, nowhere with an easy access public toilet, anyway. We were also pretty far away from our home (at least 30 minutes). Even if there was a public toilet nearby, I would probably have soiled myself long before I unbuckled the kids and got them into the store or restaurant. Besides, trying to handle multiple children while I went to the bathroom was something that would have proved awkward as well. I began thinking about whether I should just let it go in my pants or not. It seemed like the easiest/most likely solution. I hadn't intentionally pooped my pants since I was in diapers and was not relishing the idea at all.

Just to add more complications, the car was some distance from the lawn sale itself so I would have had to yell to get my ex-wife's attention. I did not feel like calling across the yard, "Hey, I have got to take a massive dump, right now! Get in the car before I fill my pants!" The lawn's owner and the other two or three patrons may not have appreciated that bit of TMI. So it was time to get creative. Either that, or I would have a long squishy, stinky ride home.

I was quite familiar with the area nearby the lawn sale, as this was a road I drove on almost everyday to go to high school. It was not a very busy road, being surrouneded by woods on both sides. An idea struck me like a lightning bolt and the spark of hope became a conflagration. (Just wanted to use conflagration in a sentence, sorry!) The solution came to me. Does a bear shit in the woods? That I can neither confirm, nor deny, but I decided at that moment that I would.

I fired up the car and quickly sped away. My ex gave me a quizzical look and I tried to use some sort of sign language/ hand-signaling to indicate that I would be right back. She seemed to get the message because she appeared to go back to shopping. I couldn't tell exactly, because I was focused on getting to a place to do what I had to do and clenching my butt cheeks as tightly as possible. If I had a piece of coal, I would have shoved it between my cheeks and probably would have made a diamond.

I drove up the road about half a mile and pulled to the side of the road. The place I selected had woods on both sides, pretty close to the road and fairly thick. There was also enough room for me to pull the car completely off the road. Now this is where I might get accused of endangering the welfare of my children, depending on how rigid you follow the rules: I made a quick check of the kids to make sure they were all comfortable and settled in (they were). Carefully exiting the car (making sure not to bend, because I was sure that if I did, I would have lost control of my sphincter), I grabbed the keys, saw the baby's diaper bag, grabbed it and dashed madly into the woods. I was close enough where I could see the car and get to it in a second or two, but far enough so I wouldn't be squatting and waving to cars as they drove by.

I dug a quick hole with the heel of my shoe and dug the baby wipes out of the diaper bag. I was very proud of myself that despite the fact that all of my brain was devoted to preventing a messy accident, that I had the wherewithal to think about the post-poop clean up. I can just imagine trying to wipe with gathered leaves. It would have been more eco-friendly, for sure, but not that smooth on my butt. I gave one quick look to make sure there were no cars coming, or people wandering in the woods, dropped my pants and did the squat and drop. Sweet heaven! Sweet release!

I quickly got all the poop out, well maybe not all of it, but enough so that I could make it to a proper restroom and finish properly. I wiped, threw the used baby wipes into the hole and kicked the dirt back over my mess. I just have to say, for the record, I wish I could wipe with baby wipes all the time! You feel soooo clean afterwards. I quickly made my way back to the car and checked on the kids. They were all fine. No tears were shed. They just patiently waited for me to return. I turned the car around and headed back to the lawn sale to get my ex-wife and explain what I had done. For some strange reason she was neither shocked, nor surprised by my action.

This is a bit of a cautionary tale. When lawn-saling, make sure you have an established pooping strategy. When you are out there in the field (hopefully not literally), toilets are not always handy. Make sure you know where the public bathrooms are and the quickest route to them. Also, listen to your body. My bowels gave me plenty of warning, yet I kept ignoring them. The stomach cramps would rise and then subside making me think I could ride them out. I tempted fate, and fate almost won (a pair of pants and my dignity). Lastly, you should always carry baby wipes, even if you don't have a baby. They are to cleaning as duct tape is to home repairs. You never know where you may find yourself pooping, so be prepared!

On Temping and Crotchless Pants

I don't know if I have mentioned this before, but I tend to be a little bit lazy. Therefore, in the past I have used temp agencies to find a job when I was in need of employment. Well to be honest, laziness was only part of it; I have a lot of anxiety when it comes to doing things out of my comfort zone. As ridiculous as it seems (at least to me), I have a lot of trouble putting myself in new or unfamiliar situations. That is why temp agencies are such a good fit for me when it comes to job hunting. All I had to do was go in, fill out an application, give them a resume (for office positions) and wait for them to call me back. There was no searching in the paper, no driving around town, or dropping off resumes and going through multiple interviews. Many companies get new employees from temp agencies, so there was always a chance of the temp job becoming full time employment.

I have worked all kinds of temp jobs over the years. Some were good and some sucked horribly. Being a temp is not exactly the most glamorous position to be in. When you're in an office you feel like an outsider to your workmates. Most companies have a set amount of time that you are going to be working for them so you don't have time to really get to know any of your coworkers. The people I have worked with were always nice, but again, when you're only there for a week or two, no one is really looking to make friends. Using someone else's desk, and not wanting to move anything, can get very annoying. Other than the people you directly work with, barely anyone even knows your name. You are just "the temp". Sure -- you get invited to have some cake for someone's birthday or anniversary, but you feel like no one really wants you there. It is hard to celebrate when you have no idea who the person is that you are celebrating with cake.

I worked 5 or 6 office jobs in my temp days and the company I have worked at for the last 12 years started as a temp job. Actually there were two companies that did the same exact thing and were competitors in our town. I got hired at one as a temp and worked there for about two weeks. While I was there I got a call from another temp agency (yes, I was registered with three at the time). They offered me a position at my current assignment's competitor for a dollar more an hour. Needless to say, I regretfully informed the company I was working for that our relationship was over. It wasn't them, it was me... I headed over to start at the other place.

I worked at the new company for about three months in their pagination department and it got to the point where I wanted to become a full time employee. Benefits sounded like a cool idea. Sick days? Vacations? 401K? Those are things you don't get from a temp agency. I wanted to stay in the department I was working in but they did not have any daytime openings. I ended up taking a job in a different department working 5:00 am to 1:30 pm.  I thought it was going to be great. Getting home in the early afternoon sounded amazing. Just think of all the things I could do with my afternoons free. Well, the problem with this situation, which I quickly came to realize, was that I had to be to work 5:00 am EVERY morning.

After a month of this I began to realize that this situation was not going to work. I began looking for another job and I saw in the paper a position in the company I had temped with originally -- in their pagination department. It was a daytime position and I applied. I ended up getting the job and started working there again. About two months after I switched companies again, the company I left bought the company I was working for. Geez, if they wanted to keep me that badly they could have just offered me the daytime position I wanted in the first place. So I got to keep my job, and it was in the department I wanted to be in, working the hours that I wanted. I guess it all worked out in the end.

So far I have talked only about office jobs. When there weren't any cushy desk jobs available, I was often forced to take whatever they had. Several summers while I was in college were spent doing jobs I was thankful I would never have to do full time. I washed dishes for two summers, and I don't mean the soapy sink full of water, wiping, rinsing, drying and putting away dishes like at home. This was loading racks, stuffing them in a machine, unloading the racks at the other end of the machine -- where the dishes came out at about 200 degrees -- and stacking them for someone else to put away. This was also at a posh resort, where I can still remember the management telling us that employees were not allowed to walk on the sidewalks that the customers used. We were supposed to walk through the parking lots to avoid contact with the guests. Nice! At least they let us eat pastries off of the pastry cart once breakfast was over so I was able to let the whole parking lot thing slide.

One summer I worked on the night clean up crew at the same resort where I had washed dishes. We had a great boss who told us that management gave us 8 hours to clean up the place, but it did not take 8 hours. We were to do what he told us to do, then find a good place to hide and chill out for the night. Fountain soft drinks were free at the numerous bars in the resort and I would often find the crew chilling at the poolside bar, drinking soda and relaxing. My favorite spot was outside on the lawn chairs overlooking Lake George. If I got there at sunrise, the view was amazing! Our boss told us that we had to make sure the hiding spot was good because if any of the other departments saw us, they would probably report us and that would ruin it for everybody. It was a good summer, except for working nights. I hated working nights!

I also got to spend two summers in a row erecting giant tents for an annual motorcycle rally. That was nasty and exhausting. Unloading trucks filled with giant aluminum girders in the rain is a memory from one of the years. I did not have a coat that day and during my lunch I ended up trying to dry my shirt with the hand dryer at McDonald's. It was a lot of long hours and hard work -- two things I have always tried to avoid in my employment history. One of the few highlights was the fact that I got to use a jack hammer for the first (and last) time. This was a special one that had a cup at the end that we had to lift and put on the tent stakes to drive them into the ground. I still vibrate everytime I think about it.

I did landscaping once, which equated to my carrying giant stacks of bricks around as my boss built a walkway at an Albany Golf course. Another summer was spent resurfacing tennis courts around the Lake George area. Most were clay courts and there was a lot of raking and hauling large bags of artificial clay around. I also worked a day at a manufacturer of aluminum soda cans. All I did was stand around and watch the machine drop giant stacks of cans on a pallet. My job was to make sure the machine did it right and tap any cans that were askew back into place. Snore fest! I am not going to mention every job I did; that would take way too much time and be as boring as hell.

And now I will tell you about the job where I had one of the most embarrassing moments of my employment history. As far as I know, no one noticed, so I guess I should say it had the potential to be monumentally shaming. This goes back to a time when I was out of college, married and out of work. I needed to get some money into the household. My name was in at a couple of temp agencies when I got a call offering me a position at a large printing company. I really did not want to take it but, when you're desperate, you take whatever you can get. They told me when and where to show up, and that I needed to wear steel toed work boots (never a good sign when you are a wanna be office worker). I managed to borrow a pair of boots from one of my in-laws. They were about two sizes too big but they worked. I got dressed and showed up, feeling a bit like a clown in my giant shoes.

They took us (there were several other temps that were hired as well) to different machines and explained what we were supposed to do. The machine printed out whatever was on the run and the paper piled up in a special area. I would stand there and watch the pile grow until it got to a certain height. The machine had a marker that would tap the stack where we were supposed to grab it. We then had to carry our little pile over to a pallet and stack it. The folded ends had to point out, because if not, the whole stack could fall over and make a mess. I screwed it up once. Oh well, it was my first time. It was a lot more tiring than one would expect and there was a lot of bending over. Every now and then they would stop the machines, either to change runs or because the machine broke. When the printer was down we were supposed to sweep and clean up our work area.

It was one of these down moments, when I was cleaning up, that I bent over to pick up a scrap of paper when I heard this terrible ripping sound. With the sound came a refreshing breeze in the region of my groin. I looked down and saw that there was a very large rip in my pants. Now this was bad, because of something many people know about me -- I will share now with those who don't -- I stopped wearing underwear somewhere in late high school. Don't ask me why I chose this route. Maybe because all the guys in porn movies never wore undies and I thought that was all part of the secret for making these sort of encounters happen, or maybe my equipment just needs to breathe, I don't know. Commando is just the way I roll!

So there I was on my first day at a new job, and every time I bent over, my equipment was in danger popping out. Being a good worker, I kept going, though. Besides, there were only a few hours left in the day, so I decided to walk carefully, to bend with my knees like a proper young lady and avoid my coworkers as much as possible. I made it through the shift without anyone seeming to notice and headed quickly to my car. As soon as I bent to get into the vehicle the crotch of my pants ripped out the rest of the way. There was no longer any point in hiding. There was my junk, for all to see, except that now I was in my car, safe from prying eyes. I looked around the car for inspiration and found a plastic bag from a local convenience store. I tucked it my pants to cover everything up and headed home.

The entire ride home I prayed I did not break down or get pulled over. I have owned a large collection of shitty, barely legal vehicles and I thought for sure this was the time the car would die, or I would get busted by the police for a loud muffler or something. I played out the scene of the cop coming up to my window in my head, asking me for my license and registration and why I had a Stewart's bag stuffed in my crotch. Well, the scene would have been better if it was a female police officer and then it turned into a porno like I always fantasized about, but I was way too scared to think about that at the time. The other scene running through my head was of me walking down the side of the road, after the car died, wearing the plastic bag over my pants. In my mind, I had ripped two leg holes and was wearing them like shorts. Thankfully for me, nothing happened. I got home, told the story and everyone laughed.

My wife at the time told me that the other temp company had called while I was working and had two job interviews lined up. After the stress and the aches all over from a day of "hard" (well, hard to someone as soft as me) labor I decided not to go back. Any job that could do that to a pair of pants was nothing I wanted anything to do with! All kidding aside, temp companies are a good way of getting your foot in the door and got me jobs when I needed them. My experiences with temping also introduced me to some interesting people, reminded me why I went to college in the first place (so I would not have to do any of the physical jobs I did as a temp), and gave me some funny stories to tell.

On Mind Over Matter

Now when I think of the phrase "Mind Over Matter" a couple of different images pop into my mind. First is people walking on burning coals. (I almost typed barefoot, but then realized that should be obvious. Even I could walk on coals in a pair of boots, as long as they didn't catch fire. And if they did, it would be a case of "fire over foot" and would end in a trip to the hospital.) The guy (or woman, let's not be sexist) lying on the bed of nails is another image that pops into my head. Anyone who can ignore large amounts of pain is one half of my "Mind Over Matter" equation .

The other half of this equation are those people, who under stress, force of will, or any other outside influence seem to be able to perform some incredible feat. An example of this would be a mother lifting a school bus to save her trapped child. Well maybe a bus is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Maybe even someone manifesting some special power, well maybe not like little Drew Barrymore in "Firestarter" but definitely tapping into the unused portions of our minds to do something extraordinary.

I thought I would share my two stories of "Mind Over Matter." One tale for each side of the equation.

I can't remember how old I was, being either home on summer break from college or just another day in my latter years of high school. The age is semi-important, as I was definitely old enough to have handled this situation better. It was early morning (well, early morning for a responsibility free teenager is not what I would call early as an adult with a job and bills to pay.) and I was lying in bed half awake. It was a day like any other and I could have never guessed, in my wildest dreams, of what fate had in store for me. I lay there, debating whether to get up or just continue to lie in bed for a while, trying to wring out every bit of sleep I could get. (I believe the second option was winning out, as it usually did.)

Well in my morning haze I felt the sudden urge to pass gas. Anyone who knows me will not be surprised by this. I have come to believe that it is the very oxygen I breathe that makes me fart. Well, I did what any normal person in this situation would do, I rolled onto my side, aimed my ass away from me and let it go. Much to my horror (and surprise) it wasn't air that came out. My eyes shot open, and I was fully awake in an instant. To compound the problem, and at the risk of sharing too much information, I was sleeping al fresco. I blinked and found my self standing up. In a moment of panic (perhaps shame?) I tapped into something and gained the ability to levitate. Just for that brief moment.

I am convinced that it was levitation, or maybe a minor bit of flight because I did not bend any part of my body. My butt cheeks were pinched tight and the sphincter was in total lock down, in the fear that more non-air would come out. Bending at the waist would have risked voiding (This is a term I learned from having a baby. The doctors are very fixated on the baby poo.) so I know I did not bend there, and there is no way I could have got up as quickly without bending. Levitation is the only way that I could have got to my feet so quickly. "Mind Over Matter"

Well, to end the story, I waddled quickly to the bathroom, let the rest of my movement go in its proper place, wiped thoroughly and returned to my room. (Stealthily, I might add, as I was still in my birthday suit.) There I pulled the sheets off the bed, brought them into the laundry room, crumpled them up and stuffed them into the dirty laundry basket. Did I give my mother any warning about my little surprise? Of course not. I was a teenager! I returned to my room, flipped the mattress over, inspected my blanket for any residue, found it clean and went back to bed. Overcoming the Laws of Gravity with the power of my mind is exhausting!

The second story is an example of the other side of the equation and it happened while I was baking cookies. Now, when I say I was baking cookies, I should say that all the credit should go to Ms. (or is it a  Mrs.?) Crocker and whoever was responsible for putting the directions on the side of the box. I was merely a stirring, making-little-balls and shifting-a-sheet-pan-in-and-out-of-the-oven-at-the-appropriate-time facilitator. Well anyway, the oven was set for 350 degrees, and they had been in for the required  20 minutes or so. Looking in, I saw the batch was done and looked for an oven mitt. No good. I could not find one so I grabbed a little towel to take out the pan.

As I was pulling the pan out I saw that the towel I was using had caught on fire! I immediately grabbed the tray with my opposite hand, threw the towel in the sink, turned the knob to get the water flowing and splashed the water onto the towel until the flames were extinguished. I sighed a quick sigh of relief and then as if it were some Looney Tunes cartoon, I looked at my left hand and realized I was still holding the tray of cookies. In my hand, with no cloth or oven mitt, was a metal pan that had just been baking in the oven for over twenty minutes.

If this was a cartoon I would have had enough time to take a look at the camera, get a bemused expression on my face and then screamed something like YEEEEEEEEOOOOOOOOOOWWWW! Or maybe I would have been standing there while smoke started to rise from my left hand. This would be accompanied by the sound of sizzling meat. I would probably start sniffing loudly as someone else walked into the room and say to them something like "Do you smell something burning?" Then I would look at my hand, my eyes would bulge, I would howl and send cookies flying. But what I did do was shout an expletive (can't remember which one, but I have a few guesses), toss the pan on the counter and immediately stick my hand in the cool water that was still running on the towel.

I am happy to say, the cookies survived (and were delicious!). My hand was fine as well, a little red, but no griddle marks or degrees of burns of any kind. While my mind was focused on putting out the fire my brain shut down all of those sensors and everything. I truly realized what people meant when they use the phrase "Mind Over Matter." Now if only I could do this voluntarily, it would be my first step in becoming a super hero!

On a side note, re-read this post. This time, imagine the voice of Leonard Nimoy narrating this on "In Search Of." Consider your minds blown!