So much to blog about, so little time to funnel all my stray thoughts into a cohesive post. And I’m wondering who wants to read about how my scratchy sore throat escalated rapidly into a semi-debilitating sinus-based cold; about how I was in the laundromat, folding my husband’s dryer-warm handkerchiefs when a swell of love for him nearly knocked me over; about how my favorite yoga teacher took savasana to a whole new level by dabbing lavender essential oil on the backs of our necks as we lay in repose after her rigorous class; about yesterday’s biannual dentist appointment, and how my dental hygienist really believes that I floss regularly because my gums no longer gush bloody gore when she scales my teeth; about how I left work today at 2pm because the snow was falling at a pretty good clip, and upon returning home I sat at my work laptop and actually worked without even turning on Judge Judy — a wonderful testament to my professional maturity, self-control, and insane work-orientated to-do list.
Cohesion. Where is the cohesion in all this?
Mr. P and I couldn’t resist a gift-giving Christmas preview. We exchanged one present each: Me, I gave him a tube of his favorite uber-expensive French after-shave balm that smells of musky meadow grass, while he presented me with a ski helmet, size XL because I’ve got a oversized skull. Now I am fully outfitted to go downhill skiing, and the helmet will give me the courage to sustain a decent speed as opposed to quaking from one side of the trail to another in a near-horizontal line. Ask any football player how empowering a helmet is.
And I received my helmet not a moment too soon, as next week we will be going skiing and the New Hampshire ski community is all abuzz about the second death in two weeks on Cannon Mountain (here). Two young men, one skier and one snowboarder, died apparently as a result of head trauma, and neither was wearing a helmet. There’s some tragic cohesion in that.
After reading about the two skiing deaths on Cannon Mountain, I effusively told Mr. P, “You can return whatever else you bought me for Christmas to the store. The only other thing I want for Christmas is for you to buy a skiing helmet for yourself.”
He laughed. “I don’t ski with helmets. I’m going to die like a man,” he told me.
This sort of casual, European attitude towards basic safety precautions like helmets makes me laugh and cry. Mr. P views helmets as pessimistic objects when used in the context of, say, a leisurely bike ride to the subway on the path or while coaxing me down the bunny slope. He also doesn’t floss. Ever. (Ah, cohesion, a bit, at last.)
