You’re cruising through life – a normal life - in which the Law of Average prevails to preclude both Uninvited Death & Dismemberment in addition to its equally extreme but polar opposite sister Daily Throes of Ecstasy.

So there you are, in your average life doing various “things”: the help-the-kids-with-homework thing, the make-dinner thing, carpool-in-the-mornings thing, the PTA thing, the send-out-Christmas-cards thing in addition to other equally mundane things. You’re getting “it” done. No grocery list or committee assignment stands a chance once it’s on your to-do list. You’ve got this normal life thing down.

…and it makes you want to run screaming to San Francisco International where you can find a one-way flight to Phnom Penh.

Except that you can’t, you see, because you have a husband and kids. And even though the husband likes to pull the covers over your head after he farts and the kids have this annoying habit of shedding trails of clothing coated in gunk that looks suspiciously like the Godiva chocolate you purchased last week, you love them.

Also, it doesn’t hurt that your mom dumped you when you were a teenager and that abandonment spurred you to swear up, down and sideways that You Would Never Do That To Your Own Children Even When Your Own Children Do Their Level Best To Make You Crazy.

Has this ever happened to you?

Have you ever been grateful for the fact that you are able to stay home with your kids and enjoy full-time motherhood while simultaneously wondering why you didn’t run like hell from these little humans that want, want, want? Have you ever wondered Just why did we sell the big house and buy the much smaller house again? and then realized Oh yeah. Because I was the one who was adamant that our children would have a stay-at-home parent. And then you call the nice lady at the pharmacy and have your prescription for Zoloft refilled. And inquire about any extra Vicodin that might happen to be lying around.  

 Anyone? Has this happened to you?

Has anyone ever wondered why having kids seems like a relatively good idea until you are faced with the cold, hard fact that your progeny are congenitally incapable of understanding that Mommy has heard their pleas for McDonald’s and yes she would very much like to see them chomping away on Happy Meals but it’s going to be a few minutes because she has just spent the last couple of hours crying in the fetal position on the floor and, well, she needs to pull herself together. And yes, she realizes that you are eight and three-years-old so you don’t really care about her problems, but the nice lady who takes your order might be provoked into calling child protective services if Mommy shows her face in public while looking like she’s a half-tank of gas away from leaping off the Golden Gate Bridge.

Has anyone ever felt the immense guilt of looking at their lives and acknowledging on a purely logical level that their life is good, terrific even? That their needs are met? That they want for nothing? Except a little freedom? And to have their existence acknowledged? And maybe throw in a box of Godiva chocolates since their kids ate the other box while hiding in the pantry?

Has anyone ever received a call from their brother just as he is boarding a plane bound for Japan and secretly thought, Why did you have to call me right now? With this? You do realize that I would love nothing more than to get out of this country for a while, right? And that I can’t even find the time or cash to get out of Elk Grove?

Has anyone ever developed an interest in off-the-wall stuff just to shake things up? To see the world from a perspective that isn’t so damned mundane? I can’t be the only one who’s gone back to school and taken up dangerous hobbies to stave off the soul-crushing effects of ”normal”.

Anyone? Bueller?

Alright. Time to get off the computer and shake this funk. Or run away to Thailand. I haven’t decided yet.

Now for something completely different…

I was at my local grocery store today buying liquor and other assorted implements of impairment to help smooth the flight to Orlando tomorrow. Not so much for my sake, but for the sake of my fellow passengers who would no doubt prefer a passed out sasquatch to one that rocks nervously in her seat while mumbling about defective jackscrews and fuel vapor explosions.

At any rate, I was being checked out when the kid behind the register asks for my ID. So perplexed was I by this request that I stared at him blankly for a few moments before diving for my wallet while muttering something incomprehensible.

“Come again?” The kid asked.

“Uh… nothing. My english is not so good.” I joked before handing over my ID to prove that I am, in fact, 34 over 21.

“Really? I think you speak English pretty good.”

I gave the kid a half smile and narrowed my eyes. He looked back at me with the kind of bright-eyed innocence that told me that 1) he didn’t catch the joke, and 2) he really thought that English was my second language.

Which reminds me of when I was in college and working at the IHOP on Florin Road (and my readers from Sacramento will read “IHOP on Florin Road” and their eyes will cross because nothing good ever happens after midnight. Or on Florin Road.)

Anyway, after I started working at IHOP on Florin Road it was only a matter of days before it became apparent that many of South Sac’s residents had little regard for a white waitress. Or rather, a white waitress who was blonde, blue-eyed and six feet tall. In fact, so deep ran their disregard for me that many customers derived great joy from plying me with their rather colorful collection of racial slights.

Good times!

The matter was not helped by the fact that my primary advocate was a manager who was a warm and wonderful human being and spoke the king’s English but – being fresh out of Pakistan – had not yet mastered the blighted vernacular of his customer base. This led to frustration when I would try to explain to him why, exactly, a customer’s exclamation of “DIE HONKY BITCH DIE! DIE! DIE!” did not sit particularly well with me.

Another employee and I finally took matters into our own hands.

Aaron was a fellow server who, having noticed my difficulties, devised a plan by which I would be more readily accepted by the community: he made me a nametag that said “Olga” and started telling everyone that I was a Russian immigrant.

Though I concluded the plan was completely retarded I went along with it. It would work something like this: if a customer started giving me the third degree Aaron would sidle up to me, eyebrows raised.

“Her English isn’t bad huh?” My co-worker would then take advantage of the baffled silence to explain my status as a Russian refugee.

The “problem” customers totally bought it. In fact, most of them became downright civil with me.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I’m leaving for a funeral director’s conference in Orlando tomorrow and the guy at the grocery store now thinks I’m a lush who speaks English as a second language and while I’m gone I really do think you should check out the best political blog entry I’ve ever read, my brother’s squibbles on the occupational risks of being an archaeologist, and my future sister-in-law’s thoughts on, well, everything*.

* Oh yeah. That little tidbit there will most definitely get me a stern talking-to by my brother, probably right around the time I’ve finished the third screwdriver at the airport tomorrow and have been rendered incapable of speech. You’re welcome Matt.

Ok. For the last week.

Oh who am I kidding? I’ve been asking myself that question since a month ago when my quasi she’s-kind-of-my-coach divulged to me that, you know, that whole ocean swim thing? In water that’s only a few degrees shy of freezing and filled with jellyfish and kelp and great white sharks that are capable of killing you so dead you won’t move? She’s totally not done that like, ever. Not even so much as dipped a toe in the ocean. She just figured she’d prance down to the beach all La!La!La! this Saturday and just dive in.

Side note: that’s how I know that she’s a REAL Californian. Because most Californians are smart enough to know that dude! That water’s freezing. And they don’t go in. Our beaches are populated solely by out-of-state tourists who’ve seen too much Baywatch.

Side-side note: I’m so fucked.

Anyway, this here is probably a post that will come as close to honesty as you’ll ever get out of me and you can thank my profound fear of water for that. Or anxiety. Or the bottle of tequila that’s sitting on my desk mocking me with its emptiness because I finished it before it finished my anxiety about this Saturday.

And since alcohol is supposed to remove inhibitions can I just say one thing before I go on?

I love you guys. Like, love. No really. LOVE. My readers are the BEST. I LOVE YOU GUYS.

Can I just say one more thing? 1 mile swim. Through kelp. 25 mile bike ride. 6 mile run.

Reprise of side-side note: I’m so fucked.

So I figured that since my most recent triathlon started off with a swim during which I freaked out in a most royal fashion and nearly had to abort, (I didn’t, I finished the damned thing more out of spite for my fear of water than anything) I would watch videos of last year’s event so that I could get a better idea of what race day will be like and therefore be mentally prepared.

And here’s what I was treated to:

Addendum to the side-side note: I’m so totally fucked.

At least I have the out-and-back bike ride through Pebble Beach to look forward to. And the run is through Monterey’s Cannery Row, which should be a delightful experience if I should make it that far without drowning or being eaten by a shark first.

I’ve never been more frightened in my life.

And I do this for fun?

I wouldn’t mention the whole thing again if it weren’t for the fact that I almost didn’t finish my first triathlon because I almost gave up and swam back to the beach because about seven minutes after the gun went off ye olde Evil Voice Inside My Head shook off its Zoloft hangover long enough to remind me that I was, in fact, terror-stricken.

Boy is that water murky.

Shut up Evil Voice.

Casket murky.

Thanks Hemingway, what the hell is that even supposed to mean?

It’s just, well, it’s dark down there. When you’re face down, you know, like in the water, swimming? Don’t you feel a little like you’re having something slammed shut in your face?

No.

Like a casket? Or a shroud?

That’s really sick.

Sure gives a whole new appreciation of the phrase “watery grave” doesn’t it?

Are you going to start in on that Jenny Greenteeth bullshit again?

Nah. But I bet being in it’s a lot like being buried.

Go to hell.

Well, that is, if being buried meant you couldn’t breathe. I guess in that sense the water is worse than a casket, huh? Because you know, you can’t breathe.

I’m a strong swimmer.

Suuuuuuuuure you are…

(A few silent moments during which I begin to hope the Evil Voice has succumbed to an adrenaline overdose.)

Woo boy! I bet there could be ten… fifteen… maybe even thirty bodies down there and you’d never know for all the murk.

Steph?

Steph?

Get lost. You’re not the boss of me.

Yeah, yeah. You’ve trained for this, blah-ta-te-blah-blah-blah.

Don’t you have anything better to do?

Better than this?

(Looks around. Kicks at my frontal lobe.)

No, not really. Hey! How’s your breathing?

Get lost…

I bet you’re feeling a little straved for air about now huh?

No.

Sure you are. Can’t breathe?

I’m breathing just fine thank you very much.

You know, just because nobody’s drowned in this event yet doesn’t mean there can’t be a first…

Gah! Shut up! I’m fine!

Are you? Sure you’re not having trouble breathing?

Yes.

Positive?

Yes.

Absolutely certain?

Oh honestly… 

You’re panicking. I can see it. Here. Let’s get one of those medics in the kayaks.

Do that and I’ll…

You’ll what? You know you want out of here.

I’ll switch from Zoloft to Jack Daniels and Xanax cocktails.

Sure you will. Hey, what’s say we get out, dry off, catch a movie. What’s the point of this whole thing anyway? To prove that you’re better at not drowning than the next guy?

No.

Oh, yes. You’re outta here.

No.

Sure you are. Tell you what we’re gonna do… we’re going to flag down one of these kayaks, tell ‘em you need to get out of the water…

And that is when I had an honest-to-God, full-blown, hyperventilating-holy-shit-I-can’t-breathe-and-I-think-I’m-going-to-die panic attack right there in the middle of the water during which I blew several precious minutes floating on my back and trying to decide whether I would continue chasing the pack into deeper water or accept disqualification and drag my sorry ass back to the beach. The Evil Voice almost won. But that was before I started thinking – really thinking – about what it would be like to quit and how stupid I would feel once I was back on shore watching everyone else finish the swim and move on to the bike and run portions.

So I turned back over and continued even though all I really wanted to do was get out and run home where I could curl up in bed and suck my thumb.

A few weeks ago a friend of mine gave me a self-help book on coping with panic disorders. I have yet to read the book but the title popped into my head; Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. It probably sounds stupid but I repeated that damned phrase to myself over and over and over and over again until the panic attack was over and all there was left to do was try to make up for time lost.

I set my peripheral vision on the strongest swimmer in the pack: a competitor whose wetsuit had an orcan stripe that gleamed white through the murk, and I kept my head down and stuck to her side until we made it back to shore.

Then I passed her and just about everyone else in my division on the bike.

(Pictured above: This is me on the verge of a total psychological meltdown.)