Cougars, Coyotes and Boys, Oh My!

Lately I've been obsessing about my inane fear of wildlife. The coyotes in the area were out running around during the wee hours of morn, and I could hear them yipping, running through the brush, cavorting like all nocturnal meat-eaters do... In the midst of this 2 am cacophony of carnivorous chaos, I found it impossible to keep from meditating on the very thought of our plans to take our 15 month-old son camping in a few weeks. Understandably, with the night-music playing out in the predawn hours, I was seized by nightmarish scenes of me being confronted by a pack of coyotes, a cougar, a bear or two, or all of the above all at the same time, with my baby boy in tow... Not exactly what sweet dreams are made of. In addition to my inexplicable fears, being that I am also 5 months pregnant, I generally need to pee at least 8 times per hour per night. While camping, this would translate to approximately 64 trips to a campground shithouse WITHOUT my husband in attendance, as he would need to stay in the tent with our little bundle of diapered joy... That's 64 too many opportunities for me to be stalked by a bear with the case of the munchies...

Needless to say, I don't think we will be going on this camping trip.

But there are scarier things in this world. Scarier by far, indeedy. Once again, tonight I found myself perusing a box of odds and ends, the type of doo-dads you pack away for sentimental reasons, then 18 years later wonder why you saved all of this garbage. But it was a healthy reminder of how pathetically sick I was over boys and my paralyzing need for them to like me. Not that I dated. I mean, I wanted them to love me, but only from afar. They scared the living crap out of me.

Indy and I went to Europe together over one summer on a high school band trip. The group we traveled with, the United States Collegiate Wind Band, a non-audition menagerie of band kids from all over the United States. We traveled and played in musical performances in 7 countries over 21 days. It was a blast, and I'm sure the music was mediocre to fair. But what I remember most was my near-handicapping crush on a boy named Chad, whom we referred to as "Flax" because of his sandy, flaxen-colored hair. Anyway, on our return flight to New York, I brought a notepad around to all of my friends to collect their mailing addresses and little personal messages, a fond remembrance. Getting all of my friends' information was the ruse -- the real motive was that I wanted something in writing from Flax, so I could take it with me and keep close to my heart for always. Or until our children asked, "How did you meet Daddy?" And then I'd have it in writing, the beginning of our love story... He'd write, "My fingers will forever regret not treasuring the silkiness of your long, flowing, blond waves of sun-spun glory which you vigilantly brush every 5 minutes... I will love you from afar, if for now that's the only way I can love you." Or at least that was kind of what I was hoping for.

Instead, this is what he wrote:

Hey Anita,

Your pen sucks. That's why I'm going to finish with my trusty #2 pencil.

Because I am heavily sedated from motion sickness pills and decongestants, my mind is quite blank and I can think of nothing to say except that I hope you found the back of your earring.

Chad H-------
(mailing address to include only a PO Box #)


Impersonal at best, and yet I still cherished his barely-know-ya-couldn't-care-less-about-ya "love letter." Well delivered, Flax! Regardless, it didn't faze me. I wrote him multiple letters to which he never responded, and it never swayed my adoration for him in the least. These romantic delusions were by far freakier than being stalked by wild predatory beasts who want to eat you while you're sitting on the can in the woods in the middle of the night.