How to Keep Fear From Killing Your Success and Fun

Will Smith is laying down some really good career advice for all of us. 

"Keep loving people. The important this is to make sure with your [work], your [work] is a gift to people to helptheir lives be better and to be brighter. And what happens a lot of times when you see people fail in this business [or any work] is that they're in it for their ego. They start doing it for themselves. And it's like, your trying to help people just get through a day."

He is talking about being an actor but I think this applies to all professions and all work. It's so hard when your work is all about you, your personal success and what you get in return. It's so much easier to be good when you are really trying to help make peoples lives easier. Their days better.

Because, seriously, don't we all need some of that. I'm all about positivity and keeping it fun. That's why I started Becoming a Badass. But the flip side to that is that life can be really hard. If you aren't focused on being happy, strong, generous, successful, positive and, most importantly, loving, it's easy to slip into a dark place. I know it is for me. It happened to me very recently.

Am I alone in this feeling? Is life always easy for some? I don't think so. We all experience great loss, disappointments and pain. Every single one of us. Some of the losses are real. Losses of health. Losses of loved ones. Losses of dreams. Losses of jobs. Some of the losses are fear taking over our minds and stealing our happiness. Losses of confidence. Losses of love. Losses of faith.

Losses hurt. I believe in positivity, love, faith and God but sometimes shit is painful. Ok? I'm not alone in this, right?

The good news, as far as work and success is concerned, is that means there is always tremendous need for people who are making the world a better, happier, positive, more love filled place. If you can keep focused on helping people's lives be better, there will always be work for you.

How can you use who you are and what you love to do to make the world a better, easier place? How can you help people just get through the day? Because that will make you successful in all senses of the word.

Breaking to Build: I tore my ACL

I've always wanted this to be an inspirational blog. My favorite thing, moment, theme, whatever, is when something previously thought impossible is done. Maybe it's a homely girl discovering under that ugly over-sized sweater and glasses she is actually a hot girl, with killer confidence. Maybe it's Amelia Earhart. Maybe it's a baby's first steps. Maybe it's just laughing after a long time of not remembering how. Maybe it's becoming a badass. I love hearing about it, seeing it, being it, so that's why I started this blog. To encourage those moments in myself and others.

Whatever that elusive feeling is you get watching Forest Gump. That inspiration that puts a swing in your step and courage in your hear, that is what I've always wanted to be able to give people. I think you are all so so beautiful. Even those of you who kind of bug me. Especially those of you I can barely stand. I'm impressed with all of you. All of the blogs, the accomplishments, the relationships, the travel, the families, the big choices that you've made. I want you to be able to feel good about the steps you are taking.

I've torn my ACL skiing. I find out tomorrow if I need surgery. Even if I don't, healing is going to be a time and labor intensive process. I feel bad. I feel scared. I feel confused. Usually this triumvirate of feelings can only be cured by putting on heals and trying to dance like Beyonce. I haven't asked my doctor yet, but I'm guessing heels are off limits. My ability to shake it is also impaired. What the hell am I going to do now? How am I supposed to be happy?

My new year resolution is to be an unsinkably happy person. If I was struggling to maintain steady happiness while skiing every day, I think I might be in big trouble with this wobbly leg. The way I see it, I have two choices.

1. Under the guise of trying to shoot my lame leg off, I could shoot my head off.
or
2. Put on a black, fringed, spaghetti strap shirt and shake what I've got left.

I'm wearing a fringed shirt as we speak folks. This badass is taking it to the next level. I'm gonna have to master my mind. I don't just want to heal, I want to have fun doing it. My mind just wants to cry, pout, talk about how much this sucks, and be mean to people who are having a good time. NO WAY MIND. I'm gonna die happy, and if that happens to be tomorrow, I better make sure I'm happy now. This ACL process can't be just about getting through it. This healing has to be about keeping my good time going. I'd be honored if you all let me bounce these efforts off of you.

Thanks for being with me on this. I need all the support I can get now that I don't have a functioning right knee. And thanks for showing me how awesome you all are every day. It inspires me.

Momentum

I thought I knew how to ride a bike. There hasn't been much biking in my adult life, but hey, it's like riding a bike. Right? My discovery is that phrase only applies to quick jaunts around town or one of those care-free beach rental rides. If you wanna ride a bike up a really steep butte, there is stuff you need how to know. Learning about shifting gears, different ways to engage your muscles, how to change a flat tire is important. Most crucial, however, on bikes or on whatever mode of transportation you have picked for this great road called Life, is how to keep your momentum up. And what's even more important is keeping your momentum up while flailing wildly, almost falling, and, let's hope, learning something. The butte I went up the other day was such a challenge I almost puked. I could feel the corners of my lungs. A new muscle has popped up on my forearm. That was some fricken doing. And after it was done I felt really great about myself. It would be nice to be in such great shape that I didn't dry heave. I guess that will come in time. Probably come when I'm better at keeping my momentum up.

What you all just missed in the writing process of this very line, was several failed attempts at getting personal with you. Words strung together to try and tie in the anxiety I feel living in a ski town and working as a waitress. I keep deleting and looking for a way to continue in metaphor. There are all sorts of things my fingers tap out that are then deemed either not worthy of the public or too private for the public. Here is what I don't want to tell you: how I wonder sometimes if I'm being sucked into a life that while being quite easy and in many ways fun, will never amount to a career, a family, or financial stability. What if I never fulfill my potential and i miss out on some of life's greatest joys? I would like to delete that last sentence. Pretend it never existed. Say I'm having enough fun to not care. In many ways, I don't. I don't need much money, I don't mind my work, and who knows if I even want a family. Children are scary and seem very time consuming. There. I said it and I'm not deleting it.

The anxiety is pinned to specifics, but really, I'm scared of losing momentum. Some people can relax, live in the moment, find every second's beauty, just enjoy. I'm not one of those lucky people. I need a goal to keep my eyes open and fixated on going forward, otherwise I just sit on the couch and think about the chances of actually dying of boredom and how ashamed I'll be to have died in such a whiney, losery way. The biggest shame in having these feelings is that the emotions are born from and suckle on the situation. Sitting on the couch makes me have the thoughts and the only reason that the thoughts are legitimized is because I'm there sitting on the couch. This is called a vicious cycle and it's what I am doomed for if I don't keep up momentum and push forward. If I'm not accomplishing, the feeling comes. There is no avoiding it, so, please, don't just tell me to relax.

I've accepted the feeling. That doesn't mean I've found a solution. I do know some handy tricks for keeping momentum up while going up a really steep butte on a bike, though.

1) Slow down.
2) Get into a lower gear.
3) Circle in one spot if you have to until you can push forward.
4) Vary the muscles you are depending on for strength.
5) Practice, train, build muscle and it will get easier.
6) If you absolutely have to stop, stop. Rest, get back on, and head down the hill for a few seconds to get some
momentum and then head back up the hill.
7) Visualize how hot your body is going to be if you keep it up.
8) Imagine all those assholes who have ever tried to make you feel fat, like you couldn't, or like you weren't good
enough to even try something. Now imagine you crushing them with every pump of the pedal. You can even puke
there heads if it comes to that.
9) Look around and be thankful for the beauty around you.

I don't know if these tips can help in every situation in life. If only everything had the automatic gratification that biking possesses. Then again, it is nice that most situations don't make me dry heave. Pros and cons on that one. These tips got my doubtful butt to the top of a butte. I don't know what to do with my time not on a bike, but maybe it's time to slow down, get in a lower gear, vomit on the heads of my doubters, and push forward.

Before We Go Any Further

I must mention a story I heard at my recent job orientation. Working for an ski resort that has a reputation for extreme terrain, I should expect to be asked, "Would you please share your most adventurous experience with the group?" Didn't. Flabbergasted that I am now such an adventurous person that people would ask me to share adventure stories as part of my job, I started to search my mind.

Oh, yes! The story about taking a 4 person plane packed with 5 people off the island in Honduras. That could be good. Jumping off the 40 foot waterfall? Could work. Yeah. Maybe. Not that great. Poking the lava with a stick. I could touch on the bus ride over the mountain pass with the open door. Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhh...

"Ok, Todd. How bout if you start?"

"Sure. Uhhh, well? I guess it would be about 5 years ago. I was mountain biking with a couple of my friends and of course I was way ahead of the two of them, and, I was attacked by a grizzly bear."

The group waits. Eyes begin tentatively shifting ever so slightly. The search for confirmation of that being the entirety of the story is discreetly underway. Todd looks to his right and tries to pass the torch. The cardigan wearing snow bunny to his right is horrified. Luckily, this time, that snow bunny wasn't me. I would have tried to follow this story. The actual snow bunny knew better. She just stared at Todd, until, some dude asked, "What? Dude? Where? How?" Simple questions, but apparently the right ones.

It should be said, Todd is older. A ski patroller of middle age. No visible scarring on the face.

"Yeah, so I was headed up (name of trail omitted cause I forgot) and I was pretty far ahead of my two buddies. This griz comes at me from the side. All I heard was gnarly thumping, something I don't usually hear. So, I see the bear and it's already charging me. Man, it got me really good."

"Dude, how'd you get it off you?"

"My friends finally caught up and unloaded two cans of bear spray."

There is more to the story, but I'm already doing Todd an injustice with the shotty telling, so I'll let the gist of it speak for itself. The real gem of the story, though, came later when we were discussing the merits of helmets while skiing. Todd, piped up, "I'm sure psyched that I wear a helmet when I mountain bike. That bear busted one gnawing on my head."

I told the story of poking lava with a stick. Becoming a badass is a constant education in humility.

The Splits

My friend, Anna, can do the splits in the way I could when I was 15. Legs fully apart. Arms up in the air. Big Smile. I am so jealous. So very, very, very, very jealous. Five minutes ago, I was working on my splits. Thank you for the true life inspiration, Anna.

Bitch.

No. I'm kidding. Thank you.

I am Miss Oktoberfest!

I'm having an excessively tough time writing this because of the amount of alcohol that went into my winning Miss Oktoberfest.  Some woman win through beauty and talent.  I won due to a goofy hat and a public spanking.

To begin at the beginning...

It all started with a simple thought:  a  night of good food, richly crafted environment, and maybe a discreet beer sampler at one of Jackson Hole's finest dinning establishments, Stiegler's.  I had been lucky enough to be squeezed into the exclusive Oktoberfest event and was ready to be treated to one of the most perfect and opulent dining experiences of my life.  My vision of grandeur was skewed when I learned 8 hours before the dinner that it was actually a costume party.  The concept of this Oktoberfest being a costume party immediately seemed strange because why would anyone want to dilute the beautiful experience of eating a perfectly prepared veal wellington with the hilarious humiliation of eating it dressed as a pumpkin?  Costume parties are an excuse to get blackout drunk with the excuse of needing the extra alcohol to maintain your Hunter S. Thompson impression, not the time to exercise your taste buds.  I heard that it was a costume party from one of the restaurant's employees, so I thought, well, it must be true.  

My partner in crime, Shaun, loved that it was a costume party and quickly decided to go as a peppermint.  His costume would consist of red tighty whities, red tube socks, a red and white striped shirt, and a red hat.  This really seemed like a bad idea, but since we were going to this since it was his birthday, I felt like my hands were tied.  I agreed to wear my new purple skirt and go as a grape lozenge.  

Later that day, as I shopped for a striped shirt and a purple leotard, Shaun called to say that the peppermint thing was going to be too much.  We should dress as Austrians or Germans or something.  Now, I love costumes.  I love costumes so much that I wore one almost every day in college.  One day I would be studious girl, the next girl who loves movies from the 70's, the next girl who loves '40s glamour.  These days, I am pretty committed to being the girl who wears jeans and a cute top, but when the opportunity for a costume comes up, I like to nail the outfit.  I ended up in fuzzy boots, jeans, a turtleneck, suspenders, a totally legit sweater from the thrift store that was made in Norway, and a very cute Austrian cap that a friend of mine happens to own.  I was the real deal.  Shaun hated all of the goofy options I had gotten him and ended up in a sweater, corduroys, and a hunting cap.  He looked like a normal person who doesn't dress well, and I looked like a freak who loves caps and suspenders.  What I felt like, though, was a badass who could easily blend into any culture.  My costume was perfect. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't a costume party.  When I walked in the door, the place was almost empty, but the 4 other women there were in heels, nice jeans, and a cute spangly top.  Aka:  dressed for modern life, not 1976 Austria.  As more people walked in, it became increasingly clear that the only other costumes I was going to see where the traditional lederhosen and dirndl that the waitstaff wore.  I introduced myself to everyone as "Hi, I'm jessicatheytoldmethiswasacostumeparty."  People were really supportive of the outfit and I started to have fun with the whole thing.  That or I was just drinking more.  

When I introduced myself the the manager, he informed me that there was actually a dance/costume contest.  Oh, it was on.  I found two male guests who had worn their own lederhosen, the only two other people in costume.  One was a man in his thirties with unwashed hair, piercings, and a charming German/ New Jersey accent.  The other was a spitfire in his seventies.  Both men took very well to me telling them that they might as well not even compete because I was going to school them in the competition.  Neither knew that there was a competition, but after enough berating, rose to the challenge, the old man asking, "ok, so when are you going to change into your costume."  and the younger man doing taunting German dances in my general direction.  

The Break-Through

As I was passing by the live band, the 72-year-old saxophone player stopped me and started feeling the arm of my sweater.  He asked me with a heavy accent,  "What type of wool is this?"

"Oh!  I don't know!  I just got it today.  Here, look at the tag."  

As I unhooked my sweater and arched my back forward to get to the tag, the accordion player and guitarist came to look too.  As the saxophonist felt my sweater more and more fully, he said, "I can tell that this is camel hair.  Yes, definitely.  I know for sure."

"Really?  Oh, wow.  It says it's made in Norway."

"Yes, I recognize it by the two humps in it."  He said, looking at my breasts.  

For the rest of the night I was referred to as camel hair.  

The Glory

The rest was right place, right time, right goofy hat.   I happened to be standing near the dance floor, watching couples take there turn, when the saxophone player stepped onto the dance floor and asked for a dance partner.  No one volunteered, and when he turned around and saw me behind him he said, "Camel hair!" and extended arm as an invitation to dance.  We started by hopping, stomping and doing that odd dance where you lift your ankle in and out and slap it.  We then moved onto a dance where you pretend to hit each other in the head and clap.  Germans are so weird.  The whole restaurant was clapping along, beer mugs in the air, laughing with me as I tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do.  I thought we were about to take a bow, when my frisky dance partner said one phrase I understood.

"Bend over."

"What?"

"Bend over."

As I made eye contact with a beautiful and classy woman in her 60's, "I don't think so, Mister."

"Put your hands on the ground."

I looked questioningly at the audience.  Every one was nodding for me to do it and sloshing their glasses in time with the music.  I bent over.  The Austrian grabbed my legs wheelbarrow style, and wrapped them around his waist.  He told me to hang on, and proceeded to smack my bottom rhythmically.  My cap fell off, but otherwise, the whole thing was pretty good.  I was let up, the crowd cheered, I was feeling good, when the man said, "Next time, we do the whole dance."

"I want to do it now."

"Ok, then you must hold on again with your legs, but now you must reach through and smack my bottom at the same time I smack yours."

And I did.  I won a apron with a hot cartoon body of an Austrian barmaid who accidentally forgot her shirt but is just covered by her suspenders, a free dinner for two, and the incredible honor of being 2009 Miss Oktoberfest.   

Sometimes, just when you feel like the biggest loser of all, you turn out to be the winner. 

Everyday Badassing

Lately, I've been a little distraught about not having enough time to push forward in my physical quests to become a badass.  Sure, I've been climbing mountains, driving boats, having run-ins with bears and throwing incredible dinner parties, but I haven't been pushing my limits.  I haven't been mountain biking, rock climbing, paragliding.  Hell, I haven't even been keeping my bathroom clean.  Most of the time I've just been working.  While it is badass to make the moneys and take care of yourself, the simple act is not going to keep the fire fueled in my soul.  I crave adventure.  

But, I also crave a bathroom clean enough to not catch the swine flu from and a room I can walk through with out having to tango through piles of clothing.  I don't mind the tango during the day, but at night it's damn near impossible and I've nearly given myself a concussion.  A very not badass way to go out.  So, I've created a compromise with myself and am taking this day to do some everyday badassing.  I'm going to clean.  

Not badass?  I'm going to clean in my cutest heels and most fetching knickers.  I've heard stories about hikers carrying huge packs for miles and miles, days and days.  When their load seems to be too much for them to carry and they feel like they can't go on, they add a twenty pound rock to their pack and haul it for a few miles.  By the time they unload the rock, their pack seems light.  As an homage to these wild adventures, I'm going to clean in heels because sometimes you have to make something harder to make it easier.  By the time I take the heels off, my calves will be aching but my space will be clean.  It won't be easy but it will be a hell of a lot more fun.  If being able to have fun while doing something you don't want to do and seems initially painful isn't badass then I don't know why God gave us the after workout/extremeness adrenaline rush.   

definition

Who's a badass?  

Someone who tries it.

Someone who goes further than they thought they were comfortable with.

Lot's of people in Jackson want to act like being in being the ultimate (skier, climber, etc) is what makes someone a badass, and that competing for that title is the only way to achieve badassness.  I've talked about my first attempt mountain biking and been scoffed at.  Incredible hair, driving stick shift, and making an incredible sandwich have all be seen as givens, not accomplishments.  Let's take a moment to remember, if you can do it and others can't then you will look like a badass.  

This adventure is about physical challenges, extreme sports, and manning off against nature but it's also about hair that gets free drinks, being able to drive a strangers porche, and sandwiches good enough to create a life long love.  

In conclusion, to all the haters, I would like to say:  Sorry for partying.  And partying in more ways than you even knew were possible.       

Learning to Ride a Bike: This Time For Realsy

I know how to ride a bike.   Or so I thought.  Turns out, I only kinda knew.  If you can balance and pedal, you can ride a bike, scoot about town and maybe even teach a child how to some day.  But if you're really gonna bike, on trails or paths for long distances here's some crap to know:

1)  Gears are your new best friend.

      a) the low numbers are for uphill, high numbers for downhill, and middle for flat.

      b)  save yourself some ickyness and try to change gears at a point where you are pushing the peddles and moving yourself forward.  AKA:  Only make changes while fully engaged.  May apply to other life actions.

      c) the chain loops around the spiky.  If things go all shades of horrible and the chain falls off the round spiky (possibly due to ignoring advice b), put the gears in 1st and put the chain around the littlest round spiky.  Actually, not that hard but you will get dirty.

      BONUS TIP:  Don't wear white.  Biking is surprisingly messy.

2)  Wear sunglasses*

*to be expounded on in inspirational story

That's actually pretty much it for biking.  And now for an INSPIRATIONAL STORY...

To further along my Becoming of a Badass, I've taken up biking, as in, gone on two bike rides.  This has immediate benefits because I haven't biked in the pas, so I'm adding a whole new activity to my roster, automatically giving me huge badass points.  More auto points are gained from the maneuvering of the bike out of a tiny storage space and scraping up my legs, which sucks, but does make it look like I'm into mountain biking.  I get on the bike (this is day two of biking), slouch over the handle bars, a tip from my friends who said my good posture was making me look like a wimpy cruiser.  I'm coasting down big hills, not breaking cause I ain't afraid of speed.  I'm arm signaling my turns cause I love sharing the road.  A not:  One armed biking takes some skill.  Shake off that lapse in balances, slouch over handle bars, and keep on going.  

I've gone about 1/4 a mile when I notice my chain is making bad, clinking, dragging sounds.  I pull over, only catching my toe momentarily as I dismount, and start solving problems.  Hmmm.  Chain.  Rubbing against metal.  Flashback to my youth... Wasn't the chain always around the round poky thing?  Yes!  I put it on the poky thing.  Which is easy!  Swift remount with extra toe lift and I'm off.

Cruising over an unpaved road (elk refugee in Jackson), blow past a man walking his dog and can fully appreciate the speed a bike supplies.  Shifting gears up and down hills, I'm getting cocky and having a great time.  I experiment with weaving around tiny pot holes and even imitated the nine year old I saw yesterday jerking his handle bars up to hop a curb.  Sure, I'm only jumping dents in the read but it's fun.  I'm feeling the flush of enthusiasm that's so present in youth and so much harder to find as we age.

Around mile five, she appears.  Her tiny body is all sinewy muscle and spandex.  Her gait is steady, sure, and well, really f-ing fast.  How can she be running this fast five miles in?  Surely, she came from one of the turn offs.  This has to be her three mile sprint pace over a rushed lunch break.  Maybe her child is in need of medicine at home and her car is broken.  She is headed toward the hospital.  Only those desperate mother endorphins could explain her speed.  I nearly fall off my bike as I search for her behind me, looking to see if she turns off.  She must have cause I can't spot her, and then, suddenly, I see her neon pink body streaking down the road.  She's already so far away I can barely see her.  

I turn around, having come to the end of the path and, now, fear is in my heart.  She's out of eye sight.  Does this mean... Is she running faster then I'm biking?  That seems physically impossible, but I've been out skied by three year olds on leashes and don't doubt anything.  

I'm pumping my hear out for two miles before I catch up to this woman.  I fly past her, not out of a sense of pride, but because I can't stand her getting a good look at how obviously overheated and sweaty I am.  Just as my confidence is about to plummet to the pathetic depths of self pity, and while my mind is repeating, How slow of a biker do you have to be to almost be out run?  Just then, God sends a mercenary angel.  Or a kamikaze angel rather in the body of a big juicy bug, that hits my forehead and splatters.  

Now, I don't know the exact mathematic equation, although I imagine it's something like:  (biker's speed) times (bug's speed) divided by (juiciness of bug), that equates to smashing a bug on your face, but gosh darn it, it's never happened to me jogging.  I must have been going pretty fast.  If I hadn't been wearing sunglasses and the thing hit my eye, I definitely would have required medical assistance.  Just one of the risks us badasses have to take.  I wiped the goo off my forehead and smugly pedaled back home.  I love being extreme.  The risk is always worth the story.  

Becoming a Badass: The Beginning

When starting something new the learning curve can pop up and boink you in the head.  The likelihood of this happening increases greatly if you give into temptation and use someone else’s learning curve.  Let’s say your gym buddy is a natural athlete, who has been competing in triathalons with her family since her daddy removed her training wheels.  This girl’s learning curve is going to batter you unrecognizable in spinning class.  You are you.  The bad news is you have to start with the knowledge, skill, and strength you have.  The incredible and invigorating news is that your potential is limitless. 

 

Lesson:  You’ve got your own learning curve.  Stand by it and be proud of your personal progress.

And now, it’s time for an Inspirational Story.

            I currently live in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, the adopted homeland of extreme athletes.  Out here people don’t ask how your day was, they ask what you did today.  I’ve learned the hard way that the response, I watched three hours of Sex and the City on DVD and cleaned my bathroom is a super lame-o answer.  Being a loser will garner no friends and no party invites.  Sure, we all need chill days to ourselves but make them rare and say that your knee was acting up.  The response people are looking for, and the one that is actually way more fun to truthfully answer is something like, I biked 12 miles, grabbed some food and a beer with friends and then we all went camping.  The people I look up to say stuff like, I biked up the pass (big mountain), went for a jog through the trails up to see the wildflowers, and got back to my car just in time to grab a burrito and see if my kayak was done being repaired. 

            I moved here from LA, where I was active, as in morning jogs, occasional yoga, and vigorous barhopping.  When I got to Jackson, I learned that physically, I had a lot of catching up to do.  Luckily, that was only because there was a lot of fun I as missing out on. 

            Lots of people aren’t active because they don’t think they are coordinated or strong or flexible or in shape.  I spent years using a combination of all these excuses to avoid trying fun activities.  I’d dabble, but I would inevitably be the stupidest looking goof on the court/dance floor/field/etc.  The “I can’t because I’m not…” excuse became my mantra.  Well, me amigos, I’ve traversed the physical challenge mountain and am here to report back what I’ve learned.  You don’t need to be awesome or a natural to start learning!  You just have to keep trying and you become awesome at things!

            And with that we end the preaching.  I believe in leading by example.  So, here are some tales of one girl’s adventures as she…

Becomes a Badass

            My extremeness all started with hiking.  One summer between years at college, I was feeling particularly losery and fat.  Grumpily, sitting around my parent’s new home in Jackson, Wyoming, where I had zero friends, I was swiftly starting to have sub-zero will to live.  As another day of watching marathon America’s Next Top Model came to a close, I sighed, lolled my head back and said to myself, “what are my options?  I can either go for a walk or kill myself.”  A small spark of enthusiasm pushed me toward the walk and my inner cynical bitch agreed, figuring there would always be time after the walk to slit my wrists.  A little way into my walk, fresh oxygen fueling my thoughts, I started to get pissed.  I am not a loser.  I will not go out like this.  Especially in Wyoming!  I will persevere.  I will climb that fucking mountain!  In some towns, the mountain would be a metaphor for kicking butt and overcoming obstacles.  In Jackson, you don’t have to be that creative.  There are big mountains everywhere and paths for hiking up them.  One, in fact, is less than ½ mile from my home (Snowking for any locals) and I was conveniently staring at its grandeur. 

            The next morning, decked out in an ugly T-shirt, yoga pants, sweat bands, barely used hiking boots, and a full body layer of prayer, I headed up the mountain.  My outfit was stupid.  A 75-year-old man with a walking stick passed me.  Children passed me.  Tiny four-pound dogs that had to take 22 steps to equal one of mine passed me.  About halfway up, red faced, drenched in sweat, wheezing, I turned around.  The next day I tried it again.  I figured, hell, I’m in Wyoming.  Who cares what these people think about my salt dripping, seemingly asthmatic, chubby butt.  It might take some time, but I would climb the mountain.  And I did.  Still do.  Only now, I do it in tiny athletic shorts and a sports bra.  As I jog down, I say, “You’re almost there.  Hang in there!”  to the poor, sweaty saps who look close to flinging themselves off the side of the mountain. 

            Just remember, we all have to start at the bottom of the mountain, but we all have the potential to climb it.