Another glimpse into my time in Russia

The writing of my story about my time in Russia is still a work in progress.  It's been slow going as I've taken on other projects and started college classes, but I write when I can.  Here is another installment.  They are posted in no particular order.  In this segment, my friend and I have just arrived in St. Petersburg from Moscow.  It is our first day in the city.

“As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind.  To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again.  To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives.” – Henry David Thoreau

It’s early afternoon when we arrive at Moskovsky Rail Station in St. Petersburg.

Based on a design by architect Konstantin Thon and built in the late 1840’s, Moskovsky station was originally called Nicholaevsky after Nicholas I as he was the reigning monarch at that time.  It was not given its present name until 1930. 

Since both stations were designed by Thon, Moskovsky station physically mirrors its counterpart in Moscow, but there are subtle differences in the atmosphere.  People bustle about in the same way and it’s no less crowded, but their energy is different.  It is brighter, calmer, and more congenial than that at Leningradsky railway station.

St. Petersburg has always been my end destination.  It is here where I have wanted to be for the past six months, so maybe it is only my energy that is in contrast.  Maybe St. Petersburg is like Moscow, tired and indifferent, and everything remains the same.  Perhaps it only looks different to me because I am seeing it through a pair of cliché rose-colored glasses. 

Christy doesn’t realize how much of an impact the simple act of disembarking the train has on me.  I have told her very little about my internal struggles.  She knows, of course, about my separation from my husband and the ensuing depression, but not the depth of it or of the self-deprecating way of thinking that has followed.  I have downplayed my reasons for this trip, told her I simply needed a breather and some space to get my head on straight. 

Transitioning from having a cop’s mentality to that of a civilian has been difficult.  I am in a constant state of observation and situational awareness.  I’m always watching and profiling every person I see.  Always playing the “what-if” game in my mind.  What if the man in front of me pulls out a gun?  What if the bank gets robbed while I’m standing in line?  What if? What if?  A million scenarios run through my brain so I can be prepared at any given moment.  Traits that helped me be a good Deputy, helped keep me and my partners safe, but a way of thinking that has taken a toll on my psyche. 

That mind play didn’t simply stop when my uniform came off.  It’s ingrained in me and I hate it.  People who don’t work in law-enforcement don’t get it, don’t understand how it messes with your mind.  However, after spending a good portion of her adult life in law-enforcement, Christy understands.  She doesn’t ask many questions and allows me the time and space I need to get myself back to a good place again.

My first step off the train is the beginning to the end of my transformation, or so I think at the time.  There is much more to my journey that extends well beyond St. Petersburg, but I don’t realize it just yet.  It is in this beautiful city where I feel the biggest phase of my change will occur.  Already it is happening.  I am content and that in and of itself is huge.

In our itinerary packet, we received strict instructions to wait on the train platform for our greeter, so we wait.  I am looking for a man, someone young like the other two guides who assisted us in Moscow, but Mira is definitely neither.  She is perhaps in her early 40’s, incredibly beautiful, with dark hair and eyes.  Standing next to her, I feel fat and ordinary, but she is friendly and immediately makes us feel at ease. 

During the 20-minute drive to our hotel, conversation with her is easy.  She asks about our time in Moscow, what we liked best, and like our previous guides, gives us a brief history lesson of the city.  

My impression of St. Petersburg is it is very clean.  Beautiful is what I think.  It is the opposite of Moscow, however in its vibrancy.  I felt it at the train station, but now I am seeing it as we drive to our hotel.  There are kids playing in a park, a couple strolling along the street with their dog, two teenagers sitting on a park bench acting like young lovers do.  I see vitality.  I see life.

I was born and raised in San Diego, California.  It is where I have always lived, where my family lives, yet there is a disconnect between me and the city.  It is home, but it doesn’t feel like home.  It doesn’t give me comfort.  All my memories are there, but I only associate the city with the bad ones because as of late, that’s all there's been. 

Less than an hour after arriving in St. Petersburg, however, I already feel a connection to this foreign city.  I know I am blinded by my emotions and I am only seeing what I want to see, but it feels authentic.  It’s cathartic, and I hate using that overused word, but it is an accurate description to what is happening to me.

Our hotel is up ahead, but the roads surrounding it are blocked off.  Our driver pulls over and speaks with someone standing at the blockade.  I listen to their conversation, but can understand none of it, although I get the impression our driver is trying to convince the man to let us through.  

Mira explains the roads are closed for security because there is a group of foreign dignitaries staying at our hotel.  We will have to walk the rest of the way.  Our driver dumps us off about a block from our hotel and wishes us luck as Mira leads us to the hotel.   

The Angleterre Hotel opened in 1991 and was built to replicate the original hotel, Napoleon’s, that stood on the property in 1840.  However, when it opened in 1991, it was nameless, becoming part of the neighboring Hotel Astoria instead.  With a change of management in 1999, the hotel’s name was restored to Angleterre Hotel.  Although it is still connected to the Astoria, the 4-star Angleterre is now its own entity and known mostly for being the place where famous Russian poet, Sergei Yesenin, hanged himself in 1925. 

Our room is not as spacious as the one at Hotel Savoy in Moscow, but our view is better as we actually have a view this time.  From our room in Moscow, we looked out upon another building and its roof with crisscrossing cables and wires. 

View from our hotel window

Once, while Christy and I were getting ready to go out, we watched a young 20-something year old man and woman climb out a window of one building and onto the roof of another.  The woman promptly dropped her pants, squatted, and took a pee.  Our window and drapes were open and we made noise so they would know we were there, but apparently the woman had to go the bathroom really bad as she didn’t seem to care that we could see her. 

No chance of seeing anyone peeing from our window at the Angleterre, unless they do it on the street below.  Our windows open wide with a small sitting area where I can look upon St. Isaac’s Cathedral and a tree covered park.  The row of parking spots along the street is full of identical black SUVs, which will eventually carry away the group which has caused the road closures. 

It is now 4pm and I’m famished! 

Petrov-Vodkin on Admiralteyskiy Avenue is a quick 5-minute walk from our hotel.  The restaurant isn’t crowded and we easily get a table.  Our waiter speaks English, but not very well, although it is much better than my Russian.  I pull out my cellphone to use my translation app to help communicate with him, however, when I access it, the last word I translated pops up: шлюха (shluha), which means whore.  

The waiter makes a sound of surprise and I immediately cover my phone.  I am beyond embarrassed! 

After I apologize profusely and recover from my little faux pas, we follow him to a case full of deliciously looking tapas.  I’m seeing with my hungry tummy and want to eat everything, but I order just one, a beet-herring tapa.  And then we splurge on a caviar tasting plate.  Black, yellow, and red caviar along with bread, onions, chives, and sour cream.  Black is the more expensive caviar, but I prefer red. 

For dinner, I order a sterlett filet with a poached egg over smoked potato puree surrounded by (surprise!) red caviar.  Of course it is good, but my only complaint is there is not enough of it!  After dinner, we detour through the park near our hotel.  It is chilly and I am tired, but feeling good.  

St. Petersburg is already working her magic. 

St. Isaac's Cathedral at night

A glimpse into my time in Russia

In September 2019, my friend and I spent 10 days in Russia.   It all started with a road trip from San Diego to Denver to meet my friend, an International flight, and then another road trip from Denver to home.  It was the greatest trip of my life!  However, I am doing more than just writing a little blog about it.  I'm writing about my entire journey, from why I chose Russia, to personal observations, to self discovery, plus adding a few travel tidbits and humor along the way.   I learned a lot about myself during this trip which lasted 22 days, so it's taking some time reading through my notes and looking at pictures to refresh my memory.  I'm already 18,000 words in and I'm not even half way done!   

But here is a very quick glimpse into my time in Russia.  Enjoy.

A leisure day!  But it is a cold one.

We emerge into a chilly and windy 49-degree Moscow and I pull tight the scarf I’ve worn nearly every day since my arrival.  I love scarves, but was never one to wear them, at least until now.  I wear it now for warmth, but I also like the touch of femininity it brings to my normally frumpy wardrobe.  It gives me a sense of style.

Much to the chagrin of my ex-husband, I’ve never been one for fashion, but I’ve been more put together as a woman during these last few days in Russia than I’ve been in my entire life.  And that includes wearing makeup!

My better state of mind, my being thousands of miles from home, my improving fashion sense, all lends itself to the successful start of my transformation.  I am finally recognizing my capabilities and strengths.  I’m sensing my sexuality, realizing my potential as a woman.  For once I’m embracing my femininity, instead of being self-conscious of it. 

Somewhere, sometime, over the course of my career, I forgot how to be a woman.  Sexy heels were replaced by work boots and tennis shoes; slender slacks replaced by wool uniform pants and baggy jeans; chic blouses replaced by starched uniform shirts and cotton t-shirts.  A sweet smile replaced by a scowl; gentle words replaced by vulgarity. 

My mom once told me I walked like a cop.  Head up, off kilter a bit to protect my gun side, left arm swinging ready to defend, right arm against my holster ready for confrontation.  A coworker once told me I lead with my chin (and not my boobs).  Confidence as a cop.  Insecurity as a woman.

I’ve never walked like a Victoria’s Secret model, never learned the proper hip-thrust-swivel thing to attract a man’s attention.  (Side note: When I was buying clothes for this trip, I tried on a pair of strappy high heels.  Sexy as all get out, but I nearly broke an ankle when I tried to walk in them.  Perfect if my feet never touched the ground, but not practical for a walking tour of Russia). 

As I’ve aged, my posture has worsened.  When I’m tired, I find myself leaning forward, stooped at the shoulders, head and eyes down.  My chiropractor straightens me up each month, but sometimes it hurts to walk ergonomically correct.  Too many years wearing a heavy gun belt pulling at my joints.  Sometimes I’m just too lazy to try. 

Maybe it’s because I’m wearing a scarf, but I feel different today.  Hips wiggling a bit as I walk, chin tilted slightly down, trying instead to lead with my perky boobs, a teasing smile at the corner of my lips…yet no one makes eye contact with me and those that do, quickly look away.

I check my reflection in a window.  I’m conservatively dressed in dark jeans, a black, waist-length Calvin Klein raincoat borrowed from Christy, and a white scarf.  My hair is a bit windblown, but not too crazy, and my makeup’s still intact despite the wet weather.   I think I look cute.  Christy agrees, but if no one initiates eye contact to be followed up by a flirty smile and conversation, how will I ever meet Husband #3?

Somewhat disappointed that no one has accosted me during our walk across town, Christy and I arrive at Lenin’s Mausoleum.  Other than a nice hotel, Christy’s only other request was to see the mausoleum.  It isn’t open yet, but the line is growing so we fall in with the others to wait.  A group of Chinese tourists joins the line directly behind us, completely unaware of where their personal space ends and mine begins.   

The body of Russian revolutionary and politician Vladimir Lenin has been on display for public viewing since his death in 1924.  Before we can enter the mausoleum, we must pass through a metal detector while guards check our purses.  Security is tight.  We’re waved through and firmly reminded to show respect while inside the mausoleum. 

Photography is strictly prohibited, but even if it was allowed, I’m not sure I’d want to take pictures.  I’ve seen dead bodies before, even attempted CPR on one, but it seems disturbing to me that this is a tourist attraction.  It’s not a marble headstone or statue honoring Lenin, but his actual dead body in a glass case!

The day is bright, but inside it is dark, except for a small light positioned above the case in which Lenin rests.  Christy’s transition lenses on her glasses have yet to adjust to the low light, so she is basically blind, even more so if she were to take them off.  I take her arm and guide her the best I can.  I am blind too.  My eyes haven’t adjusted yet either.  We stumble along the corridor trying to not to bump into anything. 

I am expecting the hall to lead into another room where the body is displayed, but it passes directly by the tomb.  When my eyes finally adjust, I see that Lenin’s body is right there!  A guard reprimands us with a curt “ssshh” and another yells at Christy for having her hand in her pocket.  There is no stopping to gawk and we are already halfway past the body.  I glimpse Lenin in a suit.  His face is waxy and weird looking.  Thank God his eyes are closed and then just like that we are back outside in the bright sunlight.  

What just happened? 

I ask Christy if she was able to see Lenin and she says, “barely.”  For a moment we think of getting back in line, but it has tripled in length so instead we move on visiting the graves of others buried at the Kremlin, like Josef Stalin and Leonid Brezhnev.  

Thankfully, those sites are marked with busts of the deceased, and not with embalmed bodies.

Only time will tell if I can change

It's been five months since I've been on my own.

I've looked back more than I've looked forward, but at least I've remained in the present even if I've been immobile.  I'm still griped by emotion and sometimes cry at night as I lie alone in bed thinking about what was and what will no longer be.  I know I cannot go back.  I don't want to go back, but moving forward is difficult and terrifying.  I'm not ready yet, but I so desperately want to be.

Time.  It is all about time and only time will tell.  But how much time do I need before I can take a step out from under this proverbial rain cloud?  Depression often holds me in its strangling embrace and I am unable to breath, but I don't want help.  Admitting I need it is admitting I am a failure.  It shows that I am weak.  It is embarrassing.  I don't want medication, I don't want advice. I know what I need to do, but I simply cannot find the energy to do it.

I sometimes make a conscious effort to be miserable, because it's all I've known since that heartbreaking conversation eight months ago.  It's easier to remain unhappy, because it's what's familiar.  I cling to it even though I know it's unhealthy, but sometimes I think it's better than facing a scary world full of unknowns.

It is my comfort zone.

I don't take risks and I can't do change very well, but everything has changed.  I've been thrown into the deep end and I don't know how to swim.  I flail about, my heart pounding so hard in my chest it hurts.  I am sinking.  I try to remain calm, but inside I am reeling.  I can't breath.  And that is how I react to change.

More and more of late, my anxieties are getting the best of me, but I hide it well.  I am alone so no one notices that I've worn the same shirt for the past three days.   I sleep all day and watch NCIS reruns all night and into the early morning hours.  Sometimes I forget to brush my teeth.  I post something witty on Facebook and everyone thinks I'm fine, but I'm not.

Yes, I could be happy, but maybe I won't.

I'm afraid to try because what if I invest everything of myself into being happy and all my dreams come true?  Life would be good, but then the pessimist in me reminds me that I could lose everything again and find myself in the exact same spot I was before.  The same wretched place I am now.

I'd have to start all over again, but my losses would be greater because I had for a brief moment experienced something far better.  So why should I make the effort when I can keep everything status quo?  It makes sense in my crazy mind, but absolutely no sense when I put it into written words.

Some say it's better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all, but I wonder if they'd ever had to experience the heartbreak of losing someone who was your everything?  I'd rather pull my blanket over my head than seize the day and show the world, show myself, that I am in charge.

I know no one is responsible for my happiness except for me, but for today, tomorrow, and perhaps next week, it will be easier to go back to bed than to rise up and face my challenges.

I look around at my tiny apartment, at the things that I now have that we once shared and the memories are heavy.  I wish it would all go away.  I close my eyes and hope that when I open them again I will be a million miles away, but nothing changes and I wonder if that is for the best.

Albert Einstein is credited with saying, "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results."  That is me.  Same shit, different day.  I need a new approach, because what little I've done isn't working.  I need to start thinking differently, be more positive, and be more proactive to my wellbeing.  I am the only one that can make the change I seriously need to get into a better state of mind.

Somewhere inside of me I have what it takes, I know I do, but it is buried deep.  I need to find the energy and courage to find myself again, but only time will tell.  However, in the meantime, I can go brush my teeth and smile at myself in the mirror because it's been awhile since I've seen my smile.

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Lately, I’ve been looking over my shoulder and into my past.  Peering into the depths of time, trying to glimpse what’s shrouded in shadow; trying to catch what I might have overlooked; trying to find the exact moment.  

For some, it is definitive.  A second, a minute, or even an entire hour that they are able to grasp on to and study and know that that was the moment for them.  

For others, like me, there is nothing specific.  Nothing concrete to hold in my hands and reflect upon.  Nothing to tell me that that was the exact moment in my life when things started falling apart.  

One day I was plodding along, wrapped comfortably in my deliberate unawareness, when suddenly everything I’d known for the last 15 years was gone. I was free-falling, spiraling headfirst into the abyss of the unknown.  

There were no alarm bells blaring or flashing lights to warn me of the heavy-hearted end to the path I walked.  It simply vanished beneath me and my world flipped upside down.  What once seemed right was no longer.  Ignorant bliss was replaced with anger, confusion, relief, despair and an acute, overwhelming sadness.

But that is not completely accurate in its entirety.  

The feelings are real and the truths hurt deeply, as I knew they always would, but our path together had been unstable for quite some time.  

There were lots of moments I could have paid attention to.  Moments I attributed to and moments that would have surely altered my course had I confronted them, but fear kept me frozen.  I rationalized and made excuses and now we both suffer for our apathy.

My fear of change and my fear of the unknown kept me walking that same path even when I knew we were veering off course, both morally and spiritually. I felt his dishonesty. I heard it for what it was, even as I spoke.  Neither can be blameless, we are only imperfect.  

And then we try to move on, down separate roads, in separate directions, leaving the past behind us as only we can remember it.

Yet here I sit.

I'm thinking about what was and what will be with eyes wet with tears.  I'm yearning to take that first step that will send me towards a new horizon, but as before, I am paralyzed by emotion.

Even though I know what was is unhealthy, it is familiar and gives me a sense of comfort. I am in limbo between wanting to go back and wanting to go forward.

I need to say goodbye to before and embrace what will be, but yet, here I sit, idle and depressed,  as another potential life changing moment passes me by.

Retirement is NOW

RETIREMENT

noun

1.

the act of retiring, withdrawing, or leaving; the state of being retired.

I’d been thinking about retirement for what seemed like the entirety of my 26-1/2 year career and in a blink of an eye it was here, six months earlier than anticipated*.  In a previous blog post I wrote about my fears of retiring - the financial distress, the continuing responsibility, and of dying.    

1991 - My first year

Those fears were still ever present right up until I made the decision to retire, but a funny thing happened when I actually picked a date for it to be official: I became happy.  

With the dawning of each new day, I awoke with a smile and with that I found myself eager to go to work, because it meant I was one day closer to leaving the job I’d hated for so long.  

I was not accustomed to having those feelings which were directly associated with work.  In the past, with work came head and stomach aches, insomnia, anger, and depression. Not joy.

These new emotions felt very weird and crazy, but so good that I literally could not stop smiling.  My coworkers even noticed and had plenty of comments because they’d rarely, if ever, saw me smile.  

Being a stay-at-home mom to Delphine

The crippling emotions I thought I would feel, didn’t happen. Instead, the fear that had griped me for so long was replaced with a steady and growing euphoria. 

It was as if a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders.  Years of stress disappearing in just a matter of minutes.  

Yes, I was still concerned about our finances, but now I had a definitive income amount and that, coupled with my husband’s income, was still pretty darn good.  

Knowing we would be financially secure allowed me the freedom to decide when - or if - I needed to find another job, but for the immediate future I plan on being a stay-at-home mom to our dog. 

All the things I’d been wanting to do, but never seemed to have the time for because my life was always about work or because I was too depressed to do anything, now were attainable.  My options were limitless and that was so exciting.  

The list of things I wanted to do (write, sew, hike, fish, etc.) was getting very long.  The only thing that could hold me back now was my own laziness.  I had no other excuses.

2018 - My last year

I am currently on Day 13 of my retirement and it still doesn’t feel real.  I keep thinking come Monday morning, I’ll have to be back at that job I’ve had such a never ending love/hate relationship with, but when Monday comes around, my alarm clock never goes off.  

I am on a permanent vacation and that thought alone makes me smile.  I feel very fortunate that I’ve been able to retire and I am only 49 years old.  Not many people have that opportunity and I will certainly take advantage of every second of my days.

Dying, well, that thought still causes me anxiety.  A friend, who had been retired for maybe a year, recently passed away from a heart attack and that gives me pause.  However, I am learning to give my final ending only a fleeting thought instead of letting it consume me like in the past.  

Retired and HAPPY

I can eat healthy and exercise or wrap myself in bubble wrap and stay forever in the house, but when it’s my time to go, it’s my time to go and I can’t change that.  I’m just hoping that whenever that time comes, I’ll have checked off a few things from my bucket list and hopefully go out with that smile that has yet to leave my face.

* My retirement came six months earlier than anticipated, because when I called our Personnel division and told the guy I was thinking about retiring on March 29th, he took it as I was retiring and sent out an email notifying my supervisors.  I hadn’t told anyone of what I was thinking, except my husband,  so when I came back from lunch, everyone knew because of the email and some of my coworkers can’t keep a secret to save their lives.  

So, in less than an hour, I went from just thinking about retiring and wondering what my first step should be to officially declaring my last day of work.  However, the more I kept thinking about retirement, the happier I became so I knew regardless of who spilled the beans, retirement was the right decision.

I want to be a Mountain Man

The life of a Mountain Man fascinates me.

I recently went to the Manzanita High Mountain Rendezvous in Lake Morena Village, California.  Lake Morena is about an hour east from downtown San Diego on Interstate 8.

I’ve been to several mountain man and living history events over the years.  I think my first rendezvous was in 2007 in Santa Ysabel, CA.  I like the Manzanita Rendezvous because it’s close to home, but there are several throughout San Diego County that I go to.  I always know it’s time for the Manzanita Rendezvous, because I see the red buffalo signs pointing the way to the Northcote Ranch, which is where it’s held.

This year I was especially excited to go, because I brought along my friend, LaRee.  I had several reasons for asking her to go with me.  One, we are both photographers and this was an event brimming with photography opportunities, so I knew she’d like to go.  

Second, I am sometimes uncomfortable approaching strangers and my attempts at idle chit chat come off very awkward, if not a bit creepy.  This isn’t a good thing for a photographer, but LaRee has no problems with striking up conversations with people.  

I figured I’d let her take the lead and then I’d stand behind her and take pictures as she engaged the Mountain Men, but really, I asked her to go because I enjoy her company.  Regardless of my reasonings, we had a good time and met some really nice Mountain Men.

Their lives fascinate me because it looks like fun and I want to be a Mountain Man.  

A mountain man is a trapper and explorer who lives in the wilderness.  That sounds like a fantastic adventure for a girl who has lived her entire life in a big city.  

Being out in nature with an endless horizon, feeling the warmth of the sun on my cheeks and the wind tousling my hair, and then falling asleep to the sounds of real nature and not the sounds from my soundscape machine appeals tremendously to me.  

Plus, I love the stars and enjoy lying outside just gazing into the vastness above.  I imagine their life a peaceful one.  

Hanging out in camp, playing cards, and just being free.  I don’t think I fully realize the struggles Mountain Men faced on a daily basis or the tremendous amount of work that goes into living that kind of lifestyle.  

Mountain Men go camping.  I love camping and the teepees and tents we went inside at the rendezvous looked so cozy I actually wanted to take a nap in one.  My husband and I have gone camping before, but since he always pitches the tent, I would probably have to learn how to put one up.  

Ah, how hard could it be?  Just insert a few tent poles here and there and voila! a tent, but I think I prefer a teepee.  I am currently pricing teepees on Amazon, but something tells me Mountain Men didn’t have the Internet or UPS delivery service for their supplies….

Mountain Men hunt and trap.  I have shot many things, but it has always been with my camera.  I have never been hunting.  I did shoot a rat once with a BB gun.  It was on our back porch.  I think it was already dead, though, or dying, because it just sat there unmoving as I got close to it.  The only thing I've ever trapped was a mouse in a mouse trap and it was gross. I do like to fish, however, and I am not afraid to put my own worm on my fishing hook.  I will even clean any fish I catch!

Mountain Men cook their food over a campfire. The aromatic bouquet of wood smoke wafting through the air and the sizzling of steaks in a cast iron pan sounds wonderful.  Mountain Men probably didn’t have the makings for s’mores, but I would still bring along Hershey chocolate bars and a big bag of Stay Puft marshmallows.  

We’d sit around the campfire telling ghost stories and sipping hot chocolate all night, wrapped in our Snuggie blankets.  I know they didn’t start their fires using Bic lighters, so I’d have to learn how to make fire by banging rocks together or spinning sticks or something.  I've been told fire is an important component for survival.

In my fantasies,  all Mountain Men are strong and muscled, perhaps resembling Fabio in fringed buckskins with feathers and beads in their long, flowing hair and I surmise that during the hot summer months, they wear very little so their skin is beautifully sun kissed.

I imagine life for them is romantic and grandiose.  They are reckless, spirited, and brave!  They are bad boys and make the ladies hearts swoon!  But in reality, I don’t think their life is anything like that.  

How long would I last if I really did try living that kind of life?  A pre-1840s Mountain Man (or woman) kind of life?  

Trapping. Hunting. Just trying to survive day-to-day and not die of starvation or scurvy.  There’s no wi-fi in their tents (if they had tents at all), no Netflix, no microwaves to cook their popcorn, no cars to get them to 7-11 when their supply of Cheetohs ran low, no refrigerator to keep their Coca Cola cold (because who likes warm soda? It sucks!).

In my mind, yeah, I can do it, but realistically how long would it take before I’d miss the comfort of my Sleep Number Mattress set at 55, a warm shower, and a clean pair of underwear and socks?  

I cannot stand to have dirty feet, so clean socks is paramount to my continued survival.  I don’t think Mountain Men even wore socks, let alone had a Kenmore Elite 5.2 cubic foot top load washer with steam treatment to wash their stank clothes!  

I could probably last a week or two, but that’s being optimistic. I have absolutely no wilderness skills, so more likely, I’d be dead before the end of the first day, killed by a grizzly bear or drowned because I can’t swim very well.  Probably die of Facebook withdrawals within a few hours.  

Although the life of a Mountain Man fascinates me,  it’s dirty and rough.  For now I think it's safer for me to remain just another Mountain Man Groupie.  I'll be happier too, knowing I can change into a clean pair of socks whenever I want.

Driving and the skill of observation or lack thereof

I don’t necessarily like driving.  I hate traffic and asshole drivers which seem to make up most of the other drivers on the road.  Things like not using a turn signal, tailgating, merging into 70mph traffic at 50mph and expecting everyone else to get out of their way, and using a cellphone while driving are just a few of the things on my long list of asshole moves that I think make a driver a complete douche.  Since my work commute is at least 45 minutes one way, I encounter a lot of douches.

Most of my drive is spent on the freeway on the outskirts of the city and I go against traffic.  I am not subjected to bumper to bumper, car honking standstills on congested inner city freeways.  

For that I am grateful, because I’d most likely be in prison for some major road rage incident against some jack wagon beeping at me from behind the wheel of a Mini Cooper because the posted speed limit, of which I obey most times, is apparently too slow.  The open road with less traffic allows me to look around at my surroundings and at the other drivers, which is quite interesting at times.

I see people doing a variety of different things in their cars on any given day, yet the one thing that remains constant is that people are not paying attention.  Their stare is straight ahead, even when changing lanes, and they rarely look at the other cars on the road, let alone the drivers behind the wheel.

I suppose, like me, they like to let their mind wander, because once the road opens up, one doesn’t have to pay particular attention to traffic.  A car can simply get in a lane and zoom zoom they’re off with nothing in front of them except for an occasional semi truck, but sometimes looking around can be quite beneficial.  

Being observant while behind the wheel can help you avoid accidents with other asshole drivers and can help you avoid that suicidal deer that twice has tried to jump in front of my car at the last minute. More importantly, being observant can help you identify all the hiding spots along the freeway where the California Highway Patrol officers like to wait in ambush.  

Noticing the absence of observation by my fellow drivers, I decided to conduct an experiment in that one simple, but important, skill that most people lack - observation.  

Everyday for over two weeks I observed my fellow drivers.  To and from work whenever I passed a car, or more likely when a car passed me because according to my husband, I drive like a "grandma,” I attempted to make eye contact. Not a brief glance, but full on prolonged eye contact.

Rarely did the other drivers bother to turn their head in my direction, but when they did, I waved.  Nothing crazy-like, just a quick wag of the fingers and perhaps a head nod to acknowledge them, all the while attempting to maintain direct eye contact because I wanted to see their reactions.  

Out of the hundreds of cars that passed, only two drivers ever made direct eye contact.  Several more glanced in my direction, but our eyes never met, thus my wave went unnoticed.  

The first to make eye contact was an older gentlemen, perhaps in his 70’s, driving a beat up pick up truck with Arizona plates.  I actually passed him as he was driving even slower than me!  As I passed I looked over and we locked eyes.  I waved, smiled, and continued past.

A few miles down the freeway, he passed me, slowing as he came even with my Jeep.  We locked eyes again, he smiled and gave a very enthusiastic wave.  He exited the freeway a few off ramps later and I never saw him again, but I remember him because he responded in kind and had such a great smile.

The second driver I made eye contact with was a younger man driving a U-Haul truck and again, driving way slower than me.  Slow enough to the point he was pissing off other drivers on the freeway.  Nevertheless, as I passed I glanced over.  Our eyes met briefly, but long enough for me to smile and give a quick wave.  

I remember him, because he had the most retarded (I know, not a PC comment, but an accurate description) look on his face with his mouth hanging open and he just stared at me. He didn’t wave, smile, or even nod his head, just stared slack jawed as I passed.  

It was a very weird expression.  Perhaps he was being forced at gunpoint to drive the U-Haul truck by a high ranking member of a drug cartel and the truck was full of heroin? Or maybe he had just killed his wife and was hauling her mutilated body out to dump in the desert?  Or probably he was simply moving and his mind was preoccupied with more pressing matters than the strange woman in the Jeep staring and waving at him.  But whatever the reason for his odd expression, I will never know.

After a week with just about every single driver ignoring me or glancing in my direction but not really seeing what or whom they were looking at, I decided to change the focus of my experiment to the passengers in the passing cars.  Actually, this adjustment came about by accident.  Even though the other drivers had no idea they were partaking in an observational exercise, I was still getting frustrated with their lack of active participation, but it was almost getting into a car accident that caused me to shift my attention to the passengers.

I was attempting a lane change on the freeway and as I began merging into the other lane, I saw a car at the last minute in my blind spot.  I swerved back into my lane and cursed out loud that this idiot thought it safe to drive in another’s blind spot, which is a huge pet peeve of mine.  I glared at them as they passed and it was the woman in the passenger seat with whom I made eye contact.

I would estimate she was in her late 40’s or early 50’s.  Instead of returning my hostile gaze or flipping me the bird because I had almost crashed into them, she smiled.  I was quite taken aback by her response, but her simple gesture of a smile immediately diffused my irritation.  I returned the smile and gave an apologetic wave.  It should be noted, however, that they did not have California plates and I think that was the difference in her giving me a smile versus the middle finger.  

That phase of the experiment didn’t last long, however, as the majority of passengers in the other cars that made eye contact with me were children.  Although they made great eye contact as they passed, they had no other reaction.  They simply stared, often turning around in their seats to continue their unfaltering gaze.  Most times it was I who averted my eyes, otherwise we just stared at one another and after a few seconds it became unnerving as their faces remained passive regardless of whether I waved, smiled or stuck my tongue out at them.  

My experiment has long been over, but I find myself still watching other drivers as they pass me by.  I no longer hope for eye contact, but on the rare occasion when it does happen, I smile and wave, but so far no one has ever been observant enough to notice.