I acknowledge that stress is there
in much the way you would acknowledge
a Grizzly bear in your campsite.
You can see that the bear is rummaging through your cooler
and you have made terrified,
white-eyeballed eye contact with the bear.
So you know it knows you know it's there.
And none of this means that you go over to the bear with a rolled up newspaper
to smack it on the snout and rip your weekend's supply of Doritos out of it's claws.
No.
While the Grizzly is snorting the last of your Aunt Jemima's Buttermilk Pancakes Mix,
like a junkie in an interstate bathroom stall,
you hunker down in your sleeping bag.
And pray that he doesn't detect the Snickers
you have stashed in your pillowcase.
Up until now this explains perfectly how I would normally deal with stress in my life. As it turns out there is probably a better way. Is definitely a better way. I mean, it's just that after a week spent packing and pacing and wishing the worst kinds of genital rash on our mortgage providers who just wouldn't answer the phone, the innocent cardboard box I reduced to shreds with a snowshoe really shouldn't look so startled.
As I stood, panting and shaken, over my vanquished toe-stubber I had an epiphany. I highly recommend them, and you should have one yourself sometime. My epiphany was this: I should probably let out the stress and anger and frustration a little more often than once a decade. It's certainly healthier from the perspective of packing material.
So.
On order: One heavy bag and one set of ladies boxing gloves, size medium. Husband may have a new plane, garage, yard, dog, province, trail system, parachute, and drop zone, but I plan to have a right hook that can crack lumber by next Christmas.
