The Scampering Horse

It's not what it sounds like. I am a fit model for Cabela's. That is also not what it sounds like. I did not get this volunteer position based on my physical fitness. The fit model tries on the clothing and tells the designers how it feels when I wear them. I help assess the fit. Because I have a head, and I can speak English, and my waist is small, but within the range of allowableness, and my hips are perfect. Anyone who tells me my hips are perfect is going to go a long way with me, even if it is based on an industry standard. I don't quibble with perfection. How did I get this dream job? The designers sent out an email, and Ian forwarded it to me and said he thought I had good measurements. He is attentive like that. So, I went in and got measured. I do have good measurements-for size medium (or 8)...from the waist down. My bra measurements are too small (no surprise there), and my arms are too long. I check in at the front, and then I follow my boss who is

I couldn't breath this morning. This has never happened to me before. The lack of breathing thing. Except in water, but that is only because I am not a fish. Nor am I a mermaid. I assume mermaids have some sort of gill concoction that allows them to breath under water, otherwise, how do they give Peter Pan air when they are swimming? Or after I ran a 400m in high school. That is how I know I ran it as hard as I could, and it was to be expected. Back to my baby panic attack, I was trying to eat my bowl of Frosted-flakes (because when I am feeling depressed, I don't worry about eating sugary cereal) and thinking about my day-which got me thinking about my week, and in consequence my life, and I couldn't get enough air. My eyes started watering, because I felt out of control and completely inadequate to finish making the lunches, get my four year old to put on a jacket, get my kids to school on time, and chaperone my daughter's 1st grade field trip. The overwhelming th

My anatomy class smells like text-book desperation, and lavender. The 20-year old in the corner must believe in oils. The professor, so far to the front of the room, asks something regarding antibodies and clumping. Then he is quiet, waiting for response. Nobody else knows. I know. I know the answer. Why do I have to know? Oh yeah, I studied. I hate this part. Not that I am telling a secret, it is just the air forgets to resonate in my voice box. Maybe it has the memory of  a fish. It forgot. My brain grasps the answer from the trenches separating short and long term memory-and timidly flinging my right hand into the air The sign that I know. Lips part and then, like a pillow being fluffed. I whisper "immunoglobulins." Going back to college as a non-traditional student, which is just a nice way of saying you are older than everyone else, can be intimidating. Overcoming self-doubts, fears, and all the other things that kept someone from

I spent Easter weekend in the Salt Lake City area. I am Mormon, so on occasion, I feel called to return to the homeland for various reasons. This time I came to support my cousin, Robert, at his baptism into the Catholic Church.  April is also the time of the semi-annual General Conference Weekend for my church, headquartered in Salt Lake City. I remember coming to the Conference Center for the first time as a teenager and seeing floods of Mormons going to the conference center.  It felt like I was part of something really big while and I was walking among them.  It felt like the religion I belonged to was migrating, and I was part of it.  As an adult, I do not always feel like I am part of the mass migration. I am very grateful for the times I feel truth resonating with in me. This conference, I listened to some of Saturday morning talks. There was something said that was beautiful to me.  Elder L. Tom Perry was speaking of the faith summit on the family. This sentence fel

I've been watching M*A*S*H. on Netflix. For those who have never seen it, it is an old television show about a medical unit in The Korean War. It is also about (mostly) charming married men who find love in the arms of nurses. If your significant other is deployed, I would not recommend watching this show. My husband is not deployed, and he bares a remarkable resemblance to the dashing surgeon known as Hawkeye. Hawkeye was always my favorite. The writers do a good job of making him smart, cynical, and witty. Who wouldn't love him? Every single time the title sequence plays, I think,"Dad's home!" Even when I watch multiple episodes in a row. My dad would come home, put his hard-hat and lunchbox beside the refrigerator in the kitchen, and then sit on his chair eating cheese and salsa (I've already tried it. Gross), and watched MASH. As a girl, I remembered the guy in the dress, the nerdy guy with a teddy bear, Hot Lips, and Hawkeye. All the infidelity we