these sunglasses only cost me like five bucks.
I heart C.S. Lewis forever.
I mean that. Really, he blows my mind with his crazy good insight, and also his smashing vocabulary.
Have you read that piece on imagining yourself as a house that God comes to rebuild? Well, you should, because it is FANTASTIC.....did I mention I love C.S. Lewis? So, you imagine yourself as a house, and God comes to rebuild that house and at first you expect and understand the work being done, but after a while it all becomes pretty painful and unpleasant, and you come to realize that the Lord has much more planned for you than you might have supposed. Here I would like to say that I am not much liking my paraphrasing. It sounds lame. C.S. Lewis is probably right now protesting in a very dignified British accent that I am pulverizing his brilliant piece with my inadequate explanation.
So, what, you may ask, does that have to do with Costa Rica?
Well, I'll tell you.
So, day 1. We arrive in Costa Rica. I am in a be-
yootiful country, with oceans the color of the frosting on those
wildberry poptarts (See? I
knew that color could be found in nature!), monkeys (and who doesn't love a monkey?), and eight of the most awesome people on the planet, including my husband to whom I would like to award the gold medal for Most Awesome Husband Ever Ever. So, pretty good set-up.
We clean up, go out for dinner. There's some talk about planning activities. We decide tomorrow will be the national park and the beaches. I am psyched out of my mind. There is talk about snorkeling and mountain biking, but I'm not too concerned. I'm sure I'll be able to finagle my way out of those, no problem.
No such luck. Mob mentality is incredibly powerful, especially when the mob is super friendly and they tell you things like "oh, you'll love snorkeling, no sharks eat your feet at all ever", and "mountain biking is so much fun, I'm sure you won't fall off the mountain and get eaten by a
chupacabra". Also I bet they bought some black market Costa
Rican hypno-dust and sprinkled it on my morning vanilla
cremas.
So, day 2 finds me in a
kayak on the ocean, with Paul. The ocean. OCEAN, OKAY? Ocean.
Man, I am freaked out by the ocean.
Well, we are
kayaking, and I'm enjoying myself. This is actually fun. I don't feel at all concerned that the
kayak could tip and I could become surrounded by great white sharks all very angry because they heard about the one time when I tried a sample of shark at the meat counter at
Albertson's with my mom.
I figure that the snorkeling will happen after we've rowed our
kayaks in to the shore, in some nice, non intimidating shallow tide pool. So, when the guide ropes all our
kayaks together and says "okay, put on your flippers", naturally I think I may have heard wrong.
As I slide on my flippers and quietly begin hyperventilating, I think, nope. Can't do this. No way.
As I heft my feet over the side and jump in I think again, nope. Definitely can't do this. I can't
believe I am doing this.
I hate you, Ocean.
Well, okay, maybe I don't
hate you. You're really beautiful and all, and I love to look at you and wade in you, but the swimming with the deep water with all the
unidentified sea creatures potentially swimming underneath my feet? Not so much a fan, is what I'm saying.
I'm going to be eaten by a shark. I know it. I just know it. Oh, there's Paul. Hey, he doesn't have a life jacket on!!! Great, ocean. I'm going to be eaten by a shark and my husband is going to drown.
The guide, who has up until now been showcasing some teeny cute blue fish, now shouts "Big fish!! Come see big fish!!!"
Uh, what?
Big fish???? How big??? It's a shark. I knew it. I knew I was going to be eaten by a shark, I knew it!
"Big fish!!!"
STOP SAYING THAT!!!!!
Well, I think you get the picture. I survive, but just barely.
So, day 3. Mountain biking.
Now, I have never been mountain biking. What is my reason, you ask, for having never before participated in such a
breathtakingly gorgeous activity so rife with the possibility for fun and discovery?
I hate being dirty. Also I don't like sweat. Also I don't like doing hard things. Why do I have to do hard things??? Haven't I grown enough??? Why can't I just relax?? But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I climb on my bike, and take off. As I crawl along, being passed by the leaf cutter ants on the ground and already feeling considerable discomfort in the general area of the bike seat, I think:
I hate you, mountain biking.
It's five minutes in to the trip. We've just gone over a hill that's probably smaller than the uneven flooring in our apartment, and already I am sniffling into my bike helmet.
Why am I doing this? Who was I kidding?
No way can I do this! I couldn't even jog five blocks to Ellen's to help her pack!! The guide probably hates my guts. Why can't I go faster??? I mean, I don't want to go faster, no way, but why
can't I? Curse my spindly limbs!
I'd include the rest of my inner diatribe, but you get the general self loathing idea.
"Great job," the guide says. "Here, change to this gear, that will make it easier. Doesn't that breeze feel nice?"
I grumble something in return. The breeze actually does feel pretty heavenly, but at present I'm the guest of honor at my pity party, and I really can't be bothered.
Every time a hill comes up, the guide tells me how to pedal, how to shift gears, but really he probably hates me.
He seems pretty patient. By now I've stopped at least five times, and he doesn't look too mad. He's got sunglasses on, though. He keeps telling me I'm doing a great job, like I believe that.
Then, the guide stops.
Great, I think. This is the part where they thin the herd. He's going to take me out.
He picks a flower. "Here, look. The flower used to make Chanel No. 5. They use 12 pounds to make one bottle-here, smell!"
Well, I'll be darned.
Somewhere along the way, as I stop paying so much attention to the angry voices in my head and listen more to the Yoda riding along beside me, I look around.
Hey, that's a pretty mountain. Was that there before? Hey, look!! Pretty flowers!! Where did those come from? Wow, leaf cutter ants!!!
When I finally get to the end, all sweaty and dirty and
tear stained, Paul is there, cheering for me.
There's more, so much more, but for me, right here is where I want to stop. Right here, where I see that I can do hard things. It's not pretty, and I take about fifty times longer than everyone else, but I get there. Thanks, guide. Thanks, mountain. Thanks, friendly mob. Thanks, Costa Rica.
