A crack on the head is what you get for asking ...

I took a vacation. From everything that has been weighing on me. My two-in-one job, my other little job, my family, my pets, my town. I flew to Seattle and tried to relax.

Do you see the problem already?

Yeah, I tried. I tried to relax. I have to try now because I have recently forgotten how to relax without trying. And I have also forgotten how to be happy without restrictions.

Like I can feel sorta happy, BUT. But something. Like, but I'm drunk. Or, but I'm just vegging out watching the Wire. Or, but I was sleeping. Never, I'm experiencing total, unadulterated bliss.

So I tried to relax and feel bliss and I failed. But I still had fun. We saw the sights. (In Russian, the word for "to see the sights" sounds a little like dostapreemachatelnosty. It's a great word - so much sturm und drang for such a frivolous verb.) We ate "northwestern fare" and hiked in a ferny, mossy wood. We listened to grunge - if only because the radio stations there suck as much as they do in Austin and 15-year-old grunge is still better than most of the crap played on shitty radio nowadays. We waited for the bus next to the dilapitated old building where Nirvana recorded Bleach and took our picture on the Freemont troll. We saw fish tossed. We did the thing. And it was good.

But we had to come back.

Back to the job(s), the family, the town, and the realization that for me, at least, the ennui has little to do with being overworked and underlaid. It is something inside of me. And I know what it takes for me to be happy again, or at least occasionally so, and I have to take the reins and drive those doggies, rawhide.

I was so looking forward to a few days to contemplate that shit when I returned. A few days to relax, write, exercise, not worry, not work. And then I went and did a stupid thing.

I went tubing, which, in and of itself, is not a stupid thing. It can be an immensely dense thing, if you are drunk, which I wasn't. Or if you forget to apply sunscreen. Which I didn't. I did everything right. I forked over a few dolla's to the local Lion's Club and sat my ass down in a cool river for 40 minutes of mindless relaxation (as opposed to Sivasana, which is supposed to be mindful relaxation). My husband, my sister and I comprised the scant flotilla. We splashed each other (or rather, they splashed and I did not deign to retaliate for I find it distastefully childish) and floated and mused. I closed my eyes and let the eerie, calm motion occur without my navigatory intention. I opened my eyes and leaned my head back to joy in the shimmer of light between leaf-cover. I horrored at the site of a day-dwelling raccoon (rabid?) who swam across the water for cover from 3 circling hawks.

And I started to relax.

It was Wednesday. I knew I had that day and a full Thursday and Friday to revel in my freedom. (Saturday and Sunday didn't count, because a) I had to do some work for the little side-job and b) because I have those days "off" when I work at the real two-in-one job, too.)
Those days seemed like they would be long.

And then I decided to float over the rapid. Not the rapids, for that would imply there were many.

The one rapid. The lone rapid. It beckoned. I saw children floating over it unaccompanied by tubes. I saw my husband and sister eschewing the rapid for safer, calmer waters. I remembered times past, when I felt the brief danger, the quick fear, and the rush of conquering it as I sailed over the drop and over the eddy.

But not that day. No. This is what happened instead:

I had no actual fear. I saw the outcome and it was simple fun. I encouraged my tube in the direction of the rapid, for the waters around it were retarding my progress with tenaciously lax and lazy entropy. I approached and waited, internally impatient at the teenagers who cut in front of me. And then it was my turn.

In one/two seconds I went from a thawing 30-something who has finally achieved relaxation to a flailing, ass-over-tea-kettle nearly-drowning nellie.

I sailed over the crest of the rapid effortlessly and without tremor. But the eddy. Oh, the eddy. It exacted quick and deft revenge. It sucked my tube from under me and flipped me over 360 degrees. At 180, the back of my head thwacked against a lurking rock and send the fear of God through me. I actually had the thought, "is this how I'm going to die?" Followed by, "fuck, fuck, fuck. Where is the air? Have I passed out?" Two struggling seconds and then the air, the sun, discombobulated exuberance fueled by my fair-share of adrenaline.

A nice little boy noticed my plight and went after my tube. All I could think of to say to him was "I hit my head hard." He nodded.

I looked for Clint. I still felt like I was in danger until I could get my body next to his. When our eyes met across the river, I motioned to him that I'd hit my head. He made an empathetic face and then I shakily navigated the slippery rocks until I found a launching point well away from the now frightening rapid so that I could paddle across to safety.

48 plus hours later, and I've had a CT scan (no results yet) but no signs of real damage/concussion. No double-vision, no vomiting. I should thank my lucky stars. And yet. I know it was a threat from Geezus. Relax? You? That's not what I have in store for you, biatch. Just you wait and see.