Posing As Normal© The Humor of Mary Tompsett

Denial: My Drug of Choice ........The room spun like a carnival ride while I sprawled on the floor in the grip of vertigo. An inner ear infection? A drop in blood pressure? Nope. I clutched the new Patagonia summer sportswear catalog and stole another glance at the cover. Gasp! I was again in the photographer’s shoes, hanging backwards and upside down on a mountain to snap a candid shot of the climber below. Yow, what a rush! ........That photographer used to be me! Okay, I’m lying. I like to think that used to be me. I’ve been athletic most of my life but, unlike the folks in the catalog photos, I stopped shy of cruising a kayak over a 200-foot waterfall or clinging to an overhang like a ponytailed spider in a tank top. Now my “risky” sports consist of shlepping my beagle to the dog run or (hold the applause) riding my bike to work. But guess what? When I ride “no hands” — always past teenage boys — the dorky rear baskets on my ten-speed become invisible! Denial, my greatest asset. ........By golly, that catalog set up a craving for adventure. However, unlike the Patagonians, I didn’t want to actually trek the snake-infested jungles in Brazil. I wanted to dress like I did. ........Before squandering next month’s mortgage payment on anything from this elite catalog, I dug out my old cycling shorts from a 1985 bike trip. Two decades of neglect can reduce a leather seat pad to the consistency of crumbled bacon. But, you knew that. On to Plan B. I popped a couple of Dramamines for motion sickness and braved a tour through the catalog, imagining myself among the athletes in pricey duds having the time of our lives. Thank God for the drool-repellent paper. ........What to buy…ah, there it was! A pair of organic hemp shorts with “seamless seat articulation, UPF protection, superb airflow and wicking, and guaranteed against granite snags.” Sounded good, but hey, sometimes I get paper cuts. How about fabric treated with, maybe, dried platelets? You know, to speed up blood coagulation. Heck, that cost extra. ........The service rep on the phone mentioned the shorts would withstand “nasty chimneys.” Ignorant of geological terms, I snorted in derision and replied that serious athletes like myself don’t smoke. She then described the product’s “board-straddling ease,” and I promptly informed her in a haughty Lily Tomlin impersonation that I wasn’t an idiot. Ironing boards are way too flimsy for stunts. ........The shorts arrived in time for my solo expedition to the cliff caves of New Guinea. Just kidding, I’ve been there twice already. Hmm, what to climb…my bedroom needed painting… Yes! Climb a ladder! I pulled on the shorts and stuffed the pockets with paintbrushes, a can of Ensure, bifocals, extra hearing aid batteries, bandaids, and the phone number of my chiropractor. I grabbed my special painting shower cap and goggles, ready to break base camp for the climb. ........I painted my way across the ceiling and walls, leaping nimbly from ladder to dresser top, balancing on my tarp-covered bed, and clinging with curled toes and fingertips to the window sills. Finished, I glanced down. Oopsidoodle! Was that PAINT on my shorts?? ........My stupidity unleashed a familiar inner voice, and it wasn’t kind. No, my inner voice usually sounds like it belongs to a tyrannical, brick of a woman wearing an ill-fitting suit of boiled wool and a pair of men’s shoes. She skulks in the recesses of my psyche, emerging every four years to free-lance as a sour Olympic gymnastics judge. I could see her lips – in dire need of depilatory crème – pursing in disapproval. “Ach, I mark you six demerits for being much sloppy! Next time better is old sweatpants to wear. Foolish girl, you think mit der fancy shorts und shower cap a mountain climber you are?? ........That night I dreamed I hung from a Himalayan peak, suspended in an alpine sling during a howling storm. All night my harness twisted in the wind while the weight of a second climber pulled on me from below. It was so real! ........I woke up to find myself dangling from the ceiling light fixture in a tangle of dog leashes and pantyhose. Below me, swinging from the electrical cord tied around my waist, was the “second climber” – my vacuum cleaner!?! Of course, I was late for work. It takes longer than you think to gnaw through leather leashes. ........The shorts remain paint-spattered but, mercy me, wearing them makes me instantly self-confident, fearless, tough. (Sheesh! Where were they during my years of therapy?) Plus, I have plans to reroof my house — a really big climb ahead. ........To paraphrase the credit card commercial: Outrageously priced, ruined shorts, $225. Denial, priceless.