I think tonight I'll take the long way...

It's Sunday night. Guess how I spent my weekend? At the office. I worked 12 hours yesterday, and 10 hours today. Lame. "Dear Mel, why are you suicidal?" you ask. I'm not. I actually worked those insane hours on purpose, so that I can go to California next week. Just me, my new car, Bristow the iPod, and friends to visit. Why? Because you're only young once and... becuase I can!

One day, I'll be tied down with husband, children, dogs, and various other pets. Right now, I'm tied down with none of the above. Henry, my lovable 8-year-old lab, is still partly my parents' for now. Well, he's my dog but we live with my parents. Hopefully, in the fall, I'll move out and take him with me. At which point, I will have officially begun the tying-down-for-life process. Yippee! I'm all about new stages in life, but I just so happen to be avoiding them until the end of the summer.

Anywho. The cool thing about my work is that our office building is snuggled right up between the University of Oregon campus and the Willamette River. It's a wonderful place, especially when it's not raining. This is because dry ground tenderly echoes the names of my rollerblades, until they find their way out of my trunk. Which, by the way, happens to be where they permanently reside – just in case a percipitation-free day should come along.

Along both sides of the river are wonderfully picturesque paved pathways, ideal for the avid rollerblader.

Just to be clear, I call myself an avid rollerblader because I enjoy rollerblading, not because I particularly thrive on the extreme whatnots that can be done on eight small wheels. I rather dislike excessive amounts of speed, and coincidentally the hills that produce said speed. As a result, I've spent my entire life searching for ideal locales to fulfill my rollerblading needs.

Switzerland was generally not so great. We lived atop a huuuuuuuuge hill, which was surrounded by more huuuuuuuuge hills. However, a 10-minute walk placed you at the Neuchâtel Lake, which was more or less perfect. I loved rollerblading around the lake, but I always felt like an idiot walking down to the lake with my rollerblades in tow. However, as a result of walking down said hills, I am still alive. The painful events that I avoided simply by walking instead of risking my life... Let's just say that, even as a 9, 10, 11, and 16-year-old, I was obviously already extremely intelligent.

Africa was pretty much horrible for rollerblading. We had the Petit-Poteau court and, in later years, the gym but I can only rollerblade in circles for so long. I can only do anything in circles for so long before I crave unbounded freedom. Unfortunately, most of the roads in Africa were made of dirt. Where there was a paved road, it had no sidewalk... and besides, the paved road was surrounded on all sides by dirt roads. Dirt and rollerblades are not friends, this I know. And so, my rollerblades stayed in the closet, along with my rather varied and colorful collection of cheap shoes from the African marketplace.

Oh, wait! How could I forget? Our house in Africa had marble floors. Let me tell you, marble floors are OPTIMAL for rollerblading. That house was wonderful. There was many a rollerblading day spent in that house. Oddly enough, my mother highly encouraged my house-rollerblading ventures, which may give you an insight as to why I yam as carefree, adventurous, and uninhibited as I yam.

So then we moved to Eugene. As of July 3rd, we've been back in America for 4 years. In some ways, it feels like it's been that long; in some ways, it doesn't. But that's an entire 'nother subject. I'm talking about rollerblading here, don't get me off track!

Not too long after moving here, I discovered the glorious afore-mentioned riverside pathway. Long story short, I saved up my money, bought myself some nice rollerblades 2 or 3 years ago, and my life has never been the same since. The pathway has been mucho improved upon since I first began my Eugene Rollerblading Adventures, and it has now become the perfect place for me and my rollerblades to thrive. It is our haven. Our sanctuary. Do you like how I refer to me and my rollerblades as a plural? This is because, when I strap them on my ever-waiting feet, we become one. We become synonymous. What? Who are you talking to – me or my rollerblades? Because we're both listening.

You're probably wondering why I sound like a freak right now.

Well, around 7:30 tonight, I decided to take a break from work and go out on a rollerblading venture. It was the most refreshing thing I've done in a long time. It had been way too long since my wheels had met those particular stretches of pavement, those particular bridges, those particular leaves which ever-so-cunningly tried to make me slip. I even went full speed down "the hill," which in itself is an accomplishment of unequivocal grandeur.

I cleared my head, I recharged my batteries, and now I feel like I can take on the world.

But first, I have to pack for California. Because it's midnight, I'm leaving in the morning, and I still have laundry to do. And I have to get a restful night's sleep, because there will be no one in the car to keep me awake should I begin to nod off from Driver's Fatigue tomorrow.

In short, I should stop rambling and get my stuff done so I can hit the sack. Goodnight, and sweet dreams. May they be filled with rollerblading wonders!!

Cold Schmold

I have officially decided that cold weather is NOT where it's at. But like most things with me, there's a back story that makes this epiphany all the more groundbreaking.

When I was a little kid in good 'ole Fresno, California, my brother and I saw snow once a year. It was wonderful. Right around Christmas every year, we would pile in the car and drive to the mountains for an afternoon of playin' in the snow. We would throw snowballs, we would make snow angels and snow men, but by far my favorite was the discovery of yellow snow. Once I figured out that even I could make yellow snow, it became one of the great highlights of my year. If you know me very well, you probably know that I'm not exaggerating.

When I was 9 years old, we moved to Switzerland for a year and a half to learn French. I probably don't need to tell you about my snowful activites there; after all, it's Switzerland. Swiss Alps, Saint Bernards, yodeling. It was great. I learned how to ski, I learned how to ice skate... I learned how to do most anything you can do with snow and/or ice.

Then we moved to West Africa. Not much snow there, as you can probably imagine. I became acclimated to the heat, and an 85º morning during the rainy season called for a plethora of clothing layers. After almost eight years of that, I somehow yearned for colder weather. Oh, how I missed miles upon miles of whiteness blanketing the landscape. I yearned for igloos and bright pink snow boots. But alas, such things did not exist in our parts.

I made a vow to myself that I would appreciate every minute of cold winter weather once I returned to America. * Note to self: That was stupid and naïve. Never again shall I make such a vow. *

Today is the 4-year anniversary of my family having returned to the States. I still feel unsettled and restless, but I mostly feel that way during the winter. Granted, Eugene isn't the coldest place in the world, but compared to Africa it can get pretty flippen cold. The weather has been warmer the last few weeks, and I'm starting to feel more at home. More comfortable in my skin, because my skin isn't brittle from frozenness.

My problem is that once my core temperature dips below a certain level, it can take weeks – nay – even months, to bring it back up. This results in seemingly endless spells of misery as the pain of the cold kills me slowly from the outside in. If you've spent much time with me, you've probably heard me scream "OWWWWW!!!!" a time or two in reaction to something cold. That's because the feeling of cold is a painful one to me, not in a typical achey or stingy kind of way, but in a cold kind of way.

I'm sorry, Cold. I tried to like you. I even tried to love you. I missed you when I didn't have you, but now I realize that not having you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I think we should start seeing other temperatures. I'm going with the warm to hot range, you can have the other ones.

Bottom line, cold is overrated. The end.