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I’ve always loved camping. Particularly backpacking. Putting everything you need to survive on your back and walking into the wilderness for days or weeks at a time is tremendously freeing. You’re no longer bound by calendars and emails and due dates; when your next food and shelter are not guaranteed the volume on those alarms and LED notifications is turned down considerably. And few things bring me the same joy as the horrified look on the faces of people I encounter after walking out of the woods, my unwashed state being evident to them long before they make visual contact. It’s actually one of the few times I will go out of my way to talk to strangers. Watching them have the internal debate on whether I’m a murderous hobo or harmless vagrant tripping balls while fighting to suppress their gag reflex is the highlight of rejoining decent society after a week of digging tiny holes in the ground to poop into. I never thought I’d get The Wife camping. Any time I would raise the prospect of a trip she would voice concerns about the lack of showers and indoor plumbing. It wasn’t until our trip to Grand Teton National Park that her views began to change. We were deep into Cascade Canyon, just after a pop up storm had rolled through and the concussive force of the thunder ricocheting off the canyon walls had loosened some fillings. She was peeing under a tree while I kept a lookout for the bear whose scat was still steaming just a few yards away. “It that rain or piss on your pants there?” She checked. “Not sure. If it’s piss does that mean it’ll keep the bear away?” Now I wasn’t sure. I checked my watch and knew it was getting close to the time we had to turn back to the trail head, and figured her patience for urinating on herself would become a more limiting factor than impending darkness. Yet when I turned back to make this suggestion, she was already heading further up the trail, deeper into the canyon. Later, over beer and nachos we happily recounted the day’s highlights. Despite the shared awe at the experience, there was a hint of lament in her voice. “I wish we could have made it to Lake Solitude. Or at least seen the backside of The Grand.” I resisted the urge to make inappropriate grand backside jokes. It was a family bar, after all. “I think we need a tent if you want to do that.” “So maybe next time we bring one.” Our first camping trip was a single night at a state park in Georgia. We planned a little 7-8 mile out and back hike to our campsite as an intro to backpacking. The forecast called for overnight temps in the 50s, however it was already below freezing by the time we finished dinner. The snow started just as I’d finished gathering firewood, which drove The Wife from the fire ring to her sleeping bag before I finished the kindling teepee. So I refilled our water bottles from the creek, filtering it obviously because safety first, and joined her and The Dog in the tent. “This water smells like someone farted in it.” “Well, I did see a guy hiding behind a tree and laughing at me as I was filling the bottles.” “Screw you. It stinks, I’m freezing, and it’s snowing. You told me it would be warm.” “It could be worse, there could be bears. You have a warm dry sleeping bag. Dog is clearly happy.” “She just farted.” “You sure it’s her and not the water? And at least there’s no bears.” “Maybe it was bears farting in the water.” Before I could answer, I heard something outside. We both paused for a moment, until we realized that the snow was now rain. Cold rain. “Well if it’s raining that means it’s getting warmer, right?” Silver linings, my friends, silver linings. We played rummy 500 in the tent for a bit, and I resigned myself to the fact that this would be our last camping trip. Amazingly, when we planned our next big vacation to the Grand Canyon, The Wife wanted to backpack rim to rim to rim and hit part of the Tonto trail through the Canyon’s interior. Our itinerary included about 50 miles and 10,000 feet of climbing with a pack, plus another 40 miles of day hiking excursions. To get into backpacking shape, we made a few more trips to the local wilderness, stretching out our mileage and nights each time. And each time, and I mean every single time, it rained. We had everything from the kind of light mist you can never wipe off your glasses to “why are those animals pairing up” levels of rain. The ever present stink of wet dog made us long for mere fart water, and we took to viewing mud as a condiment at mealtime. Our last shakeout trip was to be a 4 day, 3 night trip to the Smokies with some serious climbing. The only moisture we encountered on day 1 was from the streams we crossed climbing our first peak, and the clear sky and elevation gave us the kind of sunset that makes you think there’s no way random collections of atoms could have assembled in this beautiful an arrangement on their own. We went to bed happy and optimistic, and awoke in a heart pounding panic as the inevitable thunderstorm rolled over the mountains. Somewhat deflated, we went through the well practiced routine of dodging raindrops while making breakfast and packing up camp and hit the trails. As we traversed the rolling terrain of the Smokies our comfort was soon being challenged by both precipitation and perspiration, and it wasn’t long before everything we carried was soaked. We stopped for lunch only after we realized the rain was never going to let up enough to not have soggy peanut butter and nutella tortillas. “Well, it probably won’t rain in the desert, right?” “If it does they get flash floods and we’ll die. So with our luck, it’ll fucking rain.” The Wife wasn’t in the mood for light-hearted banter. We were sitting on a downed tree at the junction of 2 trails, and as I tried to think of something encouraging to offer my eyes absentmindedly scanned the surroundings. My train of thought soon followed my gaze, wandering off track and getting lost in the forest. I had spent most of the day trying to keep dry as much gear and clothing as I could and worrying The Wife was going to have a breakdown on her umpteenth day of mother nature’s waterboarding 20 miles from the nearest roof. So this was the first time I was noticing the beauty of the lush deciduous rain forest, from the smokey fog (ooooohhhhh NOW I get it) blanketing the peaks to the prehistoric sized ferns to the rainbow of caterpillars and salamanders and flowers. I’d never seen snails the size of a fist before, and I had forgotten how soothing the fat pit pats of monsoon raindrops hitting millions of leaves could be if you just listened to it. The Wife, meanwhile, had yet to notice any of this as she tended to blisters from where her socks had filled with silt through her “waterproof” boots. We continued on, hiking up the stream where the trail used to be, towards Mount Cammerer. I had stopped trying to avoid big puddles and continuously fussing with pack covers. Those efforts were as futile at trying to light a cigarette in a hurricane at the bottom of a pool. I was focused on the bears and the wild turkeys and the dozens of temporary waterfalls and cascades we now had the opportunity to hike past. I didn’t even mind that I had to slurp most of my lunch tortilla. The Wife was pretty pissed about it though, since she’d somehow gotten nutella smeared on her glasses when her tortilla disintegrated and couldn’t wash it off. One of our favorite backpacking rituals is afternoon coffee. We pick a scenic spot to stop, I whip out the camp stove and we brew up some thoroughly shitty instant coffee which is usually improved orders of magnitude by the setting. At the top of Cammerer is an old fire lookout tower built by the Civilian Conservation Corps which we had picked as our afternoon coffee stop. But I wasn’t sure we were going to make it. As we made our way to the summit ridge, we were more and more exposed to the wind, which allowed the rain a better angle to get under our hoods and sleeves and make sure we stayed well hydrated. It also didn’t help with stability as we had to scramble over the slick boulders which now constituted the trail. But The Wife is just about the most stubborn living creature on the face of the Earth, and she had made her mind up that she was getting to the top of this damn mountain. So we did. To our expected disappointment the lookout tower was locked, and while I was pretty sure I could break off the rusty padlock with no more than a heavy lean I was also sure, being in a National Park, that would be some kind of Federal crime. Not that I expected surrounding rocks and trees to turn into Federal agents and haul my ass off the mountain in an incredible waste of resources, but in these Orwellian times I didn’t feel like tempting fate. So we sat on an exposed rocky ledge and caught our breath from the climb. “I don’t think I can light the stove in this” I said, half expecting her to start sobbing. Instead, she started taking off her raincoat, which was even more alarming. “...honey…” “Make the coffee.” The calmness with which she delivered this direction, standing at the top of a mountain in a monsoon holding her raincoat in an outstretched hand, was absolutely terrifying. It was like when little Danny rounds the corner on his Big Wheel and sees the twin girls in The Shining. “Make a shelter with this and the rocks and make the coffee.” “But its pouring, put the coat back-” “I’m already soaked, what the hell’s the difference?” She had a point. So I fashioned a little shelter and lit the stove to make our afternoon coffee. The black gold did wonders for body and soul, and we began laughing to ourselves at the absurdity of our situation. The lower level clouds had thinned just enough to give us a view of the neighboring peaks, and we had fun retracing our path up and over the distant trails. We decided to make a second cup, and while the water was boiling we heard some other hikers making their way to the summit. As they approached we could hear them complaining about the rain and the wet rocks and the wind. So I shouted over to them asking if they wanted a cup of coffee. This stopped them in their tracks, and the looks on their faces made it clear they had thought they were alone. “Wha… what are you guys doing up here?” “Having coffee. Want a cup? We have plenty.” They looked at each other as if I had asked in Aramaic, then back at us. “Reeeeeeeally warms you up!” I prodded. Still nothing as they tried to retreat as far under their hoods and rain suits as possible. “Dude, it’s a monsoon, you’re gonna get wet. Have a cup of coffee!” The Wife likes to call dumbstruck strangers dude for some reason. They finally gave a feeble “no thanks” and retreated down the mountain, glancing back at us as though we were the hypothermic phantasm of some CCC workers who died building the lookout tower back in the ‘30s. Rejuvenated, we continued to brave sideways rain, what we later learned were hurricane force winds, a change in campsite due to bears ransacking some tents, and rodents getting into our bear bag and eating our final day’s breakfast. No one tells you the mice are way worse than the bears, but they are. Our last morning hiking down off Mount Sterling we passed through more lush rainforest, this time accented with countless rainbows from the beams of sunlight finally breaking through the dewy canopy as we raced towards sustenance. We stopped at the first place we came to, which unfortunately was a McDonald’s, and ordered half the menu. We apologized for paying with the damp crumpled legal tender we pulled from muddy cargo pockets and sat in the puddles we were making in our booth to wait for our food. After a couple of minutes, the cashier came over with a cookie and an apple pie and asked if we wanted them. We politely declined, but she insisted. “We got these ready by mistake ‘cause we screwed up another order, they’re just gonna go to waste. They’re free, y’all sure you don’t want ‘em?” We were starving since a squirrel had pilfered our oatmeal, so we shrugged and accepted. A few minutes later, she came back. “We also got a coffee order wrong, y’all want these coffees too?” We were in the middle of a sugar high, so we again shrugged and thanked her for screwing up. After devouring our golden arched cornucopia of saturated fats, we sat back, slightly ashamed at the calorie count, and joked about how many years we’d just taken off our lives. We were getting ready to leave when the cashier came over once again. “Man, it is just not our day. Made these two ice creams by mistake, y’all want ‘em?” We tried to decline, but she insisted they were going to be trashed anyway and left them on the table, telling us to chuck them if we didn’t want them. After the requisite “well if they’re just going to go to waste” justification, The Wife started in on the chocolate cup as we made our way out to the car. “Ugh, it’s like I’m eating all my calories for the month in one sitting.” That’s when it hit me. I looked at The Wife’s nutella smeared glasses. I picked at the dried mud crusted in my beard and for the first time was aware of just how bad we smelled sitting in the confined space of the car. “She thought we were homeless.” “Hurmph?” “Don’t talk with your mouth full. The cashier, she thinks we’re homeless, that’s why she kept bringing us food.” The Wife looked back into the store, and it dawned on her too that we were and had been alone since we arrived. There were no other orders to screw up. Touched by her kindness and embarrassed that we were sitting in a car that still had a temporary license plate and an REI warehouse of new(ish) camping gear in the trunk while accepting free food, The Wife ran back in to stuff the Ronald McDonald House collection box with whatever money we had on us. Sated, amused, pruned from head to toe, and with a tiny measure of faith in humanity we hit the road. “So what’d you think? You ready for the Grand Canyon?” "Only if it rains."
This is my story of pregnancy loss. For any women who have experienced this, I want to give you a heads up in case this brings up unexpected emotions. Total miles: 16 Number of races: 1 Number of pregnancy losses: 1 September 18th We hadn't expected any of this. We figured it would take a good 6 months to get pregnant, but it happened after only two. I don't think I'll ever forget the morning I first took a pregnancy test, and then took another one because I couldn't believe my eyes. I don't think I'll ever forget the sleepy 'holy shit' look on my husband's face when I woke him up and showed him the results. It took a few days (and a few more pregnancy tests) for us to get a little excited. Sure, it was sooner than expected, but at 36 and 42, we both had fears we wouldn't be able to become parents, so we weren't going to dwell on less-than-ideal timing. It was hard to keep this kind of secret. We were excited, we were a mess, we were just trying to figure out what the hell we needed to do. I called to make an appointment with a new OB-GYN. Our first appointment was scheduled for October 9th. As we waited, I downloaded apps. We named the growing cluster of cells Sprout. We made jokes about how we had to watch our language when the app told us he or she was developing ears. We talked about names, how in the world we were going to fit a baby into our little 2 bedroom house, looked at cribs and strollers online. I even bought a few maternity clothes, cuz they were on sale & super cheap. Why not, right? We plotted how we would hilariously surprise our family & closest friends with the news, and couldn't wait for their excited reactions. I tried to continue my running, having just started a marathon training plan 6 weeks before. My morning sickness wasn't too bad, but I was lacking the energy I really needed as long runs extended into the double digits. I modified the plan to target an upcoming half marathon, setting aside marathon goals. I bought boxes of Honey Stinger Waffles and Huma gels because I needed extra fuel during runs, and had a great 10 mile run (Sept 26th) where I fueled at 4 and 8 miles instead of the usual one hour into a run and then every 45 minutes after. I still felt like there was a chance I could PR in the half, assuming I could keep up my energy.September 27thThe spotting started. "It's normal," I told myself. "Very common." Then it got a little worse. And there were cramps. My best friend recommended calling the clinic, so they could get me in and see what was happening. I tried to reassure myself, but kept having a feeling that something wasn't quite right. I thought I was just freaking out, like many women in their first pregnancy. We went in, did the ultrasound, did blood tests, was told to not exercise (elliptical doesn't count, right?!?) and came back in for more blood tests two days later.October 4thBy the following Friday morning, the clinic had called. My hormone levels weren't increasing and they were worried that the tenderness on my right side might not be an irritated hip flexor but signs of a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. They told me to go to the emergency department. So, I went, making phone calls and disclosing a pregnancy status I wasn't prepared to because it was just easier to tell the truth about what was going on. My mom was immediately excited and it broke my heart to have to tell her "but …"The Emergency Department: Part 1The thing about the ED that is terribly misconstrued on TV is that there is often a little excitement, followed by a lot of waiting. I get triaged. I wait. I go back to a room, change into an ill-fitting gown, get blood drawn. I wait. A female doctor comes in to examine me. I wait. Sometimes I doze. The ultrasound tech wheels me to the basement for my second ultrasound in a week. I wait. And wait some more. My husband finally arrives. We wait some more. We get told they are waiting for radiology to interpret the ultrasound. We wait. When the doctor finally comes in, she says the pregnancy isn't viable. The ultrasound doesn't reveal anything, but my hormone levels are nowhere near what they should be. I'm surprised at how immediately the tears start to fall. I'm told my options, that I can wait and see what happens, but I'm a scientist and I know what the levels mean. There is no point in waiting.Except I have to wait some more. Because they believe it's an ectopic pregnancy, the drug they give is a chemotherapeutic and administered through an injection that must be given by a certified nurse. They discharge us from the ED, take us to outpatient, and get us checked in there. Then we are taken to a waiting room. More waiting. It's torture at this point. My heart is broken and I can tell my husband's heart is also broken, but he's trying to be a rock for me. We are finally taken back and we wait some more. And some more. And some more, until I finally sigh and my husband asks if everything is all right. "No", I say rather loudly, "It isn't. I want to go home!" And then I burst into sobs. Nurses rush over, try to comfort me, try to explain why it's taking so long. I say it's not okay but I understand, and I keep sobbing. I'm honestly a little afraid I won't be able to stop. My husband holds me until it's finally time for the injections. I'm still sobbing and I sob through the whole thing. Two shots, one in each butt cheek. We have to sit and wait to ensure I don't have a reaction to the medication, and it's enough time where I am able to finally calm down. We go home and order Italian club sandwiches from our favorite pizza place because it's the only thing that sounds good to me. We sit and eat, both a little sad, both exhausted from the day. I can't wait to go to sleep, for the day to end. The sadness continues for a few days. The drug starts to take effect on Sunday. I buy more maxipads.Tangent: Thank you, Always, for making your Infinity Pads with Flex Foam because they really are comfortable and reliable and every little bit helps in this experience.October 7thI take Monday afternoon off from work. I feel fine but just don't want to be around anyone. Tuesday morning I feel remarkably better, productive at work and even have a chat with the clinic where I'm cleared to run! Things were looking up and then cramps started. I think, "This is gonna be rough." They get worse and worse until I'm sitting in my co-workers office saying, "I think I need to go home." At first I think I can drive, but then I realize I can't because it's taking all my energy & focus to not throw up. So I get a ride home, telling myself I don't need to call the doctor or go to the emergency room. But by the time my co-worker drops me off, I'm not okay. I stumble in, head straight for the couch and lie down. My husband calls the clinic and tries to explain what is going on while I decide if I want to lie down or sit by the toilet in case I throw up. The nurse practitioner tells me I have to go back to the ED. I say I don't want to go, or that if I have to go, I want to go to a different one. She insists to my husband I have to go back to the same hospital I was at before, otherwise my doctors can't follow me. I say I've never met any of the doctors, what do I care? "They don't even know my hair color," I tell him.October 8thThe Emergency Department: Part 2I agree to go, only because my husband is worried and just wants to know that I'm okay. I also want to know that I'm okay, but I'd rather just to go the damn clinic and actually be seen by one of the doctors that is telling me to go to the ED. It's not that I don't understand why they made the recommendation that they did - what if I actually was bleeding internally? I mean, I wasn't. By the time we actually got to there, I was feeling better, and by the time I actually was triaged and taken by to the psych patient room (the only one that was available), I was telling the husband that if we left now, they probably wouldn't even charge me my copay. But no. More waiting. Another series of ultrasounds of my empty uterus. More blood tests. More waiting. The nurse seems convinced that I was downplaying my pain when I ranked it as a 7 on scale of 1-10. I mean, severe craps are really awful, but I probably would feel worse if I was bleeding internally, right? She tells me it's okay if it was a 10. While I'm getting my ultrasound, my husband tells them that I probably have a high pain tolerance since I have a bum hip and do distance running. I'm not quite sure that's true, but I stop arguing. Three hours later, I leave with a Gatorade and two prescriptions, one for the tamest of opioids and one for nausea in case either come back.October 9thI spend the rest of the week in misery. I'm emotionally exhausted, and develop a migraine. The nausea comes back such that I can barely eat and the only thing that tastes good is the McDonald's vanilla milkshake the hubs brought me. It must have really perked me up because he brought me a large one the following day. There's another blood test, and another phone call from the clinic the following day. My hormone levels haven't dropped and they want me to come in for a fourth ultrasound. I only agree because I feel so awful that I figure I can get someone to give me something for this damn migraine. They are relieved because I may have told them it would take an act of God to get me to come back after that second ED experience. Guess God was listening.October 11thA fourth ultrasound. The second it starts, I just start crying. Thankfully, she has the monitor that I can see turned off. I couldn't handle another image of nothingness. As the appointment goes on, I quietly cry. That's all I can do. I didn't really expect it to be so triggering, but it is. The ultrasound tech works as quickly as she can, helps me get off the table when it's over because I'm still bleeding and everything just feels gross. I get dressed and she gives me a hug before we leave the room. She tells me next time she sees me, she hopes any tears will be happy ones. I actually meet with a doctor. She walks in, introduces herself, tells me I'm famous in the office (great), and very matter-of-factly tells me I need a second dose of the drug. We go round in circles because I say I don't want it, so what are my options. Can I do another test on Monday, I ask. She asks what if it ruptures in the meantime or if Monday my hormone levels still haven't changed? I rub my face with my hands and just sigh."I would say this is a nightmare." I cry some more, because I feel so out of control, like I have no agency in my own health care. Everything that has happened over the course of two weeks (which feels like two months, by the way) has involved me being told to do something. Come into the clinic. Go to the Emergency Department. No, you can't go to this hospital, you have to go to this one. Get blood tests. Come back to the clinic. More shots. All of this by people who are very capable, well-trained and smart, yes. But also people who don't even know me. It's a very odd and uncomfortable feeling and all I wanted was someone to recognized how fucked up this entire situation was.In the end, I agreed, because I thought of my husband and that's what he would want me to do. If he had been in that office with me, he would have been begging me to just agree with the doctors because he just wants me to be okay, and not in the hospital for emergency surgery because an ectopic pregnancy ruptured. I go back to the hospital, because that damn certified nurse requirement for this drug. I wait something like 2 hours for the drug, because apparently they make it when it's ordered. Did I mention I still haven't stopped crying? The nurse promises me she will look into the protocols for this, because she's seen too many women in pain, just waiting. I tell her thank you. I hope she is able to make some sort of difference for the next woman that has to go through this. I finally get the shot, and go home. I had left at 11 that morning, and got home at 4:30.October 14th - 30th More blood tests to see if the second dose makes my hormone levels drop. I know that if they don't drop, it's either a third dose or surgery. Either option sounds miserable. The rebellious side of me plots what I'm going to say if there is no change in my levels. "Sorry, my husband and I have plans on Saturday. We could do Sunday." Turns out, no need for that. The second dose of the drug worked. Meanwhile, I'm also thinking about the half marathon I had planned is coming up that weekend. I know I can't run it, but try to find a way where I might. But even if I could finish, it would be so far off a PR that I decide to drop down to the 10k. I wonder if I can do a 10k, consider the 5k then stubbornly refuse to do that because I paid a damn $85 entry fee and I refuse to pay that much for a 5k. It's already too much for a 10k.I take the 10K race and turn it into an interval workout. It's hilly, with nearly 5 miles of net climb before a descent. Even on my best day, it's a tough course. It's not my best day. I'm physically and emotionally exhausted, but I do my best. I have to walk some because I pushed too hard, but the downhill finish feels easy and relaxed. At this race, there is a gong you can ring if it's a PR. I tell myself I set a course PR, so I get to ring the gong. The truth is, I don't even really care if I PR'd or not. I finished that damn race and survived the nightmare that was the last 3 weeks and I'm ringing that gong. So, I ring it.October 31stThe clinic calls. My hormone levels are at zero. I'm officially no longer pregnant. It's a weird call to get. On the one hand, it's over. On the other hand, it's over. My husband is excited cuz that means we can be husband and wife again. I'm not sure how to feel. That weekend, we had planned to tell my family that we were pregnant. I still hadn't told my siblings what had actually been going on. Everyone else seems to be feeling relief that I'm not pregnant, but all I can think is,"I'm not pregnant anymore." As the days go on, it gets better. This week is hard, since it's the week we were supposed to be sharing happy news. Instead, I'm writing this post. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, how I want to feel, or even exactly how I really do feel. I have good days and not so good days. In time, there will be more good days than not so good days, and eventually the not so good days will disappear. I'm meditating. I'm getting back on the roads, back to the weights, and back to yoga. And in time, hopefully, there will be another pregnancy with the ending we had originally hoped for.
So sorry I'm behind on WILFTBs and sorry for those who only care about running-related stuff. I am running and that will become more exciting as the days get longer. Right now I'm just kinda getting the legs and Mary Jane re-acquainted with running so we can attack 13.1 training. I did have a nice impromptu fartlek sesh over the weekend while I was visiting a friend in Northern Arizona. The weather forecast and RW What to Wear "app" had me packing shorts and a tank but then a cold snap changed everything so I either was going to easy run in shorts and a t-shirt at 55* and windy (I need LS or capris for that weather) or speed it up a bit and be warmer. My path was a short little path around a park across the street from my friend's home. After about a mile warm-up, I just pushed the part that was mostly straight and jogged the rest for 5 rounds, which turned out to be an equi-distant run hard/jog for each turn. My pace splits looked like this: 1. 7:27 2. 8:09 3. 8:21 4. 8:15 5. 8:15 I'm actually surprised I was pretty close, other than the first one, because I totes did it by feel and totes felt like I was slowing down with each round. Got in a total of 3.1 miles for a quick, yet satisfying workout. Then I went to feed wild burros in a neighboring town. WILFTB Things are heating up and the insecurities are coming out as the numbers get smaller and the women develop feelings for The Bachelor because literally he's the only person or thing they are allowed to talk or think about. Also, did you know that being in the middle of the Everglades is pure nature? Because being in the middle of nature could apparently be something else .... Anyway, as a followup to the last post (which BTW, thanks to you all, I "won" January 11; that date is my brother's birthday, my work anniversary and now my "winning" day. woot), the cat innuendos are apparently weird if the guy is allergic to cats, going to bed early and wearing cardigans is NBD, and the ameteur wrestling thing could be a real way to get a guy. Here's what I learned the last two weeks: When there are only 14 other girlfriends, it's hard to believe because that number is SO small Spy on his date with binoculars Parasailing is a good date because it's about letting go and seeing where the wind takes you Drink your pee for him Travel with a taxidermy duckling Always play a damsel in distress, even when he says he wants an independent woman Find bowling sexy Smell like a bowling ball Drink your coffee with coconut milk (that will impress him) A crazy alligator is a reminder that love is scary but can also be an adventure If you get mad at your boyfriend one time you evidently aren't a good match for him Tweets of the last two weeks: