60 Days Out

You can't imagine how hesitant I am to announce what will surely be a very exciting and memorable undertaking. But I'm going to do it anyway...

Two months from today, on July 26, I plan to climb Mt Whitney. At 14,500 feet, it is the highest peak in the contiguous (lower 48) states.

Access to the upper trails is strictly controlled. In February each year, would-be climbers apply for one-day or overnight passes. By April, we're notified of acceptance, and are assigned the specific valid date(s) of our passes.

Six of us are going on this trip, four of whom have hiked to the peak before, and two of whom (my girlfriend and I) are newbies.

This trip is my idea. The four who climbed it before swore they'd never do it again. But I wanted to, and they all rallied around me, without hesitation. (Thanks, guys!) We're all preparing for the excursion by ensuring we have the proper gear, physical training, and mental expectations for the climb.

I really feel we'll be ready for this trip of a lifetime. So why the hesitancy?

Well, I tend to over-prepare for things, meaning I overdo it. Then I injure myself, foiling my own plans. This is exactly what happened last fall, while training for my first half-marathon.

Conscious of this tendency of mine, I'm trying to temper my trainings a bit this time around. I'm working out 4-5 days a week, but paying attention to my body. If something hurts or is over-sore, I cut back for a couple of days and let my body recover before pushing forward. Lord knows I don't want to repeat those 10 weeks on crutches! So far, so good this time.

But what I can't control is mountaintop weather.

This is a very real danger that will affect our success at reaching the peak. It's unpredictable. And it must be dealt with very seriously: If there is lightening, we come down. Period. There's no place to hide from lightening above the tree line on the highest point around.

So I just remind myself that it's the journey that counts, not the destination. This will be an experience of a lifetime whether or not we reach the peak.

But still, I really want to reach that peak. In a mere 60 days, we'll know.

All or Enough?

"I can bring home the bacon,
Fry it up in a pan,
And never ever let you forget you're the man."



As a child in the 1970s, I wanted to be that woman in the Enjoli commercial when I grew up. She looked fabulous! And why shouldn't I be able to do all the things she boasted of accomplishing?

Now, I don't want to get deep in the weeds of the pros/cons of this philosophy. Some people can pull off having amazing careers, a spotless home, and nurtured relationships simultaneously, with a smile on their faces and without bags under their eyes -- and maybe even singing a song Enjoli-style. But let's just say that I, as an employed, college-educated, young married woman, found that trying to do everything well all the time was exhausting. So what works for me, and many of the women I know these days, is to pick two: career, home, relationships. At any given stage in our lives, we can achieve success and happiness with two of these simultaneously. The third gains prominence as one of the others becomes less significant.

These days, I don't even desire to be the Enjoli woman. I've discovered that being everything to everyone all the time ends up leaving me out. It's tiring. And doing it all now doesn't leave anything to strive for.

I find it similar to the time-quality-cost project management triangle: For any given project, trade-offs must be made. Typically, only two of the primary goals are achievable. The manager decides which of the two are most important for the given project, and focuses on delivering those successfully.

Compromise is the theme, then.

In compromising, my presumption is neither that I'll get everything I want, nor that I'll forsake everything that's truly important to me, all at once. But I'll have most of what I need to be happy or to get the job done. And I presume that, as the situation changes, a new compromise can be made.

It has become clear to me that some type of compromise will need to be made in my latest car search. {Don't worry: I know it's getting to be an old topic, so no more talk of the car after today!} Power, performance, roominess, overall size, comfort, fuel consumption, emissions, luxury... all are important considerations to me, but it appears that finding one hunk of metal that meets all of these ideals at once will be a challenge. I may need to compromise a little roominess for fuel consumption; or power for comfort; or luxury for performance.

I know I'll keep enough of what's most important to me in the car I choose. And for the rest? Well, I'll do it all over again in a few years. I'll get to them next time around.

Put Your Lead Foot Forward

I'm now well into my search for a new vehicle.

In most cases, the sales rep from the dealership accompanies me on my test drives. I don't mind his or her presence, as it allows me to ask questions while I'm driving.

On my first drive, conscious of the sales rep's presence in the passenger seat, I drove conservatively.

Somewhere along I-75, however, I threw conservatism out the window. "Look," I said to salesman Steve. "I like to punch it when I accelerate, and then I brake hard. So I'm tough on my tires, tough on my brakes. I take turns hard, too. Just wanted to warn you."

Steve laughed! "You're the first person who's actually said anything like that. And I'm glad you did. On a test drive, you should drive the car as you would naturally. That's the only way you'll find out if the car is right for you."

Ahhh, I could relax. Then I hit the gas.

When I drove another SUV with saleswoman Caryl, I made a similar speech, with this addendum: "My kids are used to it. They don't get carsick because my driving is what they're used to."

More laughter. Then she said, "Most people don't talk about how they actually drive the car. It's good that you know how you drive, and that you know what you want from a car."

Though I'm tempted to put my best foot forward, it's a fact that I drive with a lead foot. My dad tried to rid me of this habit when I was younger, and I really tried to change, but it didn't last long. Then my wonderfully steady, careful husband used logic to explain how my driving habits affect the wear and tear (and replacement of parts) on my car. I totally understood it. And tried to go easy. But again, I went back to my old habits.

Now I'm almost 40. I've been driving for 24 years -- more than half my life. I just don't think I'm gonna change.

And I don't care to lie to myself or anyone else.

So I offer only the truth: One of my vices is that I'm an aggressive driver. I'm far from the only one who is. But I'd like to think that one of my virtues is my ability to recognize and admit who I am. (But I also offer this reminder: aggressive is not synonymous with careless. I said I'm aggressive; I did not say I'm careless.)

I'm never going to take my vehicle out on a track. But I'm going to take my kids to school, I'm going to run errands around town, I'm going to take the family on trips. And when I do that, I'll need a vehicle that can keep up. It needs to go when I want to go. It needs to stop exactly when I need to stop. It needs to make tight turns, just because I like it that way. It needs to keep up with me, and be safe, comfortable, and reliable to boot.

So that's why, among the usual questions for sales reps, my questions also include estimates on maintenance schedules for tires and brakes for a driver like me. I don't need to know how long those parts last for the wonderfully smooth, careful drivers like my dad and my husband. I need to know how long they'll last for me.

I'm finding that my kind of questions don't come up much. The sales reps need to look up the answers.

Maybe more drivers like me just need to admit to our true habits. I won't hide any longer. I am who I am. The foot I put forward may not be the best, but it's the one I've got. And so I'll proudly put that lead foot forward.

What Car Am I?

When I was in 6th grade, we were given an unusual assignment. We had to answer this question: If you were a car, which one would you be?

It seemed like a silly question to me. Cars were utilitarian hunks of metal that got you from one place to another. For the most part, I couldn't tell one from the other. (Well, some colors were prettier than others.) But I was a human being -- a 6th grade girl! I could not fathom comparing myself to a car.

So I approached Mrs. Hendrix's desk and accosted her with that all-purpose statement that I'm sure makes all teachers cringe: "I don't get it." And then I just stood there.

With absolutely no trace of annoyance on her face -- she always had a smile for us -- she explained how cars have different attributes that set them apart from one another. And so do humans. The assignment, of course, was to think about my own attributes, and then think of a car that has similar ones. It wasn't rocket science, after all. Just a lesson to get us to think about how we perceive ourselves.

After tossing around several makes of cars, she said that she thought of me as a Porsche 911 Carrera. A red one. As utilitarian hunks of metal go, that seemed like a particularly good hunk that I was being compared to! I went back to my seat with a smile on my face.

Now, I happen to be in the market for a new car. My lease is set to expire in a couple of months, so I'm starting the process of selecting a replacement. I'm finding this to be a daunting task! Suddenly, that sixth grade assignment holds a very real meaning for me. What does the car I drive say about me?

My real-life assignment has caused me to take a trip down Memory Lane. Take a drive with me...

My first car, a used Ford Escort that my parents bought for me and my brother back in high school and that my dad maintained flawlessly, likely showed the world that I was barely a young adult, with not much money, but adequately maintained. And the car was very tiny: It wouldn't have allowed too many people, or too many shenanigans, within its confines. I think Dad liked it that way.

Next came the Ford Tempo, the car I bought in college with some of my own money and a small loan to boot. It said nearly the same thing as the Ford Escort, though with a little more room and a slightly higher price tag. It might not have been the sexiest thing, but I was just happy to have my own car on campus, and the freedom that came with it.

A few years after college, I purchased my first new car, a Toyota Celica. I was ready for something fun & sporty, although I couldn't afford anything nearly as pricey as the Carrera. I thought my Celica showed the world that I could afford a new car, though one that wasn't extravagantly appointed or priced, and that I was a young professional in that "fun" stage of life. I loved that car!

My husband and I were expecting our first child when we replaced the Celica with the practical Toyota Camry. In beige. Now that I was moving into motherhood, I wanted something practical and reliable and roomier. (Maybe a bit dull, too. Is that what I subconsciously thought of parenthood?)

Well, parenthood moved right along considerably faster than we'd expected. By the following year, we'd added two more to our brood, so the once-roomy Camry was now woefully too small. And I was exhausted all the time. I just didn't care what I drove. As long as it was priced moderately and could get me and three babies (along with a huge diaper bag, a single stroller, and a double stroller) from Point A to Point B reliably, I didn't care what I drove. I didn't even come along to help pick out the two minivans that followed. I hadn't particularly cared to ever own a minivan, but it seemed to fit my stage of life. It was practical, reliable, roomy, inexpensive, and shouted: "Mom of many kids!" How could I refute the appropriateness of the message it sent? Besides, I was too tired to care.

As the babies grew a bit older and more independent, and I was no longer sleep-deprived, I became interested in my own life once again. The kids were school-aged when it was time again for new wheels. This time, I chose. I still needed a practical, reliable, roomy vehicle, but I had tired of the minivan stage. I had a specific SUV in mind, and I wasn't interested in comparing it with other similar models from competing manufacturers. The only option I was interested in entertaining was the color. I loved the Toyota Sequoia, and then the Highlander Hybrid that came next, when it became obvious that the Sequoia was high-maintenance and high-cost to own.

So now here we are, in a slightly different stage of my evolving life. The kids are getting taller and opinionated. They have specific ideas of what they do and do not like in a vehicle. I drive them around everywhere, so I still need a roomy & reliable vehicle for them and their friends. So no cute little two-seater convertible sports car for met (yet). But this time, I have more time and more knowledge on which to draw when choosing my next vehicle. I also have more freedom of choice, which is a luxury that I appreciate, but that also can actually make choices difficult.

So, what will my next vehicle say about me? I'll be driving it for the next 3-5 years, well into my kids' teenage years. But I want what I drive to represent the many facets of me, not just the mothering me. Unlike my clothing, hairstyle, and makeup, I can't change my car to suit my mood or the occasion: This is a one-size-fits-all proposition. So, not only are there price and seating and cargo and environmental considerations, but there are others, too. I'm a mom, but I'm also a wife and and also my own woman. I like reliability and practicality, but what about fun and zip and power and sexiness? Must I set aside those attributes?

The vehicle I use to carpool the kids around and run errands with is also the vehicle I use to meet girlfriends for lunch, go away for the weekend, and go out with my husband. The sound system that's used at moderate levels for kid-friendly stations is the same one I might blast while cruising with the wind whipping through my hair. The vehicle I use to cart dirty perennnials home in one day is the same one I'll maneuver in and out of in a short skirt one evening. The vehicle I use to drop off and pick up three children and their friends to and from places they love is the one I'll use -- just Kim, not mom, not wife -- to pursue my own interests.

So now it's time for me to choose: If my car is to be "me," which one will I be?

The Dive

When I was 9 years old, I wanted to jump off the high dive so badly.

I was a strong, sure swimmer. But I was afraid of heights.

So I'd glance over at the high dive from the safety of my corner of the pool. I'd watch the other kids climb that long ladder to the top, walk--sometimes even run!--straight out to the edge, and fearlessly drop. Or jump. Or dive.

I imagined those precious seconds between board-walking and splash-down as the ultimate freedom.

And, oh, I wanted that freedom!

Two or three times each summer, I'd muster up the gumption to try out that high dive. I'd stand in line, shivering from the breeze against my wet body. Finally, my turn would come to start the ascent. One by one, my feet would climb the rungs of the ladder. Excited and anxious altogether, I continued on, knowing I was safe as long as I held on to the long rail. I'd reach the top, take a deep breath, and slowly walk on, still holding on to the rail.

But the rail always ended before the board did.

Knowing that other kids were waiting for me to jump so they could have their turns, I felt obligated to continue. I'd progress across the board, though slowly. But my mind raced faster, calculating the myriad ways I could fall and split my head open on the concrete below and behind me. Although the board was dangling over water at this point in my fear walk, and logic held that gravity surely would carry me straight down into the water in which I felt comfortable, I held onto the illogical conclusion that, if I were to fall, I'd actually fall diagonally backward to the concrete.

Fears are not logical.

My body frozen, perched at the end of the high-dive board twelve feet above earth, visible to my peers below, my naked fear was exposed to all.

I just couldn't do it. I couldn't make myself jump. Humiliated, I'd start the retreat toward the safety of the railing, then climb down the ladder. Looking down, I didn't dare make eye contact with any of the kids standing in line. I felt certain I knew what they were thinking about me anyway. I didn't need to actually hear it or see it in their eyes. I would beat myself up mentally the rest of the day.

I've since overcome my fear of the high dive. I still dislike heights, but I dislike the fear of heights even more. The key, I've found, is to commit to it and then stop thinking about it. Just walk right out to the edge and GO! Before I've had time to think, there I am, flailing through space with the joy that only freedom can bring.

Writing gives me that joy of freedom: to organize my thoughts, to write coherently and fluidly, to express myself. I love that feeling of publication, whether it's a user manual or a blog posting or (someday, I hope) a book.

But, strangely, I've been struck by a fear of publication the last few weeks. I could simply brush it off as writer's block, but I needed to understand why I felt that fear, that block. The feelings of humiliation and frustration from my youth re-emerged. The difference, however, is that I've been through this before, so I have a head start on working through the temporary immobilization.

What was my mantra? The one that ultimately got me to jump off the high dive? Commit to it, stop thinking about it, walk to the edge, and GO!

Well, here I am: committed, no longer overthinking, standing at the edge. Here goes...