Lipstick in the Woods – Ever So Roco

By the time the Keurig filled my cup, I was ready to murder everything moving. I stood at the window covered in laughable clichés: anxious girl, desperate to be alone, staring at the clouds, mug in hand, on a cold winter day.

Let’s backtrack a little.

It was a Monday (Mondays must be my thing). On this particular Monday in February I was awakened by the soft foam of anxiety. It churned its way from the pit of my stomach, disquieted my dreams, and rushed behind my eyes, commanding them to open at once. I lay on my back attempting to solicit the source of my unrest. I didn’t want to pray until I’d pinned down my sentiments; I like to attend my meetings with God fully prepared.

An empty Wegman’s food container sat by my bed, mouth agape, accusing me of last night’s transgression: a midnight crusade to the fridge. I silenced the container and tossed it in the trash. My eyes flitted over my to-do list on my nightstand, riddled with unanswered e-mails and looming deadlines. I allowed my body one more moment to catch up with the murmuring in my mind before sliding to my knees.

I left my bedroom determined to have two things: coffee and solitude. We meet again at the Keurig. I would have my coffee, but in a household of eight residents and one regular guest, we were fresh out of solitude.

So, I stood at that window, being a brat with an attitude, letting comments of biology homework, relationship issues, and tales from the office slide off my back in hopes that my silence would speak for me. “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care, leave me alone.”

My mouth decided before my mind that I needed an adventure.

“Let’s go down to The Creek!” I said to my cousin. The Creek is, well, a creek that runs behind the houses in my neighborhood. It has earned its capitalization by way of being the site of so many beautiful adventures and memories since we moved out here. My cousin Ant is the ride-or-die, down-for-whatever, sort, so getting him to jump onto my crazy train was no problem. My other cousin, Cliff, is easy too: bait him with the word “adventure” and we’re in there. I turned to my mother.

“Hey, Ma, you wanna go to The Creek?”

My mother is 5’3” of feistiness. When we were in high school, my sister and I dubbed Mommy “The Firecracker.” Mommy is convinced that I like to ask her things just to mess with her, like a real life “troll,” if you will. In reality my enjoyment comes from the absurdity of the idea that I would derive any satisfaction from purposely irritating my mother. The idea is so absurd to me that I have to carry it out to see if it still works. Thus, I mess with her to see her get flustered at the fact that I “like” to mess with her, and thus I am satisfied. I swear I only enjoy it because she thinks I do. A close look at the situation will reveal that this was all her doing.

Day in, day out, Mommy and I live this self-fulfilling prophecy:

Step 1. Ask mother to perform a slew of tasks with the notion that she won’t do them.

“Hey Ma, can you peel my orange?”

“Hey, Ma, will you make me some popcorn?”

“Hey, Ma, will you fold my laundry?”

“Ma, go vacuum my car, will you?”

Step 2. Prepare for her eye-cutting, lip-curling, response, which typically comes with a side storm of curse words.

Step 3. (optional) Die of laughter.

I only had to do a little prodding about The Creek before she answered with an absurd “okay” and the trolling ball was suddenly in my court. I had no choice but to actually brave the 14° weather and head down to The Creek.

I’ll always remember this particular winter’s day for the little moments that melted into memories. I can’t wait to turn to my mom years from now and laugh at how she still scowls and drops her brow the moment I say “Hey, Ma.” I’ll smile with sincerity to reassure her, then I’ll bring up the time we went to the creek in 14° weather, despite the fact that neither of us “do” winter, the cold, adventure, water, or woods. I’ll remember watching my mother get ready and bursting into laughter because her many layers of hoodies made her look like Quasimodo. I’ll remember applying my most murderous red lipstick in the spirit of “why not.” I’ll remember sliding down and climbing up hills. I’ll remember laying claim on the abandoned cottage by the creek. I’ll remember “skipping” rocks over the frozen water and pelting boulders trying to break the ice. I’ll remember my mother falling and giving me the greatest laugh of the season. I’ll remember taking so many turns and going over “just one more hill” and ending up right back in our back yard. I’ll remember the way the snow held up just for us.

I’ll recall how fitting we all thought it would be to have hot chocolate with the snow and how every box of hot chocolate in our cupboard had expired two years prior. I’ll remember Ant and I braving the snow to get hot chocolate, getting everything but, being stuck in snow-panic traffic, and still going to another store because, dammit, we needed hot chocolate. I’ll remember being a grown woman dumb enough to wear moccasins in a snowstorm and having Ant push me in a cart from the car to the storefront.

It feels strange not to be didactic here, not to have a moral of the story or a takeaway message. I’m sure if I tried hard enough I could find a lesson amidst this story. But I feel like if I dig too deep, I’ll be missing the point. We went out on a rare adventure this winter. And those moments that we spent, toes frozen, throwing rocks, climbing hills, slipping on leaves, braving the ice, laughing like fools, those moments have melted into a most beautiful memory for me.

I rejoice at the end of winter. Every. Single. Year. Few things bring me more joy than to see Old Man Winter, with his salty streets and even saltier pedestrians, pack up and head out. But, while he holds us in limbo, I’ve got my sweaters and scarves folded by the storage door, my lace and lavenders ready to be released for spring, and the memory of one winter’s day as oddly amusing and beautiful as wearing lipstick in the woods.