Saturday, August 3, 2013
(Written by this blogger's "roommate" aka fiance, AR)
[Photo credit: CE & AR on August 3rd,
after the hike)
The standard wedding vows dictate a devotion to one another that includes strength and support for each other in times of feast and famine alike. As impending nuptials approach, and as the creation/writing of one’s vows lays more at the forefront of thought, the ups and downs of daily life can sometimes seem an explicit test of one’s dedication to a quality and nurturing life with another.
Saturday August 3 started not unlike countless other Saturdays: Coffee, newspapers, conversation, and a lazy morning led to plans for brunch and a long hike outside Boulder. Simple enough. Pearly whites brushed and disagreeable hair wet and pushed towards social acceptance, we left the apartment for the day, and immediately locked our keys in the trunk of our car. “Here’s to hoping you have your keys,” I said, “because I just locked mine in the trunk.” She didn’t, Strike One. And those keys now safely locked in the trunk were our only means into the car and apartment alike. We were a bit stuck.
There were friendly new neighbors moving into the basement apartment, and one of them – a selfproclaimed semi-pro rock climber – offered to scale the building to kick in the screen of our semiajar bedroom window and climb into the apartment so we could grab the other set of keys that were helpfully on the other side of locked doors. But the risk of a two-story fall to the steeply declining steps below seemed too great a gamble. It’s too bad you aren’t more able to appreciate the security of your living scenario in these types of moments: If we can’t get into our own apartment or car given our uniquely intimate knowledge of weaknesses of our locking mechanisms, surly we’re safe from Colfax robbers and drunks. Try focusing on that positive when you haven’t eaten, it’s half-past noon, and your day that seemed a breeze slips slowly from your grasp.
I asked the friendly new neighbors: “Do you have a wire clothes hanger, by any chance?” Like any early twenties bachelor worth his weight in salt, the answer was obviously “no.” You don’t need to hang dingy old tee shirts and jeans to prevent past tense wear and tear. At least this was a concept I knew well. Strike Two. The lady got on the phone and called a neighbor to see if they were home and had a hanger. They did have a hanger and weren’t home; but because we had helped in times of locked out need, they would race home to help us. Then I realized that if we had been able to get into the other apartment before, why not again? So I broke into the other apartment – with permission – to get a hanger to break into our car. It almost seemed like a Zelda maneuver.
There was a night when I lived in Williamsburgh, Brooklyn – 6-7 years earlier – when I had driven to the grocery store in deep Bushwick to grab something small and barely worth the trip like a gallon of ice cream or something. As I unbuckled my seat belt, opened the door, got out of the car, locked the doors, and closed the door, I somehow managed to drop the keys in the car and lock them on the other side of a ridiculously thin pane of glass, in direct view to me and any other passersby. It was about 10pm, and I was in gym shorts – holding my wallet in my hands – and I had no phone. Stereotypes would tell me that there were any number of passersby on the street capable of getting into my locked car, but as luck would have it, there was a fire truck in the parking lot and I decided to ask them for help in opening my locked car. They did, and this past Saturday, I remembered how they pried open the window, slipped a coat-hanger in the slot, and flipped the power locks within about 10-20 seconds of starting the exercise. Turns out, I’m not quite as good with a hanger as those FDNY folks I met on that night in Bushwick.
(Blog post resumed by Blogger, CE)
The day went downhill from there. Later that afternoon we got caught in a rainstorm of ice water in the middle of a 7 and a half mile hike, still several miles from the parking lot, ill-prepared for numb legs and arms without food or water. We weathered the storm by singing show tunes from Little Shop of Horrors (to prevent Carly's tears) and describing meals that would make the day worthwhile, just to keep sane and hopeful. The night ended with pizza, wings, and the last few episodes of Orange is the New Black, and promise that Sunday would bring a better day.
(Enjoy!)
