Shoulder Bags and Other Accessories--Part Two

March 15, 2017

SHOULDER BAGS AND OTHER ACCESSORIES – PART TWO

For many people Puxatawny Phil serves as the first harbinger of spring. They wait anxiously
each February 2^nd to see if winter is leaving early or hanging around. My nature loving friends watch for that first flash of gold that signals the blooming of forsythia, indicating that cold weather is waving goodbye in the rearview mirror. My daily stroll on the side of the highway has provided me with a different indication that the seasons are changing. I know that warm weather is coming when I start finding... new crap on the highway! During the cold months fewer runners, bikers, and walkers travel along the shoulder of the highway where they drop all manner of personal items like modern day Hansels and Gretels. Likewise, car windows remain rolled up against the elements, so there are fewer opportunities for lost items to show up on the side of the road. As spring begins, and I enter another season of abundance on my walk, I thought I would reflect on some of my more recent finds.

In part one of the Shoulder Bags and Other Accesories post, I recounted that my first find was a reusable bag, promoting some pharmaceutical company. Lots of other bags have shown up on my route in the last couple of years, but I no longer collect them. I stopped after reading a newspaper story about a man who had to be put in isolation because he picked up a sack on the road that contained dangerous drug making materials. I had visions of myself being stripped down and scrubbed by a hazmat unit like Cher in Silkwood. Remember that movie from the '80's where Cher (or was it Meryl Streep?) got contaminated by chemicals in the Kerr-McGee plant? I don't think I'd mind the public nakedness as much as the body scrubbing which would create seismic tidal waves of jiggling. Yikes! Those are tsunamis that would just keep coming! Anyway, I've stopped picking up roadside bags.

Finding money is a given. Hardly a week goes by that I don't find some kind of coin, usually just pennies, but I pick up enough silver to keep things interesting. When I go for extended periods without discovering any pennies, the universe seems to adjust by throwing silver in my path. One day I found so many silver coins on the shoulder of the road, that I accused a friend of salting my route like some kind of fiduciary fairy tale witch. He denied any culpability, but I'm still suspicious.

Not all the monetary items I find are coins. I found my second paper dollar last fall. Unlike the first one I discovered which was fluttering lightly atop some weeds, ready to fly away just seconds before I grabbed it, the second one lay hunkered down in a cove created by the broken asphalt on the side of the road. A second piece of monetary paper I found is a bright pink, five hundred Gran Banco note which is either legal tender from a country I don't recognize or part of a Spanish Monopoly game. I use it as a bookmark.

I also discovered a valid, activated Visa card in my path. When I called the corporation number to report my find, the company representative lauded me with praise for taking the time---unlike most people---to contact them. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I only called after my special someone gave me a sweet, but sadly disappointed, smile when I said a call wasn't necessary; I could just shred the card. I hate when he's right; it shifts the power paradigm in our relationship.

I'm a heavy metal lover, and I'm not just referring to Led Zeppelin. I'm attracted to all sorts of metals.....the cool feel of them, the heft of them in my hands. The shoulder of the road has provided me with all sorts of metal objets d'art.....well, they're art to me. The smooth, circular heaviness of the trailer hitch knob I found on my daily walk delighted me all the way home; as do the various giant bolts, nuts, and unidentifiable parts of tools that populate my walk. They all find their way to my garage where I spend time contemplating how to incorporate them into art projects.

The Missouri transportation department provides me with some of the oversized metal pieces, I believe. I find most of the Brobdingnagian screws and bolts after some roadside project has taken place. The DOT also gifted me with one of my most colorful roadside finds. For several days on my walk two summers ago, I noticed the reflective orange color of a transportation sign. Thinking that surely the state workers would come back to retrieve it, I walked on, but, on the third day, I examined the sign more closely and realized that it was destined for a gal with my political leanings.....in large, black letters it read, “LEFT.” I took it home.

My most prized roadside find required a strong nephew and his truck to get home. The large, disjointed section of metal pipes and cylinders I spied on a side road I walk to reach a full five miles each day interested me almost immediately. I waited two days before I decided it needed to come home with me. The loving, but confused, nephew who showed up to move the piece told me my find was the exhaust system from a pickup truck which was probably stolen and stashed on the side street for a later retrieval.

Originally I had visualized the metal unit as a kind of upright sculpture for my backyard, a la Ernest Trova and Laumeier Park, but, the longer the piece lay in my driveway, the clearer it spoke to me, saying, “Make me a snake!” I am delighted every day when I see him in the backyard, and, when the snow melts off his back each spring, that's my signal that it's time to find new treasures on the shoulder of the road.

 

Doing Sixty on the Shoulder

Doing Sixty on the Shoulder

September 24, 2014

            Today I am 60, and I’ve decided that I don’t know what that number means.  A few days ago I spent time peering into the mirror, trying to get use to the idea.  I kept repeating aloud, “You’re going to be 60.  60!  You. Will. Be. 60! The Big 6-0!”  Nothing. The more I said the number the more meaningless it became.  I recently heard a local news reporter describe a victim of a crime as, “…an elderly man, around 60.” Elderly?!  Is that me?  Am I elderly?

            My grandmother use to tell me, “If you can’t admit your years, you don’t deserve them.”  I don’t mind admitting my years.  I just can’t figure out if this milestone number marks some significant change I’m suppose to make.  Is there a protocol for sixty-ness that I need to follow?  The phrase, “age appropriate” now takes on scary overtones.  Do I retire the high heels and don sensible shoes?  Do I put down the bourbon and pick up a cup of tea?  Am I banned from Victoria’s Secret and doomed to a future filled with white cotton undies? Am I finished with things, or am I just beginning?

            .

             Frankly, it feels like a beginning.  I’m in the best health of my life; I wear a smaller dress than I did in high school; and I’m in love.  Ain’t that a kick in the head?  At my advanced age…..and, believe me, I’d put the whole idea in the trunk with all the other mementoes of the past….I’m giggly and giddy all because of a boy!  And I finally understand all that stuff about loving and being loved by someone warts, wrinkles, flatulence, aches, pains, and all by someone who thinks I’m wonderful and who knows I feel the same about him.  It’s probably painful for others to watch, but I’m having too much fun to care.

            A kind of serene calmness accompanies me these days.  No longer am I driven by a nerve-wracking need to achieve and accomplish.  There’s nothing I need to prove to anyone or myself.  I feel more content than I ever have. My crowd of friends fills my life with laughter and delight; my beloved parents are still in the world to wake me with loving birthday wishes; and my beautiful daughter is bright, articulate, educated and employed.  I wake up grateful for every new day.

            It’s probably not age appropriate, but I’m feeling pretty damned excited about the years to come.  I know there are more days behind me than in front of me, but I’m not troubled by that realization.  The future is a rare, sweet nectar I plan to savor and enjoy drop by drop as long as it lasts.

            My daily stroll on the shoulder of the highway makes a loop that always brings me back home, but today, as I topped my first summit, I saw myself continuing up over that hill in the distance, making my way toward all the beautiful possibilities that lie ahead.  On this twenty-fourth day of September in the year of our Lord two thousand and fourteen, I am sixty!…. and I’ve decided that number means blessed.

I am Strong When I am on Your Shoulders

I am Strong When I am on Your Shoulders

            Church has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It started with my great aunt, Ruth, God rest her soul, who lived down the street and decided, when I was five or so, that I should go to church with her family.  Since Aunt Ruth ultimately had nine children, I guess she decided that hauling one more kid to church wouldn’t make that much difference.  So off we would go on Sunday mornings, a couple of kids in the rear cargo area of the station wagon, three or four on the backseat and one in the front squeezed between Aunt Ruth and Uncle Walter, a meek, taciturn man whose mild manner belied his obvious baby making potency….still waters do apparently run deep.  We wore no seatbelts, no safety restraints of any type except for the occasional arm across the chest if you happened to be the kid in the front seat; otherwise, we simply rolled and tumbled around in the car like so much loose change, making our way to Sunday worship, appropriately, on a wing and a prayer.

            And that was the start of my church history….Sunday school, vacation Bible school, church camps, revivals, GA’s (the Baptist take on Girl Scouts), women’s auxiliary groups.  Eventually, my parents attended church regularly as well, so, with the exception of that brief period of non-attendance in college that I went through, which was really more about being too lazy to get up on Sunday mornings than any questioning of my faith, church has always been an integral part of my life.  Today I’m a soprano in the choir, a committee member, a women’s group officer, and an adult education teacher.

            This litany of church activities isn’t some sort of brag list.  It’s a little background to illustrate that perhaps I should not have been surprised that a kind of spiritual element inserted itself into my walk on the shoulder of the highway.  But I was taken aback.  My walk is about better health and a smaller dress size.  It wasn’t supposed to be about having a religious experience, but I did…kind of.

            Religious is a bit misleading, perhaps.  I don’t want to paint a picture of myself as Paul on the road to Damascus or Bernadette at Lourdes talking to the beautiful Lady.  What I’ve experienced have been occasional, brief episodes of heightened awareness, of connection.  In those moments I feel lifted up and linked to…..the universe, to everything.  The pulse I hear pounding in my ears echoes and re-echoes all around me, reflected from the rocks and sky and ground beneath my feet.   I feel simultaneously infinite and microscopic, towering over the tallest trees, gazing down at the Earth below, while, at the same time, peering up at the blue sky through tiny blades of grass. 

            Two years ago when I began my daily walks, my goal was to drop a few pounds and, perhaps, to drop some of the ideas and attitudes that had burdened me my whole life and contributed to my obesity.  Despite being loved by wonderful parents and relatives, I struggled with feelings of insecurity and inadequacy.  I constantly grappled with the need to prove myself, while others seemed to possess an assurance about their worth.  Innately, they understood something that I didn’t. Just as other people seemed to wear their clothes with ease while mine pulled and pinched, they were also comfortable in the world; they fit.

            In those short, focused spans of awareness on the highway, the presence of the Divine in the universe becomes clearly evident to me, and, as importantly, my place in the grand scheme of things is affirmed.  An overwhelming sense of belonging fills me with joy, and I experience a rare moment of feeling completely adequate, of being enough.  I understand that I don’t need to earn my place. I am. Fat or thin, dull or clever, attractive or plain, I was meant to be here, and my presence is enough.

            My moments of clarity, unfortunately, are brief.  With the blast of a car horn or the roar of a motorcycle, I’m back on the shoulder of the road, sweat dripping, knees aching, back to the mundane, everyday experience of the world around me. But the connection doesn’t completely evaporate.  There’s a residual spring in my step and smile on my face.  The knowledge stays with me and lifts me up.  I belong. I am enough. I fit.

Soggy Shoulders

November 14, 2013

Soggy Shoulders

            For whatever reason one of the things I worried about most when I began walking on the shoulder of the road was getting caught in the rain.  I became obsessed with cloud interpretation.  Were they getting darker? Were they moving faster? Prior to heading out for my stroll, I would scan the skies with the frantic intensity of a post apocalyptic survivor searching for imminent signs of acid rain.

            I’ve had some close calls. I’ve walked in some light mists and one brief, moderate shower, but on those occasions I was prepared and carried a plastic poncho, so the impact of the precipitation was minimal.  My concern was being caught completely unawares in a downpour at the farthest point in my daily stroll…..and that’s exactly what happened last week.

            I mistakenly believed the television meteorologist who assured me that, despite the gloomy skies, there would be no rain.  The deluge started a third of the way into my walk. There was nothing to do but pull the hood of my apparently not waterproof windbreaker tighter and keep walking.  As I stood on the concrete island at the intersection which serves as my turnaround point, I could see the drivers waiting to make their left turns staring at me, and I suddenly realized that this had been my great fear….looking ridiculous, being the focus of critical stares, appearing foolish to strangers.  It was a situation I’d been desperate to avoid my entire adult life.  On the heels of that first realization came another one----I didn’t care. 

            In that moment I remembered a summer afternoon many years ago when my now-grown daughter was just five or six.  A sudden, non-violent summer shower caught us in the yard, and, because our house is isolated from neighbors and street traffic, we stripped to our underwear and danced in the rain.  I watched my sweet girl, sturdy, brown legs lifting and pumping as she pranced and jumped around with her long, dark hair hanging in wet waves down her back, her grinning, gap-toothed face turned to the sky, arms outstretched, and marveled at the picture of pure, unadulterated joy of being she presented.

            Somehow my daily walk has not only changed the way I look, but has also changed the way I look at the world. As some of the drivers and their passengers grinned and waved at me, I grinned back.  I did look foolish.  Here was this crazy lady standing in the rain, water running down her face, and, apparently, she was enjoying the experience. I was enjoying it!  I was soaking wet, raindrops dripping off my nose, and it was a hoot!  I’d gotten caught in the rain, and, despite what some of my former students might have expected, I didn’t melt into a hissing pile of workout clothes, wailing, “What a world! What a world!”  And, more importantly, I didn’t morph into the shamed, humiliated individual I was so often in the past. I turned my face to the sky, grinned at the clouds, and just kept walking.

            I will shamefacedly admit that, when I encounter some Chicken Soup for the Soul type saying, I’m the person who rolls her eyes at the over-simplified, sickly sweet sentiment.  After my shoulder stroll in the rain, however, I remembered a plaque I saw at a recent art fair.  It read, Life isn’t about avoiding the storms; it’s about learning to dance in the rain.  Hmmmm….okay, so maybe that one has some merit.

Zen and the Art of Shoulderwalking

October 15, 2013

Zen and the Art of Shoulderwalking*

                                               * with apologies to Robert M. Pirsig

         

          The self-improvement program I began two and a half years ago was not my first attempt.  During the thirty-three years of my career, I started some diet program or exercise regime at least once a week.  Some would last for several weeks or months; most didn’t make it through the end of the first day.

          While trying to balance the demands of my career, childrearing, and housekeeping, any attempts to exercise more or eat better were simply additional tasks that went on a “to do” list I grudgingly struggled to complete.  Eventually, they became abandoned, unchecked items on that list, just another self-condemning indication, like the size of my thighs, of my failure.

          When I did exercise, my focus was always on getting through the experience as quickly--because there were always a thousand other demands to tend to--and painlessly as possible. Exercise was a burdensome task I didn’t want to dwell on.  I continued with that same attitude when I began walking on the shoulder of the road.  Initially, I listened to audiobooks as I walked and then changed to a music playlist.  Regardless of what was playing in my ear, my goal was the same --- to try to mentally remove or distract myself from what I was doing.  That attitude, I discovered, was my mistake.

          Any familiarity I have with Zen comes completely from pop culture. Scenes of serenely smiling, robed masters dispensing pearls of ancient wisdom from cloud-enshrouded mountaintops or comical attempts to “be the ball” come to mind when I consider what I supposedly know about Zen. While I’ve never studied the philosophy and, admittedly, my sources of information have been skewed by the media, I do think I’ve uncovered some nuggets of beneficial information.

          One of the most accessible Zen concepts to understand focuses on mindfulness, being present in the moment.  Philosophers tell us the past is unchangeable and the future is unknowable; in order to experience life abundantly, therefore, the present should have our complete attention.  On the shoulder of the road this concept translates into concentrating on the walk, to embracing all aspects of my daily stroll, the pleasant and unpleasant alike…..and, perhaps even more than merely accepting all aspects of the walk, I’m expected to revel in them.   

          In the last few months, in particular, I’ve been working on that reveling, on taking delight in all elements of my exercise routine.  Rather than grouse about the heat of summer days, I’ve tried to soak up the warmth and think about its benefits.  When the day is gray and cloudy, I focus on the positive aspects of a shadier walk and the relief of receiving some rain.  Whether it’s the scores of cars streaming past me or the miles of black asphalt I travel on, I’ve attempted to find the uniqueness of each seemingly similar walk, to find some enjoyment in each day’s journey.

          Reveling in the walk’s physical demands has proved more challenging.  In his magnificent poem, I Sing the Body Electric, Walt Whitman catalogues, in great detail, the parts of the human body down to eye lashes and finger joints, but not only does he enumerate body parts, he celebrates and rejoices with awe and wonder at the delight of being a human being, with heart pumping, lungs filling, eyes to see, and mouths to sing.  My aching knees, swollen feet, and painful back hardly seem to be sources of jubilation, but, when I use the discomfort to remind me that my body is strong, moving and working as it should, the appreciation for how I’m made and the privilege of being able to exercise comes.

          Whether my approach to embracing my daily stroll seems influenced by Zen philosophy, the count your blessings admonition of my Christian upbringing or, even, the cotton candy teachings of Pollyanna, I’m attempting to find the extraordinary in my ordinary routine which reaches the same finish line every day.  The larger lesson is, of course, abundantly clear; all of us---all of us---are headed to the same ultimate destination. Our mindfulness and celebration of this one trip we get will determine how much we enjoy ourselves along the way.

The Shoulder is an Erogenous Zone

August 12, 2013

The Shoulder is an Erogenous Zone

I love to make the people stare; they know I got that certain savoir-faire.”

                                                                                          -Christina Aguilera from Express

My daily walk turns me on.

Let me be clear. I don’t mean that the increase of endorphins and serotonin levels resulting from the physical activity creates a euphoric sense of well being in me.  I mean (Here’s where we cue the familiar background music from 70’s porn movies---“ bow chicka bow wow”) the walk turns me on.  Like another pleasurable pastime adults enjoy, I eagerly anticipate my walk; I’m totally enthralled in the experience while I’m doing it; and I’m completely sated when it’s over.  Two or three important elements contribute to making me feel all worked up and stimulated each day by my eighty minutes on the shoulder of the road.

Spandex is one of the reasons I feel so good when I walk.  When I first began my daily stroll, I wore loose-fitting shirts and stretch-waist polyester pants in an attempt to disguise my shape.  As the months went by and I continued to walk and lose weight, I confidently chose more form-fitting workout clothes, spandex shirts and pants that smooth and shape and cling in the most flattering way. I also discovered a wide world of athletic undergarments, including – who knew? – an underwire sports bra.  While such a garment might not appeal to some ladies, I come from a long line of buxom women who proudly display their curves, so no bosom-flattening athletic bras for me.  I’ve always had an hourglass figure; it’s just that, prior to the weight loss, the hourglass was extra large.  Now I love striding up and down my hills in sleek, flattering workout clothes that don’t need to disguise a thing and actually sort of demand, “Hey, look at me!”

While the clothes I wear make me feel pretty darn sexy during my walk, part of the jazzed up feeling I get also comes from my posture.  Following the sports experts’ advice about effective walking, I’ve focused on how I hold my body when I walk –head high, shoulders back, chest out, stomach pulled in with rear tucked under, and pelvis tipped up.  While all those steps sound complicated, they blend together to create a stride that is powerful, confident, and just happens to show off the body to its best advantage.  Actually, it’s not so much a stride as…..well, it’s a strut!  There’s no other word for it.  Arms and hips swinging, I strut my way past lines of traffic with a posture that shouts, “How ya like me now?”

Another factor that makes my walk such a turn on is the music I listen to.  I’ve talked about my walking playlist in a previous post, but there are a few songs, in particular, that lend themselves to on-the-road hotness.  From her opening lusty grunt to her last whispered, “Oo la la” in the song, Paris, Grace Potter along with The Nocturnals demands that a hesitant lover make his move and then boldly describes what she would do in his place. In Sexy Back Justin Timberlake’s lascivious invitations to “get your sexy on” would make any girl tingle all over, but especially when she’s already hot and breathing hard.  The queen of provocative walking songs on my playlist, however, is Christina Aguilera.  In two songs from the movie, Burlesque, Aguilera growls her suggestions to the listener to get up, strut, and show off those sexy moves. Some days I get so caught up channeling Christina’s wanton encouragement playing in my head that I’m just a pole short of delivering a full-throttle runway show for the folks speeding down the highway.

This newly-acquired comfort with showing off puzzles me.  I’ve spent most of my adulthood trying to avoid being looked at.  I have a reputation for being obsessively punctual, and even habitually early to events, but people never realized that my compulsive punctuality was the result of being mortified at the thought of walking into a room already filled with a large group, searching to find an available spot, tugging and squeezing my way between rows of seated folks, and wedging myself into a usually too-small chair, the focus of everyone’s attention.  While my deeply buried, internal performer has always desired attention, the overweight, insecure, exterior me cowered at the thought of facing humiliating criticism and ridicule.  My sense of freedom on the highway shoulder is probably fostered, in part, by the fact that my audience speeds by at sixty miles an hour.  Whether they approve or disapprove of my display, the ambiguous honk of a horn fading in the distance is all I ever hear.

      My daily walk is most satisfying.  After being all pumped up for eighty minutes or so, I arrive home from the shoulder of the highway breathing hard, sweaty, and happily exhausted.  It’s a good thing I don’t smoke, or I’d need to light up a cigarette.

Shoulder Savages

May 31, 2013

Shoulder Savages

            A fight broke out in my neighborhood at three a.m. the other morning and woke me up.  Neighborhood is a little misleading, since the houses in my subdivision are separated by large, wooded lots, and the noisy altercation was a lot closer.  I was awakened by the thud of bodies hitting my roof! The vicious growls and high-pitched squeals of desperation indicated a raccoon brawl was taking place just above my bedroom.

            Ordinarily, I wouldn’t write about the fight, since it didn’t take place on my daily shoulder walk, but the next morning, as I walked through the narrowest, most heavily wooded section of my gravel road, I heard a distinct growl in the underbrush nearby.  Suddenly, I reconsidered whether the menacing growls I heard on the roof were really those of a dominating raccoon.  There have been cougar sightings in our county.  One of the big cats decimated a livestock herd last summer in a nearby town.  Could that have been what I heard in the undergrowth?

            I have to give my mom and dad credit.  When I told them my theory about the sound from the bushes, they managed to keep completely straight faces with almost no eye rolling at all.  They’ve listened to my wild imaginings for fifty-eight years and have learned how to respond.  Could the source of the sound have been something other than a wildcat running amok in High Ridge they asked, using the calm, deliberately neutral voice of skilled, mental healthcare workers dealing with an excitable patient?  I conceded that it was possible the sound might have been the deep-throated croak of a bull frog; although, I quickly pointed out that the two sounds are similar, so we couldn’t completely rule out the cougar possibility.

            It’s true that I haven’t run into too many wild critters on my daily walks, and few, if any, of those could truthfully be described as savage.  The largest animal I’ve encountered was a white-tailed buck standing in the middle of my little gravel road very early one morning last July.  If I understand how to count the prongs properly, he sported an eight point rack and considered me with something more like disdain than savagery. After giving me a bored glance, he strolled---it’s the only word for it---up the hillside into the woods.

             Other animals I’ve met on the road were considerably smaller than the deer.  Rounding a bend on my street last week, I was surprised to see a line of three tortoises, each separated by twenty or thirty feet, moving down the road.  I felt like I was bringing up the rear of a very slow moving parade.  None of them took note of me as I passed by.  Actually, most of the animals that cross my path on my walk pay little attention to me.  Rabbits and squirrels dash back and forth across the road as I march along, taking care of their business despite my presence.

            Not surprisingly, the animals I’ve had the most contact with on my daily stroll are dogs.  When I first started walking, I carried a large stick, but only through one section of my route where there were lots of dogs.  I stopped toting the stick when I realized that my neighbors are pretty responsible; for the most part, the dogs were all secured.....with a couple of exceptions.

            One morning last summer as I was returning home, a dark streak moving through the trees caught my eye.  I wasn’t sure what the movement was or even if I’d really seen something, but as I entered a straight section of the road, I could see two hundred feet in front of me, standing stock still, a large, black Rottweiler. I came to a halt, uncertain whether I should continue toward the dog, and it stared straight at me without moving. In my head, I began to hear the music from The Omen.  Remember that old movie from the ‘70’s, where every time the large Rottweiler appeared, accompanied by mysterious Latin chanting, some type of horrible mayhem occurred?  (This is the kind of melodramatic thinking that my parents have had to deal with for years.)  After a moment, the dog turned away and raced off up the road.

            My neighbor’s Rottweiler is a mild-mannered sweetie named Raven. I decided she had escaped somehow and was the dog I’d seen that morning.  When I commented to her owner that I’d seen the dog on the road, however, he maintained that she’d never left the yard……cue the music from Twilight Zone.

            My other canine encounter had a different outcome.  As I was moving through that section of the neighborhood with the strong dog presence, I saw a medium-sized, shepherd-type fellow racing toward me across a couple of unfenced backyards, yapping all the way.  I grabbed up a completely insubstantial tree branch and tried not to panic. Deciding that the best defense is a good offense, I turned to face the dog, pointed my stick at him like Moses condemning Pharaoh with his staff, and, using my best James Earl Jones voice, bellowed, “Nooooo!”  Instantaneously, the dog’s perky tail clamped down between his legs, his ears flattened, and he dropped to the ground.  From his belly-dragging posture, his whole demeanor whined, “Geez, lady! I was just trying to be friendly. Chill!”

            Okay, so maybe savages is a bit of an exaggeration,…..but I’ll keep looking out for that cougar.