Thursday, October 13, 2011

Lions, and tigers, and..

This summer my very loving husband turned the monsters under my bed into something much much MUCH scarier. Much.

My personal boogyman is from the family Ursidae.

It started on a backpacking trip, where I was constantly reminded that we were going to have to hang our food in a tree due to midnight scavengers that would love to munch on our granola, but also would filet our internal organs, and wear our skins like happy winter mittens if given the opportunity. After a couple hours of that sort of romantic type talk keeping time to our trudge up the mountain, I had built up quite the aversion to all things Teddy Ruxpin. Bears were enemy numero uno that night, and I was on my guard... in as much that I stayed up all night fully aware of all furry sounds and monstrous shadows. It was that OR I was experiencing very realistic bear-filled dreams. Dreams that mimicked my camping trip down to what color of nail-polish graced my bleeding disembodied toes. In the middle of the night I shot up, remembering that my lip balm was ginger flavored... a potential bear-lure. I made Chris throw it into the woods, then, finding that the mountain air play havoc on my lips, spent a good chunk of my morning digging through the great outdoors to find where it had landed.

Bears are not to be joked about.

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