Monday, September 09, 2013
I'm On Top of the World
Last month we moved to our new home in Provo, Utah. It is a beautiful area, we love the neighborhood, we love the spaciousness of the house, and we feel absolutely spoiled being here. Christmas is going to look great! The kitchen is wide open and has a fireplace! Lots of bedrooms for our sprawling offspring! (Hmm. Sprawling Offspring. Did I just stumble upon the title for my memoirs?) Trees surround the house and the wind whispers through them. The view from the back deck is breathtaking.
Have I painted a pretty enough picture for you? Because I am now going to tell you what TERRIFIES me about this house.
It's on top of the most giant hill in the world. Seriously, you guys, uh-THE GIANTIST! If this hill was a rollercoaster track and this house was the car, I would NOT go down it. (And I've never backed down from a rollercoaster ride yet. Becaues I'm extremely brave. But I WOULD on this one!)
Every time I drive home from work I begin praying AND fasting (just for the drive home, and also after I have my driving-home snack) that I will make it up the hill! I drive a Camry, you guys. A 2005 Cam-freaking-ry! (Is that where you place “freaking?” I don't use a lot of C-level swears.)
So I'm almost home and I begin ascending Mt. Kilimanjaro, and I bust through the atmosphere and the Delta-airline-manufactured oxygen mask drops from my car ceiling (it was an anniversary gift from Katie) and I strap it on and then terror sinks in as I contemplate the inevitable...
One day soon, before the end of the year, this hill will be buried in snow. And I will have to drive up it. Or worse. Down it.
In all sincerity, I've had panic attacks about this. I will be lying in bed, lights off and the whole world is still. Trying to dose off, just on the verge of drifting into my night-nights...when the paralyzing image of me attempting to navigate our 12-passenger van careening down the snow-packed slope that is our street overpowers all other thoughts.
I've done preliminary research and asked neighbors who have lived here for years what I should expect. I get everything from, “Oh, yeah, it's treacherous. You'll often have to leave your car at the bottom of the hill. We circulate a list of phone numbers of people on the street who will come pick you up on their snowmobile and take you home,” to “In 30 years I've only ever had to hike home three times. Of course you have a four-wheel drive, right?” And I say, “Of course,” because I don't want them to think I'm the idiot neighbor who has no idea if his Camry has four-wheel drive. (It doesn't, right? I knew it. Cam-freaking-rys!)