Crazy Girl

There was this girl in the first yoga class I ever took. Jen and I admiringly called her 'Crazy Girl.' She wore sparkly jeans to class, had wild hair that she never pulled back and was bubbly in a way that made her perfect for a job in retail. That spring at a yoga retreat we were silently walking around the Ottawa valley enjoying the calming bliss of too much yoga when we were interrupted by Crazy Girl running down the hill screaming "I'm Alive! I'm Alive!

The thing is, once you hit puberty there are only select activities where individual joyous yelling is generally appropriate. Roller coasters, sporting events and protests come to mind. But these are noisy places anyway. It takes a little stepping outside yourself to break through the normal everyday noise level with a little whoohoo.

As you may have already heard, I am living in hilly windy Wellington and have rejoined the ranks as a cyclecommuter. (wow- that word was acceptable to spellcheck) Anyway, there are couple of thrilling descents on my commute into town. They often remind me of Crazy Girl, because I'm sure as I 'Whee' and 'Whoohoo' my way downtown, I'm earning a similar nickname.