A few weeks ago I misplaced my mind and suggested that my husband and I and another couple try stand-up paddleboarding. In case you aren’t familiar with it, this is an activity that employs a floating board, a paddle, a body of water, a capacity for loosely related flashbacks and a few hours of your life you can never get back.
“Did you love it?” asks everyone.
I want to say “yes.” I want to join the legions of people who swear that paddleboarding surpasses fun and goes right to the heart of transcendent. But I cannot tell a lie.
As the four of us stared into the gloomy depths of the Tennessee River as we waited to launch, I was reminded of the moment I sunk my hands into clay for the first time and hated the slimy feel of it, after which, for reasons I cannot explain, I decided to become a potter. Likewise, at the moment I stared into the murky river and felt the full power of my water phobia revving up, I knelt on my board and pushed off into the river. I was the last to stand up, the slowest to paddle, the loudest to complain and the last, by far, to finish.
“Everything’s not a competition,” I was reminded by my husband, who races through his morning yogurt, throws down his spoon and announces triumphantly, “I won!” Every. Day.