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them on and go. You’ll have the trails all to yourself.” Grandmother didn’t sell snowshoes.
    “I want something that will keep me in shape. You ski?”
    “Not really. Not since I was in junior high. I used to ski with Grandmother.”
    “You liked it?”
    “Yes.” Grandmother and I skied at odd hours. If we got to Mueller by 5:30 AM , we could put in two good hours before we had to pack up and head home so she could open the shop. In the dead of winter, we could ski at least an hour before sunrise. It was magical, sliding through silent snow-shrouded forests, watching the darkness retreat until it was banished by the sun. I loved how blue puddles of night lay abandoned in the ridges of snow. How a handful of stars fought off the morning, glimmering in the lightening sky.
    If the moon was full, or close to it, we would also ski at night. I always imagined myself as Lucy, walking through Narnia’s frozen world with Mr. Tumnus by my side. Night skiing was extra exciting because it was illicit; I knew if I had been home, I would already have been in bed. I loved the clear moon-glazed nights. But sometimes we would have a full moon during the crossing of weather systems, when thin strands of clouds were being pulled across the moon. On those nights I always skied looking over my shoulder. Shadows flitted, and the darkness of the forest seemed to pulse.
    “Want to go?”
    “Where?”
    “Skiing. This winter.”
    “I don’t even know where my skis are anymore.”
    “Buy new ones. Maybe your grandmother would give you a discount.”
    I bit into the last onion ring. It had already gone soggy. “I’m not a very good teacher.”
    “Who says I need lessons?”
    “Have you ever cross-countried before?”
    “No, but I used to downhill all the time.”
    “Then you need lessons.”
    “If I take lessons, then will you ski with me?”
    “I’m not the only person in town who skis.”
    Joe’s hamburger had already disappeared. He chugged the last of his Coke and then pulled his chin into his neck to hide a burp. “That’s true.” He winked. “Maybe I should ask your grandmother.”

THE CUBICLE NEXT DOOR BLOG
    SUVs
    John Smith wouldn’t be so bad, except that he drives an SUV. A Socially Unsustainable Vehicle.
    Why do people need so much space? Why don’t they learn how to pack lighter? And why do they need to sit so high above the ground? It still doesn’t allow them to see over an 18-wheeler! I bought the smallest car I could find, and I bought it used. Great gas mileage. And when it finally falls apart, I’ll buy an electric car. Which creates its own set of conundrums because my city uses environmentally unfriendly ways to produce electricity.
    But that’s not what I was blogging about.
    I hate SUVs. Their owners can’t even reach the roof to wash them. They take up extra space in parking lots, they require so much gas they require me to pay more for my gas, and on top of that, they’re trying to kill me! My little car doesn’t stand a chance in a face-off against an SUV. It’s the equivalent of modern day jousting. Or boxing without separating the athletes into weight classes.
    And that’s what John Smith drives.
    Too bad.
    I might have been able to like him.
    Posted on June 12 in The Cubicle Next Door | Permalink
    Comments
    SUVs: Unsafe at any speed for humankind.
    Posted by: philosophie | June 12 at 10:22 PM

Four
     
    L ater in the week I found myself in the middle of a traffic jam on my way home. Traffic on I-25 had stacked up at the Interquest exit. That was bad. I was only three miles into my commute. I still had seven miles to go until I could get off at the Garden of the Gods exit. I didn’t have any other options.
    I fiddled with the car radio, adjusting it from my morning talk-radio channel to NPR. Finally made it to the Garden of the Gods exit.
    After turning south onto Thirtieth, I watched as Kissing Camels emerged from a background of striking red rocks. I imagined the camels to be