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My
Aloha Breakdown
A few months back, I lost my aloha. Aloha is the
ubiquitous Hawaiian idea of extreme courtesy mixed with a laid back attitude.
I can't count how many times my speeding BMW was graciously allowed to
beg into traffic or my neighbors returned my can after the garbage collector
pitched it halfway down the street. Come to think of it, I don't think
I've ever had aloha. I can prove it. Ask me anything and you'll surely
be sucked into the Vortex of Endless Complaints (a small, independent
state just west of Neurotic): Why is it so hot here? You mean there's
only one 24 hour Wal-Mart? What's with the flip-flops? Now, this footwear
problem is near to my heart, a rock-bottom, therapy-shunning shoe addict.
The flip-flop or "slippah" as it is commonly called is the shoe
of choice here, but damn it, it's just too casual for my liking. It's
merely a sole with a rubber doohickey to keep the bottom attached to your
foot. Your average sock has more parts. Moreover, these flip-flops can't
be good for your arches (stilettos aren't much better, but that's neither
here nor there) Will any of the podiatrists on island back me up on this
one?
Then again, maybe it's me. I'm a mainlander and city gal by birth. The
aroma of toxic fumes and the blare of traffic is my sunrise. It could
be that I'm just not cut out to live the relaxed lifestyle so prevalent
on this island. I need my cappuccino creamy (not too frothy), my clothes
dry-cleaned (light starch) and my heels high. If it's impossible for me
to arrive at my destination in less than twenty minutes, extreme road
rage sets in. I'm a swearing, tightly wound overachiever who substitutes
Tae-Bo for yoga.
That being said, my therapist I suggested that I try a more relaxed approach
to living. "Try a little aloha", she said. What's aloha? Did
I need a prescription or could I get it at Wal-Mart? Neither. My prescription
was a weekend in Maui to find my aloha.
My two-day sabbatical kicked off well enough. I arrived at the ranch and,
even without a hospital or strip mall within miles, I immediately felt
a calm descend. The mountains stood proud against the cloudless blue sky.
Just what the doctor ordered, I thought with a smile as my greeter offered
a plumeria lei and complimentary drink. The landscaping of the ranch was
exquisite. I checked in and got my key without incident. That was when
I unlocked the doorway to hell.
No television. No clocks. No telephone. Only a view of the crisp waves
cracking against the rocks of the Pacific Ocean. Well, what the hell was
I supposed to do with that? How was I to enjoy my knight in shining stage
makeup Sheppard Smith with no TV? How could I tell how much time I was
saving by multi-tasking or sinfully frittering away with no clock? My
therapist, not to mention the purveyors of this establishment, were clearly
plotting against me. They secretly wanted me to lose my mind! "That
was your plan all along, wasn't it?" I screamed into the spacious
cabin.
I whirled around, yanking open closet and dresser drawers. The emptiness
was telling. Not even a Gideon Bible. Even God was in on it! My knees
quivered and I hit the hardwood floor. Soon after I regained consciousness,
I came across the complimentary notepad and pen. I always say when all
else fails, make a list. It's worked for me before and, by jiminy, it
would work again.
Concentrating for a steady hand, I scribbled:
1. Hula,
2. Ukulele,
3. Internet.
I sat back and admired my work. The thick book of "What to do at
Hell Ranch" caught my eye. Hmm. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after
all. By the time dinner came and went, I had signed myself up for hula,
fresh flower lei making and ukulele instructions. I went to bed that night
determined to show up ten minutes early and be the best damned hula tourist
they'd ever seen.
Unfortunately, the following day was filled with one eye-opening experience
after another. The gift shop didn't stock my favorite brand of soap, so
I was forced to use the natural (read: rougher than a year in a North
Korean prison camp) stuff provided by the ranch. All day, I imagined hives
breaking out on my underside and hidden glass shards embedded in my knees.
I called in sick for hula on account of imminent hives. As for ukulele,
turns out my fingers were too short to ever play decently.
As if that weren't bad enough, the lone Internet computer within one hundred
miles was out of order. This meant I would spend at least another twenty-four
hours without checking my email. I briefly considered changing flights
and shoving off that night, but abandoned the idea when I realized I'd
have to coordinate it all on-line, as my mobile phone refused to work
in the boonies. Finally, I twisted my ankle and broke the heels on my
favorite sandals as I ran across the lawn chasing my favorite scarf.
At the end of my last day, I hobbled to my cabin weary, scarfless, and
rethinking the benefits of the stiletto-free slippah. Boarding the tiny
plane back to Oahu, I took stock of my mini-vacation. The weather had
been beautiful and the ranch staff beyond gracious. I could fake my way
through the "Hukilau" on the ukulele and could wiggle through
a not-so-decent hula to the same.
For two days, I didn't load the dishwasher once, forward one email or
catch one sale. When I opened the door to my apartment, the first thing
I saw was the frantically blinking light on the answering machine. My
mail had piled up at the door and that familiar feeling of calm descended
once more.
Laundry crept out of its closet and down the hall. Rotten food announced
its presence and deadlines mocked me. Fresh from a traumatic hiatus to
Maui, I'd finally arrived at my own oasis of haste, waste and disorder.
My therapist was right, I thought. I kicked off my new slippahs and started
on a new to-do list. I'd had aloha all along.
by
Keisha Poiro
18th November 2003
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