I’m Sorry I Accidentally Super Liked You on Bumble, but Now That I Have Your Attention When Does a Hill Become a Mountain?
It wouldn’t be porn. If someone seized and searched my laptop, they would find a peppering of phrases and questions such “mama sheep human attack.” “When does a hill become a mountain?” “I’m Sorry show.” “Accidentally super liked on Bumble.” “Surrounded by seals.” Streamed together, the story might read “I’m sorry I accidentally super liked you on Bumble, but now that I have your attention when does a hill become a mountain?” or “What to do when you find yourself surrounded by seals.” Because there was this one time. Insert ellipsis, and wait.
Yes, I know that when I’m speaking to a person versus the Great Google, I should conserve words. Accuracy may be key, but it’s not a keystroke. Likely, you want me to eliminate “mama” before “sheep.” Despite what you may think, I also know that a mama sheep is a ewe (note: not “an”), but for some reason I feel compelled to call her as I saw her and that night she was a mama sheep. If you were to dig a little deeper, you would discover that these searches were conducted either at 6:00 a.m. or 9:30 p.m. Bookends to my day, the need to know seemed urgent. How could I fall asleep if I didn’t have a clear understanding of the probability of ewe attack? See that doesn’t sound right, especially given the counsel of counting said animal when prone to the personal hell AKA insomnia.
Once, while traipsing around the bogs of Ireland, as one does when in the land of the green and rolling, I found myself a hill shy of the Guinness estate. This sounds like an insult that may or may not be acceptable to use these days. “She was one hill shy of a Guinness estate.” What it means, I leave entirely up to the above-mentioned resource or, perhaps, a conversation starter for the men I accidentally swiped right on when I should really clean my phone. My finger keeps getting stuck on a particular region of the screen. From what you ask? Well, all that research and a crumble of the world’s finest chocolate chip cookie from the bakery that is my equivalent of Cheers given that my preferred vice is sugar and gluten, please.
But to return to my story, I was not on a mission for a pint. I think we all know at this point, that given the chance to commune with hops I prefer field over brew. My only connection to the liquid stuff being that a once friend gave me the nickname of IPA, because I am half-Indian and half-white. So, there I am in the great Northwest of Ireland having a stare down with the resident flock of sheep not thinking about how you’re supposed to tilt a glass when pouring beer from the tap to prevent too much head (circle back to what you won’t find on my browser history). I’m certainly not considering the time I was surrounded by mama and baby seals while kayaking, because that hadn’t happened yet. If it had, I was on land, the only oar in my possession a recently purchased same-titled collection by the local poet, Moya Cannon. My arms would have to function as paddles.
Time being what it was, it stretched like that expanse from whichever bog I had accidentally wandered into or onto, however one traverses across land that may swallow you up in an instant. Alpha mama locked eyes with me in the way that only a sheep can, rectangle pupils peering deep into my soul. And as all six of our combined legs planted firm into the sinking, I could envision an alternate reality below the shifting firmament. All the lore about shape-shifting goblins or púca had nothing on these ruminants. One additional step forward and the earth would open, a trap door ushering me into the next world as mama sheep stamped her foot or bowed her head or made whatever command necessary to reset the peat neatly over my trapped body.
Now being now, no amount of internet searches will validate the wily ways of sheep. Ultimately, a person like me will not rest until she understands why Blueberry Hill is just a hill and what it could do to graduate to mountain status. Does it need to stand with its back a little straighter or threaten to blow? Oh no. Revise. This is not about sex. If every mountain is not an active volcano, at what point does it become majestic? No, that’s not right either. This isn’t a beauty contest for landscapes or metric for volatility.
Sometimes, the mind like a pinball machine. Sometimes, a boomerang. Or, more accurately, a cylinder for unanswered questions that go ping in the night. If a thought has yet to be searched. If definitions conflict. If an opinion has yet to be tweeted into reality. If a mama sheep is just a mama sheep is just a mama sheep.
