Mountain, Meet Molehill

Living in Colorado, it's hard to imagine how the saying making a mountain out of a molehill really took off. While we're pretty solid on the concept of mountain, do any of my neighbors even know what a molehill looks like? They couldn't possibly.

Whether they've seen one or not, I guess we all know the saying presumes that a molehill is insignificant. It's basically nothing in the grand scheme of things. Or in the grand scheme of yards, as the case may be. 

But I grew up in Kansas, and if you'd have introduced me to the saying back then I'd have been utterly unable to wrest the true meaning from it. Why? Because molehills were a big freaking deal at my house. That's why. The various traps my dad set for them were the stuff of nightmares. And even when he briefly abandoned the springs and spikes for seemingly innocuous wads of Juicy Fruit, you somehow knew the moles were in no less trouble.

So while I now understand the molehills in the saying are supposed to represent something that's no big deal, I still have a hard time believing it. I cannot help but think that one man's molehill is another man's mountain. And surely I'm right. Somewhat because this is my blog and I get to be right; but also because we've all observed the way some people can roll with a given punch while others get knocked out in the first round.

I think we'd all like to think of ourselves as people who make molehills out of mountains. In public, we decrease the significance of any blows life gives us to communicate our strength and resiliency, and to minimize any pity that may come our way. In private, we throw all our Juicy Fruit down the hole and hope like hell that'll be enough to stop the spread.

But what happens when we hit a genuine mountain? A disruption so significant that no amount of bravado or gum will get us through to the other side?

I hope you didn't come here for answers to that kind of question, people. Unless the answer you need is: "go to therapy." I'll tell you that all day long if you ask my advice. I'm basically the Oprah of therapy. "You get therapy! And you get therapy! And here's some therapy for you!" Except I'm not paying for your therapy. I'm not actually Oprah.  

If I was Oprah, I'd have access to a whole list of people who have traversed mountains with great solemnity and grace and come out on the other side super zen and with alarmingly nice teeth. People who didn't eat one single fellow traveler on their journey. People who call their journey a journey.

But as I've already confessed, I'm not Oprah. The people I know (me) eat their travel buddies all the time! We don't talk about journeys, we talk about surviving one damn afternoon with a fussy toddler or an annoying first-grader. We are not so much zen as we are unapologetically irritable. And instead of demanding better from each other, we cheer each other on. We say, "Preach" and we throw up the Katniss three fingers of solidarity.

So I guess that's the answer, then. Especially if therapy isn't an option. When we hit the mountains, we lean in to our friends. The really good ones who don't get out their binoculars and protractors to determine the exact height of your peak. The ones who know that one man's molehill may be your mountain on any given day, and they have no judgement for that. Or if they do have judgement, they'll save it until you're back in the valley and you've drunk plenty of victory wine.

Mountains are going to rise and moles are going to wreck up your yard. Them's the facts. So get out there and find some friends who will enable you to pretend the elevation isn't rising no matter how out of breath you get, and who will let you get all geared up and treat that molehill like a fourteener. What more could you really need?

Not pictured: NY & CA BFFs who stupidly don't live on my mountain.