Delaware Himalaya

From the crest of the bridge, if I look out from my car, I can see a little rise of the earth on the horizon. Delaware's so small, that little hill is probably in Maryland! Everything else is flat all around. I can almost see the ocean from the top of the bridge, too, and it looks flat from here. For now, I will imagine the mountains that I can't see, rising beyond that little hill, in the Poconos, or the Appalachians, or the Adirondacks.
At the gym, I choose the "Variety" workout. Do I want to enter my age and weight to optimize my workout? And what do I want to monitor: strides, distance, or ___, whatever that is. For now, I will pretend the little blinking lights on the screen are leading me up Himalayan paths, over passes where I get a lookout to the peaks in the next range. I can pretend there's a tea shop at the bottom near the rushing mountain stream next to the wide-based resting tree. I can spot the village half-way up the next range where we hope to rest tonight, and I catch glimpses of the trail winding through clearings and between rocky outcroppings.
For now, I can pretend the smash mouth they play at the gym--to inspire fitness and sweat and performance? is the Himalayan thrush, and the call of the shepherds gathering their stock. Or maybe it's the kids singing as they walk to school in the morning.
I try not to get distracted by the soundless images advocating medications or sports snacks, explaining in too much detail the current traffic snags or last night's shooting in the neighborhood. Self-important, they flash on TV screens strategically placed at every vantage point. I wish it were a Himalayan condor soaring past at eye level, looking for a meal in the shadowy valley floor. I wish it were a rhododendron bush in full red bloom. I wish it were the neighbor ladies gathered on their front porches to clean the rice and pick stones out of the lentils for tonight's dinner.
For now, the handles I grasp for the "arm blaster" cycle booster can stand in for a sturdy walking stick I picked from the forest that will steady my feet on the sometimes treacherous path, on to the next resting tree or a stopping place for the night. If it's a particularly worthy walking stick, I will stand it in the corner when I get home, near the door, to remind me the mountains are out there.
The other day I wanted to wear my sari, and my blouse was too tight! 

Wedding

Creative writing prompt:  And then I saw it...
the perfect sari for my daughter's wedding.  Oh, no, not for her. She already has her dress, in the Western style. She's marrying a local boy.  My other two daughters will stand with her: they already have their dresses, too, in light pink.  There were two saris there on the sale rack in the light pink, one with silver decorations and one with multi-colored.
The tall Punjabi saleswoman draped it and I looked in the mirror.  Something wasn't right.  Maybe it would have worked when I was younger.  I was disappointed.  My husband was disappointed.
I turned back to the rack.  It was the top of my budget range.  I couldn't go anywhere else.  I'd seen possibilities in the first two shops, but I had thought this one was perfect.  Right next to the two light pink, a bolder pink with delicate silver beading caught my eye. I had thought it was too dark.
Shopping in India is a community affair.  You never walk in and pick your own size from a rack of all the same style. There is always a salesperson to advise you, and usually some bystanders giving opinions too.  If you do successfully negotiate a purchase, you are likely to get any number of curious bystanders asking how your bargaining was (or commenting on its deficiencies).