Easy Bake, Easy Break

The other night I was sitting on the metro after an hour of zumba (another First!) following a night of yoga (I had to leave halfway through), when I found myself sitting in a near empty car with four teenagers, two girls and two boys. The girls were American, but the boys turned out to be foreign exchange students, one from Russia, one from...possibly also Russia, but he sounded different. Maybe Nordic. At one point in their conversation about America, Easy Bake Ovens came up and one girl found herself in the position of having to explain the concept to someone who had never heard mention of such a thing.

"It's this oven....box...plastic box, and inside is a light bulb and you have packets of powder that you mix with water and you put them in little pans and you put the pans in the...oven, and you cook them...the light bulb inside bakes them...and...stuff."

Very accurate, but the exchange students were baffled. It really is a baffling concept. and it brought me back to a tumultuous time in my childhood....

The year was 1993, the year after my new sister was born, a year I was spending trying out new life choices and career ideas, the year after I realized I would never be a veterinarian after all.  I was looking for a niche, and at some point I realized that this, for me, was baking. I was going to be amazing at baking. But I wasn't allowed to touch the stove, or the oven, or really even the microwave.  This was when the Easy Bake Oven appeared on the periphery of my awareness. It was the solution to everything--an oven I would be allowed to touch, with items that were easy to bake (even then, in the throes of my baking phase, I think I knew deep in my core that at my center I was lazy and filled with hate for food-making) and looked AMAZING on the television.  Everyone was SO HAPPY eating these very small and fantastically decorated cakes.  If only I could make my parents very small cakes they would be proud of me! And then I could eat cake whenever I wanted!

I knew I had to have one.

I went to my parents, who, at the time, were still struggling with the aftermath of both having only just finished their PhDs and needing to pay everything off, having bought their very first house and having just borne a second child....so they were not super into the idea of buying me what they referred to as "stupid crap" for the astronomical price of 29.99. 

They said, "Danielle, if you want that stupid thing, you can save your money and buy it for yourself."

In 1993, to a girl with a 25 cent allowance per week and who had already started displaying what would turn out to be a life long spending-in-the-search-for-immediate-gratification problem, $29.99 sounded  back then more or less what $100,000 sounds like to me right now. Quite out of reach.

I was a dreamer, though, and once I had something like that in my head, it was impossible to shake. So for exactly one year, I saved every single cent of my allowance, conned my parents out of quarters for picking up sticks and leaves, hoarded my birthday money, and I seriously wouldn't have put it past myself to start stealing nickels from my 2 year old sister towards the end.

I clawed my way up to $30 and when I finally had it triumphant in my neon green plastic wallet, my mother agreed to take me to Toys R Us, where I bought my long awaited prize and learned some valuable lessons about what it feels like to work towards something and achieve your goals.

For a few amazing weeks, I baked many tiny cakes and covered them in sprinkles and fed all of them to my parents. By which I mean my father, who told me they were indeed the most incredible desserts he had ever come across in his years of cake eating. I could not have been happier.

Then my grandparents came to visit, and my grandmother, in an attempt to bond with me I imagine, wanted to play with me and my Easy Bake Oven and managed to melt the plastic panhandle right in the center of my oven, jamming up the entire thing and destroying it beyond repair.

I learned a valuable lesson about what it feels like to work towards something and achieve your goals and then have every moment of sweat and toil and despair thrown back at you in a feeling much like when someone throws a snowball at you and you discover the snowball had a rock inside, by using your deductive reasoning and your face.

It was a bitter, bitter blow, but I was a happy well raised child so I knew that justice would be done, everything would be righted, because no one could let such an atrocity actually take place and that my parents would buy me another one because they knew how hard I had worked, how much it had meant to me, and how unfair it would be to let my hard work go to waste. The world wasn't LIKE that. Right?

VALUABLE LESSONS WERE BEING LEARNED ALL OVER THE PLACE because no one replaced my Easy Bake Oven. No one. Not my grandmother, not my parents, and not even God. It was out of the question that I buy myself a new one, because coming up with ANOTHER $29.99 was not going to be possible. I'd lost everything. EVERYTHING.

So, I did the only thing I could do.

For THIRTEEN YEARS I brought up my Easy Bake Oven disaster at least three times a week to my parents, to my parents' friends, to our neighbors, to all of my friends, to everyone and anyone I met, I would tell them the story of heartbreak and injustice and my mother would roll her eyes and my father would not pay any attention and my sister would tell me to get over it.

But I would not get over it!!! FOR THIRTEEN YEARS.

Until one day, when I was 24 years old and living with my parents as everyone had expected, I came home annoyed at things from work and started to stomp up the stairs when I tripped over a large box.

"GODDAMN IT!" I said and glared down at the box and realized.....

"A MOTHER******* EASY BAKE OVEN??????!!!!"

My mother came out of the kitchen. "I was hoping now you'd shut up about the Easy Bake Oven."

THE LIFE LESSONS CONTINUED ALL OVER THE PLACE! It turns out, if you whine and complain for MORE THAN A DECADE and annoy EVERYONE YOU LOVE, eventually you get what you deserve!!

It was a joyous moment where the entire world righted.

I immediately baked a very small yellow cake and covered in sprinkles and took it with overflowing joy to my father, who was sitting in the computer room programming things with names like routers and nets.

"DAD DAD DAD DAD LOOK WHAT I MADE YOU!! A TINY CAKE! JUST LIKE YOU LOVE!"

My father visibly turned ashen and scooted his wheeled chair away from me. "OH NO. NO NO NO NO. NO. Please do not do this to me. I cannot eat that."

"What? But you LOVED my tiny yellow sprinkle cakes!"

"No, Danielle. I loved you.  Those cakes are disgusting. Truly disgusting. They are possibly the worst tasting things in the world."

"That is ridiculous," I said. "I ate them too and I remember they were amazing. Watch." I took a forkfull of my tiny yellow cake. "MY GOD," I said, choking on horror, "THIS IS THE MOST DISGUSTING THING I HAVE EVER EATEN."

"Yes," said my father.

I started to see why my parents did not buy me a replacement when I was 9.

So I guess the final lesson of the Easy Bake Oven is, sometimes, even if you can't see it, terrible events happen for a reason. The waxy death of my Easy Bake Oven may have broken my 9 year old heart, but it surely saved my parents'.  And because they were not forced to eat tiny cakes cooked by light bulb for more than a few weeks, they didn't grow to resent and hate me and so my childhood continued on, more or less happy.

To this day, every time I see $30 in my wallet (which is most days, because I'm a baller--and thanks to Rachael I know what that word means), I think about how I could buy myself an Easy Bake Oven any time I want. And that feeling gives me confidence and power. Easy 

Internet Strangers

We got The Internet when I was twelve years old. It came on a gigantic square computer and it made all the exciting beeping sounds. AOL was Supreme Ruler, and chatrooms were the thing to do if you were young and bored and left in the house for a few hours with your 1 year old sister who would spend those hours trying to eat the ear off a stuffed rabbit.

"DO NOT TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS," cautioned my parents, 80 times a day for 3-4 years of my life. "There are some terrible people out there," said my father. "40 year old men masquerading as 15 year old boys will lure you into coffee shops, kidnap you in a van, rape you,  murder you, hack off your limbs and store your body in pieces in a freezer in their basements," said my mother. "Or they will show you photographs of their penises," said the world in general. I was given the general understanding that pretty much every middle aged man in the world was on the internet pretending to be a 15 year old boy, just waiting to show off a a photo of his genitals.

At 27, having now seen more photographs of penises than necessary, I do wonder how on Earth anyone expects those to lure any young girl anywhere. But parents were worried.

"DO NOT LOG INTO INTERNET CHATROOMS!" They would repeat at intervals. "INTERNET STRANGERS ABOUND. THEY WILL TELL YOU THEY ARE 15 YEAR OLD BOYS."

The very first thing I did when I was left alone with the internet was take the 20 minutes to dial up AOL and log directly into chatrooms where I soon met someone who told me he was a 15 year old boy.

This is it! I thought. What intrigue! We discussed all kinds of things, our little sisters, our schools, our interests, and eventually, our travels. I enjoyed talking to this "kid" whose screen name is long forgotten, though I'm sure it was terrific.  I was NiteshadeD. Or maybe Juniper25. Names fraught with meaning from fantasy novels which made me pretty awesome.

In any case, we were probably talking every few days for about two weeks, for an hour or two at a time and I felt dangerous, living life on the edge, entering a tangled web of lies. I obviously had no intention of ever meeting this potential penis photographer, but the rebellion made me feel interesting and exciting. And finally, one day, it happened for me.

"my famly took a trip 2 ireland last summer that was definitaly the most beautiful place ive ever been," he wrote me. Middle aged internet predators can't be expected to have much care for spelling or capitalization. 

"I've never been to Ireland," I wrote back. 

"ill send u a pic," he wrote, and started to load a picture.

IT'S HAPPENING! I thought. I WILL EXPOSE HIM FOR THE MIDDLE AGED INTERNET GIRLSTALKER HE IS! I WILL HAVE THE BEST STORIES AT SCHOOL TOMORROW.

But what ACTUALLY loaded on the screen was a photo of a 15 year old boy with a red face next to a little sister in what I can now tell you did indeed look exactly like Ireland.

He clearly was just a 15 year old boy with no sketchy motives and I lost interest and that was the end of our internet relationship.

I had completely forgotten about this until a recent conversation with my mother.

"You need to sign up for JDate. Your father and I agree. Your grandmother too. We'll pay for it. You need to do this. This is where everyone finds people."

"What if....no."

"Yes. I will give you my credit card."

"How about....no."

"Yes. This is happening."

"I've been down this road.  There are WEIRDOS on the internet. You have no idea."

"There are plenty of nice men on the internet! My friend's husband's sister's second oldest daughter met her fiance on this site! So did....all of these other people I've heard of."

"There are not as many nice men on the internet as you think. They all just send me photos of their penises."

"Oh Danielle, what? You are probably putting something weird in your profile information. You always attract the crazies. There are plenty of nice men on there, all the other women see to find them."

"You say that because you're not the one with the inbox filled with really strange sexual propositions."

"You just need to revise your profile. I'll take a look."

So basically my parents have gone from NEVER TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS EVER to WE DEMAND THAT YOU TALK TO INTERNET STRANGERS AND WE WILL EVEN PAY FOR IT. And I have gone from never receiving any sketchy photos to finding nothing but.

This is growing up.  What was once new and exciting and edgy is now old and dull and painful.

What the Zombie Apocalypse Means to Me

Please read:

http://www.npr.org/blogs/13.7/2013/06/24/195235537/how-to-love-the-zombie-apocalypse

My very first love, several years ago, put the zombie apocalypse on my radar. It had never crossed my mind before, I’d never heard anyone discussing it, but he was into having a plan.  One evening, cuddled together, well past the first “I love you,” he started detailing his survival plan to me. At first I didn't pay too much attention, but as he continued through the plan, which I don’t remember especially well but involved his best friend (who as far as I could tell fervently wished my head would be eaten by zombies sooner rather than later), I realized that at no point in this plan did my love ever come to find me. I pointed this out, jokingly, because after all, it was a discussion about the zombie apocalypse. It was ridiculous. I expected him to say something silly like, “Of course I would come for you! I just….forgot to say that part.” Or really, ANYTHING but what he actually said, which was, “You’re weak. You’d be dead before I could get to you, so there’s no point.” 

The fact that I still bring this up in conversation 4 years later should tell you exactly how deep the wound to my soul went. He saw my devastated face and tried to make it better. “But if I saw you later, and you were a zombie, I would shoot you in the face to put you out of your misery.”

I’m not sure about other girls, but this didn't exactly strike me as a super romantic concession.

After we broke up (not over zombie issues), the first guy I went out with afterwards was beautiful and muscular and drove a little red sports car and took me out for a lovely dinner and I started to believe maybe things would someday be okay again. Just before our second date, we stopped at his apartment and while he was in another room I scanned his bookshelf and discovered that he owned How to Survive the Zombie Apocalypse, displayed right there front and center on his book shelf.

It was our last date. Not actually because of the zombie book so much as the fact that he was an ass during dinner, but still! I felt followed by zombies.

In 2011 I met my next Love and, after a time, when I was sure we were so very much in love, that this was It, that this was The One, I decided to ask the most important question I knew:

“In the case of the zombie apocalypse, would you come for me?”

Because this was It, because he was The One, because it was a STUPID QUESTION, I expected him to say, “Of COURSE I would come for you,” and heal all of my old soulwounds.

What he ACTUALLY said, after a distressingly long pause, was, “I need more information.”

I flew into a rage. “You need more INFORMATION? You need MORE information? You NEED more INForMAtion?!!”

He remained calm. “Well, yes. Where are you? Where am I? Do I have weapons?”

“This is a SILLY question. It does not require serious thought of any kind! You just have to SAY you would come for me.”

He wouldn't do it. The question plagued us for months, for the rest of the relationship even. He started asking his friends, strangers at parties, and every single person, to a MAN (and woman) with only ONE exception EVER said, “I need more information.”  Strategies were relayed, weapons were discussed. It became a whole thing. I hated it. All I wanted was for someone to love me enough to agree to come for me if the zombie apocalypse were to happen WHICH IT WON’T.  The person doesn't even have to ACTUALLY come for me, he just has to SAY he will.  IS THAT SO HARD?

I should have known then that he was neither It nor the One, but I persisted in delusions for awhile longer until we too broke up (also not zombie issues).  I went immediately for some of the usual dating sites and had soon set up some absolutely terrible dates with some absolutely terrible people, one of whom stands out because once again, the zombie apocalypse was brought up. I don’t remember why exactly, but since he started it, I decided to retell the story of my first boyfriend because at this point, it’s a just a funny story to tell during zombie apocalypse discussions.

But this guy did not think it was funny.  Instead of laughing, or smiling, or even acting awkward to my awkward story, he studied me seriously for a moment before saying, “I wouldn't shoot you.” Before I could even say “thank you?” he continued, “I wouldn't waste a bullet on you.”

I was stunned.  This really didn't seem like a great first date statement. I tried to make a joke out of it. “Ha! How kind of you to let me live in zombie form!”

“I said I wouldn't shoot you. I can think of a number of other ways to kill you.”

Maybe I’m a nervous type, but perhaps some of you others out there also feel it is a TERRIBLE IDEA to say something like to a woman you met on the internet on a first meeting.

Also a last meeting.

Despite the fact that I think the zombie apocalypse is STUPID, it has really become a force in my life, to the point that I have decided if I were to ever marry, I would only marry if we wrote our vows to say, “I would come for you in the zombie apocalypse.” And when I find someone willing to say it to me, I’ll know I've found REAL love. Or at least a man with enough brain power to understand the concept of rhetorical questions.

Guest Poster, Code Name "Becky"

Becky is the second guest poster this blog has ever had! How exciting. Below is Becky's contribution to the chronicle of the world's poor decisions:

(Becky planned to be a guest contributor so she could write about her many bad decisions. However, she's decided that she would rather remain in denial about her bad decisions-- at least for the time being--and write about the bad decisions of others instead.)

“America Fuck Yea!!”

Driving a Corvette around town so you can rev up real fast and blast pimpin’ music... this is the dream of many teenage boys, although hopefully by the time most of them grow up they realize that this makes them douchebags. Several of them don't, inevitably. But something all men should be aware of: if you live in Berkeley, California, the tree-hugging capitol of the nation, being a grown man burning rubber in a Corvette is a Very Bad Idea. You could risk losing clients, your reputation, or possibly more.

My friend Todd did precisely this, however. Todd is not the type of person one would expect to do this. Todd is a liberal, feminist UC Berkeley graduate who listens to emo music. He did not even own a car for several years, as he thought it would be fun to bike everywhere. After a while, however, he realized that being car-less might be messing up his game with the ladies. Even women who were car-less and claimed to love that sort of thing often ended up leaving Todd for men with cars. So when Todd's friend who worked at Google was moving to Africa and offered to sell Todd his Corvette for a few thousand dollars, Todd took him up on the offer.

At first Todd was weirded out by the idea of driving a Corvette around Berkeley. What if his client saw him; what if he ended up attracting like a magnet the few gold-diggers who must lurk the streets of the Berkeley? But eventually Todd got used to driving the Corvette, and even started to blast rap music while revving up on occasion. He claimed that he was doing these things "ironically," in hipster fashion (which makes it so much better, of course).
One day, however, Todd took the irony factor a little too far. While in the dollar store, he happened upon some American flags. "Wouldn't it be funny," Todd thought naively, "to buy some American flags to put in the window of my Corvette?" Tickled pink with himself and his hipster irony, Todd began cruising around Berkeley in his American flag decorated Corvette. He might have even yelled "America Fuck Yea!!!" out the window once or twice.

Todd's little "joke" lasted about one hour. He claimed, of course, he only planned on doing it for a couple days. He had no desire to pretend to be a douchebag any more than that. I could stop here, to leave you wondering what happened to Todd and just what price he had to pay for his foolishness. We know he at least made it out alive, for he lived to tell the tale.

I should also mention that all this was happening at the time of the Occupy Protests, which caused revolutionary sentiment in Berkeley to rise to a fervor comparable to the 1970s. Todd had not thought of this.

Instead, Todd made the mistake of leaving the American flags up in his window when he went food shopping. As he was stocking his cart with organic vegetarian food and reverting to his regular persona, protesters were making their way through the parking lot. Although we can't say for sure, my guess is that the protesters were not looking to make trouble. But probably the sight of an impeccable Corvette with American flags in the window was more than they can handle. And so when Todd returned to the parking lot, eager once again to play the role of a meathead and scream "America Fuck Yea!!!" as he cruised around town, he found himself in for a surprise. His beautiful Corvette had been keyed across the front, scratching the paint and probably reducing the value of the car by a couple thousand dollars.

As one might conclude, Todd no longer drives around Berkeley with American flags in his window. Nor does he rev up like a douchebag (except for a few rare occasions). Who knows who else might have happened if Todd were to have continued on his rampage unheeded? He is probably lucky his car is only scratched. So the moral of this story, for those of you who are considering putting American flags in the windows of your nice new car as a joke: Don't do it, unless you live somewhere like Kansas or you're prepared to pay the price.

Year of Firsts: Ziplining

Many of you have already heard this story, but others of you are not privileged enough to be on my exclusive email chains. If you are among the privileged, you can ignore this one.

One of my fears is a fear of heights. This is one of about four reasons I am the worst climber ever. I am also terrified of things that go fast. This is one of three reasons I do not ride roller coasters. I have a very hefty fear of sudden death. Also prolonged death.

In any case, when Alexa and I planned our trip to Costa Rica this past spring, and she said, "CAN WE GO ZIPLINING??!!!" my initial instinct was to say, "Hell no. What's the matter with you?" I am sure she expected me to answer that way, but couldn't resist asking. But when I thought about it, I realized it was another perfect First for the list, that would push past my fears and test my resolve. So I agreed. 

The day arrived when we were in Monteverde and it was time to leave the hostel and climb into a van filled with strangers including a 10 year old boy who was SO EXCITED ABOUT ZIPLINING OMG SO EXCITED. I was not so excited. I was terrified. It's all well and good to make sweeping declarations about becoming a better person and surmounting your fears but when it comes down to it, a moderate resolve doesn't make the fears suddenly vanish. 

"Why is that girl crying?" the little boy asked his mother.
"Sssshhhhh," his mother said.
"She's just a little scared," said Alexa.
"Why is she scared?" asked the boy.
"Sssssshhhhhh," said his mother.
"Grrrgllllpffft," I said, fighting the hysteria.
"Pull yourself together," said Alexa. "HE'S excited. And he's ten."
"Yup! I am!" said the boy.
"Ssssshhh," said the boy's mother.

We drove forth, and I continued to cry quietly while the boy bounced around in the backseat SO EXCITED OMG SO EXCITED.

We were herded into an area where several very attractive young Costa Rican men invaded all of our personal space and hooked us up into terrifying looking harnesses.  We were pushed out very quickly and practically ran through this new forest and up, up, up, up until we reached the first platform.  I expected some kind of orientation, but instead we were simply told, "Left hand here, right hand here, right hand far back, don't brake until we tell you. Okay, who's first?"

And then they hooked up the first person and pushed him off. 

"OH MY GOD," I said, choking on terror. 

"IS IT MY TURN YET?? IS IT? CAN I GO?" said the 10 year old boy.

"YES IS IT HIS TURN, CAN HE GO?" I said, choking on shame.

Soon, though, it was clearly my turn.

"Go, go, go!" said one of the young men, whose name we think may be Lilo. Upon looking at him, I fell desperately in love with him. He was absolutely beautiful and I could tell he was the one for me.

"Go!" he said again.  I stood frozen, unable to move or respond in any way to this command.  Misunderstanding my fear for a lack of English speaking skills, Lilo said, "Venga venga venga!!" this snapped me out of the trance and I moved forward, and so it was that Lilo believed for awhile that I did not actually understand English.  For this reason all of our interactions hence forth took place in Spanish. 

As he hooked me up, I looked across at the next platform, which at least I could see. Then I looked down.  I was VERY HIGH.  If you have not been ziplining, and you are imagining right now how I high I was, I was FOUR TIMES AS HIGH AS THAT. 

I started to cry again.

"Don't cry!" said my Love. 
"I'm....not SNIFF...crying....I don't....AAAAH....cry....."
"Mmmmhmmm," he said, and pushed me off.
I screamed.

A little bit.

As we progressed, things got higher and longer, until we finally arrived at a platform where, looking across, you could not see the end of the line. It was on this platform that somehow I found myself the last person to go, and I was left alone in cool afternoon air with my TrueLove.  It certainly was a romantic spot.  The others were much too far away to hear, the breeze rustled the millions of leaves, the colors of the forest and the graying sky swirled around us, and the air smelled like dirt and green and rain. I wanted to take a moment to enjoy our alone time together and tried to stare deeply and soulfully into his eyes, but he was busy hooking me into the harness and preparing to launch me into the unknown.  Finally though, he looked up.  Before I could think of something impressively witty to say in Spanish, he spoke.

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes. I am very very nervous."

"Me too."
I stared at him.  "What.....why are YOU nervous?"

He looked me right in the eyes and said deadpan, "Today is my first day."

"WHAT?" I shrieked.  "That's a joke. Haha! No, seriously, Is that a joke??"

He still didn't smile. "Adios," he said, and he pushed me forcefully off the platform.

I zoomed along in terror for an hour, maybe eight, until I finally saw the end of the line, and arrived in safety at the next platform.  Lilo landed soon after.

"Don't cry!" he said.

"I'm not crying!" I said, crying.

After this though, I began to get the hang of things, but it continued to look like I was crying because of the wind in my eyes as I zipped along at 800 miles/second high above the tree tops.

"Don't cry!" said everyone.

"WIND!" I shouted in Spanish.

I think that I enjoyed ziplining. I'm not entirely sure.  I know that I would do it again if there was an opportunity, but I also know that I will not be going out LOOKING for opportunities. It is certainly an Experience, and way to view things you would never otherwise see, in a way you would never otherwise feel.

Eventually, though we came to the end of the lines, and discovered there was new terror in store.

"Tarzan jump!" said Lilo.  "Daniela you will be the first to jump!"

"Ha!" I said. "Haha! First! No. Maybe I will not jump at all."

Lilo looked at me with brown eyes and I knew I would jump off that platform, however high it was. 

Despite the lovemadness, I was unable to go first. "Take this one!" I said, and pushed Alexa in front of me. Lilo shrugged, and began hooking Alexa up.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh....." said Alexa, as she peered down at the ground far, far below. But she didn't have time to say much after that because she was immediately pushed forcefully off the edge.  I do not remember her screaming. But she went flying hard and fast. When the other adventure guides down below had slowed her wild back and forth swinging and unhooked her, she called up to me as I stared fretfully down. "THAT WAS MUCH WORSE THAN SKY DIVING, JUST SO YOU KNOW," she shouted up.  Because Alexa has sky dived.

"Come here Daniela," said Lilo with his heart breakingly beautiful Spanish.  "It is now your turn."

"Oh no no no no no no no no I can't do this no no no no."

So he shrugged and pulled the next guy up and pushed him off.

"Daniela now it's your turn!"

"No puedo no puedo no puedo...."

So he took the next one. We repeated this a few more times while he would interject with things like, "This is fun!" "Look how much fun the people are having!" "You can do this!"

Finally, it was the ten year old boy's turn.

"THIS IS THE MOST AMAZING THING I'VE EVER SEEN I CAN'T WAIT TO JUMP OFF MY TURN MY TURN MY TURN! I AM SO EXCITED."

I realized I could absolutely not let this small child jump in front of me while my TrueLove watched my shame.

"No!" I said "I will go!" and I pushed the ten year old child out of my way. He was disgruntled, but his mother shushed him.

"Okay," I said as Lilo attached my harness to a rope.  "Just don't push---"

And he pushed me hard, right off the edge, without any further words of encouragement.

I screamed like a small girl child as all of the adventure guides laughed. It would seem that Alexa filmed the whole ordeal. So now we can remember the small girl child shrieks forever.

"Don't look so scared!" you can hear one of them yell.

"She always looks like that! That is just her face!" you can hear Alexa respond.

I did not cry. Probably just because I was dehydrated.

That was basically the end of the whole business, we went back to return our equipment, I said a very brief goodbye to my TrueLove who didn't seem to notice, and we got back in the van to head to the hostel.

Another successful First! 

Year of Firsts: Yoga

I have long been against yoga. Why this is so, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I've just always been pretty anti exercise-for-the-sake-of-exercise. I mean, I think it's a fantastic IDEA, people SHOULD exercise, but I have never been able to handle things like exercise bikes or treadmills or weights or doing things to exercise that are nothing more than that--exercises.  I prefer to get exercise while doing something, like fencing or climbing. Although obviously I fail at doing either of those things with any kind of consistency so bottom line is I end up without exercise.

Yoga, though, has always seemed to me even more hateful than anything else. It's tied up in all the peace love bullshit, and seemed to involve a lot of sitting around and contorting and not accomplishing much of anything. 

In the summer, Lululemon (there you go, Lululemon, I'm paying you back in free advertising) hosts free yoga classes in the Dupont Circle, which is very near my office. Since this is my year of crossing boundaries and trying Firsts, I decided a free yoga class was an excellent next step. I figured it would be a good push on the physical capabilities front and the keeping an open mind front.

I went with one of the girls at work who has done yoga, and plays soccer, and eats well, and is generally physically superior to me in every way. She is kind hearted though, and one of the few people I trusted not to dissolve into total mockery. At least, not when it comes to me doing yoga.

I sauntered in with my new yoga mat and my workout pants and prepared to flop around uselessly so I could say that I had done it. What actually happened, though, was one of the most intense workouts I have ever undergone, outside of the medieval European martial art sword fighting introduction (please see appropriate blog entry if necessary).

The first ten minutes weren't too bad. Then I started to burn in most of my muscles. We were doing a lot of downward facing dog, which I feel is supposed to be the easy beginner pose but to me was the lowest level of hell.  I suspect I am simply doing it wrong, but in the meantime it is wreaking havoc on my wrists and my upper arms. My knees came down every 5 seconds.

"Bring your right foot slowly up to the edge of the mat," said the serene, petite instructor in an indoor voice.

My right foot lurched forward as my body lurched to the left.

"Stand in your warrior pose," she continued, voice like a low breeze.

I popped up, arms flailing as I teetered into warrior pose. I tried to bring my arms up gracefully, shifting balance to go from warrior to forward lunge, but I couldn't stretch them all the way and in the meantime my thighs were growing weak.

"Bring your leg up into your tree pose." The woman sounded like she had never been un-calm in her life.

I brought my leg up into tree pose and fell over.

There was a lot of this, over the hour, as my legs weakened and began to shake, as my arms began to burn, as every muscle stretched and strained and I became short of breath. I have never felt so worked out in my life.

I've done this twice now, and I'll be continuing through the summer, as it becomes hot yoga in the DC sun. Maybe by the end of it, downward facing dog won't make me cry. But we'll see. 

Year of Firsts: Country Music

Most people, when asked "What music do you like?" will answer "I'll listen to anything but country" (unless you are anyone I have ever dated because apparently I only date people who are super into music and have many specific opinions). I enjoy music well enough, but I've never had strong feelings on it except to say "I don't like country."

I have a friend here though who IS quite into the country music and this friend wanted very much to go to a big country music concert happening in Virginia.  Knowing I can be convinced to do pretty much anything, I was targeted for this venture. I decided it would be another excellent First--my first country music concert, and an opportunity to open my mind to something I had previously stereotyped and dismissed.  

In the weeks leading up to the concert, I was sent a variety of songs by Luke Bryan, Thompson Square, and, most importantly, Florida Georgia Line, who I have come to love. End result, by the time the concert came round I was pretty excited myself.  Turns out country music is AWESOME. Who knew?

The concert itself was quite fun (though it rained through nearly the entire thing, which was miserable for those of us on the lawn), but not an especially exciting tale. There were a lot of girls in cowboy boots, and everyone wore flannel. A fair number of trucks in the parking lot were covered in NRA stickers and I can't count the number of times I heard "God bless America! God bless our troops!" It was quite a different world. Also I was pretty sure Luke Bryan was going to get tackled by some of the more rabidly horny country girls threatening to swarm the stage and throw their undergarments at his face.  He did not help matters by taking some girl's cell phone and using it to take pictures of his crotch before handing it back to her.

The highlight though, for me, is this story I am about to share with you.

My friend and I pitched our water logged camp right in front of two sisters who were probably in their early and late 20s and immediately became friends with them.  It was they who shared some life changing knowledge with us about the existence of the "pee style." Look it up. The other thing they shared that evening was a story, told by the older girl.

"One morning when I was 11, I went out to the chicken coop to count the chickens. I was counting, one, two, three, four, possum, five, six.....possum?? There was a possum right there in the chicken coop! So I turned around and went back to the house to tell my grandfather and he handed me a rifle and told me, 'You know what to do.'"

At this point in the story, I expected her to say, "But I was 11 years old so obviously I did NOT know what to do so my grandfather took the gun back," but actually she continued thusly:

"So I took the gun and went back out to the chicken coop and pointed the gun at the possum.  But that possum just looked at me, and then turned his back on me! Can you believe it? I pressed the end of the gun right up to his butt."

Here in the story, I thought she would say, "But I couldn't do it, I just couldn't shoot a little creature with its back turned."

But what she actually said was:

"I shot that possum right in the ass and took it back to the house. My mother got out the camera and took photos, one of them is still hanging up somewhere."

My suburban girl heart was completely aghast at this story, and my face showed it I suppose because the girl telling the story turned to me and said, "What? Like you've never shot an animal before?"

I said, "NO! NO, of COURSE I have not SHOT AN ANIMAL BEFORE!"

She looked at me with pity. "Guess you're a city girl."

I guess I am.