That Little Prick

For my blogiversary, I wanted to do something super special, so... I started by not remembering it was my blogiversary, and then unintentionally made a very important life choice. That choice? It could be applied in so many ways, but at its core: I decided not to be afraid.

People are afraid all the time, for all kinds of reasons. Some are totally legitimate, some aren't. As I've mentioned previously (way back in my first post), there are two things that I'm afraid of. The second is much less ambiguous, and probably more ridiculous. Plain and simple: needles. Ever since the allergy testing of my youth (aka modern medical torture involving dozens of needle stabs and a lot of itching), I can't even see them in television (which made Grey's hard all those years) or hear people talking about them without freaking out. Not to the point of fainting, mind you, just to the point of awkward laugh and shudder sobbing - which terrifies people more than fainting usually. Crazy is scarier than harmlessly passed out.

With much resistance, I've kept updated on my basic shots over the years, but only twice have I ever "donated" blood. And by "donated," I mean, only twice have I ever allowed anyone to take a vial of the precious gold flowing through my veins. Once involved Robert Downey Jr, and the other Queen Latifah. Both involved me basically out of my mind - once with delusional illness, and the other with sheer panic. But that's a story for another day. This story is about yesterday.

The good old "annual physical" is coming up. Though lacking in many other adult duties (dentist ugh), going in for the annual check-up is one of the few I don't slack on. Health is important (and so is getting my prescriptions renewed, win-win). So, every spring I voyage to my hometown to see my doc. Yes, because I'm too lazy to have found a doctor in my actual city; plus, I trust her with my lady parts more than some stranger (there, I said it!). With the appointment looming, it was time for blood work.

After setting up an appointment with the local vampires, I immediately put it out of my mind. Didn't tell anyone about it, didn't think at all about what was coming. This was my way of preparing mentally for the task of putting aside fear. The night before, I didn't think about the fact that I had to "fast" for twelve hours in advance. Instead, I reminded myself of how one shouldn't stuff one's face after 8pm anyways, so good job me, way to adhere to a basic skinny-bitch principle. Off to bed with you!

The morning of, I put on my #bossbitch outfit and killer heels. Anytime you're feeling afraid inside, looking your best outside is essential. If you can fool everyone else, you can fool yourself!* All smiles, arriving at the lab, I made cheeky small talk with the receptionist and every other person in the waiting room. Laughter came easy: wearing a hairnet and chasing away fear with a broom. The wait wasn't awful, because I was surrounded by my now-best-friends as I chatted away.

Waiting for it to open...
Destiny's knockin' at the door of this waiting room!

The door opened, the nurse called my name. Within moments, I had recounted the tale of my previous lab encounter with Robert Downey Jr (aka her boss) and gotten her employment history. She picked this particular clinic for the flexible hours, she has a daughter at home and wants more time with her. The kid's name is Brianna, but she's not "Bri" for short. Her nickname is infinitely better - Geezer. Derived from the full length nickname of Breezer Geezer. And with that looming over her the rest of her life, that kid is bound to be a Noble Peace Prize winner, or a riverboat gypsy. No doubt in my mind.

And with that, it was already over and done. I had talked my way out of being afraid and it was done. Looking up at the nurse as she untied the band on my arm, I said, "You know, I used to be so afraid of needles. Petrified. I'd completely panic." She responded, "They really aren't so bad. When did you stop being afraid?" Putting back on my blazer, I turned at the door and smiled, "Today." A thoughtful look, well wishes to her and Geezer and a swift exit out into the new world.

There are so many more important things in life to worry about, that little fears shouldn't consume your time. You've got so much to do, and only so many hours in a day. Other people have much bigger worries, which puts silly things like a fear of needles into perspective. Just like there's no point in crying over spilt milk, there's no point in having a nervous breakdown over a tiny piece of plastic and metal that could save your life someday. Now, I'm not saying I'm "cured" of my phobia (because less than 12 hours later there was a needle scene in a movie that I pretty well lost my cool over), I'm just saying that the severity of fear can be controlled by your own optimism. Sometimes.



*Plus, someone made a fascinating comment the other day about how if you were to die today, the outfit you're wearing would be like, your ghost outfit. The outfit you're stuck in as a ghost forever. That completely blew my mind, so now I'm super self conscious about what I wear every day. And about crossing busy streets or eating expired food. Basically, I'm trying to dress better and avoid dying... It's a lot of pressure.

The Patio Paradox

Let's talk patios.

When looking for a place to live, patios tend to fall on the "nice to have" list... at first. Then, the longer you look, the more it becomes an essential component. Like the dishwasher you don't really need or the walk-in closet you know you deserve (mostly because you've run out of space for your clothes and refuse to part with any - they're like your children). But that patio. That you need.

Where else are you going to put your grill? You know, the one you'll buy specifically to put on your new patio. The one you'll get yelled at for because it's not compliment with some building rule, but that you'll sneakily use anyways. You need that for grilling out when you have friends over! On those summer nights when y'all have had a hard day at the office and want some brats and brews. It's a scenario you can perfectly picture. There will be music and good times had by all.

Then there's the furniture. It is literally designed just for the patio. For your patio. You need at least two cute chairs and a table, depending on size. The table will hold your grilled food and cocktails while you sit back and enjoy being outdoors-at-home. It will be just like all the sitcoms. You'll do all the things and make all the plans.

When not being used for meals, booze, or entertaining, it will be a space for quiet reflection. A spot to have your morning tea, and maybe crack a book. A spot to enjoy nature and reflect. Maybe get a little of the vitamin D to get ya through the day. It will be a place to reset.

Put those feet up, you deserve it!

The reality though is usually stupidly different. You use the grill twice, and realize that cleaning it is a pain and you really don't understand propane tanks / charcoal. You don't invite people over because you're exhausted after work, and everyone is busy in the summer months. The cute furniture? Yeah, well, you saw a spider on it once, so now you basically have to light it on fire and destroy it, which, you'll do... once it finally dries off from last week's rain storm. As for the morning, it's still dewy out, so it's not that warm. And getting up earlier than you absolutely need to, well, it's just torture. And heaven forbid you need to re-stain, paint, or otherwise do maintenance on the thing, it'll be out of commission for at least a year. Plus, keep in mind, in Wisconsin, you only have four to six good months to comfortably use it even.

So, there it sits, your patio that you love to tell people about, but that you neglect to enjoy.

That being said, here I am. Enjoying someone else's porch, sitting out, enjoying my cocoa and casually watching the squirrel battle royale in the nearby tree. I woke up hours before my gal-pals (we finally found a night to gather!), dug through the cupboard to find the most bitching-awesome mug I could, and settled into a deck chair. It's probably because I don't have one of my own that the novelty isn't lost yet. Which brings me to the point... don't ever let me get a patio, friends, because then it will lose the shine. That or I'll become a total alcoholic, because we all know patio drinking really is the best. So, save me from myself. Thanks in advance.

Got the world on a string, sippin' on a rainbow!

Once Upon a Jetski

If you ask the man in my life what his favorite part of our adventure to Key West was, you'll get an enthusiastic response regarding jet skis. If you then turn my way and ask how it was, you'll get a half-hearted chuckle and a quick admission that I nearly died. So, a little more about that.

First, I'd like to thank my past self for her vanity problem. Since there was bound to be a swimsuit involved (what's that walrus doing in a bikini?), I spent that month leading up to the trip working out (didn't want to try too hard, ya know). Without building that upper body strength to get those "sexy shoulders," I'd never have been able to hold onto that bucking water-horse.

Going to the Island, jet skiing was ones of a few "for sure" items on the list. The beau had gone prior and loved it; and, since I'd dragged him out four-wheeling (in the rain) a month into us dating, I really couldn't protest. (Hemingway lived on the island just fine without ever jet skiing, but whatever.) So, day two, donning the sportiest looking swimwear I own, we headed to the jet ski place. It was 75 degrees and sunny, and this porcelain goddess was slathered in approximately four layers of SPF infinity. It was go time.

Only, jokes. It turns out, if you were born in a certain set of years, you will forever need to take an exam and be certified to board a mechanical water bull. Thank goodness I hadn't hit the sauce to hard yet on Duval that day! After an oddly stressful 20 minutes, luckily, I passed. They even gave me an official slip of paper - a license to kill in my battle royale on the high seas. Now it was go time.

Just getting ready for my voyage!
(aka thankfully there are no photos of this tale) 

Our tour was to be a follow-the-leader-esque marine adventure around the Island. I opted to have my own machine, so I could be in control of my own demise (and so I wouldn't deter my beau from his fun). There was a brief explanation about signals and three vague rules were given:

1. Stay x distance away from the person in front of you, so if they fall off or stop suddenly, you don't ram into them and kill them - jet skis don't have brakes, just a killswitch and a prayer
2. Follow the bubble trail of the person in front of you - don't go rogue because the trail left by the leader is specifically avoiding reefs, obstacles, and other things that could kill you
3. Stay alert and give way to anything bigger than you on the water - because if you hit a boat, again, it'll kill you

And so our merry band set sail. Making a snarky comment to the dock guy about how it was probably just like four-wheeling, I floated my way out of port and into the ocean. My sunglasses firmly in place, I looked about for boats (hyper-alert, I was SO ready). Our instructor let us get in order and we began our island chase. 

It was easily the most terrifying 90 minutes of my life. 

Hurtling over the waves, I was immediately half blind due to the salt water on my sunglasses (when removed, I was entirely blind due to the sun, so they remained on). With jet skis in particular, if you go TOO slow, it only makes the ride choppier. If you feel like you're going to fall off, to counter that, you have to go faster. Completely counter-intuitive, but totally necessary; you hit ridiculous speeds with nothing to protect you but a flimsy "life" vest. As panic set in, I found myself with two fundamental goals: don't fall into the water and don't lose the bubble trail.

It was just about then that I realized the bubble trail was gone. There I was, flying on my floating metal stead, blind, completely alone and surrounded by water. Mostly hysterical (and throwing caution to the wind about reefs), I bee-lined in the most logical direction. My death grip tightened. Desperate to regain the bubbles, naturally, I sped up. Mercifully, the group came into view and we all then stopped for some island trivia from the guide. 

Bobbing about aimlessly while he talked, I mustered an enthusiastic fake smile for my jovial man, happily perched on his favorite toy, ensuring him that this was the best time. We were on the Gulf side and the water was fairly smooth and shallow. Stopped, I had a chance to look around and absorb the beauty of the island we were circling. It was a magical moment, and a brief one. 

The guide advised that we were about to move to the ocean side of the island, for the hard part of the journey, and needed to maintain a higher speed. If we'd wanted to lazy about and sight-see, we should've taken the canoeing adventure, he chuckled. My aching arms let out a little cry. My brain called out for a canoe.

Funny thing about the ocean, it's windier. And that means it's wavier. 

The struggle had been very real on the Gulf side, but the ocean side... let's just say, if you ever want to have your ass handed to you by mother nature, this is your chance. White knuckled, my attack on the six foot waves (the height of the waves will get bigger with each retelling of this, I assure you) started very strategic. If you followed the crest and stayed atop from wave to wave, you could make it. The second you ended up in a trough, you were screwed. Waves would hit you from the side or you would nose right into them, causing you to get completely engulfed in water, as you shot forward at 40 MPH in a floating limbo, not sure which way was up, down or over. Bubble trail damned to hell, it was a groping attempt to not crash into the island and not be carried out in Davy Jones's locker.

In a frenzy, my nervous laugh began bubbling up in me. There was no way I could hold on. My entire body was shaking as I used my thighs and knees to desperately cling to the seat (note: when too rigid, it doesn't go well for slamming on waves - just ask the jet ski shaped bruise that was on my legs for a month after). My left contact slipped after a wave to the face and I knew true blindness was almost upon me. The delirium finally hit the surface and what came out wasn't my nervous laugh at all. I began whooping and yelling loudly. If this was the end, if I was going to fly off into the ocean and die, I was going out fucking Rufio-style. 

Full speed ahead, I hit every wave with a vengeance. Ocean spray flew around me, the taste of salt on my tongue; my war cry dead on the wind, barely reaching even my ears. My muscles screamed as loudly as my voice. It was uncertain whether the blindness was caused by the sea or the tears of a desperate woman on kamikaze mission against the gods. It was an epic frickin' poem. I was basically Ishmael.

And then it was over. We came into port. My hair was a tangled mess of wind and water and the sun beamed on my hinged smile. I'd made it, I had stayed atop my beast the entire time. Despite my very best efforts, I hadn't flipped over, drowned, or died. Best of all, I'd managed not to make a total ass of myself. Floating into the dock, there was my man: lit up, happy as a clam about the experience. After a shaky dismount and stumbling onto the pier, it was over. At that point, I got hit by the final wave: relief.