The Hippie Hippie Shake

In all the chaos of the move, unpacking, settling in, start of nice weather, kick-off to summer, etc. this little bloggess has been on a hiatus from writing. That will continue for a wee bit, BUT I felt it absolutely necessary to hop on quick to tell today's tale of a greenhouse and a random act of absurd kindness.

En route back from the auto parts store (because, of course, my car picks now to be on the fritz), I saw a greenhouse nestled in a residential area and thought, "PERFECT!" We have a few plants that made the voyage from our former places, but in all honesty, I'm really hoping this will be my chance to have a real green thumb. Sure, I may have a record of killing cacti (I loved them too hard), but if there's TWO of us, then the plants have double the chance of survival! Plus, we have a built-in wall bookshelf and I'll be damned if I'm not going to cover the top of that thing with cascading ivy to create the illusion of grandeur.

So, I stopped at the greenhouse. I thought it was just a like one greenhouse building and a barn in someone's yard, but it turned out it was a giant complex, hidden away among the houses, right in the city. Naturally, I arrived 15 minutes before they closed, so I desperately ran about the ever-larger complex and scurried to try and find something viney or something labelled as "not easy to kill."

Found it. Grabbed it. Minutes to spare as I tried to navigate my way out of the organic maze to find the checkout.

In the barn, found a mother-earth type and poured out an apology about being so last minute before they closed. She waved it off with a smile.

I rave about how the place was so vast. It was crazy. Never even knew it was there. Wonderful selection. She responded politely about how there was twice the selection in the springtime. Said my purchase would be five dollars.

I asked if they accepted credit cards. She said only for purchases over $25. Checking my wallet quickly, I muttered a curse and joked, "Well, then I guess I need to buy more plants!! I just never carry cash, being from a small town, I still don't trust the city. Here, let me go grab a few more things."

And then it happened. A moment of genuine hippie kindness. She waves a hand and goes, "Don't worry about it, you'll pay me back the next time."

A blank stare, as I was certain she was off her rocker, "Um, what?? No no, really, I'll grab more plants, I couldn't."

She printed a receipt and handed it to me, "It's all good. I know you'll be back, and you'll pay me then." Then a man over my shoulder (seriously, creepin' in the plants - must've been her husband / co-owner / friend Groot) chimes in, "No one buying plants ever has malicious intentions. We know you'll stop by again sometime soon and cover it then."

After my visible jump in alarm from the plant-wall-man speaking, I sputtered something about how they should at least let me give them the three bucks I did have, for now anyways. But they wouldn't have it. All I got out of them was a, "Plant people are good people. See you again soon."

And just like that. They let me walk off with their merchandise. Free of charge. Because they just trusted that at some point in the days to come, I'd return and give them their money. The businesswoman in me shrieked at the madness and potential revenue losses, bewildered by the lack of sustainability in their business model. The poor twenty something (bad person) in me rejoiced over the accidental freebie. But the actual me was just delighted. Foolish hippies or no, maybe plant people are just good people. And they'll be seeing me tomorrow.

The Move, Part 3: I'll never let go, Jack

Packing is a frickin' struggle.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Which basically means I've had a lot of time to gather / hoard a lot of stuff.

Knowing that the move was coming, I quickly brought in reinforcements. Several gal pals took shifts coming to hang out as I began sorting through my clothes, books, movies, etc. (Thanks, ladies!!) I poured out cocktails and story after story about why this tank top was an important piece of my soul, or why I really needed to keep that panda notebook. They generously doled out sympathetic smiles, while ripping things out of my hands and placing them in boxes marked for Goodwill. We reminisced over items from shared memories and hashed out all the very latest gossip. As they departed, I crammed several items in their arms, pleading that they save me from myself and take my things.

But that was weeks ago.

Long past what should've been the "sorting" and "paring down" phase, it's now reached the "holy shit, we're on the brink of eviction and not fully packed yet" phase. The beau is officially out of his place and I'm officially out over the holiday weekend. And while I tried my best to shuttle boxes over in advance from my current place, there still seems to be so much left. I even threw a beatnik eviction party to try and get rid of some of my booze, just so we wouldn't have to pack it. To no avail. If we all were 21 again, there wouldn't have been a drop left. But as it were, my new neighbors think I'm a total lush with all the clinkies I've been toting into the place.

The real issue is of course: why do I have all this stuff?

Because I'm a sentimental hag who clings desperately to small tokens of the past? Because I've been too lazy to get rid of things over the years? Because I just love finding and collecting treasures (it was on SALE! Huzzah consumerism!)? Yeah, maybe. Maybe all that. But one constant theme, of all the things, was the story. Despite my having a piss poor memory, each and every single thing I have has a story behind it. I think part of me is worried that if I throw the item away, I'll forget its story. That's the sappy sad side of things. (#firstworldproblems - is that still a thing?)

BUT these were the flats that I wore all around Europe during my semester abroad.
These flats have BEEN places, I can't just discard them!

The other side of things is: who gives a hoot about the story of a broken glitter fish necklace and WHY do I have climbing wall panels? Am I ever going to BUILD a climbing wall? Where?? In my living room? And is that broken fish necklace going to help me magically have upper body strength so I can climb said wall? All signs point to... me with a bottle of wine and a hammer, adding climbing wall panels in my kitchen and then ripping off the drywall as I try to scale my pantry. So why risk it? Clearly I need to get rid of these panels for my own safety. And again... why do I even have them??*

I could be like those people who rockclimb as a hobby!

Basically, I love my things. Whether they make sense or not, I love them. I know all the wonderful benefits hat come out of minimalism and streamlining, but I'm just not there yet. Worse yet, when it comes to moving, I love packing. If there is a slot in a box that needs filling, I'll fill it with whatever I can find, even if it's something I was planning on getting rid of (sure, those forks will fit in amongst my raccoon plushies). Having several weeks to pack up / move has almost made it worse, because at this point, I don't remember what I decided to keep or not, or what's even in half the boxes that are already at the new place. And with how I jenga them together, the boxes are basically landmines when you do open them.

That's why I have my final line of defense against the clutter: the long suffering beau who is my new roomie. It's all going to come down to him as I unpack each box. He'll need to point out the nonsense items and put his foot down on me discarding things or begrudgingly give in as I explain to him the value of a giant martini glass and place it lovingly in the cupboards of our new home.
(He'll thank me later on that martini glass, I just know it!)

Hagrid is on board with using a laundry basket to transport all my unnecessary junk.
He always supports me. Thanks, pal!

Click here for Part One: In which I build pillow forts and refuse to wear pants.
Click here for Part Two: In which I get half-eaten by wild dogs.




*The answer is that I used to work custodial at a middle school to make college cash during the summer and they were sample panels that were getting discarded, so I took them. Because in my mind, I thought, "With a little spray paint, these could be really artsy wall decor for my adult apartment I'll have some day!" Taking no account to the fact that they're heavy as all hell and won't adhere to a wall with the standard sticky mounting tape - since real adult apartments don't let real adults use nails.

The Move, Part 2: The Rock to My Roll

I frickin' can't wait to not  live alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. Some of it was real swell, and I'll really miss it. But other parts of it were just plain awful and exhausting. Trust me, I'm all about being the independent woman, and I kind of rock at it, but at the same time, I'm kind of relieved to have a "person." Someone to share the load (Samwise Gamgee, anyone?) with.

There were plenty of times living alone where another person would've come in handy:

• When I needed help zipping up / buttoning a dress. We all know the hanger method, and we risk life and limb to look good, but it's a real pain.
• The times when I was sick and had no one to take care of me, so I just moped around being melodramatic. Being sick alone is like, the frickin' worst. 
• Opening jars. Sure, I have a rubber husband (that's what my ma calls those gripper things - get your head out of the gutter) and am stubborn as hell, but seriously. I've actually thrown away a jar because I couldn't get it open and was frustrated. 
• Speakkkking of frustration. Pictures for this blog. All the contortion moves to get my elbow out of view (only to end up out of focus). All those hours taking countless photos to get just one to turn out okay-ish. An assisted selfie would've been welcomed.

Hey, Elvis, you'll spot me while I hang upside down to get this pic, right?
Thanks, buddy!

And there are also plenty of reasons why living with my number one bang will be swell:

• He comes with Netflix. And Amazon Prime. And Hulu Plus. And all the streaming things. I'm not saying that's the only reason we're moving in together. But I'm just saying it sure doesn't hurt... 
• Food. He's a dang good cook - and has a Kitchen-aid! Plus, this way we'll have one fully stocked kitchen with which to prepare food, instead of the slippery slope that is the, "Oh, I didn't know you were coming over, so I only have vodka in my fridge... how about we just go out to eat?" For reference: see the ten pounds of "love weight" I gained the first year we dated (and have mercifully worked off). 
• Logistics. Finally no more back and forth. No more calling in cars for overnight parking (or forgetting to and panicking at 4 am before being like, "Screw it, I'll pay the ticket"). No more "your place or mine?" No more "shit, I forgot to grab my sunglasses / shoes / pills / life, we have to go back to my place." Hours of our lives will be saved by not having to coordinate this nonsense. AND I won't have to sound like such a pathological mama bear by following every goodbye with, "Text me when you get home safe." 
• Speaking of me being the walrus and logistics.... I started writing this post the other day and came back to just that starter line. I have literally NO clue where I was going with that, but I'm fascinated to find out some day. Huzzah open-ended thought!
• Insta-booty call! Right? That's a thing?? At least, I don't think I'll have to wait and text him (across the room) at 3 am. And if I did, what if he didn't answer? And I like saw him look down at his phone and make a sigh noise like, "UGH, not this bitch again, it's late, closed for business"?! Gah! ...I don't know, this is all new territory. 
• One set of things! No longer will I need two sets of makeup, two toothbrushes, two gym bags, two phone chargers. No more! It will all be in one place, just, with doubles of everything for awhile. But one place!
• No choking and being eaten by wild dogs! We all remember that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda starts choking to death, alone in her apartment. It scared me so bad that I ate nothing but ice cream for almost a year, just so I wouldn't accidentally die alone (or, well, that was my excuse anyways). And, as Bridget Jones so gracefully put it, living alone always comes with a risk of eventually dying, fat and alone, and being found three weeks later half-eaten by wild dogs. I'm hoping that both these scenarios can finally be avoided, just by having a live-in.
• He often treats me with the terrified kindness with which one would treat a pregnant woman. I pout for chocolate and an hour later he's like, "I got you some chocolate." And I'm like, "Wait, you left to get chocolate? When?" (pouting can cause a total disconnect from reality, as can a lack of chocolate) AKA he's the sweetest and treats me well - it'll be nice spending more time with my swell fella. 
• He balances my otherwise total chaos and high strung-ness. He's like the Mac to my Cheese. The Robin to my Batman. (Yes, I get to be Batman, I have a stronger chin.)
• The whole paranoia thing will hopefully be better. Because A) if I hear a noise in the other room, I can just assume it's him and not a serial killer and B) if that noise occurs in the other room when he is with me, I can send him to go see what it is, while I cling to the knife I hide under the bed and perch behind the door, ready to spring... so, well, okay, maybe the paranoia will actually be more dangerous than ever in this scenario, when I accidentally stab my beau. But maybe not! Maybe he'll just protect me and we'll be fiiiiiine... (Your Honor, I'd like to have this blog post stricken from any manslaughter investigations)
• Bloggin' beaus. Since we both blog, we can sit at our little kitchen table and write on our respective laptops. And I can be like, "Pass the sugar, babe." And he'll be all like, "But you're not drinking any coffee." And I'll be like, "I know..." It'll be BRILLIANT! 

In less than a week, we'll have the keys. It really is the point of no return. But luckily, that's okay, because as much as I totally loved living alone, I know living together is going to be even better... Or definitely better than being eaten by wild dogs, that's for sure! I'll set the bar there, and we'll work on stretch goals later.*

Steppin' into some unknown territory here! Putting our best foot(s) forward.

Click here for Part One: In which I totally freak the shit out.

Click here for Part Three: In which I build a rockwall.

*Seriously though, it's going to be fantastic. Don't let my snark fool you.

The Move, Part 1: Cohabitation Anxiety

I frickin' love living alone.

For the past five years, I've been in my "big girl" apartment, all by myself, living some version of the dream. This one bedroom, old school upper of a bright stuco house in the burbs has been my haven. I've lived above "my old lady" - who I'm still convinced has seances in the basement at night (or just really weird hours for laundry) - and have pulled together mismatch furniture / knickknacks into the perfect "twenty something" home.

Throughout my time here, there has been a variety of beaus, friends and family who have come and gone, stayed and went. But here I am now with one particular beau who outwitted, outlasted and outplayed the others in the game of relationship Survivor. And it's that very fella who is now scooping me up, out of the suburbs, into a new home downtown.

Cohabitation: it's the next frontier in adulthood.

That move is coming quickly, and yes, it's all very exciting and I'm stupid happy over the whole thing, but I'm also wickedly nostalgic. Granted, as a borderline pack rat, nostalgia comes in many forms (just ask the piles of old cards and movie stubs that I desperately cling to - my memories!), but this is a different kind of sentimental silliness. In this case, it's a sentiment towards my time of independence, of being young and single in a new city. A carefree existence - like a gypsy, but minus the caravan and curses...

Because moving in with someone I care about is like an awful prison?? Yeah, I know I just made it sound like that, but it's absolutely not that. It's just that living alone had such weirdly fun perks, and I'm just being honest when I say that I'll miss them. For example:

• Pants optional.
  Sure, they can be optional when living with someone too, but then I'd have to like, workout more so I don't feel self-conscious walking around naked. And ugh, working out more.
• Being able to pee with the door open.
  Again, could I do this while living with the beau? Sure. But I won't. Because I'm a g'damn lady, and the day he sees me pee is the day we break up. Sorry, modern cool couples who are totally okay with that, but it's just not my style.
• Dancing.
  With or without music. With or without vodka. Dancing around one's own place like a maniac, testing out those latest dance moves (just in case they finally call you back for that Center Stage sequel). There's nothing like busting a move when no one is watching and just groovin' your cares away. 
• Meal prep.
  Or lack there of. Feeding time runs on your schedule. You can experiment and if it doesn't work out, you can just trash it for the raccoons to fight over before anyone sees. No one is any the wiser, and no one but you will go hungry. Also, no one will eat your food in the fridge, so you'll never find your last yogurt gone. And, if you don't have food in the fridge, you can just get take out. Zero judgments, even if it is the third set of ToppersStix of the week. 
• Sickness.
  When I'm sick, I can be as lazy and disgusting as I want and not worry about getting anyone else ill. No more.
• The SIFWM factor.
  Living alone, I know where my stuff is. Things have their place and I either put them there or don't - it's up to me. Being a super paranoid and forgetful person, sometimes when living alone, I've ran into a "someone is fucking with me" situation. AKA, I put two figurines on my mantle and a week later, one of them is facing the opposite direction. There's NO way I moved it, so clearly, someone is fucking with me (my money is on the serial killer living in my attic). When there's another person cohabiting, it's a perpetual SIFWM situation. 
• Oldies but goodies.
  I listen to a lot of oldies music. My record player is typically bumpin' some golden jams of old. What happens when I no longer have a monopoly on the tunes?
• Lady time.
  Because sometimes I want to spend three hours trying to follow a hair / makeup tutorial on Youtube. And it usually involves a lot of swearing and broken dreams. Same goes for workout videos. No, I can't do a frickin' side plank and, yes, lipstick still illudes me - I'm trying!
• The bed.
  Sometimes I don't want to share. There, I said it. A good old fashioned starfish sprawl is necessary from time to time. 
• Free time, me time.
  There is nothing better than a two hour gab session on the phone, or having your girls over for some "let's eat pizza and bitch about our men" time. Do those go away when you live with the man you're gabbing about? There has to be some balance there. And you know, sometimes I just want to build a pillow fort, take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile. Can I still do that?

You. Me. Oui.

Let's look at the root causes here. What am I really afraid of? ...Being judged? Change? Not being in control? Beyond any of that, I know what it really is that worries me: I'm terrified that I'll do something wrong, or will be a disappointment. What if I don't bring enough to the table? What if he decides, "Ugh, this bitch is crazy, I'm out"? AKA I'm freaking out. Just a smidge.

That's what happens when you're invested in another person: you want to keep them. So, all these silly worryings and nostalgia about living alone, it's really just me being afraid of moving forward and letting myself be happy with another person. Normally, I'm the only only one in control of my happiness (or sadness), and letting someone else in on that game is foreign territory. There is some serious adulting that needs to be done here. Need to put my big girl relationship pants on and grow on up.

Luckily, I know it's going to be amazing. Sure, I'll still refer to the time I lived in "that cute little upper in the village" with a big grin, and will tell a few single gal tales of my time there, but that's beside the point. What's really important is that I work through all this with the beau. Because now it's not just me who decides how this goes, it's we.

At the very least, I'm pretty sure "we" will be on board with the "pants optional" plan...


Click here for Part Two: In which I get to be Batman. 

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.