There isn’t a lot of things that surprise me. Furthermore, I rarely surprise myself. However, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve surprised myself a hell of a lot more often in the past few months than I ever have in the past.
I’ve always found myself adamantly studying human behavior and the reasons behind their actions. In the same way, I also study myself and once
...your best friend?
in a while, I am astounded by what I’ve done or how I’ve reacted.
I’ve already written a few articles on the changes that have occurred over the semester and the adventures that have been experienced. I have lightly touched on this subject, but I have not really elaborated enough. So I’ll ask: what drives a person to do things outside their nature? Nature being the operative, or rather meaning a person’s predictable personality.
It’s easy to agree that people have the ability to do things they normally wouldn’t do, when all reason and logic disappear and pure animalistic instincts take over. Being such a highly evolved species—that is, most of us—are able to control our “wild” instincts. But what is it that wills us to make a conscious decision to let that all go?
I used to be a virgin. I used to want to wait until marriage, to save it for the man I would spend the rest of my life with, your typical romantic ideal. I was a virgin up until I was 22. Not a bad record, I have to say. During that time, I was also in a serious relationship with another virgin, which made it less of a temptation to let loose on our physical desires. However, I had the urge to know whether or not I was sex-worthy to my boyfriend. I would ask once in a while if he ever wanted to make love to me. Ironically, he would get irritated and say “no, not right now.” I think he took me literally, whereas I just wanted the satisfaction of knowing that he would if he wanted to. After the sixth month of our relationship, his mind changed, a full turnaround. Suddenly, he was all for it. And I gave away myself to the one I thought was “true love.” At 22, I was super naïve. That boy was the only boy I had ever been with, even past our eventual terminated relationship.
Until now…
Now the count is two. Two at 24.
After my breakup, I wanted to try and wait again until marriage. I didn’t want to run amok and sleep with any guy that was willing, even though there were times the opportunity was extremely tempting. I wanted to keep the sex thing something special between me and someone else. Something meaningful. Worthwhile. Not just a physical exercise to get my jollies off. I want to do it for love. Is that so surprising?
So, while I was doing my best to revirginize myself, I developed a very close friendship with a boy. He became my best friend. He was amazing in every way, a Godsend, really. He and I were pretty much welded at the hip. He was 22 and also a virgin.
Our friendship was picked on by most people, behind our backs or to our faces. People at work pressured and gossiped. Close friends disapproved and also gossiped. Most didn’t believe we could be “just friends.” It was hard to a point. Emotionally hard. For my best friend had also fallen for me. I, however, couldn’t see him more than just a friend. Perhaps it was because that’s how I started out, looking at him as though he were a brother of mine.
But we were the opposite sex. And there were times where the attraction could become very hard to ignore. There were little moments where we did allow ourselves physical exploration, but it never led to much of anything else. Our code term was “stuff and other things.”
“I’m in the mood for doing stuff,” I’d say.
“And other things?” he’d respond. We’d laugh at our little inside joke.
But one fateful night, I gave in. I slept with my best friend. All logical reasoning flew out the door, all consideration for our friendship—gone. Just simple and pure, straightforward and relentless, human instinct. For a night, my reservations on sex vanished. I guess you could say my need was much stronger than I thought. There was no regret, which mildly surprises me. I used to regret it before.
Also, I find it ironic that I’ve only slept with virgins… Kinda makes me feel like I’m a thief of innocence.
Nonetheless, how can I explain myself? What was it that drove me to give in after all those months of being able to thwart off physical passion? How did I turn from a person who so believed strongly in waiting, to becoming who I am now? It cannot be explained off by simply saying “I changed my mind.” There’s more to it. Was it love that I felt for my best friend? Did I finally see past the idea that he was “just a friend?” Or was it loneliness? I’d have to say no on that one. There were a few other guys I could have been with out of loneliness, but chose not to. Was it simply out of passion? Again, I’d have to say no. I would have taken it out on guys a lot sooner, if that was the case.
Then it was love. It had to have been. I had already known how deeply I felt for him, that I wanted nothing but his happiness. I wanted nothing but for him to know what love was like. Robin Williams in Bicentennial Man states it perfectly:
“That you can lose yourself, everything, all boundaries, all time—the two bodies can become so mixed up that you don’t know who’s who or what’s what. And just when the sweet confusion is so intense you think you’re gonna DIE, you kind of do…leaving you alone in your separate body.
But the one you love is still there.
That’s a miracle. You can go to heaven and come back alive. You can go back anytime you want with the one you love.”
Was it really so wrong of us to do? I don’t think so.
So, even though I promised myself to wait—even though I believe making love is special and shouldn’t be wasted—even though I wasn’t in a romantic relationship with him—even though there are those who may think I’m a horrible person for giving in and sleeping with my best friend, accusing me of knowing better and putting all responsibilities on my shoulders—even though I did something outside of my own personal nature—I know that I am happy. Maybe because I knew he was happy. After all, showing love is giving love.
It’s funny when you consider how these two things can occur at the same time. For instance, when I look back at the past few months, I can honestly say these were the best months of my life. Yet, they were also the worst months.
I went through an agonizing breakup, the kind you wished to create a self-induced amnesia because the memories were too unbearable to face. Because of this terminated relationship of two years, my mental state also seemed to deteriorate. My sanity was being held by a thin string over a cavern of despair. I forced myself to hide away the memories and try to rebuild new ones, but found I could only hide for so long before I was wallowing in emotional turmoil again.
Of course, I have an explanation for all this. I am too stubborn to admit that I was severely emotional without a really good excuse. Am I alone? I don’t think so…
I blame the birth control! The Depo-Provera, that evil shot that helped me stay un-pregnant (thank the stars), but took away all rationality and boosted my hormones to an unstable level. It was like my identity split in two; the logical side of me was watching from far away, screaming at the top of my lungs to get the attention of the crazy side of me, to say wake up and breathe! After a few weeks of enduring the breakup, the Depo was exiting my system. I didn’t have a period at the time, so with no more birth control, my system was attempting to regulate itself. I already knew I had severe PMS, more like PMDD, so imagine having a period come and go several times a month without any warning, making me go through PMDD more than a human brain can take. On top of that, I was dealing with the average emotional despair of a breakup. Only it wasn’t so average for me.
Considering I had to deal with being around the X and his new girlfriend more than I liked, I was failing miserably on the healing end of life. Which pissed the more logical side of me off because I hated looking like a pathetic loser.
I took upon heavy drinking as a way to ignore my loser pain. I thought that maybe if I burned away a certain amount of brain cells, I could burn away the history. Except that one night, while in a drunken stupor and home alone, my depressed subconscious decided to take all the pain I was running from and throw it right back in my face—like taking a butcher knife to my leg and arm. Unfortunately, I cried myself to sleep on the floor during the process and my crime was caught later by my roommates. This resulted in an ambulance trip to the hospital, even though the gashes weren’t deep enough to be considered fatal. I was humiliated and even more depressed because of my humiliation.
When my parents came to see me, I was horrified. I knew exactly what I looked like: sickly pale, unresponsive, cut up, laying in a cold, white hospital room, dying on the inside. I looked just like my dad’s little sister. She had killed herself.
So if that thought wasn’t enough to scare me out of my depression, I don’t know what could have. I went through weekly counseling and monthly psychiatry. I was put on Zoloft for the time being and waited until my period was finally able to regulate itself, my hormones leveling out, and my PMDD becoming more discernable.
I can laugh about it now, but I’ll never forgive the ambulance and hospital bills. I’m now on Prozac for only the week before my period, which counteracts the super bad moods. I made a list of all the reasons for my depression, if only to give myself some sort of reasonable excuse:
First breakup with first love (you know how they always say the first one is the hardest, well I believe whoever said that)
Birth control screwing up system
PMDD
Having to be around X and girlfriend without sufficient healing time
Already genetically infected (the Rowader women have issues)
Despite all of this!!!!…it was the BEST six months of my life (so far). During my depression, I developed a friendship with probably one of the most amazing persons in my life, Mat Solace. He was the light in my darkness. Along with him, my friendships with Rachel and Anthony became stronger because they watched me for three years go up and down on the happiness/sadness scale. Somehow, all four of us became connected at the hip. We embarked on exciting adventures and trips that wouldn’t have happened if I had never let go of my boyfriend. And I am ALL ABOUT adventures!
People say that there is always something good one can take away from a breakup. For me, it is the friendships and adventures. Those memories have replaced the bad ones. I promised myself, after the breakup, that I wouldn’t look for a rebound to repel the loneliness. But I guess you can say that I did find a rebound, and they were Rachel, Anthony, and Mat. Best rebounds ever! Best memories ever… Best times ever…
I’ve been finding a lot of things funny as of late. Maybe it’s because I’ve been sitting up in my parents’ house, which resides in the middle of a mountain valley in a quiet little town called Cherry—if you could really call it a “town”—mostly alone and my friends hours away. It’s a peaceful place, my parents’ home, but leaves a lot to random, secluded thoughts.
Which is great! …for a writer like myself. Of course, it’s getting the motivation bug to really get things kicking into gear…
Like I said: been thinking a lot of funny things lately. Not “funny” as in humorous, or laugh-out-loudish, but more like “funny” as in cocking one’s head to the side in curious pondering, or rather “interesting.” I’ve had about a billion different ideas and epiphanies clogging my brain recently and I haven’t been able to figure out which thought to jot down first.
So this time I’d decided to just sit and let my fingers have at it…the keyboard, that is…for some reason I feel the need to justify my previous statement. Probably something to do with the fact that my brain tends to wander in the gutter, a trait I picked up from Mat and Anthony.
Again, I’m allowing myself to get sidetracked, which is something I’m working on…
My first main and most prominent annoying thought is the simple fact about change. I keep looking back into the past and finding the whole thing fascinating! To sum things up bluntly, I have finished my college years and have now moved on to the next stage of my life…my career. Ugh.
It took about five years before graduation, but within those five years, an enormous amount of history went down. I look back on my high school years and remember only small changes, insignificant incidents that rarely occurred. But my college years! Phew…Each year by itself is a full story all on its own.
I am not entirely certain if many others feel the same way about this, but I do know that a small sum of those I’ve spoken with agree that the typical four college years can amount to a lot of huge changes and major incidents.
It’s fascinating, actually. I look back at my high school years fondly, but remember that not much really happened at all. However, when I will look back at my college years, I am overwhelmed with the amount of changes and occurrences I experienced.
To start off with, my first semester (2005) in college had me living in a studio all by myself and was unsuccessful in making any real friends. To put it plainly, nothing happened. The next two semesters (05-06) had me living with three boys, two of which I had been friends with in high school. This was also the year that I met Steve, my first experience in actually attracting a male human being. I call him my situation, but I also learned a lot from him—physically and emotionally—and I suppose you could say it prepped me for the big whopper of a relationship I was to trip and fall into soon after.
Next couple of years (06-08), I experienced Chris, my first boyfriend and serious relationship ever (we were known as the Chris & Chris duo for a few years). On top of that, I finally made a close girl friend, Rachel, moved in with her and another girl, Marilyn, whom I would live with for the next three years, and joined an adorable little boy group named the LOL Krew. When I’d met the group of boys, they reminded me so much of my high school days. At first, they were annoying, but I later grew to love them dearly. Throughout this year, I enjoyed close friendships and a fun little adventure to Virginia to meet my boyfriend’s family. I also lost my virginity, found out what it was like to really be in love with someone, and then experienced my first-ever “breakup and get back together” sitch.
Finally, this last year (08-09), I went back to being single after a rough two and a half years of pretending to be a girlfriend, and started saying “yes” to any man who asked me out. Which, shockingly, happened a lot. I began to feel as special as my mom was when she was my age. She dated hordes of men, and never committed to anyone unless she was engaged to him. I don’t know how she did it, but I admire her nonetheless. She happened to land her dream-man at the age of 25. Of course, I’m only a year away from 25 now and I already know I have a lot more road to cover before I settle down. That’s for sure!
Also, in just a few months, I underwent the “getting drunk and fooling around” experience, the “getting high” experience, the “depression and cutting with knives” experience, the “riding in an ambulance for the first time” experience, the counseling, the psychiatry, the Zoloft, the “sleeping with my best friend” experience, etc., etc., etc. And not all in that order, either. I suppose you could say I’ve well-rounded myself without quite endangering my life.
And that ends my college years. It was a hell of a time.
Looking back at it now, I already know the last year, despite it having the most drama, was the best year of them all. For that was the year I made the closest of friends, closer than I could have imagined. And it was also filled with the most adventures: a midnight trip to San Diego, Las Vegas birthday, Malibu vacation and Disneyland, creating a band called N’Xanna D for a night, karaoking every Tuesday night—which also inspired those who never thought they would sing in front of an audience to actually join in—shooting up zombies till dawn, and always many nights of drinking and fun. There was never a day wasted in the year of 2009.
But now, as I have already moved out of my apartment with the girls I’ve lived with for over two years, I’m back to where I started. I sit at my desk in the room I had when I was 18, but this time I am preparing for a bigger move…to California where I will begin my career as an actor and a writer (hopefully with IGN!!!). This is the biggest move I have ever made (mind you, I moved straight to Manhattan after I graduated high school—came back later) because this is the move where all my connections and ties to Arizona will actually be severed. I have already acquired a new California phone number, letting go of the number I’ve had since I was 15, and I am closing out my bank account I’ve had since I was 13. I am also taking with me every belonging I’ve ever owned that has been stored in my parents’ house for years.
These things may not seem so fundamental to the average mover, but when you’ve been waiting your whole life for a big change, but the opportunity was never there, or something had always been holding you back, things like changing phone numbers and bank accounts are big deals. I’m gonna have to memorize a new account number and I liked that number!
It’s a great feeling to be able to have the freedom to move on and move away, especially when there had been so many disappointing memories in the place I had been living in. So I’m moving on up and moving over to start a whole ‘nother chapter in my life, to fill in the blanks, and cover up the damages; where the people will be new and see you the same; where there isn’t a good or bad connection with anyone, but you know it has the chance to be good. And you will never let go of the good ones you left behind.
It’s mid June and my friends, Anthony and Mat, and I decided to take a trip out to Malibu beach to see Anthony’s girlfriend and my best friend Rachel. We rented a spot at Malibu RV Park to pitch up a tent—it was the cheapest way to stay there for four days. We had our concerns, but after pitching up a four bedroom tent on top of a small mountain with a bird’s eye view of the Pacific ocean, hearing the waves crashing against the distant shores, camping wasn’t such a bad idea.
The beach was about walking distance and there were cute little seafood restaurants lining the shore.
After wrestling with the four bedroom tent, which took all four of us and a giant rock to hammer the stakes into the ground, we were able to take a quick dip into the ocean before having dinner at a super fancy Mediterranean restaurant across from the beach.
Quick note on beach: the waves were incredibly strong where we were. I got body slammed a few times while Mat, Anthony and I attempted to body surf.
At the restaurant, Mat and I already started on a few drinks—rum and coke, Tanqueray and tonic—while waiting for the rest of our party to arrive. Rachel had invited two of her friends from the music camp she was attending at Pepperdine University. By the time we sat down, I was already very tipsy. The bartender was surely not frugal on the liquor. But I decided to have a refreshing mojito to be my second drink. By the time I had that one half way down, I was drunk. I couldn’t really tell if Mat was feeling anything, but I think I remember him telling me he thought the drinks were really strong.
In any case, I ordered what I thought to be a delicious lobster and linguini dish. I scarfed it down without a second thought. At this time, I could tell that I was getting fairly emotional. I had this horrible feeling that Rachel, my very closest friend, was annoyed with me. Earlier the evening, she had turned and scolded me about how we were all “in a very nice restaurant.” I have a big mouth and there are many times where I will let it fly on subjects no average human being would dare share with others.
Unaware of our newest guests, I was on the topic of how my period finally started regulating after years and years of having surprises. I was excited to share that with everyone. Thus, Rachel turning to me and saying, “We’re at a nice restaurant…”
For some reason, that struck a wrong cord with me and my body literally went numb—a tell-tale sensation that I was gonna start crying at some point or another.
Well, after drinking up my third Tanqueray and tonic, totaling just three drinks all night, I ended up in the bathroom in tears, blubbering about something along the lines of how my best friend is ashamed of me and how “I shouldn’t even speak at all” because people find me obnoxious. Rachel, of course, is comforting me all the while.
Thankfully, this lasted a total of ten minutes, if not less, and I was back to my bubbly self, ready for more.
Rachel had to return to her dorm while me and the boys returned to our tent. Mat pulled out Parcheesi and Anthony pulled out Bud Light. I hate Bud Light, but I was drunk enough to not care. So all three of us played Drunk Parcheesi that we were never able to finish.
It was six in the morning and I suddenly woke up in a cold sweat. I had only had four drinks total the night before, but I was all too aware of my stomach’s existence. One thing to know about me is that I never throw up. I have thrown up a total of four times, once when I was three, once when four, once last year and once more this year. So when I dragged myself out of the tent to rush to the bathroom, you should already assume I’m not very good at this.
I sat on the bathroom’s cold floor for about thirty minutes with nothing happening. The wave of nausea began to subside so I pulled myself up to rinse my face. As soon as I moved to the sink, I felt it come. I missed the toilet by an inch, red liquid spilling out of me. The flavor in my mouth was that of sweet seafood, probably the worst taste I have ever experienced. I rushed to the sink to rinse my mouth out, and then came another wave. This time chunks of lobster and linguini, undigested, came hurtling out of me. I couldn’t see it at the time, but there was no mistaking the feeling of it. I did it once more into a different sink before the vomit-frenzy subsided.
Quite frankly the most awful vomiting experience of my life, even though it was only the fifth time. I was quite surprised by myself as well; I never get sick after only four drinks. Then, to top it off, about an half an hour before 8am, our tent neighbors woke up…along with their kids. For about the next few hours straight, none of us could sleep through the high-pitch screaming and whining their young toddler decided to torture us with. That toddler also decided to run around our tent, yelling out “Ball!” as though “ball” was the only word it knew how to say. I nearly committed murder that morning.
After the neighbors left and after a few more hours of recuperation, I was ready to begin again, starting at the beach. But the experience has now ruined my love of lobster, unfortunately.
Mat, Anthony, and I spent all day at the beach. We jumped waves, fought against huge pieces of kelp, and we made Anthony into a sandman. Needless to say, the day was quite perfect, sans morning. We had dinner at Duke’s, a Hawaiian restaurant directly off the shore of the ocean.
That evening, we decided to take it easy and get some rest before the next day where we would be spending at Disneyland. We fell peacefully asleep to the crashing of the waves below us…
…until rudely awakened by a radio and loud and drunk kids laughing which lasted until 2am. Again…murder.
So when morning came around and it was time to get ready for Disneyland, you can imagine how tired we all were. But the big whopper was when Mat said, “Great. I’m surrounded by ants.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. I hate ants…passionately.
“Nope. Not at all,” Mat responded, not quite happy either. He didn’t have an air mattress, so the only thing he had under him was a sleeping bag…which the ants surrounded like a mote. Mat carefully observed the ants and was thankful to find they stayed off of him. “They seem to have an interest in one of my socks, though,” he said, “and…my shorts…and my bathing suit…”
“Well, at least they’re distracted,” I commented, as I searched around my own bedding area. No ants, phew.
As Mat began to eliminate the ants with the bottom of a water bottle—which, in my opinion, is a very inefficient way to kill ants considering the elevated bottom of a water bottle—Rachel and I made our way to the bathrooms to get ready for the morning.
All of us were ready in a little over a half hour, hopped in the car, and started the hour long drive to Disneyland. We were originally planning to get there when it opened, but we didn’t make it in time. That was okay, though, we still managed to beat the massive crowd that would have surely been there if we hadn’t arrived when we did.
The four of us skipped for joy into Disneyland’s gates, as if we were ten years old again, and quickly decided which ride we should head towards first. Making a note that the Matterhorn didn’t have a fast pass—which is STUPID, I might add—we decided to ride that one first.
However, we had a slight detour that was needed in order to get Rachel coffee and something to eat. Inside Disney’s little market, we saw two places: an empty coffee shop with plain fruit and a small assortment of Danishes, and directly across, a restaurant with a full breakfast spread. Rachel considered the full spread until looking at the massive line that had formed…of course, there was no way.
So we quickly dashed into the empty coffee shop, grabbed Rachel and I a small coffee, and she, a bite to eat, and then we rushed over to the Matterhorn which, thankfully, the line had not gotten too long.
Our first ride started the day off to a good start. We seemed to have plenty of time for all the best rides. We climbed Tarzan’s tree—with me miserably failing the Tarzan rope—ventured into Indiana Jones’ Temple of the Forbidden Eye (or whatever you call it), blasted into Space Mountain and had a rough ride to Endor on Star Tours, got shrunk by Dr. Szalinski…again, checked out some mansion we were debating on renting…until we found out it was HAUNTED!!!—and floated down the river of the Caribbean and saw a very real looking Johnny Depp. Depp was actually really disturbing in the sense that he was so life-like, we could have sworn that he was a real actor.
For dinner, we were lucky enough to get riverside seating inside the Blue Bayou restaurant for Anthony’s birthday. Unfortunately we had an asshole of a server. I, myself, work for a restaurant, I can vouch that this guy was, in fact, a dick. It is a good thing the four of us are such good sports…
Oh yeah, and did I forget to tell you, we were all in Star Wars?
All in all, the whole day was probably one of the best days we had had altogether. Even Anthony kept getting “Happy Birthday” wishes by complete strangers everywhere we walked. Too bad that didn’t get us at the front of the line…
As soon as we got back to our tent in Malibu, we all passed out in exhaustion. And for the first night that week, it was a silent night—sans annoying drunk people and crazy babies.
The next day, Rachel, Anthony, Mat and I had lunch—forget breakfast—at a Seafood Bar with the most deliciously amazing fish I have ever had! And then it was time to say our goodbyes to Rachel. It wasn’t easy leaving Rachel behind in Malibu, especially for Anthony. But we had to get back to Arizona and she had to go back to her music camp.
I have had a lot of amazing adventures with my friends and family, but I have to admit that this trip will be one of the best that I will always remember. I am so glad that, before we all move away from each other, we had the opportunity to make the best memories possible…together.
It’s mid June and my friends, Anthony and Mat, and I decided to take a trip out to Malibu beach to see Anthony’s girlfriend and my best friend Rachel. We rented a spot at Malibu RV Park to pitch up a tent—it was the cheapest way to stay there for four days. We had our concerns, but after pitching up a four bedroom tent on top of a small mountain with a bird’s eye view of the Pacific ocean, hearing the waves crashing against the distant shores, camping wasn’t such a bad idea.
The beach was about walking distance and there were cute little seafood restaurants lining the shore.
After wrestling with the four bedroom tent, which took all four of us and a giant rock to hammer the stakes into the ground, we were able to take a quick dip into the ocean before having dinner at a super fancy Mediterranean restaurant across from the beach.
Quick note on beach: the waves were incredibly strong where we were. I got body slammed a few times while Mat, Anthony and I attempted to body surf.
At the restaurant, Mat and I already started on a few drinks—rum and coke, Tanqueray and tonic—while waiting for the rest of our party to arrive. Rachel had invited two of her friends from the music camp she was attending at Pepperdine University. By the time we sat down, I was already very tipsy. The bartender was surely not frugal on the liquor. But I decided to have a refreshing mojito to be my second drink. By the time I had that one half way down, I was drunk. I couldn’t really tell if Mat was feeling anything, but I think I remember him telling me he thought the drinks were really strong.
In any case, I ordered what I thought to be a delicious lobster and linguini dish.
Lobster Linguini
I scarfed it down without a second thought. At this time, I could tell that I was getting fairly emotional. I had this horrible feeling that Rachel, my very closest friend, was annoyed with me. Earlier the evening, she had turned and scolded me about how we were all “in a very nice restaurant.” I have a big mouth and there are many times where I will let it fly on subjects no average human being would dare share with others.
Unaware of our newest guests, I was on the topic of how my period finally started regulating after years and years of having surprises. I was excited to share that with everyone. Thus, Rachel turning to me and saying, “We’re at a nice restaurant…”
For some reason, that struck a wrong cord with me and my body literally went numb—a tell-tale sensation that I was gonna start crying at some point or another.
Well, after drinking up my third Tanqueray and tonic, totaling just three drinks all night, I ended up in the bathroom in tears, blubbering about something along the lines of how my best friend is ashamed of me and how “I shouldn’t even speak at all” because people find me obnoxious. Rachel, of course, is comforting me all the while.
Thankfully, this lasted a total of ten minutes, if not less, and I was back to my bubbly self, ready for more.
Rachel had to return to her dorm while me and the boys returned to our tent. Mat pulled out Parcheesi and Anthony pulled out Bud Light. I hate Bud Light, but I was drunk enough to not care. So all three of us played Drunk Parcheesi that we were never able to finish.
It was six in the morning and I suddenly woke up in a cold sweat. I had only had four drinks total the night before, but I was all too aware of my stomach’s existence. One thing to know about me is that I never throw up. I have thrown up a total of four times, once when I was three, once when four, once last year and once more this year. So when I dragged myself out of the tent to rush to the bathroom, you should already assume I’m not very good at this.
I sat on the bathroom’s cold floor for about thirty minutes with nothing happening. The wave of nausea began to subside so I pulled myself up to rinse my face. As soon as I moved to the sink, I felt it come. I missed the toilet by an inch, red liquid spilling out of me. The flavor in my mouth was that of sweet seafood, probably the worst taste I have ever experienced. I rushed to the sink to rinse my mouth out, and then came another wave. This time chunks of lobster and linguini, undigested, came hurtling out of me. I couldn’t see it at the time, but there was no mistaking the feeling of it. I did it once more into a different sink before the vomit-frenzy subsided.
Quite frankly the most awful vomiting experience of my life, even though it was only the fifth time. I was quite surprised by myself as well; I never get sick after only four drinks. Then, to top it off, about an half an hour before 8am, our tent neighbors woke up…along with their kids. For about the next few hours straight, none of us could sleep through the high-pitch screaming and whining their young toddler decided to torture us with. That toddler also decided to run around our tent, yelling out “Ball!” as though “ball” was the only word it knew how to say. I nearly committed murder that morning.
After the neighbors left and after a few more hours of recuperation, I was ready to begin again, starting at the beach. But the experience has now ruined my love of lobster, unfortunately.
Mat, Anthony, and I spent all day at the beach. We jumped waves, fought against huge pieces of kelp, and we made Anthony into a sandman. Needless to say, the day was quite perfect, sans morning.
Duke's Restaurant
We had dinner at Duke’s, a Hawaiian restaurant directly off the shore of the ocean.
That evening, we decided to take it easy and get some rest before the next day where we would be spending at Disneyland. We fell peacefully asleep to the crashing of the waves below us…
…until rudely awakened by a radio and loud and drunk kids laughing which lasted until 2am. Again…murder.
So when morning came around and it was time to get ready for Disneyland, you can imagine how tired we all were. But the big whopper was when Mat said, “Great. I’m surrounded by ants.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I said. I hate ants…passionately.
“Nope. Not at all,” Mat responded, not quite happy either. He didn’t have an air mattress, so the only thing he had under him was a sleeping bag…which the ants surrounded like a mote. Mat carefully observed the ants and was thankful to find they stayed off of him. “They seem to have an interest in one of my socks, though,” he said, “and…my shorts…and my bathing suit…”
“Well, at least they’re distracted,” I commented, as I searched around my own bedding area. No ants, phew.
As Mat began to eliminate the ants with the bottom of a water bottle—which, in my opinion, is a very inefficient way to kill ants considering the elevated bottom of a water bottle—Rachel and I made our way to the bathrooms to get ready for the morning.
All of us were ready in a little over a half hour, hopped in the car, and started the hour long drive to Disneyland. We were originally planning to get there when it opened, but we didn’t make it in time. That was okay, though, we still managed to beat the massive crowd that would have surely been there if we hadn’t arrived when we did.
The four of us skipped for joy into Disneyland’s gates, as if we were ten years old again, and quickly decided which ride we should head towards first. Making a note that the Matterhorn didn’t have a fast pass—which is STUPID, I might add—we decided to ride that one first.
However, we had a slight detour that was needed in order to get Rachel coffee and something to eat. Inside Disney’s little market, we saw two places: an empty coffee shop with plain fruit and a small assortment of Danishes, and directly across, a restaurant with a full breakfast spread. Rachel considered the full spread until looking at the massive line that had formed…of course, there was no way.
So we quickly dashed into the empty coffee shop, grabbed Rachel and I two small coffees, and she, a bite to eat, and then we rushed over to the Matterhorn which, thankfully, the line had not gotten too long.
Our first ride started the day off to a good start. We seemed to have plenty of time for all the best rides. We climbed Tarzan’s tree—with me miserably failing the Tarzan rope—ventured into Indiana Jones’ Temple of the Forbidden Eye (or whatever you call it), blasted into Space Mountain and had a rough ride to Endor on Star Tours, got shrunk by Dr. Szalinski…again, checked out some mansion we were debating on renting…until we found out it was HAUNTED!!!—and floated down the river of the Caribbean and saw a very real looking Johnny Depp. Depp was actually really disturbing in the sense that he was so life-like, we could have sworn that he was a real actor.
Blue Bayou
For dinner, we were lucky enough to get riverside seating inside the Blue Bayou restaurant for Anthony’s birthday. Unfortunately we had an asshole of a server. I, myself, work for a restaurant, I can vouch that this guy was, in fact, a dick. It is a good thing the four of us are such good sports…
Oh yeah, and did I forget to tell you, we were all in Star Wars?
Star Wars
All in all, the whole day was probably one of the best days we had had altogether. Even Anthony kept getting “Happy Birthday” wishes by complete strangers everywhere we walked. Too bad that didn’t get us at the front of the line…
As soon as we got back to our tent in Malibu, we all passed out in exhaustion. And for the first night that week, it was a silent night—sans annoying drunk people and crazy babies.
The next day, Rachel, Anthony, Mat and I had lunch—forget breakfast—at a Seafood Bar with the most deliciously amazing fish I have ever had! And then it was time to say our goodbyes to Rachel. It wasn’t easy leaving Rachel behind in Malibu, especially for Anthony. But we had to get back to Arizona and she had to go back to her music camp.
I have had a lot of amazing adventures with my friends and family, but I have to admit that this trip will be one of the best that I will always remember. I am so glad that, before we all move away from each other, we had the opportunity to make the best memories possible…together.
Graduation is coming. And for the first time, I felt myself panic. Where am I going? Do I continue on with my Masters? Did I get the right degree? Will I have a career? These are the common questions that plague the student’s mind right before graduation. These questions are not the reason why I am panicking. Sure I have ruminated over and over about what decisions I need to make in order to have a successful career and that after graduation I will be making some of the most important decisions of my life—and I hate making decisions—but oddly enough I am not bothered by this. I am the type of person that is comfortable with the idea of “whatever happens, happens,” that things will fall in to their right places. This is not the source of my stress. To put it bluntly, I am afraid of losing my closest friends. Whether you are graduating this year, or you know someone who is graduating, it is safe to assume that a lot of things change afterwards, including the people you love moving far away. Facebook is pretty good at helping keeping friendships alive and, if you’re consistent at it, usually phone calls can keep people close as well. You can keep it up for about a year and maybe longer, but in most cases, the friendships fade and you make new ones. This is an on-going cycle. However, this time around, I panicked! I didn’t want to follow the “cycle.”
When I was in high school, I believed that my best friends and I would stay very close. I am an incredibly stubborn person, so you can imagine how adamant I am with my faith. During my senior year, I finally made a small but very close-knit group of friends. I remember that we used to wonder why we were never close before until our last year of school. We graduated and some of us moved away. We stayed close for about a little over a year and then, just like the cycle, we faded away.
The same thing has happened now. This is my senior year in college and I have become extremely close with only a select few. Three of us are all moving out of state, myself included. We used to tease the idea of moving to the same state together, thinking of how much fun that could be, knowing that some of us couldn’t be without each other. And all the while, I keep thinking how familiar this all seems. I hear Rachel say, “I don’t think you and I will ever not be friends…we’ll grow old together.” Smiling at her, I try to be positive, but I am not. I am cynical. I’ve heard it before. And so, I panicked. Because this time I really, really didn’t want the same thing to happen—where people move away and move on.
So what? So this semester, despite my incredibly busy schedule, I had filled up all my free time, and even not-so free time, to spend with my closest friends, to fill my memory with them and all the happiest moments they bring to life. Because who knows when it’ll be this good again. I realize how dramatic this sounds—believe me, Drama is my middle name—but frankly I can’t help it; it’s in my genes—and the inspirational music in the background is also helping. I have whimmed with the best of friends and plan on continuing to do so until we part our ways. I guess you can say they have been the reason behind my whimming—and the virus commonly known as senioritis has also added to it. So I will hope and enjoy every minute we’re together. I have plenty more whims up my sleeve saved up for summer. And, just like the summer after my high school graduation, this summer will be logged into my memory as one of the greatest! Then August will come…and this chapter will close, but another will open. Things will fall in their right places. Remember to appreciate those closest to you. Work hard, but harder for those you love. Oh yeah, and have fun!
And continue to whim where no whimmer has gone before…
Graduation is coming. And for the first time, I felt myself panic. Where am I going? Do I continue on with my Masters? Did I get the right degree? Will I have a career? These are the common questions that plague the student’s mind right before graduation. These questions are not the reason why I am panicking. Sure I have ruminated over and over about what decisions I need to make in order to have a successful career and that after graduation I will be making some of the most important decisions of my life—and I hate making decisions—but oddly enough I am not bothered by this. I am the type of person that is comfortable with the idea of “whatever happens, happens,” that things will fall in to their right places. This is not the source of my stress. To put it bluntly, I am afraid of losing my closest friends. Whether you are graduating this year, or you know
Waiting in the blistering heat to get inside the Stadium.
someone who is graduating, it is safe to assume that a lot of things change afterwards, including the people you love moving far away. Facebook is pretty good at helping keeping friendships alive and, if you’re consistent at it, usually phone calls can keep people close as well. You can keep it up for about a year and maybe longer, but in most cases, the friendships fade and you make new ones. This is an on-going cycle. However, this time around, I panicked! I didn’t want to follow the “cycle.”
When I was in high school, I believed that my best friends and I would stay very close. I am an incredibly stubborn person, so you can imagine how adamant I am with my faith. During my senior year, I finally made a small but very close-knit group of friends. I remember that we used to wonder why we were never close before until our last year of school. We graduated and some of us moved away. We stayed close for about a little over a year and then, just like the cycle, we faded away.
The same thing has happened now. This is my senior year in college and I have become extremely close with only a select few. Three of us are all moving out of state, myself included. We used to tease the idea of moving to the same state together, thinking of how much fun that could be, knowing that some of us couldn’t be without each other. And all the while, I keep thinking how familiar this all seems. I hear Rachel say, “I don’t think you and I will ever not be friends…we’ll grow old together.” Smiling at her, I try to be positive, but I am not. I am cynical. I’ve heard it before. And so, I panicked. Because this time I really, really didn’t want the same thing to happen—where people move away and move on.
So what? So this semester, despite my incredibly busy schedule, I had filled up all my free time, and even not-so free time, to spend with my closest friends, to fill my memory with them and all the happiest moments they bring to life. Because who knows when it’ll be this good again. I realize how dramatic this sounds—believe me, Drama is my middle name—but frankly I can’t help it; it’s in my genes—and the inspirational music in the background is also helping. I have whimmed with the best of friends and plan on continuing to do so until we part our ways. I guess you can say they have been the reason behind my whimming—and the virus commonly known as senioritis has also added to it. So I will hope and enjoy every minute we’re together. I have plenty more whims up my sleeve saved up for summer. And, just like the summer after my high school graduation, this summer will be logged into my memory as one of the greatest! Then August will come…and this chapter will close, but another will open. Things will fall in their right places. Remember to appreciate those closest to you. Work hard, but harder for those you love. Oh yeah, and have fun!
And continue to whim where no whimmer has gone before…
As the weeks go by, the whims come and go. I’ve found myself slowing down the busier the days become, but I still manage to say yes when I’d normally say no. I get the impression that my sense of adventure is related to senioritis and if even it is, then thank the stars! The point of a whim is to enjoy life even when you’re at your busiest. And this semester’s schedule is definitely stuffed to the brim. However, I can’t seem to stop myself from going on whims.
It was a Thursday night and I was planning on spending it with my friends. It was the week before Spring Break and Anthony, Mat, Rachel and I were trying to plan a short trip to San Diego, but we were having trouble finding time within our hectic schedules. Then suddenly Rachel exclaimed, “Let’s go tonight!” Realizing we all had the next morning free, we decided we could pull it off. Mat and I just needed to be back by 5pm to make in time for work.
No problem.
But who would drive? We decided upon Anthony’s car, a spacious, trustworthy Toyota. He just needed an oil change, but seeing as it was 10 o’clock at night, there wasn’t a likely place that would be open.
“I can do it,” Mat said, and we got to work. Supplies in hand, Mat successfully changed the oil, I looked up directions to Mission Beach, San Diego, and we were on the road by midnight. Well, almost. We needed gas. Ironically, the directions took us on a very isolated road, so the gas station we found seemed to be the only one at the time. Luckily, it was a 24 hour station…except that when we got there it was closed for ten minutes. We stood around outside in the chill anxiously waiting for the man inside to finish counting his registers and activate the pumps and open up the doors so we could stock up in gas and 6 hour energy shooters. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road. Anthony was driver, I was navigator, and Mat was DJ. Rachel ended up falling asleep even after chugging a 24oz. coffee.
The drive was long, but we kept ourselves awake with music and Dane Cook. We passed Yuma, crossed the Boarder Patrol into California, and began the long stretch through the desert in the black of night, only the stars lighting our way…and headlights. A little over half-way there, I glanced over Anthony’s shoulder and noticed that we were near empty in gas. I asked him if we should stop at a gas station, but he assured me we’d make it. But he didn’t account for the uphill driving and hard winds that made the car much more difficult to handle. Before we knew it, the gas light was on, nagging at us as we realized we weren’t really near any civilization. We kept our eyes peeled for a gas sign as we passed barren exits. After a while, we were getting nervous. Then I saw one and we pulled off into a small town, staring out our foggy windows, it being in the thirties outside, until we saw the gas station.
It was closed.
Not only was it closed, but it was 4am and we were completely isolated. We called 411 to find out if there was another gas station nearby. We told them we were in a town called Pine Valley, but the woman on the phone said it didn’t exist.
That was bad. We were on empty and had been on empty for miles and were stranded in a town that didn’t exist! Thankfully, someone seemed to be taking an early morning jog. Mat and Anthony asked her if there was a gas station we could go to and she told us there was one 18 miles away in another town. We were very lucky she decided to take an early run, though I think she was a little freaked out by us.
Eighteen miles later, we were able to make it to an open gas station, filling up 11.7 out of a 12 gallon tank, and made it to Mission Beach. Gathering our blankets, we snuggled into each other on the cold sand, gazing out to where the black sky met the black ocean, hearing the waves slip in and out. It was very surreal. And then the sun came up.
That day we had breakfast on the beach. I took a whim in the ocean, even though it was icy cold. Rachel collected seashells. Anthony buried his feet in sand. Mat enjoyed a peaceful walk down the beach. It was one of the best mornings I had had in a long time and one of the best adventures so far.
As much as we wanted to stay, we had to return to Arizona in order for Mat and I to get to work on time. Six hours later, we were back to our demanding lives. Though it was a short trip, it was a whim worth remembering! Next time, we’ll plan to stay longer.
As the weeks go by, the whims come and go. I’ve found myself slowing down the busier the days become, but I still manage to say yes when I’d normally say no. I get the impression that my sense of adventure is related to senioritis and if even it is, then thank the stars! The point of a whim is to enjoy life even when you’re at your busiest. And this semester’s schedule is definitely stuffed to the brim. However, I can’t seem to stop myself from going on whims.
It was a Thursday night and I was planning on spending it with my friends. It was the week before Spring Break and Anthony, Mat, Rachel and I were trying to plan a short trip to San Diego, but we were having trouble finding time within our hectic schedules. Then suddenly Rachel exclaimed, “Let’s go tonight!” Realizing we all had the next morning free, we decided we could pull it off. Mat and I just needed to be back by 5pm to make in time for work.
No problem.
But who would drive? We decided upon Anthony’s car, a spacious, trustworthy Toyota. He just needed an oil change, but seeing as it was 10 o’clock at night, there wasn’t a likely place that would be open.
“I can do it,” Mat said, and we got to work. Supplies in hand, Mat successfully changed the oil, I looked up directions to Mission Beach, San Diego, and we were on the road by midnight. Well, almost. We needed gas. Ironically, the directions took us on a very isolated road, so the gas station we found seemed to be the only one at the time. Luckily, it was a 24 hour station…except that when we got there it was closed for ten minutes. We stood around outside in the chill anxiously waiting for the man inside to finish counting his registers and activate the pumps and open up the doors so we could stock up in gas and 6 hour energy shooters. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road. Anthony was driver, I was navigator, and Mat was DJ. Rachel ended up falling asleep even after chugging a 24oz. coffee.
The drive was long, but we kept ourselves awake with music and Dane Cook. We passed Yuma, crossed the Boarder Patrol into California, and began the long stretch through the desert in the black of night, only the stars lighting our way…and headlights. A little over half-way there, I glanced over Anthony’s shoulder and noticed that we were near empty in gas. I asked him if we should stop at a gas station, but he assured me we’d make it. But he didn’t account for the uphill driving and hard winds that made the car much more difficult to handle. Before we knew it, the gas light was on, nagging at us as we realized we weren’t really near any civilization. We kept our eyes peeled for a gas sign as we passed barren exits. After a while, we were getting nervous. Then I saw one and we pulled off into a small town, staring out our foggy windows, it being in the thirties outside, until we saw the gas station.
It was closed.
Not only was it closed, but it was 4am and we were completely isolated. We called 411 to find out if there was another gas station nearby. We told them we were in a town called Pine Valley, but the woman on the phone said it didn’t exist.
That was bad. We were on empty and had been on empty for miles and were stranded in a town that didn’t exist! Thankfully, someone seemed to be taking an early morning jog. Mat and Anthony asked her if there was a gas station we could go to and she told us there was one 18 miles away in another town. We were very lucky she decided to take an early run, though I think she was a little freaked out by us.
Eighteen miles later, we were able to make it to an open gas station, filling up 11.7 out of a 12 gallon tank, and made it to Mission Beach. Gathering our blankets, we snuggled into each other on the cold sand, gazing out to where the black sky met the black ocean, hearing the waves slip in and out. It was very surreal. And then the sun came up.
That day we had breakfast on the beach. I took a whim in the ocean, even though it was icy cold. Rachel collected seashells. Anthony buried his feet in sand. Mat enjoyed a peaceful walk down the beach. It was one of the best mornings I had had in a long time and one of the best adventures so far.
As much as we wanted to stay, we had to return to Arizona in order for Mat and I to get to work on time. Six hours later, we were back to our demanding lives. Though it was a short trip, it was a whim worth remembering! Next time, we’ll plan to stay longer.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term “whimming,” which I will assume that you are because I am the only person that I know who has made up this particular term, I will explain to you what it means and how I was inspired to create it. Whimming means “to go on a whim.” Now, the technical definition according to Encarta Dictionary, whim means “a passing impulse—a sudden thought, idea, or desire, especially one based on impulse rather than reason or necessity.” I also looked up the word on dictionary.com and came up with the definition “an odd or capricious notion or desire; a sudden or freakish fancy: a sudden whim to take a midnight walk.” Apparently, whim originates from the word “whim-wham” and the definition for that one tickles my humor in a whole new way. But this isn’t about whim-whamming, but about whimming and its glorious adventures.
The word whim is a noun, but I changed it to a verb so that I could use it more frequently. It was mid-January, before the busy spring semester was let loose, and I had found myself in a rut. It was one of those ruts where you found yourself bored, stuck, lonely, and depressed because you were bored and stuck and lonely. I had been broken up with my boyfriend of two and a half years for almost three months and still seemed to be suffering from its effects; whereas, he was able to move on and find another mate/partner/what-have-you. Of course, it was New Years Eve when I had heard the glorious news that he had found a “new love” at the beginning of December. Suffice it to say, I was dealing with it not so smoothly. The week after New Years, I had racked up four dates with four different guys, dark-haired, light-haired, tall, not so tall, skinny and meaty—I suppose you could have called it my New Years resolution…if I had one—and continued to date openly throughout the month, enjoying every bit of it (I want to clarify “dating” as “not sleeping around” for the sake of…clarity). This was not, however, a whim. I came upon “the whimming” idea when watching the movie Chaos Theory with one of the four guys, drinking margaritas and eating chips and salsa. The movie was generally humorous, Ryan Reynolds leading the way, and then the film came to the part where Reynolds’ character decided to do things he had never done before.
Hmmm…I thought. Now keep in mind that I am a naturally very adventurous person, originating from my upbringing in the theater world, but I still held myself back from doing a lot of things I normally wouldn’t even consider doing. When the movie ended, I was struck—as if by lightning, if you will allow me to be dramatic—and I had found the way to drag myself out of the rut I had unwittingly thrown myself into. I was to go whimming!
My first whim of January was to meet a stranger (who happened to end up being guy number five) at a bar that was hosting open-mic. I had never seen an open-mic performance before and this particular bar happened to be all the way in Glendale. So I invited a couple of friends to join me on this brief road trip at 11pm on a Tuesday. None of us knew exactly where we were going or what to expect, but it didn’t matter. This was a whim, and whatever happened was gonna happen. We met at the restaurant/bar, somewhere in the middle of a pitch-black neighborhood, parked and made our way. My nerves started to twist inside my gut, knowing that we were going to meet someone I had briefly met through the internet (mind you, I do not date online), and knowing that I may be pushed to sing for open-mic (something I was definitely not prepared to do). There were hardly any people; it almost seemed awkwardly abandoned, but those who were there greeted us with friendly smiles and hellos. That’s new, I thought. Not too often do total strangers even speak to you as though it were a small country town. Then Guy Number Five—tall, dark, skinny, with incredibly intense eyes—greeted us when we reached the inside. I felt my nerves calm when I noticed how sociable and friendly he was, offering to buy all three of us drinks, only two of us accepting a couple margaritas. The night went smoothly and interestingly; I watched musicians play their guitars, sing their hearts out and was even stunned by Guy Number Five’s unique musical performance.
And then it was my turn. Granted, I am a singer, but I like to practice and prepare before going up in front of an audience consisting of bar folk to sing something that’s not even close to open-mic style music. My singing style leans more towards Broadway or classical—definitely not appropriate for open-mic. And I didn’t have a guitar, which would mean a-capella, which would, in turn, make it oh-so-empty and lonely up there! But, Guy Number Five insisted and an encouraging “hoot” from my friends and the MC got me to bravely sit on the isolated stool alone on the stage and grasp the mic firmly—very firmly. I sang “Someone To Watch Over Me”, the only non-musical, slightly jazzy song I could think of, and the bar went quiet—probably because I didn’t have an instrument to accompany me. Nonetheless, I was delighted by the cheering response once I had finished the song. I slipped off that lonely stool and blended back into the crowd.
We returned home that evening, a rush of adrenaline searing through my body, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much fun I had had; a simple night-out turned into a new experience that was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. I was hooked and promised myself that I would continue my whimming adventures. Whimming can range from going out with people you wouldn’t normally hang out with, to accepting an invitation when you’d normally say no, to doing something you would usually be afraid to do. They can be big whims or small whims. But the point is to go beyond yourself and your invisible box—you never know who you might meet or what you may learn. I am continuing my whimming adventures every day and usually by myself now. Sometimes nothing happens and other times they do. Occasionally I’ll drag a friend with me, if they’re willing to whim. And, of course, I always make sure that what I am doing is safe. So start whimming, because you never know what you may find.
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term “whimming,” which I will assume that you are because I am the only person that I know who has made up this particular term, I will explain to you what it means and how I was inspired to create it. Whimming means “to go on a whim.” Now, the technical definition according to Encarta Dictionary, whim means “a passing impulse—a sudden thought, idea, or desire, especially one based on impulse rather than reason or necessity.” I also looked up the word on dictionary.com and came up with the definition “an odd or capricious notion or desire; a sudden or freakish fancy: a sudden whim to take a midnight walk.” Apparently, whim originates from the word “whim-wham” and the definition for that one tickles my humor in a whole new way. But this isn’t about whim-whamming, but about whimming and its glorious adventures.
The word whim is a noun, but I changed it to a verb so that I could use it more frequently. It was mid-January, before the busy spring semester was let loose, and I had found myself in a rut. It was one of those ruts where you found yourself bored, stuck, lonely, and depressed because you were bored and stuck and lonely. I had been broken up with my boyfriend of two and a half years for almost three months and still seemed to be suffering from its effects; whereas, he was able to move on and find another mate/partner/what-have-you. Of course, it was New Years Eve when I had heard the glorious news that he had found a “new love” at the beginning of December. Suffice it to say, I was dealing with it not so smoothly. The week after New Years, I had racked up four dates with four different guys, dark-haired, light-haired, tall, not so tall, skinny and meaty—I suppose you could have called it my New Years resolution…if I had one—and continued to date openly throughout the month, enjoying every bit of it (I want to clarify “dating” as “not sleeping around” for the sake of…clarity). This was not, however, a whim. I came upon “the whimming” idea when watching the movie Chaos Theory with one of the four guys, drinking margaritas and eating chips and salsa. The movie was generally humorous, Ryan Reynolds leading the way, and then the film came to the part where Reynolds’ character decided to do things he had never done before.
Hmmm…I thought. Now keep in mind that I am a naturally very adventurous person, originating from my upbringing in the theater world, but I still held myself back from doing a lot of things I normally wouldn’t even consider doing. When the movie ended, I was struck—as if by lightning, if you will allow me to be dramatic—and I had found the way to drag myself out of the rut I had unwittingly thrown myself into. I was to go whimming!
My first whim of January was to meet a stranger (who happened to end up being guy number five) at a bar that was hosting open-mic. I had never seen an open-mic performance before and this particular bar happened to be all the way in Glendale. So I invited a couple of friends to join me on this brief road trip at 11pm on a Tuesday. None of us knew exactly where we were going or what to expect, but it didn’t matter. This was a whim, and whatever happened was gonna happen. We met at the restaurant/bar, somewhere in the middle of a pitch-black neighborhood, parked and made our way. My nerves started to twist inside my gut, knowing that we were going to meet someone I had briefly met through the internet (mind you, I do not date online), and knowing that I may be pushed to sing for open-mic (something I was definitely not prepared to do). There were hardly any people; it almost seemed awkwardly abandoned, but those who were there greeted us with friendly smiles and hellos. That’s new, I thought. Not too often do total strangers even speak to you as though it were a small country town. Then Guy Number Five—tall, dark, skinny, with incredibly intense eyes—greeted us when we reached the inside. I felt my nerves calm when I noticed how sociable and friendly he was, offering to buy all three of us drinks, only two of us accepting a couple margaritas. The night went smoothly and interestingly; I watched musicians play their guitars, sing their hearts out and was even stunned by Guy Number Five’s unique musical performance.
A-capellaly singing
And then it was my turn. Granted, I am a singer, but I like to practice and prepare before going up in front of an audience consisting of bar folk to sing something that’s not even close to open-mic style music. My singing style leans more towards Broadway or classical—definitely not appropriate for open-mic. And I didn’t have a guitar, which would mean a-capella, which would, in turn, make it oh-so-empty and lonely up there! But, Guy Number Five insisted and an encouraging “hoot” from my friends and the MC got me to bravely sit on the isolated stool alone on the stage and grasp the mic firmly—very firmly. I sang “Someone To Watch Over Me”, the only non-musical, slightly jazzy song I could think of, and the bar went quiet—probably because I didn’t have an instrument to accompany me. Nonetheless, I was delighted by the cheering response once I had finished the song. I slipped off that lonely stool and blended back into the crowd.
We returned home that evening, a rush of adrenaline searing through my body, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how much fun I had had; a simple night-out turned into a new experience that was both nerve-wracking and exhilarating. I was hooked and promised myself that I would continue my whimming adventures. Whimming can range from going out with people you wouldn’t normally hang out with, to accepting an invitation when you’d normally say no, to doing something you would usually be afraid to do. They can be big whims or small whims. But the point is to go beyond yourself and your invisible box—you never know who you might meet or what you may learn. I am continuing my whimming adventures every day and usually by myself now. Sometimes nothing happens and other times they do. Occasionally I’ll drag a friend with me, if they’re willing to whim. And, of course, I always make sure that what I am doing is safe. So start whimming, because you never know what you may find.
Xanna's Journal 