I wrote this on the wall of Sevtap in March. Took this picture on Memorial weekend. So I’m a little proud, what can I say.
Let me explain.
I’ve always been afraid of the “wolfman” since I was a child, and yet, always fascinated. It was when I had first seen Universal’s Wolfman, the original, and I couldn’t wipe the image from my mind. This man-wolf tried to kill the woman he loved, because it was depicted in this film that the Wolf was pure evil.
As much as I know of myself, at the ripe age of 25, I am very headstrong and stubborn, not to mention slightly violent (this is something I am able to contain, of course, THANK YOU, CONSCIENCE)…can I just say that if I were an animal, I would definitely be a WOLF. Therefore, I’m looking for my Wolfman.
Mind you, not a bad wolf. Bad wolves need taming. Bad wolves kill, ravage, are unstable, and probably have rabies.
Good wolves are protective, strong, loving, brave, and, most importantly, loyal. They protect their mate and the cubs they bear.
I am a good wolf. Although I’ve been afraid of wolfmen as a child, I now am attracted to them. The strength, courage, and loyalty is everything. And I give back these qualities to those I feel need it, and therefore, hope for it in return.
I am looking for a wolf. A good wolf.
When walking into a 3 bedroom suite at the very top of the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas, it’s hard not to gawk when someone like me has never experienced “lush living.” It’s even more jaw-dropping when you realize you’re walking into the suite full of makeup artists and three gorgeous models with Funny Man and his business partner, my boyfriend Mr. Georgia, beside me.
Just minutes earlier, we arrived by private jet, which I took a nap on, then to the hotel by a private van with a special security driver. It felt very…exclusive. Once we settled into our suite, Funny Man was hungry and so was I. Funny Man’s personal makeup artist ordered room service for us. Trying to stay out of the way of all the hustle, I sat quietly at the dining table watching the models get ready while Mr. Georgia continued doing business. I remember hearing one of the models asking Mr. Georgia how his wife was and hearing him stumble over the answer of divorce. Thought that was funny. I bet they were wondering who the hell I was, the not-so-Hollywood, not-so-done-up, average girl.
An hour later, Funny Man did his convention show to promote the new slot machines and then we returned to the suite to ready for the cocktail party. The models got touched up, then the makeup artists were nice enough to play with my face and hair as well. The suite quickly filled with other guests eagerly waiting to meet Funny Man. People were enjoying freshly rolled cigars and chilled cocktails. I was still readying inside the privacy of the master bedroom. I had felt so not-glamorous earlier that I couldn’t wait to pretty myself. I layered my skin with Vanilla Berry lotion and perfume, slipped into my silver mini-dress, and donned my brand new pink-gold pumps. I slipped out of the bedroom and the first person to see me was one a woman rolling the cigars. A wide smile spread across her face and she beamed, “Oh you are so beautiful!” This obviously made me feel really good. Being around those gorgeous models can really affect you to try to look just as stunning. I felt like a princess at that point, especially when the other models were so complimentary. But I think the best moment was when I was looking for Mr. Georgia among the crowd of people in the suite, then caught his eye across the room and saw the biggest smile cross his face. I felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman when Richard Gear finds her in the bar transformed from hooker to a beautiful lady. That was me, minus the hooker part.
Mr. Georgia took me to The Mix at the top of The Hotel for dinner after the cocktail party. That place had the most amazing food I have ever had. I had ordered scallops and as soon as one bite him my tongue, I actually did NOT want to swallow. I just wanted to keep the flavor of the food in my mouth for as long as possible. It was incredible. Then we went to see Cris Angel’s show and continued the rest of the night hopping clubs, finishing at Club Pure around 5am.
We returned to the Hard Rock suite, having it all to ourselves. At this point, I had decided to take on an Australian accent inspired by the 2 Australian girls who ran into us randomly at the Playboy Club, saying to us, “We just escaped two creepy guys who wanted us to go into the bathrooms with them. So we hid inside the girl’s bathroom for an hour…” Awesome.
Mr. Georgia and I took a load off in the incredible Jacuzzi inside our suite, which was conveniently placed right by the 2 stripper poles mounted in the living room. Who needs 2, I wonder? Hmmmm…
The next day, after sleeping until noon, Mr. Georgia did some business while I readied into a mini skirt and knee-high socks. We ate a hearty lunch and then Mr. Georgia took me to the Mall inside Caesars Palace. He likes to shop…a guy. This was the first time I ever saw Dior, Versace, Chanel and every other amazing designer up close. I walked into Versace and fell in love. This designer should design for me. I tried on a mustard yellow, sci-fi inspired, wool coat and died. Then the sales lady said, “Okay, now take it off…unless you want it. It’s only $5,000, not bad at all on a credit card.” Another Pretty Woman moment. I nearly choked, then decided to keep it on for one more minute just to annoy the lady.
We left Vegas later that night, exhausted but fulfilled. It was, so far, one of the most amazing and once-in-a-lifetime experiences I’ve had…SO FAR.
…With Funny Man, Mr. Georgia, and Funny Man Jr. (names have been removed for privacy reasons). And when I say high, I don’t mean stoned, although that would be another interesting whim. It was a great time, just three older guys and a kid-girl getting to know each other for about an hour as we flew from Van Nuys, CA to Mesa, AZ on a Hawker 800 for Funny Man’s comedy tour.
But getting to that Hawker is a whole nuther story in of itself.
My dear friend Anne was supposed to pick me up 45 minutes before I needed to arrive at Clay Lacy Airport. The time to get from Simi Valley to Clay Lacy is about 35-40 minutes. But she needed a buddy to ride with us so they could get back to Thousand Oaks in time for work by way of the carpool lane. So our friend Joe calls me. He decides he’ll be driving because both of their cars are out of gas and Joe drives fast enough to get me to the airport on time. As he’s explaining his plan, he’s also sitting at Cisco’s having a few drinks with our other friend Reid. I roll my eyes thinking Anne will still be driver.
So 4:17 rolls by, just a few minutes behind when I need to be leaving, and my friends pull up with Joe as driver. I immediately have a bad feeling. This is going to suck somehow.
I jump in and Joe takes off. In the wrong direction.
“Where the hell are you going?” I say, as he begins to drive deeper into the mazelike neighborhood, instead of having turned around back to the main street which he should have done in the first place!
“What? You never gone this way?” Joe says in his usual cocky tone.
It takes 10 minutes for Joe to blindly and arrogantly navigate through the neighborhood to finally pull out back onto the main street. As we drive towards the freeway, we pass my road. Obviously, THAT was no shortcut.
Anne laughs again. At this point, I want to pull out my hair, which I spent time making pretty, and was now being blown around by wind and smoke because Joe decided to start smoking in the car.
“So where’s the gas station?” Joe asks. At this point he’s finally listening to me, which he should have been doing 10 minutes prior! I tell him and we get gas as he’s smoking and admitting it’s illegal. Of course! Joe is Mr. Invincible and can get away with everything as long as he buys the other whoever a drink.
We hit the freeway at 100 mph. In traffic. Not too heavy, but enough that driving 100mph made me think we were either gonna DIE or get pulled over, which BOTH would have made me very late! Needless to say, from what should have taken 40 minutes took only 20 as we pulled up to Clay Lacy. As I frantically tried to straighten myself up and pretend like I didn’t just go through hell, Mr. Georgia came out and greeted me. All was better. He took my bag and ushered me inside the private reception area as Joe took off with Anne.
I told Mr. Georgia the entire story. He just laughed. We walked toward the Hawker 800 right as Funny Man and Jr. pulled up to board. To sum up the flight, I talked with the pilots, asked if I could fly (no, alright next time), got to know Mr. Georgia and Jr., and Funny Man piped in once in a while either teasing me about living in Simi Valley or why in the world did I move to California if I did mainly theater stuff. Mr. Georgia would back me up. 🙂
All in all, it was a lifetime experience. Thankfully Mr. Georgia had a camera because I forgot to bring mine. It was nice of him to offer taking pictures. It was also great to see my parents and grandparents whom I hadn’t seen in a long time. It’s not everyday you can just call up your mom and say, “hey, what are you doing? I can hang out today in an hour if you want” when you live in another state.
One of these days, private jets will be the only way I fly. 😉
PS-Come to find out later that Joe rear-ended someone after dropping me off. But he was only going 30 mph. Lol.
I’m burning a Pumpkin Spice candle right now in honor of fall coming. So it’s been a full year since I’ve moved out to California and I’ve had some good experiences and bad. I feel like I’ve lived a whole different life from the start of the year to the end.
For the first part of the year, I had the Terminator and the group of friends that came along with him. Since he and I parted in the summer, that whole life disappeared, along with the friends I thought I was growing close to. And so is life.
For the last few months of the year, I have had numerous theater auditions. One of them I screwed up massively and wanted to punch myself in the face for that. The others, I received amazingly positive and encouraging reactions from the panels of auditors, but still managed to not get booked. And so is life, again. I’ll be covering more of this in a separate blog.
However, the good parts occurred near the end of the year when I finally made some close girlfriends. This was something I’d been wanting all year long, and knowing me, I’m a very impatient person. I always want it now, now, NOW! I’ve had a few exciting adventures with my girlies and a few not so pleasant ones. Let’s just say I’m really not a fan of clubs where random horny guys grab, pull, and push you everywhere you REALLY don’t want to go. If you don’t know my name, you can’t touch me. Nuff said.
Actually, not nuff said. So I did a stupid thing and went on a date with a guy I met in Santa Monica at a bar who couldn’t control his hands. Because I’m an idiot and always give people the benefit of the doubt, I think to myself, well a date won’t hurt. I was also being an idiot thinking I can control any situation I put myself into. WRONG! Of course I’d been warned about these situations before, but I’m 25. I think I’m invincible, not gonna lie. So this date turns into me being far too drunk, half passed out on the couch, then being lifted onto someone’s (oh yeah, Mr. Santa Monica’s) bed. The nasty occurs with me in that drunken stupor thinking it was a dream, and BAM! after it was over, my instincts kick in. You’re a little late, Instincts, way to be. I get the hell out of there, drunkenly stumbling down the stairs, cutting up the back of my heel on the way down, driving when I REALLY shouldn’t have been, and crying hysterically on the phone to my best friend Anthony. I made it safely home. But in the most stupid and dangerous way. So, needless to say, that’s not gonna happen again…but I’ve been wrong before.
Just gotta throw this in here: people make me sick. It’s called evolution! Let’s evolve into people bettering humanity, not fucking it over. And……nobody listens. Oh well, worth a shot.
My defense system results in me getting very angry. After my one night experience, days passed with me fuming. All I wanted to do was punch things. Guys blatantly staring at me at work, PUNCH! Older men making flirtatious jokes at me, PUNCH! My manager making a sexual comment, PUNCH! My buried memories of other guys making me feel threatened, AIR PUNCH PUNCH! And so is life…
But it shouldn’t be. And yet, nothing will ever change.
IN OTHER NEWS:
I made peace with my infamous ex, Chris Cameron, who was basically my first everything…well, almost.
Also met the producer and manager for Funny Man, Mr. Georgia (names have been removed for privacy reasons). Gonna be flying home this weekend on their private jet to see my parents. Some of you probably think I’m stupid for doing this, but it’s a major whim! And this blog is called Whimming Lessons after all. I’ll cover more on this later after this weekend. We’ll see if I was stupid or not.
Of course, I’m referring to the 80s film 2010 which precedes 2001: A Space Odyssey. Neither of these films actually foretold the future of the Millennium very well. We have not built a base on the Moon and have not found the answer to the beginning of intelligence on Earth.
However, once 2010 hits, a simple revelation will be made…sort of. Of course, I’m referring to myself. What else are blogs for but to write personal accounts, heavy opinions on topics that reside within my own brain, untouched and stubborn to the outside thoughts of others, but mildly interested and appreciative of those thoughts.
2010 is coming and so a whole new year will unfold. It was only a year ago when I was making my slow-crawling ascent from the depths of despair which I had somehow allowed myself to tumble down into. My New Year’s Resolution then was to go “whimming,” to start a whole new look at life, to find happiness when happiness seemed so foreign and far, to embark on adventures, to laugh and play, to DATE like no other had dated before! Allowing myself to be open in case lightning struck me hard, waking me from a dreamlike reality I had been escaping to.
I found it: the path to Happy Ville. I found the ability to not need too much, to use logic rather than emotion ( in simpler terms, I have found a way to become more Vulcan), to be more confident in my beliefs about life, to not be knocked down, and so on.
At the beginning of 2009, I was barely surviving my own destruction, deciding on writing being the only way out. I made the bestest (YES, bestEST) of friends I could ever think of having and had the pleasure of creating memories I will never forget.
In 2009, I discovered the life of dating many different types of guys, while finally slowing down with The Terminator, whom I also refer to as my manfriend.
In 2009, I finally found a home: California. I never thought I would feel so comfortable here as fast as I did. I still revel in the fact that people here actually pronounce my name correctly right off the bat, rather than always screwing it up as they did in Arizona. I always think that’s a sign I belong…
However, not everything is all peaches and cream. My grandfather, Papa, is dying, mentally and physically. Once the smartest man I knew, is now the weakest man I know. I thought it would frighten me that he couldn’t remember me or mom, but it hasn’t. I had come to accept this, along with the rest of my family. He may not last another year, and even if he did physically, he will have no memory left. He brought me up as a child, but he will not witness me become a wife, a mother, a successful person…It is weird to think about.
Nonetheless, I actually did conquer my previous New Year’s resolution. I found the motivation to keep up a consistent blog, I finally graduated college, I got the hell out of Arizona and didn’t get stuck in a place I never wanted to be, I found a drama-free living situation with roommates who are kind yet distant, I am interning in two places at once, both being apart of the entertainment industry, I have already done three different Red Carpet events, met Patrick Kilpatrick, and have developed friendships with wonderfully interesting and fun people.
Most importantly, I found where I belong. I found my Happy Place. I guess finding happiness is easier than losing weight…? At least it is for me—I like food too much.
Next New Year’s Res.? I am FINALLY READY to find Love!…Although, considering this is much harder to achieve than even losing weight, I might change it to Being Able To Quit BJ’s. Or maybe they shall both be my New Year’s Res.? What do you think? Which one should be my Resolution? Love or Quitting BJ’s? You tell me.
I hope all of you had your wishes come true this year. And even if they didn’t, or you feel disappointed in some part of your life, just remember, tomorrow is another day! (thank you, scarlet o’hara).
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
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.
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.
…stuff and other things.
I had finished a concert up in the Prescott area, my daddy conducting the way, and the concert consisted of Lerner & Lowe collections. I sang Gigi’s “Say A Prayer,” and My Fair Lady’s “Show Me,” “The Rain In Spain,” and “Wouldn’t It Be Loverly.” These songs are very easy for my voice type; I could roll out of bed and sing them.
Singing has been a huge part of my family’s lifestyle. I was born a singer, my genes a combination of my mother’s coluratura and my father’s powerful tenor (very much like Pavarotti’s). I already knew being a performer was something I couldn’t really avoid. I sing for my father every summer and, once in a while, do community musicals. Singing will always be apart of my life in some way or form.
With that said, this particular summer, I had come to an interesting revelation. More like I was lectured by another fellow opera singer named Isola Jones.
“What are you going to do in California?” she asked me.
“To start my career,” I responded. “Be an actor and also try to get an internship with IGN as a writer.”
Isola stared up at me with a dark look, then finally said, “You need to be singing.” The tone of her voice was not humorous.
Later that evening, after the concert was over and done with, and all of us performers sat around a table, drinking wine and beer, eating prime rib and filet mignon, singing songs like O Danny Boy and laughing the minutes away, Isola took me aside. I was, at the time, distracted by some cute boy who kept looking in my direction. He wasn’t a part of our group, rather he sat at a different table with his small group of friends. All four of them kept glancing at our table—a table full of performers who don’t mind causing a lot of attention.
As I was about to approach the table with the cute boy, Isola took my arm and pulled me away. I remember feeling a flash of disappointment as I knew I would miss my chance exchanging flirtatious conversation—a conversation I knew would really lead me absolutely nowhere, but I was addicted to the feeling it gave my stomach, a sort of excited, butterfly effect.
Then Isola, red wine in hand, looked me straight in the eye, her exotic appearance always striking and, if I didn’t know her any better, very intimidating. She said, “Darling, you’re a fabulous singer. You need to be singing.”
“I know,” I said. “I wasn’t planning on stopping—” She cut me off with a wave of her elegant finger.
“No, no,” she said, her voice smooth and luxurious. “You are at that perfect age where this can work for you. You’re young, you’re fabulous, you have the drive that most people struggle with. You have no ties, no relationships, no children, nothing—this is the time for you!”
“She’s right!” Michael Tully chimed in. Apparently, more people were listening in on this topic of choice. Michael was a friend of the family and a baritone. He originally wanted to be a performer, make it his career, but he chose a different path. Michael fell in love, got married, and realized that in order to have a healthy marriage, he needed to focus on his family rather than his career.
Isola offered to teach me coloratura repertoire until I ship off to California. She said it would at least give me another choice to choose from, another path to add to my many different paths. It dawned on me that Isola Jones, famous Metropolitan opera singer, who had sung all over the world, had so much faith in my ability to sing that kind of music, I decided to take her up on the offer. Call it a whim.
Opera was definitely a field I never thought myself capable of. It was also a field I didn’t want to even try to venture into, considering my dad had already been there and done that. I wanted to conquer a different area of performance.
But now, as I sit at my desk, scribbling my thoughts onto this virtual paper, and after practicing a few good hours of The Doll Aria, I’ve come to realize, ONE, I do have a coluratura voice, TWO, I can beat the shit out of this aria, and THREE, I have nothing to hold me back, to tie me down, to stress me out, to worry about, to compromise, to give up, let go, miss out. The world is my playground and I have nothing to lose. I can choose everything and nothing. Nothing can stop me because nothing is exactly what I own.
If you are an actor, singer, dancer, musician, composer, artist, this is the life we choose; that is, if we plan on being successful. And by successful, I simply mean the ability to pay your bills without needing a second job.
Juggling a family and a performance life is one of the most difficult things to do. When the singer is off in some other country, city, or state for months on end, it is very hard on the other. This lifestyle, if continues the same way, has a high risk of divorce. My father was married for ten years to another singer, but he was the one getting hired. He was the one gone all the time, making a success out of the stage. By the tenth year and after three kids, they divorced. She couldn’t take it. Her jealousy and loneliness got the best of her, made her miserable.
But I’m not stupid enough to think that there aren’t some marriages and relationships that do survive. I know they’re there. I haven’t met one yet, but when I do, I’d really like to interview them and see how they make it work.
So this is the path I’ve chosen. The mostly lonely but hella exciting way! Look out, World, there’s nothing holding me back!
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…
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.
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.