Where’s My White Horse?

I grew up with a mental picture of what I wanted in a relationship and what I wanted in a partner. That shouldn’t be surprising because I spent hours fantasizing about it. Hiding in my room, huddled in the furthest corner from my locked door, I’d dream up beautiful futures where I was loved and able to love in return.

I imagined castles and princesses and flowers and grand dramatic gestures in crowded airports. I figured I’d do my time, take my lumps, and rise out of this soul-sucking, abusive hell-hole not only intact but better for it. I’d go to college, become a best-selling author, and bump into a beautiful woman while buying pet food in the grocery store. We’d giggle, introduce ourselves, and then ride off on my motorcycle (give me a break, I was 10) into the sunset.

Fast-forward to a cube on a noisy floor in central Texas 2008. I’m mid-cyber-sentence with Everclear’s Wonderful blasting steady and tinny into my fried brain. I know what song I was listening to because it was my usual I-wish-the-earth-would-swallow-me-whole-and-please-take-care-of-my-kitty-when-I’m-gone song. My eyes were watering and I had to stare up at the ceiling to prevent tears from designating me as THE most pitiful person in the office. I kept typing though, yelling through the internet at my ex who just didn’t know how to be an ex.

We argued, she called me, I yelled, she hung up, I went home early feeling like I couldn’t breathe and walked fully clothed into the shower with a bottle of some green liquor crap left over from a party.

I was at the tail end of a long and painful breakup. One I initiated because I didn’t feel like we had the same understanding of what makes a romantic relationship. We’d been struggling for a year after our breakup, having made the really bad decision to remain roommates. I was in a good enough paying job, but it wasn’t my dream and it wasn’t that exciting. Nothing was like I’d fantasized. It’d been 10 years since I’d actually seen anything castle-like and forget about the princesses. I didn’t even have a passport anymore.

I was depressed and disappointed and completely upset at myself. How could I possibly think I’d ever have happily ever after? It was a hoax, a lie, a security blanket I’d buried myself beneath throughout childhood. And now I was suffocating under it. I was pissed. No, I didn’t want to hear about everyone’s relationships – it sounded like they were all faking it anyway. And no, I didn’t want to go out and meet new people; they would just end up disappointing me. I was tired. And I was done. Done with trying and done with blindly believing.

Fairy tales had been my religion and I was ready to be an atheist.

But I’d cleaved to that belief from a VERY young age and I couldn’t quite shake the hope.

Two more years pass and 2.5 girlfriends go with it. I’ve been healing super old and festering wounds. I’ve been trying out alternatives to my super gay castle. I’m still hurting and I’ve spent the last two years telling myself two conflicting mantras: that I really just want to love someone; and that love doesn’t exist. This leads me to throw myself into every new relationship. To love before I even like. To care before I even know. To picture a future before the fifth date. I spend the whole relationship just hope hope hoping. Then, when it ends, I immediately step away, step back and tell myself, “That’s fine. Love doesn’t exist and I knew this was going to happen from the beginning.” Which is true. I damn the relationship before it starts, saying it probably doesn’t have a future and that I’m not even really interested, but then I whiplash U-haul it and allow all my actions to completely defy my words.

This dichotomy was killing me. I wasn’t happy in the relationships and I wasn’t happy out of them. I wasn’t happy. And I kept blaming romance. Kept saying that the big-screen love just didn’t exist when two people weren’t faking it.

I find that…sad. And kind of the easy way out. If fairy tales really were my religion, well then I was blaming my God for my own faults. I was showing a complete lack of faith. And I’d forgotten what being a romantic really meant.

It’s not all about the end of the journey. It’s not always Happily Ever After. Sometimes, the villain wins and the hero ends up alone. But it’s usually because the villain turned out to be not so bad, just misunderstood, and the hero wasn’t needing the love of another, she just needed to learn to love herself.

Most of the time, it’s about finding the adventure, the silver lining in the things other, non-romantic people view as sad and bereft. It’s about being able to wake up with a dog glued to your side and a cat purring into your ear and knowing that you’re completely happy. Today could be your last day and you know that you saw the good in what you had, appreciated it, enjoyed it, and that you have no regrets.

I’m not willing to debunk romantic love. It can happen. I choose to believe that. I won’t spend my time pining for it and I won’t try to satiate myself with the false gods of I-don’t-love-her-but-at-least-I’m-not-alone and romance-doesn’t-exist-so-what-we-have-is-good-enough. Instead, I choose to view myself as that hero, walking that path alone and loving myself into a whole person.

And if that misunderstood, totally hot villain bumps into me in some grocery store along the way? I’ll be ready and willing to give it an honest go.

I have this crazy idea.

When I started this blog, I was unhappy with my dating experiences. I was struggling with knowing what I really wanted and who I really was. Now, a year and a half later, I haven’t really answered any of my own questions, but I have found peace with the not-knowing. I had some good/bad experiences and I now understand what it can take to merge what my head thinks with what my heart wants.

I’ve steadily begun to accept that I am completely capable of walking the path that is my life and that I’m able to walk it alone. I don’t have to be in a relationship to achieve my goals: buying a house, owning a dog, learning to base jump, traveling to Rome, taking a cruise, having a baby, etc.

Yeah, try not to get whiplash on that last one. I know it’s the odd one out. A dog, a hobby, traveling, even a house can all be reasonable goals for a single person. But to willingly become a single parent… why consider it?

I’ve always wanted kids. I’ve had plenty of moments when I wasn’t sure if I *should* have kids or *could* have kids, but I always wanted them. I guess you could argue that I’m still a bit brainwashed. Or you could argue that I’m trying to fix my own childhood by reliving it through someone else. Even if, I’d still really love that kid. No question. Unconditionally.

And no, I’m not planning on doing this today. I just got the freaking house and dog. I’m in no hurry – no matter how much Argyle wants to be a godparent.

I’m just saying that I’m open to the idea. I’ve got the resources. Sure it’d take a lot of hard work, scheduling flexibility, and some of my savings, but I could pull it off. Today even.

And that’s not to say that I don’t want a partner to help raise the kid. But one doesn’t have to come before the other. And really, anyone who thinks that they should force themselves into a marriage to satisfy their mother hen habits is asking for pain. I’m sorry, but you can’t convince me that being married to someone I settled for will make for a better child-rearing environment. I don’t lie that well to myself.

Don’t settle then, you say. Wait until you’re happily married and then have a kid. One, I’m not rushing. This will not happen within the next 48 months. Who knows, maybe I will be in a relationship then. Maybe not. Two, what is this fascination with the nuclear family? Especially when so many perfectly happy individuals came from variable households. It’s not the number of parents that creates a healthy child, but the quality of those parents. Attention, love, patience, and knowledge – that’s what a kid needs.

And my kid will not be left wanting. I have an amazing network of friends, the closest of which I know would make great aunts and godparents. THEY are my family and I think they’d happily help me figure things out. I’ve already got offers for Lamaze partners and babysitters and one very enthusiastic lesbian ready to teach my child(ren) about the joys of sports.

So yeah – there you have it, the realization that’s been bugging me for months now. I’ve thought it through and now I’m just going to sleep on it for the next year or two.

Then, after some time, if I haven’t woken up bald from stress or keeled over from nightmares, I’ll know I’m really OK to move forward and I’ll go into crazy read-any-book-I-can mode and begin preparing my mind and body for this huge change.

Until then, here I am: single, busy, and very content.

Dancing: Beauty Bar

I was dancing, being silly, and wearing out my feet to the DJ’s endless playlist. Cathy, a friend of mine, was weaving around our group, her movements loose and energetic. She’d been celibate for a couple months and I think she was attempting to dance out some of her frustrations.

I kept my eyes on her, tracking her around the dance floor. She was a few drinks in and I was waiting for her to drop her purse, as she tends to do, so I could grab it before someone else did. The sex pulsing from her was drawing all sorts of guys, and even a few hipster girls. So each time someone would approach her, I’d dance closer to my other friends, not wanting to get in her way. At one point, this big, beefy guy told her she had great moves and that he’d been watching her. I snorted to myself and moved away. I used the time to dance with some guys and take a water break. It’d been only a few minutes when she grabbed my hand and pulled me to her and Mr. Beefy. She slipped an arm around my waist and told me his name and where he was from, her body turned to me. I shook his hand and was saying hi when she began to sway against me and in tune with the music. It was pretty obvious body language for “get me away from him.” I pulled her close and danced with her. I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity.

She whispered that she didn’t really want to be around him anymore, so I pulled her closer, seemingly intimately whispering in her ear, and chuckling. I slipped my fingers into hers, familiar and comfortable, and we slow danced despite the fast beat. Then I slung her arm around my neck and pulled her even closer, breathing her in. Acting like we were oblivious to it all. Mr. Man got the hint and said goodbye. We continued to dance like that for a while.

It kind of killed me.

I couldn’t help but wish I were sharing the feeling for real. The feeling that someone was mine and I was theirs. I want it. So much that I convince myself that each relationship I have is The One until it ends and hindsight shows me otherwise. So much that I can’t even stay single for more than a couple months.

I want to be someone’s – anyone’s – forever. And I don’t know how to unlearn that. I don’t even know what forever means anymore. Can I be completely happy in a poly relationship? Or do I still want monogamy? I can’t definitively say.

What ‘Poly’ and ‘Genderqueer’ Means to Me

It’s 2 a.m. and I’m sprawled on a colorful glass and concrete floor on an Austin hillside. Twenty-five plus queers joke and hug and drink around me. There’s a hand moving high up the jeans of my inner thigh and someone briefly taps my shoulder for an utterly corny joke I made.

I’ve filled on cheese and bread and chocolate-covered strawberries and am now content to lay there, listening to the happy chatter and playing with the soft hand resting in mine. I’m amazed at how easy this is. To laugh, to touch, to be with people I’ve barely met. There’s quite a few kings I’ve seen perform, a few exes of an ex, people I met at Flipside, and others I’ve only seen on Facebook. One girl looks so familiar to me – I feel like I know her – but her name is not one I’ve heard before. It takes me a few minutes to realize I’ve read her profile a couple times on okc.

I’m truly enjoying the open atmosphere and the soft kisses and the cute growling noises. I’m feeling completely decadent and I haven’t had a drop of alcohol. Three weeks of sobriety and I’m getting somewhere. All those drunking experiences left me with a bit of doubt. How can I be sure I’m doing what I want to do when I can hardly stand up straight? How can I gauge my wants/needs when alcohol makes me so much more aggressive than I’m normally inclined to be? I can’t.

And I’m fascinated by these new friends. What else have I been missing out on? What more of me is there left to discover? How many different versions of me can I really cycle through?

A positively handsome, tall butch sits across from me, held in the arms of one of the hottest femmes I know. I’ve seen him before and watching him now further awakens my curiousity. Over half the crowd refer to each other as “he” and “him” and I’m more than a little imbalanced when the gender jokes float over my head. Obviously so much more for me to learn. Every person I already know in the group is in some form of a long term relationship, yet most of them now sit with others resting in their laps, offering friendly scratches and lingering hugs. Way more for me to learn. Nobody is angry, nobody is alone, nobody is too weird to join the group. A complete stranger skates by and we invite him to join us, offering up food and drink and he gamely joins in the late-night party. I am floored by the absolute welcome these people exude. The confidence they have in themselves and the love they spread to each other.

When I’m home again, in the early morning hours, I sit on the edge of my bed, too wired to sleep. I want to read up on gender discussions, want to understand what it is everyone else already seemed to know. I’ve never branched beyond the confines of the word “lesbian.” I’ve never worried whether someone would or would not mistake me for a guy. I’ve never cared to spell words like “womyn” or “grrl”. I don’t know what an FtM goes through, how drag kings feel about their personas beyond performing, what a genderqueer individual sees when they look in the mirror.

And polyamorism? I haven’t read nearly enough. Still have so many questions yet feel like I’d be an ass to blurt them out when they come to mind. That life feels so easy right now, but only because I’m not tied to any one person. As long as I’m “single,” this is an avenue I can easily take. But what happens when I fall again? Will I want to have multiple partners? Or am I just interested in a pathetic version of polyfuckery? Will I be attracted to someone that identifies as male? I mentally check myself. Do I identify as male?

No. I don’t think so. But that doesn’t negate my curiosity. Question after question comes to mind, but I don’t even know where to begin to find the answers. I curl up in bed, watching my dog sleep. I count the rise and fall of her chest and try to calm my mind. I’ll go to the bookstore tomorrow. I’ll contact a few friends with questions.

I have to know what I’m missing.

Summer luau party

I always enjoy reading through austinconfidating‘s blogs when I know that I was there at the event she’s describing. We usually have different experiences. For instance, chatting up random groups of strangers/friends has never been a problem for me. I tend to gravitate to the loudest group and determinedly steal away the attention. I’m an attention whore like that. So, when I showed up at the luau last weekend, I stepped inside and basically yelled out a big hello before walking up to the closest group and chatting about nothing. My conversation piece of the night was the fact that I was so slickly dressed up in black and white and a faux hawk while everyone else was in luau gear.

So, my goal was to have a few one-on-one convos with people I’d never met. Groups are easy. But it is so damn hard to wander up to that one girl that’s standing by herself and looking so cute and aloof. I immediately talk myself out of it. She’s probably straight. And even if she were gay, she’s either in a relationship or simply won’t find me interesting. This low self-esteem thing is starting to really hold me back.

So I’ve been using these parties to practice. On guys. With women, I only ever get anywhere if I wait for them to make the first move. I have no balls when it comes to stating my interest, so I just wait it out. This leads to very random, and infrequent, success.

To bolster my own confidence, I’ve started to walk up to random guys, introduce myself, and start conversations. It’s a bit like cheating, as I don’t feel nervous – this guy is not getting my number and he’s certainly not getting in my pants. But, there’s still some fear there of being ignored by a random stranger, and that’s something I hope will go away with practice. However, with guys, I tend to have a hard time getting the first word in. Maybe it’s because I’m so obviously gay; maybe it’s because I am more relaxed around them and am therefore easier to approach. Either way, they seem to have no problem zooming up to me and starting conversations.

So the party turned out to be sort of a racing game. I kept trying to find a guy I hadn’t talked to yet and then walking over to say hi before he spotted me and beat me to it. That, and it was hard to have individual time with anyone. I tend to tell loud and ridiculous stories at parties and that usually pulls a small crowd of people around me. Kinda hilarious really.

I eventually had a few jello shots and a glass of whiskey and coke. I had a DD that insisted I get drunk to make her not drinking worth it all. So then it was no problem chatting up strange women for the rest of the night. Really, I’m starting to think I need to give up alcohol, if only for a month. I need to figure out a way to gain true confidence that doesn’t come in a bottle. I know – blasphemy!

It’s a small world and it’s getting smaller

I’m huddled in the darkest corner of the room, listening to the growing sounds of a so very hungry crowd shuffling steadily in my direction. My heart is pounding in my chest and the guns keep slipping from my sweaty hands. I’m standing as still as possible, breathing as shallow as my body will let me. The crowd comes closer still. I can feel their collective hot breath buffeting my throat. Can feel their broken hands reaching for my skin. I know what they want. I can’t stop them.

My life is a video game.

Lately, paranoid as it sounds, I really can feel that crowd breathing down my neck. In that crowd is every person I know. And though the piece of me they want isn’t quite so literal, they’ll take it all the same. It’s slowly sapping the happy out of me.

It’s hard to know where to start. OK, so I went and drunked out this Friday. I mean, REALLY drunked out. I went further than I wanted to, but I knew what I was getting into and I had alcohol anyway. And this is where I don’t know what to say. Normally, I’d spew out all the details. Who reads this anyway, right? Except this time, I feel too ashamed to share. Not because I actually feel like I did anything wrong, but because I’ve seen that disappointed look on my friends’ faces often enough to know I’m weary from it.

Something I’ve repeatedly told myself along this “journey” is that as long as I don’t regret my choices, any pain or other such consequences are manageable and worth it. I don’t regret anything I did that night. Sure, I think a little less of myself. I mean, wow. But I guess I just view that as a price I have to pay before I can finally figure out who I want to be.

Doesn’t mean I was all that angelic or even intelligent Friday. Or that I didn’t do something that would aggrivate my friends. I’m worrying them, disgusting them, and angering them. I’m bumbling around, willingly walking into situations I know will violate me in some way, will hurt me just a little. But I can’t seem to explain how totally UN-masochistic this is. How curious I feel and how much I value each lesson I take away from these crazy nights.

It hurt Friday, to discover how incapable I am of protecting myself, and to realize that I’m not always surrounding myself with people I can trust my well-being to. That might sound like a given, but I guess I was really starting to automtically trust that people would have my safety and interests in mind. ha, naive, I know. But now I DO know. Now I’m maybe just a bit smarter. Having people tell me to watch my back, to be careful, and to drink less is nothing like figuring it out for myself.

What hurts more, is the knowledge that my friends might think less of me each time I do something stupid like this. That their response will be a resounding, “Duh, what’d you expect?” and a look of pity. So I strain myself, attempting to give off an aura of confidence. I know what I’m doing, everything will be ok. Except I’m scared half the time. I don’t know what will come of all this. I don’t know who I’ll lose and what I’ll become. And what if it’s too late? What if the person they’re sticking around for doesn’t exist anymore? Maybe the pieces of me they love are already gone. What they want, I can’t give. I’m not sure. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m still hungover. Maybe I need to stand in front of a mirror and say “I’m worth it, damn it.” ha

Maybe I need reassurance. Tell me I’ll be ok. Tell me you understand.

You know.
Lie to me.

Slightly drunking: swimming in my boxers and other weekend follies

This weekend, I got a bit of closure from the whole month of drunking with Kasey that occurred earlier this year. Each time I think back to how it ended, I cringe a bit, because we did a pretty good job of using each other. It made me feel a little worthless, to only have a person want to hang out with me and kiss me when they had been drinking. But I went to her for the same reason. And it never occurred to me to ask more personal questions to find out what Kasey was going through. I was just too wrapped up in my own crap.

So anyway, this weekend I was enlisted by Kasey to make a meeting with an ex of hers slightly more tolerable. She’s pretty tight with the family and felt obligated to go to one of their gatherings, but she really didn’t want to go empty-handed. I had met some of the ex’s family before, and Kasey knows I can field questions and talk people’s heads off. So I went and played the outgoing date, got drunk with Kasey, went swimming in my boxers (unlike Kase, I did not have a swimsuit tucked away in the car), and just generally blocked Kasey from as much annoying ex crap as I could. It still wasn’t super fun for her, but I hope I made it better than it could have been.

And it helped, to finally meet this ex and get more of the story of why they broke up. It helped me understand why Kasey had been so into drunking the same time I was. It helped me NOT feel so worthless. We just happened to meet at a time when we were both so very hurt and so very needy.

So later in the night when she kissed me, I felt something I’ve never felt before. A sort of relaxed kinship. A feeling like I’d truly made a friend that I didn’t feel awkward cuddling or lightly kissing. We hung out at her place afterwards, drinking beer and talking about exes and jobs and whatever else tipsy people talk about. And we said good night with a hug and a kiss and a feeling of almost gratitude. For having someone who’s living a similar life. Someone who’s scarred and still breathing and still trying.

OKCupid: Do I?

OKCupid. You know you have an account with them. And if you don’t, it’s only a matter of time. Me? I was forcefully signed up after Ashley and I broke up, so I’ve been a member for a couple years. That’s right – before it became the cool thing to do.

On it, I tend to be really picky. Text talk turns me off and I ignore anyone that winks at me or has kids or is taller than 5 foot 8. Before Pix, I turned away anyone who mentioned polyamourism, though invites to join a couple so the boyfriend can watch still turn me off. I usually avoid people under 21 and over 30, but I’ve gotten better at that. I don’t know if it’s an age thing, so much as a I-like-to-party thing and I really don’t want to feel like I’m being tied down. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had the kind of relationship that feels all homey and settled. I just figure while I’m being picky, I’d like to have someone to go out and have fun with.

In general, I rarely respond to messages, especially if the person states that they are lonely and need company, or if they tell me the naughty things they want to do with me. I mean. Come on. I don’t even know you. Gross.

But, you know, the whole point of OKC is to experience new and different people, to put yourself out there on the meat market. So, I’ve made myself chat up 30+ mothers who think I’m cute. To humor wannabe gangsta girls that type the way they most likely talk. Horribly. I even read through one profile and saw that she had been in rehab once before, but that it was “in the past.” I thought, “That’s cool. Everyone makes mistakes. At least she learned from them.” But her profile later listed that she smokes, drinks, and does drugs. So I’m guessing she meant *trying* rehab was what was in her past…

These are the extremes though. There are a lot of seemingly normal people on OKC. I figure, why not meet them in person? If there’s no chemistry, it’ll still be a fun night and maybe I’ll gain a friend from it. And I really want more single, gay friends.

The point? I used to really make fun of dating websites. I mean, who really believes everything people put in their profiles? Most people are going to hype up their awesomeness and pick their most flattering photos. And, speaking of photos, who knows whether people are even reading your bios or just picking or dismissing you based on looks?

Doesn’t this sound familiar though? The first time you meet someone, your looks play a huge part in first impressions. And most people play up their best qualities in conversation. So, really, web stalking is just the same old game on a more global scale.

So, really, why not join the fad? You get better odds of finding someone. Or… at least, you get to be shot down by a much larger range of people.

Moratorium: say NO to drunking

A very close friend of mine has declared a moratorium on all my dating activities. She says I need at least a two-week break or I’ll end up with anything with legs. ahahaha She’s probably right.

Let me go ahead and be dramatic. I’m in this vulnerable place right now, where I would probably latch onto any opportunity I’m given, just on the off-chance that I won’t have to be the dreaded S word. Single. No, no, I know that I can really enjoy being single – that I can survive on my own and be just as happy. But, being single those few moments immediately following a breakup…just suck. So, of course I want to alleviate that crappiness with the first person that offers.

Which is why I got a lot of crap for going out last night. With Ashley. And her girlfriend. And her girlfriend’s twin. Aha, a friend of mine (who requests I call her Argyle…inside joke) was very scared (with reason) that I’d end up drinking and spend the night flirting with the twin. Well, it’s not the flirting she was afraid of; it was the subsequent drunking. So get this right now. People, I am NOT going to make a move on my ex’s girlfriend’s CLONE. How creepy would that be? Srsly.

Unless I’m having a bad day.

KIDDING.

No, really, come on. My life is already dramatic enough. Any more and I’ll turn into a gay boy. And then I’d have to date a guy. Gross.

Which leads me to a dream I had. Last week, I joked with a friend about maybe trying guys next, which she thought would be awesome. That night, I dreamed about a very, very cute guy undressing in my room. He stepped close to me, talking to me and touching me and pushing me backwards onto my bed. He crawled on top of me and was trying his damndest to turn me on. Hell, I was trying to turn myself on. But the whole time, I just kept thinking how I wasn’t really feeling anything. After maybe ten minutes of letting him try his thing, I finally said, “I’m just really, really gay.” And then I woke up. bwahahaha. At least I still know what’s up and what’s down – even if I’m not all that sure how to get it.

Flying

tap

tap

taptaptaptaptap

The normally soothing rhythm of my bouncing foot was doing nothing for my nerves. Why was I even here? Because my friend asked me? Because I was trying to get over being dumped? Because I was crazy and letting the crazy have a little too much say? Was this really any better than drinking all night? Who willingly jumps out of a perfectly good plane?

I tentatively smiled at the group. Everyone was so psyched.

sigh

I could do this. Everyone who went up before me had come down safely. I could do this.

A big, bald man called my name and gestured me over, his cigarette held in a sweet, playful smile. He told me what to expect. He joked with me. And then he took me inside to suit up.

We walked the long walk to the plane and I freaked out as silently as I could. Why was I doing this and was it really worth it?! Was I really this crazy? I climbed aboard, sat cramped behind the pilot, and soon felt the plane jerk forward and quickly begin its ascent.

And then my heartbeat slowed, my breathing calmed, and a smile made its way onto my face. I stared out the open window, looking at the rushing grass. I then watched the shrinking buildings and the clouds float by and I briefly closed my eyes. At home. Quiet despite the roar of the engine and the chatter from my instructor. I wanted to be here, wanted to stay right here.

Then he tapped me, instructed me to kneel between him and the camerawoman. He strapped me close to him, no space between us.

The door popped open.

I watched the camerawoman climb out under the wing of the plane, balancing on the thin metal frame. My instructor placed his foot outside the plane and instructed me to similarly step out. “Give me a good arch.” He yelled in my ear. We crouched down in a squat and leaned a little out of the now leaning plane.

“Ready, steady, go!”

We sprang out, my body stretching from its balled position into an outward arch. My feet curled up behind my body and my head bent backwards. I screamed that exhilarating scream I reserve for roller coasters and steep carnival rides. I felt like I was flying. The wind wasn’t rushing by me, I was rushing through IT. Gliding, sliding, flying!

Honestly, that was my favorite part. Jumping out of the plane and feeling like I was just soaring. There was no terror, no pain. Nothing worried me. I was fully enjoying myself and I wanted to beg to go up again.

Sometimes, often, I forget how much joy I’m capable of feeling. I forget how amazing it is to be alive. I’m learning, reaching a place where that knowledge is more readily available. But, until I truly appreciate every second I’m given, I do these somewhat crazy, new things. I crave those moments, when worry leaves my consciousness, when the future isn’t so daunting, when I’m not so worried about figuring out what I really, really want.

…

So, I’ve come up with a list of even more things I want to do. Maybe I’ll learn some new things and maybe I’ll capture a few more of those moments.

1. Skydive – DONE

2. Learn one full song on my bass guitar that isn’t Mary Had a Little Lamb.

3. Get my scuba diving certification. – DONE

4. Travel outside of North America. – DONE (recently Poland and Bonaire)

5. Run in a 5k. I’ve done this before, but it’s time I do it again.

6. Go caving.

7. Eat Vegan for one month.

8. Join a martial art.

9. Base jumping

10. Mountain climbing

11. Rappelling

12. Perform in a drag king show