an ode to my early twenties.

 

There was a period of my life when I felt light, carefree. Light as a feather. I'd swing and twist and nearly lift my toes right off the ground to fly. I knew there were consequences, but when they came, I dealt with them casually, flippantly, did the minimal amount to make them go away so I could go back to feeling infinitely small and able to be blown every which way by the universe.

 

This lightness, it wasn't always a good thing. It's doesn't inspire much hope for digging your heels into the ground and holding steady.

 

Steady. Steady, now.

 

In my early twenties, geez, nothing felt steady. Not my living situation, my bank account, my relationships, especially my means of expressing my emotions. No, I was light. Too light for steady. A constant state of flux means lots of wonderful, beautiful change. But it also means nothing is certain, stable.

 

There was nothing sturdy about my existence.

 

Light is good, though, for a number of reasons. It allows for curiosity, adventure, learning to compromise and improvise. It's recklessness and pushing the boundaries and finding out how it feels when you say nothing when every fiber of your being screams 'Take a stand!"

 

I have this vision of myself, my early twenties self. I'm expelling and consuming so much energy, I'm feeling like I could be blown miles by one mouthful of breath sent in my direction as a gust. I'm so light that the smallest thing, a smell, a chord, one word can send me reeling to further boundaries in my emotional spectrum than I ever previously knew possible. I'm learning at every turn so much. I'm gobbling it all up so willingly. Why wouldn't I?

 

But I mean, there's the other side of that too.

 

I'm spending my last 200 dollars on that pair of jeans that make my butt look the best it's ever looked, because what could possibly be more important than a pair of jeans that fit perfectly? I'll pay my phone bill next month, I swear. And then I'll swear off jeans completely in the next sentence, but it doesn't matter. I'm too light to be reached and dragged down. I'll just float away from it all.

 

It was a time to abuse my body and my mind, really put it through the test of everything it can take.

 

There's something to be said about being willing to completely let go of everything around you. Relinquish control. I'm not so good at that now, things weigh down on me, hold me in place,  prevent me from throwing back those five extra shots. Or maybe it's the feeling the next day etched into my memory from being repeated one too many times.

 

Either way, I'm heavier now, in a sense. And that's fine. Really, it is. I mean, it's just one of those things I think that happens with time. You brush up against things and the friction leaves their residue and pretty soon you're covered in parts and pieces of everything you've ever run into, and the build up makes you heavier. Or something like that.

 

Isn't it hilarious how people never change? Isn't it heartbreaking to realize that we have to anyway?

 

When you're young, when you're light, there's still hope that one day you'll collide into one another full speed again. They'll catch up, or you will, or you'll find a way back to each other through darkened alleys and fields of wildflowers. It's easier. It helps you to stay light to think this way. You're never as naive as when you tell yourself that you're going to be forever friends with the person that just drove away from you.

 

I mean, you've just given them part of your heart. You feel lighter just from it's lack of mass in your chest cavity.

 

  

Dearest self. You did light like a champion. It's possible that you did the very best you could have done with what you had. Maybe no one could have done it better in this body, hooked up to this mind. Certainly no one could have done it the exact same way. No one could have possibly ended up in the exact same places and time that you did.

 

I came out whole.

 

That time is over.

 

I may be heavier, but it's not necessarily a bad thing. I feel whole, sturdy, up to the challenge. And sometimes, every now and then, I still feel slivers of light hitting me at the right angle. And I dance and float in them.

a dream, an airport, a cat. in that order.

Last night I had an odd and semi-disturbing dream involving a minivan, a park near my hometown, a very confusing trip to the grocery store and/or possibly someone's grandmother's house, and one of my college roomates.  I woke up at 5:30 to my dad calling to let me know that my parent's and brother's plane had landed and I should leave now to pick them up at the airport. As I brushed my teeth and stumbled out to my parent's Suburban to complete the last leg in bringing them home from vacation in Hawaii, I was legitimately confused about what was real life and was was dream life. And then the speedometer didn't work my entire drive to the airport. It was kind of a weird morning.

Anyway, my parents were supposed to get home yesterday, but they got stuck in Hawaii another day due to mechanical failures on the plane or something, which if it weren't for the extra hours spent in an airport with an eleven year old (my dear brother, Charlie), would make them the luckiest vacationers ever. I never get stuck in Hawaii another night on the airline's dime. But I did get stuck in Denver for an extra night on their dime once, and that was rad. Except I got sick on the way home. But that could have been a hangover. It's anyone's guess.

While my parents were gone I watched their pooch and the house and the cat who also lives there. She's kind of a bitch. But we love her. But seriously, she's a cat, so strike one and two right there.



Yesterday I was hanging out on the back porch and she would not leave me alone. I'm reading The Vanishers right now, which is riveting, and she kept swatting it away so I would pet her more. So, strike three.

Just kidding, she was being uncharacteristically adorable and we had a mini photo-shoot right then and there. Of which I'll only subject you to one snap. You're welcome.

Meet Greta, this is her version of Blue Steel.  Also note my hood status. It prevents people from seeing what I've done to my hair. Yeah. That happened.

help i'm alive.

It's a work night.

I need to be dressed and combed and sitting up straight in my cubicle at eight tomorrow morning. It's not that far away, but right now it's never going to come. I change my clothes while I'm driving away from work. It's not coming, I just left. I'm shaking with anxiety. I'm riddled with energy. I'm doing this. I'm doing this. It's fine.

It's not tomorrow. It's tonight and now five us are are crammed into Katherine's little red car and we're racing east toward the state line. We'll scream with glee as we streak under the arch and keep catapulting forward, onward onward.

We're drinking sweet cheap wine out of water bottles like it's our life blood. There's an entire box, maybe more between us. We're on a mission.  Daring each other to be the one to take a breather. Passing the bottle as fast as we can. And we're screaming the words to the songs wailing out of the speakers as Jessica steers the careening vessel and plays DJ, our hair whipping unpredictably in the wind, aloof and free.

We're racing the clock faster faster, we're holding in our bladders and willing the gas gauge not to drop. We don't have a second to spare. We've got to hurry, the show will start without us there to cheer and dance and sing. The show must go on.

I'd been feeling so old lately, commuting and counting pennies and ironing my pants. My eyes feel older from staring at spreadsheets instead of horizon lines and rear view mirrors. I feel lodged into something immovable and unforgiving, not held or embraced, but rather, trapped. Embedded into a surface that makes me feel like a shard of who I want to be. Splintered off from the whole. I used to move so fast. Now I'm sleeping through my waking hours. But tonight I feel awake. Tonight I'm doing something irresponsible and I feel like myself again.

The purple rims of my heart shaped sunglasses keep staining the edges of everything I see, Framing the flat landscape into something pleasurable. It's been so long since I felt like I was in the right place at exactly the right time. And this right place is a speeding bullet, filled with the people who furnish the home I hold in my heart.

We're laughing so hard I wish I could remember the joke. We'll beat the sun to our point on the horizon.

I'll never feel hungry again so long as this feeling is filling me up. I'm holding it in my mouth, I'm biting down on its sustenance. I feel so full.

I spill red wine down my chin and we go into a laughing fit. I can hardly hear what they're saying, these people I love, but I can read their minds. I know what you mean. That look tells me everything I'll ever need to know. I remember the corners of my mouth, wine streaming down my chin on both sides and I swipe at my wet skin with the back of my hands. Stains on my face like Dracula, stains on my hands like a murderer. Tattoos from this night. I wish they'd never fade. Stay sticky forever.

We make it and we're running and stumbling and talking so loud down the street toward the show, the cement old and weathered, pocked with imperfections. We can't relate. It's a dance we're doing together, moving down the sidewalk, slick salty limbs. Sunglasses in the dark. We're fine. We're fine. We're going an infinite distance in every direction just because we can. No one understands us the way we understand each other.

 It's dark and cool and there are so many bodies. We lose each other, but not really.

More! More! More!

What time will we home tonight? Three? Four? It's never mattered. The instant I got into the car tonight I knew it didn't matter. I remind myself.

We're singing and dancing and slugging back bourbon. But none of this crowd could ever be so loud, so bright as our race against the sun to get there. Three hours of soaking in each other.

"We're so close, to something better left unknown."

Goddamn right. I swing myself around. Goddamn right...

I sit in my cube at 7:59. Bleary eyed. Sit up straight, Sara. My body feels like everything it's doing is on an echo. Twice, three times I feel myself sit down in my chair, each time the sensation fades a little more. I'm perfectly still. I will my hands to type in my passwords. I'm running on sensory memory.

In the dark, on our way back, we pulled over in the side of the highway. I'm retching. It's hot. It's cold. Erin flounces out of the car and suddenly she's running backwards to catch her balance, but she can't get behind her legs fast enough and she falls. Legs in the air. Without missing a beat, there are arms reaching out to her.  Always long enough.

A swell of laughter and then we're all packed in again, moving. Homeward. My head across a lap. We're somehow already there.

leaping.

Do you ever put yourself out there and end up getting burned for it?



I know I do.


Actually, it is my personal preference to only associate with people who are willing to put themselves out there. For what is mostly irrelevant, but the willingness to make a figurative leap is non-negotiable. We're not talking about blindly jumping off emotional cliffs like lemmings, so much as having something deep down that makes you tick, that matters enough that when it comes down to it, you'll put yourself out there for it.  The more people I meet, the rarer a trait I find this to be; people like to keep their heads down with the rest of the herd it seems.


My friends and I joke about it sometimes, that feeling we all crave. "Let's get all hopped up on whiskey and take some risks!"


But really, it's not just the liquid courage or the laughter or the foolishness in behavior that usually comes with finding your niche; it's something hidden from the surface that has to be felt to be believed in.



It's having something you care about enough to take a leap of faith and the willingness to suffer the consequences- whether it be financial, a falter in stride, humiliation, heart break.



The leap that forces pride, despite most of our strongest instincts, into the back seat. It's passion, it's the glint in your eye, it's a constant and insatiable hunger for whatever it is that keeps you up nights.


It's always wanting more.


I was just thinking about the leap. I've always really liked the feeling right after, sort of a free fall before the result reveals itself, the euphoric knowledge that you found it within yourself to jump anyway, regardless of what happens. No one can take that away.


Getting to the jump though, standing on the mental ledge and forcing yourself off, that's the hard part.


In truth, it's almost never only about the outcome for me, which I know is a little hard to believe, but I've given this a great deal of thought and, at least for me, it's really true. Even when the end result doesn't pan out to my advantage and I'm thrown off course or worse, I'm still just about always glad to have taken the leap, to have risked, to have had enough passion coursing through my veins that I was willing to have things go either way just to know how the cards would fall. That's doesn't mean it's easy, though.


Knowing the result, that's the payoff.


But taking that leap of faith, sending that letter bursting with emotion or moving to that city on a whim, that's proof that you're still more than just alive, it shows you're engaging, that you're living. It's a way to finally clear the air or an opportunity to fall on your face and lose all your money, but maybe you at least discovered some good restaurants along the way- as I found out first hand in both cases.

Anyway, I'm working on taking some leaps here coming up. I'm inching up to the ledge and looking down. I know I'll jump, and though I don't know exactly what will happen, I know there will be results both good and bad.  I also know, without a doubt, that I'll be glad I took the chance instead of standing in place.


Cheers to the feeling of your stomach falling through your feet, and cheers to finding a soft spot to land.

wiping away the dust.

I was going through my old drafts today, little snippets of discarded insight, when I came across the passage below. I wrote it about the year I spent in Kentucky, living hotel-to-hotel, as a union organizer. I was 22 and it was my first job out of college.


I'm so glad I found it, a little glimpse of summer in the middle of January.


---------------
7/29/11

There was something that I loved about walking out of my hotel room on a summer morning, when the air was still cool enough and everything was still damp, before the sun scorched mad and forced the dew to evaporate.

 

 

I never had to be at the office until 10. TEN! Do you know how long I'd already been awake by then? Hours. I almost never had to rush around in the morning to get ready, and if I did it was because I'd taken too much time eating breakfast, gotten engrossed in my book, let the shower water caress me longer than usual.

 

 

My walk was cheerful then. I was approached once walking into a gas station by an older gentleman who asked me if he's seen me reading the news. I grinned and told him it wasn't me and he said "Darling, you've got the aura of a movie star." I told him he made my entire day, and it had. I felt pretty, assured.

 

 

I guess having a career at 22 will give you a false sense of confidence.

 

 

Those mornings, they stick with me.

 

 

It's really one of the most lovely times to be by yourself. You have time and your full attention to devote to the subtle changes around you as morning gives in and the meat of the day begins to take shape. I had a lot of mornings like this, in Kentucky. All the time in the world to myself and I think I realized that I needed to relish in it a little. I almost never turned on my televisions in the room. I loved that. I don't prefer to spend my time that way. I made friends that invested their time in hiking and tennis and seeking out adventure. At night I'd drink wine and soak in the bathtub while reading a book almost every night.

 

 

I was lonely, I remember that. At least for part of the time. But I think I settled in to a point where even that faded.

 

 

I miss it.

 

 

I miss those mornings and the freedom and the frustration and the challenge.

my shady past...with dating. part 3.

If you've read the two posts from last week about my unfortunate past with dating, then you know about the pitiful lack of experience I had with boys by the time I turned 18, you've seen me do some annoying number crunching that went nowhere, and you've also maybe read about the fact that in college and beyond I rocked at finding men to date. I mean, they were the wrong men. But still, they were there, dating me.

At 18 I dove headfirst into the waters of the college dating feeding frenzy instead of considering what I was comfortable with, what I was looking for in a guy, and what I expected a good relationship to be.  I went ahead and just let whoever was giving me attention sort out all that stuff. * After all, they probably knew more about it than I did. Right?

Settling into a pattern like that is easy-peasy and also totally unhealthy because it's a hard cycle to break and sometimes it hits you one day that you're 24 years old, a shitty partner, and you have no idea what you actually want.

Thankfully, I did 'wake up' so to speak. And once I was up, there were reminders of my passive journey through Relationshipland everywhere.

For instance, one morning I had just set off on an all-day drive. I popped in the first cd I found whilst digging around in the center console without looking and Social Distortion started rocking through the speakers. I could have slid on my sunglasses and sung along but instead I fixated for hours on the fact that I had no idea if I actually liked this band or if I just knew all of the words because a former flame loved this band and I thought I could make him love me by liking the music he liked.

What the hell? I've always been a strong, self-confident, outspoken female in nearly every other facet of my life, but when it came to men I was reduced to some malleable substance vaguely resembling play dough- That is, so long as they didn't try to label what we had as a 'serious relationship.'

Granted, I do think we pick up a lot of things from the people we date. After all, we (usually) like them, we spend a lot of time with them, and we ideally learn a lot about them when we're together. I still run my toothbrush under the sink before and after I put toothpaste on it due to a former beaux. It's just a habit I picked up that I ended up liking. I don't often think of him, but he's the source of said habit and oh well, I like a wet toothbrush.

But I think a large part of my problem was that I spent a lot of energy trying to become the perfect girl for every guy I was dating rather than considering if they had any potential to be my perfect guy. Or even a guy I was compatible with.

I know it seems strange that I say I never intentionally entered into a relationship or really wanted one- and then I go on to talk about how much I lost myself in the guys I was seeing. It doesn't really make all that much sense to me either, and it didn't happen overnight, but rather gradually, which is probably why I didn't notice it at the time. Basically, I think I lied to myself.

Because of the guy I am dating, I've been full-on country western, punk rock, a total hipster, and extremely preppy. You should see my closet, it STILL looks like an overflowing costume trunk. Slowly, like a chameleon, I did what I thought I had do to, and then time and again I was surprised when I found myself totally unhappy, unfulfilled, and trapped in a situation that I couldn't stay in. The lesson? Forcing myself to fit better with whoever I was dating didn't help me fit any better in my own skin. It didn't make our relationship any more likely to succeed or make me want to consider it in a serious light.

It was exhausting.

And I did it to myself.

By the time I realized what I'd been doing, I'd been single for a year. After a particularly volatile end, I built a wall and reinforced it with rage. And realizing I'd been losing myself to the guys I was dating only increased my resolve. But then, something good happened. I started healing. I started  to learn about myself again, to take the time to consider why I liked or didn't like something. I started to actually like myself again.

Which takes us quite neatly to tomorrow's post about my current relationship, and how it started.

See you then.

Sara

*(Except sex. I hung onto that V-card like a sacred flower waaay longer than most of the girls I knew.)

i'm brimming with excitement

I've got some more BIG NEWS and it's actually kind of embarrassing, so yay.

As of tomorrow, the 25th day of August in the year of our Lord 2011, I WILL HAVE HOME INTERNET ONCE AGAIN.

That's right, for a myriad of reasons, I have not actually had internet access in my home environment since I gave birth to this little blog baby. This has added an intense degree of difficulty, such as only having 60 minutes during the day to compose, proofread, and publish a post each day, lest I want to pay $4 for a coffee drink at the Starbucks twenty minutes from my house, since one of my less charming exes (also my sister's ex!) works at the store two minutes from my house. GOOD TIMES! FAMILIES GOTTA SHARE!

Not really.


Anyway, I'm not really sure what unlimited access to all the interwebs will do to/for this little corner of the internet, but what can you expect?

GRATUITOUS PICTURES OF MY DOG!!!!!!

(hopefully) LESS GRAMMATICAL ERRORS! That expensive college degree will really show through, now!

(maybe) VIDEO BLOGGING AKA VLOGGING!

MORE CURSE WORDS? (probably not, I fucking curse enough)

I personally can't wait, the world is my oyster.

SEE YOU ALL SOON FROM THE COMFORT OF MY COUCH!

Xo Sara

stuck.

Sorry about the lack of posting and all.

 

I've just been tearing through every word Tana French has ever written (that I can feasibly get my hands on) and doing everything I possibly can to avoid tackling the ever-growing mountain of my clothes piling up on the bedroom floor since Manfriend and I kicked Hally out of the master bedroom and moved our stuff in.

 

Yeah, we were sleeping in the tiny second bedroom. It's a long story. The fact of the matter is that the closets aren't switched over yet, and hopefully I'll get a gust of energy this week that forces me to take care of it. I'm not a betting woman, either way.

 

In an effort to keep the restlessness bubbling up inside me from boiling over and scorching everything in sight, I've been a flurry of nesting and thrifting and antiquing. It's getting expensive, but I'll fill your head with another empty promise of pictures soon. Pictures, soon. I promise. I'm trying. It's just that we don't exactly have internet right now. Yes, we have satellite, but no internet. I have to go back to casa del parentals for that kind of luxury.

 

We DO have a washer and dryer now, though!!!!!!!! YAY DOMESTIC THINGS.

 

 

I don't cook.  

 

The meat and potatoes of it is that I feel weird. Yes, I always feel weird, but I guess I feel weirdly off.

 

 

Not long ago, I felt like I couldn't go one night a week without seeing one of my girlfriends for one reason or another. Impromptu cook-outs, a quick drink after work, a jog or a trip to the store- it seemed like there was always a posse around.

 

 

Not anymore.

 

 

Now, it's official.

 

 

Erin and I are the only two left in this city, including the greater outlying area, and to be honest I never imagined I'd be one of the last two standing.

 

I've got a gal pal in Korea, one in Kenya, two gone to the east coast and even more that have shipped out west. We're spreading, exactly what I always expected to happen with any group of friends I made. I've always been ready and willing to deploy the shards of my heart to all the corners of the world in the name of a grand adventure for the ones I love, and now it's happened in spades and I don't quite feel like myself.

 

I'm grateful to be able to surround myself (even at the distance) with women who aren't just unafraid to pack a bag and raise their face to the breeze and set off to wherever the destination may be, but who crave it. I wouldn't have it any other way. But for me this time, watching it all happen and knowing I'm staying here, for however long it turns out to be until it's my turn for another grand run of the adventure track, just seems however TOO long.

 

Sure I can plan trips wherever, a weekend in Chicago, a few days back in the old college town, even a week in a place I've never been, but for me there's nothing as scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs wonderful as the rush of adrenaline that comes with watching everything you built your life around fade into the scenery. Those terrifying moments where the line between 'Too late to turn back now' and 'I could totally pretend I never really planned on doing this in the first place if I wanted to' start blurring into each other and in the back of your mind you can just see yourself falling. It's the moment when you're far enough away that suddenly everything coming into focus holds the immeasurable potential to shape the whole next segment of your life. Could this be the destination for this new adventure?

 

I can just see myself at that stage. Gas-station sunglasses, friendly-fighting with Manfriend over who has to eat the orange and green gummy worms, daring him to eat all the sugar at the bottom of the bag. My hand reaches out for the volume knob and I give him a devilish grin as I crank it up much higher than he deems necessary. It doesn't matter where we're going, we're on our way. Happy.

 

I'm not sulking, really I'm not. I know my chance will come whether it takes another 200 fitful nights of sleep or 20.

 

But it doesn't change the fact that it's simply not today, and that I'm the one who's been left this time with the usual, the routine, the familiar- and they're the one's who are getting the opportunity to have their minds blown wide-open with new.

 

Be back sooner than later.

 

XO Sare

 

sorry about the window.

So, I've got some news on the couch front!


...Which we'll go into tomorrow because today is for TODAY THINGS. Today, let me give you a little glimpse of what it is like to live in my world of mortification and awkward moments.




On Saturday, my friend Mel drove into town so that myself and another of her bridesmaids, Hannah, could pinpoint and execute the whole purchasing of the bridesmaids dress portion of the wedding. 


Originally, we were all going to take a swatch and go crazy in our own favorite shops and boutiques so our dresses would reflect our own personal style and preference. Cute, I know. However, do you know how difficult it is to find a pewter-hued dress in the middle of summer? Nearly fucking impossible. This was the second attempt at this mission for that very reason.


David's Bridal it is!


Hannah and I stroll into the store with Mel in tow and the place is teeming with people. So naturally, I grab one of every dress and make for the dressing rooms, in attack mode. We snag rooms next to each other and start throwing on dresses left and right. out of pure fate Hannah and I select the same dress and BOOM we learn that Mel's sister is also wearing that dress. OMG NOW WE ALL MATCH, PSHAWWW.


 Hannah buys a size down from her normal size and I buy a size up, even though in some strange turn of events, I tried on a size down and it fit. David's Bridal, I think I love you. Anyway, let's face it, this is a winter wedding and that's when I pack on the excess lbs, no matter how hard I'll to try to the contrary. In fact, we're talking the dreaded danger zone- the time between Thanksgiving feasting and Christmas feasting = nonstop cookies and feasting.






TA DA.... Squats forever until December!


Yeah, I really played that one well.


Anyway, we buy our dresses and scamper off to the mall to look at shoes, jewelry, etc. Lots of looking and no finding. Worst game of hide-and-seek ever. EVER.


Anyway, we're driving back to Hannah's after the mall/much needed cocktail break and we hop into Mel's car and IT IS HOT. Devil producing baby devil spawn HOT. HEAT OF A THOUSAND SUNS HOT... okay just one sun, but seriously, hot. So I roll down my window.


Harmless move, really. Just rolling down the window for some air that hasn't been trapped in a stationery heat-box for four hours while we trolled the mall.


Really bad move.


The instant I roll down my window, only about six inches, Mel whips her head in my direction, completely panic stricken, and yells "Roll that up RIGHT NOW."


Melissa doesn't panic or get upset. She calls everyone 'Punkin,' uses excessive <3's, and can make even the most tense conversations feel light and breezy.

This was panic. AND I should have known better, I'd been cautioned months ago when I drove out to visit her and rested my hand a little too close to the window control button. Uh durrrrrrr...I forgot?


So I immediately try to roll up the window. To no avail, of course. I can hear the motor working as I press the button, but the window isn't fucking moving. So naturally I try to push it up as I press the button. Again, nothing. Damn you feeble arms! Maybe I'm not trying hard enough.  I get out of the car, straddle the door, and force the window up with all of my strength.


Finally, it goes up and stays. We all give tense half-laugh of relief.


"The driver's side cost us $500 dollars to fix, so that would have been awful. Plus with the wedding and me needing a new laptop... That just would have been really bad."


Tee hee hee. Fuck. Me. I'm sweaty, my feet hurt, and I just broke something expensive that isn't mine.


After a couple of minutes the frightening window debacle is mostly forgotten and "Say My Name" comes on the radio. Oh, hello eighth grade, I've missed you. Not really, but our rendition was truly moving. And all remnants of panic and awkward are forgotten.


Say my name, SAY MY NAME! If no one is around you, say 'Baby I love you!"


Goddamn it. I look over and the window has slipped almost an inch. I don't think anyone else has noticed, so I try to shield view of it with my body and start dancing really erratically. Destiny's Child goes off and I'm now the only one dancing to some random rap song, which actually makes erratic dancing pretty natural. So far, no more slippage and we're almost back to Hannah's, where I can pull the hands-on-either-side-of-the-window bit and force it up again. This time, with more UMPH so it won't fall back down.


And then everything starts moving in slow motion. We're rounding LITERALLY the final curve before Hannah's apartment. I'm dancing with the window behind me, hoping the girls haven't noticed. We're cheers-ing our rings together like Captain Planet. I'm thisclose to cocktail hour. Smiles all around.


All of the sudden there's a huge crashing sound and I look behind me, and there is no longer a window. It has fallen COMPLETELY into the door. All of it. Bye bye window.


Obviously I start hysterically laughing because that's what I do when I don't know what else to do.

SIDENOTE: I just spilled an entire unsipped cup of coffee all over my person and my cubicle. ENTIRE CUP. Everything is sticky. My life, a comedy of errors.

Back on track, I look over a Mel, and thank the heavens, she's CRACKING UP. Turns out we both panic laugh.

The bad thing is that her fiance, Adam, (Who consequently hosted my very first college party on my very first night in the dorms) is somewhere in the mountains of New York doing fieldwork for his PHD program all summer and she doesn't have a man around to help her. He'll be back in 18 days.

I know that's pretty sexist, but I'm not trying to fix a car window, are you?

Mel was pretty cool about it, despite the fact that I've ruined her dreams of a new laptop and possibly her wedding, which means probably her whole life.  We had the wind in our hair on the way back to my house.

The next day was the first time it rained in over a month.

Insult to injury? Sorry Mel.

Awkwardly yours,

XO Sare

i'm having stress-breakouts in anticipation of tomorrow.

Last summer my birthday-weekend plans were thwarted by two of my friends' restaurant industry jobs. If you've ever been fortunate enough to experience working at any restaurant, then you're fully aware of the near-impossibility of securing an entire weekend off. Plus, you usually miss out on a shit-ton of potential tip dollars.


Whatever, two of the crew had to cancel at the last minute, and that left Erin and I and a handle of Jim Beam. I was feeling bummy about it, but not completely defeated, so we decided to embark on an adventure that cut down a bit on the originally planned eight hour journey to my childhood lake home.


Basically, I was sitting at work in the very same cubicle I'm sitting in now, feeling kind of pissy and sort of like I was all dressed up with no place to go, but rather all amped up for a camping trip on the beach and no one to split the gas money with, and I decided that I was still going camping goddamnit.


I sort of grinded my teeth in determination and typed in the Google url. Fuck this, I'm still having a bomb-ass birthday and drinking a shitload of Beam on some body of water, somewhere.


"Indiana canoe camping river rage fun drunk"


Or something like that is what I typed in and hit enter.


And this little beauty was the first hit:

LOOK HOW MUCH FUN THEY'RE HAVING.

Um, sold. Well, actually I just didn't feel like shopping around and their camping policies were reeeeeally lax, so that is how Whitewater Canoe Rentals became the lucky winner and eventually the greatest place on earth.


The next day was Friday and I had taken off work in advance. Erin worked for the state at the time, which basically meant she showed up inconsistently and no one ever noticed. We departed around eleven in the morning with a cig to the wind and a prayer in our hearts. AKA we were basically completely unprepared for the events to follow.


Brookville Bound.


The website for this business doesn't provide any sort of street address or really any sort of guidance for the weary traveler. On instinct alone, (and several phone calls to my father for assistance) we landed on the Whitewater River early into the afternoon. The place looked pretty deserted. As in not a single human was milling around. It was a Friday in July. The fact that no one was around could have alarmed us, but it didn't. What it lacked in patrons, this place made up for in character, the place was brimming with it. And also flooded with the carcasses of faded, rotting, life-jackets.


What we pulled up to can probably only be described as a shack, or shanty. It's basically an old-ass pile of wood with a hand-painted sign that says "office." Erin and I looked at each other quizzically and then she hopped out of the car and approached the counter. As I followed, we were greeted by an old-ass man with bright-white hair and reaaaaaaaally rough-looking hands. Like, river rough. I'm not sure what that means, but stay with me.

you have now arrived in heaven: welcome. 

He seemed to have the authority to charge us ten bucks a pop for the campsite and rent us a canoe for the day for thirty dollars. Uhhh, okay? (Cut to me scriblbling my name on the waiver after a brief skim-job.) Old Man River (OMR) walked us sloooowly down to the camping area, which he decribed as "primitive." Basically no one else had set up camp for the weekend yet, so we had the pick of the place. After collaborating on the decision like the indecisive bitches we are, we selected a site with a some trees and foliage boundary/privacy that backed up directly to the river. I'm not kidding when I say we picked the bombest ass place in the world to camp.


So OMR wanders back up to the 'office' and we're left to take it all in- and we both just let loose shit-eating grins. We're nodding, we're grabbing gear that's shrewn everywhere out of the Jeep. It's fucking on. Yes, it's just the two of us camping in a remote and unfamilar place with only one known human in the area who looks like he could crush entire skulls with his bare hands, but we've embarked past the point of no return.


About two minutes later we've both got stiff whiskey drinks in hand and blue grass setting the mood as we start making camp struggle to figure out a tent that's CLEARLY missing a pole. It's one of those dream-beautiful days of summer that you just want to hide inside all year round. Yadda Yadda Yadda, another drink gets poured, more stuff get's unpacked, sunscreen gets haphazardly applied. At one point I brazenly changed my clothes with nothing shielding me but an open car-door. That's how empty this place was.


We quickly discovered that Brookville is like entering a time-warp. Suddenly everything is on your own time. Which, I really think is how things should be all the time, but apparently it's unrealistic to ask the rest of the world to wait for my instructions to go through the daily hum-drum. Whatever. It's Brookville. Time's moving slow, the weather is perfect, and we're about to haul-ass down a river in a steel bullet of a vessel. Fuck. Yes.


We finally start seeing other hooligans walking around and making their way down the river to push off and start making an effort to head that way. We eventually get our shit together and pack provisions for the eight mile water-trip. AKA we threw some beer in the cooler, whiskey in a water bottle, and grabbed our sunglasses. In about .5 seconds we approach the launch site and are greeted by the most impressive display of abdominal muscles I have ever seen on a human male. BUT WAIT. 




He has an identical twin. 




I swear to everything good in this world that those abs could have washed the towel I failed to bring with me on the trip. 

COULD HAVE LITERALLY RUBBED DIRT OUT OF FABRIC.

So obviously we now feel like we're in good hands and we snap on the newest-looking life jackets we can find, grab matching paddles, and join the growing pack.




We push off and I'm at stern because obviously I have to be in control and I've got years more experience with water-crafts than Erin. Not that it mattered. The next two hours can only be described accurately with two words.

 Shit show. 




Flip flops were broken, alcohol was consumed at an alarming rate, languid swims were taken, beaches were peed on, eight miles was covered. It was perfect. 

GENUINE PERFUCKINGFECTION.


And before you go all judge-y on my ass, let me go ahead and say that I'm fully aware how unsafe mixing water and booze is. Ok? I'm sorry. It was a grand idea at the time. Everything turned out okay. We survived and thrived and actually steering the boat was probably the least challenging task I mastered through the entire trip. Alright? Ever tried to mix a drink while getting swept down a river? Relax. I'm a lifeguard. 


So we complete the route and life is slightly fuzzy for us both. We have no towels- because we're geniuses, obvioously. . Everything in our lives is soaked with river-water. It's probably five thirty in the afternoon at this point. We're both a little sun-worn and definitely hammered drunk. Our ride picks us up in a sketchy looking white van and I insist on sitting in the front seat despite visible discomfort and the driver having to shuffle some important-looking papers around off the seat. 


Erin and I just had the time of our lives, we were probably glowing more than a goddamn virgin bride. 


We quickly learn through semi-invasive drunken questioning that the driver, Cody, is OMR's SON. They own Wonderland aka Whitewater Canoe Rentals TOGETHER.  And thus starts a very beneficial friendship between us and him. AKA we chat for a minute and a half about Leonard Cohen and listen to him talk about his Chemistry degree briefly and then he gives us FREE PASSES to canoe the next day. FREE SHIT. Cody also hooks us up big time by bringing firewood to our campsite with a backhoe, helping us start a fire, and basically doing anything we say... aka driving us to the gas station for cigarettes.**




We get back to the campsite and I basically do a head-first dive into the tent and pass out for what I would imagine in real-life time frames would equate to roughly two hours. it felt like 15 minutes. I am awoken by this:




"SarasarasarasarasarasarasarasaraSARASARASARASARASARA I JUST ATE A RAW HOTDOG LET'S GO SWIMMING!!!!'




Erin's eating raw shit and now I'm sober enough to feel comfortable with more camping activities. It's pretty much perfect. Blah blah blah, we tinker around and eventually balance each other out sobriety-wise and venture down to the river. We 'swim' which basically involves just lying in about 8 inches of water and getting pulled downstream kind of strongly. Whatever, it's so magical that it doesn't matter. 


Fire gets started, music gets played. People show up. Actual cooked hot dogs are consumed. And a lot of other stuff.  It's a lot of getting back to earth, or as Erin has been saying for a week and a half now, getting back to basics. AND IT'S ALL GOING DOWN AGAIN TOMORROW. 

WE'RE GOING BACK TO BROOKVILLE TOMORROW. BUST OUT THE EDWARD SHARPE, IT'S HOMEEEEEEEE HONKYYYYYS.


Erin and I leave at 11 am. 

 AND IT GET'S BETTER.


Basically, the other half of our original group no longer works at restaurants and are DEFINITELY coming as we embark on our journey to kick off summer number two on the river in style.  I'm borderline worried for our health, because as much blatant disregard Erin and I can have for societal convention, I'm boiling with excitement thinking about adding two more to the mix. 




Thank GOD I'm a lifeguard. I hope you're weekend is just as drunk, sloppy, ridiculous, friend-filled and laughter-inducing. 

 Oh, and if you ever get the chance, hit up Brookville. Tell 'em Sara and Erin sent you. They'll know who you mean.


XO Sare








** I know the cigarettes thing is nasty, and I do apologize. This trip was clearly before I kicked that habit and moved on to lead a fit, exercise-ridden life.