Fucket

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THIS GIRL!

I recently had a friend (?) visit me in California who, after some last-minute adventuring and hiking, was shocked to discover that this wonderful western state is way more than meets the eye.

Strictly speaking, he was blown away by the weather, topography, and people (all of which he, like I, had assumed would be extreme in one way or another).

This isn’t a bad thing, of course, as we humans need to operate within the confines of some preconceived notions otherwise we’d’ve been blighted off the face of this planet millennia ago when we refused to run away from saber tooth tigers and the like.

…and hippies. Always steer clear of the hippies…

When he asked me how I was settling in and whether or not I’d made many friends, I was surprised to hear myself report that I had and I was.

I shouldn’t have been surprised so much as exacerbated with my having relied upon (and acted on!) such dated misconceptions and convictions.

UGH.

It’s like I inherently know when I’m acting like a crazy (which, as an aside, is probably why I feel like I belong in California), but I chose to act otherwise. Just consider my moving to Texas.

I knew I hated that place (courtesy of the military thankyouverymuch) long before I ever decided to move there for a job I was pretty sure I’d come to hate (and did).

So, why, WHY don’t I skip all the thrashing and pain of the middle bit (i.e. refusing to listen to my gut and wasting months proving that I should’ve listened to my gut in the first place) and just go and do what feels right?

Am I so afraid of my instincts? My intuition? My *GULP* feelings?

Well, um, duh, yes. Because who, like, isn’t?

Seriously.

Instead of beating myself up about things from my past that I can’t undo, try as I may, I will take a different approach.

I’ll course correct.

I’ll pivot.

I’ll do whatever I have to in order to stop living as others expect me to live.

Thus, and in that same vein, I resolve to no longer live vicariously through my bucket list, but, rather, my fucket list.

OH! And no, not that kind of f***-it list.

Ew.

Seriously gross.

No, what I mean is that there aren’t a whole lot of things I don’t want to do. On the contrary, I want to do a whole mess of things. I want to be a journalist. I want to be a writer. I want to be some kind of mom. I want to travel. I want to go to the Olympics. I want to be in a protest. I want to change the world. I want to do microloans. I want to ski across Antarctica. I want to plod around on every continent. I want to take the vodka train across Russia (and have my liver live to tell about it). I want to help women. I want to be a boss.

In short, stuff.

I want to do stuff.

This is my declaring, however, that there is certain stuff I don’t want to do such as learn an instrument, let something/someone dictate the terms of my life, become trapped by a job-slash-house-slash-dog-slash-whatever, buy another new car, run a race I don’t want to, and, above all, be scared.

Be scared of possibility. Of adventure. Of dying alone, especially given that we will all, eventually, depart this world alone.

So, what am I really saying here? I guess, that I’m scared. I’m scared, but that must mean I’m ready.

F*** it.