I am an ordinary person. Most days you’ll find me sitting at a desk typing words and fretting over verbs and client expectations. I worry about climate change and the refugee crisis. I complain about potholes. I take pictures of sunsets.
But I’m also a restless soul.
I’m a seeker. A thinker. A dreamer. A doer.
The itch to lace up my boots and traipse the world is a constant presence in my life.
I blame my raging case of wanderlust on Anthony Bourdain. Over the years, No Reservations and Parts Unknown have become my obsession. …
Ten minutes had passed, and I still couldn’t think of a good response. There I was, sitting at my desk, eyeballs locked on my Twitter feed. Typing, pausing, erasing. Typing, pausing, erasing. A moment of relentless oafishness paralyzed me.
Fuck it. I finally wrote:
“Thanks for the love!”
Someone had re-tweeted a post of mine earlier, and I wanted her to know how much I appreciated it. But I was stuck in the grimy depths of the word mines, trying to figure out a brilliant response. A lame “thank you” seemed way too…simple.
I used to love Twitter, mostly for its forced brevity. I also despised it for the ultimate CleverFest it had become, where all the stars come out in their top hats and sequined bras. It’s hard enough to condense a big thought down into one or two incomplete sentences. But to also make it amusing + glib + profound? …
“Are we even moving?” I yelled over my shoulder. My guy was floating 100 feet behind me on an identical purple inner tube, his ankles and toes hidden beneath the river water.
We had been winding along the Deschutes River at the breakneck speed of .013 mph. The Central Oregon sun slowly seared my shin bones as I held my feet up out of the water. (I have this outlandish fear of fish nibbling on my pinky toes.) Our last human being sighting was three hours earlier.
I dug my flimsy plastic paddle into the current, trying to propel myself along. …