Hiking is Just Walking

I am not a hiker. I went camping with friends one time and got pissed at them when they made me walk uphill to a waterfall. “You guys said there was no hiking! Assholes.”

I get now that there was no hiking involved in that trip. It was simply walking uphill with a bit of extra effort and hard breathing. Although I’ve been told that the secret about hiking is that it is, in fact, just walking. And by “I’ve been told”, I mean, “I saw it on Sex and the City”, so basically it’s fact.

I ended up slipping on the rocks and falling on that not-hike. I flailed my arms and reached for whatever I could find on the way down. Which ended up being the tank top of my friend who was walking behind me. If nothing else, we put on a good show.

I have moved to Oregon since that not-hiking waterfall incident and I have had to come to terms with this whole hiking thing. Apparently, it is a little more than just walking. (Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that “hiking is just walking” statement was made by one of Carrie Bradshaw’s ex-boyfriends who she was visiting in a mental facility. But, I digress.)

Recently, my boyfriend had some friends in town so we took them on a couple of easy trail hikes down to the beach. As we were walking, one of the girls asked if I was a Sex and the City fan. (Is it that obvious?) She said, “Remember that episode when Carrie’s old boyfriend told her the secret to hiking is that it’s actually just walking?” We laughed and chatted about how funny that episode was.

An hour later we’re hiking (not walking) to the top of Cape Perpetua. As I am gasping for air, feeling my face burning twenty shades of red, turning switch back after switch back, wondering where the hell the top of this mountain is, all I could think was “Fuck that guy. Hiking is not walking. It’s not. At all….. and I might die here.”

I didn’t die there. I made it all the way to the top, where gasping for air wasn’t too high a price to pay for the amazing view of the ocean and forest below. My boyfriend even picked few flowers for me along the way. And thankfully, we had parked a car at the top of the hill because crawling my way back down to the bottom of the mountain was not something I wanted anyone to see.

So maybe I am a hiker. Or at very least, I no longer associate hiking with things like jumping out of airplanes or becoming an astronaut. Sometimes it’s the smallest paradigm shift that can make the biggest difference.

 

The Lady in the Hot Pink Pants

I opened the shades before sitting down and I just stood there, mesmerized by all the motion out there. One lady walking down the street was in an odd hurry, probably trying to avoid the neighbor across the street who was standing out in front of her house wearing bright pink pants. How embarrassing.

Frozen in front of the window, I could not stop watching all the people and their busy lives, wondering who they were and where they were going.

Kids were running in and out of the house, the one where the woman in the hot pink pants was standing earlier. What had the kids been doing inside all this time? And why did they choose to come outside now? Someone else just came out of the house, walked to the car and drove away. How many people live in that house? It’s a big house, but I guess not so big with that many people inside.

A young Mexican couple pushing a stroller came walking down the sidewalk. I really just assumed they were young. I couldn’t actually see them that well to guess their age. It didn’t really take much to guess that they were Mexican though. Pretty much everyone in the neighborhood was Mexican. Except me and the lady across the street in the hot pink pants. She’s Asian. I’m not. I’m white, I’m very white.

I should never have even been there, really. I had no business there. But I moved in anyway. The landlords lived right down stairs and they were nice enough. They put up an iron gate at the sidewalk to protect the stairs that lead up to the apartment. Safety first. They even washed the blood off my car the night a gang chased someone down and beat the shit out of him and threw him up against the side of my car. They were very considerate.

That apartment was a breeding ground for the many great discoveries I would make that year. Like Columbus, it was my Santa Maria. I discovered my love for sweet potato fries and my disdain for having roommates who are cuter than me. I discovered who my true friends were, the ones who would board that ship with me and sail into the unknown, searching for something greater.

Standing there in front of that window, I discovered the truth that deep inside me screamed for escape. The simple truth that I had lived all my life watching from the window and I was unsatisfied. I wanted to be out there, to be the one someone else watched and wondered about. To be the one who prompted movement and action in someone else.

I discovered that it was up to me, and only me, to make that move. And I did.   

…(TBT)

 

Mechanics 101

For those of you who may not know, I am not nor have I ever been, a mechanic.

I don’t know why actual mechanics insist on speaking to me as if I am a mechanic myself.

Like the time I took my car in for new breaks and they told me my front passenger side tire needed to be balanced. So I took it to the tire shop and told them. They obviously knew I was not a mechanic and were shocked by my direct request.

“How did you know it was the front passenger side tire that needed to be balanced?”

“Because the guy who sent me here told me what to tell you.”

Idiot. I’m driving a two toned 1992 Toyota Tercell. You think I know jack shit about tire balance?

Then there was the time I took my car in for an oil change and during the awkward post oil change debrief they asked if I was aware of the fact that there was a gas cap on the radiator.

It took me a while to realize that was even a problem.

Thankful for the education, I went to the auto parts shop and asked for a coolant cap. After explaining that, obviously, I needed it for the radiator. They guy said “So you need a radiator cap right?”

Sure. Whatever, dude, just fix it.

"Do you have a four or six cylinder?”

When met with a blank stare he continued, “Let’s go take a look.”

We got to my car and I just stood there, taking a look.

“Do you know where the lever to pop the hood is?”

I just asked for a coolant cap to replace the gas cap that was on my radiator. Do you honestly think I know how to pop the hood?  

Seriously people, I am bringing my vehicle to you for a reason. Would I take myself to the dentist if I could just pull my own molars? I don’t think so. You stick to what you do best, and I’ll stick telling mildly funny stories about it.

An Ordinary Mystery

She sits in front of a dim blue ocean with a very greyish hue, not contrasting much with the overcast sky it meets on the horizon line.

Her eyes are the same color as the placid ocean, deeply mysterious. She looks slightly down and away with a blank stare as if avoiding eye contact.

She is young but not youthful. Her eyes, her face, suggests she has seen more than her living years should. It has aged her soul and you can see it in her face.

Deep set eyes and thick brows that cast a shadow on the high bones of her cheeks. All jagged edges, there is nothing smooth about her except the natural smoothness of her creamy skin.

Her face, it looks like it is made of putty. Like play dough that can be molded and shaped. It looks like someone put their hands on either side of her face and squeezed just hard enough to smash it in ever so slightly. She doesn’t look phased by it or pained by it, like it has become a part of who she is.

She does look fairly ordinary and yet, there is a mystery about her. But maybe that is the point. Her eyes, her face, what’s missing form my view. Maybe we never really see the entirety of another human being. We are all as ordinary and as mysterious as the ocean itself.

We catch glimpses of one another and if we see it often enough it becomes familiar and we think we know them. We think we know ourselves.

I have seen her often and have heard portions of her narrative. But mostly I make assumptions about her character and draw conclusions about the plot. It is much like a choose-your-own-ending novel, except that she is a person, not a book and I am not in control of how her story ends.

Stand before a mirror and describe what you see. Does it tell the whole story? Do you tell the whole story?

Do not be afraid to be more than a mirrored image. In your vulnerability others find courage to strip down and do the same.

 

 

The Tangled Curls We Weave

I have spent my entire life straightening my hair. “What is wrong with me?” I would wonder as I poured over my locks all morning; blow drying, pulling, straightening, tugging. “It just won’t… ugh… GO!” I would yell at it as I pulled it as straight as I could just to have it spring back up in a wild twisted mess.

I just didn’t get it. Why didn’t I look like the others?

The women in my family have incredibly straight hair. They can walk out of the house with wet hair and it would look the same way when they got home and it had dried on its own. If I did that, it would be a frizzy, wild mess that would take a lot of tears and water and tugging to get under control.

I never knew how liberating it could be to embrace my naturally curly hair. As a matter of fact, I was horrified of it. I would catch a glimpse of “those girls” who seemed so wild and care free with a beautifully messy mop of curls and envy everything about them. I could never do that.

And then one day I did. And it turns out there are a ton of people just like me, all trying to do the same thing: be themselves.

There are tutorials, articles, stories, entire online communities devoted to embracing natural curls. It is refreshing to hear other people’s stories and challenges as they are on similar journeys. The world can use more transparency and acceptance in the face of ridiculous “beauty” standards and touched up media images.

And so, on my crazy-frizzy-messy hair days, I chalk it up to honesty and choose to be proud of my wild mop. Releasing myself from the weight of expectation, I just let it go and let it be; a lesson I’m trying to learn in all aspects of my life.