Is It Just Me, Or...

Are there no more normal-sized people in the world? I've been noticing more and more that there are no more "average" people out and about. I'm not just talking about adults either, teens and kids too.

This was brought to my attention fully yesterday when Felts and I ventured out to Whipple's Dam for an hour or two of sunlight and fake-beach swimming (imported sand on the side of a lake). Last summer when I went out to the lake about the same time in the summer, most people were normal-sized, or perhaps I just didn't notice. This time around, over half of the people there were obese. Not overweight, obese. When did this shift happen? Even the kids were heavier.

Of those not obese, they were rail-thin girls (probably high school age). We've been hearing from the media how obesity has overtaken smoking as the leading cause of preventable death, but I never gave it much credence because I always saw more people out smoking than people who were morbidly obese.

I consider myself to be a heavier girl, as I do fall into the "overweight" category, and usually, I'm maybe slightly bigger than some of the girls on the beach. This time around, I fell into the skinnier category on the beach.

If I'm categorized in the skinnier category, you know the rest of the population must be growing.

Never Say Never

I thought I would never again roam these streets, enjoy the local flavors, sleep in my own bed, or once again lounge on my dilapidated futon in my living room. Here's the thing about never: it often happens much sooner than anticipated. I might be overly dramatic, seeing as how my father has already planned a home football game weekend for us in November, but to my newly graduated brain, every moment in State College last week was one to be treasured.

And here I sit, air drying on my old bed, in my old room, listening to the dulcet tunes of the neighbor's party, where all the men are regaling each other with loud and tone-deaf versions of "Burning Up" by the Jonas Brothers. Ah, to be home again.

Why am I air-drying, you might ask. Interesting story: last week when I had the choice to store towels (which would still be in my apartment awaiting pickup) or get rid of them (to goodwill), my mother emphatically told me to get rid of them. So today, when I learned that the whole reason I was being a bum in York is invalid because of some stupid driver who forgot to pick up my car yesterday to ship it, I returned home until I get word there was a driver available to come get it. In the two minutes I had to grab what I could, I managed to get clean underwear (almost forgot it), some clothes that don't match and my computer. No towels.

This inevitably led me to wal-mart, as most of my stories do, where I was overjoyed at the sight of a $4 teal beach towel. Bringing my purchase home, the thought of a shower after this long week (ok, four days) of bumming it and wallowing in my PGSD (see previous entry), I decided to forgo the usual washing before use. After all, I was getting clean and my clean would then transfer to the towel, right?

What I forgot was that you wash towels for reasons other than cleanliness. I now have teal fuzzballs all over me that are clinging with all their might. Washing gets the lint and fuzz off. Score stands towel: 1, Canyon Girl: 0. So now I'm naked and uncomfortable, which is a horrible combination in any situation.

To add to this, I could be called back to York at any minute. It's not enough time! I hardly said goodbye to this place last week, how hard will it be this time when it's for good? My training in Virginia is getting closer and closer--one week from today. And then it's nonstop until I get settled in the Canyon.

Oh what have I done?

Post-Grad, Pre-Life Bucket List

It recently dawned on me that for someone who is suddenly all about "adventure," I really haven't had any. Family trips, college, and summer camps don't count in this mix. Why? Because these are things you do because you must do them, and you do them with support of other people in some organized fashion. A real adventure is a spontaneous jolt outside of your comfort zone with no safety net (see: skydiving, running with the bulls, blind dating).

As my life ticks away into this unknown abyss of the future, all I can think about is all the things I want to do before I'm forced to go back into the normal flow of life: career, marriage, kids.

So here is my post-grad, pre-life bucket list (first draft):

1. Eat chocolate in Belgium
2. Explore my heritage in Budapest
3. See Stonehenge and debate its meaning
4. Take a boat out in Venice
5. Flirt relentlessly with the men in Scotland in hopes one of them might be Gerard Butler
6. OKTOBERFEST!
7. Fly in a Blue Angel
8. Be in a movie (you know, Girl in Cafe #3)
9. Have real pizza in Italy
10. Race a car a la NASCAR style
11. Rock-climb a real mountain
12. Jump off a cliff on a Greek Island


(this is a pic of my feet on a beach on a greek island summer of '08... family trip in which I was basically a bum. I need a redo!)

So lets call this my first draft, even though I already had to cut several food-related items. I need a separate bucket list just for food!

Being a Bum, Professionally

Having officially been homeless now for over a day, I'm starting to reflect on how good it was to have my own room, in my own apartment, with endless options for activities. Here, as I take up residence in a basement at a family friend's home, I find myself at a loss for something to do. I can feel my ass expanding as I do nothing but sit on the couch and watch MTV.

It also doesn't help I seem to have acquired a headache that I can't seem to shake, despite my overloading on ibuprofen. What worries me isn't so much the headache from hell as that I got it at Hershey Park (or as I like to call it, Fat Girl Heaven) from riding rides. In my head, my still young body could handle the more advanced rides, but physically, my twenty-something body revolted.


(The entrance to Fat Girl Heaven)

The best part of going to the park was that there happened to be no one there but school groups (who were gone by 4PM), meaning Cartmanland came to life. All the rides, no wait. Who wouldn't take advantage of this? You could stay on and ride as many rides as many times as you want. And, you know, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Felts and I enjoyed this freedom for all of about two hours, until Hershey Park went from being a fun day in the sun to an extreme endurance challenge. Heads pounding, clothing soaked with sweat, bodies overheating from the direct sunlight our general paleness was unused to, each step became excruciating. Felts wrestled with her own queasiness as I fought down my motion sickness.



We eventually caved in to going on the plunge water ride that would leave you completely soaked. As we entered the queue, the overwhelming aroma of feet, sweat, and dirty water took over us. There was no safe way to face. Breathing became labored. Adding to this stench, I removed my own shoes (Felts was just ecstatic as I later shoved these into her hands to place on the other side of the ride). It would all be worth it, I kept telling myself. The freezing water would revive us and we wouldn't be playing the game of "don't pass out" survivor.

Just as predicted, the freezing downpour we got at the bottom was enough to bring us both back from the edge on this sticky, sunny day. Having the park to ourselves was amazing--never before have I been able to walk up to rides, but also have the choice of which seat I wanted. The abuse of this power ultimately led to my downfall (massive migraine). I think my brain might actually be bleeding at this point.

And so we wandered, like two castaways in Lost, hair drenched and tousled, backpack on, and sunburnt.

At 8, the park closed, Felts and I hit the road, and a sense of accomplishment washed over me. It had been my last day living in State College and we really celebrated hard (if like children). The shower I took when I got home was the best feeling in the world, I could taste the salt washing off of me.

The next morning, I got up at 5:30 and drove to York, where I presently reside. Week one of homelessness. I don't know how I'm going to survive. Arizona looms on the horizon and every day I feel a little less prepared. This transition is taking too long!

And So It Is

Tonight was the breezy sort of summer night you often envision yourself in, sitting on the front porch drinking lemonade and star gazing. The air was just warm enough you didn't need a coat, but just cool enough you don't sweat in uncomfortable places. The perfect last night for me to experience as I truly bid goodbye to the collegiate chapter of my life.

I stood leaning against a chipping wood beam in a gazebo strategically placed on the edge of the HUB lawn. The campus was mostly empty by this point, about 9:30. Classes were over for the day, and students were already in sweatpants on various futons watching television. The occasional bar-goers lofted their disembodied voices up into the night air from downtown sidewalks, reaching me only in waves of gibberish and not in words.

Felts and I stood in silence, soaking it all in. Or at least, I was soaking it all in. I was standing in a familiar place; a place I'd passed almost daily for four long years, but had never stopped to take in the view. What I now saw was the place I called home. This place where I find relaxation in the long walk home at night, safe in this tiny metro from the horrors of the real world. Here there was a peace when wandering the streets; a familiarity people crave. Here where I knew people, one in every building.

I took a deep breath in, held it for a moment, and let it go. I knew at that moment the absurdity of my situation. So willing to move on, but so terrified to let it go. Add on top of this the looming feeling of absolute failure on the horizon. Honestly, who goes, "You know what sounds good? Moving to a giant hole in the middle of a desert. Yeah, I think I'll do that." Aside from me, of course.

People keep telling me this whole Canyon thing is going to be a great adventure (in which I will lose weight). I'm starting to think people assume I took this job as a weight-loss solution. I happen to work out... occasionally. When there's nothing good on TV or I don't feel like sleeping.

I'm about 15 to 20 lbs overweight, I'll admit. I can still function in society: my ass fits into brand-store pants and airplane seats. I can still walk to campus or up a flight of stairs. I don't think I'm missing much in life from being on the husky/chunky/more to love side.

This adventure of my is going to be one of both mental and physical transformation. And hey, if my "weight-loss plan" works, there might be an increase in tourism to the Grand Canyon!

Practice Makes... Me Really Need A Nap

Today Canyon Girl: Wilderness Woman went for a test run up a local mountain. And by test run I mean sweaty, bug-infested failure of an attempt at summiting Tussey Mountain.

My trail guide, Felts, and I decided to forgo the often over-populated party hike of Mt. Nittany for a more exotic hike at Shingletown Gap. The Gap offers a much longer, and we thought, less steep hike to a view of Happy Valley, PA. Also, not as many drunk students climbing in flip-flops or random foreign students taking pictures of rocks and tree branches.

We started out at a good pace and my spirits perked as we were forced to cross a large felled tree over a running creek, a la Dirty Dancing. It's always been a dream of mine to cross (ok, dance) across a tree log over running water. Obviously, I have seen a certain movie, and its sequel, far too many times.

About two minutes into the hike we were passed by Fitness Woman accompanied by her Fitness Dog pals. She had a large daypack with hydration pack, dark khaki shorts made for hiking and a light-colored fitness shirt. Fitness Woman meant business. Remember her, we'll get back to her later.

And so Felts and I made our way up an increasingly steep blue-blazed trail. Begin sweating. After about five minutes my heart rate monitor no longer reads my pulse because I'm sweating too much. Bugs are now being drawn to my sweatiness and begin dive-bombing my ears; this continues all the way up and back down the mountain.

Every so often, Felts and I spot what we believe to be poison ivy, in which case I'll be in some serious trouble later on. Having grown up in Texas (and partially in California), I can spot you things like ground squirrel holes and red ant hills, but poison ivy is not so much in my rolodex of a brain.

Far be it from me to admit to my hiking partner the immense amount of effort this hike was forcing from me to keep moving. Wilderness Woman may be carrying a pack of 10-15 lbs, but Flabby Woman is silently cursing her lack of cardio abilities. Felts insisted the blue-marked trail was the way to the overlook, and at the time it seemed like the better choice: the orange markers were nearly straight up the mountain in a vertical fashion. It took us about half a mile to severely regret this decision.

The trail gave the illusion of being near the top over and over again, but around the corner of a semi-flattened patch of trail was a straight-up hike for another extended patch. Our steps became slower, shorter, and more carefully placed as rocks became the only foothold between us and slipping down the mountain (don't be too afraid, there were plenty of large tree trunks to break our falls). It was as we were barely at the top, in much thinner air, that we stopped to lean against tilted trees and catch our breath. I took off my pack--correction--peeled off my soaked pack and dropped it to the ground at my feet. Felts and I exchanged tortured glances, but neither of us wanted to be the one to give up and suggest we head back down the trail.

It was just as we were discussing whether to finish out the trail to the top or turn back down, lo and behold, the sound of barking and two charging dogs alerted us that we were in the presence of Fitness Woman. She had already surmounted Tussey and hiked the mile from the overlook, and when she came into view, wasn't even sweating. What kind of freak is this?! She stopped to talk to us, as we were still stalled by those leaning trees assessing our options.

Felts: "Do you know where the overlook is?"
FW: "Oh you mean the Roman Tower? Well, the top of the mountain is just up that steep trail right there, and then it's just a one-mile hike on over to the overlook, and then a steep and quick way down."
Felts: No words, just meaningful silence, followed by, "OK thanks."
FW: "OK, have a good one you guys!"

As soon as Fitness Woman is out of sight, we agree to give her some space and then hike back down. On our descent Felts lets slip a, "I wish I was as fit as her." To which I emphatically agreed; THIS is the woman I need to become to have any hope of survival.

PGSD: Post Graduation Stress Disorder

I have diagnosed myself with a general lackluster since my family left and my graduation celebration officially came to a close. The one downside I seem to be grappling with the most is the leftovers. There's chips and dip and beer (oh my)! Add to this an urge to sleep akin to a narcoleptic, and you've pretty much gotten a sense of how I've spent my past two days. Trying to break this cycle, I took myself to a movie. Yes, I know the stigma attached to a single person at a movie (loser, creeper, bag lady who dies alone and is eaten by her cats), but I love being able to eat my own popcorn and sit cross-legged with my shoes off.

So I finished watching an old version of Robin Hood on netflix (we shall discuss my obsession with Robin Hood at a later date) and realized that matinee movies run until 6 most days of the week. So, of course, I rolled off the futon that now has my ass firmly imprinted in it, and drove on over. This brought back memories of the last time I went to see a movie by myself:

It was a class assignment to review a movie, so with that pretense I went to see a campy teen movie. There I sat, alone and comfortable, in one of those tiny theaters they shove the unpopular movies into. Just as I'm settled in, the sound of the door slamming alerted me to someone breaking into my private screening. I watched as a shaggy head slowly bobbed into view. The boy was most likely in his late teens and stared at me with his dark, blank eyes. He kept eye contact as he made his slow, jagged way up the steps to my left. It appeared his left leg was too stiff to bend naturally. That left leg scraping along the plastic flooring echoed in the emptiness around us. I listened to it come to a rest directly behind me.

Naturally, I turned to look to confirm there was indeed a potential killer sitting right behind me... in an empty theater where he could have picked any seat. This must have been an invitation of some sort to the creepy boy because he leaned down and whispered into my ear, "Are you by yourself?"

I shot forward in my chair, "Obviously."

"Wow, that's really pathetic," the creepy teen boy with a limp now said to me, louder. And when I didn't respond, he added, "You need to have people with you to go to the movies, it's just sad to go alone."

I waited for him to limp back down the steps (bathroom?) before I jumped three rows to escape from him and in my head, a death by stabbing. That had effectively ended my solo movie outings until this point.

This time, I'm happy to report, no weird limping kids with all-pupil eyes called me pathetic. Unfortunately, this is all the activity I've had since Sunday. Wilderness Woman is on hold as of now; Flabby Woman has taken hold and doesn't want to let go. Currently, I'm eating a tear-n-share size of M&Ms and watching the Biggest Loser. There is something wrong here.

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Good news, everyone: According to society, my life officially began yesterday!

At approximately 1:30 in the afternoon, in the Bryce Jordan Center on the Penn State campus, my name was read and I walked across the stage. I stared into the beady eyes of the president of the university, shook his cold little hand and thought, "Damn, I should have spit the gum I'm chewing into my hand before I walked up here." This thought was immediately followed by "Man this wedgie is killing me, I wonder if people will notice if I pick it," and "I could go for a bean and cheese burrito right about now."

Perhaps this moment would have been more magical if my name had been read as I actually walked, not spat out in rapid succession as we, the student/cattle, sped across the stage. Or perhaps if I hadn't been entangled in battle with a less-than-enthusiatic adviser in the College of Communications over a second diploma I could either wait for in the mail for three months or go to another 3-hour graduation four hours later.

The pride swelled within me as I threw a thumbs up at my cheering section (family and friends) and went back to my seat. It was official: I was no longer a student and my life as I knew it was done. And as I retook my horrible little plastic seat, it suddenly hit me what I had done. Four years in the wilds of central Pennsylvania? Cake walk. Double major in journalism and psychology? Simple. Signing my life away to the Grand Canyon? What the hell did I just do?

I believe some of the best horror stories begin with "well, it seemed like a good idea at the time..." So, when I applied to move to the Grand Canyon for six months, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I had these grandiose dreams of Canyon Girl: Wilderness Woman in which I was a muscular, tanned woman of the west, perched atop the Canyon rim, hands on hips, with the sun rising behind me. And yes, there may or may not have been wind blowing through my long red hair. I could see myself foraging with a machete (yes, because apparently in my head the NPS issues large, sharp knives) down the Canyon. I could start a fire with two rocks I picked up from my primitive camp site, in which I felt at ease. For this dream, imagine a female Davy Crockett. Then there's the backpacking I could see myself doing, dressed in a white tank top and khaki shorts (gotta show off those tanned, toned legs, right?) coming into a wide clearing where a private waterfall oasis awaited me.

It was all of this that made me put my magazine writing dreams on my back burner to pursue a life that kept me away from mundane things like desks and pencil sharpeners. After spending four years behind a computer screen writing papers and articles, the only thing on my mind was simply what was on the other side of my window.

To complicate matters, I took the Dow Jones Newspaper Fund internship test--the SATs for journalists--and found out much too late I landed a spot at the Palm Beach Post. When I took the test in November, I could easily envision myself at a cubicle copyediting and being happy there, but as November faded to December and it was February before I noticed time passing, my thoughts turned to the future. All college grads dig their heels into the ground to avoid being sucked into the "real world" vortex that was rapidly approaching. The thought of moving back in with parents left me with a cold sweat. I love my family... just in small doses where I can go back to my own place at the end of the week. In my father's house, I will always be 12 years old. No more stumbling in at 4 in the morning, leaving my dishes wherever I please, or using my floor as my clothes hamper. I couldn't give these freedoms up without a fight.

It was then I turned to the SCA (Student Conservation Association), where a good friend of mine had recently taken and loved a job. The SCA assigns you a position somewhere in the United States and pays you with room and board. Not a bad deal for a homeless, jobless college graduate biding time until she finds a job or decides on grad school. The only problem with this plan was that my skills are not valued very highly by the park service. I can read, write, analyze data, and basically talk to anyone about anything. This is not botany, archeology, science, maintenance, or anything resembling a skill needed in a park. And yet, somehow, someone said "hey we could use this girl to look at safety issues!" and here I am, one month away from the Grand Canyon.

The Palm Beach Post position, it should be noted, came the day after I officially committed to the Canyon job.

So as my ass started to go numb in that joke of a plastic chair, my illusions of Canyon Girl: Wilderness Woman started to fade into East Coast College Graduate: I Don't Even Run Outside. This is the reality I was now envisioning: replace the sunrise-backed goddess of a park ranger with a sweaty, overweight ranger sitting on a rock, chugging water like there's no tomorrow. The wind in this scenario now blows from my back, which causes the previously mentioned long red hair to turn me into Cousin It. The machete-wielding wilderness woman is now screeching at snakes, peeing down her own legs as opposed into the toilet hole she had just dug, sunburnt and miserable when she can't light a fire with her lighter. As for that private oasis? Well, if I ever make it that far I'll let you know how that reality works out for me.

Don't take this as any type of regret, however. I'm still excited about the life of adventure I have been dreaming about as I typed out my papers in a darkened, freezing room during a winter at Penn State. I'm only just 21, and there's this whole world out there (or so I'm told), that needs to be seen and experienced. To waste my life away in a cubicle now seems like such a waste.

If anything, this realization that my life has truly started has only made me more eager to go out and see what my boundaries really are. Plus the thought of sitting through more classes in grad school makes me physically ill with the urge to vomit.

I'm thinking the Grand Canyon could just be the best adventure of my life... I invite everyone to join me in these adventures from the ledge.