Right off the bat I will admit to stealing that line from Sue Sylvester. It’s fantastic.
I don’t really love children. In general they smell bad, the sounds they make are like nails on a chalkboard and they can’t do anything for themselves. I actually don’t like needy people, and the fact that they happen to be short doesn’t give them a free pass. I evaluate kids on a case-by-case basis. So, when I think about the legacy I will leave behind on this earth, I am really left to wonder.
When I was in grade school my teachers used to tell my parents and me what a gifted writer I was. I often had to read my stories in front of the class. In high school the classes I enjoyed most were English and literature. But instead of ending up at a great journalism school like Northwestern, I ended up at the United States Naval Academy (no doubt propelled by handsome, athletic men in uniform), an engineering school where everyone earns a Bachelors of Science degree. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have traded my experience there for anything. But I wonder why I didn’t listen when my plebe year English teacher held me back from class one afternoon and told me I had no business being at the Academy, but instead should be off in journalism school. Writing.
In business school, my finance and accounting professors thought I was mildly retarded, a blatant admissions mistake. My professors in my softer courses, which required creative thinking, thought I was something special, and not the Olympic kind. So naturally, my first job out of business school was in consumer marketing; where I spent the majority of my time in Excel performing quantitative analytics. Basically, I was analyzing numbers all day.
I am a deeply spiritual and religious person. I don’t believe in destiny. I know that we choose our own path, right or wrong. But sometimes, we get a little push.
I am genuinely happy with my life exactly how it is. Well, let me rephrase: I am genuinely mostly happy with my life, almost exactly as it is.
I’ve noticed something very strange happening to me within the last year or so. Sometimes I see babies and I feel a sense of longing. I of course mean the ones that are sleeping or have sense enough to keep their little mouths shut. When I see little kids missing their front teeth and smiling at me with nothing but innocence and love in their eyes, for one brief moment I melt. Those short little bastards are tricksters*. I have so much going on in my life right now. 99 problems, but a pimp (and a baby) ain’t one. This cannot possibly be where I am feeling a void in my life?
You know the question, “If money weren’t an issue, what would you do?” Well, for me the answer is easy. I would be the First Lady. Or an astronaut. Or a really famous Hollywood movie star. (Incidentally, June Cleaver is nowhere on that list.) But if I had to limit my answer to something real it would be a world-class Ironman Triathlete and Pulitzer Prize winning writer. Fiiiine. How about I would just be a writer who happens to spend four hours a day training for an Ironman?
First Lady business aside, Barack Obama wrote a book that sold millions of copies. I know he’s the President of the United States and all, but I read the book. It’s not that impressive. I didn’t laugh once. Sometimes it feels as if the only way I’m going to be a successful writer is if I can accomplish something on par with being a presidential candidate. I keep waiting for my chance to save a busload of Cambodian children from drowning in a lake; then push my book, Some call me a hero. I just call myself “Awesome,” on the Today Show. Realistically, I have to assume that’s not going to happen.
When I was a child I thought I could do anything and be anything. Senator, doctor, jet pilot. It was all within my reach. I had incredible parents whose belief in me was so great that it was contagious. At some point, tempered by life, ability and circumstance, that feeling faded. But life gets a little darker when we put our dreams away. (So, Mr. President, if things don’t work out with Michelle, give me a call. Also, should you need a writer on a mission in space, my schedule has recently cleared up.)
Sometimes my dream of becoming a writer feels as lofty as wanting to be a movie star. I mean, how does one even go about getting published? This is a sample of my typewritten cover letter to the Editor in Chief of Fitness Magazine:
………
[Please imagine the typewriter clicks as I type.]
Dear Ms. Betty Wong,
[Return typewriter to starting position. DING!]
I would like to write for your magazine. Both of my parents and ten of my closest Facebook friends think I would be fantastic.
[Ding!]
Sincerely yours,
L.E.G.
Post Script; please note the scented pink paper that this cover letter is typed on. It serves to illustrate what a creative writer I truly am.
………
It sure is tough to follow your dreams. Money is a concern. And so I’ve decided to partner up with my mentor. We’ve started a consulting practice. So unconventional! So exciting! So goddamn scary! These days I split my time between triathlon training, writing and my brand new company. There’s not a lot of time for much else.
Maybe I can’t have it all. Maybe procreation is for the weak. Perhaps I should just focus on greatness without distraction. It is possible that I could become a modern-day Jane Austen (but better since I am also a small business owner and a triathlete). My legacy could be through amazing literature that has an impact on the world. Indefinitely.
But I know that would never make me happy. Nor is it exactly fair, either. I mean, I hit the gene-pool jackpot. My DNA is entirely too fantastic to end with me. I consider procreation my obligation to humanity. This just adds an extra dimension to my dating criteria: Please fill out this brief medical history form before you approach me. Seriously, it seems that my body is reacting to a different kind of stress these days. In the same way I know that I am a writer (and world-class triathlete and savvy business owner), I know that my real legacy on this earth will be in the amazing life I leave behind. I just hope that my own children aren’t as annoying as everyone else’s.
I don’t know when or how any of this is going to shake out. Of course I am afraid of failure. What if my company doesn’t pan out? What if I never get published? What if I come in DFL again at my triathlon this weekend? What if I never find someone who can pass my medical history exam?!
Everyone has “What ifs.” At least we all should. These challenges are what make life interesting. Who wants to watch a movie where Happily Ever After is in the beginning, middle and end? So, if my company doesn’t pan out, I have an MBA and I can always get a (GULP) conventional job. If I never get published, the real tragedy would be if I never tried. If I come in DFL in Chicago, then I’ll sign up for another triathlon next summer and write about my training all winter long. And about that other thing? Well, maybe I’ll get a little push…
Although I live in Detroit (for now), where the beaches are closed due to e coli, the winters are so severe that they steal a bit of your soul every time you survive one, and the Lions are incapable of winning one single football game; I lead the most exciting life I know. And it’s not just because I change jobs and cities like underwear. It’s because I’m going for it. It doesn’t matter how I got in this position, but I keep getting pushed into it. I have to believe that it’s because I’m meant for something great. Every day is like Christmas. I have no idea what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end. But my God, I can’t wait to write about it.
*Urban Dictionary Trickster Definition: A sneaky little shit who practices the art of creeping.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Brown Monster
My Chicago triathlon is nine days away. During my last month of preparation, I should have been training diligently in all things swimming, biking and running. Instead, I’ve been gallivanting around the world. Every weekend a different party. Every night a different dress. Ha! If only that were so…
OK, it is partly so. Occasional law breaking and naked dive masters aside, Sweden was quite the experience. First of all, there weren’t many people who looked like me there. Of course, this was part of its appeal. I mean, it’s not like the South where I could be lynched for making eye contact with the wrong person. In Europe, being brown is like having a really cool accent. You can stick me in a city with thousands of blondes and I’ll be in heaven. It’s like going to a party where everyone’s wearing shorts and pants and I’m in a ridiculously short dress and five inch heels. Always. Appropriate.
There were a couple of things that did make me feel slightly out of place, though. Like the time the father of the bride, born and raised in Holland, called me “The Brown Monster.” At least the whole wedding party thought he did. As it turns out, he was actually referring to the oversized brown sofa I slept on in the couple’s living room.
Unfortunately, the thing that made me stand out most had nothing to do with my appearance. Instead, it was regarding the time I inadvertently threatened the life of the bridal party, the hotel guests, and some 600 year-old beloved architecture. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s not like old buildings are that difficult to come by in Sweden.
I woke up early the morning of the wedding and went for an incredible run along the Oresund Sea (the body of water that connects Denmark to Sweden). Seriously, both Grosse Pointe and the back-country of Malmo could take some cues from this route. There were bathrooms at every kilometer. It was both a runner’s and an inebriated Canadian’s dream come true. The weather was perfect and the view unreal. With every stride I felt more at peace and more aware of my body, functioning as easily as it ever had. My 60-minute run turned into an 80-minute run. And then I realized I was late. Really late.
The bridal party was meeting at 10am to get our hair and make up done, so when I got back to the hotel room I was in a bit of a hurry. My roommate was gone. I had first dibs in the shower, which, thanks to the Navy, I can take faster than any man I know. Surprisingly, they never cared much about how my hair looked, so while we did have plenty of uniform drills, we never really had hair drills. I knew this was going to take a while. All week I had been wearing my hair naturally, which for me means a bunch of bouncy curls. I knew the stylist would have an anxiety attack if I showed up au naturel, so I did her a favor and began straightening it with my flat iron. I turned on my iPod and was jamming away to REM.
Out of no where, an alarm sounded throughout the hotel. Seriously? This is just my luck! I knew the bride would kill me if I was late for our appointment, so I kept trucking, trying to drown out the sound of the alarm with the sound of Automatic for the People.
A little while later my roommate came in. I asked her what all the hoopla was about. She said the hotel was being evacuated. The dining room, full of people eating breakfast and pre-wedding mingling, was shut down. Everyone was sent outside to stand on the street. Like me, however, she knew the importance of being ready on time and was willing to risk death by fire to sneak upstairs to get ready. But not before she ran into the bride’s sister, searching for her husband and baby amidst the chaos, terrified. It was pandemonium out there.
‘Oh my,’ I thought as I continued to style my hair. ‘That is really too bad. And poor V. Having to evacuate from her wedding suite on her wedding day. I wonder if she’s running out of the hotel carrying her wedding dress and veil. Maybe she needs help? Focus. Stay and finish your hair. Oh, damn! I should have gotten that mani-pedi before I left the States. That should be a customs requirement. Oh, right. Fire alarm. If it’s a real emergency they’ll come and get us.’
All of a sudden I hear commotion coming from the hallway. Shoot. This must be a big deal. They really are coming to get us! What am I going to do about my hair?
There was a bang on my door. I opened it to a panicked fire marshal shouting in Swedish pointing to my smoke detector. Damn it, what is it about these Swedish people yelling at me in Swedish? Is it that difficult to use Ingles in an emergencia? I mean, it’s not as if I started speaking Mexican during General Quarters on my ship, or if I will bust out in Spanish when I inevitably turn 30… someday.
So, after some miming and what I can only assume is the international sign for “You’re starting a fire in my hotel you crazy Panamanian,” I realized it was my flat iron that set off the detector. I know this because when I unplugged it and pointed the fan in that direction the alarm stopped sounding and the fire marshal stopped screaming. Oops. Arms go up in a shrug, palms face upwards, head tilts to the side. That’s the international sign for “My bad…”
Well, all’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say. The wedding dress was safe. Mother and child reunited. Bride and Groom overcome by wedding-day-bliss. And most importantly, I did get to finish straightening my hair at the salon. At which point I had the stylist put it back in curls. (Hey, the shape was different!) I won’t lie, people… my hair did look fantastic.
Nine days. In my world that is an eternity. My life drastically changes course every few hours. There’s no telling what kinds of tomfoolery can happen. Run-ins with the law; impromptu dance competitions; last minute weekend trips; rabid dog chases. Chicago, The Brown Monster is coming! I’m still amazed that I don’t have to register when I enter a new city.
OK, it is partly so. Occasional law breaking and naked dive masters aside, Sweden was quite the experience. First of all, there weren’t many people who looked like me there. Of course, this was part of its appeal. I mean, it’s not like the South where I could be lynched for making eye contact with the wrong person. In Europe, being brown is like having a really cool accent. You can stick me in a city with thousands of blondes and I’ll be in heaven. It’s like going to a party where everyone’s wearing shorts and pants and I’m in a ridiculously short dress and five inch heels. Always. Appropriate.
There were a couple of things that did make me feel slightly out of place, though. Like the time the father of the bride, born and raised in Holland, called me “The Brown Monster.” At least the whole wedding party thought he did. As it turns out, he was actually referring to the oversized brown sofa I slept on in the couple’s living room.
Unfortunately, the thing that made me stand out most had nothing to do with my appearance. Instead, it was regarding the time I inadvertently threatened the life of the bridal party, the hotel guests, and some 600 year-old beloved architecture. Honestly, what’s the big deal? It’s not like old buildings are that difficult to come by in Sweden.
I woke up early the morning of the wedding and went for an incredible run along the Oresund Sea (the body of water that connects Denmark to Sweden). Seriously, both Grosse Pointe and the back-country of Malmo could take some cues from this route. There were bathrooms at every kilometer. It was both a runner’s and an inebriated Canadian’s dream come true. The weather was perfect and the view unreal. With every stride I felt more at peace and more aware of my body, functioning as easily as it ever had. My 60-minute run turned into an 80-minute run. And then I realized I was late. Really late.
The bridal party was meeting at 10am to get our hair and make up done, so when I got back to the hotel room I was in a bit of a hurry. My roommate was gone. I had first dibs in the shower, which, thanks to the Navy, I can take faster than any man I know. Surprisingly, they never cared much about how my hair looked, so while we did have plenty of uniform drills, we never really had hair drills. I knew this was going to take a while. All week I had been wearing my hair naturally, which for me means a bunch of bouncy curls. I knew the stylist would have an anxiety attack if I showed up au naturel, so I did her a favor and began straightening it with my flat iron. I turned on my iPod and was jamming away to REM.
Out of no where, an alarm sounded throughout the hotel. Seriously? This is just my luck! I knew the bride would kill me if I was late for our appointment, so I kept trucking, trying to drown out the sound of the alarm with the sound of Automatic for the People.
A little while later my roommate came in. I asked her what all the hoopla was about. She said the hotel was being evacuated. The dining room, full of people eating breakfast and pre-wedding mingling, was shut down. Everyone was sent outside to stand on the street. Like me, however, she knew the importance of being ready on time and was willing to risk death by fire to sneak upstairs to get ready. But not before she ran into the bride’s sister, searching for her husband and baby amidst the chaos, terrified. It was pandemonium out there.
‘Oh my,’ I thought as I continued to style my hair. ‘That is really too bad. And poor V. Having to evacuate from her wedding suite on her wedding day. I wonder if she’s running out of the hotel carrying her wedding dress and veil. Maybe she needs help? Focus. Stay and finish your hair. Oh, damn! I should have gotten that mani-pedi before I left the States. That should be a customs requirement. Oh, right. Fire alarm. If it’s a real emergency they’ll come and get us.’
All of a sudden I hear commotion coming from the hallway. Shoot. This must be a big deal. They really are coming to get us! What am I going to do about my hair?
There was a bang on my door. I opened it to a panicked fire marshal shouting in Swedish pointing to my smoke detector. Damn it, what is it about these Swedish people yelling at me in Swedish? Is it that difficult to use Ingles in an emergencia? I mean, it’s not as if I started speaking Mexican during General Quarters on my ship, or if I will bust out in Spanish when I inevitably turn 30… someday.
So, after some miming and what I can only assume is the international sign for “You’re starting a fire in my hotel you crazy Panamanian,” I realized it was my flat iron that set off the detector. I know this because when I unplugged it and pointed the fan in that direction the alarm stopped sounding and the fire marshal stopped screaming. Oops. Arms go up in a shrug, palms face upwards, head tilts to the side. That’s the international sign for “My bad…”
Well, all’s well that ends well. That’s what I always say. The wedding dress was safe. Mother and child reunited. Bride and Groom overcome by wedding-day-bliss. And most importantly, I did get to finish straightening my hair at the salon. At which point I had the stylist put it back in curls. (Hey, the shape was different!) I won’t lie, people… my hair did look fantastic.
Nine days. In my world that is an eternity. My life drastically changes course every few hours. There’s no telling what kinds of tomfoolery can happen. Run-ins with the law; impromptu dance competitions; last minute weekend trips; rabid dog chases. Chicago, The Brown Monster is coming! I’m still amazed that I don’t have to register when I enter a new city.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Annie Get Your Clothes On
“I started running ultras to be a better person...I thought if you could run one hundred miles, you’d be in this zen state. You’d be the fucking Buddha, bringing peace and a smile to the world. It didn’t work in my case—I’m the same old punk-ass as before—but there’s always that hope that it will turn you into the person you want to be, a better, more peaceful person.” This is a quote from one of the super athletes in Christopher McDougall’s book, Born to Run.
In the entirety of my life I know that I will never run an ultra marathon, nor will I have the desire to do so. But that passage really struck a chord with me. I have a vision of the person I want to be and I feel like the hobbies I fill my life with are part of this woman that make up my ideal. I want to be a person who will try anything once (maaaybe twice).
My first solo vacation was in Hawaii, summer 2006. I was a little nervous about traveling alone, so I settled on a destination that was technically still the United States, but exotic enough to feel a little dangerous (ha!). I hiked, explored, meditated, talked to strangers... all things associated with being a seasoned traveler. But on that trip, the thing that would change my life was my first dive.
The sensation of breathing in the water, an alternate life under the sea and the badass gear one sported... well, I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been diving all over the world. So when I found out that my travel itinerary included Sweden, I Googled the closest PADI dive center and made my reservations. This would be my first cold water dive which would officially put me on the badass diver list. But the problem with pushing one's self too far too fast in diving, as with anything in life, is that one runs the risk of losing interest, getting hurt and on occasion, even death. Okay, okay. You know by now I have a flare for the dramatic. Death only felt like part of my experience... but it would become one I will never forget.
I traveled two hours north of Malmo by train and bus. When I arrived to the dive shop, I was eager to get on the boat. My fitting was delayed by their struggle to find gloves to fit my freakishly small hands and boots to fit my matching freakishly small feet. (Women all over China are seething with jealousy.) And of course, I was further delayed by my inability to convert pounds to kilograms and inches to centimeters. (Seriously, Europe... the metric system is sooo 2000 & late.)
I gathered my gear and decided I didn’t want my book bag to get wet, so I left it in the van. I got on board and began setting up my equipment. I didn’t trust myself with my own life, so I called the dive master, Annie, over to double check my work. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in her underwear. Changing. On board. Into a bikini. I looked away, embarrassed. If I had known it was gonna be that kinda party I would have worn a lace bra and panty set and called it a day.
With our equipment properly set up, we pulled out to sea. I started to put on my wetsuit. It was bright red and had two pieces. As I struggled to get my leg in, I realized I was the butt of the Swedish banter that had recently started. I was putting my suit on inside out! I turned the suit right side in, but while it is always difficult to put a wetsuit onto dry skin, this time seemed exceptionally arduous. I looked at the suit and realized it was an extra small. EXTRA. SMALL. On what planet do I resemble an extra small? Did they even bother to look at me from behind?! We were too far out to turn around so I pulled harder until I heard a rip in the suit go all the way through the groin. I looked up and heard Silk the Shocker saying, “It ain’t my fault.” I walked over to show the captain the rip in my suit.
He said, “Don’t worry! The jacket will cover it.”
Sigh.
I went back to finish dressing. I tried to peel my jacket on and heard the captain yelling at me in Swedish and motioning with his leg.
I don’t speak Jibberish, Capitán. Speak American, por favor.
He left the helm and walked over to me. For the first time since we pulled out of port I looked up and noticed the mountainous cliffs on the starboard side while no one was piloting the vessel.
Forget about me! Who’s driving the goddamned boat!
He showed me how to put my suit on and returned to the wheel. I tried to zip up the jacket and felt like Chris Farley: fat guy in a little coat. My arms were sticking out and I was seriously struggling to breathe. The captain explained the dive and how different it would be from all the warm water dives I had done before.
“There are a lot of jelly fish in the water. They won’t kill you, but it will hurt like hell.”
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! What did I get myself into?
“The water temperature is 10 degrees." (Celsius.)
“Wait!” I shouted. “What about the tear in my suit?” I was seriously freaking out.
“You’ll be fine.” The captain assured me. “Just set it to the side when you return it.” Okay, so the equipment was good enough for my dive but afterwards it would go to the wetsuit graveyard? Crap.
“You’ll hit a pocket of water on your way down where you will visually see the change in temperature. It will drop 10 degrees.” (Still Celsius!) “Your dive tanks are different from that of your Caribbean dives. Those are aluminum. These are steel. They weigh more. Be careful to maintain your balance or they will flip you over onto your back. Are you ready,” the captain asked with a smile.
No, I am not ready! I wanna watch Oprah. I want my money back. I wanna go home. I want to live damnit! I want to live.
We arrived at the dive location and everything was zipped, tucked, snapped and buckled. My tank was on my back and my weight belt was squeezing my waist. I was sweating and about to die of heat exhaustion all the while knowing that as soon as I hit the water it was going to feel like an ice cold bath. And, What the What! The captain was wearing a dry suit. A dry suit?! This is the climate of his people and he was wearing a dry suit? My people are a warm people. Our idea of danger is outrunning the drug cartels of Columbia, not treading through the Scandinavian tropics. Why am I in a wetsuit, which by the way, happens to be broken!
I went to the side of the boat and sat on the ledge. I held my mask over my face and the regulator in my mouth. I leaned back and rolled into the water. As soon as I hit I thought my life was over. I could feel cold water seeping in around my face, into my neck, around my ankles, wrists and for the love of everything that is sacred and holy, into my groin. I looked around and was falling into a pool of jelly fish. I was choking, water had gotten into my mask and my ears were already hurting. One at a time I fixed my issues, blowing hard out of my regulator to clear my breathing, blowing hard out of my nose to clear my mask and wiggling my jaw to equalize my ears. Though I wanted to panic, I knew I had to be calm or things would really get bad.
I thought of the groom who helped me arrange this trip and his anecdote about ripping off the masks of his diving buddies to make sure they wouldn’t freak out in an emergency. I thought of my own Swedish dive buddy, three feet away from me, and how I would take his dive knife and drive it through his heart if he tried to play any tricks on me. This was a life or death moment and the score was tied. Then I thought of the bride. Honestly, would a wedding in the Dominican Republic have been out of the question?
I started my dive and tried to think warm thoughts. I thought of the hot bath I would take back in my hotel room until I remembered I had only a stand up shower. Then I thought of a hot tub and wished I had a hot tub time machine. Not to buy stock in Microsoft, but to tell myself not to go on this damn dive trip.
In all of the excitement I realized I was starving. I was swimming with schools of fish and just looking at them made me even hungrier. I would have Daryl Hannah’ed the first lobster I saw.
Cold and hungry I thought the first dive would never end. But mercifully we came up 45 minutes later and rested for an hour and a half. I kept my wetsuit on and lay in the sun, trying to stay warm. This is what my people do. We are of the sun and of peace; well, maybe an occasional kidnapping and drug killing, but still a warm and mostly peaceful people.
Fortunately, my second dive felt faster than the first. I came out of the water and headed straight for the sun. Annie said I would warm up faster if I took my wetsuit off and changed into my dry clothes. On a boat with no changing room, I decided my warmth was more important than my modesty. My male diving buddy took off into the rocks and cliffs behind us. Since I had already seen Annie in her undies, I figured, “When in Rome...”
I headed to the front of the boat, faced the ocean and changed from my wetsuit into my dry clothes. I turned around to head back into the sun and faced an entire group of people who had just climbed onto the rocks and had apparently gotten an up close and personal view of my entire backside; including my dive buddy, back from his excursion. Awesome.
Too tired to care, too hungry to think (oh yeah, my food was in my backpack... in the van), I lay in the sun and fell asleep.
I woke to an underwear clad dive master. Annie had changed into her dry clothes too, but they consisted of Sweden’s version of Victoria’s Secret. Ladies, let me tell ya that confidence goes an incredibly long way. This dive master’s body was nowhere near perfect. She had rolls, dimples, and pale white skin. But as she worked the boat in her underwear, I couldn’t help but notice the way her long curls fell over her shoulders and the way her curves made her look like a woman was meant to look. She was beautiful. Though the other divers (all male) did not seem to be as fazed by the fact that Annie was in her panties, I knew they were thinking the same thing.
We pulled back into port where all the guys tried to help me carry my equipment off the boat. If I had known I wouldn’t have had to carry those ridiculously heavy steel tanks, I would have flashed them the first time around. From both sides.
My dive trip was done. I made it through some of the coldest diving in the world. It won’t happen twice. Well, maaaybe twice. I am not a better person for having done that dive. Like McDougall’s super athletes, I too am the same punk-ass today as I was yesterday. But I will tell you, that after this dive, I am officially badass.
In the entirety of my life I know that I will never run an ultra marathon, nor will I have the desire to do so. But that passage really struck a chord with me. I have a vision of the person I want to be and I feel like the hobbies I fill my life with are part of this woman that make up my ideal. I want to be a person who will try anything once (maaaybe twice).
My first solo vacation was in Hawaii, summer 2006. I was a little nervous about traveling alone, so I settled on a destination that was technically still the United States, but exotic enough to feel a little dangerous (ha!). I hiked, explored, meditated, talked to strangers... all things associated with being a seasoned traveler. But on that trip, the thing that would change my life was my first dive.
The sensation of breathing in the water, an alternate life under the sea and the badass gear one sported... well, I was hooked. Since then, I’ve been diving all over the world. So when I found out that my travel itinerary included Sweden, I Googled the closest PADI dive center and made my reservations. This would be my first cold water dive which would officially put me on the badass diver list. But the problem with pushing one's self too far too fast in diving, as with anything in life, is that one runs the risk of losing interest, getting hurt and on occasion, even death. Okay, okay. You know by now I have a flare for the dramatic. Death only felt like part of my experience... but it would become one I will never forget.
I traveled two hours north of Malmo by train and bus. When I arrived to the dive shop, I was eager to get on the boat. My fitting was delayed by their struggle to find gloves to fit my freakishly small hands and boots to fit my matching freakishly small feet. (Women all over China are seething with jealousy.) And of course, I was further delayed by my inability to convert pounds to kilograms and inches to centimeters. (Seriously, Europe... the metric system is sooo 2000 & late.)
I gathered my gear and decided I didn’t want my book bag to get wet, so I left it in the van. I got on board and began setting up my equipment. I didn’t trust myself with my own life, so I called the dive master, Annie, over to double check my work. Imagine my surprise when I saw her in her underwear. Changing. On board. Into a bikini. I looked away, embarrassed. If I had known it was gonna be that kinda party I would have worn a lace bra and panty set and called it a day.
With our equipment properly set up, we pulled out to sea. I started to put on my wetsuit. It was bright red and had two pieces. As I struggled to get my leg in, I realized I was the butt of the Swedish banter that had recently started. I was putting my suit on inside out! I turned the suit right side in, but while it is always difficult to put a wetsuit onto dry skin, this time seemed exceptionally arduous. I looked at the suit and realized it was an extra small. EXTRA. SMALL. On what planet do I resemble an extra small? Did they even bother to look at me from behind?! We were too far out to turn around so I pulled harder until I heard a rip in the suit go all the way through the groin. I looked up and heard Silk the Shocker saying, “It ain’t my fault.” I walked over to show the captain the rip in my suit.
He said, “Don’t worry! The jacket will cover it.”
Sigh.
I went back to finish dressing. I tried to peel my jacket on and heard the captain yelling at me in Swedish and motioning with his leg.
I don’t speak Jibberish, Capitán. Speak American, por favor.
He left the helm and walked over to me. For the first time since we pulled out of port I looked up and noticed the mountainous cliffs on the starboard side while no one was piloting the vessel.
Forget about me! Who’s driving the goddamned boat!
He showed me how to put my suit on and returned to the wheel. I tried to zip up the jacket and felt like Chris Farley: fat guy in a little coat. My arms were sticking out and I was seriously struggling to breathe. The captain explained the dive and how different it would be from all the warm water dives I had done before.
“There are a lot of jelly fish in the water. They won’t kill you, but it will hurt like hell.”
SHUT THE FRONT DOOR! What did I get myself into?
“The water temperature is 10 degrees." (Celsius.)
“Wait!” I shouted. “What about the tear in my suit?” I was seriously freaking out.
“You’ll be fine.” The captain assured me. “Just set it to the side when you return it.” Okay, so the equipment was good enough for my dive but afterwards it would go to the wetsuit graveyard? Crap.
“You’ll hit a pocket of water on your way down where you will visually see the change in temperature. It will drop 10 degrees.” (Still Celsius!) “Your dive tanks are different from that of your Caribbean dives. Those are aluminum. These are steel. They weigh more. Be careful to maintain your balance or they will flip you over onto your back. Are you ready,” the captain asked with a smile.
No, I am not ready! I wanna watch Oprah. I want my money back. I wanna go home. I want to live damnit! I want to live.
We arrived at the dive location and everything was zipped, tucked, snapped and buckled. My tank was on my back and my weight belt was squeezing my waist. I was sweating and about to die of heat exhaustion all the while knowing that as soon as I hit the water it was going to feel like an ice cold bath. And, What the What! The captain was wearing a dry suit. A dry suit?! This is the climate of his people and he was wearing a dry suit? My people are a warm people. Our idea of danger is outrunning the drug cartels of Columbia, not treading through the Scandinavian tropics. Why am I in a wetsuit, which by the way, happens to be broken!
I went to the side of the boat and sat on the ledge. I held my mask over my face and the regulator in my mouth. I leaned back and rolled into the water. As soon as I hit I thought my life was over. I could feel cold water seeping in around my face, into my neck, around my ankles, wrists and for the love of everything that is sacred and holy, into my groin. I looked around and was falling into a pool of jelly fish. I was choking, water had gotten into my mask and my ears were already hurting. One at a time I fixed my issues, blowing hard out of my regulator to clear my breathing, blowing hard out of my nose to clear my mask and wiggling my jaw to equalize my ears. Though I wanted to panic, I knew I had to be calm or things would really get bad.
I thought of the groom who helped me arrange this trip and his anecdote about ripping off the masks of his diving buddies to make sure they wouldn’t freak out in an emergency. I thought of my own Swedish dive buddy, three feet away from me, and how I would take his dive knife and drive it through his heart if he tried to play any tricks on me. This was a life or death moment and the score was tied. Then I thought of the bride. Honestly, would a wedding in the Dominican Republic have been out of the question?
I started my dive and tried to think warm thoughts. I thought of the hot bath I would take back in my hotel room until I remembered I had only a stand up shower. Then I thought of a hot tub and wished I had a hot tub time machine. Not to buy stock in Microsoft, but to tell myself not to go on this damn dive trip.
In all of the excitement I realized I was starving. I was swimming with schools of fish and just looking at them made me even hungrier. I would have Daryl Hannah’ed the first lobster I saw.
Cold and hungry I thought the first dive would never end. But mercifully we came up 45 minutes later and rested for an hour and a half. I kept my wetsuit on and lay in the sun, trying to stay warm. This is what my people do. We are of the sun and of peace; well, maybe an occasional kidnapping and drug killing, but still a warm and mostly peaceful people.
Fortunately, my second dive felt faster than the first. I came out of the water and headed straight for the sun. Annie said I would warm up faster if I took my wetsuit off and changed into my dry clothes. On a boat with no changing room, I decided my warmth was more important than my modesty. My male diving buddy took off into the rocks and cliffs behind us. Since I had already seen Annie in her undies, I figured, “When in Rome...”
I headed to the front of the boat, faced the ocean and changed from my wetsuit into my dry clothes. I turned around to head back into the sun and faced an entire group of people who had just climbed onto the rocks and had apparently gotten an up close and personal view of my entire backside; including my dive buddy, back from his excursion. Awesome.
Too tired to care, too hungry to think (oh yeah, my food was in my backpack... in the van), I lay in the sun and fell asleep.
I woke to an underwear clad dive master. Annie had changed into her dry clothes too, but they consisted of Sweden’s version of Victoria’s Secret. Ladies, let me tell ya that confidence goes an incredibly long way. This dive master’s body was nowhere near perfect. She had rolls, dimples, and pale white skin. But as she worked the boat in her underwear, I couldn’t help but notice the way her long curls fell over her shoulders and the way her curves made her look like a woman was meant to look. She was beautiful. Though the other divers (all male) did not seem to be as fazed by the fact that Annie was in her panties, I knew they were thinking the same thing.
We pulled back into port where all the guys tried to help me carry my equipment off the boat. If I had known I wouldn’t have had to carry those ridiculously heavy steel tanks, I would have flashed them the first time around. From both sides.
My dive trip was done. I made it through some of the coldest diving in the world. It won’t happen twice. Well, maaaybe twice. I am not a better person for having done that dive. Like McDougall’s super athletes, I too am the same punk-ass today as I was yesterday. But I will tell you, that after this dive, I am officially badass.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Law Breaking and Other Swedish Shenanigans
The thing about triathlons is that it has totally changed my outlook on life. When I wake up I want to go running. When I overeat, I want to burn it off. When I'm mad, I workout my anger. And when I'm tipsy, well... At least I try to walk it off.
I'm in Sweden this week visiting my college roommate. She's getting married and I'm a bridesmaid. It's been a while since we've seen each other and of course the best way to celebrate our reunion was over a bottle of red wine. For me, three drinks is perfect. Everything is ridiculously funny and I laugh just a little too loud. Three drinks. Not four. Three (3).
I know my limit. It's not a secret and it's not like it ever changes. In fact, the bride and I were discussing that very fact on a bike ride earlier that day. Four drinks for me is like feeding a gremlin after midnight and then dousing it in water. "Never get it drunk," should be tattooed on my forehead. Fortunately, I'm in the company of one of my best friends in the world, and her soon to be husband which makes him like a newly adopted brother. Perhaps, after witnessing some of my escapades, he questions her choice in friends. And perhaps now he'll warn off his Swedish-model groomsmen to stay away from "crazy," (me). But he accepts me for who I am even if he doesn't find my shenanigans half as funny as his bride. His loss...
So, head spinning, trying to keep myself from vomiting in the soon-to-be newly-weds only bathroom, I decided fresh air and exercise was the solution to my problem. I took off into the backcountry of Malmo Sweden and went for a walk. On the lookout for a girl with a dragon tattoo, careful not to kick a hornet's nest or play with fire, I put on my tunes and felt surprisingly amazing. And oh my, is this Method Man on my iPod? As if I was walking through the 'hood in Detroit, I stuck my right arm out and put my first two fingers in the air, not to indicate a sign of peace but instead the sign of deuces (because apparently that's how I roll). I used my left hand to stir my imaginary turn tables while I kicked up my right leg and bounced up and down on my left. Seriously, that may sound like I actually did wind up in the middle of a hornet's nest and on fire, but I was stylin' (and you can't say anything different). I'm just not sure why the group of teenage girls who passed me at that exact moment on their bikes and stared at me like an escaped mental patient did not also realize that.
'Wait, come back!' I wanted to shout. 'That's just how we do in Detroit. I promise there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on here.'
Oh well. I'll never see them again...
I walked for 35 minutes more in that direction. I soaked in the scenery, the smell of northern Europe, the look of the broad-daylight sky at 2130 hours (I love that they use military time here). And I realized that while I was still pleasantly smitten, I had to use the bathroom and had not passed a single public restroom or (heaven forbid) porta-potty. I've always felt mildly repulsed by the fact that Lady-Gaga was born with (and kept) both a yahoo and yazoo. But for the first time I felt a glimmer of jealousy for her at my inability to pee standing up. Damn you Lady-Gaga and your hermaphrodite circus tricks.
People, I was drunk in a foreign country and I had to pee and I knew I wasn't going to make it. I had flashes of the Malmo drunk tank I would be thrown in and weighed my options between calling my parents to bail me out of jail in Sweden and an erupted gallbladder with weeks of recovery in the hospital. What would you do! I made a command decision and hit the bushes. My face flushed with embarrassment. I got pricked by a rattle-snake bush (a new breed of shrubbery planted by the Swedish police to ward off law breakers just like me). Forget the erupted gallbladder. My legs were on fire and I was about to be paralyzed and have my wonderful new running legs replaced with titanium stumps. Why, God, why did I have to have that fourth drink?
My brush with the law (I mean, I'm not sure, but I have to assume that public urination is illegal in Sweden) had really helped to sober me up. I was on my way back with a modicum of self respect left after my gremlinish behavior. And then it happened. Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Something came on my iPod. I looked around to make sure no one was there and started dancing in the middle of the sidewalk again. "Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ma coo sa." I mean, basically you have no soul if you hear that and don't bust out some moves. So I pulled out a hybrid Native American rain dance and running man combo and added in a cross of an African fertility dance and the robot. Then, (and really, I can't make this stuff up), those teenage girls passed me again. With the look of fear and pity across their face I wanted to shout to them,
'Wait! In America we watch Glee where it is totally appropriate (if not encouraged) to break out in song and choreographed dance to express our inner most feelings through popular music. So you see, there's absolutely nothing wrong with what I was just doing. Did you hear me? Come baaaack!'
Instead, I shouted, "I'm Canadian!"
Hey, triathletes think fast on their feet.
I'm in Sweden this week visiting my college roommate. She's getting married and I'm a bridesmaid. It's been a while since we've seen each other and of course the best way to celebrate our reunion was over a bottle of red wine. For me, three drinks is perfect. Everything is ridiculously funny and I laugh just a little too loud. Three drinks. Not four. Three (3).
I know my limit. It's not a secret and it's not like it ever changes. In fact, the bride and I were discussing that very fact on a bike ride earlier that day. Four drinks for me is like feeding a gremlin after midnight and then dousing it in water. "Never get it drunk," should be tattooed on my forehead. Fortunately, I'm in the company of one of my best friends in the world, and her soon to be husband which makes him like a newly adopted brother. Perhaps, after witnessing some of my escapades, he questions her choice in friends. And perhaps now he'll warn off his Swedish-model groomsmen to stay away from "crazy," (me). But he accepts me for who I am even if he doesn't find my shenanigans half as funny as his bride. His loss...
So, head spinning, trying to keep myself from vomiting in the soon-to-be newly-weds only bathroom, I decided fresh air and exercise was the solution to my problem. I took off into the backcountry of Malmo Sweden and went for a walk. On the lookout for a girl with a dragon tattoo, careful not to kick a hornet's nest or play with fire, I put on my tunes and felt surprisingly amazing. And oh my, is this Method Man on my iPod? As if I was walking through the 'hood in Detroit, I stuck my right arm out and put my first two fingers in the air, not to indicate a sign of peace but instead the sign of deuces (because apparently that's how I roll). I used my left hand to stir my imaginary turn tables while I kicked up my right leg and bounced up and down on my left. Seriously, that may sound like I actually did wind up in the middle of a hornet's nest and on fire, but I was stylin' (and you can't say anything different). I'm just not sure why the group of teenage girls who passed me at that exact moment on their bikes and stared at me like an escaped mental patient did not also realize that.
'Wait, come back!' I wanted to shout. 'That's just how we do in Detroit. I promise there is absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on here.'
Oh well. I'll never see them again...
I walked for 35 minutes more in that direction. I soaked in the scenery, the smell of northern Europe, the look of the broad-daylight sky at 2130 hours (I love that they use military time here). And I realized that while I was still pleasantly smitten, I had to use the bathroom and had not passed a single public restroom or (heaven forbid) porta-potty. I've always felt mildly repulsed by the fact that Lady-Gaga was born with (and kept) both a yahoo and yazoo. But for the first time I felt a glimmer of jealousy for her at my inability to pee standing up. Damn you Lady-Gaga and your hermaphrodite circus tricks.
People, I was drunk in a foreign country and I had to pee and I knew I wasn't going to make it. I had flashes of the Malmo drunk tank I would be thrown in and weighed my options between calling my parents to bail me out of jail in Sweden and an erupted gallbladder with weeks of recovery in the hospital. What would you do! I made a command decision and hit the bushes. My face flushed with embarrassment. I got pricked by a rattle-snake bush (a new breed of shrubbery planted by the Swedish police to ward off law breakers just like me). Forget the erupted gallbladder. My legs were on fire and I was about to be paralyzed and have my wonderful new running legs replaced with titanium stumps. Why, God, why did I have to have that fourth drink?
My brush with the law (I mean, I'm not sure, but I have to assume that public urination is illegal in Sweden) had really helped to sober me up. I was on my way back with a modicum of self respect left after my gremlinish behavior. And then it happened. Michael Jackson's Wanna Be Startin' Something came on my iPod. I looked around to make sure no one was there and started dancing in the middle of the sidewalk again. "Ma ma se, ma ma sa, ma ma ma coo sa." I mean, basically you have no soul if you hear that and don't bust out some moves. So I pulled out a hybrid Native American rain dance and running man combo and added in a cross of an African fertility dance and the robot. Then, (and really, I can't make this stuff up), those teenage girls passed me again. With the look of fear and pity across their face I wanted to shout to them,
'Wait! In America we watch Glee where it is totally appropriate (if not encouraged) to break out in song and choreographed dance to express our inner most feelings through popular music. So you see, there's absolutely nothing wrong with what I was just doing. Did you hear me? Come baaaack!'
Instead, I shouted, "I'm Canadian!"
Hey, triathletes think fast on their feet.
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