Tag: life

I Impressed Myself This Year

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I know what you’re thinking. You read the title of this post and you thought to yourself (or maybe said out loud as you laughed), “That’s not hard to do!” And for what it’s worth, you’re right. I’m easily impressed. Blame it on the fact that I have somehow managed to retain some childlike wonder, even about the most mundane things like making little changes in my life and the little world that I occupy.

I go into every new year wanting to make changes, wanting things in my little sphere to be different, improved. And usually, I get to the end of that year and nothing has been significantly affected. I have spent years doing this, just being straight up stuck. Its frustrating. I feel like I’m flailing in quicksand and just sinking lower and lower. I acknowledge that much of this is my own fault and the fault of my bad life choice making skills (I also acknowledge the role played by living in a capitalistic society that has a fetish for poverty, bootstraps, and monetizing every aspect of life, but we’re going to focus on me today). Keep doing what you did, you keep getting what you got, right?

This year I chose to do different, so I got different.

Most of these changes were not actually big changes or big decisions and many of them came in the latter part of the year. I sort of think of my Charleston trip as a big turning point in 2023. There’s what I was doing and how I was feeling before Charleston and what I was doing and how I was feeling afterward.

To be honest, I really impressed myself with Charleston. I couldn’t believe I actually did it. Not the actual going on the trip, but the deciding to go on the trip. I’m notorious for wanting to do things, but then putting them off or justifying not doing them. However, my limit had been reached and I was in the mood to do something drastic.

By the time I got on that plane to South Carolina, I was burnt the fuck out. I had a lot of projects going at the end of 2022 and the first part of 2023. Things at the library were hard. Thanks to staff changes, I spent most of the year training new people and working short-handed (that particular shitshow is still ongoing). It felt like I spent most of my time barely achieving the bare minimum of what I needed to get done with no energy for anything else. I was fed the fuck up.

The time away from everything, the physical distance from it, allowed me to gain some new perspective as well as a much needed break. I came home in a better mood and with some baby steps to help me improve my current existence. The real difference this time was that unlike my previous attempts, I actually did the baby steps. I didn’t immediately sink back into the mire of my usual routine. I came up with the plan and then executed said plan. Granted, the plan wasn’t any elaborate scheme, but the fact that I did it -and am still doing it- is progress that I haven’t seen in a long time.

And so far those baby steps have had the desired impact. I’m seeing little improvements. I adjusted my priorities and changed up my schedule and made efforts in certain areas of my life that I wish to improve. Seeing the results of those little changes has encouraged me to keep taking those baby steps.

This sort of thing has a cumulative effect.

By the end of 2024, there’s a good chance I’ll be really impressed.

A Grinchmas Story

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

I’ve probably told this story already on the blog, but I’m too lazy to look it up and besides, who doesn’t like frequently re-told tales? For us old folks, that’s all we got.

Anyway, when I was in my single digits, I shared a room with my younger sister and we had bunk beds. These were not your standard, store-bought bunk beds. My grandfather made us these bunk beds. They were wooden with cubbies built into the head and foot boards for our stuff. They also had larger cubbies on the each end of the bunk bed, which we used as a bookshelf on one end and I think Barbie and My Little Pony storage on the other, if memory serves (and it frequently doesn’t). I had the top bunk and my sister had the bottom.

At Christmastime, my mother would go full ham on the decorations in the house. We rarely put up anything outside, but inside there was Christmas shit everywhere. My mother had a Christmas village that she’d set up on a table. A papermache angel that she’d made in high school would sit in the middle of it (if you even thought about touching it, Santa would give you more than just coal in your stocking). She had crocheted Santa Claus doorknob covers that made it impossible to open doors and the Christmas countdown chain and/or the cotton ball Santa beard countdown among the other decorations we’d bring home from school.

And of course we had a tree. Some years it was in the living room foyer, crowding the front door, which made us grateful we only used it to get the mail. Other years, it’d be put in the dining room near the windows, right next to the bedroom my sister and I shared. I liked those years best because I could fall asleep with the glow of the Christmas tree leaking into our room.

Decorating the tree was a big deal. Like many people, we had a collection of ornaments of sentimental value that always made it onto the tree. I made a Rudolph tree topper in 2nd grade that topped the tree for years. My grandmother had made everyone their own wooden ornaments of various figures, painting them and putting our names on them. Most of them have been lost to time, but I remember I was a rabbit and my sister was a deer. The only ones I still have are my grandpa’s –a drum major- and my grandma’s –a drum. I don’t have a big tree anymore, but I still hang those two ornaments up every year.

My favorite thing, however, was my stocking, which along with my sister’s, was hung on the end of the bunk bed with care.

Over the years, I had a few different stockings, but my favorite was, of course, one that my grandma made. My sister got one, too. For years everything we had was matchy-matchy, but in different colors. Both of our stockings were crocheted with little stuffed snowmen that fit in the top. Mine is green; my sister’s is red.

When Santa still stopped by our house (the presents Santa left under the tree were always the ones my mother didn’t want to wrap), my sister and I would know that he’d been there because after he’d fill our stockings, he’d put our snowmen in bed with us. Of all of my childhood Christmas memories, that’s my favorite. Waking up incredibly early against my will -thanks, Lulu- to find my snowman next to me. My sister and I would then empty our stockings and check out what Santa had brought us before moving on to finding what Santa had left under the tree.

Honestly, it was a brilliant move by mother. The snowman signal allowed us to raid our stockings and bought her a little more time to sleep (our dad worked nights at the time, so he usually got home around the same time we woke up our mother to officially start Christmas). It also created some extra special holiday magic that I still think about to this day.

Fortunately, I found our old stockings years ago and I sent my sister’s to her. I hang up mine every year on my bedroom door. I’ve had to sew up some holes and sew Frosty’s eye back on, but it’s otherwise in pretty good shape.

Santa doesn’t stop by my house anymore, so I don’t wake up to find Frosty in bed with me on Christmas morning, but that stocking still has some magic left to it.

It’s filled with Christmas memories.

An Apology to Everyone Who Has Ever Encountered Me in the Wild

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

If you have ever come across me in public and thought I acted a little (or a lot) weird, I apologize. It’s not you. It’s me. It’s definitely me.

I wasn’t prepared to see you.

Yes, despite living in a small town, I expect to move through public spaces without seeing anyone I know out of the context I’m used to interacting with them in. Sure we went to school together and we’ve been Facebook friends for years, but I don’t expect you to know me, recognize me, or talk to me. This isn’t to say that you shouldn’t. It’s just that I don’t expect you to.

And because I was caught off guard by this clearly unusual occurrence of people who know me actually knowing and acknowledging me, I am fully unprepared for the ensuing social interaction. What follows is several agonizing minutes of small talk that I didn’t study for while my brain screams at me to just be cool, man! The end result is me being painfully awkward and ruining the entire interaction, at least in my mind.

I have had smoother conversations with cops who have pulled me over at one in the morning for speeding. Very unattractive considering as a rule I shouldn’t be talking to cops.

My brain truly short circuits during these interactions. It’s particularly bad if it’s someone I primarily interact with online. We’ve already covered how I struggle with my own object permanence. If I don’t expect people to think about me, I definitely don’t think they remember me or would recognize me out of my own context in their existence. It never fails to shock me when someone knows who I am. And then they try to interact with me and it all goes to hell.

It’s funny how this happens. You would think that someone who works in customer service would be able to function in these situations. After all, I’m making small talk with strangers about their gut flora and peripheral vision on a regular basis (people really will talk to you about anything), so you would think I’d be able to do it relatively easily with people I actually know in some fashion. But no! Not my brain configuration.

I don’t know if the people I’m conversing with are feeling as awkward as I am, not because their brains are plagued with bad wiring, but because my awkwardness is so palpable they can’t help but catch it. It’s none of my business if they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation, but I’m pretty sure they think I’m weird and incapable of simple conversation.

And for that, I apologize. It is never my intention to inflict my awkwardness on others. I want to assure you that if we have ever met unexpectedly in the meatsphere (or if we ever happen to cross paths in the future), my behavior has nothing to do with you. You are fine, I’m sure. You’ve done nothing to warrant my terrible small talk.

I just come by weird more naturally than anything else.

Tales of Black Friday

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Despite working multiple Black Fridays in my retail life, I don’t actually have that many wild and crazy Black Friday stories. I mean I was still working fast food when when one of my friends and future coworkers got punched by a customer over a Furby and my sister witnessed three customers wipe out and eat shit running to get a Tick-Me-Elmo.

My first Black Friday, I was a cashier, literally trapped at my register by mobs of people in our little six lane Walmart scoring their deals, carts absolutely full of Christmas gifts. This was back when the store still had lay-a-way, too. There was only one lay-a-way computer at the customer service desk. That line was unhinged, competing with the two other lines at the desk. Sporting goods, electronics, and jewelry all had their registers open and running, too. It was stressful madness. All hands on deck. We absolutely were not paid enough to deal with that chaos.

The next Black Friday, I was a department manager in charge of automotive and sporting goods. One of my besties at the time was in charge of seasonal, which meant lawn and garden in the spring and summer, and Halloween and Christmas in the fall and winter. Our departments were next to the five aisles that made up our small Walmart’s toy department. This gave us front row seats to the two middle aged women who nearly came to blows over a Razor scooter. I had to be at work at 4 in the morning for this.

My last few Walmart Black Fridays were spent in the jewelry department. This was my last go-round and by this point I was a rodeo champ. I didn’t have to be in first thing (which was 3 AM one year) and I sure as shit wasn’t going to volunteer for it. I was good enough to do a 7 AM shift one year, but then 11 AM shifts after that. By that point, the madness was long over and the rest of the day was pretty easy.

I kept this practice up when I worked at The Limited in the mall. I was on the floorset team, working after hours to switch out merchandise and displays. Sometimes we’d only go in twice a month, but when it came to the holidays, we could be there every week. And we were required to work Black Friday even though most of us never worked when the store was open. My first year, I signed up for a four hour mid-shift and ended up spending the whole time folding clothes after people had gone through them. So many people didn’t even have the decency to even try to fold things again. They’d just hold it up, look at it, and toss it back on the table. It was the pricey clothing store equivalent of trashing a toy display to get the one they wanted. Utterly manner-less.

In my four years at The Limited, I only worked one other Black Friday, a mid-shift as usual, and it was pretty not busy. I spent most of my time walking around trying to look busy rather than actually being busy. The other two Black Friday shifts? I was called the morning of and told not to come in because they didn’t need me. I was very content to not be needed

I’ve never shopped on a Black Friday, not after working them. The idea of willingly jumping into that fray just to save some money doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather stay home in my jammies and eat turkey leftovers.

And with internet shopping the way it is now, I can do just that. Have my Black Friday at home.

Curiously enough, though, I don’t. I rarely shop or buy anything on Black Friday.

Guess those deals aren’t as great when I’m not in danger of being elbowed by a stranger.

I Am a Universe Unfolding

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

Once upon a time I was talking to a friend about the disaster of a human being I am and how I find new and interesting ways to fail. And he told me “You are a universe unfolding.”

Damn I love that line. That’s a good line. I don’t mind being a disaster, but being a universe unfolding encompasses so much more than just the disaster element. I mean, when you think of it, the universe was something of a mess when it first got started and there are bits of it now that are most likely in disarray, but there are some nifty areas, too.

That’s something like me.

“I’m not the same person I used to be.” That’s the ol’ personal growth saying, isn’t it? And it’s true. I’m not the same person I was twenty years ago or ten years ago or five days ago. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Growth happens in all sorts of directions, doesn’t it? Cancer is a growth, after all. Can’t say too many people are thrilled with it. In all of my unfolding over the years, I can’t say that I’ve gotten it all right. I know I’ve unfolded some horrors, some really deep dark dimensions that weren’t for the faint of heart. I believe they like to call those times the dark night of the soul and baby, my soul was a pitch black moonless midnight, not a star to be seen.

Not every change I make to my existence is one that works out in my favor. Or in other people’s favor.

The interesting thing about being a universe unfolding is that not everyone appreciates it. Not everyone digs your expansion or your new disasters or your changes or your newness. They prefer you as you were because that’s what’s comfortable, that’s what’s known. Not everyone signed up to boldly go, you know? I can’t blame them. After all, they’re a universe, too.

The comforting thing about embracing myself as a universe unfolding is the unending aspect of it. I don’t mean that I suddenly think I’m immortal or that I’ll be remembered for eternity or anything like that. My legacy is none of my business because I’ll be dead and that presents a different set of concerns. What I mean is that I’m unending. I’m always new. I’m always finding and creating and destroying different aspects of myself and my existence. Even as a person who craves stability and who sometimes struggles with change, there’s something warm and fuzzy about the idea that I’m always…unfolding.

I am still very much a disaster in many ways. I frequently set fire to my own life with my choices. My brain can be an absolute hellscape of anxiety and depression. But instead of offering these things up as evidence of the complete failure of a human I am, I can now show them as examples of the universe I am. These are my black holes. But if you swing that telescope ’round, you’ll see the planets of my creativity and the constellations of my work and the stars of empathy and humor and intelligence, and the meteors of greatness that whiz by.

I truly am an interesting place.

And there’s always more of me to discover.

“Nothing Worth Mentioning”

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

When people ask me what’s going on or what I’ve been up to, my go to response is always, “Nothing worth mentioning.” Sort of like when people ask you how you are and you automatically respond with “fine”. It’s all part of the social greeting norms. Nobody really cares how you are. And nobody really cares what I’ve been doing.

I discovered years ago that I’m a dull person. People would ask me what I’d been up to and I’d honestly answer that question and watch their eyes glaze over. Or if I was part of a group conversation, someone else would interrupt and the conversation would shift and that would be the end of my participation. What have I been doing? Nothing interesting to anyone else, apparently.

Part of this is because I’m kind of a failure and didn’t do what I was supposed to do. I didn’t get married, I didn’t have kids, I didn’t get a “real” job. I think people who did all of that kind of find it hard to relate. What do we talk about if we can’t talk about the things we’re supposed to have in common? They tell me stories about their spouses and offspring and full-time work drama. What can I contribute with? I can’t. Let’s just skip it then, shall we?

The other part of this is that I’m introverted. I don’t have the spouse, 2.5 kids, picket fence, and office job to talk about, but I’m also not partying every weekend or traveling the world or other leaving-the-house activities on a regular basis. I go to work at the library day job and I come home and that’s pretty much it most weeks. It’s already been established that we’re not going to talk about what I’m working on. So, what do we talk about? Which patron acted the ass this week? Well, several, but I can’t name names because this is a small town. Gotta tread lightly so I don’t get into trouble.

In the end, “nothing worth mentioning” is the best answer because it’s the truest one. I’ve been doing things and living life, but if I wrote it in a novel, it’d be the stuff most readers would skip because they found it boring. Sure, I took a trip to South Carolina, but it was pretty much to see a pineapple fountain and relax. Don’t need more than a couple of sentences to explain that.

And that’s the thing. In the unlikely event that I actually do something worth mentioning, I’ve gotten so good at not mentioning it that I no longer really know how to mention it.

“How was your trip?”

“Oh, it was great. I had a really fun time!”

End conversation.

Unless you ask me for more details, I will not offer them up. I don’t want to bore you. And if you do ask, I will bore you with those details. What’s exciting and interesting to me is beige paint to everyone else. For someone who calls themselves a writer, I really can’t tell a story well enough to hold an audience.

(Ah. Some additional insight into my unsuccessful writing career, methinks.)

It’s something I”m working on. Both getting better at talking about the things worth mentioning and realizing that there are sometimes things worth mentioning going on in my life.

In the meantime, I’m still available to hear all about what’s going on in yours.

The Priority Shift

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I have no doubt that if I were to look back on the blog posts I’ve done in the past few years, I’d probably find one on the topic of priorities because I’m sure I’ve written about this before. However, I’m not that motivated. Or should I say…it’s not a priority.

Perhaps it’s not obvious, but it probably should be. I struggle with my priorities. More specifically, I struggle with correctly prioritizing things in my life. I’m not good at it. I fuck up the order consistently. What I should prioritize, I don’t, and what gets prioritized usually shouldn’t be so high on the list. Or even on the list. As a result, I spend a lot of time feeling like I’m not living my life the way I truly want to. Granted, it would take a substantial inflow of income to truly allow me to live my life the way I want to, but given the limitations I’m currently operating under, I could be doing a whole lot better.

My recent two week vacation from the library allowed me to really take a look at how I prioritize my life and what I need to change. To be honest, it’s something I’ve been half-ass working on all year. I got The Remarkable Life Deck: A Ten-Year Plan for Achieving Your Dreams by Debbie Millan for my birthday (I asked for this; it wasn’t some anvil suggestion that I needed to get my shit together). I’ve worked my way through the deck twice and now I really need to start working on what I’ve written down. So, I spent some time while I was in Charleston looking at what I wrote down and identifying some baby steps I could take in the direction of achieving my dreams the deck had produced.

To the shock of absolutely no one, the babiest of those baby steps is a shift in my priorities. And the most obvious shift was to make myself a priority.

Yea, I know what you’re thinking. As a selfish woman, I already make myself a priority. While I won’t argue with the fact that I am selfish, I have receipts to show that I don’t make myself a priority. I’ve got the high blood pressure, patellar tendonitis, GERD, parathyroid issues, insomnia, stress, weight gain, fatigue, and anxiety to prove it. Quiet self-destruction is one of my default settings and it takes a conscious effort to not succumb to the default. I tend to put everything over taking care of myself and though I’ve made improvements in that defect in the past several years, I need to be doing a whole lot better.

I need to put myself at the top of the priority list.

This means putting my health first. Putting my rest first. Putting my mental health first.

Theoretically, if and when I do that, most everything else will fall into place. Why? Well, because I’m the center of my Universe, aren’t I? The cause and solution to all of my problems. If I take care of me, then I have a better ability to take care of business, so to speak. I’ll have the time and energy and health that will make dealing with other priorities easier.

For example, it’s not a plot twist to find out that one of my better life goals is to make a living by writing. It should also not be a shocker to know that it’s very difficult and uncommon to make a living by writing. But if I want to even have a shot at achieving that dream, then I need to make my writing a priority.

This isn’t to say that writing isn’t and hasn’t been important to me. But since my terrible bout of writer’s struggle I’ve found that I got into the habit of prioritizing other things over writing because when I was struggling everything else was easier. “Let me just get this done first…” “This needs to be done now because…” Those sort of excuses can’t fly anymore. I need to subscribe to the idea that any writing is better than no writing at all and that sneaking in those words every day is the only way I’m going to get anything done.

I’ve also gotten so used to not submitting anything I write, keeping it either for Patreon purposes or for other undefined reasons outside of the occasional contest entry. I’m out of touch with the writing world (not that I was really that in-touch with it before). If I’m going to make a living, even a small one, off of writing, then I need to reconnect with that world.

So, I shift writing to the second spot on my priority list, right after myself.

Now what happens?

Everything else shifts itself around, hopefully landing in better positions, maybe some things falling off the priority list entirely.

And hopefully with this priority shift, my best life will emerge.

20 Tracks

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

A few weeks ago there was an engagement post on the hellsite once known as Twitter asking folks to make a twenty song compilation of their all-time favorite songs. Not necessarily the best ones, but the ones you love, the ones that give people a glimpse into what moves you. The only hitch is that you couldn’t repeat an artist.

Naturally, I decided to take this prompt and turn it into a blog post with the added rule that I couldn’t list any of the Monkees solo work (otherwise this list would be a quarter Monkees tunes) and since this is my blog post, I decided to add a little note about each song I picked.

This was not easy. As a long-time music enjoyer, this was incredibly difficult and I could easily do another twenty songs (and probably another twenty after that). And I just might. But for now, here is my initial twenty song compilation. You’ll find nothing groundbreaking here. I’m pretty dull, actually. However, I fully encourage you to check these songs out on whatever music-acquiring service you prefer. After all, I do love them for a reason.

  1. Sunny Girlfriend– The Monkees- This is my go-to answer for my favorite song ever. I love it. It jives with my soul. There’s also an acoustic version that I love.
  2. This Can’t Be Love– Julie London- I discovered the music of Julie London thanks to Emergency! and I’ve been blessed ever since. I have so many favorites of hers, but this one just gets me.
  3. The Three Bears– Bobby Troup- I can’t include Julie London on this list and not include her husband. I love this song because it’s literally just a jazz version of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears”. It’s fabulous.
  4. Flirtin’ With Disaster– Molly Hatchet- My dad’s influence on my musical tastes involve a lot of country and southern rock. This one holds a special place in my heart because that Molly Hatchet tape spent a lot of time in the cassette player in Dad’s car.
  5. Pink– Aerosmith- This would be my mother’s influence on my musical tastes. Toys in the Attic was one repeat in Mom’s car, but this cheeky number is a favorite of mine.
  6. Superfreak– Brucey Hornsby, Ricky Skaggs, and John Anderson- I have a major affinity for random covers. I have a whole playlist dedicated to covers and mash-ups. This is my all-time favorite. It’s a bluegrass-y version of the Rick James classic. It shouldn’t work, but it does.
  7. Beautiful Face– Paula Fuga- I am one of those people that will hunt down a song if I hear it on a TV show and I really dig it. I heard this one on an episode of the 2018 Magnum PI. It’s got a sultry, Julie London vibe that I love. I will own much of Paula Fuga’s music before I’m done.
  8. Werewolves of London– Warren Zevon- Do I need to be cheered up? Then I’m going to howl along with this song. My mood cannot stay foul when I’m singing about ripping your lungs out, Jim.
  9. Let’s Go Together– Circe Link- Circe Link is a Monkees daughter-in-law and three Monkees sons also participated in the track, but this doesn’t violate my Monkees rule. It’s the upbeat tune and the jaunty clarinet combined with the lyrics about plotting to unalive oneself that just sends me, especially as a person who has struggled with this exact thing.
  10. The Seven Deadly Sins– Flogging Molly- A hundred years ago, one of my friends sent me several burned CDs of music she thought I might like. She was right. I liked all of it. But Flogging Molly was the band I liked best out of the bunch. I can’t listen to their music without thinking of her. Thanks, Gin.
  11. Pump It Up– Elvis Costello- I have no idea how I came across this jam, but it’s another one of those instant mood lifter songs. It’s a must dance.
  12. Sin Wagon– The Chicks- There should be more country on this list because I actually do listen to a lot of it, particularly from the ’90s. But I have spent a lot of time scream-singing this song, and if you didn’t know you could do that with a country song, yes…yes, you can.
  13. Dragula– Rob Zombie- Dig through the ditches, burn through the witches, slam in the back of my dragula is my live, laugh, love.
  14. I Wanna Dance with Somebody– Whitney Houston- The video plays in my head whenever this bop comes on. It’s my favorite Whitney song. I don’t care if that’s the wrong answer. It’s true.
  15. On the Hunt– Lynard Skynard- I’ve listened to a lot of Skynard (thanks, Dad), but I actually didn’t come across this one until I heard it on an episode of CSI: Miami. There’s something about their music that I just really like and this song is a groove.
  16. Soldier of Love– Pearl Jam- I was only going to put one cover on my list, but the truth is I like every cover that Eddie Vedder does. I actually bought this CD single for the A side “Last Kiss” (which is also a cover), but I ended up liking this one more.
  17. She Bop– Cyndi Lauper- Of all of the songs about masturbation, this one is my favorite.
  18. Unskinny Bop– Poison- I chose this song to represent all of the hairbands I jammed to back in the day. Because little ’80s me jammed to them all.
  19. Wannabe– Spice Girls- I love this song unironically. It’s my go-to warm-up jam for workouts. It puts a little attitude in a my step.
  20. Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground– Willie Nelson- There’s just something about his voice and those lyrics that give me shivers. If I’m in the right mood, this song can make me cry and that’s not a bad thing.


I Went on an Adventure All By Myself

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’d been thinking about taking a trip for over a year. Because that’s what I do. I think about doing things for a long time before I finally snap and actually do them. I mean, my tattoo cover-up was like a decade in the making.

A combination of things pushed me over the edge and prompted me to whip out my credit card. A hectic Summer Reading program at work; the months long video project I did for my library program Deadly DeWitt; and finally, a derecho leaving us without power for over three days. When the power came back on, I was researching places to go. And I decided I was going alone. I needed a trip that was just for myself.

I admit that my first choice was San Diego. I wanted to go out west and I wanted to see some water. Besides that I didn’t have an agenda. However, I couldn’t quite make myself book that trip. The flight alone was more than I wanted to spend, but that’s because I fly first class. Not because I’m snobby, but because I’m fat. Economy/coach on the four hour flight from Chicago to Seattle taught me that my ass is worth a little extra seat and a little extra leg room.

Speaking of that Seattle flight, it’s the longest I’ve ever been on a plane and at the time I did that trip almost seven years ago that was pushing it. I decided that I’d be better off looking for something a little closer, at least for this trip. San Diego one day.

I pretty much just went through a series of potential destinations that would be easiest to fly from via the closest airport and Charleston, South Carolina ended up winning out. It was affordable, the flights were doable, and it satisfied at least something I was looking for -water to look at. It was a new place in a state that I hadn’t been to yet. Sounded good to me.

I booked it. I was going on an adventure.

Here’s the thing. I’m not very good at being an adventurous person. You could say my untreated anxiety makes every day an adventure. And I somehow forget that when I make these sorts of plans. In July, it all seems reasonable and doable.

In September, I question what I’ve done.

First of all, when it comes to traveling, there’s the packing. I’m not gifted at this. I can never decide what to wear and what to take, what I think I’ll want to have with me. I always end up taking too much. I have no chill.

Second of all, when it comes to traveling, there’s the traveling. I would benefit greatly from teleportation because I am also not gifted at traveling. I’ve flow on five trips in my life, including Charleston. Two of those trips were pre-9/11. Of the three post-9/11 trips, I had my bag searched when I went to Seattle and I got a pat down as my toll for Charleston. Both of these incidents happened at my local airport. I think my anxiety regarding TSA has been justified.

But I also have anxiety about getting my carry on in the bin, crowding any potential seatmate with my width, peeing on the plane (I will push my bladder to the limit if it means I don’t have to squeeze myself into that flying port-o-john). Actually, I think the only thing that doesn’t give me anxiety about flying is the actual flying. I like it just fine. The turbulence doesn’t even bother me (though I haven’t experienced really bad turbulence yet). I just wish I didn’t have to do it with all of those other people.

Which isn’t entirely fair because I’ve encountered many kind and helpful people on my flights, including to Charleston. One lady was kind enough to let me get my carry on ahead of her and another gentleman was kind enough to both put my carry on in the bin for me and take it out after we landed.

The trip to Charleston involved a three plus hour layover in Atlanta. But since the trip also involved me getting up at 3am to make a 6am flight, I was too tired to really enjoy it. And by enjoy it, I mean have the energy and appetite to find something more than pretzels and a Coke for brunch.

Once I got to Charleston, Mr. Larry and his taxi saw me safely to the hotel. When I got to my room, I took a moment to appreciate that I was on my own. Which is I wanted. I just didn’t realize that my exhaustion would cause a profound sense of loneliness and homesickness after only hours of being away from home. Thankfully, that passed after I got settled in and got something to eat.

I wanted this to be a trip for myself. I wanted to go to Charleston just because and I wanted to do whatever I wanted to do. I didn’t want an agenda or itinerary. I didn’t want to go souvenir hunting in an effort to bring something back for a list of people because I felt like I owed them a token of my travels. I just wanted to go and experience something new, even if that meant I spent the whole time in the hotel writing and eating room service.

Of course, I didn’t want to do that. One thing I did want to do was see the water and I discovered that the Joe Riley Waterfront Park not only provided that experience, but it also came with a bonus pineapple fountain. I have a strange affinity for pineapples. I like them more as an aesthetic than a food. I decided that the only thing I would do on this trip was eat and see the pineapple fountain.

Which doesn’t sound like a big deal until you factor in the aforementioned unmedicated anxiety. Then it can be something of a challenge. And while I did spend the night before fretting about making my pineapple dreams come true, I woke up the next morning ready to go. Once I achieved my goal of securing breakfast at a place down the street, I set about attempting to get over to the park.

I thought I was going to use the local free public transit option. However, I was thwarted by the trolley bus not showing up at the stop I was at even though the app said it would. Whatever. I’m not taking it personally. The Universe didn’t leave me hanging, though, because just down the block was a congregation of bike taxis. So, I inquired how much it would cost to get me over to the pineapple fountain. Mike informed me that it was $12 for 10 minutes, but he could give me an unofficial 30 minute tour that would take me there for $36. Hell, yeah. Let’s go, Mike.

It was a great ride. I saw the College of Charleston, some other historical buildings and houses, Rainbow Row, the Battery, all with facts and trivia, and finally, he dropped me off at Joe Riley Waterfront Park right by the pineapple fountain I sought. He also gave me a card so I could arrange for another bike taxi ride later if I wanted. Mike gave me a bonus adventure, a side quest if you will, that I didn’t even realize was possible.

Unfortunately, the temperature was in the lower 90s, putting the heat index over 100, and by the time I got to the fountain, I was already a little overheated. I ended up doing a quick picture session at the pineapple fountain followed by a walk down the pier for another few pictures before I decided I needed to get out of the heat.

I once again attempted to employ the use of public transport back to the hotel, but by the time I got back to where I thought a stop might be (I was wrong) I was so miserable I instead decided to find a place I could sit in some air conditioning and maybe grab some water and a bite to eat. I ended up at the same breakfast place I’d eaten at that morning, only on a different street. So, I got myself a crab cake sandwich that was fabulous, and both the host and the waiter were wise to my overheated condition and kept the water coming.

Once I finished my lunch, I got some water to go and called for a bike taxi back to the hotel. I didn’t get my new taxi guy’s name, but he was lovely, too. Seriously. If you’re in Charleston, get a bike taxi at least once. You won’t regret it. If you do regret it, I never said a thing.

Aside from the heat, the only other drawback to my unexpected big adventure was that I caught a little too much sun. I ended up a little bit red for my fun.

My last full day in Charleston was relaxation day. Meaning, I spent most of my time in my hotel room, lounging, writing, reading, and generally trying to prepare myself for the flight home the next day. But no worries. I still ate well. I hit up the hotel’s complimentary breakfast bar, and then ordered in from a place around the corner: chicken and waffles for lunch and a shrimp po’ boy for dinner. One last indulgence before I packed it up to head for home.

Did I still manage to have anxiety about just about everything I did on relaxation day? Yes. My anxiety has little to no chill. But it was also preparing me for the trip home. Because as we’ve seen, my flying anxiety is justified.

Despite the raging anxiety I woke up with, my travel home was pretty smooth. I was sure to give myself plenty of time to get ready and eat something and pack and drink my final cup of terrible hotel coffee (I’m sorry, but whatever kind it was they had in the room was not good) and check out before my taxi arrived so I wouldn’t feel rushed and overwhelmed. Mr. Jerome gave me a safe and quick ride to the airport where I breezed through security (I swear to the airline gods it’s only my local one that fucks with me) and even had time to purchase a souvenir for myself for the flight home. I was once again blessed with very cool and helpful fellow passengers. I hear horror stories about nightmare passengers and I am so grateful that I’ve been blessed with only the best from the very first flight I ever took. Once again, glory to the airline gods.

This is the first trip I’ve taken in a very long time (and I take my trips very far apart, so) that I came home actually feeling refreshed and in a great mood. This is the best I’ve felt in months. This trip was better for me than I could have ever hoped. It was exactly what I needed when I needed it.

I also learned something very important on this trip. If I can do a whole incredible adventure in another state, then I can do whole incredible adventures at home, too. I have proven to myself that I can do this, that anxiety doesn’t always have to get the best of me, and that I have ways of working through it.

Most importantly, I learned that I deserve to do things for myself that are just for me with no expectations or obligations to anyone else.

I deserve to have adventures of my own.

You Underestimate My Ability To Be a Disaster

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I was what you might call a gifted child when I was younger. I was smart by school standards. Got good grades. Learning and understanding lessons and studying came pretty easy for me (except for math; that came with more frustration, but I still ended up being pretty good at it). I ended up getting to do a couple of summers of gifted summer school when I was in grade school and in junior high, I was invited to a gifted science camp for a week (where I spent most of it sick thanks to one of the girls I bunked with). I took Honors English in high school and my algebra teacher wanted me in his advanced class, but my parents, who’d tapped out of helping me with my math homework when I was in sixth grade, wisely decided against this. I probably would have thrown my book through the closet door in one of my fits of frustration due to not being able to instantly understand how a math problem worked.

That was another thing. I felt like (and still do feel like) I should know how to do everything. I should automatically know how to do something. When I was three, my mother founding me crying in the closet with this big ol’ adult book on my lap, mad because I couldn’t read it. In my tiny little head, I thought that I should have just known how to do that. I learned to read and write shortly after that, which started a trend of me learning things quickly and sometimes, learning things on my own. It seemed like you didn’t have to teach me anything because I already knew or I would just figure it out.

As it turns out, this is not a great life plan.

Because I was “gifted” in the academic sense, it was just sort of assumed that I knew what I was doing or that I would figure it out in the rest of my life. Nobody needed to guide me into adulthood. After all, I’d been an “old soul” my whole life.

So, here’s the thing.

As it turns out, in my case, doing well academically doesn’t necessarily translate to being smart in life.

Believe me when I say that you underestimate my ability to be a disaster.

I realize the confusion about this because I’m very good at presenting the illusion that I know what I’m doing. I’ve always been very good in my day jobs because I’m very good at learning things and completing tasks and meeting deadlines and knowing my shit. And when it comes to my creative work, again, it’s a matter of learning new things, completing tasks, and meeting deadlines.

But.

Left to my own devices when it comes to being a functioning adult, I have a tendency to wander into traffic and narrowly avoid being flattened by semis. I have a gift for making questionable life choices that typically do not turn out well, but not so badly that it totally fucks shit up. They’re just bad enough that the people in my immediate vicinity might question why someone thought to be so smart is doing something so less-than-smart.

Which is another funny thing. Either people are so convinced of my intelligence that they just figure I have a plan and those questionable decisions are just part of that and/or it’s not my bad decision-making that created this disaster, it’s just that this choice didn’t work out/was something else’s fault/bad luck.

Or, it’s just so awkward that someone once perceived as gifted is making such bad life choices and they don’t want to say anything.

Probably the latter.