Rise & Fall

Yesterday was a day to rise above it all. Both literally and figuratively.

I have been wanting to hike Multnomah Falls for a while now, and never got off my ass and did it. So yesterday, being one of the biggest weekends for families to go out and get in my way, I decided to finally do it.

I crafted a playlist for the drive out, singing loudly and mostly in tune along to Lady Gaga and Kelis, among others, and found the exit to the falls was closed due to the parking lot being full. It had never occurred to me that a park would be closed because it was overfull.

With a sigh, I decided to keep going. I figured I might find someplace else to go, maybe a kitschy restaurant to sit and write or something. Eventually, I realized that there would be nothing between me and the Dalles, so I turned around and headed back home. Passing the falls again, I saw that there was no closure on the exit. I pulled off the highway and parked immediately. Things were looking up!

I strapped my backpack on (just like my walks home) and headed up. There were tons of people up through the first bridge where all the oldies, invalids, and too-small children go. Then the actual hike to the top.

Eleven switchbacks. It was tough. I get winded each day on my walk home ascending the bridge to cross the river. I don't slow down or anything, but I do get winded. That's nothing compared to this one-and-a-quarter mile hike up a steep slope. I made the first four switchbacks just fine before I had to rest a moment and let my heart rate slow back down to normal human speeds. With just a couple more rests, I made it all the way to the top. I looked out over the observation balcony, I got down to the actual stream bed and wet my hands, I even did a couple yoga stretches to ease my legs.

Then I decided to see where the other path leads to. Apparently, it goes into the mountains fora few miles of hiking loops. I trooped along, higher and higher, seeing less and less casual day-hikers and more and more people with camel-backs and walking sticks. It was beautiful!

I found this spot that was perfect to stop and rest. It was about twenty feet down from the main path, with a rock that stood out from cliff face and was large and flat enough to sit upon. Settling myself on it, all I could see was the ground falling away and trees rising hundreds of feet above me.

I sat, thinking about what I'd accomplished. I had never hiked that far. I hadn't even realized there was a "that far" to hike, but something kept pulling me farther onward. I was so high above everyone and everything. There was also something about knowing next time I could go even farther, go even higher if I wanted.

It was a clear euphemism. I had achieved a great deal that afternoon. There was more I could do if I wanted, but it was important to recognize that I couldn't scale the entire mountain in a single day. I've worked on a lot of my issues, and I get frustrated that I can't just fix them all and make them go away. But it's important to stop, to realize that I've already achieved so much in my recovery, and that I can't do it all in one day.

Sometimes I've got to just sit down, breathe, and admire where I have gotten myself to. Right here, right now, is still pretty awesome.

Hot Snot

How is it that someone can be incredibly beautiful and entirely unattractive?

Sitting here after finishing breakfast at the local dive, in walks a gorgeous young man, maybe twenty-five years old, sun bronzed-and-blonded with a tight T-shirt and an easy smile, snorting methodically to clear some blockage in his nasal cavity that apparently isn't worth a simple tissue.

Clearly he's a beautiful man, and just as clearly, he would be the first to tell you this. Well, maybe that's not fair. I don't really know if what he thinks about himself, beyond the messages he's sending by his manner of dress and how he's communicating to his party. But something about him just turns me off.

I wonder if it's jealousy? I've never felt like a head-turner in my life. While people have certainly told me I'm good looking, I've never really believed them, and usually have to prevent myself from correcting their mistaken observation. I've wondered, though, what must it be like to be beautiful. Not just good-looking, but beautiful. what must it be like to walk in to a room and know that the people are all staring at you not because your fly is down or they can't believe you think you're pulling off that haircut, but because you're so damn hot.

I was just talking with co-worker friends about a knockout named Eddie who works with us. when I see Eddie my first thought is always just "Damn..." My second is usually something like "He must get a ton of pussy!" My third then tends to be along the lines of "Shit, he saw me staring at him again." But what must that feel like?

I imagine the reality is far more mundane than the fantasy. I'm sure it's not strolling through the world like a pageant queen just waving at the adulation, or living like a mad king who points into a crowd declaring "I shall have that one, and that one, too." (Which I firmly believe Eddie can and has done). I'm sure there's all sorts of actual work that goes along with that, with the exercising and clothing expense and all. But the payoff seems like such a worthwhile goal that it makes me wish I could have it, too.

Which brings me back to jealousy. Am I jealous because I could really have all that if I put forth the effort? I'm fairly certain my body is built to carry lots of fantastic muscle, that my bone structure is pleasing to the majority of the community, that I have enough taste and spirit to cultivate an attractive style. But I haven't. Am I jealous of the ones who have? Is their achievement the bamboo under the fingernails constantly reminding me of what I could have had but just didn't try for?

Of course, I know the answer is to try. If I want the result, go through the process. If I want a lean body, I have to eat differently, move more. But sometimes I just want to sit back, eat a gravy-encrusted omelet and sneer at the pretty boy snorting his way through his morning because his flaw gives me something distracting to despise.

That puts me in a position I'm not fond of. I never liked when people would tear someone else down to make themselves feel better. It's a cop-out. If you can't love yourself, at least bring everyone else down to you so you're not alone at the bottom. It's even less awesome to find I do it, too.

So, Pretty-Boy with the nose issue: I'm sorry I focused on your weird flaw, instead of acknowledging the fact that you turned my head. You're hot. You deserve the attention without the negatives, because you've worked to earn it. Keep up the good work, because it's nice to stare at hot guys on a Sunday morning after breakfast at a dive restaurant. And if you want to point at me a declare "I shall have that one," I'm just fine with that. I'll bring the tissues.

Just a Little...

I saw the most romantic thing this evening.

I was sitting in a group of people, and everyone was talking and sharing. I happened to be next to a woman and her husband. They both had their legs crossed, in toward each other, I’m sure unconsciously. At one point, she kind of reached her foot, just a little, and sorta nudged his foot. He, ever so slightly, turned his foot in to meet her.

It was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. It was so unobtrusive, so minute. I’m sure no one in the room noticed but me, and even sitting next to them I only saw it because I happened to be staring at the floor. I felt a little voyeuristic, even though it was just a little nothing contact. It struck me as such a private little moment between the two of them that spoke so loudly of their affection for one another, more so because I don’t think they realized they even had done it.

It actually made me cry. Just a little.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my own romantic future, and wondering what form it may take, trying to keep from having any expectations but still hope for good things. This moment, this tiny little nothing, is without a doubt the most perfect example of everything I hope for. It can take as long as it takes, but someday, I know I’m going to be sitting in some public place, and I’ll reach my foot and nudge my partner, and he’ll nudge me back.

Just a little.

And I’ll smile.

32 Flavors...And Then Some

Epiphanies are great, aren’t they?

I’m sitting in Starbucks® writing something, and looking at all the attractive men around me. Part of me was thinking how pretty they all were, in such wildly different ways. Cute coffee queens with baby-faces and 9% body fat, crunchy guys in Columbia Sportswear jackets and Buddy Holly glasses, sexy hipsters clinging codependently to their girlfriends… So many flavors of guys, and all hot in their own ways.

And as nice as it would be to be dating someone, I’ve got other things to focus on.

It would be nice to get to the gym once in a while (more than zero times a week, at least). I have goals that I want to achieve, and NOT going is a great way to NOT achieve them.

I also want to get a little into my Recovery, learn a few lessons so as not to make horrible choices yet again. I want to face a few of my man-related demons before finding new ones, you know?

There are a million other reasons why I’m not in a place to be looking for a guy. I couldn’t really imagine any of these hot guys finding me attractive anyway, despite doing the eye flirt thing with this tall drink of water who tried unsuccessfully to establish MORE eye contact with me.

And all of a sudden it came together. If all these guys are attractive in their own ways, why am I not allowed to be one of those many attractive flavors?

And like a soap bubble bursting, I felt free. All of a sudden, I GET IT. I understand that I don’t need to be perfect. I don’t need to fit into ANY mold of “attractive man.” All I need to do is be, truly, myself. The right guys will be attracted to me. And many, many of them, I will be attracted to in return.

I don’t have to go to the gym to be attractive. I don’t have to be emotionally perfect to be attractive. I don’t have to be ANYTHING other than willing to be honest with myself, not self-deprecating, not falsely modest or deceptively confident.

Relax, for gods sake. It’s supposed to be fun.

And I’m actually beginning to believe it really could be.

Can I Put Up a Lost Dragon Poster?

I got the best compliment yesterday.

About a year and a half ago I started running a D&D campaign. Yes, Dungeons & Dragons, ye old staple of nerd-burgers and geekazoids (sorry, “Saved By The Bell” flashback). I’ve played for years, and had always wanted to run a game myself. It took time, guts, and planning, but I finally bit the bullet and assembled a game.

Yesterday was the latest game, where the players finally completed navigating their way through a huge compound that took three sessions and the entire floor space of the living room. There, the players finally learned at least part of the answer to a question from the beginning of the game 18 months earlier. They had found a journal detailing many things, including who had kidnapped them and why.

I try to put my players in to their characters headspace as much as possible, by keeping information from them, creating misleading signs, and scene setting as much as possible. It seems to be working. I was chatting with one of my players, himself a DM as well, about different DMing styles.

“Your game is like ‘Lost.’” he says.

I took it in and continued on with the conversation, but it stuck there, wedged in my brain, for a day. Percolating. I was in the shower this evening when the full meaning of that really struck me.

I love “Lost.” It’s brilliant, it’s captivating, and they’re very good at parceling out just enough information to keep you interested and still questioning. It’s the kind of thing I’ve been trying to do without realizing I’ve been trying to do it. And apparently succeeding at.

I’m doing a good job, it seems, at creating mystery within my game, at teasing enough secrets to keep them coming back for more. It’s a great trust players put in their DM to take them on an enjoyable ride. And if my game is like “Lost,” I think I’ve earned that trust.

And that’s the best compliment I could get.