I’m all about lists. Quite frankly, it’s not a stretch to say I need them to function. Whether I have some undiagnosed distractibility issue, or I’m just hopelessly forgetful, who knows. The fact of the matter is, if my grocery store trip is for more than two items, yes the single digit number TWO, I require a list. Something mysterious happens when I walk through those sliding doors. I can be reciting said two items over and over in my head and the second I pass through that magical plane, poof. Gone. Why am I here?? My man-friend even pointed out that I get the same staples (avocados, onions, salmon, wine, coconut milk, coffee, and eggs) every stinking time I go, and surely I could get all those without a list. Uh, no. And while I’m at it, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that my grocery list is in order. Not alphabetical, silly, what would be the point of that? No. In order of the store, aisle by aisle. And god help me if something on the list is out of place, because I shit you not, I will go home without it.
So yeah, lists are essential to my life. And I come by it honestly. My mother was not only Queen of the Casserole, she was one helluva list maker. She had lists of her lists. She used to spend her winters in the Virgin Islands, leaving in December, returning late February. I caught her once, not a week after she’d returned, making her list for the next trip, nine months away. I teased her relentlessly. And now, twenty humbling years later, I totally get it (along with everything else I used to make fun of her for). Duh. That’s when it’s all fresh. Of course it was time to make a list. Mind you, the trick for me would be keeping track of the list for nine months, but that’s another issue.
I make to-do lists too, no surprise there I’m sure. And I get great satisfaction at crossing things off. So much so that I’ve been known to scribble a task onto my list after I’ve done it, just for the sheer joy of putting a big ol’ line through it. Yep. I’m a dork.
My phone is a veritable file cabinet full of lists. There’s the list of movies I want to watch, birthday and Christmas lists for my boys, my totally unsafe list of passwords, the list of things to take with me next time I set out on a five-mile hike in the middle of the night, Home Depot lists, and packing lists for trips long past (quite handy when one decides to jet out on a spontaneous road trip, because, you know, I might just forget those same ten things I take with me every dadgum time).
I’ve been known to make lists of my accomplishments, particularly those as a mother, if for no other reason than to assure myself I didn’t totally screw up my children. And I wouldn’t be worth my salt as a list maker if I didn’t have a bazillion ongoing lists of my dreams, goals, and intentions. But today I’m going to start a new list. Recently I cracked open my copy of If I Had My Life to Live Over I Would Pick More Daisies, a collection of poems and short stories edited by Sandra Haldeman Martz. I was searching for a specific quote at the time, but found myself re-reading the regrets and longings of older women as they reflected back on how they’d lived, or not lived, their lives. The average life expectancy for a white woman in the US is around 81. I’m 43: over half way to the finish line, if I’m lucky. Y’all, as beautiful as the stories are, I don’t want to end up like that, lamenting all the things I didn’t do. I want to look back and say, holy shit, what a life!
Houston, we have a problem. Enter insecurity, my nemesis. There a so many things I want to do that I talk myself out of on a daily basis. And it all boils down to fear: fear of the unknown, fear of looking stupid, fear of being judged, fear of failing, fear of succeeding, fear of putting in the effort. I see other women doing all these bad-ass things, and for a moment I imagine myself doing them too, and then out of nowhere comes this voice. You’re too weak, too old, too poor, too uneducated, flat out too scared. And just like that, doubt barges in and I lose faith in my self. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done some pretty bad-ass stuff in my life, but more often than not it took ridiculous amounts of negative self-talk before I could work up the courage to take the leap.
In 2008 I opened my own nursery, plants not children. It took me months to work up the nerve to do it. Who the hell was I to run a nursery? I didn’t (and still don’t) have a degree; all of my plant knowledge was self-taught and I was far from an expert. Yet I persisted. The week before I was set to open I realized I needed a sign. I went to the local sign maker and was immediately panicked and speechless when he asked me basic questions such as: How big? What should it say? Hours? Embarrassed, I left with my tail between my legs and said I’d get back to him. That night I had the strangest dream. I was at a party, nervously mingling. And I was topless. No one but me really seemed to notice, but I spent the evening very unsuccessfully trying to cover my bare, exposed chest. I’m no dream analyst, but shortly after I woke it was pretty dang clear I was scared shitless (ahem, topless) to announce to the world that I was taking a risk, putting myself out there, exposing myself. Vulnerability at its best, or worst. That afternoon I laid my nightmare to rest and went back to the sign maker. A few days later I hung my new sign for “Bloom” and without looking back ran a successful business for six years.
Then there was my trip to Panama in 2011 with my friend Collin. I told him I wanted to surf. I wasn’t a total novice. I had surfed before, about once a year for roughly seven years in the choppy Gulf of Mexico, if you can consider that surfing. But that little taste, all in all amounting to no more than half an hour actually riding waves, had me craving more. On my first day there, in gorgeous Playa Venao, I took a quick refresher course and rented a giant, foamy, blue surfboard I affectionately named my Smurfboard.
For the first couple days Collin patiently steadied my board and pushed me into wave after wave. Sometimes I stood; most of the time I crashed. Usually twice a day he’d leave me to recuperate while he went and surfed with the big kids. I’d watch enviously from the beach. On the fourth and final day I desperately wanted to go out on my own. Collin was catching waves at the far end of the bay and would be occupied for a couple hours. I sat in our room paralyzed with fear. I remember writing in my journal, berating myself for being a stupid, scared girl. Tears flowed. After about an hour I somehow mustered the courage to change into my suit and carry my behemoth Smurfboard down to the beach. And there I stopped. Crippled by my insecurities I sat on the shore for yet another hour and cried. I can’t even really name what I was afraid of, but my biggest, and only legitimate, fear was getting hurt and being alone. But it was about as safe as any place could be to surf. The waves were docile and the sand underneath was clear of any rocks or reef, basically the kiddie pool compared to where Collin was. There was one other person surfing on this side, so if I did knock myself out with my board and drown maybe he’d at least witness it. I honestly don’t know what ultimately gave me the courage to go do it, but after watching him try and fail over and over I finally realized I couldn’t do much worse. That, and the thought of going home the next day without having tried was at last too much to bear. So I hoisted that giant-ass blue Smurfboard, paddled through the waves, and waited. There were a few crash and burns, and then all alone, with no witnesses but the birds and the fish, I caught a wave and I surfed. Pure joy, I tell you.
But here’s the kicker. I haven’t been surfing since. And I’ve got a whole host of excuses now. I’m out of shape. I don’t know the right time to go. The beach is 3.5 hours away. I don’t want to be a kook. I’m way too intimidated to just show up in Port A and rent a board, much less attempt to use it. Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Woman, enough already! What the hell are you waiting for?
Which brings me back to my list. Call it a bucket list if you must; for me it’s more of a no regrets list. So, without further adieu and excuses, here’s my list of all the things I’m dying, hmmm, not a good word choice, yearning to do, most of which scare the ever-loving-shit out of me in one way or another, in no particular order. And as much as it pains me, I’m not gonna cheat and start with a bunch of stuff I’ve already done just so I can check it off. I promise.
Pick the Damn Daisies
- Learn to ride a motorcycle. As sexy as it is to hold onto your man while riding on the back of his bike, I think it’s sexy AF to see a woman riding her own. Some pretty legit fears here, safety and all. But you know, driving a car is right on up there in the danger zone.
- Continue surfing. Get to the point that I could drive to the beach, rent a board, find a sweet spot, paddle out, not make a scene or get in the way, and catch my own waves.
- Learn to paddleboard. No, I’m not gonna look as hot out there as all the younger, cuter, fitter women, but it looks damn fun and dagnabbit I want to try it.
- Backpack alone. It’s been my dream for 23 years to thru hike the Appalachian Trail; however, life and kids have put it on hold. I’m no longer dead set on the AT, but I know for sure I want to start soon with some shorter excursions and work my way up to something grand like the AT or PCT.
- Ride my bike. Silly, I know. Such a basic thing, but even just that seems daunting some days.
- Learn Spanish. These two simple words have shown up in every list of goals I’ve ever made. And still my grasp of the language is basic at best. The only real fear involved here is the fear of putting in the effort necessary. Doing the time and making it a priority.
- Host another women’s retreat. Eight or so years ago I organized, planned, and facilitated a small women’s retreat on the beach. It was wonderfully received and since then I’ve come up with a dozen or so absurd justifications not to do it again.
- Dance more. It seems crazy that this even makes the list. Just a couple years ago I didn’t think twice about driving to the city by myself to cut a rug for hours on end. I’m rolling my eyes just thinking of the pathetic excuses I’ve made lately for not slipping on a pair of boots and venturing out.
- Take singing lessons. Even if it’s just to be told, “yeah, stick to the shower and car.” Because the flip side of that is, holy hell, what if I could be good at it??
- Floss regularly. As in, at least every other day, not like once a month kind of regularly, ahem. Not a particularly fun one, but one that I will certainly regret if I don’t make it a habit. No fear happening here. Just laziness. In fact, fear should actually be the single motivating factor: fear of the dentist.
By no means is this an all-inclusive list, but definitely a good start, lest I get entirely too daunted from the get go. Consider it a work in progress. I’ll report back when it’s time to check one off. In the meantime I’ll be framing this somewhere:
