And you may find yourself…in another part of the world

It’s been a while since I have written anything. In the time that has transpired from my last post, I chose a dental school and moved out of my home in Washington, DC to go back to Idaho. It truly is another part of the world.


Some stark comparisons would lead you to believe that one of these places is better than the other, but on the whole, I feel relatively calm about the move so far. I am chalking this up to an obscene consumption of oxycodone—not for fun, but because I BROKE MY FREAKING LEG.


It’s kind of an interesting story.


You see, I’ve been obsessed with surfing ever since I left Hawaii nine months ago. Most people, if they sit down and really consider all that they think about, will find that they only actually think about 5-10 things over and over and over. (Seriously, try to list them.) I’ve got about 7, and one of my seven things was surfing.


However, having chosen a dental school in the middle of Nebraska (in-state tuition $$), I have been trying to come to terms with the fact that I will not live near enough to an ocean to surf for at least the next 4 years. I began to consider what I could possibly do on land, and naturally, I decided to become a skater. It made so much sense I was confused as to why I hadn’t started to skateboard before. For one, it’s common knowledge that skateboarding is the dirty little land-grom of surfing. (What’s a grom, you ask? You must surf as much as I do.)


Most importantly, though, it fit perfectly with this “self empowerment” trip I have been on for the past year and a half (aka the Longest Time Anyone Has Ever Been Single In Their Twenties). I have always been attracted to skater dudes. I’m not sure if it’s the music they like, their athleticism, their laid-back attitude, or their childlike ability to drop and smoke a blunt at a moment’s notice, but I can’t get enough of them. (In fact, I blame my current dry spell on the fact that the skater population of DC is remarkably close to zero. I’m not kidding. There’s like, one skate shop in the whole goddamn city. I looked.)


Insider Tip: If you ever meet anyone who obsesses about the strength of their eye-drops, you have likely met a skater/stoner. There is this weird eye-drop subculture—the stronger, the better. People will pay money to get that shit shipped to them from Japan. If anyone asks you if you want some of their eye-drops, and you’re not into that kind of thing, run for the hills. Unless you’re me, then you’ll go, heeell yeah!


But I digress. I figured, if I don’t have my own skater man, I will BECOME a skater man! Duh! Fast-forward two weeks and I am the proud owner of an adorable multicolor pastel Penny fade 22” skateboard. Not so manly, but super skate-y.


Disclaimer: What you are about to read is graphic and might make you feel sick if you haven’t eaten anything yet today. I recommend you go eat something. Really though, what’s wrong with you? You’ll still look good on the beach. Honestly, why can’t you just love your body the way it is?


A week later and I found myself at the height of euphoria in the middle of a cornfield. I had taken my Penny fade out for its morning skate near my grandparent’s lakehouse in Minnesota, and I was having the literal TIME OF MY LIFE. The sun was shining, the corn was hustling (rustling? I’ve spent too much time in the city), and the birds were singing like I was mother-flipping Snow White. I actually thought to myself, “I am surfing in a corn field!” I was about to widen my arms like I was on the bow of the Titanic when it was as if somebody placed a banana peel under my foot. The board slipped.


Usually, I am agile like a cat, with the strength and flexibility of a ninja, so the idea that I could break a bone is simply laughable. However, at this current moment in time, I was nursing a gash in my elbow that required 8 stitches (acquired by heaving myself over a rusty fence, soaking wet, wearing nothing but a black bra one size too small and an unraveling nude thong. This is a story for another time). I hadn’t worn ace wrap around it, or a bra for that matter, because I felt that morning that I generally ‘needed some air’. Afraid I was going to re-open my wound, I decided in the heat of the banana-peel-moment that I was going to land, with ease, like a crab, and crab-crawl myself to victory. What ensued was some crawling, alright.


I heard a pop before I saw it. I looked down and my adorable yellow and flower-patterned Nike SB was totally facing the wrong way. It looked like I had acquired another joint. While I am usually totally into excess of all kinds (don’t hate, everyone has a growth area), excess of joints is something that I do not enjoy. Especially when you acquire a joint a quarter mile from your home, alone, without a cell phone, your tits and foot flapping in the breeze.


There was nothing I could do. If a woman in her mid-20’s falls in a cornfield, and nobody hears her screaming bloody murder, does she still fall? The answer is yes, you moron. Of course it’s yes.


I was left with no choice but to hop, floppy tits, ankle and all, for what seemed like the longest 5 minutes of my life until I reached my cabin, where my brother came sleepily onto the porch, looked at my ankle, chuckled, and said, “Give me ten minutes—I have to go find my socks.” (He didn’t actually say that. But he did look for his socks for what felt like ten minutes, and honestly, who takes time to look for socks when their only older sibling is on the precipice of certain death?)


We rushed to the ER to the soothing tunes of Matthew Wilder’s “Break My Stride.” For some reason, it just seemed appropriate.


A few days later, I finally made it home to Idaho, where I had surgery to repair the three broken bones in my ankle. Now, I am at home recovering, and I feel I owe everyone some apologies.



First: to my family, I am sorry that you have to act like my maids while I lie on the couch eating and watching reruns of 30 Rock. I really am. Secondly, to my friends: I am so sorry that I can’t go to Panama with you. I have cried about this more than once. Let it be known that one day, we will take another vacation, maybe even more fantastic, in which all of our anklebones are intact. I trust that you will try to have just as much fun without me, even though it may be difficult. Finally, to my ankle: You never deserved such a fate. You were so on (skate)board with helping me achieve my dreams, and now you (and my dreams) are crushed.


There are few lessons to take from all of this, but I have tried to glean what I can from this festering boil of a situation. The main talking points are this:


  • We are not in control. No matter how pre-meditated our plans, no matter how nonrefundable our plane tickets, we are not in control. And, like a skateboard, sometime we just have to “roll with it.”
  • It is highly unadvisable to take up skateboarding in your mid-20’s.



Peace and blessings,




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