Being descendant free gives me other freedoms. I am free to skip a meal and enjoy a cream puff. Free to go wherever I want. Free to roam around in old undies with the utmost faith that I won’t kick the bucket in the hours I’m dressed. The first order of the day is to research my many travel options, like transiting to a store to buy new underwear. But every time I go somewhere I run into life surprises. Like when I transit to my gyno, because no one warned me early on how fun that trip can be. Especially when my MD of small talk always asks how I’m doing. I figure he should be telling me how I’m doing after the exam. I think I should shake things up a bit and offer another response rather than the same routine answer of “fine” when I’m clearly not fine lying naked in front of someone I’m not having sex with.

I try to go with my parents same belief not to dive head first into stupid ventures. Not visiting my gyno would be stupid. So next time I see my doctor and he asks what I’m up to, I will snicker and say, “I’m time traveling at the moment. Wanna come?” Or should I ask, “Will you show me yours since I’m showing you mine?” As long as he doesn’t stumble and fall within striking distance of me while holding a sharp utensil in his hand, I’ll be good to go about traveling to many other places as well.

Every morning my head flies off the pillow in anticipation of a daily excursion. I seek out scads of different locales because I’m just that adventurous. Yesterday I got adventurous and had a BLC. I made a bacon lettuce and cucumber sandwich since I didn’t have a tomato. One place I’m scared of journeying to is a bowling alley. I am afraid my fingers will get stuck inside the holes and I’ll go racing down the lane right along with the ball then conclude the game with a concussion. But I would go trekking along any glorious ocean bordering highway only if I can be notified three days ahead of a tsunami. And I would definitely use MapQuest again if I don’t mind that my final destination could be in a lake or another state.

The next time I get the impulse to blast through the skies backed by the finest winged technology, in the event of lost cabin pressure, I want a parachute ready. Not an oxygen mask. I have already felt the gravitational pull when I was yanked into Walt Disney World by my children and rode the Summit Plummet. Though I did attempt to appease their satiating desires for castles and carousels, their thirsts for Splash Mountain however had my body soaked with megatons of wetness. Nobody advised me that I would be automatically entered into a wet t-shirt contest and have to journey home looking like a drenched dish rag. Then I shuffled into the Tower of Terror. I’ve taken trips to crazyville, but this was close to insane.

Since I didn’t come west in a covered wagon like my children would say I did, I have never really seen middle America. But I like dangerous rock and cliffy plateaus as much as I like long stretches of deserts with megathermal climates. The pulsating need for visiting vast chasms carved from solid mineraloids in oven temperatures I can leave for other risk loving canyon climbers. And my lack of good seawoman skills will be a relatively good argument in whether or not I should take a cruise. Strong is not a word I would use to describe my desire for ocean swells and heavy blocks of ice. The only iceberg I need to chisel away is in my freezer. It’s enough being around saltwater dangers without somebody noticing my Ked’s and trying to talk me into Sperry Top-Siders. The musical group Every Mothers Son never had me with their Come On Down To My Boat Baby. I can be nautical at home sailing bathwater and slip knotting the rope handle that’s on my loofah. Besides, getting fitted for a hat is the only way I want to be capsized.

When I travel far from home into any remote wilderness location without warnings of what lurks behind redwoods, I’m left with choices. It would take pulling from the thrill seeking sanctum of my soul the better decision to just drive to the end of my street and back. If one choice means lugging the whole contents of my home to go play house in the wild, that’s about ninety more steps to irritation. Not to mention I’m easily affected by deer dung. I might have to shoulder a rifle after seeing Deliverance. Because again, nobody informed me that I would actually have to enlist in the Swiss Army to acquire a Swiss Army Knife. Unlike hotels, forests are not interested in my comfort, my allergies, my preferred brand of cooler drinks, or how I like my omelets. It doesn’t take much pleading on a bear’s part to get what he wants in terms of food and winning an argument. And there’s no complete privacy if I have to squat in the woods to pee. But with my fervid connection to nature, I can rest easier by surrounding my home with weenies, artificial poison ivy, and pictures of badgers, while spraying Febreze into the exterior fan for the added exhilaration of outdoor wholesomeness. And in case of a fire, I’ll have S’Mores ready. Not only can I look around at all the lovely God-given gifts that surround me, I can be patio productive and breathe in some good fresh smog. I just need to be forewarned of monsoons.


  1. Patty– that’s why I see women doctors. I’m still not comfy lying naked in front of them, since we’re also, for sure, not having sex– but at least they have what I have and, hopefully, they also have cellulite where I do. No judgements…

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