Summer of the Traveling Panda

A few weeks ago, I found myself homeless and eating breakfast in a bowling alley in the middle of the afternoon. These are circumstances that imply my life took a wrong turn somewhere. Leaving San Francisco, maybe? Neglecting to renew my driver's license in 2007, making both airport security and the CHP really ornery? Forgetting to floss? Believe it or not, all of this is on purpose. The homeless part, not the ornery CHP part. That was a grave tactical error on my part. But that bowling alley breakfast was pure genius. Bowling alleys in West LA make perfectly crisp hash browns.

Why a Person With a Death Grip on Stability and Routine Might Willingly Go Homeless

When I was younger, I did a lot of traveling. Dropping sunglasses in the Blue Grotto, chasing peacocks in Wales, losing beach towels over the side of a boat in the Antigua harbor, having staring contests with sheep in New Zealand. (Yeah, the sheep won. I don't want to talk about it.) But according to my passport,  I haven't been out of the country in a brutally long time. So I decided to abandon the idea that a permanent address is important and start going places.

When you stop paying rent, you kinda give yourself no choice but to go places. If you need a kick in the ass, you are obligated by life to give yourself one.

Ass summarily kicked, I wandered thirteen whole blocks to Drea's apartment where her robots and dinosaurs convinced me to never leave. But we had plans for Vegas and her couch had plans to not have me on it forever, so a hotel room at the Flamingo became my temporary home. After a weekend of mindless yet responsible debauchery, we drove home to California. I drove back to Nevada twelve hours later. 'Cause that makes sense.

But it meant my office looked at this for a week:

photo (47)

Then this, because Lake Tahoe doesn't understand May:

photo (48)

I've always enjoyed the word nomad. It calls up images of camels and tents and oases shimmering in the distance.

Camels continue to elude me, which is sad, but I've managed an oasis. I'm leaving for Costa Rica on Saturday, where I'll set up camp for the month of June, working and wandering and doing whatever people do in Costa Rica. Surf?* Eat fish? Get lost a lot? I guess I'll find out.

* I picture myself in a Blue Crush-like montage** where I skim effortlessly through rolling blue waves and stride up the beach carrying a board under my arm. This is unlikely for any number of reasons, starting with the distinct possibility that I couldn't even lift a surfboard, much less sling it under one arm. More likely, I'd give myself a concussion and be forced to add "shark hors d'oeuvre" to my Twitter bio.

** Why give more than a passing nod to reality when you can daydream instead? Daydreams have gotten me Olympic gold medals and Justin Timberlake asking me to perform Thriller with him. (What? Justin Timberlake asks you to do other things in your daydreams?)

Anyway. Summer of the Traveling Panda. A Summer That Probably Doesn't Include Justin Timberlake.

Now I'm in the Bay Area, because my mom is in Paris and I'm watching her cat until I leave for Costa Rica. That sentence makes us sound a lot more glamorous than we really are. We are not glamorous. My mom's attempts to use an iPad make her emails resemble spam, if the spammer was a drunk elephant in Zimbabwe whose first language was Portuguese. The majority of my wardrobe looks like it was chewed on by that same drunk elephant. But we've got passports and we're using them, damn it.

It feels good to be moving again. It even feels good to have no home - like life is stuffed with possibility and adventure and I just have to decide what that adventure is going to be. In the last few weeks, I've seen the desert, the snow, and soon the South American jungle. Because when adventure calls, a panda must answer.

Even if the panda soon wonders why taking a red-eye and then driving six hours through an unfamiliar country with no GPS and no measurable sense of direction constitutes a preferable adventure to, say, a nice apartment in Amsterdam.

The Good, The Bad, and The Biscuits

Last weekend, I went to Vegas where I danced like a muppet on a pogo stick, played rambunctious volleyball in the hotel pool, turned a brilliant shade of speechless vermilion as a room full of sixty people tried to find me a date, felt wretchedly insecure, shouted myself hoarse, cried a lot, and found many new people to adore. It's tempting to dump extra glitter on the already shiny pieces of a Vegas weekend and stuff the less pretty parts under the pillow and hope housekeeping doesn't find them until after you've checked out. But the not-so-pretty parts - like the time I couldn't walk into dinner because I felt like I was going to fly apart or sat under a restaurant table at 3 a.m. while everyone else ate pulled pork - were actually the most valuable.

Feeling your lowest and most vulnerable can help you find your people. People who will willingly forgo all the fun they could be having to sit with you while you regress twenty years and forget approximately 97 life lessons. Who will remind you that oxygen is a good thing and you should really help yourself to some of it. Who will sit there with you so you feel less alone.

People who will generally prove themselves the best human beings and not just because they are enthusiastic dancers and some of the funniest people to grace Twitter. So you will spend the next three days loudly informing them that they are your favorite and they are now required to be your best friend, other life plans notwithstanding.

HI, CARYN. HI, BRANDY. YOU'RE LOCKED IN NOW. SORRY IF YOU HAD OTHER THINGS TO DO.

Caryn, me, and Brandy. Please note Brandy's hair, hair that never fails to bring great joy to the world. 

It wasn't all sad panda. It wasn't even mostly sad panda. It was mostly this - wild dancing and pool lounging and buffet-attacking. Plus all the love - in me for everyone and flying at me from every direction. At least when I let myself notice it. But that was the difference, I think. When I feel vulnerable or unsafe, my usual response is to shut down completely. Throw up walls and lock everyone out. This time, I let people in.

It was tempting to get mad at myself for having all the feelings. I was in Vegas for three days with some of my favorite people in the world. What kind of a jerk feels sad and insecure when lounging by the pool and eating unlimited hash browns and having 60 people in a room briefly devoted to finding her true love? I MEAN, COME ON, SELF. GET YO SHIT TOGETHER.

But feelings are just feelings. They aren't good, they aren't bad. They just are. Until they aren't any more. Sometimes, especially when biology is working against you and you aren't sleeping well because you've just uprooted yourself in a dramatic way less than a week before, maybe you're allowed to be a little more prone to feelings.

Things I Re-Learned In The Midst of Having All The Fun. Fun Including Mostly Naked Women Because, Come On, This Is Vegas.

• You're allowed to feel insecure sometimes without actually being insecure.
• You don't have to be happy and shiny all the time. People won't shun you.
• You're allowed to not have fun in a place where everyone else is having fun. It's okay. Just sit there and breathe.
• You're allowed to flip the switch three minutes later and start having fun again. Your feelings don't own you.
• Just because you feel something doesn't make it true.
• Letting yourself have the bad feelings allows you to have the good feelings again. Only bigger this time.

It's easy to ignore the bad in favor of the good. I really wanted to do that this weekend. Concentrate on the joy of dancing like a frog on crack and playing volleyball in the pool and watching topless women bending themselves in half and laughing so hard my mouth stopped making sound. I wanted to forget about the crying, the feeling insecure for no good reason, the sitting under a table at 3 a.m. because I wanted to be a part of things but felt so awful I couldn't sit in a chair like a real human.

But spackling cement over the one to concentrate on the other would rob me of something. Like new friends. And the feeling of falling so far down only to rebound even higher. And the knowledge, sinking deeper this time, that things don't have to be perfect to be amazing.

The $100 Startup and Why I Tried To Build a Time Machine Out of Cocktail Napkins

If you're on the internet and you read things, you've probably heard of Chris Guillebeau. A few months ago, I had the profound honor of proving myself completely incapable of understanding clocks and/or Los Angeles traffic patterns when we were supposed to meet up for dinner. He was patiently waiting at 6 on the dot. I came racing in at 6:50, a new personal record for inconsiderate. I was also tripping over things and praying for a small yet fiesty earthquake to wrench open a pit in the center of the room so I could conveniently fall in. Or maybe a time machine so I could rewind 55 minutes and stroll in like a person who plans well. But Chris was unfailingly gracious and kind and put my flustered, horrified self at ease so quickly that he jumped straight into the ranks of my favorite people in about forty-five seconds.

Note: Every time you make a horrible impression on someone you just met, you offer the other person an opportunity to make an inversely proportionate positive impression. Way to roll with circumstance, Chris.

My Point. And I Do Have One, Besides Sharing The Worst Episode of Amber Standard Time Yet, the One That Made My Mom Close Her Eyes In Despair When I Told Her About It.

Chris will have visited every country in the world by the time he's 35. He writes lots of really helpful things for people who like avoiding cubicles. He has a team of trained monkeys to do his bidding.* He also has a new book out, The $100 Startup: Reinvent The Way You Make a Living, Do What You Love, and Create a New Future. You should totally read it.

* Unconfirmed.

Luckily for you, I somehow ended up with five copies. So I'm keeping the paperback (I've already made notes in the margins and spilled coffee on it) and giving away the four pretty hardcovers.

I look like I robbed a Barnes and Noble. I did not rob a Barnes and Noble. I'm late, not felonious. 

I'm sure I could say a lot about the book, but here's the thing: Chris is smart. He's inspiring. He's done amazing things and, judging by our conversation and the fact that his World Domination Summit sells out in less time than I kept him waiting at a hotel bar, he's really good at inspiring other people to do the same. I left that evening and went home and kicked 78 percent more ass than I did before our conversation. If I got so much out of a quick dinner, how much could you get from a book he poured so much time and effort into? A LOT, I IMAGINE.

So read the book, become more awesome, and help me embark on my nomadic summer with four fewer possessions. If you want a copy, just leave a comment or send me a pandagram with your address and a book will head your way.

[Update: Whoa, those went fast! Facebook people are on the free books, man. But if you're interested, you should head to Amazon and grab one. Panda thumbs up.]

On Stubbornly Defying Death in Really High Heels

I've been taking pole dancing classes. Because learning how to climb a fireman's pole in six-inch heels is absolutely a life skill I need. My first class was jaw-dropping, mainly because of how amazing the instructor's ass looked and how tiny her outfit was. Learning to do "sexy pushups" was questionable, but spinning around that pole made me grin like a loon. So I keep going back because I like fun things.

The seductive part feels weirdly artificial to me,* but I'm fascinated by the athleticism. Have you seen what those women can do? Sweet baby Buddha on a biscuit, people. The strength and flexibility and sheer bravery of hanging from a pole seven feet above the ground. It's terrifying. I can state this with absolute certainty because I accidentally signed up for the wrong time yesterday and ended up in an advanced class where they do things like climb to the top of the pole, take all their limbs off said pole, suspend from it by what I can only assume is witchcraft, and then LET GO AND DROP SIX FEET, CATCHING THEMSELVES WITH ONLY A KNEE OH MY GOD.

No, thanks. I'm fine down here on the ground.

* Things instructors yell in class to enforce the sultry: BE SEXIER! PLAY WITH YOUR SHIRT! DON'T LET YOUR ARMS HANG THERE LIKE DEAD FISH! Really? Playing with a roomy green t-shirt that says "Future Adult" is going to make me sexy? I don't believe you for a second, teacher, but your upper arm strength is intimidating so I'm game.

In last week's class, I had just climbed the pole for the first time and still had the oddly-placed bruises on my feet to show for it. And now I'm suddenly forced to mimic all these slender women who surgically removed their amygdala so risking death in bikini bottoms sounds like a good idea.

My amygdala is functioning at top volume, my cotton gym shorts say hell no, and my bruises would prefer not to come in contact with that pole ever again. I was all set to walk out, on grounds of concussion avoidance.

But then my stubbornness kicked in. Apparently, stubborn trumps fear. So I started climbing that pole like I had any idea what I was doing. Forcing my not-terribly-flexible-at-the-best-of-times-and-certainly-not-when-contemplating-death 33-year-old self to do the splits suspended from a pole attached only by the curve of my waist and an arm hooked over a leg was a triumph of the human spirit.

I triumphed, people. Me and that pole are war buddies.

Kicking fear in the balls apparently means you get your game back. The instructor had everyone doing something she called a dead man spiral. You jump into a spin holding your body perpendicular to the pole as you spin to the floor. It looks really effing cool. Most of the girls already knew how to do it, so she came over and showed me the basics. "Most people take three or four classes to get this one, but I think you've got this. Repeat after me, 'The dead man spiral is not that hard and I have totally got this shit.'" I dutifully parroted it back and then I stepped up to that pole and swung into a dead man spiral on the first try.

FIST PUMP FOR ME.

The insides of my thighs are sore, my right wrist is still red and the tops of my feet are bruised, but spinning around a metal death trap is the best. So is stubbornly refusing to walk out just because you're in over your head.

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I couldn't find a video of the dead man spiral, so watch this instead. For the cool stuff, start at 1:10. That thing she does at 2:45? We learned the inverse version and I can almost do it. I mean, almost. You certainly wouldn't want to watch me, because it's not pretty. BUT STILL. TRIUMPH. OF THE HUMAN SPIRIT.

The Day We Figured Out the Meaning of Life Before 8 a.m. and Then Turned Hot Pink In Very Odd Places

My armpits are bright pink and my toes are green. Showering has no effect, even though I scandalized the dog walker by bursting into the house covered in splatters of color and declaring that I was headed straight to the washing machine, where I planned to strip and then bolt to the shower as is. I've never seen anyone stumble out a door so fast. Turns out The Color Run is my happy place. You step onto the starting line all proud and pristine in your new white shirt. Then some random guy takes your color virginity by slapping your back with a green handprint. He asks first, which you give him credit for, but then he does it to your friend too and you have to feel a little betrayed, because didn't we just have a moment? No? You just go around leaving green handprints on everyone? I guess it's just that kind of colored love fest. Then you run the rainbow gauntlet. By the time the dust settles, your white shirt is a mere memory and you look like this.

I don't mind telling you that I had my sloth moment. The whole thing just made me so darn happy. Also, I had a whole lot of pink dust in my contacts. The crying was mostly because of the dust but also because the sheer joy of that crowd was a thing to behold.

Less of a joy was how the combined genius of Drea and I turned a simple 5k into an eight mile odyssey. This post could also be titled That Time I Thought I Could Bend The Time Space Continuum and Was Wrong (Again) because we were supposed to be running with a whole bunch of people but underestimated what was needed to get to the starting point by a factor of about ten thousand cars. So we parked at a strip mall, trudged two and a half miles to the starting line, ran a 5k, danced with a whole bunch of color-drenched college students who convinced me I did college wrong, and then trudged two and a half miles back. I don't know what she did after that, but I showered until I realized the pink was never coming off and then I climbed into bed and died.

Wherein I Remember (Again) That It's Not The Situation, It's How I Feel About The Situation

Jogging with a whole bunch of bright purple people reminded me of a date I once went on. He took me to an airfield in Moss Beach where one of his friends stored a two-seater red Piper Cub. He took me flying over one of the most beautiful stretches of coastline in California in a little red plane and when you do that, you automatically get awarded Best Date Ever. The sky was blue and perfectly clear and I saw all that gorgeous crashing water and dramatic cliff line from the air. It was one of those experiences you remember your whole life. The feeling of freedom and happiness and sailing through all that beauty stuck with me. For a long time, I attached it to the person and the little red plane and that great blue sky.

Turns out you don't need a plane to fly. I felt the exact same exhilaration running through all that color. And yeah, it wasn't about a bunch of pink powder either.

Sure it's easier to be happy when the world goes technicolor or you're doing barrel rolls over the Pacific Ocean, but it's just as easy when you're sitting in a coffee shop typing or riding the subway or doing your taxes.

Fine, maybe not doing your taxes. But you take my point.

But getting to the place where you can consistently feel that way without the color takes some work, as evolution hasn't quite caught up to the fact that we all need to enter this world with our own personalized instruction manual attached to our umbilical cord. What we should eat, how we should exercise, our best personal organizational system, and our life purpose so can all live to our maximum potential with a minimum of fuss.

As we sat in traffic, I said, "Well, maybe that's the point of living. To learn all that stuff."

Drea, ever smart and ever concise: "Is it?"

Yeah, that would be a depressing point. If the best you could do in life was figure out that you needed to go to the gym a lot and hire an accountant. We decided that you needed to do these things so you could do the other things, the other things summed up in the meaning of life we really did figure out by 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning, mostly by blatantly stealing Chris Guillebeau's line: "What is life, but to love and create?"

You have to learn how to do all the things - the food, the exercise, the organization, the life purpose - so you can love and create. So you can love each moment for what it is. So you have a firm base off which to fly. Yep, it keeps coming down to being happy exactly where you are.

And yes, it's very easy to be happy when clouds of color rise in pink and yellow and green and blue and lavender. When the air smells like pixie sticks and you race through it, not even caring that your eyes are stinging and you can taste purple at the back of your throat. Because it's a color-flinging madhouse and it's downright thrilling to be in the middle of it. But it took a lot to get here too.

Happy.