Ratfink!

Adventuring Rule #2: Adventures benefit from guest stars.

     When I was small, I was an animal lover. I wanted to be a veterinarian. Of course, it was through applying to a veterinarian learning program for teens that I found out I wanted to be a writer,  but that's neither here nor there. As I've grown older, pets seemed to get dirtier and smellier. They made messes and were noisy and I just wasn't interested. Creatures are fine, but I don't want the responsibility of caring for them or dealing with their less enjoyable habits. I just was not interested. 

     But one day, I was invited to a friend's home in my apartment complex to share some cookies she had made for her blog. When I knocked on the door, she and her roommate were discussing their plans for the weekend, concerned that they had found no one to care for their pets in their absence. They turned to me and asked if I was available. Before I could respond, the two of them towed me into another room and pulled two small rats out of a cage by the window. One gray rat named Lizzie was thrust into my hands. She looked around, sniffed my thumb and curled up in my palms without a care. That was it. My aversion was overcome, and I was in love. 

     My responsibilities were to check on the rats twice a day for three days, ensuring they had enough food and water. The interesting part was to give the creatures their medicine. Apparently rodents can catch a version of the cold virus, so these little girls were sneezing several times an hour. While it was cute, it meant they were sick. Dispensing the medicine was a two person job. On the first try, I prepared the tiny droppers while my helpful boyfriend wrangled Lizzie into the crook of his arm. He tried to hold the rat's head still while I poked the dropper into the side of Lizzie's mouth, but she was having none of it. We got some medicine on her face and some on my sleeve before we set Lizzie down to give Jane a shot. She was even more wiggly and nearly slipped out of my grasp. Luckily, I was able to get her under control and the medicine went down her little throat without a hitch. Lizzie had run off most of her fidgety energy by then, so she calmly accepted the rest of her dose. 

     Duties done, my boyfriend and I stuck around to play with the rats for a bit, allowing them to run up and down our arms before tunneling through a pile of blankets. One rat was poking around in the pocket of my sweatshirt while the other became very interested in my hair. It was so much fun, I didn't want to leave them. Somehow my aversion to animals faded when I was faced with these adorable rats who lived happily in a cage, as opposed to a dog or cat that can take over the whole house. 

     My friend returned home a few days later and I had to sadly return her house keys, knowing it was unlikely that I would see the cuddly rats in the near future. I asked my own roommate about getting a rat for our apartment, but she shot it down rather quickly. I think that's unfair, because she has fish (that keep dying) but I'll hold in my rat love for now. It won't be too long before I'll have my own place and can love all the tiny caged animals I want. Even better news, my friend is heading out of town again, so I'l get to see my new friends this weekend. I can't wait. 

The WonderTruck earns its name

Adventuring Rule #1: Adventures are not always fun.

     I was running errands around my hometown in my dad's Chevy Silverado, singing along to country music. It's a rule in the WonderTruck. Despite the enthusiastic singing with the windows down, I am a cautious driver. The speed limit is a limit, seat belts are not negotiable, and I brake on yellow lights. It may take twice as long to get somewhere, but I can promise to get there safe. Except for this one time.

     Maybe I began to slow down too early, nearly a block away from the red stoplight. Maybe the man driving the Chevy Lumina behind me was following just a touch too close when he changed his radio station. Either way, I couldn't control my screams when I felt the impact of his front end slamming into my bumper.   Somehow both vehicles came to a stop. A woman in a dark sweatshirt and her two teenage children braved two lanes of traffic to come to my aid. She pulled open my door and stared at me with concern. "My name's Sharon, and you look young and scared. Is there someone we can call for you?"

     Between sobs I choked out my parent's names and phone number. The woman's daughter made the call on her cell phone while the son phoned the police, then whipped out a digital camera to take photos of the scene. Another man walked over from a nearby parking lot and introduced himself as an off-duty paramedic. I didn't catch his name, but I was grateful to latch on to his questions and directions while I regained my senses. He checked over the driver of the Lumina and guided us both out of the roadway and onto the sidewalk. The tears started again when I saw the way the smaller car had crunched and curled under the WonderTruck's rear bumper. The other driver approached me, apologizing over and over, insisting he only looked down at his radio for a second. "Why were you going so slow? Why were you stopped in the middle of the road?" he demanded. It seemed rude to insist that the light was red and I was obeying conventional traffic laws, so instead I tried to calm myself, saying only that I wanted to wait for the police and my dad to show up.

     Lodi's finest arrived within minutes. A short, uniformed man with a gleaming badge that read Lt. Ruiz asked me if I was able to move my vehicle. Part of me wanted to stay frozen on the concrete leaning against a telephone pole for support until my dad appeared to take charge. But I knew that as an adult, this was my responsibility. Back in the WonderTruck, I disarmed the hazard lights, put it in gear and slowly pressed the accelerator. Nothing happened. It felt as though my emergency brake was engaged. I gave it a bit more gas and felt nauseous at the sound of the bumper separating from the Lumina's ruined hood.

     That was my breaking point. I needed my dad and I needed him now. The timing was perfect: just as I turned toward the closest side street, he pulled up, leaped out and guided me to a spot by the curb with airplane-landing-style gestures. I wasn't out of the driver's seat before he was right there with a hug and a flannel-covered shoulder. The rest of the day was a blur of questions and insurance and an achy head and back that I refused to admit until the pain forced me to the emergency room later that night.

    Congratulations, Chevy Lumina driver. With one small change in your choice of radio station, you have wrecked your car, caused surface damage to the WonderTruck, given me whiplash and a concussion, and forced me to miss two shifts at the library as well as a weekend of work on the school newspaper. I hope you really hated that song you were listening to.

beginnings of ventures

satisfaction may be safe, but it kills the spirit.

      Life can be static. Those who live it can become comfortable, feeling safe that the path they are on and the choices they have made so far are the right ones. This is a good place to be. Arriving at this destination is an accomplishment for many, a signal to themselves and the world that they have followed their hearts and their dreams and gotten somewhere. Well done, I say. I'm nearly there myself. I am mere months away from having my first college degree in hand. Soon after, I'll hopefully have a job and tasks and responsibilities. And that scares me. It's not that my youth is slipping away from me. Age is only a number, after all. My true concern lies in the fact that with comfort comes dissatisfaction.


     Humans come alive in struggle, in working against some kind of opposition. Winning or losing is mostly irrelevant, unless lives are on the line, such as in the case of a political revolution or the effort to single-handedly provide for one's family. For most cases, human worth is defined by the effort he or she puts in to the struggle. Shortly after hitting that comfy sweet spot in a life, once the endorphins wear off, boredom sets in. There's nothing to work for. Nothing to win. Nothing to struggle and lose, nothing worth rising up from the ashes of that loss to prevail.


     My fear is that I  will reach a place without anything for which to fight. A place in which I will be satisfied with life as is. I never want to reach this destination. Ideally, some aspects of my life will reach this stage and I can relax in the knowledge that I am going to be safe and healthy for the duration of the knowable future. But if my whole mind and spirit rests in that comfort, the core of me will rot like so much compost.

     I want adventures. I want to find myself situations that make me nervous and uncomfortable and sweaty. I want to be at a loss for words, to be frustrated, to wonder how in the world I ended up here and how the hell I am going to get out. 

     Because life is not about a destination. Those are nice, but in the end, it is only a place.