"By acting as if I was not afraid I gradually ceased to be afraid." --Theodore Roosevelt
For the last year I've been stretching my boundaries. I made the resolution to be adventurous. This was explored in many areas of my life: work, hobbies, friends, food, activities, social situations, etc. Instead of feeling trepidation, seeing only the awkwardness in any new situation, I vowed to pretend as if I was not afraid. You own twenty cats and always smell a little like urine? Sure! I'll try your brownies. A party that neither you nor I was invited to? Let's do it. That's what the most interesting man in the world would do, right? Oh? It isn't a party after all? Just an intimate affair. Well, I'm not an introverted weirdo. I'm sure this will end with me making friends or something...
After nearly a year of this, I propose that getting out of your comfort zone and experiencing adventure are not the same thing. In fact, they rarely overlap. It's also nigh impossible to find adventure. Adventure or, as most oft occurs to me, misadventure finds you. As will be illustrated in stories of things that have actually happened to me.
A picky eater at birth, I've challenged myself to try new foods and be open. No palatable epiphanies of yet. But I was going on a trip to new countries. Surely if I was going to have a victuals inspiration, it was going to be abroad.
When vacationing in Italy, we went out for pizza. We were greeted by hearty buono seras and ushered to a red check bedecked table. It was all very genuine, and the menu was filled with a variety of meats: salami, prosciutto (raw and cooked), sausage, and marine beasties of all sorts. Well, I was in Italy, was I not? A peninsula rumored to have wonderful seafood. I had not yet had seafood during the trip. True, I don't particularly enjoy seafood, but this was a TripAdvisor-endorsed restaurant and I was on an adventure. As my family members ordered their safe combinations--the 4 formaggio for my parents and the salami for my brothers--I smugly congratulated myself for taking a risk. They were all going to want a piece of my shrimp pizza and rue the day the stayed in their comfort zones.
Except the pizza smelled like it had been dipped into a polluted harbor. And the shrimp tasted exactly as they smelled.
One might be tempted to say, "Well, but you had an experience!" or something to that effect. We experience things constantly; why should we experience uncomfortable things that don't actually enrich our lives? This is not an adventure or even misadventure. Just another epicurean fail. The only thing gleaned from the "experience" is perhaps that one should not eat shrimp that were not harvested from the Gulf of Mexico. My palate was not expanded, my eyes not opened, nor my horizons broadened.
This is one of many stories I can tell about being purposefully adventuresome not working. At all. But non-adventures are boring. So lets talk about real adventure! Or, again, misadventure, as the case will probably be.
My closest friend in thought and behavior lives in Tulsa. I visit her as often as possible, and nothing is ever normal. This is probably because two weirdos weeble-wobbling all over Tulsa, which is no stranger to weird, will naturally attract a certain kind of attention and interaction. We never say to ourselves, "Let's go do X. It will be an adventure!" Both of us are quite a bit more comfortable reading or imagining adventure. Even acting it out with one another. We once had a full-fledged soap opera with the guy who lived across the street from her with his mother. We named him Steve and never once spoke to him in real life. But we had quite the sordid triangle going with me vying for his affections while his out-of-town girlfriend was...out of town. But all my imaginary book donating, leftover sandwich giving, and pants offering was for naught. A few weeks later he packed up his pirate's treasure chest, lashed it to the top of his Kia, and headed for parts unknown. Probably that skank in Vermont. Whom I also never met.
But real life adventure finds us nonetheless. On a trip to New Orleans, we of course scheduled a ghost tour. Stop after stop on our tour was disappointing. The squatty tourguidess regaled us with facts about old buildings, disproved ghost stories, and described pictures that reflected the glare of souls. Or lens flares as they are known by professional photographers. The high point of the tour was when she stopped in front of a gray stone mansion.
"This is Nicholas Cage's house."
She paused significantly, peering up at the group. It was as if she was surprised we weren't running to kiss the stones or swooning at the proximity of such a screen god. As the awkward pause lengthened she gathered herself, round shoulders heaving upward to add height to her toadstool frame.
"As you may have heard, he is in financial difficulties. Lost millions. He'll lose the house. Of course, the house was the problem to begin with. If he had come to me, I could have told him it was haunted, bad luck. Don't buy the house, I would have said. But he didn't, and now he's losing millions. Speaking of Hollywood, did you know Angelina and Brad have a house here? Oh no it isn't haunted. They love New Orleans. Treated like one of the locals."
And so we talked about Brangelina for twenty minutes till we hit our next stop. A school house.
"Isn't this beautiful?"
Her short arm lifted to display a classic French Quarter brick building. It was pretty, and it had nothing to do with Brad and Ange. We all nodded appreciatively, encouraging her toward this new topic. Some even ooooohed in response, remembering the awkward pause at Nick's house.
Her smile fell in sync with her arm. "Well it wasn't built for you."
You could hear the collective intake of breath. Now she had our attention.
"The French Quarter has people who live here and make a living here. Don't throw trash where we make our livelihoods. This isn't Disney World. That concludes the tour. Remember, us in the hospitality industry survive on tips. Thank you in advance for your generosity."
She had snookered us! The ole lead with a question and then thrash you with righteous indignation when you answer positively. We didn't stick around to see if anyone tipped her; just sauntered off, hands in pockets, whistling softly. But I would garner a guess that she doesn't make very much in tips.
That is adventure. It is the unexpected. That's why it can't be sought. But when you're in the midst of it, you can make the decision to stick through it and pretend as if you're not uncomfortable, committing to the unfolding of events; or you can drop out, as many in that abysmal tour did, and miss out on memories and one of my favorite verbal tricks to play on people.
You like this blog? Well I didn't write it for you!
For the last year I've been stretching my boundaries. I made the resolution to be adventurous. This was explored in many areas of my life: work, hobbies, friends, food, activities, social situations, etc. Instead of feeling trepidation, seeing only the awkwardness in any new situation, I vowed to pretend as if I was not afraid. You own twenty cats and always smell a little like urine? Sure! I'll try your brownies. A party that neither you nor I was invited to? Let's do it. That's what the most interesting man in the world would do, right? Oh? It isn't a party after all? Just an intimate affair. Well, I'm not an introverted weirdo. I'm sure this will end with me making friends or something...
After nearly a year of this, I propose that getting out of your comfort zone and experiencing adventure are not the same thing. In fact, they rarely overlap. It's also nigh impossible to find adventure. Adventure or, as most oft occurs to me, misadventure finds you. As will be illustrated in stories of things that have actually happened to me.
A picky eater at birth, I've challenged myself to try new foods and be open. No palatable epiphanies of yet. But I was going on a trip to new countries. Surely if I was going to have a victuals inspiration, it was going to be abroad.
When vacationing in Italy, we went out for pizza. We were greeted by hearty buono seras and ushered to a red check bedecked table. It was all very genuine, and the menu was filled with a variety of meats: salami, prosciutto (raw and cooked), sausage, and marine beasties of all sorts. Well, I was in Italy, was I not? A peninsula rumored to have wonderful seafood. I had not yet had seafood during the trip. True, I don't particularly enjoy seafood, but this was a TripAdvisor-endorsed restaurant and I was on an adventure. As my family members ordered their safe combinations--the 4 formaggio for my parents and the salami for my brothers--I smugly congratulated myself for taking a risk. They were all going to want a piece of my shrimp pizza and rue the day the stayed in their comfort zones.
Except the pizza smelled like it had been dipped into a polluted harbor. And the shrimp tasted exactly as they smelled.
One might be tempted to say, "Well, but you had an experience!" or something to that effect. We experience things constantly; why should we experience uncomfortable things that don't actually enrich our lives? This is not an adventure or even misadventure. Just another epicurean fail. The only thing gleaned from the "experience" is perhaps that one should not eat shrimp that were not harvested from the Gulf of Mexico. My palate was not expanded, my eyes not opened, nor my horizons broadened.
This is one of many stories I can tell about being purposefully adventuresome not working. At all. But non-adventures are boring. So lets talk about real adventure! Or, again, misadventure, as the case will probably be.
My closest friend in thought and behavior lives in Tulsa. I visit her as often as possible, and nothing is ever normal. This is probably because two weirdos weeble-wobbling all over Tulsa, which is no stranger to weird, will naturally attract a certain kind of attention and interaction. We never say to ourselves, "Let's go do X. It will be an adventure!" Both of us are quite a bit more comfortable reading or imagining adventure. Even acting it out with one another. We once had a full-fledged soap opera with the guy who lived across the street from her with his mother. We named him Steve and never once spoke to him in real life. But we had quite the sordid triangle going with me vying for his affections while his out-of-town girlfriend was...out of town. But all my imaginary book donating, leftover sandwich giving, and pants offering was for naught. A few weeks later he packed up his pirate's treasure chest, lashed it to the top of his Kia, and headed for parts unknown. Probably that skank in Vermont. Whom I also never met.
But real life adventure finds us nonetheless. On a trip to New Orleans, we of course scheduled a ghost tour. Stop after stop on our tour was disappointing. The squatty tourguidess regaled us with facts about old buildings, disproved ghost stories, and described pictures that reflected the glare of souls. Or lens flares as they are known by professional photographers. The high point of the tour was when she stopped in front of a gray stone mansion.
"This is Nicholas Cage's house."
She paused significantly, peering up at the group. It was as if she was surprised we weren't running to kiss the stones or swooning at the proximity of such a screen god. As the awkward pause lengthened she gathered herself, round shoulders heaving upward to add height to her toadstool frame.
"As you may have heard, he is in financial difficulties. Lost millions. He'll lose the house. Of course, the house was the problem to begin with. If he had come to me, I could have told him it was haunted, bad luck. Don't buy the house, I would have said. But he didn't, and now he's losing millions. Speaking of Hollywood, did you know Angelina and Brad have a house here? Oh no it isn't haunted. They love New Orleans. Treated like one of the locals."
And so we talked about Brangelina for twenty minutes till we hit our next stop. A school house.
"Isn't this beautiful?"
Her short arm lifted to display a classic French Quarter brick building. It was pretty, and it had nothing to do with Brad and Ange. We all nodded appreciatively, encouraging her toward this new topic. Some even ooooohed in response, remembering the awkward pause at Nick's house.
Her smile fell in sync with her arm. "Well it wasn't built for you."
You could hear the collective intake of breath. Now she had our attention.
"The French Quarter has people who live here and make a living here. Don't throw trash where we make our livelihoods. This isn't Disney World. That concludes the tour. Remember, us in the hospitality industry survive on tips. Thank you in advance for your generosity."
She had snookered us! The ole lead with a question and then thrash you with righteous indignation when you answer positively. We didn't stick around to see if anyone tipped her; just sauntered off, hands in pockets, whistling softly. But I would garner a guess that she doesn't make very much in tips.
That is adventure. It is the unexpected. That's why it can't be sought. But when you're in the midst of it, you can make the decision to stick through it and pretend as if you're not uncomfortable, committing to the unfolding of events; or you can drop out, as many in that abysmal tour did, and miss out on memories and one of my favorite verbal tricks to play on people.
You like this blog? Well I didn't write it for you!
You have a blog?! Hooray! I am sorry your adventurous spirit toward shrimp proved to be a disappointment. You should try it again, and hopefully it won't smell and taste like a polluted harbor.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Em! It was one of my worst missteps on the trip. I'm going to stick to things I know I love. But if a shrimp pizza is ever thrust upon me, I'll recognize it for an adventure and try it.
DeleteI don't understand the "it wasn't built for you" comment. WTF, crazy tour guide lady? I assume she failed to mention in her speech that, though the buildings on the tour were not in fact built for tourists, they, in combination with said tourists, ARE the reason she even has a job. Or was this just her Sunday hobby? What a nutjob.
ReplyDeleteI like that quote from Roosevelt. I have heard it in reference to love. I think it's from Paris, Je T'Aime... "By acting like a man in love, he became a man in love." Something like that.
Sorry the pizza experiment didn't work out. Also, I very much appreciate your making the distinction between leaving your comfort zone and experiencing adventure (because it's so true), as well as the confession that misadventure seems much more easily found.
Keep blogging, you're off to a great start!
-A
That is exactly why I was so perplexed. She survives on tips, but she wants to make tourists, the lifeblood of the tourism (i.e. ghost tours!) industry, feel unwelcome. She was definitely a nutjob.
DeleteOh I like that. I think the thought has been around for a while. C. S. Lewis also proffered it in Mere Christianity. "Someone had to wear a mask; a mask which made him look much nicer than he really was. He had to wear it for years. And when he took it off he found his own face had grown to fit it. He was now really beautiful. What had begun as disguise had become a reality." Acting the behaviors you want to adopt/emulate is the same as practicing. And practice makes permanent, as the saying goes.
Thanks for leaving comments! I want people to come and discuss and agree or disagree or what have you. I'll have another post up by tonight. Stay tuned!