When a Woman Goes Wild
“Are you doing it all by yourself??”
That was the most frequently asked question by far when I told people about my intended thru-hike of the Pacific Crest Trail (often followed or preceded by the well-intentioned question of whether my boyfriend would be joining me).
Even in 2018, it was still unusual for a woman my age to be doing anything on her own. Or, it was perceived as unusual. We'd been breaking out of our cages and upending expectations for decades by then, but it wasn't exactly something you heard about all the time, not without disbelieving fanfare, anyway.
How to Spot a Predator Just by Looking: A Guide
While politicians with no better ideas for how to keep hoarding their power try to distract us by frantically pointing at the easiest-to-spot scapegoats, the real Predators keep dressing up in their own versions of drag.
Instead of dressing up as divas or kings, they cosplay as parental figures, spiritual leaders, teachers—anyone you might reasonably trust to behave responsibly around kids.
They button their collared shirts, tie their ties, slip on their sensible shoes, donning whatever the accepted uniform is for Respectable Figures in their field. This way, we won’t question their intentions until they give us a reason to, or rather several reasons, because Respectable Figures (usually men) continue to be given the benefit of the doubt long after they’ve un-earned it. If they don’t look like a Perverted Weirdo on the outside, they’re probably not. Right?
I Love It from a Distance
That strip of dirt, 18 inches wide in most places, stretching from a 30-foot fence in the desert of Southern California to a clearing in the woods where the U.S. meets Canada.
It calls to me, as it has since I first learned of it. Though I’m finished with my first hike of the trail, I know I’ll never be “finished” with the Pacific Crest Trail, and it will never be finished with me.
Practices for a Purposeful Day
Do you ever get to the end of the day and feel like you’ve just been dragged through it by forces beyond your control or understanding?
I’m a yoga instructor. I’ve learned all sorts of tools during my trainings for increased mindfulness and intentionality, but I’ve always struggled to consistently integrate those tools into my daily life.
I’m a human living in the world, consuming media. I’m very aware of the obsessive self-care epidemic that’s metastasized throughout my generation over the past few years. I’m intrigued by some of the wellness trends I see and annoyed by others, but like all the masses of people trying and posting about them I, too, want to feel more well more often.
Letters to Charlie: Oops, I'm Debilitatingly Sad
Dear Papa,
I should be behind a cash register right now, ringing up $14 dresses and $9 earrings. Instead, I’m sitting at my computer, in my office, trying to divert emotions from my tear ducts into my fingertips.
I left during the first half of my shift. I thought I would be OK enough to work today, and for the first hour I still believed I was. Then the second and third hours rushed by in a flurry of sweatshirts and barcodes and “how are you?”s that made me want to jump out of my skin as I responded in excruciating, customer-service-approved falsities.
And They Shall Call Me “Tunes”
April 1, 2018. Day Two on the PCT. I’d picked out what looked on the maps like the perfect place to camp that night. Relief and grateful exhaustion exploded in my mind as I reached the bottom of my last descent of the day and turned a corner to find the clearing, right where I expected it, and alive with four other hikers sitting around, chatting.
The others, two couples by the looks of it, welcomed me into our home for the night and introduced themselves. I threw down my pack and surveyed the remaining open space, finally laying my tent out on a semi-flat patch of dirt between two tall pines. As I pitched my little grey and yellow nylon house, Groover, whom I’d met at Hauser Creek the night before, pointed to a patchy use trail leading into the woods and told me, “The road to Poop Town’s that way.”
The Soundtrack to My Life is Made Up of Perfect Albums
Music has always been a very personal thing for me, something I turned to when I felt lonely or sad or bored or curious. Music is a tool, a trigger, a connecting thread, a time machine. I can put on my headphones to escape from the din of a crowded room to a private space between my ears. I can put on a record and move the furniture for an instant dance party. Bonding over shared tastes and favorite artists is a quick route to new friendships. Recommending the perfect song or album to show how well you know someone is a fun way to deepen the old ones. Play “Oh Susanna,”* and I’m transported to the living room floor of my grandparents’ old house in Nashville. The O Brother, Where Art Thou? soundtrack takes me on a long road trip in the backseat of a minivan. I have no desire to return to 6th grade, but, if I did, all I’d have to do is watch the music video for “Beautiful Soul” by Jesse McCartney and I’d be back in a spinny office chair, trying to clear the browser history from my family’s desktop so my mom wouldn’t find out about my secret Facebook account.