My Big Fat Greek Party

Apparently I have disappointed several Sigma Chi guys and all their fabulous female friends by not posting a story about my frat party experience. I do not want to let down my new BFFs, so I will say this much:

These guys know how to host a party! Want to throw a beach party in chilly Milwaukee in early April? Fill the basement with sand! (They make the freshmen shovel it out the basement windows later.)

Want to make the strange old lady feel at home? Play "Shout!" And dance with her without even questioning her attendance. (Although one girl did come up to me and ask, "Who are you and why are you here?" I said I was pledging the fraternity. She seemed oddly OK with that.)

But do warn the grandmotherly aged woman about that far back room, the dark one with strobe lights and couples in the corners. Even the moonshine I swigged from a communal bottle didn't prepare me for THAT.

An Animal House it may have been, but Dean Wormer's wife I am not. I figured it was a good time to take my talents to a local bar, with Son #2, and managed to close the place up.

A win-win night, all around.

I'm thinking my fraternity pledge is pretty much guaranteed.

Impossible to pick me out in the crowd, yes? What would you have brought along as a hostess gift? How are your partying skills? 

Learning the Ropes

Haley's "thumbs-down" says it all.

By week #43 of The 52/52 Project, the biggest lesson I’d learned by pushing myself outside my comfort zone was the expectation is almost always worse than the reality. Apparently though, the expectation can sometimes prove frightening enough.

While I don’t have an actual fear of heights, I am terrified of the sensation of falling from high places. I hardly even quiver on the top of a presumably stable skyscraper or bridge, but any structure that moves—or any experience that results in my moving and potentially plunging downward—is generally a deal-breaker.

The high ropes course at The University of Toledo’s Recreation Center is situated forty feet above the ground, high above the center’s basketball courts. It includes a series of swaying ropes and wooden swings strung from the three-story-high ceiling. The goal is to climb, stretch, and step one’s way across this mid-air obstacle course. Presumably, a harness and single cable prevents one from crashing to the ground. From the online photos and description, it appeared intimidating. Possibly fun. Nope. Just intimidating.

Yet, because my zip-lining experience had proven to be way more enjoyable than expected, I figured I’d hope for the best and push myself through this. I’d grown braver and more open-minded. Possibly, I was just more stupid.

My friend, Laura Maylene Walter, and her fourteen-year-old cousin, Haley, drove in town to join me. Laura had done a high ropes course when she was fifteen, and it proved less than a positive experience. At the age of thirty, she was willing—with great reservation—to give it another shot. We thought we’d make a good match: two chicken shits supporting each other through an agonizing challenge. And, young Haley would surely provide the necessary naïve bravado to encourage us onward.

Our litany of excuses to back out commenced as soon as we climbed into the car. We should call it all off because poor Haley had a stomach ache. The parking lot was crowded; maybe we wouldn’t find a parking spot. And, if we got really lucky, the Rec Center office wouldn’t find the free guest passes I’d been told were left for us. By the time we reached the center’s third level, we devised a half-dozen excuses before we ran out of any viable ones.

Once we filled out our waivers and took our place in the long line, we took a good long look around. Every other participant appeared to be a college student. Most were lean, muscular, and surely in the physical prime of their life. Yet, to say they were struggling on the course would be an understatement.

The online photos didn’t give justice to the terror. The challenge wasn’t just in the height. It was obvious the course relied on both intricate coordination and great upper-body strength in order to grab each consecutive rope, balance upon the swing, and step to the next.

We watched a young woman in a tie-dyed shirt attempt to step from one swinging wooden beam to another. The swings were situated a couple of feet apart, but as she stretched her leg from one to the next, the wooden plank kept rocking further away. Over and over, she stepped and missed. She finally grabbed the next rope and managed to secure one foot on the beam. She reached her second foot over and succeeded in balancing her entire body on the wildly rocking swing.

The step onto the next swing proved even more challenging. As she tried to balance herself, the swing flipped backward. She slipped off. The security cable clipped onto her harness jolted her to a stop. She dangled and swiveled, mid-air.

We couldn’t watch her another minute.

We turned our direction to a young man maneuvering his way across. He painstakingly watched his footing, trying to catch hold of the next violently rocking beam, all the while pulling his security cable along the way. His odds didn’t appear so good.

He paused and shouted to someone on the catwalk. “OK, this is why they make you sign a waiver!”

I turned to one of the attendants. “How often have you seen people slip off and have to dangle there?”

She shrugged. “Pretty often.”

We observed the participants for nearly a half-hour, during which we subtly—without even mentioning it aloud to each other—stepped out of line.  But, we knew we had to make a decision. The time had come to take flight or to flee.

“This is way worse than the one I did when I was fifteen,” Laura said.  “And I was in great shape then. I’m not sure I have the physical strength to do this. And, I might puke in my mouth from terror.”

I nodded in spasms. “Yeah, and I’m even more worried about the coordination required. Because I have a whole lot of none.”

I realized that was the true deal-breaker for me. I could—although reluctantly—handle airplanes, zip-lining, and hopefully my upcoming hot air balloon ride, because those relied on the skills of a qualified pilot or technician. Left up to my own inadequate coordination, I was fairly certain I’d be S.O.L.

“Honestly,” Laura continued, “I’m pretty certain I’d have a panic attack midway through. What then? When you’re halfway through and can’t take another step, how do you get down?”

Our panicked eyes met.

The disclaimer for the high ropes course specified only that participants be at least fourteen-years-old and four-feet-ten-inches. I was safe by thirty-eight years and two inches. But those requirements didn’t take into consideration my stubby legs and arms or my chronic clumsiness. And I was fairly certain the terror of these recreational gallows would take twenty years off my lifetime.

I made my decision. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

Laura sighed in relief. I turned to Haley, who had remained fairly quiet. “What do you want to do?”

She raised her hands up in the air. “Not this! This should be illegal!”

The decision was mutual. We agreed this was a disaster just waiting to happen. Those swinging ropes might just as well have been wrapped around our necks.

Over the past ten months, I’d made it through forty-two of fifty-two new challenges. This was the first I’d failed to see through fruition. As we crumpled our waivers and headed downstairs, my failure troubled me. I hung my head. “I can’t believe I couldn’t go through with it.”

"Maybe we could just Photoshop ourselves in," Haley suggested.

Laura patted my back. “You failed at one. Look at it like a narrative arc in a story. There always has to be one really low point, one major conflict for the protagonist. And this was yours.”

From a writer’s view, she had a point. And, maybe there was more to it. Perhaps acknowledging our limitations is an essential part of self-discovery. We may learn just as much about life and about ourselves by discovering our weaknesses as well as our strengths.

Besides, the evening wasn’t a total loss. Being there together to watch the participants and imagine our own agony and defeat, while my cohorts spewed out some terrific one-liners, proved pretty enjoyable. Quite likely more fun than if we’d actually gone through with it. I’d never simultaneously shuddered and laughed so much. And, as a bonus, we survived to be able to say we’d failed.

I never stepped a foot on one of those treacherous swings. 

But, damn if it wasn’t the best experience I never had.

What constitutes failure and success? Do we get points in life just for showing up? When's the last time you failed and felt OK with it?

Catching a Flight to Nowhere

I am not an obsessive worrier, and one glance at my mopboards confirms I’m no compulsive cleaner. Yet my approach to planning and scheduling screams OCD. I write a detailed to-do list every morning and every night. I compile lists of lists. I jot down completed items I forgot to originally note, just so I can literally cross them off. And, before I head out on a vacation, I plot every minute.

Clearly, I would never consider getting up one day and driving an hour to the airport, booking the next available flight out to wherever it was going, and then hopping aboard—with no hotel reservations, no car rental, and no itinerary. Until the day I did.

I wouldn’t allow myself to plan specifics of this new life experience, yet a few details did require forethought. I needed to hire a pet-sitter, schedule a couple days off work, and pack. But how does one pack for a weekend trip to a totally unknown location, especially in mid-March with its infamous lamb-and-lion split-personality? Considering I could land anywhere from Miami, to Denver, to Fargo, North Dakota, I made a packing list (thank God, this one list was allowed), covering all my bases with a bathing suit, cover-up, and a pair of Sperry boat shoes—but also a winter coat, gloves, and boots.

I also had to ponder how exactly I might pay for the trip. I had no idea how much this last-minute flight might set me back. When I posted my plans on Facebook the night before, readers began quoting me disturbing estimates. In a panic, I threw out a half-joking request for donated air miles. An hour later, a long-time friend offered me enough unused points for my entire flight. Score!

I called Delta and was assured I could simultaneously transfer the miles and book a flight at the Detroit Metro counter the next day.

For the first time ever, I was able to take my time that morning heading to the airport. Forget my usual race through the terminal, praying I didn’t miss my flight. This time, I knew I’d be right on time for some flight—I just didn’t know which one.

I wandered into the terminal, both excited and nervous about the possibilities of my weekend. I could wind up somewhere like Hopeulikit, Georgia or maybe Hooker Corner, Indiana (which I recently discovered are totally real towns). I was sure both these places were lovely. Still, I hoped I’d end up in a big city I’d never visited or even better, a warm beach somewhere, especially after the sadistic Ohio winter that kept roaring in my frostbitten face.

I approached the Delta counter and explained my long story to the attendant. She gave me a somewhat confused smile and said she’d love to help me. However, she had no way at all of knowing which departing flights had available seats, let alone which ones were eligible for SkyMile points.

I readjusted my dropped chin and plopped onto a bench in the terminal. I called the phone number on my SkyMiles card and explained my dilemma. My new best friend at Delta loved the idea of The 52/52 Project, but didn’t seem to fully comprehend the idea of that day’s mission.

“OK,” she said. “So, where exactly do you want to go?”

“I don’t care. See, I’m not allowed to choose,” I explained again. “Just tell me the next flight out from Detroit—wherever it is going—which hasn’t begun boarding yet and still has an available seat that is eligible for SkyMiles.”

“Oh.” She paused. A very long pause. “So, I have to choose a flight for you?”

“Exactly,” I said. “Hey, I’m really sorry. Am I putting too much pressure on you?”

“Um, yeah. But, alright, if you truly just want the next available flight, it’s… well, it looks like it’s Fort Myers, Florida.”

I did a happy dance around the terminal.

My celebration was premature. She told me she couldn’t book the flight until the miles were transferred. And that could only be done online.

Did these people not understand my planning anxieties? I needed a boarding pass pronto, so I knew where I was going and when, and could then at least check those rather significant items off my mental list! While I was at it, I also wanted to make a list of every person who had lied or misinformed me about this whole fiasco of a process, so I could file a formal complaint.

I plopped back down on the bench. Sure, I had both my iPhone and my laptop with me, but I knew my best bet was to call Son #2, the techno-geek in the family. He was surely sitting in front of a computer and could manage the entire thing faster than I could even look up the web site. But he kept getting error messages, and a half-hour passed with no progress.

Just as I began to feel certain the flight would begin boarding before I was booked and I’d end up on the next flight instead (it would inevitably be Fargo), my confirmation flashed across my phone. Happy dance resumed! I collected my boarding pass and raced through the airport.

Next up: Finding a hotel. As I rode through the terminal’s seemingly endless series of moving sidewalks, I searched on my iPhone. Huh. Apparently, Florida in March was a popular destination. Thanks to spring breaks, most hotels were either full or charging prime rates.

Finding I still had 30 minutes left before boarding time, I stopped for a Bloody Mary. Did I mention my deep-seated fear of flying? One Bloody Mary generally took the edge off just enough to get me through any turbulence and fears of faulty-engine crash landings. I glanced up at the TV in the airport bar and watched a breaking news report about a missing Malaysian plane. Maybe I’d suck that drink right down and order another.

Meanwhile, I called my sister, DC, a travel guru. Within minutes, she texted back with information about a single room available at an oceanfront hotel in Fort Myers Beach. Although I’d stayed there years ago and knew it was terrific, the nightly rate was definitely more than I planned to spend. But, my airfare was covered and only a few decent hotel options remained. I decided to splurge. Wasn’t I worth it? Besides, I wouldn’t have to pay for a single night after my plane crashed enroute.

Thankfully, the flight was smooth and proved eventful only because I found myself seated directly across from a co-worker, and I discovered the woman next to her followed The 52/52 Project. What were the odds? She bought me a Bloody Mary. Between our conversation and the vodka, I never noticed if the plane—or my legs—were shaking.

My hotel balcony overlooked the pool, the tiki bar, and the ocean. It was sunny and 80 degrees in Fort Myers. As I unpacked, I gleefully tossed aside my coat, mittens, and boots.

I spent the next day with old high school friends who drove over from Naples, where they happened to be vacationing when they read on Facebook about my final destination. I hung out that night at the hotel’s tiki bar. The crowd, not particularly warm and fuzzy, was disappointing. After the bar closed, I wandered back toward my room to sit on the balcony.

After a while, I heard a group of people talking and laughing by the pool. The introverted and unmotivated part of me felt compelled to sit tight. But through the past several months, I’d learned that pushing myself and taking a chance often paid off. So, I headed back down and invited myself to their little group.

Out of everyone I talked to that weekend, these six guys and the one young man’s girlfriend—all of whom were twenty-something and Muslim—were the best folks I met. Much like the Stranger Party I hosted a few months back, this evening proved that new friendships don’t always require having a whole lot in common.

Other than these couple of social outings, I spent the weekend simply walking the beach and gorging on seafood. But was there really any better plan of action for a Florida vacation? Besides, I figured how I spent the trip was far less important than how I’d planned—or more specifically hadn’t planned it.

Although I had originally expected to return home on Sunday, as soon as I learned I’d been blessed with a warm and sunny setting I scheduled my return flight for Monday. It never crossed my mind that this would be St. Patrick’s Day, and that a St. Paddy’s parade would be marching down the street right in front of my hotel.

My taxi waited for me about a mile up the blocked-off road, yet I figured I was nearly obligated to watch the parade. I stopped along my walk to the cab to take some photos with the crowd and mingle with the crazies. The morning could have only been more delightful if I’d had time for a green beer or two. I’d settle for a Bloody Mary on the plane home.

When I made my list of potential 52/52 experiences, this impromptu adventure appeared to be my most half-assed idea ever.

For the new me, who has learned to let so much roll off my shoulders, that made it the best—by a sky mile.

Maybe the very best plan is no plan at all.

Are you a planner or an off-the-cuff sort? What's the last vacation you took and loved? If you headed out on a mystery trip, where would you hope to land?