I spent Monday last week through Monday this week on the road. Two book tour events, a speaking engagement, and a business meeting finished off by a weekend in Las Vegas for one dear friend’s 40th birthday and another’s wedding. As little time possible was spent on The Strip, as having lived in Vegas, I have no love lost for the city as a destination. I affectionately refer to it as “where culture goes to die.” You can’t change my opinion on the matter.
When I wasn’t visiting and celebrating with friends, I was outdoors (see image to the right). Some ill-informed voice in my head thought that I was still in my mid-30s and advised me that hiking/trail running for 10 miles on Saturday followed by another 6 miles on Sunday was a fan-fucking-tastic idea. To give you an idea of the damage I did to myself, I was offered a wheelchair upon arriving in Denver (fuck you) which I politely declined.
But there’s another kind of damage that came from this weekend. Or damage uncovered, rather.
It was the realization that I’d buried a part of myself for the past 3.5 years since moving to Denver.
When I lived in Las Vegas, I had this completely amazeballz group of friends. We climbed, camped, hiked, cooked at one another’s houses, played water volleyball on inflatable animals in one another’s pools…I spent half my time outdoors and strangely enough, moved to an outdoor mecca where I take advantage of very little this beautiful state has to offer. Sure, I have a herd of bikes and take the twice-a-year hike when I haul my ass to the mountains. I downhill mountain bike in the summer on select weekends.
But my lifestyle? This weekend I was startled when I realized why I haven’t been completely happy since moving to Denver.
I’d left my lifestyle behind.
It’s startling to be startled. It’s rude. It doesn’t care whether you like it or not, it’s comin’ for ya anywhoo and you’re due for a pretty sizable fuck you when it lands on your doorstep. Or your sofa, for that matter.
After being on the road for 8 days nonstop, I came home last night from my book signing event in Boulder at the iconic Boulder Book Store. Great folks, great event, people bought books, I continued to feel like a colossal tool for signing them (really? me?), and I walked in my door around 9:30-10pm last night exhausted and ready to collapse onto the sofa…
except for the fact that there was a DEAD FUCKING SQUIRREL ON IT. Case in point.
Small Dog was sitting next to it doing this subversive little grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr and Hippopotamus was being a total spaz, circling the thing as if to say GOT IT I GOT THE SQUIRREL OH YES SQUIRREL I’M SO GLAD TO SEE YOU LADY I GOT IT.
And this was also startling. I may or may not have shrieked. You might also notice that the squirrel is on the Unauthorized Blanket, which is my favorite blanket on the entire fucking planet which makes the situation suck even more. (Note: dogs were escorted outside, Unfortunate Squirrel was wrapped in a sacrificial bath towel and escorted to its final resting place without incident. Unauthorized Blanket was chucked in the wash along with a tad of bleach on the HOT AS A MOTHERFUCKER wash cycle.)
Kinda lands in your life like a dead squirrel on your sofa at 10pm.
Change is afoot. I’m moving my life (and self). Physically and emotionally. And I’ll tell you — dead squirrel and all, I slept straight through the night last night for the first time in what seems to be ages. It’s a busy time — reclaiming the things I thought I could do without (but can’t), granting myself permission to trade convenience for access, and doing yet another ushering of people who give me grief right out the door.
And there’s a business shift afoot, too. It will be launching on Monday, July 16. If you want to stay in the loop on what it might be, use this snazzy opt-in form. Gimme your email address. That’s it. Tell me to fuck off anytime.
Enjoy the day. Hope yours is filled with fewer fucking squirrels than mine. Actually, copulating squirrels wouldn’t be so bad.