As part of my never-ending quest for self-improvement (self-fulfillment? self-actualization? no, definitely self-improvement) I decided to learn how to sail. Please allow me to note the deliberate word choice in previous sentence. I did not decide that I wanted to learn how to sail or that I would try to learn how to sail (please mentally insert Yoda "there is no try" quote here) but that I was going to do it, dammit. About 75% of those with whom I shared this information informed me that sailing was for rich people and accused me of trying to dig up a wealthy husband. Since the thought of digging up any husband who doesn't have a criminal record or twelve children much less any actual money seems pretty unlikely at this point, I blithely ignored those who doubted my motives and signed up for a day-long class at the local sailing club. Yes, mateys, I was ready to batten down the hatches and learn the ropes.
The trouble began when I looked at the supply list for the class. Most of it was fairly straight forward. Lunch, sunblock, water bottle: check! Some of the items, however, were a little less obvious. Boat shoes? Quick dry pants? Like...the kind Bear Grylls wears? Or are my yoga pants ok? And of course, underneath the quick-dry pants, the instructors wanted us to wear a bathing suit. Fabulous! Nothing I would rather do than wear a bathing suit in front of a dozen strangers. Oh yeah, except I don't actually own a bathing suit, since most of the public "bathing" that I do involves laying by pools or drinking beer in hot tubs, both of which can be adequately accomplished wearing underwear. But I was not going to let my wardrobe limitations stand in the way of my date with the open sea (or the Willamette river, as was the case), so I set my alarm for 7:00 on Sunday morning, determined to locate these items before we pulled up the anchor at 10:00.
Things I Would Rather Have Been Doing When I Woke Up at 7:00 on Sunday Morning:
1. Anything other than waking up to go shopping
2. Anything other than waking up to go sailing
2. Anything other than waking up at all
That pretty much captures it. At that point, the thought of parading around a marina in my underwear seemed like a perfectly acceptable option if the alternative meant leaving my lovely warm bed before it was aaaabsolutely necessary. And so I snoozed. And snoozed. And...
Somehow in the middle of all this snoozing it became 9:30. Fuck. But I was up! And searching for non-moldy food to bring for lunch! And for yoga pants! And my keys! When I finally sprinted out the door, my GPS informed me that my journey would take 16 minutes with traffic. It was 9:44. If every single thing went exactly right between now and my arrival at the sailing club, there was a possibility I could avoid being the girl who both wore her underwear instead of a bathing suit and made everybody wait at the dock. I had already reconciled myself to the first; I really didn't want to be both.
Fast forward about 5 minutes to me realizing I have no idea where I parked my car. Fast forward another 5 minutes to me finding the car but realizing I have almost no gas. Let's leap ahead once more to me sitting in the traffic which my f***ing GPS claimed to have accounted for when, in fact, it pretty much just threw me under the bus. Or rather behind the bus. Or rather behind 12,000 non-moving buses.
At this point I came dangerously close to bailing out (ha), going home, and getting back into bed. I could feel the despair and self-loathing boiling inside me. "Why," I demanded of myself as the panic spiraled out of control, "Am I the kind of person who always oversleeps, never has any gas, AND DOESN'T OWN A GODDAM BATHING SUIT!!! WTF???"
But then, suddenly, the traffic parted ways! My exit lay before my, clear of cars and beckoning my sputtering ship like the northern star. The fumes I was running on lasted all the way to the sailing club and I was only FIVE minutes late!
The rest of the day is a story for another time. However, I can say with confidence that I did not humiliate myself any more than any other participant, and if anyone laughed at my fake bathing suit they did so privately. Overall it was a good experience. Now I am left hoping I can capture the serenity and joy that I felt upon seeing that exit, and channel it the next time I am freaking out in the middle of a completely avoidable clusterfuck. I mean, I guess I could focus on avoiding clusterfucks instead of channeling unexpected moments of Zen, but frankly that seems like a set up for failure. I may not be in my nature to avoid disaster, but I can do my best to see it through with some panache. Even if my sails get a little tattered, at least I am trying new things, come self-created hell or high water.
