New York to Moab (an epic adventure)

About six years ago at the alter of a small chapel in Golden, CO, I accidentally saw my husband-to-be before our wedding ceremony. They say this is bad luck. I never believed in “bad luck,” just coincidence. But that was six years ago, and now I don’t think the bad luck is such a wife’s tale. The chapel was filled with white lilies and red converse high tops, black candles and white doc martins. It was a “punk rock” wedding with a punk rock ending. We swore we’d love each other forever. Our glasses filled with non-alcoholic wine purchased at Safeway only hours earlier, we toasted to a lifetime of happiness.

I don’t blame him or the bad luck or the non-alcoholic wine. Most of the blame still falls upon myself. After I left him, I unconsciously brainwashed myself listening to “Love is Suicide” by the Smashing Pumpkins every night before I went to bed. I was a bitter person.

About a year ago in a New York City Subway station my luck changed. It was a new beginning—a lust for life. I won’t attribute the transformation to a Mr. R. Baca or a Mr. Saucy Cowboy or a Mr. Eugene Hultz. But they certainly were part of my inspiration. With passion and determination on my side I invented such activities as “Sunday Funday,” I started going out on the weekends to seek adventure instead of debauchery. I learned how to snowboard at high speeds. I climbed a 14er and made it to the top. I started running and doing yoga. I rebuilt a bike. I learned how to DJ. I bought a scooter. Go Go GO!!!


A few days ago I went to Moab. When I got back, I got a hair cut. Now I have bangs! Boom.

I used to get really sad around this time of year, but this has been a particularly good year. I’m glad I decided to take a negative and turn it into a positive. Suicide is selfish. Life is good. I wonder what I’ll do this year?