When Eat, Pray, Love came out, I, like millions of others, read the book cover to cover and dreamed of taking off for distant lands. Eating my way through pasta and pizza. Enjoying silence (in very scant supply around this house!). Remembering who I was before I was a wife and mother.
Then, I watched The Bucket List and saw the men's point of view. And, frankly, I identified far more with their List than the mid-life crisis of Elizabeth Gilbert. I started a List of my own. And that opened a Pandora's box of "what ifs" and slight regrets...
The point of a Bucket List is to have a certain number of things to do, or be, or see, or whatever before you die. I see it as almost a "to do list" for living. A list of things that don't have to do with laundry, or cleaning, or errands. It's a selfish list. A list only for me. Not of what I can do for others, but what I can do for myself. To make me feel alive. To feel rushes of adrenaline that have nothing to do with being late for the carpool line. To eat exotic, and sometimes disgusting, foods that I didn't have to make. To nourish my heart and soul.
And, after reviewing my List, I found a pattern.
Apparently, I have a taste for adventure. And roasted bugs.
Almost everything on my List is a place I'd like to travel to, a high adrenaline activity I'd like to participate in, or a native food I want to eat. And, I'm not talking wanting to go to Italy and eat pizza (although that would be divine...) No, I want to go on a rustic safari and eat roasted mealy worms. I want to work on an archaeological excavation site and eat fried crickets. I want to learn how to scuba dive and then eat raw eel or something.
Sure, there are "normal" things on my List, like owning a convertible and hiking part of the Appalachian Trail (I mean, it's only a hour or two away. It's practically beckoning to me.) and going white water rafting (ditto). But, that Explorer part of my personality, tucked away behind the overwhelming Negotiator and Builder, is desperate to get out.
When I was a teenager and in my early twenties, I did travel. Not a whole lot, but enough to whet the appetite. I went up and down the coast of Eastern Asia with my mom and aunt, and got to eat curry and yaki mandu for the first time. I discovered that I have a high tolerance for "gross" food--aka, the "ammonia bread" I ate in Bangkok (it was from a street vendor and I was half-starved for dinner. It was the best damn bread I have ever eaten--and it smelled like pee. There was a big bubble in the middle where it rose, and when you ripped it apart, it blew a puff of ammonia gas at you. My mom and aunt were totally repulsed. They were convinced it was boiled in urine. I just wanted another piece.) I found that if someone didn't tell me what a food was, I'd probably eat it. And ask for seconds.
There are stories of me eating a giant gray "meatball" of meat, with weird holes all over it, during dim sum at the Jumbo in Hong Kong. It was so delicious, I had another. Fragrant and warm, it almost fell apart on my tongue. It didn't need any sauce or condiment to enhance the flavor. It was meaty and delicious. And, to this day, my family jokes that I ate either lung or testicle...
Someday, I hope to continue on the List. To spend the night in a tree house. To dig for dinosaur bones. To see the Nile and the Amazon. To take a volunteer vacation and build a school or dig a well in a third world country where I don't speak the language. To live a slightly less strenuous version of Destination Truth or National Geographic. To prove to myself that I am braver than I believe, stronger than I seem, and smarter than I think (to paraphrase Christopher Robin to Pooh Bear).
But for now, my life is marriage and motherhood. And that's okay. In fact, that's how it's supposed to be. My only regrets are that I didn't travel and do more in my comparative youth. That I was too much of a "good girl" who worried about grades and money and parental approval. That I didn't take complete advantage of the years when I should have been a complete dumb ass and taken risks and made mistakes and embraced the whole carpe diem thing.
And, that's a lesson I hope to teach my kids. To take calculated risks, to take advantage of opportunities, to not worry so much about what others (and I) think. To follow their own drummer. Or band. To have a "past" that's not lily white, but would make for some awesome stories to tell their grandkids.
I don't think I have to worry about that with WMB, since he's the one most likely to call me from a satellite phone in Nepal when he's 16 to tell me he's missing curfew because he's hunting down a Yeti in the Himalayas. He's definitely my "wild man". I have no doubt that he'll wander the world live life on his own terms. He's got more of MacGyver's "who cares" genes in him, and I love that. I'll certainly miss him like hell when he's off climbing K2 or digging for Captain Whomever's treasure on a deserted island, but I'll be proud that he's following his own path and his own bliss.
My little Drama Queen, though, is more like me. And I want to know that you don't have to wait until you're grown to have a "List", that she should follow her dreams wherever they may lead all her life. To welcome mistakes and regrets. To live life (at least for a while) out of a backpack and with her passport in hand, if that's what she wants.
And for myself, I'm resolving to live life less safely. To take more risks. Calculated risks. Maybe I don't need to go base jumping, but maybe I'll try bungee jumping one day.
And, to take advantage of every opportunity to eat steamed balls and ammonia bread. And, to take seconds...
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