What Are the Chances That I’m Having a Good Time Right Now?
As you read this, I may or may not be having a good time in Mexico. The chances, however, are that I’m having a great time especially since we will be in the quaintest of towns; the cobblestone-street-lined San Miguel de Allende for a good friend’s wedding. But I have a ton of fear around traveling – a lot of fear, in fact, about being outside of my iron-clad routine in general.
Sure, I talk a big game about bravery in our athletic lives and in the gym — which I 100% abide by — but go to that cluster-ef called the airport and handle my HUGE fear of flying where every bump may be my last …? Listen, logically I get that the plane wants to stay in the air. I get that air pockets are part of, well, the air. Intellectually, I completely understand that travelling only adds to the richness of our living experience. I just won’t be eating for four days, I’m convinced. I’ll be harangued at customs — interrogated probably! And Donald Trump is flying into Mexico City the day before we do?? What the ef! What if I run into Trump and I go bananas and then I’m arrested and held in a cell for so long that they make a Lifetime movie about my ordeal? What if I forget my toothbrush? Or lose my passport? What if I get so drunk at the wedding that I disgrace the literally 300 year old church — and then I’m back to jail with now a Netflix mystery miniseries about me?
I have not been out of the country in 20 years. Isn’t that embarrassing? I only know this because when I went to renew my passport I had to sheepishly answer that question. The passport lady shook her head confirming how sheltered I keep myself. 20 years ago I won a trip for two to Paris for being a top (semiconductor) buyer at my company. I took my mother who immediately caught near-pneumonia the day after we landed. She insisted I go explore while she hacked up her lungs in the precious little French bed of our excruciatingly-cute hotel room. So, off I went. For six days I explored Paris — alone. I went to a night club that featured a swing band of all things where Belgian musicians with duck-tailed hair sang in perfect American twang. I learned to swing dance in Paris from a handle-bar mustached man named Gentil who spoke no English but proposed marriage many times in Spanish. On a walk to the Eiffel Tower I decided to stop in every church along the way including the tiny, stone San Julian built in the 1600’s where a man was practicing his cello near the alter. I sat in a wicker chair in the back and bawled my eyes out. I went to a gay nightclub on the Champs de Elysee and left at four in the morning, emerging onto the street where a fresh coat of snow had fallen, Christmas lights were still hung, and three, near seven-foot tall drag queens were approaching, just arriving at the club. I drank Kir Royales at bars, and many, many lattes at cafes. I swore I’d live there.
Ok, so maybe I can have a good time when I just release my (apparently) very important grip on my fears. Hopefully I’m doing that right now in San Miguel. Maybe/hopefully I’m dancing on a table at this very moment. But man, navigating this fear beforehand is rough. I have no advice on how you can handle yours. I know that the only thing I felt I could do was face it and breathe. And tell myself over and over again that it will be ok; this is going to be fun damn it. And then when I’m in Mexico I’ll kick myself, wondering what the whole worry was about. Until I have to fly home, of course.
“Franklin (Hill) Total”
3: Back up
Outdoor WOD with Kenny
Ocean & Montana
–NO REGULAR CLASSES–