lamiki

Back in the day, a friend tried to change the phrase “let’s hang out” to “let’s play.” We were teenagers and pushing our way into adulthood, yet we latched on to selective sentiments of simplicity and innocence.

The term “let’s play” didn’t stick. We moved on. We grew up.

As an adult, we get pulled in so many directions. But when was the last time you just played? And I’m talking played in the sense of silliness. Playing in the way that it’s not for professional development or a hobby, but for fun. Because you want to, because you need to? Played to the point where you laughed at your own laughter?

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Last night I climbed a rope. And today it’s still a big deal.

In January Josh Hanagarne, of the World’s Strongest Librarian, met his 2010 goal on the second day of the year. After watching that, I decided I wanted a goal too. So I marched into the gym and declared to my coach that I wanted to learn how to climb a rope. I’ve never climbed a rope in my life. Never.

The fact that I wanted to climb a rope and even go to CrossFit is a big deal.

Growing up, I hated working out. I was never the girl who played sports (only non-cut sports, thank you very much). Never loved gym class. I swear I was the only girl in school who sweated during class and whose face was beat red after running “the mile.” You’re already self-conscious enough when surviving middle school, so why the heck to they add physical education on top of it? (for the love of the education system, do not answer that). I also hate gyms. My friend Lindsey recently wrote about the culture of gyms in Paris. And while most adults in the U.S. don’t dress up to go to the gym and workout, I still felt unwelcome in the 24HourFitness-es of the world.

So the fact that I enjoy this crazy thing called CrossFit is an extreme accomplishment on it’s own.

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Five years ago I helped launch the most ambitious book festival in the Pacific Northwest and I was scared shitless.

At the launch party, a fancy dinner hosted at a private home overlooking the Columbia Gorge, I meekly held a glass of wine and admired the A-list authors in attendance. The authors I invited. The authors whose agents and publicists I spent months talking to and negotiating as to why it would be an awesome idea to send their talent to this brand spanking new festival. This festival that was filled with promise and about to be revealed.

I was eavesdropping on stories of these great literary minds and I was afraid to put my hand out and say, “Hi, we’ve spoken before.”

When you’re afraid, usually someone will step in. That someone was the founder of the festival, a man saw how hard I worked. He pulled me into a conversation he was having with some of his fellow authors, sang my praises, made me blush, and ended by saying, “Can you believe she’s only 18?”

That’s when when all of the strength inside of me shriveled up and died.

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