Hello kittens! Listen, I have something very important to
tell you. I am an addict. Seriously, Breaking Bad has derailed my life. I took
inventory today, and realized something’s got to give. I haven’t done laundry
in a month, Murphy’s starting to look like a neglected meth baby and you’ve all
been patiently awaiting my A-Camp stories. I’ve learned the hard way that addiction
hurts everyone involved. Also, I’m pretty much convinced drug
cartel assassins are secretly monitoring every move I make. Everybody on board?
Let’s get back to it.
P.S. Thank you to everyone who relentlessly hounded me. This
one’s for you… Ok all of them are for you.
Wednesday, September 12: Day 1!
Wednesday morning I dragged my body out of bed after two
hours of not really sleeping. I stumbled around gathering last-minute camp
supplies, mumbling and trying not to step all over Lucy, who appeared to be doing
the same. My eyes were swollen and my brain felt like one of those weird growing
bathtub toys. You know those sponge animal things that kids soak overnight and
they swell into giant, slimy creature blobs? That was my brain.
ULOL came bouncing through the front door, fresh from the
dog park and packed us into her car, because she’s wonderful and voluntarily chauffeured
us to the airport.
Things I remember: delirium blur and tunnel vision. Airport
security patting down my hair for razor blades. Lucy looking anywhere but me. The
biggest quad shot americano, clutched between my sleepy hands. The
woman behind the counter, like a young Meryl Streep. I wondered what she wanted
to be when she grew up. I wondered if she ever wanted to be anything other than
a woman behind a counter making airport breakfast sandwiches; if her friends
ever told her she looked like Meryl Streep, and she laughed but also agreed. My
hands shaking; thinking how big the veins looked, how close to the surface. Me
looking anywhere but Lucy, rereading the same sentence over and over. Five minutes
straight: The poet’s life is just so much
crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the
cinematic window.
90 minutes later, outside our gate: We haven’t lost anything you know.
We haven’t lost anything?
No,
we didn’t have anything in the first place.
On the airplane and I’m curled into myself next to the window
watching one giant wing flex, ready for takeoff. I pulled up my hood, made
myself invisible and finally slept.
One ginger ale, a bag of mixed nuts and an indefinite amount
of time later, we touched down in overcast Los Angeles. Lucy made it through
the flight without hyperventilating and/or having me slip a Xanax into her
drink. We taxied to the gate, listening to one very disgruntled man complain
about how long it was taking to get off the plane. Personally, I could have
stayed there another hundred years. My social anxiety levels peaked when the
doors opened, and didn’t drop again until early Friday.
We gathered our things and also our courage. Lucy patted me
on the head (literally, like a child or a sleepy puppy), asked if I was ready.
I said yes, even though I wasn’t sure because not being ready was starting to
feel exhausting.
The Autostraddle demi-gods had told us to gather in baggage
claim to await our shuttles. You guys, I’m going to be honest with you. No
amount of mental preparation takes away the inherent shock of encountering a sprawling
group of lesbians. Lucy spotted them the first time we walked by, but it took
three more passes for us to actually join them. I’ve never seen so many styles
of flannel. Ukuleles littered the area. I felt out of place with my non-alternative
lifestyle haircut. We perched on the perimeter of the group, trying to subtly observe
everybody. I could identify at least three different types of mohawk from where
I was sitting.
And then Gabby,
Laura and Carmen were there! And they were real people, who wore clothes and had hangovers and wanted
another cup of coffee just as much as I did! I’ve been reading Autostraddle for
about a year now, following and admiring the fuck out of these women. Sitting
in the Los Angeles airport, just existing in the same place as them felt
surreal in a way I’m not sure how to explain. But there they were, taking our
names and helping gather our things and shepherding us to the bus. You guys, I
just can’t even.
Several hours, one coffee stop at Karen's Donuts and a dangerous, winding
mountain road later we were thanking our stunned bus driver and climbing off
the bus. Alpine Meadows greeted us with hand-drawn A-Camp signs and the first
patches of California sun.
I promise I won’t leave you guys in the lurch like last
time, but that’s all for now… I need to have a staring
competition with the pile of laundry on my floor.
I love you, creeps.
No comments:
Post a Comment