Don’t Be Bored

The summer after the sixth grade, I became friends with this girl, Anna, when I joined the cheerleading squad. Anna was a year older than me, and we never had occasion to hang out together before, even though we lived in a tiny town and went to the smallest private school in the area.

Anna lived way out in the country. Her house had a huge yard, and there were no neighborhood kids to play with. As May came to an end and we talked about our plans for the summer, I admitted to having mixed feelings. Summer always started with feelings of endless freedom and possibility, which soon devolved into oppressive heat and boredom. I spent much of the summer begging my sister to drive me to the swimming pool or snow cone stand. Eventually, I just wanted to go back to school, even though I hated it. School was full of stupid rules, adults making up for their miserable lives by making kids miserable, and kids whose primary mode of interaction was insult contests. But at least I wouldn’t be bored. Sadly, I prefered the stressful predictability of school to the directionlessness of summer.

“Really?” Anna said. “I don’t get bored.”

Seriously. She said this. And this is why we became friends. When I asked how that was possible, she said, “Last summer, I just decided I didn’t want to be bored, so whenever I felt bored, I would just do something.”

This was probably the most enlightened thing I’d heard in my young life. When Anna was bored, she would go ride her horse, paint a picture, dress up in her mom’s old clothes, rearrange the furniture in her bedroom, listen to her parents’ old records (this is how I learned about George Carlin and the 7 dirty words), make jewelry, climb a tree … you get the picture. Anna was awesome. That summer, and for the next several years while we both lived in our little hometown, our friendship revolved around doing weird shit just because it was fun. We wrote on walls, glued things to other things, adopted a pet lobster, rode shopping cards through Wal-Mart, climbed on top of elementary schools, and pretty much did anything else that made us laugh or made the world a little more interesting.

We had a great fucking time. 

Don’t wait for life to come to you. Don’t be bored. Go be awesome.

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the most disingenuous place on earth

My friend and I needed an adventure. It was summer, and everyone in the world seemed to be on a beach somewhere. I thought I would die if I stayed inside all weekend. So we decided to take a road trip. Each of us brought an iPad, a notebook, a pen, and a change of clothes. On the morning we left, I had a hangover and no idea where we would spend the night.

The beach always makes me think of Death in Venice. Last year it was the Outer Banks where I was privy to a beautiful drunken entropy among my own acquaintances. This year it was Ocean City.

Everyone at the beach seems to be grasping for some kind of infinity. Nothing makes you feel young and gorgeous quite like sunbathing, and nothing proves your impotence quite like the sea. But pairing the pleasant doom of the average beach-goer with the frantic mating ritual that is Senior Week in Ocean City creates a whole new level of existential crisis, which of course, is my favorite type of crisis.

The city is contrived expressly to cater to egos aged 18 to 24. Every girl in town looked like Ke$ha or someone from Jersey Shore, and every boy looked like he needed a shirt and a generous slathering of aloe vera.Yet, in a crowd of thousands of identical drunk teenagers, they all managed to maintain a sense of self-importance. Each and every one of them was utterly forgettable and pointedly ignoring my friend and me, the two 30-ish women meandering slowly and soberly, observing the whole scene with bemusement. Occasionally one would hear our snickering commentary and shoot a scornful look our way.

It wasn’t just arrogant youth on the boardwalk, of course. There were a notable minority of 40-somethings, mostly sun-leathered and tattooed but also the occasional splotchy pink softness of caged animals who had been unexpectedly freed, blinking and flinching under neon lights.

Senior week is exactly what it sounds like: a time when the new high school graduates from all the surrounding states flock to the beach to take part in the parade of youth and ego. My friend and I were intruding. At least the 40-somethings had the decency to get drunk and shut up.

I would like to say something profound about Ocean City, about what it means to be an adult woman in America, or about our cultural obsession with youth, but the whole day my brain felt stifled by the heat and the flies, the smell of carnival food and the sounds of the most disingenuous place on earth.

Walking along the boardwalk at night in the garish glare, I began to have terrifying repetitive thoughts:

This is a place where crimes happen. This is a place where girls’ lives are ruined.

Teenage boys leered down from balconies and postured on the sea wall as girls affected looks of flirtatious disdain. In the back of my mind, I was calculating the shear unsearchable number of hotel rooms in town, the dark and unkempt places into which one might disappear. The odds were against any girl on her own.

I found shelter in the company of a traveling companion, someone equally out of place, someone who could laugh at the absurdity and keep me from wandering any further down that dark path. We went to the water’s edge where we observed countless identical couples making out on the beach. We commented quietly about the heteronormativty of the place. Wouldn’t it be nice, we said, if one of these couples turned out to be two boys sharing a clandestine kiss? Eventually we did see two boys walking clumsily through the thick sand holding hands. We cheered at this little victory.

Every hotel room in town was booked except for a few dirty rooms that ran up to $300-$400 for the night. There was no place for us. We stopped for coffee and drove back home, comparing notes on the day and feeling a little adventurous and a little old. We were asleep by 1 a.m., safe, sound and sober. Not even a little sunburned.

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At Fenwick Beach

Sting of a sand bug
smell of ocean
children playing in the distance.
Sun, cool air, early summer,
people turning their bodies on the sand like sundials.

It was worth the drive,
even with a hangover,
even with the car jerking along,
driving past splotchy pink college bros
and a million girls who look like Ke$ha,
wondering if this is a good day
or a bad day for my ass
when I am a million miles from a full length mirror.

A sea gull flying against the wind
remembering our smallness
the seagull’s delayed shadow
the tattooed men
the skin parade
the boats
the ocean the ocean.

Families baptize their young in the surf,
sun worshipers with no concept of ritual
who turn slowly with the hours
texting someone in a city
too far away to matter.

this Italian man.
this Moroccan man.
this Israeli man.

The way the day settles in.
The bare shameless humanity of the beach.

The sudden lack of resistance
leaves you flailing, a fish out of water.

Yes, I’m still working on an essay about Ocean City itself, but in the mean time, here are my notes from the beach at Fenwick State Park in the form of what might be a poem.

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Monday Night Nonfiction: Promise

3073629954_56d11d9afb_bUp Go the Lights by mccun934

She dreams about the promise of summer. She wishes she could spend every day sweating and every night watching fireflies. Sometimes, in the middle of December or January, she catches a whiff of summer, and it makes her head spin. She begins to feel as though she’s been in the sun all day, floating on her back in the pool or bobbing along in the lake, her legs whipping wildly in the murky water, thrashing away imaginary snakes.

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