Last summer I fell out of a treehouse and broke my shoulder. Those twelve words should give you a pretty good glimpse into what I’m like. My mom begrudgingly drove me to the urgent care, her face a glowing red, as she listened to her 18-year-old daughter explain the ridiculous circumstances around how she broke her shoulder. “You’re supposed to be an adult,” my mom said a couple hundred times between the time I walked into the urgent care and the time I got my sling off and finished physical therapy.
I love adventure. I love trouble. I love mischief.
The infamous treehouse is in the backyard of my best friend. Her dad built it for her, so it is a real treehouse, not the kind you can buy at Home Depot. The problem was that there was no ladder, you actually have to climb a large tree to gain entrance. My friend, climbed it with such grace, I thought, how hard can it be?
I am clumsy. I am courageous. I was foolish.
The tree incident is just one of many unfortunate situations I have found myself in due to my love for adventure. The list could go on forever, from the time I got a leaf stuck in the back of my eye and had to have it surgically removed to almost falling 129 feet off a cliff in Belize. I’ve had three concussions, broke numerous bones, and even did a three year stint in a wheelchair. I’ve had more than my fair share of trips to the hospital. Now don’t get me wrong, some of these hospital visits were due to things beyond my control, but, nonetheless, my friends like to joke about how prone I am to injury/illness.
As unfortunate as all my hospital stays, casts, splints, slings, eye patches may have been at the time of incident, it gives me a lot of subjects to write about. Which works out very conveniently because
I love to write. I love rituals. There is a method to my madness.
The proper location is essential. A hushed coffee shop with the aroma of espresso and hard work in the air is ideal. My first draft is handwritten, so messy no eyes besides mine could read it. There are things crossed out, arrows drawn. It looks more like a map than a pice of writing. My chaotic map turns into a typed rough draft. It turns from black to white to full of color in a matter of minutes as my colored, ball-point pens paint over the words. This process repeats itself many of times. It has to be perfect.
University of Michigan 2018