Page 14 of Fun at Parties
I’ve always been active, but I prefer to sweat in air-conditioning, with music blasting, and where I can control the incline on the treadmill or the weight of the dumbbells in my hands. I’ll be honest, the only hike I’ve done since moving to California was one through a vineyard in Malibu with a tasting at the end. Outside is forreading a book on a blanket at the park or—for a while—brunch with Caleb and his friends. But sometimes you have to put in a little effort to see a part of this earth more beautiful than the patio bar at the Bungalow.
I follow the path toward the trailhead. By force of habit, my thumb taps the Spotify icon on my phone before I remember that I intentionally left my headphones back at the house. This is a time to be present. To focus all my senses on the experience. What I hear is not the mix I would’ve spent hours crafting. It’s my own steady breathing, birds chirping in the trees, the rhythm of my footsteps. The muscles in my shoulders loosen as I settle into a comfortable pace.Thisis why I’m here.
The sound of tires rolling through the dirt briefly suspends the whole wilderness vibes thing. A Subaru noses up on my left.
There must be more parking at the trailhead. I flash a friendly smile at the driver, shift to the edge of the path, and mentally Photoshop the car out of the scene in front of me. Until another one passes me—an electric hatchback this time, with its windows down and heavy metal music blasting.
Cars glide by at a regular clip during the rest of the half-mile walk. By the time I reach the trailhead, they’re parked in a cluster, and their drivers are unloading bikes and strapping on helmets. I recognize some of their gear—it’s serious stuff, similar to what Caleb has.
In the early days of our relationship, his eagerness was intoxicating, but it also made me uneasy. I told him I’d recently been hurt by someone else and needed to take things slow. He seemed fine with that, but after a coupleweeks, he bought me an expensive bike so I could join him on his Sunday rides. I shouldn’t have accepted, but I convinced myself I was ready for more.
He was nice enough, we had shared interests, and he liked me. Why not try? After our first ride together, he posted a picture of me on the bike with a heart-eyes emoji, and CycleLove fans reacted with excitement. After that, it didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.
I always felt like we got serious pretty quickly. But I’m starting to think our relationship was made of the trappings of seriousness without ever being serious at all. The first time he said “I love you,” he did it on-camera while we team-taught an ’80s power ballad ride. When he had wrist surgery, he didn’t ask me to go with him to the surgery center, and I didn’t offer. But we both posted photos of me squeezing his toothpaste onto his brush a few days later, and he captioned hisLove doing life with this one.
Our breakup made it painfully obvious that we’d never had a deep conversation before. A few months ago, I tried to tell him I was in a funk at work—a sentiment I wasn’t good at verbalizing, to be fair—and he gave me an uncertain look and said, “Let me cheer you up. I’m taking you to Vegas.”
There was no heart in our relationship. Which maybe shouldn’t be surprising, because there’s been something wrong with my heart since Nate.
The sight of these cyclists isn’t a good omen, but I persevere. From what I read, the nicest views start at the halfway point. The first few miles involve dense woods cut through by the occasional power line and a mostly uphill slope. One group of cyclists passes me fifteenminutes in, and there are more after that. They don’t stop coming, whizzing by every few minutes, forcing me to remain vigilant so I can stay out of their way.
The sole upside of their presence is that they’re probably keeping the bears at bay. By mile two, I realize I may have overestimated myself. Every rustle in the trees makes me jumpy; each time the grass tickles my ankle, I brace myself for a snakebite. Why didn’t I splurge on hiking boots? Also, it’s hot as hell.
Four miles in, the woods open up onto a meadow. There’s a creek winding through it, mountains in the background, the whole nine yards. I half expect the Von Trapp children to pop up out of the grass. I trot out into the field, ignoring the blister developing on my heel thanks to the sweatiness of my feet and the inadequacy of my sneakers, and wait stupidly for the beauty of my surroundings to—I don’t know, spur an epiphany or something.
I wait. And wait. Without the cover of the trees, the sun is blistering, and I’m sautéing in it like a skinless chicken breast.
The view is gorgeous, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’tchangeme. Do I need to eat, pray, and love for this to work? The only food in my bag is a squashed granola bar.
How lucky am I to be here, though? It would be rude to say anything to this meadow and these mountains except thank you. I’m lucky in pretty much every way a person can be. I have a job that other people would kill for that gives me three weeks off, paid, when I need it, to do things like hike this trail for my mental well-being. A job that hooks me up with a beautiful place to stay forfree. A life in a vibrant, incredible city. A friend like Michelle, who is sincerely invested in my happiness, and one like Bailey, who’s worth fighting for after ten years of friendship.
Reminding myself of all that luck should feel good. Instead it’s like the luck is crowding me, trapping me—in a fuckingmeadow,how does that make sense?—and I can’t breathe. The mountains themselves can sense that I don’t appreciate them the way I should, and their smiles are stiffening on their craggy faces as they glance at each other sideways and whisper,What’s wrong with this bitch?
By the time I get back to the cabin, neither my attitude nor my blister has improved. The latter is throbbing, and the limp I used on the second half of the hike to avoid aggravating it, combined with the heat and the apparently suboptimal hemline of my shorts, have conspired to create a chafing situation I’m afraid to examine too closely. Making it from the car to the house in these sneakers feels as impossible as making it to the moon on a Jet-Ski, so I take them off and waddle toward the steps in my socks.
The chafing burns, and the blister really fucking hurts. I pause by a tree and squat with my legs spread, peeking at the damage between my legs. Two pink ovals, one on the tender skin of each inner thigh. Hot and irritated, even bleeding in one spot. I rest one hand on the tree trunk for balance, kick my foot up behind me, and tug my sock down with the other hand. The blister is volcanic-looking. I wobble and drop my foot. When it reaches the ground, a sharp pain shoots through it, and my leg gives out.
I inhale a choked breath. Did I step on a rock? A stick? A bee?
No. It’s a fucking Lego.
How far into nature do I have to go to avoid having my day ruined by humankind?
Suddenly I’m beating the tree trunk with my sneaker. Smashing it repeatedly, huffing out every curse word I know one syllable at a time. I know it’s not right, and I love the planet, but I am kicking this tree’s ass, until I’m not. All my rage evaporates, and I collapse against it like it’s my dearest friend.
This is exactly like my meltdown on the bike. When did I lose my ability to cope?
When I look up, Nate is where I left him this morning: leaning on the deck railing, watching me. If the earth and I were on better terms, I’d beg it to swallow me whole right now. Instead, I squint up at him. “How much of that did you see?”
“I’m not sure whether to be most worried for the tree, your foot, or your—”
“Okay!” I cut him off as he waves his hand in the vicinity of his groin.
His mouth twitches as he ambles off, toward the door to the house. That’s it, I guess. Should I be relieved we’re not going to talk about the condition of my crotch, or hurt that he watched me have a fun-size nervous breakdown and walked away?
The front door opens. He’s holding my flip-flops. “Seems like you’re having a hard time.”
“If it’s because of what I wrote on the dry-erase boardin the kitchen, those were Olivia Rodrigo lyrics, not my original thoughts.” I rub my face. “I’m fine, I swear.”
