Seven Months

I like this photo, in my sweet rashie. I saw two little rippers wearing this exact rashie out in the waves. I thought of paddling out so that onlookers could have been like, oh how cute, a mom and her boys, but they were too far out and far too good and people would have quickly concluded that they had learned to surf from their dad. I have succumbed to the blatantly obvious fact that I am a terrible surfer. I'm actually quite afraid of "real" waves, as opposed to the fake waves I "surf" a.k.a. whitewash (or in the case of Legian beach water, backwash, a mix of plastic garbage and tree branches). Truth is, I don't care much for the ocean, or sand for that matter. Salt water hurts as it dries to my arm hair. I become crunchy, different from the granola crunch I have been referred to, but like dirty crunch. I'm not one who needs a shower every day, or even enjoys a shower every day, but as soon as I am caked in dry sea water I need it washed off, so yeah, this is annoying, showering every day. I also love this rashie because it's bright and everyone can see if I am getting sucked out to sea, but more importantly because I can just walk around or ride around on my scooter and people think I can surf (or they think I'm a total idiot for driving around in a rashie, but in my head I'm cool, kinda like those people who go grocery shopping in their ski boots). I failed at my ultimate goal of just scootin' around with a rented shortboard in the board rack of my scooter. That is the ultimate look of coolness, I'll do that next time, in my rashie, of course.

I have always wanted to be a surfer. They're just cool, and tan. I have always wanted to be tan. I remember hanging out at Newport Beach during senior trip, with a local Huntington Beach boy, and how the conversation took a rapid turn when I took of my pants (I had my bathing suit on, get your heads out of the gutter). He'd never known a live person to be quite that shade of purple. I have been tan twice in my life, both while at beaches which leads me to believe I am better off laying in the sand than out in the waves. I've embraced it, I'm a white fresh water lake girl.

Seven months in and Christmas is looming. I realize that I'm missing family and friends. I love the way Christmas changes the American atmosphere. People seem nicer, heartwarming movies rule the tube, the house smells like fresh pine, I have less road rage probably because I'm on a sugar high from all the baked goods in the office, which have been there everyday since Thanksgiving. Here in Bali I find myself missing this. I am also wanting to be cold, wrapped up in jammies, sipping tea, making cookies and fresh bread to dip in homemade soup. Instead I'm sweating my ass off in a room cooled by a small, one-speed ceiling fan. But I'm doing some yoga and have the most adorable little friend, Chocolat. I love him.

I am feeling unmotivated and as Jason and I plan to head around the island and then over to Lombok and the Gilli Islands I realize I'm not interested. I just don't want to get on another plane, I don't want to study ferry timetables and pricing. I don't want to research hotels, things to do, foods to eat. I just want to read books, sip tea, eat $1.50 plates of noodles and check out the local beaches. I'm wanting to stay put and call someplace home, if even for just two weeks. Traveling like this allows for many forks on the road, so to speak, and I have rarely, if ever, regretted any of the decisions we have made. We have consciously chosen to see the things we've seen, flown rather than take a train or bus or ferry, you get the point. But for some reason I am concerned that I may regret not going to far or seeing much for two weeks. I have to stop looking at what Bali has to offer and just enjoy doing little. I read two books, finish some blogging and read up on history and other things that I have always wondered about, like what are marshmallows really made of, who is Machiavelli and how to become an Italian citizen.

I will abruptly end this blog post now, because I have nothing left to say, bra (that's surf lingo for bro).