The 52 Lists Project: List the wildest things you want to try.

I have always lamented my abject wussiness.

As a small child, I watched from the sure safety of ground level as my peers clambered to the top of city schoolyard monkey bars, and swung upside down from metal-chained swings. This was the seventies, of course, before a generation of fearful parents nullified — or at least, successfully sued against — risky, lead-paint-adorned, and terribly fun playgrounds, replacing them instead with injury-proof play structures formed from molded plastic, and banality.

I was perpetually reticent at such a young age — opting far too long, for example, for the less-popular “uniskate” option, while my more daring friends sailed past me, balanced and confident, on the more popular choice of two rainbow-laced disco skates. I didn’t cheat on tests. Because nuns. I shied away from MTA-bus-surfing, as so many other kids did in the city — clutching to back bumpers from their ten-speed bikes and skateboards. I didn’t ring and run. I never even progressed to Double Dutch jump roping, for fear of tripping and breaking a limb. Quite the shonda, for a Queens kid. An embarrassment, really.

Some might argue that I was simply more aware, more astute, more mature than others, at that tender age. Others would say that such anxieties are inborn, or the product of, say, a girl’s city childhood during a tempestuous, crime-ridden era. I don’t know. I was mostly watching “The Love Boat” with the air conditioning on full blast, and afraid to answer the door in case the Son of Sam was on the front stoop.

What I do know is this: I wish I’d taken more risks. I’m glad that I’ve chosen to be more of a risk-taker, as I’ve grown older. I’m sure that some of my life choices which I’ve viewed as commonplace — living in downtown Manhattan, for example, doing stand-up comedy in New York, or choosing to travel to foreign countries alone — would be viewed as wild by others. Perhaps I don’t give myself enough credit.

This week, I’m writing another list from Moorea Seal’s 52 Lists Project: The wildest things I want to try. See below.

List the wildest things you want to try.

  1. Race at Lime Rock Park.
  2. Perform at — and win — MOTH storytelling events.
  3. Write — and sell — a screenplay.
  4. Write — and publish — a novel or memoir.
  5. Buy myself a vintage drum kit and play it really fucking well.
  6. Take a cross-country road trip with my husband and kids.
  7. Host a girls’ weekend in Vegas.
  8. Wake up and buy a plane ticket on a whim to a random destination — and travel there that day.
  9. Live in AirBnbs — or whatever the fuck they call those things — for weeks at a time and being able to live temporarily in: NYC, San Francisco, Sonoma County, LA, Ojai, Santa Barbara, Laguna Beach, New Mexico, New Orleans, Austin, Seattle, Portland, Chicago, Toronto, St. Bart’s, Cuba, Paris, London, Dublin, Rome/Venice/Florence, Madrid/Barcelona, Amsterdam, Berlin, Mykonos, Santorini, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Singapore…
  10. Swim naked in the ocean. Just not bodysurfing. Ouch.
  11. Run the NYC Marathon. Just once before I’m dead.
  12. Audition for a movie.
  13. Write and perform in a one-woman show in an NYC theater.
  14. Drive a motorcycle.
  15. Spend a night in a haunted house.
  16. Meet with a psychic (I’ve seen a few in the past) and ask questions.
  17. Take an underground tour of NYC, and find abandoned subway stations.
  18. Host a ridiculous party. An insane party. With live music and fire and couches and tattoo artists and whiskey and swings and pie.
  19. Form an improv troupe.
  20. Host a podcast.

There are several other items on my list — which I will not mention in public. Because I’m a nice girl. Or at least play one on TV. Cough.

What’s on your list?

 

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