Structured Spontaneity

Yesterday I woke up, went to work, then hung out with a couple of friends. Normal. Last night, I concluded my day with a rice, bean, and cheese burrito and this…

Not so normal.

Based on recent mentality tweaks, goal refocusing, and prioritizations, when presented with the statement, "Let's get tattoos," I said:

 fuck it, let's do it. 

It took that one question and that one answer to go from driving in the 50 class Mario Circuit I to speeding down Special Cup’s Rainbow Road. My night went from sitting on a couch with the intent of going to spin at 7pm to sitting in a chair while some guy named George elephantly injected ink into my skin. Permanently. It was exciting and nerve wracking and it felt like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. But I was happy, actually I was more than happy then times that by infinity. I remember the feeling so vividly. While I sat in the waiting area, I felt unstoppable, like nothing in coexistence was on my level. Nothing.

Sometimes a dash of spontaneity is the secret ingredient that makes life a good one.

Don't get me wrong, the elephant seed was planted months ago—and to be exact it was the very night Erin, Lizzy, and I were walking through Ho Chi Minh City after spring rolls and BGIs...but that’s beside the point. If you have been with me since the launch of this blog, you know just what Asia—the people, places, food, experiences, lessons—means to me. But what you may not know is what I had to do to break all the mental barriers and insecurities that made Asia a reality.  The elephant is homage to living my life and making things happen for my happiness, my well-being, and myself. 

My elephant is me.

Ladies and gentlemen, I call this structured spontaneity. Sure, I didn’t wake up with the intent to devirginize my skin on Wednesday and, yeah, I may have made the decision to get the tattoo half an hour prior to chillin’ in the waiting area, but I didn't just get tramped stamped. The elephant is the representation of my biggest, baddest, and life altering chapter thus far. While the physical act was made on a whim, the idea has been marinating for quite some time. Structured spontaneity.

On a side note...

Some of my favorite memories resulted from just saying "fuck it":

-"Dude, $20 off $200 with a group of four. Let's go skydiving."

-Fuck it, let's do it. 

-I'm thinking about teaching in Thailand. Fuck it, I'm doing it.

-"Let's take a bus to Cambodia, then a bus to Vietnam, and then fly back to Bangkok."
-Fuck it, let's do it.

-"Just jump off the waterfall already."
-Fuck it, I'm doing it.

The Towel Room.

I'm a firm believer that 99.9999% of life is mental. We are met with experiences that make us question our abilities and potentially cause us to fear the possibilities of the future—relationships, careers, etc. Fear of the unknown...is how the saying goes. But how does one fear something one doesn’t know? Doesn’t make sense, but it happens.

I’m not ashamed to admit that it happens to me.

Stick me in the middle of Bangkok's JJ's Weekend Market, I'll eventually find my way out. Go off trail and get lost in the Tamana Negara jungle, I'll just retrace my tracks. But take me home, no debt, no major expenses, and with the ability to make moves in every which way...

Can I freak out now?
Yes? Okay.


FREEEEEAKING OUT!

Life got complicated…and scary…when I stopped thinking about progressing. Nine months ago, I gave myself six months to start traveling again. Six months ago, I started working. Five months ago, I picked up a second gig. Two months ago, I realized I was burnt out. One month ago, I turned 25. Two weeks ago, I sat hunched over and cried in a towel bin, as I asked myself:

What the fuck am I doing?

My very own Scrubs moment.

The transition back to everything North American, more specifically, Hollywoodian (?) was the hardest thing I had to go through. The culture, the people, the mentality, this weird attachment to material things and pseudo-connections, everything…I didn’t want to associate with it. So I chose not to think about it. I grabbed the remote, paused my brain, and picked up two jobs. For four months, I worked like a machine between 50-55 hours a week with one day off. Everything that was in focus before somehow dissipated.

Work. Work out. More work. Sleep.

Work out. Work. More work. Sleep.

I turned in my two-week notice the day of my towel room breakdown. At that point, I knew my happiness was worth more than a free gym membership. And, now I can breathe, no more treading water. Brain is back on play and those wheels are turning, and they're turning hard. It's about time I took control of life, instead of letting it manhandle me. Time to refocus.

Cheers to a bright future 

of endless possibilities.