Pixie in Paradise

I was right then and I’m right now: gap years, as well as youth, are wasted on the young. I knew this at the ripe old age of 23. In early June 2000, I headed to DFW airport with nothing but a huge travel backpack, about  to board a plane for a trip to Europe. I don’t even remember getting my passport but I must have been able to fill out the paperwork and get that book to freedom in the mail before meeting up with a friend in Madrid. For a few months that friend was my roommate while I was still living in Wisconsin. She was a nurse and I a respiratory therapist, at a tiny rural hospital in southwest Wisconsin. I moved out after one semester of college and full time work to live in Dallas where my best friend, Mandy, was living and there was warmer weather. I specifically remember the moment I decided to leave: October 3, 1999 it snowed in Wisconsin which is unseasonably early. I said, “fuck this,” and was living in Dallas by December 15th. Moving was easy as a respiratory therapist as long as you got your state license to practice, because people are always going to try to mess up their lungs or die on you. There will always be work.

What I still very vividly remember about the time I spent at Dallas’ main airport waiting to board that plane, was how many really young, shiny-faced kids were  wearing my same backpack, boarding passes in hand and absolutely no parental supervision anywhere to be seen. Whether I knew about this concept beforehand or whether I talked  to a few of these strangers to figure it out (probably the latter), is that they had just  graduated high school. They were barely 18 years old and about to take three months to a year to travel around the world to explore, find  themselves and figure out what they want to do with the rest of their lives.

To outsiders I probably looked just like one of them. I was barely 23 years old, three feet of thick, bright blonde hair and my body was full of collagen. Quite frankly, I was delicious, and didn’t even know it. I mean, I knew I was cute but really had no idea of the power I held inside myself and how much I should have commanded more respect when interacting with humans, including myself. 

The thing is, I did look very much like these “kids,” at my ripe old age of 23, but I had been an RT for four years by then. I had already seen dozens, maybe hundreds, of people die right in front of me. My job was not a profession for a fresh-faced child trying to find themselves. If you didn’t know who you were, you had to at least pretend to be a lifesaver for 12-hour shifts two to five days a week, and try to play nicely with the adults who were healthcare professionals working on your team.

I was jaded by my job and I was jaded by my upbringing and seeming lack of opportunities. I have long since dropped that stupid immature chip on my shoulder, blaming no one but myself for my circumstances these days. But, in situations like this one at the airport with these kids who got to just fuck off for months on end with no cares in the world, it really, really, grinded me. How come they were lucky enough to have parents or grandparents that paid their  way to have this amazing experience before settling into the real world? I went straight out of high school – already working constantly since age 15 – into RT school for a year (back then it was a short technical degree – scary). This wasn’t a path I wanted, it was a path I had  to take in order to learn a trade, make money and continue to be self-sufficient. I have not, and would never have, a safety net. I didn’t have parents who could financially support me and to be honest, having to move in with either of them after I reached adulthood didn’t seem like a viable option so I never treated it as such either. I was on my own, no one paid my bills but me, so I had to work and do whatever it took to survive. And while I was standing there with all the gap year kids, an immensely full  travel backpack on, I only had ten days in Spain, not ten months all over the globe. I could only afford ten days and could only take that much time off of work.

I met my friend in Madrid where we spent a few days, before heading to the coast – Costa Brava – where she did some skydiving. I did my first skydive ever and a lot of nude sunbathing. I just remember the men being gorgeous and  the food being delicious, and everyone thought I was German so they’d come at me with words  that made absolutely no sense. Even their English made  no sense and I found myself begging anyone who could, to speak Spanish because it was easier to figure out. That’s saying something since Castillian Spanish – spoken in Europe – is hard as fuck to interpret: all that lisping! I also remember ordering cappuccino every morning and my body being shocked awake by the rich, strange taste of the milk. I don’t know what that  was about but I envision someone with a wooden pail, milking a sheep, goat or possibly a brown cow, delivering it straight to the back door of the cafe that way. 

Little did I know that 24 years later – 24 years and two months to the day –  I would get my gap year, so to speak. Let me just say: I HATE the term “midlife gap year,” but that’s what the general public likes to call what I just did: a midlife gap year. I got burnt out, I left home, had the time of my life, and am soon planning to return “home.” That is the grossest understatement, under- summarization of the situation that led me to Belize if I’ve ever read one. And now, with one week left of my eight months living abroad, I read something on the internet (social media) that talks about middle aged people taking “midlife gap years!” What?! So many people thought what I was doing was insane but it turns out so many of us Gen X’ers are about to lose our shit that we’re all just saying “peace out, bitches,” and walking away for an adventure. Hell to the Yes! Let’s face it, at this age those who had kids at a “traditional” time now have adult children who should be on their own – maybe even having babies of their own. Holy shit to that. Or, if you’re like me, you knew you never wanted little nose picking ankle biters, so you never burdened yourself with one. Proud of you, for making healthy decisions for yourselves. Either way, party on, and here we go. And just to back up a little, NEVER call me middle-aged. You can call me Cougar, Gen X’er, 80’s kid, you can even call me “ma’am” if you absolutely must but don’t use the term “middle-aged.” Gross.

Those of us in this MGY (midlife gap year) club just finally head off and do our own thing. If you really stop and think about it, there is not a more perfect time for this adventure. You’ve seen some stuff, lived through some stuff, collected a tiny bit of trauma, processed it, become more sure of yourselves, comfortable with who you are, know what you like, and know you don’t like the stagnancy of your current station in life. Why the fuck not take off on a gap year to see the world and figure out what the rest of it holds for you? Why not? You survived the first half of your life and you may not get a full second half. I mean, truth time: if you’re 50, are you going to see 100? Realistically, how much time do you think you have left to see the world, or figure out what you truly want for yourself, out of life. What is your passion? How do you want to serve your community? How do you want to be of service? How do you want to be remembered? What do you want people to remember about you when you are gone?! What talent, passion or idea makes you excited that you want to share with the rest of the world? FUCKING FIND THAT THING AND DO IT AND DON’T STOP UNTIL THEY UNPLUG YOU FROM THE WALL IN THE NURSING HOME.