When she reached the top of the mountain she screamed and chugged the entire Pelligrino and was happy, even though the avocado was rotten and the crackers were stale. She was finished with all of them, not that it was the counting that mattered, but there was some satisfaction in knowing she had completed all forty six. Check.
When I was four feet tall, I sat in the warmth of the big green chairs and made a family with dolls and read and read and read and then began to write lists. But only in the first page of every notebook, the rest tainted the moment the first drop of ink hit.
I write lists in a way that makes me feel good even when my butt bone aches. After I’m finished with one, I can always check something off. I like being there when other people do, too. I like being the one to suggest something be added to their bucket list and then follow through with it.
And so, here goes nothing:
- High School
- Learn to skateboard
- Climb Mt. Kilamanjaro
- Go to a drive in movie theater
- Live in another country (soon to be check)
- Parallel park....well
- Put on a really dope climate strike (round 2)
- Read more
- Make little waste
- Taking some cool classes
- Meeting some funky people
- Write
- Organize
- Travel
- Thrive
- Repeat
- Have a kid perhaps
- A stable relationship
- Maybe owning some art would be nice
- Travel, lots
- Read, even more
My bucket list for life on the whole is contingent this whole climate change situation. Until then, top priorities include climate striking and climbing Kilamanjaro and doing whatever rad thing pops up on my Google Calendar. I’m not too attached to doing anything, as long as it’s something.
Madonna said that “fear is stupid, so are regrets.” I can’t say I agree, but ideally I’ll never know because I won’t have any. They always seem to do nothing but cripple people.
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