In the belly of a whale

Sometime after the new year I sent the e-mail (see below) to a gaggle of Hiroshima friends, a former professor and myself:

Last year Disney promoted a campagin: "The Year of 1,000,000 Dreams". They offered up 1,000,000 incentives, at the cost of the company, to Disney guests. In the end this merely amounted to 900,000 free plastic cups for additional consumption of over-priced soda water, but I can't shake their intent. Accomplishments. Many of them. To be completed in a designated time. I can do that.

This is my new years resolution.

This is the point of the writing.

Here's what I propose: Hula's year of 52 adventures.

The idea is simple. There are 52 weeks in a year. I'm to complete 52 adventures in 2008. And I'd like your help in this effort.

Now I realize that many of my ideas hold steadfast and fade out (see: adventure mondays), but I've never fallen back on a resolution, and I write to make this work. Let this document lock testimony.

I'd like you to sign on, as well. What good are adventures if they can't be shared? So here's what I'm thinking:

We adventure like we'd never adventured before. Considering my poor financial state the adventures can be as simple and as frugal as jumping off a large stone structure in Kumano, and as elaborate as getting a tattoo. These are the things we often keep ourselves from doing. I've already completed two this year. One in Houston and the other on a San Antonio Ranch. I shot some guns. I hadn't realized my fear until I held the monster in my hands. So now, my Japan loves, what's next?

This weekend I'm up for adventure. Any and all of it. I'll start a spreadsheet to document my progress.

Adventures haven't been as timely as I initially called for, but can an adventure really be scheduled? That said, I have a few under my belt and many, most and a myriad to come. They are, as follows:

1. Crazy business in the Diamond City super mall near my apartment. Think big mall. Huge. Stadium style shops for days. It's actually something of a filthy eye-sore that I try to avoid as I don't need to accumulate anything more out here save intangible awesome fear factors that I can dutifully relay to you, my faithful blogdience. That said, I can not, in good conscience explain my actions. Know they were legal (I'm not a lifter) and perhaps the best way to start off the campaign.

2. Oyster consumption. Kaki, the word used when ordering here. Alex ordered me a lunch set of fried oyster and I squirmed and reconsidered too many times before taking one in, contemplating my palette and finally offering up an emphatic thumbs up. I ate them all. In turn, I also greedily devoured a raw one. That I could take or leave but I'm still oyster-full and ready to overcome my next great obstacle: sushi. CELEBRATE!

3. Japanese OBGYN. Now to most this is something less than an adventure and more of a questionable call to all things new. But that's a counter-argument only privy to those who haven't experienced the thrilling Sweeny-Todd type automated chair mechanism they mount you in. The doctor keep calling behind a veiled curtain, "Ittai, Ittai?" Translation: Does it hurt? Does it hurt? I had been both laughing and crying. As is the case with most fun-house rides.

4. Cue the tattoo. This is a difficult post in that my mother (hi mom) is one of few to diligently attend to my blog. She's gone so far as to call to remind me that my blog is a bore and I need to update more frequently. She's also an endearing creature, and, in being just that, doesn't want her children to deface their bodies for fear of infection and regret. Luckily my pal Dan scouted out the best artist for the job. Together we hit up "Wild Monkey Tattoo" where after an initial session being canceled (our artist sick) I had a full week to further freak out over the potential pain of being poked endlessly with needle. Our plan was for me to go first as I'd surely back out after seeing Dan writhe through the pain of his more complicated tatt. After surveying the scene (the palor clean, reputable and our artist sweet and thug-friendly) I did something more than freak out. I lost my sh&*. I paced and pouted and Dan, at the ready, offered to go first. I watched him sit stoically through the endeavor and was sure I'd bow out come my turn. Alex aided in humoring me as I kept excusing myself to make convenee store runs (chocolate for days) and writing scathing journal entries to convince myself I was a badass woman worthy of a tattoo. In the end my conviction won out as I reclined on the artists chair, after 20 minutes of deciding upon a fantastic font, extended my leg, bit my lip and waited for the world's worst pain to attack me. It hurt, but in ways I hadn't experienced. Things have hurt much more and as he inked and wiped I knew it wasn't so much the pain as it was resounding sounds- the friends in arms trying to calm me by delivering tasteless jokes, the buzz of the hand-held device, something like a lady razor- that kept me white-faced and ready to faint. I burrowed my face in Alex's green sweater. Dan and Alex acted as a dynamic duo of spoilt comedy and within ten quick minutes I was tattoo'ed. It was really that easy. So now I've an impressive "26.2" insignia on my right ankle. It's something to see everything I run. It's a nod to a comment made to me by someone I'd like to memorialize. And I'm without infection. Without blood and scab and fear. In having legs that kill I plan to unleash this beaut to the wild this summer, and all the summers that follow.

All this. Such adventure! And surely more to come. Mountains to hike. Oceans to wade in. Horses to ride. Cheese to make. I am at the whim of all things wonderful.