i'm back and i survived the trip to the land of county de orange. i did not return with a sugar daddy to take care of my growing student loans or a surgeon's number. but i did come back to the comforts of my northern home where i can be an individual again slightly tan, slightly burnt in strange places, and more thankful for san francisco then before. i read tons and laid next to bodies of water. tons of material down there to write about- everywhere i went there was a story including a korean massage experience- the cougars and sugar daddies- the glitter, peroxide, & plastic- valet at the mall during happy hour for millionaires & more. and to start it off light for the week. . .
It was hell. It was hell to be experiencing the feeling she was having. Having. It was her first trip away from home as a child. First time away from home. And now this, this. She was full of excitement because she would be away, away from her parents. Excited for the buildup, the buildup, the anticipation of this trip. Outdoor education. The fundraising, the car washes, the pep talks, the packing, the freedom of no family, only friends and teachers in the redwoods. On the school bus there, we all sang, sang loud, talked too loud, and probably ate the treats we had snuck on before, before they would be confiscated. We probably swore too. Probably because we could. I learned MC Hammers Can't Touch This word for word on this trip. Someone in our tent, no bunks, just tents burnt herself on a curling iron. A curling iron. What the hell were we doing with a portable curling iron in the woods? Being uncomfortable adolescents playing dress up, playing adult, but still children all the same.
The bus did stop. And I of course during the stop I paid a visit to bathroom. The bathroom outhouse variety. The kind you aren't so sure when someone cleaned it and when it was erected but you are so so very glad it's there that you can have a release. So I went to the bathroom. I wasn't aware then of the importance of the squat over public toilets or especially outhouses for that matter. I didn't receive the handbook from a woman in my family or a friend or a older mentor. I went into it blindly. Blindly because why would one need to squat? Squat. Oh I will tell you.
It was hell once I got on the bus. The itching started. It was hell when we arrived at the campsite. It kept multiplying and burning. My little 6th grade ass was most definitely on fire. The itching and burning was spreading not just on my gluteus maximus but my strongish chicken leg thighs. I had no other choice than to investigate. It was hell because I didn't know what was going on. I didn’t know my body. It was hell because I was 12 and away from home. So I looked. I had a massive rash all over my butt and the beginning of my legs. Red, inflamed. Oh shit, I thought. Well what would you do? This is hell. I had no other choice that to tell my closest friends and beg them not to say anything. Not a wise move. Wise move. Everyone knew within moments I had itchybuttitis. Those clever 6 graders had a diagnosis for me with minutes and then the game of telephone began and I was one that would pay.
It was hell. Because I know I needed to tell an adult. An adult. My teacher. It was hell to pull down my pants and have her see my underwear- the horror. I in fact had a rash. We deducted from that toilet, toilet in the outhouse. Someone had cleaned it. But never got rid of the product. My ass wiped it off instead of the sponge. It was hell because the embarrassment of the itchybuttitis. It was hell because of the embarrassment. But it was funny. It was funny. And I learned that the hell then could just be amusement later. And the importance of the squat of course and not just in yoga. Not just in yoga. I am a squatter for life.
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