How to Be Impressive

Several days ago, I woke up feeling sick. It wasn’t that horrid, all-consuming illness that makes you want to swaddle yourself with your own blanket, shuffle dramatically to the kitchen where you chug orange juice directly from the carton before plunging your head in the freezer for just long enough for everyone to notice and muster a sufficient amount of sympathy, then return to bed where you resolve to just lie down and die, but secretly hope that someone who witnessed your behavior pities you enough to come check on you because you really regret not getting an Otter Pop out of the freezer while your head was in there. Even if it was that kind of illness, I couldn’t act accordingly because I woke in a house full of three Marines and one tattoo artist, none of whom are in the business of sympathizing with pain or of fetching Otter Pops.

Instead, the rawness in my throat, the ache in my ears, and the mild flush of fever were simply a foreboding, urging me rest and recuperate or risk being miserably ill just in time for the holidays. Unfortunately for my body, I do not succumb to threats. So instead of peacefully slumbering and ingesting large quantities of liquids until I felt better, I drug myself out of bed at 5:00 a.m. after a mere three hours of sleep and went on a four mile trek through unfamiliar wilderness led by three Marines.


Guilty parties.

 Initially, the purpose of said voyage was to go shooting. Roughly four minutes into the hike though, the focus shifted from shooting to a competition for who could tread the most dangerous path without dying. What I was originally promised would be “like a walk through the grocery store” suddenly became four straight miles of bouldering.


"Oh look, here I am on this giant cliff of unclimbable rocks. I'm not really sure how I got here, but I expect you to emulate my success. And I'm not going to help you do it; I'm too busy posing for pictures."

About 1/64th of a mile into the hike, I was consumed by an overwhelming feeling of doom. I hoped that my parents and my dog knew that I loved them because, as far as I was concerned, death was imminent. It's not that I'm some dramatic girly girl who cries hopelessly when an acrylic nail is ravaged by the forces of nature. Actually, by most accounts, I probably fail completely at being a girl - I've never worn an acrylic nail in my life, shopping malls give me anxiety attacks, whiskey is my drink of choice, and if I come across a snake, you can pretty much bet that I will find a way to snuggle it.

My concern for survival on this excursion lied in the fact that my physical stamina and agility have failed me over the years. Once a martial arts instructor with abs of steel...no, make that titanium*...I now consider walking my dog to be a pretty decent workout.

Though I feared that there was a very real possibility that I would be leaving this canyon by air-evac helicopter, anyone who knows me will tell you that I refuse to be perceived as anything less than a complete badass, so I made no mention of this.

As I trudged on, I found myself shimmying down a particularly unclimbable rock and landing with a delicate hop across several jagged rocks that looked as though they wanted to bash my skull in, all while forgoing the aid of the Marines. I didn't ignore their helping hands to show off, but rather because I was fairly sure I was going down and it was going to be bloody, and I worried that taking one of them with me would piss them off and prompt them to leave me alone in the wilderness with nothing but the tube of Carmex in my pocket, which I don't think would sustain me for long. And there were wild cows abound that would possibly shank me with their horns and eat me.


Seriously. Wild cows.

Back on solid, relatively safe ground, I noticed that one of the Marines (the one who decided that it was not enough to simply complete the hike at a reasonable speed, instead opting to dart ahead of everyone and climb everything) had ceased his frantic climbing of surfaces and was giving me an amused look. Certain that he was about to tease me for my dismount, I contemplated the liklihood of survival if I tackled a six-foot-four Marine with a gun holstered on his leg admist a canyon of jagged rocks. Before I had time to fully calculate the odds though, he chimed in, "Liz, you're like a gymnast AND a ballerina."

It was then that my perception changed. The goal of this hike was no longer mere survival, the goal was to be impressive. When everyone else is carefully stepping around a rock, I will get a running start and hurdle the bastard. If the others are moving a little slower because the rain has coated the boulders in a slippery muck, I will climb them carelessly and twice as fast.

Here I am doing something incredibly impressive. The fellas wanted to take a picture because they were so amazed by my skill right here:

See the giant rock wall behind me? I just climbed down that. And that's my equally impressive partner in crime by my side. We might be amazing.

I also did a handful of really unimpressive things, like trip and fall on my ass on completely level ground for no good reason and hug a thorny bush for stability when I nearly lost my footing one time. However, those incidents can easily be overlooked by all my more impressive endeavors.

The trip turned out to be a success. We scouted out dwelling possibilities and discussed entry/exit and tactical positions throughout the canyon for the zombie apocalypse. We also fulfilled on the the Marine's dreams of eat cacti. Basically, it tastes like demon honeydew. Despite being sick, the hike wasn't nearly as exhausting as I thought it would be. The most painful part of the morning was being asked to wear these horrible, orange earplugs that expand in your ear canal while shooting. If you have an ear infection, I don't recommend shoving things in your ear.

Fast forward to the following day, which happens to be Christmas Eve. I woke up feeling like I swallowed a Costco-sized pack of throwing stars and rolled through fire until my body reached an internal temperature comprable only to hell. Apparently, four mile bouldering excursions in the rain are not recommended to treat any sort of illness.

I spent the bulk of my day on Christmas Eve at the urgent care, where I learned that I am afflicted by severe tonsilitis and an ear infection. The doctor, seeing that my tonsils were basically swollen shut, tried to convince me to go to the ER instead; however, my insurance provider thought that this would be a good time to drop me so I had to politely decline and let the doctor know that I would just go ahead and die if it came down to it. I asked for some pain medicine and was given a measly quantity of codeine, which I settled for even though it wasn't the tub of percocet I had hoped for. Unfortunately, the codeine did little to negate the ungodly amount of pain I was in.

Christmas day was equally horrible. I wasn't able to attend my family's Christmas celebration for fear of exposing my grandmother, who had already been under the weather, to my illness. So I curled up in ball in my bed, chowed down on codeine and soup, and contemplated the poor decisions that landed me alone in bed on Christmas day. A couple people called, which I originally thought was quite nice even though I struggled to speak, but then it turned out that they just wanted to discuss what they were currently angry at me for, which is slightly ironic because I can't remember the last time someone was genuinely upset with me for anything.

Anyway, the point is: If you feel you may be getting sick, it is not advisable to allow three large Marines to lure you into the wild and drag you on a four mile hike over large boulders, up steep rock walls, through thorny brush, in the rain. But if you do let that happen, at least try to be impressive about it. Here's how:


Step 1) Study what those around you are doing. Replicate their actions, but with twice the speed, vigor, enthusiasm, force, or cartwheels as they used.

Step 2) Draw attention to yourself. You could go around be impressive all day, but if you fail to draw attention to yourself for your impressiveness, no one will give you credit for it. I suggest a full-body sequin leotard for this purpose. Regular clothing can be worn over it, then simply removed when it's time to be impressive. Make sure you cover up though when being less than impressive or it will lose a great deal of its impact.

Step 3) Be nonchalant about your impressiveness. Pretend you don't know that you're impressive. If someone compliments you on being impressive, act undeserving of their praise. In turn, they will think you're even more impressive for not thinking what you just did was that impressive. They will assume that you just do so many impressive things, that you're jaded by your own impressiveness.






*If titanium is stronger than steel.

How to Save the World From Dragons

You may doubt my expertise on this topic, arguing that it is unlikely that I have ever saved the world from dragons. However, I assure you that I have engaged in a full-blown anti-dragon campaign that spared the lives of at least 209 Denny's patrons from dragons, thereby making me the world's foremost dragon slayer as of the time this was posted.


My family calls it "The Swinging Dragon Incident."

My mother, feeling that this does not do justice to the sheer terror that we experienced on this day, interjects, "Oh, do you mean the time little Elizabeth nearly plummeted to her death on the damn dragon?"

It began harmlessly enough with a family trip to a certain Southern California theme park. Unfortunately, it was not Disneyland. Disneyland understands the importance of things like minding their own height requirement charts and not murdering children inside the park.

Not-Disneyland was still struggling with their comprehension of these concepts. Luckily, there were some other policies they held firm on, such as not picking up the trash around the park more than biannually and performing maintenance on all rides simultaneously, instead of at well-timed intervals. Due to their strict enforcement of the latter, my family struggled to find rides that were both suitable for my tiny frame and not completely dismantled.

We finally came across a giant, happily-painted dragon swaying gently in the wind that seemed to meet both of the aforementioned criteria. I excitedly darted towards the height requirement chart, but upon my arrival the bold, red line towering more than a foot overhead promptly crushed my little four-year-old soul. Defeated, I began to walk away, having decided that I shall spend the remainder of the day educating my parents on vacation planning.

Then it happened. A voice called to me. It sounded just like choirs of angels interspersed with the clinking of unicorn horns in a field of marshmallow fluff. "It's okay. She'll be just fine, folks," the young, female ride attendant beckoned.

Suspicious, my parents further questioned the ride attendant of this dragon's intent. Would it simply sway gently in the wind a few times before delivering us back to earth relatively unscathed? No, it would not. But my parents would not have time to learn the answers to their completely legitimate questions.

I had already mounted the dragon.

Still slightly wary, my parents joined me, flanking me on each side of the bench I had chosen. I was initially rather annoyed by their seating selection. We were the only people on the ride, so I didn't see why we couldn't all have our own bench seats. Minutes later, their seating selection would prove instrumental to my survival.

The dragon began to move. As promised, it seemed to rock gently in a manner that would not be terrifying for a four-year-old such as myself. It quickly became clear though that these initial movements were only to gain momentum for what was to come.

As the swaying of the dragon became increasingly exaggerated, I recall my parents screaming at the ride attendant to stop the ride. Visibly distraught and now having recognized her actions to have been in error, she hollered back that she couldn't.

Before long, we were at a ninety degree angle, staring down at the asphalt below. My mother was clutching her purse, the contents of which were spilling everywhere. My father, feeling that death was imminent at this moment, appeared to be contemplating just jumping to get it over with. In all the chaos, my parents failed to notice that I was slowly scooting to my death. The safety bar, having been designed for those who met the actual height requirement for this ride, was failing to keep me in place. With each swing, I had to wrap both arms tightly around the bar, but my pathetic little arms were becoming exhausted and the likelihood of survival was seeming grim.

Finally, my mother noticed that I was being flung about violently and relinquished her grip on her purse to hold me securely in place. She was yelling at my father to assist, but he was curled up against the side of the ride and apparently had lapsed into some sort of trauma-induced trance. I'm pretty sure he was under the impression that we had all already died. This went on until the ride finally slowed and we were all able to exit. The ride attendant cowered as we passed through the exit, saved from verbal assault only by my father's urgent need to vomit.

The fear had dissipated by the time we arrived back in Arizona, but now manifested in the form of anger. It was then that I resolved to inform the world of this evil dragon. Each time a new person was encountered, I politely introduced myself, then launched into a vivid description of my near-death experience.

Restaurants were perhaps my favorite place to wage my anti-dragon campaign.

I carried a small notebook and crayon with me at all times so that I could render illustrations of the events, then hand them out to anyone who would take them. Sadly, I do not have any of my original drawings to share, but I imagine they looked something like this:

Admittedly, this may have been an exaggeration. But I didn't care...I was saving lives. This probably would have been a more accurate portrayal:

At first, my parents supported my campaign. They agreed that people needed to know. I had always been a quiet child, so they were probably happy to see that I had become so fearlessly outgoing.

In time though, it became clear that I was obsessed. Not only was I interfering with the breakfasts of strangers to tell them my tale, I was submitting drawings of the incident to God during the weekly offering collection at church and demolishing other people's copies of the movie Pete's Dragon. People were becoming annoyed, especially since I began to take some creative liberties with the story.

In time, my enthusiasm for saving people from certain death via dragon attack waned.

Or did it? After all, I did just recount my story to anyone on the Internet who will listen, complete with dramatic illustrations depicting the event. How's that for a twist, M. Night Shyamalan?

Anyway, there's really only one thing you need to do to aid in saving the world from dragons:


Step 1: Do not ride the swinging dragon at Knott's Berry Farm.

Tip: Similar rides at other amusement parks should be considered equally dangerous and are best avoided.