So yes. I will take the wrong turn. Miss the exit. Confidently drive in the wrong direction with the conviction of someone who absolutely should not be in charge of navigation.
Because for me, driving isn’t just transportation. It’s an experience.
But it’s fine.
My inner goddess is navigating, and she’s clearly on her own journey.
Three coworkers by day, deeply questionable decision-makers by night—we had a long-standing tradition built on clubs, dance floors, and the sacred lie of “this is the last stop,” a promise that had never once survived contact with reality.
So, when Vivian announced she wanted to take a trip to Reno for a job search, there was… a pause.
Not because anyone doubted her.
But because everyone understood exactly what “job search” means in Vivian’s universe.
“To be clear,” I asked Viv, “Are we actually job searching… or are we just bringing résumés near casinos?”
Vivian just smiled—that raven-haired, chaos-coded smile that has historically been preceded both by free upgrades and mild property damage.
And that’s how the three of us ended up on a quick getaway that returned us with snacks, poorly vetted decisions, and a story that honestly should come with a warning label.
Not just a story—a series of regrettable brilliance. The kind that changes a person.
Somewhere between check‑in and getting the room keys, Vivian turned on the charm with the reservation clerk — that effortless flirtaholic energy she refused to turn off — and next thing you know?
Suite upgrade.
No one asked questions. No one intervened. The universe simply… allowed it.
Which is how we ended up with a much‑nicer‑than‑necessary hotel bathroom.
Clean tile. Soft lighting. A dangerous level of confidence in the air.
And sitting innocently beside the toilet… a bidet.
Paula stared at it like it had personally wronged her.
I backed away immediately, already sensing danger.
Vivian? She just tilted her head, assessing it like a puzzle she fully intended to solve incorrectly.
Paula, a grown adult with confidence and absolutely no relevant experience, gave it a once-over.
“I mean… how hard could it be?”
Vivian, already interested in chaos, leaned in.
I stayed near the door. Observing. Judging. Preparing to testify later.
Paula held up a finger as she recounted this part afterward. “There was a button labeled Mountain Stream.”
Me: “That sounds aggressive.”
Vivian: “That sounds like a challenge.”
Paula: “I’m pressing it.”
She should not have pressed it.
What happened next defies physics, plumbing, and several personal boundaries.
A jet of icy, high-pressure water blasted upward with the enthusiasm of a Yellowstone geyser. Paula shrieked—loud enough to concern nearby guests and possibly alert the front desk to a situation they were not trained for.
The force launched her forward.
I watched this unfold in real time and can confirm… she left the ground… like fully airborne. It was like witnessing a NASA rocket launch.
Paula hit the wall, slid down dramatically, drenched, stunned, and—by her own account—spiritually rearranged.
Dignity? Gone. Composure? Gone. Grip on reality? Slippery at best.
Naturally, Vivian stepped forward.
“You didn’t do it right. Move.”
I tried to induce sanity: “No. No one needs to do it right.”
But Vivian had already committed.
She approached the bidet with the enthusiasm of someone who has never been defeated by plumbing—or common sense.
The bidet responded with the confidence of a machine that absolutely intended to win.
Within seconds, Vivian was hydroplaning across the tile like a confused penguin in a disaster film. Towels were sacrificed. Dignity was lost. The bidet remained… committed.
At one point, she caught her reflection.
Hair soaked. Eyes feral. Shirt clinging like she’d just fought the ocean and lost.
She didn’t look human anymore.
She looked like Soakazilla— a damp, furious creature born from dubious life choices and excessive water pressure.
“This is how I die,” she announced, slipping—again—while reaching for the knob.
Paula, still recovering on the floor, offered zero assistance.
I was pressed against the wall, now laughing in the specific tone of someone witnessing history.
Somewhere between the slipping, the shrieking, and the aggressive aquatic betrayal, Vivian managed to hit peak velocity—hydroplaning into the towel rack, careening sideways, and sliding down the wall like a damp tactical mural.
Eventually—after what felt like 8–12 business seconds but may have been an entire era—she shut the bidet off.
Silence fell.
Only the sound of dripping water remained.
And three women reconsidering every life choice that led them to that bathroom.
But here’s where it gets worse.
Because after witnessing Paula’s launch and Vivian’s transformation into a water-based cryptid, there should have been a lesson.
There was not.
There was… a second attempt.
Paula, fueled by wounded pride and extremely poor judgment, whispered, “Okay but I think I understand it now.”
“You don’t”, I pleaded “You absolutely don’t.”
Of course she tried again.
The bidet, unwavering in its mission, responded with the same unholy enthusiasm.
Another blast. Another shriek. Another loss for humanity.
At this point, the bathroom floor was no longer a surface—it was a hazard.
Both Paula (Geyser) and Vivian (Soakazilla) had now been personally victimized by hotel plumbing.
I remained the sole survivor. Dry. Untouched. But emotionally changed.
No amount of personal development will undo what happened in that bathroom.
Some experiences stay with you. Some follow you. Some… require towels and silence.
And for everyone’s safety, Soakazilla and Geyser are now permanently banned from unsupervised encounters with hotel plumbing.
I, meanwhile, have been appointed both witness and historian.
If anyone ever suggests a quick trip again—I will be bringing a flotation device.
Because apparently being launched across a bathroom wasn’t humiliation enough, the hotel bill politely informed us: ‘No Charge for the Power Wash.’ Honestly, that hurt more than the water pressure.
Just when I was about ready to give up on humanity, the feisty old broads showed up.
I was in the ladies’ locker room at the swim club, minding my own business, when I overheard three retired women—the kind who’ve stopped caring about social niceties and started telling the truth.
Lady #1 asked Lady #2,
“Hey… what day is this? Is it Friday?”
Lady #2 didn’t even look up.
“Who the hell cares what day it is? We’re retired. It’s not like we’re waiting for the weekend. Every day is Friday… or Sunday… or whatever day you want it to be.”
Lady #1 considered that.
“True. But if your doctor asks what day it is and you can’t answer correctly, they’ll diagnose you with Alzheimer’s.”
Lady #2 shrugged.
“Who the hell gives a shit.”
At that moment, Lady #3—still dripping from water aerobics—jumped in with the energy of someone who has absolutely nothing left to prove.
“I don’t care what day it is,” she announced. “It’s margarita time.”
She paused, stretched her back, and added:
“Ain’t retirement a bitch?”
I sat there trying not to laugh out loud.
Three women. Three philosophies. One universal truth:
Aging may take your schedule, your patience, and your cartilage—
There are people who pass through your life, and then there are the ones who leave a voice behind.
The ones who teach you, steady you, challenge you… and sometimes cause just enough chaos to make you pay attention.
John was one of those.
He didn’t lecture. He didn’t sit you down and explain how life worked. He just lived it — fully, unapologetically — and if you were paying attention, you learned.
We rode every morning at seven. No matter the weather, no matter the mood, John showed up. Horses saddled, stories ready. There was always a story. Usually inappropriate. Always unforgettable.
As we rode past the barn and headed down the street toward the trailhead, he’d call out, “Vaya con Dios!” like we were setting off on something far more important than a morning ride.
One morning, Sunshine went down hard in the desert — flat on her belly, sand flying, tack slipping sideways. My 23-year-old former endurance horse didn’t hesitate. She hit the ground, sprang back to her feet, and kept cantering toward the lead horse like nothing had happened.
I never came out of the saddle. Not a stirrup lost, not a beat missed — just instinct and motion carrying us forward together.
When we caught up, I asked John to stop so we could check her and tighten the girth, which had loosened and pulled the saddle off center.
He glanced over with that wry, understated smile of his and said, “You have good balance, kid.”
It was the closest he ever came to a compliment — and coming from John, it meant everything.
That was it.
No panic. No overreaction. Just quiet acknowledgment — and then we fixed the saddle and kept riding.
That was John.
He didn’t dwell. He didn’t dramatize. He moved forward.
At the barn, he held court like a man who had seen it all — because he had. He could spot trouble before it unfolded, and he had little patience for what he called “repeat offenders.” People who made the same bad decisions over and over, expecting a different outcome.
He didn’t try to fix them. He just observed, shook his head, and let life do the teaching.
There was a kind of freedom in that.
John understood something I didn’t at the time — that you can’t control other people, and you can’t live their lessons for them. You can only ride your own horse.
Years later, when I went to see him, the stories were quieter. The man who had filled every space with laughter now measured his words. Breathing was harder. Time was closer.
He motioned me in, the way he always did, and said something I’ve never forgotten:
“Every time the sun sets, it takes a part of your life with it. Live your life, sweet thing.”
There was no story after that. No punchline. Just truth.
I didn’t understand it fully then. Maybe I still don’t. But I hear it now in different ways — in the quiet moments, in the choices I make, and in the times I catch myself hesitating.
John didn’t teach through instruction. He taught through presence. Through observation. Through living.
John lived his life with no regrets.
And at some point, we all look back and realize one of two things:
we’re either like John — grateful we went for it with full gusto — or we’re left wondering about the things we never tried.
Romancing the Herd 