My last blog post included a quotation from Oscar Wilde: "To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all." I've had many conversations in the last couple of months that have me thinking about what it means to live. I've been accused of having a serious case of FOMO (fear of missing out). I fight it. I argue, convinced I do not have a fear of missing fun things. However, 30 minutes later, talking to the same person, I lament not having lived. I WANT TO DO ALL OF THE THINGS! I say. 

     OK, so maybe that does sound a little like a fear of missing out. When I was in college, I didn't feel this way. I traveled. I studied abroad. But I went to bed early, always ate perfect, exercised, and had a rule to only drink twice a month. I didn't date anyone other than my high school boyfriend. After graduation, I had a minor panic--I hadn't made any of the stupid mistakes you're "supposed" to make in college. I was going to turn 24 and hadn't smoked anything, no drugs, never been hung over, never hooked up with a random guy in a bar, I'd never even given a guy my phone number. I felt like I hadn't lived. Luckily, my dear ConAgra friends helped me remedy most of these things. I gained 15 pounds I needed to gain. I didn't have a voice for 2 months from staying up too late. I had so much fun. Getting my master's degree and going to LA every six months drained my travel funds, but I set a goal of doing something new every week. I explored my city. I was single, had amazing friends, and took so much pleasure in all the stupid little things. I lived. 

     The next two years, however, put me in this weird place where I was totally and completely me--running, doing triathlons, writing, reading, with my family and my friends--but stunted. I was dating someone who was a great buddy, I never would have made it to as many Iowa basketball games without him or traveled for races, but no part of my human development was challenged. I was existing and had no idea I'd lost my obsession with living.

     The week my ex and I broke up, my, as my mom calls him, brother from another mother, Jason, told me about the time he got stabbed. Damn, I thought. That's living. I became rather obsessed with the thought of being stabbed. What leads up to that moment? What does it feel like? What happens afterward? I've backpacked across Europe, lived in Peru, ran 50 miles, but was quite convinced I haven't lived because I've never been stabbed. Wouldn't getting stabbed be a great story? A great adventure? Jason next told me about being shot at. Ughhhh, I thought. I've never experienced that either! Life is so short! How could I live enough lives to be me but still tap into the world of stabbings and shootings? 

     I've calmed down a little. I'm not going to seek out a stabbing, however, I'm not going to lose my obsession with trying to do ALL OF THE THINGS. I want to be a Yes Girl. I want to eat weird food and try new restaurants as soon as they open. I want to buy nerf guns and have a war in Target. I want to jump on a plane with my best bud and fly to Pittsburgh for the weekend. I want to run everywhere. I want to stay up late and watch movies and eat cheese and crackers with my friends. Call it FOMO if you like. I'm going to call it living. And hope I continue to do it until the end.