I spent last week in Palm Springs.
Brittany fun fact, I actually lived there as an infant, but have absolutely no recollection of the event save for some story about how we used to live near Jackie Coogan, who was Uncle Fester in the Addams Family television show, and that he held me one time.
Honestly, I’m pissed there are no photos of him cradling me with with a light bulb in his mouth, but I assume my parents were afraid to ask, much like the way I’m always nervous about asking Mary Kate to let me record her saying “how rude” for my outgoing voicemail message.
Anyways, it was an amazing five days at The Ace Hotel, a place you should absolutely, positively visit some day. It’s like part commune, part hipster hang-out, but less Ashton Kutcher and more James Franco and Shia LeBeouf. The food was ridiculous, the booze plentiful, and the people amazing.
We gathered there for a retreat that focused on the achievement of life goals, meeting up with our good friends Amber, James, Mary Lauren and Matt. We spent our days amongst the inspiring and social media elite, but our nights drinking like we were in college and eating pizza at 2am like we still had metabolisms.
Every morning, as we shlepped our aching, woozy bodies to the greasy bacon and runny egg temple of our reprieve, we passed this.
Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we rented scooters and drove around the desert?
Hilarious? More like awesomest thing ever, we should totally do it.
*awkward giggles that melted into silence*
And then we sat there at our table; each of us quietly daydreaming about taking to the open road, buzzing through the mountains at sunset, exploring local restaurants, murdering transients and leaving them in the welcome center restrooms.
I can only speculate what everyone else was thinking about.
As we waited for the rental folks to show up, I began to get nervous. Sure, I can muck around the woods on a four wheeler no problem, but this was a shiny new scooter that goes a whole 35mph on the road, like, where the cars are.
After much debate, in an act of pure female submission, it was agreed that the boys would drive, and the girls would ride on the back. Ok, it was actually less about submission and more about me asking questions like…
Can I still ride one if I’ve never listened to Bon Iver?
What if I wear giant 80s headphones, not because I find them ironic, but because my ear holes are weirdly shaped and don’t accept earbuds?
How many tampons can I fit in the under seat compartment?
Can you get a DUI on a scooter?
I don’t know how to make left turns, will that be an issue?
Is this more fun or less fun than Justin Bieber has on his Segway?
We looked pretty bad-ass, and it was super invigorating having that much raw power between your legs. It was like a way pussier version of Wild Hogs, only with less hair plugs and homo-erotic undertones. No wait, the homo-erotic undertones were totally there, thank God.
We visited the homes of dead celebrities. Andy pretended to not know who Liberace was. I peed in a Pawn Shop. We ate roadside Korean food.
We rode for hours feeling a sense of freedom and happiness we’d never experienced before. At each stop light we looked at each other all, THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF OUR LIVES! WE MAKE THE BEST DECISIONS OUT OF EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD! LET’S NEVER STOP DOING THIS!
Eventually, my vagina cried uncle, so we pulled off the road into the mountains to explore and let things air out.
You know how when you go to the doctor’s office and you wait forever, and when you are finally seen and done, you go to get off the paper and there’s a wet spot, so you dump an entire travel size bottle of Victoria Secret Love Spell over the whole things so it will either look like your purse leaked or your crotch sweat smells awesome? Getting off a scooter after two hours is exactly like that.
Four hours later, as the sun started to set and I was numb from the waist down, we decided to head back. I can’t explain what happened in the desert that day. Perhaps that streak of wild that lies dormant in our over-scheduled, millennial hearts beat for the very first time, forever bonding each of us by our adventure into the wild, swearing to come back the same time next year, maybe even hitting up Joshua Tree with bags of peyote and Cool Ranch Doritos.
As we sat at the final stop light before our hotel, each of us lost in our own thoughts of the day, a car full of teenagers pulled up beside us in a navy rusted covered Grand Am, rolled down the window, and shouted “faggots!” at us before diving away.
‘Til next year, Palm Springs.