I’ve watched Survivor ever since the very first episode aired back in 2000.
I remember sitting in front of the television, wishing wishingwishing that I wasn’t 7 months pregnant.
I know that sounds terrible, but seriously. Why didn’t that show come out two years earlier?
From that moment on, I’ve dreamed about being on Survivor.
I remember watching the season when the contestants were in Australia. People were severely dehydrated, their beautiful bodies became skeletal. A participant had to be evacuated because of injuries.
I still wanted to do it.
Each season has offered surprises.
There have been tribal swaps and fake merges. Sometimes tribes have been divided by gender; sometimes by age, once by race Sometimes both tribes have had to share the same beach. They introduced hidden immunity idols in Survivor Guatemala, and I thought: Freaking Brilliant!
I have watched contestants lie in an effort to win the big prize, and I have watched contestants struggle, trying to remain true to their morals knowing in order to win they would have to break their own personal code of ethics — if they wanted to win.
I have also watched contestants who have played for the love of the game. For those players, it hasn’t been about the money. It has been about the adventure.
Each season, I have thought, One day. I will be on that show.
I have applied before.
And I have been rejected.
My husband laughs at me. He says Survivor is played out. He can’t believe I still watch it. My son now watches with me, but he thinks I’d be voted off at the first tribal council.
The other day, I saw CBS was doing a casting call.
And I thought, My “baby” is 13 years old now.
I can do this.
I want to do this.
So I did.
I’d love to show you the video I sent, but I don’t know if that could get me disqualified.
But I’ll show you that I started out wearing this:
And then I ended up wearing this:
I really would love to know how I would do in such an intensely physical and mental game.
Right now, I am learning how to make fire without flint.
I’m reading up on all kinds of tips about how to survive out in nature.
Because I want this.
So cross your fingers for me.
Because, as dorky as it sounds, being on Survivor is my 13-year-old dream.
And I’d love to make it come true.
How do you think I’d do? And what ONE luxury item do you think would be wise to bring alone?
tweet me @rasjacobson
Blogger Deb Bryan’s husband was on Survivor and you can be sure that when Deb wrote THIS interview, I sat up and paid attention! Ba.D, you better believe that if I make it through this round, I’m going to find you and ask for tips!
Monkey started 7th grade this year. When I think back to 7th grade, I recall I awoke each morning at 6:30 AM with the help of my digital alarm clock which I had carefully set to 62 WHEN the night before.
Once showered, I made myself breakfast — either a bowl of Lucky Charms cereal or a bagel with cream cheese — and by 7:15 AM, I quietly walked into my parents’ bedroom, took four quarters from my father’s dresser (with his permission), so I could buy lunch. I then kissed my mother and my father who were sprawled in their king-sized bed beneath a giant comforter. I was generally met by sleepy sounds, sometimes a little muttering, and bad breath; it was a daily routine, and it worked. They got a good night’s rest, and I got to watch The New Zoo Revue on our 7” black and white television, uninterrupted, for about a half an hour.
Eventually, depending on the weather, I put on the most appropriate outdoor coat — if it was cold, I popped on mittens and a hat. Since UGGS had not yet been invented and boots were totally uncool in 1978, I always wore my clogs. From there, I made opened the front door carrying whatever I might have brought home for homework (read: nothing) and walked about 1/4 mile from my parents’ little house to the closest bus stop and waited with a cluster of other neighborhood kids.
Fast-forward 30 years. Monkey completes a similar ritual where he wakes, dresses, makes his breakfast, gathers his stuff — paper stars, drawings of dragons, pencils, books, two huge binders filled with worksheets and completed homework — and crams it all into his backpack.
I hear Monkey moving around starting at 6:20 AM, and I stick my pillow over my head. Unlike my parents who stayed in bed, confident in my organizational abilities — or never really even thought about if I had everything I needed or not — I feel totally guilty for staying in bed. I mean I suppose I could drag myself downstairs at that unseemly hour, but I am just so dang tired.
I don’t know why I feel I should go downstairs and smooch Monkey before he leaves the house. Maybe I feel like I should make sure his clothes match – because he’s not very good at that. Or maybe I feel I should check to make sure that his hair is brushed – because, to be honest, he is pretty lax in that area, too. Maybe it’s his teeth I’m worried about. You know, I just like to make sure that he in minty-fresh before he heads out the door because, again, the whole hygiene thing is currently not his forte.
I don’t do this though.
So typically Monkey does just what I used to do. He comes upstairs to announce he is leaving.
Except some days, he doesn’t.
Some days, the kids he walks with show up at our sliding glass doors and I hear the glass doors roll across the floor followed by a slam. I lie there, imagining him walking down the back steps, towards the enormous school that looms in our backyard. (I know it was designed to look like a dairy farm; still, it looms.)
On those days, I miss him.
My husband wonders what is wrong with me.
He says I should be thrilled that we have raised an independent person who can make cereal and bagels and waffles and eggs and (sometimes) remembers to brush his teeth and hair.
And I am.
But it doesn’t mean I’m not working against some weird maternal energy that wants to “just check” on him.
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