Run a marathon
In my experience, marathon runners are a lot like Wisconsinites; they’re incredibly cool and fun, or they’re bragging know-it-alls. (“This is not cheese. Minnesota’s lakes just don’t compare. You think you can drink? I’m from Wisconsin.” “You just don’t get it until you’ve experienced that high around mile 18…it’s indescribable, I just can’t even tell you.”) Also, while I want to believe that marathoners are the ultimate athletes, the ones I’ve seen look averagely out of shape or skin-and-bone emaciated. I’m think I can achieve those looks without destroying my knees. I get that the 26.2 miles is a “personal” challenge, and isn’t about practicality or achieving a certain physique. But I’m looking for a more uncommon goal, like finding the world’s biggest pearl or putting an end to Johnny Depp/ Tim Burton collaborations. As long as I keep it realistic, I think I have a fair shot.
These activities are “awesome” and “daring” when executed successfully. However, if a glitch in the system sent me plummeting to my death, I can’t imagine a more embarrassing way to go. Only after the fact does it occur to you that (hear yourself say this out loud) jumping out of a plane or tying a cord to your legs and leaping into a canyon sound like the most stupidly reckless activity you could pay to do. Of course, you can’t regret anything once you’re dead. So there’s that, I guess.
Binge eat for a free t-shirt/wall photo
I immediately rule out activities that result in public vomiting (see #1). Also, if I wore my prize t-shirt in public, strangers would read its boastful text (“I conquered the Hog Boss at Porky’s BBQ!”) and undoubtedly imagine me plowing handfuls of food in my face. I don’t need to encourage others to imagine me “competing” in this sort of “challenge.” Food should not be “conquered.” Simply put, nobody, at any time, for any reason, needs to consume over 5 pounds of meat in one sitting. These are facts.
Watch the Olympics live
This is coming from a girl who joined junior soccer for the after-game Rice Krispie treats, and “played” goalie cross-legged in the grass picking at dandelions and shading her eyes. Handing me expensive Olympics tickets is like handing a Fleet Farm shopper a front row seat at Fashion Week runways. I’m all for friendly universal competition, but I will bring a book to the stands.
Learn to play the guitar
I’m going to stop while I’m already behind. When I was little I found an old guitar in my grandpa’s basement. I spent about 30 seconds strumming the cords, got bored, and tossed a handful of children’s museum gift store “gemstones” inside the sound hole. This “gigantic maraca” was not a sign of musical prodigy. Besides, I’m not going to show up at one of the four bonfires I attend annually to be outdone by the five other people who brought their guitars.
– Katya Karaz