Adventures in Odyssey: Moments Like These (written in 2008)

I wrote this in 2008 as a heartfelt response to the 20th-anniversary live show of children’s radio drama Adventures in Odyssey. As this piece of writing predates this blog, and as I have done so much blog writing about the show since then, particularly this more-complicated-but-no-less-heartfelt reflection on the show’s 30th anniversary, it made sense to make this more widely available as well. I have not changed anything from my original writing, except to add a few photos from that weekend.

 

AIO live show
At the 20th anniversary live show itself.

 

I would only have a few seconds with them, and those seconds had to matter, to mean something – if not to them, to me. After a lifetime of devoted fandom that has only increased as I’ve moved out of the target age range, and after months of anticipation, I looked forward to walking through the autograph line, but with a sort of trepidatious anxiety. How could I convey depth of feeling and gratitude in one handshake and a few words? Soon it would all be over, they would be greeting the next person, and I would have lost my chance to tell them how much they had impacted my life.

It was the 20th anniversary of Adventures in Odyssey that was fast approaching. This now-popular kids’ radio program had announced a “birthday bash” to commemorate this momentous occasion, the highlight of which would be a live show in Colorado Springs featuring a dozen of the actors.

Almost as soon as the word reached me, I knew I would be going. Never mind that Colorado was a 16-hour drive away. I would get there one way or another, even if it meant carpooling with near strangers.

The live show was scheduled for August 16, and as the details slowly came into focus, I had no doubt that that would be the best weekend of my summer. What I didn’t realize – or, at least, not fully – was that it would be one of the best weekends of my life. Those “few seconds” with the heroes and giants of my youth, seconds that I both longed for and dreaded, turned out to be only a small part of the “Colorado experience.”

The trip started out as a cross between a family vacation and a pilgrimage. As my dad and I drove through Colorado, it seemed like every bend in the road revealed a new, breathtaking panorama. But even as I marveled at the sheer beauty of the lofty mountains and cascading forests – the likes of which were already near and dear to my rugged, Californian eyes – I was thinking about the greater wonders yet to come in that mecca of my heart. When we reached our destination, I was determined to make the most of our extended time in Colorado Springs. It was Tuesday. The festivities didn’t start until Friday night. I had plenty of time to play the dual roles of trigger-happy, camera-toting tourist and know-it-all, passionately-dedicated fan.

For two days, all was well. My family (the rest of whom rendezvoused with us at the airport) and I gazed admiringly at the Air Force Academy’s sleekly impressive chapel and celebrated my sister’s 18th birthday at an upscale restaurant and not-so-upscale ice cream place. Accompanied by the occasional familial disagreement and our customary bad habit of oversleeping, it looked like a typical vacation.

Until Thursday. That’s when the fabric of all my plans unraveled, and all my eager anticipation for the Pikes Peak cog railway and the Cave of the Winds suddenly became tepid. It all started when I entered Whit’s End. Whit’s End, the fictional ice cream shop, Discovery Emporium, and cornerstone of Adventures in Odyssey, is “a place of adventure and discovery…where kids, of all ages, can just be kids.” So says the owner, John Avery Whittaker (but you can call him Whit), who is not only the heart and soul of Odyssey, but also an inventor, writer, businessman, former teacher, and even government agent! Most important of all, however, this white-haired jack-of-all-trades has a deep love for God that permeates his every act, and endears him to both his on and off-air observers.

As I stepped into this should-be paradise, I tried to take it all in: the cartoon depictions of the characters that didn’t exactly jibe with my mental pictures, the three-story slide which I was just short enough to ride, and, of course, the ice cream shop itself with its black-and-white checkered floor and World Famous Chocolate Sodas – an Odyssian favorite more affectionately referred to as a WodFamChocSod. However, though it put up a good fight, this representation of Whit’s End didn’t come close to matching the one in my imagination, at least partly because most of it had been designed for the show’s pre-adolescent fan base. But I wasn’t deterred. After all, I hadn’t come to Colorado Springs for the buildings, but for the people.

That evening, I was sitting in the hotel lobby, playing card games with a few fellow Odyssey fans, when a bus pulled up outside. Before I quite knew what was happening, the semi-quietness had been replaced with bustling activity, laughter, and animated voices. But these people weren’t your average hotel clientele. I recognized their voices. Hidden from view, we breathlessly watched all the goings-on up front through a double-sided fireplace. Eventually, we left the safety of our hiding place to more conspicuously gawk at our favorite actors and their families. Too scared to even think of approaching them and too excited to sit down like rational hotel guests, we stood silently, rooted to the spot.

Meeting Odyssey friends
Meeting fellow Odyssey fans and cast members at the hotel.

 

I was positively dumbstruck, especially when, shortly after, I found myself being introduced to and shaking hands with Will Ryan, Katie Leigh, and Dave Griffin. Will Ryan, who plays the lovable genius Eugene Meltsner, did his best to make small talk with us, but, despite his friendly, casual demeanor, we weren’t the best conversationalists. Even when faced with such speechless fans, however, Will carried the conversation with his questions and witty remarks, often laughing at his own jokes and puns. He had vibrant blue eyes, a natural, easy smile, and a youthful energy that belied his 60-something years. His clothing was just as relaxed as he was, and a cowboy hat completed the image of this acclaimed, highly-versatile voice actor mingling with college-age fans in a hotel lobby.

“Where do you go to school?” he asked, turning to me.

“Indiana,” I replied timidly.

“Oh, do you go to Ball State?” he asked, admitting that that was the only Indiana school he knew of, thanks to David Letterman.

“No. Taylor University.”

“Oh, are you going to be a seamstress?” he asked, already chuckling before I responded with my own nervous laughter and the remark that I “hadn’t heard that one before.”

Our conversation couldn’t have lasted more than five or six minutes, and at the time my mind was such a jumble of excited fragments and adrenaline-laced instincts that the reality of these extraordinary moments had only begun to sink in. As if these one-on-one interactions weren’t enough to overwhelm my already-overloaded senses and emotions, later that night, after their first rehearsal for the live show had ended, Dave and Katie joined a larger group of us fans back in the lobby. Members of an online community called the Town of Odyssey (the ToO), we had all known each other for at least two years via the internet, and most of us were meeting each other for the first time.

We all sat in a misshapen circle, and there we stayed into the wee hours of the night. At some point, I became acutely aware of how exhausted I was, but it didn’t matter. There was no danger of my nodding off, and no chance in the world that I would be any other than the last to leave this unprecedented gathering.

Dave Griffin, who had voiced Jimmy Barclay – arguably the most popular and endearing kid character on the show – is now all grown up with a family of his own. However, because of the writers’ surprising decision to keep Jimmy on the show even after his voice changed, Dave still has the “Jimmy voice,” even though he, like most of the other actors, is older than the character he portrays. What stood out to me the most about Dave wasn’t his long hair or his impressive juggling skills, but his earnest desire to meet and talk with us, and his joy at re-entering the world of Adventures in Odyssey – a world he had reluctantly left more than ten years ago, but which still held claim to his heart.

And then there’s Katie Leigh, who has played perpetual teenager Connie Kendall from time immemorial. If there is any actor whose real-life persona mirrors that of his or her character, it’s Katie. Like Will, she is friendly and quick to laugh, and her bubbly gregariousness is infectious. As she and Dave reminisced about the show and exchanged anecdotes, I greedily hung on to every word. These are the kind of priceless moments one never forgets.

~*~

Saturday was the day for paranoid fears and an almost panicked urgency for everything to be just right. At least, that’s how it started out. I wasn’t in line early enough, I wouldn’t get a good seat, I would be mute during the autograph line, in the very moments when speech meant everything, and, heaven forbid, the two buttons would somehow be pressed on my camera that would erase my prized picture with Will Ryan!

This was the event of all events, the one that puts so many others to shame and that I have been unconsciously moving towards all my life. IT MUST NOT GO WRONG!

It didn’t.

Much to my great delight, I happened to be visiting others at the front of the line when the curtains parted, the doors opened, and I happily spilled into the auditorium (dubbed the chapelteria) with the horde of humanity. My downfall was waiting for my family before deciding on seats, and by then the closest and the best had been snatched up by the more decisive. After an agonizing evaluation of my priorities, I deserted my family (with their blessing) and found my excellent seat.

First was the recognition of all the different age groups who had all converged in Colorado Springs. That was when the silly grin settled on my face. I was proud to stand with the 18-30-year-old crowd as a veteran listener, a lifelong fan, a lover of all things Odyssey. And then, they were here: Katie and Will, Dave Madden (Bernard Walton), Aria Curzon (Mandy Straussberg), Chris Anthony, Jess Harnell (Wooton Bassett), and Chuck Bolte (George Barclay).

I had listened to the episode “New Years Eve Live!” a few weeks before, and for the first time had tried to put myself in the place of that live audience, to imagine what they would’ve seen and reacted to. As invigorating as that experiment was, my imagination didn’t hold a candle to real life.

In no particular order, here is a cryptic list of some of my favorite moments: the “quack, quack,” any reference by the actors to the “Foley guys,” Mandy and the slide, George Barclay’s vacuuming-off, “rashonmyfoot,” Whit’s surprise appearance, Eugene and his ukulele, and the not-so-surprise guest stars: Dave Griffin, Genni and Donald Long (Lucy Cunningham-Schultz and Jack Davis), and Sage Bolte (Robyn Jacobs). I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed applauding this much. From this chronic critic of the slapstick style of BTV episodes, I must say that I will forever cherish and laugh along with myself every time I hear this show.

My parents enjoy Odyssey, and they have patiently listened to my long monologues and passionate praise of Odyssey over the years. They rarely offer their own insights on the show, however, so it was refreshing and inspiring to hear them talk and laugh about how much they loved the live show, how hilarious and better-than-expected it was, and especially the more specific parts they pointed out. My dad was particularly excited when he found out that Bernard had in fact been Reuben Kincaid on the Partridge Family: “Bernard is my hero” and “what would Bernard do, and what would Eugene say?” were two of his (and my) favorite phrases. He also told me how glad he was that he’d chosen the live show over the Pikes Peak Ascent. How there could be any competition between the two is beyond me, but then again, I’m not the runner of the family. My sister also gave the show a rave review.

I laughed so hard during some of the interview questions that my camera jerked in all directions, distorting the already-poor quality of the video. Still, I have Dave Madden’s classic answer to the question of how he is similar to Bernard, some of the father-son banter between Dave Griffin and Chuck, and Will and Katie’s reminisces of Hal Smith, the original voice of Whit. What I don’t have on camera will burn brightly in my memory, or replace the less-distinct remembrances with a general warm and fuzzy feeling. I’m content.

We found ourselves near the end of the autograph line, but I didn’t mind. When we saw the sign that said “only two items per family,” my mom was worried about the ethical dilemma of getting our planned three items (knocked down from five or six) through the line. The solution? Two separate households, of course! I managed to make it through the line without acknowledging the others… even though I realized later on how unnecessary that was.

True to form, my interactions with these giants of my childhood and teenage years consisted of a few squeaked-out remarks like, “I really like Bernard,” “Can I get a picture?”, and “How’s your hand doing [after all the autographing]?” (to Dave Griffin). Will Ryan got one of the “Can I get a picture?” lines, and he, of course, obliged me… only to ask afterward if I would like a picture with him! “Really?” I sputtered, thrilled and speechless as he asked my dad (who was still pretending not to be my dad) if he would take the picture. When I looked at the picture later, I was excited to discover an Easter egg: Paul McCusker, writer extraordinaire, who had been standing behind Will, had poked his head into the frame! This was truly the picture of pictures (just as this was the event of events), and when I was thanking my dad profusely later on, he joked about how angry I would be if the picture hadn’t turned out. Perish the thought!

Me and Will Ryan
The aforementioned picture with me, Will Ryan, and Paul McCusker in the autograph line.

I watched the rest of the autograph line sift through, and it was such a beautiful, peaceful scene. The smiles and the warm interactions that these tired stars had with their fans was amazing to watch. I could’ve stood there all day and waited for the second show to end, and for its patrons to walk those same steps. At one point, Paul McCusker sat down on the couch I was standing next to, but I lacked the courage to approach him. I waited for the last of the stragglers to make it through the line, then watched as the cast filed out. They were still smiling.

Five hours had passed since my frenetic worrying, and I couldn’t get rid of my dazed, dream-like, overwhelmingly happy state of mind, nor the way it spilled over onto my face and out of my mouth. Nothing could knock me over. No, I didn’t wax eloquent in the autograph line, and I didn’t capture everything perfectly on camera, but it was special. It was mine.

~*~

Saturday morning and afternoon was the crescendo, the insurmountable, the most epic point on this most epic trip.

At least, until that night.

Tipped off by Dave Griffin that there would be a final pow-wow in the hotel lobby that evening, I moseyed on down just in time to join the equally-minded party of ToOers. The news that the actors would soon be returning to the hotel quickly reached my ears.

“They’re exhausted. Don’t approach them,” Sarah cautioned. “If they want to talk to you, they’ll approach you.”

Her words made what happened next so much more special. They did approach us, and talked with us as if we were old friends. Never mind that they had spent hours that day performing and signing autographs for us. Never mind that they had early flights the next morning. Never mind that we were just a bunch of fans. Jess’s impersonations, Chris’s fascination with the ToO, Aria, Don, Genni, Dave…

After the hubbub died down and some of the actors had returned to their rooms, Katie and Will came back down with popcorn. A simple gesture; unspoken selflessness. They owed us nothing. If there were any debts to be paid, they were on our side.

Summoning my courage, I went up to Will and told him that Eugene was my favorite character. We ended up talking for more than an hour. Well, he did most of the talking. And then, as the night wore on and became morning, those of us who could afford to lose the sleep held out as long as we could, unwilling to end this experience of a lifetime.

Of the thousands of fans who journeyed to Colorado Springs to celebrate twenty years of Adventures in Odyssey, more than 99% of them only got the handshake, the smile, and those precious few seconds that I had been bracing myself for. I was in the other group – a fact that still overwhelms and humbles me two months later. To say that my expectations were exceeded, or to try to breathe new life into those overrated words “best” and “favorite,” or even to grab hold of words, phrases, adjectives, metaphors, analogies… it’s not enough. It can’t possibly be enough. You had to be there.

The Sun and the Sky: Eclipse (part 2)

I dreamed about the eclipse several times before August 21st. Sometimes they were happy dreams: The sky did strange things, things that would never happen in the waking world, but I was there to see them. Most of the time, though, they were anxious dreams: I wasn’t able to find a place to stay along the path of totality. Traffic held me at a distance until it was too late. The weather was bad.

And it wasn’t just my dreams that held a sense of dread. I, who had known about this event for ten years, I, who should have known better, didn’t think to find a motel until most of them were gone. The eclipse was still months away, and I was already doing it wrong.

It was no longer a little secret between the sun and me; now, everyone knew, and they were just a little bit faster.

I was still an eclipse apologist, converting people and counting the days, but all the worst-case scenarios hung about me, the reminders that foreknowledge was no guarantee.

So there I was, spending the night on a field in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska, hoping like everyone else in this 60-mile stretch from coast to coast that I had won the weather lottery.

Sun peeking out of clouds
8 a.m., three hours and 49 minutes before totality.

 

I wake up engulfed in cloud. Dribbling fog hides the sky, but there is hope, stronger than before, that the sun, the wonderful sun, will burn it all off long before midday.

Living in Denver, Colorado, the sunshine is our most familiar meteorological feature. Rain and even snow are welcomed as visitors, but the sun melts and dries and acts as if nothing else ever was or would be.

The beginning of an eclipse isn’t First Contact, when the moon takes its first, tiny bite out of the sun. No, it’s that morning when the sun comes up over the horizon, it’s when the clouds part and the sun, the whole sun, fills your world, and it’s a better pick-me-up than coffee, and The Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” must have been written for this time.

For the sun to disappear, it must first appear.

Less than ten thousand people live in Alliance, Nebraska. The main street is long and wide, and to the south is the train yard. As another train, probably a coal train, thunders by, I wonder aloud how many young people growing up here had, at one time or another, wished to take a train Somewhere Else.

The evening before, everyone seemed to be Somewhere Else. Traffic was light. A roadside booth and a K-Mart clothes rack showcased eclipse souvenirs, but otherwise the town was going about its rhythms with little interference, unless you knew where to look for the tents and the RVs.

And now, Monday morning, everyone is Here. Our makeshift campground begins to fill and the downtown coffee shop is already full and out of food.

You can’t see the sun from the big windows there, but you can see above the storefronts, and the ratio of blue to white is tilting in our favor. I sip hot chocolate or tea, one of the two, and I duck out once or twice to call my parents and look up.

My parents are with extended family in Albany, Oregon, doing the same thing I’m doing. They are an hour behind me, but today they are roughly half an hour ahead. I don’t reach them, but then it is time to put away the board game and get off main street, time to drive fast to the outskirts, me in the passenger seat opening the sunroof and tilting my head back, watching, watching for The Moment, but it is still minutes too soon, and we don’t miss anything at all.

me viewing partial eclipse
11:02 a.m., 47 minutes before totality.

Here comes the moon, do do do do.

A man on a loudspeaker announces First Contact, and for a few seconds I can’t tell which direction the moon is coming from. And then there it is, and the orb is no longer quite an orb. It is like seeing the moon go through its stages, only faster and more dangerous.

I have never seen a partial solar eclipse before. The closest I got was in Shanghai, several years ago. An annular eclipse would begin in southern China after sunrise, then cross the Pacific Ocean and pass over my hometown in northern California before sunset. I was thrilled at the chance to see the same celestial event my family would see from the other side of the world, even if only in partial form, but it was not meant to be. City lights and city smog shielded the sky, but perhaps it was just as well as I had no way to look at the sun safely.

Today, I have my eclipse glasses and they have theirs. We have both traveled to see this sight, and it is now that I reach them, for a few minutes when I am seeing a small sun and they are seeing one smaller still. We watch the waning together, and then I leave them for their totality and wait for mine.

I sit and stare for a few minutes, and then jump up and put on sunscreen, or throw a bag in the car, or look around at my fellow sun-gazers and this bit of green we are choosing to remember for the rest of our lives. It is about an hour and fifteen minutes, this pre-show, but it goes by so quickly.

 

Little by little, the lighting begins to change. There are no trees to cast strange shadows, but it is as if it is overcast, the sun behind a thin cloud, and then a thicker cloud, but all the actual clouds pushed to the edges, the sun high and alone at midday but for the moon. I need my sweater and I can’t contain my joy.

All that light becomes an ever-more-focused sliver, and it looks a manageable orange through my glasses, not the fiercest yellow that ever there was. And there is so much strength even in this tiny ray.

I know in my mind everything I’m meant to be watching for, everything I want my surroundings to be so everything will fall away, everything except the sun and me, and we will have our little secret again. At some point, I forget about my lawn chair and it’s impossible not to be standing.

In the last seconds, the light goes slant and otherworldly, the sky darker but the ground brighter, like sun and smoke, or sun and storm, and then we can look up unprotected, or nearly, as the last of the fierce yellow glint disappears.

 

And there it is, the black moon, backlit by the sun’s corona, a soft whiteness that in some ways resembles the nighttime moon, but is its own wild and beautiful animal, not a reflection but a reveal.

We are caught somewhere between dusk and nightfall. It is pink at each horizon, and we are the epicenter, suspended just before birth or death or both. For right now we are in the front row seats, and there are no rows behind us. The world had changed slowly, almost imperceptibly, for over an hour, and then everything happened at once, and now time is stopped for almost two and a half minutes.

If I could only look at you for two and a half minutes, how much would I remember of the features of your face?

Is that enough time to memorize the features of the sky?

Everyone around me is talking or taking pictures or both, but I am silent and my hands are still.

This new world is only ours for seconds, and then everything will happen at once, again, and it will be gone.

 

When the sun comes back, the sun I knew before, there are fractions of a second when it doesn’t seem so bright, when I can take in the light on the edge, before I have to tear my eyes away for their own sake.

We are ready to leave and so we do. I open the sunroof again and watch the sun grow back. I call my parents and we are mesmerized together by our memories. I keep looking up, and the saddest part for me is when the partial eclipse ends, and wherever you look, it is as if nothing has happened.

 

This is part two of a four-part series.

Part 1: The Sun and the Sky: Beginnings

Part 3: Skydiving

Part 4: Finding Magic

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The Sun and the Sky: Beginnings (part 1)

sky and clouds
Photo by Martin Duggan, Flickr creative commons

 

The first time a friend of mine went skydiving, I was 17 years old and relieved I was too young to join her. But I put it on my bucket list. I wasn’t sure if I would ever have the courage to initiate such an adventure, but I knew there would come a time when people I knew would look to the sky and ask me to come along, when there would be an opportunity to say yes or no. And I would say yes, I was sure I would, one day.

I was also 17 when the sky drew my attention in a different way. I found NASA’s website on eclipses, the world maps with the splashes of red and blue that can turn anyone into a dreamer. No one knows for sure what her life will bring even tomorrow, but I knew what the sun and the moon would be doing in 10 years’ time, and I was determined to be there to see it. Long before anyone called it the Great American Solar Eclipse, I was joining my first group in the early days of Facebook and committing the far-off date of August 21, 2017, to memory.

And then I settled in to wait. Wait for time to pass, wait for courage, wait for other dreams to emerge, to incubate, to come true, to die.

There is romance in the narrative of dreams fulfilled. Until fulfillment was almost upon me, however, I didn’t realize how much I wanted them to be fulfilled in certain ways. It wasn’t enough to be in the right place at the right time, or to do an activity that hundreds or thousands of people do every day. I needed to bear witness to everything, everything happening around me and within me, every nuance of light and shadow, of falling and flying, of fear and joy and sadness. It’s a fearful pressure, an enormous responsibility, a catch-22 that inspires me to be more fully present while at the same time the fear of missing something can make me too anxious and preoccupied to be fully present. To trust that by “just being” I will gain everything I need to know and remember is a dance I have not fully learned.

Skydiving involves less than a minute of freefall, and then it’s a canopy ride. The total eclipse is bookended by hours of waxing and waning, but only two-and-a-half minutes of the high drama of darkness.

When a decade’s worth of anticipation is all over in a matter of seconds or minutes, will you remember what it looked like, what it felt like, or will you just remember the anticipation and the aftermath?

I saw the total eclipse in August, and I went skydiving in September.

This is what it looked like and felt like.

 

This is part one of a four-part series.

 

Part 2: Eclipse

Part 3: Skydiving

Part 4: Finding Magic

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When Lists are the Enemy

pile of post-it notesRight now, my eyes are fixed on December 18th — the day I fly to England for my first Christmas away from home. I’m counting down the days, I’m making lists, I’m living the anticipation.

And then I remember what happened the last time I made a list before going on a big trip.

It’s what happens every time: I want to tie up every conceivable loose end before I leave so that I can be fully present while I’m there. It starts out simple enough with items like “do laundry,“ “respond to letters and emails,” and “make an iTunes playlist.” And then, then it turns obsessive-compulsive:

  • Skype with these people
  • Post those pictures on Facebook
  • Read these six books
  • Organize all those files

And on and on and on.

Many of the items on the list aren’t things that need to be done before I leave (not even close), and in fact they keep me from being fully present before leaving. Last time I made one of those lists, I was so focused on getting everything done that I wasn’t even excited until I was on my way to the airport.

So why do I keep making these lists?

Perfectionism.

This is it, I think, this is my chance to get all those things done that I have been putting off for so long.

Perfectionism meets procrastination.

Is this what perfection looks like? When I’ve Skyped with all of my long-distance friends, and there are no emails in my inbox, no books on my nightstand, nothing left to post, organize, or arrange?

Sometimes I think so, as I lean back and admire all my well-ordered surroundings. It is clean, it is finished, and I am complete. The days of mania and obsession seem worth it.

But it only lasts a day, if I’m lucky. The emails continue to fly at me relentlessly, and there are more books to read, and after a while it’s time to Skype again.

This isn’t how I want to find meaning — not in the weeks before the big trips, and not in the rest of life either. After all, how can I savor a conversation or a good book if I’m in a rush to get to the next conversation and the next book so I can reach an elusive “done!”?

I’ve already made my list, and I don’t leave for another month.

I don’t think doing away with lists is the answer. I’m a list girl. I enjoy lists and find them immensely helpful.

But it is time to change the way I view lists. They are “more what you’d call ‘guidelines’ than actual rules,” as the pirates would say.

It’s time to breathe and give myself grace.

Goodness knows there are enough chores and tasks out there without my turning my hobbies and friendships into chores and tasks as well.

Here is what I am reminding myself of today: My worth is not based on the state of my desk, Desktop, or Skype history. It is not based on how many books I read or don’t read, or whether I do this or that.

I am complete right now.

(photo credit)