One of Those Days

It's pretty safe to say that for me, the first hour after I've woken up is pretty indicative of whether or not I'm going to have a good day. I usually like to wake up an hour before I leave the house, take my time getting ready, and watch a little Nip/Tuck. This morning, however, I thought it better to snooze and then turn off my alarm entirely. Good. Really. I woke up frantically at 6:12, forgot to brush my teeth (sorry.... everyone I've talked to today), and because I didn't have enough time to straighten my hair, have been dealing with a really rambunctious cowlick that has decided to flirt with the ceiling ever since.

Out of the house by 6:40 AM and only 10 minutes behind, I was proud of myself for making up so much time I had lost. That feeling of success was short-lived, though. As I hit the road, I assumed that since it was raining and not snowing, I didn't have to use four-wheel drive. My mother had even warned me last night about "Black Ice," a thing I obviously didn't believe. When my mother says things like that (i.e. "we can't get onto our internet because it's Sunday night and everyone is on their computers), without listening I immediately discredit it, giving it not another thought. Good idea Chels, because this morning I was literally less than a foot away from hitting a car almost as I got to work, and this was after beginning to brake with 5 car spaces in front of me. Thank God I didn't hit it. What a crappy way to start out the day THAT would have been.

Though I thought I was in the clear, I was not. When I parked, I grabbed my three (yeah, three) bags to bring from the car to the office and apparently was walking too hastily. When I stepped down one stair everything went to hell. My foot slipped out from under me, lunch bag went flying (and subsequently a banana that I had in one of my bags ended up rolling down the slight hill next to the stairs. It is.. still there), and I landed flat on my right hip. I was stunned. Isn't it the weirdest thing to fall? All of a sudden you're five feet four inches lower than you should be, and more often than not some point of impact is throbbing. I even laid there for a moment, contemplating whether or not that REALLY just happened, and that I'm REALLY going to be walking around for the next half hour with a large wet spot down the right side of my ass. All I could mutter aloud, though, was a defeated "God." To top it all off, one of my superiors was the only other person around! So that's cool. He's awkward, and all he said was "That was quite a fall." Nice bedside manner, though I don't think that's a managerial requirement.

Needless to say I'm glad today's "Friday."

All I Do is RunRunRun No Matter What

Things are changing. Yesterday was the first snow of the season. My grandmother is now on Facebook (hi, Grandma!) It’s almost 20-freaking-11.

On the one hand, work has been changing in a good way. I finally feel settled, and I’m being given actual work to do. On the slow days I take on the additional role of unofficial DJ in the lab, choosing Pandora stations such as “Radar” by Britney Spears or the incredibly inappropriate “Walk that Walk” by Durrough to rock out to. AKA pipette to. I feel like I’m making friends at work. Three months into the job and I feel like I belong. 

It’s the time after work that has been difficult.

I thought coming home to Chicago (err, the suburbs) would be enough. When I was at school I always counted the days until break, feeling that sense of relief when I got off the plane at O’Hare. It was friggin’ cold, but I was home. And therefore I was happy. The simple reason for this was relativity. At home, I had absolutely nothing to do. At school, I was under a constant and extreme amount of pressure that never let up. The only way to rid myself of it was to push through it. Study harder. Stay in on the weekends. Literally never sleep.

But things are different now. Regardless of my love for the windy city, I’m still at this loss for something to work towards, for something to feel connected to and to keep me motivated.

Two Fridays ago I arrived at work at my usual 7:15 AM. The first thing I noticed was a muffin sitting on my desk from my co-worker with a note, “Thanks for all your help these few weeks!” I was touched, and because I was surprised that she was already there, I joined her in the lab. Two hours later and without a break to sit down, our team met for our daily morning meeting. As the meeting progressed at a snail’s pace, I began to feel nauseous, overheated. I tried to shake out my legs and, not quite intelligently, do a wall-sit, but nothing was helping. I was blacking out. I turned to my coworker and blurted, “I’mdizzyIhavetoleave” and ran into the office to my desk. Not even relieving my legs worked, and as the lights grew dimmer I put my hands on my desk and my face on my keyboard and

Passed the F out.

Everything was black and my head was spinning. I couldn’t make out anything except blaring Lady Gaga, which was definitely not playing in our office. My head was throbbing when I came to, and lifting my head from the pool of drool on my keyboard I had to remind myself where I was: at work. And that I had just passed out. The thought that came next? I feel like shit, and I need food. So like a champ I scarfed the muffin still sitting on my desk in under 30 seconds.

I know fainting isn’t the biggest deal, and I’ve fainted before, but in those circumstances I had either been extremely dehydrated or had just had a nasty bout of food poisoning. This was different- I felt perfectly fine that morning and the dizziness came so instantaneously that it worried me.

I act like I don’t know why it happened, but I do. And I know I’m not alone in my actions. I’ve talked to countless friends who are doing exactly what I’m doing, and that’s a whole hell of a lot. When I started to really, truly realize that after work I was more or less alone and had nothing to do, I started to fill my time with anything and everything: gutting and cleaning out my room, running upwards of 7 miles, hauling ass an hour into the city for maybe a 45 minute get together. I’m moving. I’m running myself into the ground. Because if I don’t, I’ll face being alone and what comes along with that. That silence can be deafening.

Thanksgiving could not have come at a more perfect time. I saw friends (let’s call them family) who I haven’t seen since the summer, and it was the first time in months that I’ve felt deeply satisfied. I didn’t realize how much I needed that. I didn’t realize how much I missed Coop muffins and thesis-ing, putting up pictures in tandem, sitting in Lincoln Edmunds until 3 AM on a Friday with periodic 20 minute breaks to go to Walker. I missed diet cokes and the OO’s. I missed photobooth. It’s not what I was doing, but who I was with.

And just like that they were gone, and the work-week returned. This past week, however, when I again started to think (and worry) about that little thing called my future, I didn’t respond immediately. This time I sat with the feeling. I didn’t make excuses for it, didn’t silence it with television or music or running. I sat with that cacophonous, out of control feeling until it passed. Which, granted, took a G.D. three hours, but it finally did. And I’m glad I didn’t try a quick-fix remedy. I’m not about to put my body in jeopardy just because at the moment I’m in transition. Aren’t we all? This isn’t supposed to be easy, and neither is building a career or going to graduate school. I’ll never get anywhere if I run from every temporary moment of anxiety.

So now I think I’ll take it one step at a time. Maybe I shouldn’t attempt to figure out my entire future in one sitting. Maybe I should just be thankful that I’ve at least, once, stopped running and instead met the stillness head-on. 

Your Place or... my Parents'?

I'd go on record to say that living at home, in a suburb, where the closest thing to a night hotspot is the new Love's Yogurt that closes at a skanky 10 PM, would make anyone a special kind of desperate. I recently googled "word for someone who lives with their parents" and the first hit, via wikipedia, was Geek. Four down was "basement-dweller." Because all of the above pertains to me, I'd say I fall dangerously close to this desperation category. Last weekend I went to get gas and was strangely attracted to the attendant with a receding hairline. Today I returned a book to the Wilmette Public Library and was intrigued by a tall guy standing in the lobby. It was a cardboard cutout of George Washington.

Now I'm not dying to lock the next unsuspecting guy I see into a full-blown relationship. How would that even work? Dating a fellow suburbanite would consist of dodging parents and borrowing cars, and the alternative commute to the city almost makes that whole demographic of Chicagoans "long distance." But it's that I'm wondering whether or not I'm getting so out of practice, seeing people my age only on the weekends, that I've started to disregard anything that before that I held as a "standard."

I guess I began to question myself this past Saturday when I attended a Graduate Preview Day at a University in the city. I was late, having so standardly gotten lost, so I had to make my way to the front of the room to sit down, which was almost right up against the stage where a dozen student ambassadors sat. There was a student from every program represented, and not thirty seconds in I had already abandoned listening in favor of developing a crush. He rocked his trendy oversized nerd glasses well, but what really wooed me was his hairstyle a la Patrick Dempsey in "Can't Buy Me Love." After the program I caught sight of him leaving holding hands with another boy. Strike one for Chel.

But in the ill-fated words of Dane Cook, let's Tarantino it.

My jaunt into Dating in the Real World started, obviously, this summer, when I realized I would no longer be so nicely presented with 200 hand picked boys all conveniently within 1-2 years of my age. I spent my entire summer studying for the MCAT, which put a big ol' C-block on my romantic life. Even so, I managed to "meet" someone. Right when I got home from school I began studying, which required me to find a tutor. I googled, found someone compatible, and decided to meet her at a Starbucks near my house the following Tuesday. When that day arrived, I came a few minutes early so I could set out my things and order a coffee.

I want to quickly plug how much I like Starbucks (as if they need it). But seriously, how cute is their stuff? I'm so freaking girlie that I go nuts over their super expensy tumblers - right now I have my eye on the grande ceramic take-out cup and the-

"What can I get for you?"

I must have been day-dreaming, because apparently it was my turn to order and I had no idea what to get.

"Uhh... err... I... Yeah. Wait."

"Well, I was planning on leaving actually..." What? Who was this guy? I finally made eye contact with him, and noticed that he was tall, maybe about 25ish, and joking.

"I'llhaveatallskinnyvanillalattepleasethanks." And apparently, I also thought he was cute. He responded with something else, longer than a simple "that'll be $3 more than you'd like to pay", but I knew it was hopeless to try my witty reparte with him. This happens to me more often than I'd like. If I'm intimidated by, really, anyone, my face heats up, I make idiotic jokes that last way longer than they should and, worst of all, I become completely deaf. 

I've named it "The Magical Fluid."

It's pretty much one of the most evil handicaps. I'll be talking to someone, become mildly anxious, and by the time it's my turn to respond to whatever they've asked me my ears have closed up with the Magical Fluid and all I end up doing is standing there, wide-eyed, staring blankly, hoping they don't leave thinking I'm legitimately retarded.

So that's what happened that day with my Starbucks lover. And unfortunately, that's all that ever did. Things simply couldn't work out, as I wasn't able to respond to anything he said. Strike two.

Since then I've encountered guys who want to teach me how to dougie, guys who are too old and too far away, and guys who think it's cute to smash their hand in my face. REALLY?

Two weekends ago I went to a party at my friend's apartment in the city. I knew literally no one except for him, and noticing how awkward I felt he kindly chatted with me until he had introduced me to enough people that I could mingle on my own. This happened to occur coincidentally (or not?) when I found myself in a circle of people passing around a watermelon Four Loko. This shit was amazing, and as I passed it to the person on my right, I noticed across from me an Andrew Jenks look alike. Holler. We started chatting, but unfortunately my life with the dopple-ganger to the MTV D-List celebrity did not pan out either. A romantic three seconds into our conversation he casually mentioned to me that he would "not remember any of this tomorrow" because he was "rolling on so much E." Precious.

Attempting to date in the Real World mega-blows, but never giving up, I recently joined a soccer team on ChicagoSocial.com. I had to make a profile to do so and just received a friend request from a 42 year old italian man, "LAURENO." All caps. Super myspace-y. Super creepy.

Super accepted?

A Post as Aimless as my Life Right Now

What does it mean to follow your dream?

That wasn't supposed to rhyme, and I feel like the question almost loses its credibility in doing so. But really, when people make the blanket statement, when parents, teachers, society tell you to reach for the stars because you can be anything you desire, what does that ACTUALLY mean?


Since my recent decision to postpone medical school (or perhaps not go entirely), I've become increasingly worried about the lack of a path I now have to follow. I had held onto medicine for so long, I think, because it was safe: all I had to do was get into medical school and I was basically guaranteed a job and a salary for the rest of my life. But was I really as committed to medicine as I had always thought? Did I really want to give up my entire life, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week, to my career? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for working hard, but I firmly believe that you have to enjoy whatever it is you're doing as you do it. Instead, I found myself waiting for the "ends"- the acceptance to medical school, residency, getting a job at a hospital of my choice- with the belief that once these were attained, I could "start living". Then one day when I was running, it hit me: I'd be at least 35 by the time I could "start living," and who's to say that I'd give up this mentality at that point? I'd work myself incessantly for something I wasn't sure was my passion. So I decided to put the idea on the backburner for a while and explore my options.

My options, as it turns out, are nonexistent.

This past Sunday I went downtown to speak to one of my mother's close friends about her life in journalism - something I've always thought was an interesting career but never something I've seriously considered. She pretty much told me, in the kindest of words, that I couldn't even get an internship (I'm not even uttering the idea of trying to get a paid position) with my credentials. A major in Classics with a concentration in Ancient Literature in Translation: it may be trendy, but it sure as hell won't pay. And it won't get me anywhere near an internship at a magazine.

So I left Starbucks with no greater sense of direction or idea of what I'd truly like to do with my life. To be honest, I feel a little duped. I wish I could warn my naive little high school self, "Stay away from the Liberal Arts!! Get a degree that means something!" But then who's to say that I wouldn't graduate with a degree in petroleum engineering (..sure) and decide that, unfortunately, crude oil isn't so much my passion. Then I'd really be up the creek. At least I have a general degree in, well, for lack of a better term, "college."

This whole idea of "soul searching" and "finding your passion" is a lot less ideal and a lot more stressful than people make it out to be. If anything, I'm learning that I am, in fact, NOT someone who enjoys knowing their job is ending in nine months with no prospects on the horizon. Or that, as much as I love my friends and the people who I'm spending my time with in Chicago now, it still feels like a transition six months after graduation. It's like I'm waiting for something to start but with nothing definite to look forward to.

I guess this post, in all its wanderings, reflects the state of mind I'm in: I'm constantly thinking about what would ideally make me the happiest - coming to no sort of solution - trying to think about entirely different fields that I might consider - and interspersed within these A.D.D. thoughts are snippets of calm, usually brought upon by sleep.

A few weeks ago I was at Borders, spotted an O Magazine on the shelf, and sat down to read it (obv). In it was an article about finding the career you were born to do - with examples of women who have quit high powered corporate jobs to open Vegan bakeries, become dog trainers, or travel the world. Of course! How could I think otherwise? Oprah would without a doubt have my answers. I flipped to the article and read the first question, which asked me to think about the last time I was doing something where I was truly happy and totally engrossed.

...Nothin'.

Uhh. Okay. Let's dig a little deeper, Chels. I like to run. But hell if I'd ever be any sort of a personal trainer. I like to watch entire series of TV shows on my computer in a single sitting. I like to buy shoes. So basically I left Borders finding that I'd grow up to be an out of shape personal trainer with a detailed knowledge of television trivia and seriously hot footwear. This was a mess.

A few days later I was driving home from work on 94 and chose the "Annie (Original Broadway Cast)" Pandora station on my iPhone. The first few songs were unrecognizable to me (isn't that annoying how Pandora does that? It's like, I want to listen to the Glee Cast NOT REBA MCENTIRE OKAY THANK YOU.) But when "Tomorrow" came on, and that little belty voice faded in, I couldn't help but sing along. Except the weirdest thing happened - there, stopped at the intersection of the Edens and Lake Cook, getting stares from cars on either side (I'm sure), I started to cry. And not just tears-in-my-eyes-but-you-still-look-presentable crying, I'm talking all out, raccoon-face, you're-a-mess crying. I had had my "Aha!" moment, without being 55 and post-menopausal. The last time I felt truly, ecstatically, blissfully happy was as an 11-year-old child cast as Annie in my community's production of the show. Letting that realization sink in, I spent the rest of the ride home belting out loud to the rest of the songs I knew.

Now let's be real, we can't all be Lea Michele. I get that - I'm not totally delus. But I do think my highway breakdown was significant, and I know that it was helpful. Even if it doesn't mean that I want to drop everything and pursue my deeply tucked away desire to be on Broadway - honestly, I don't think that's what it is at all. I think it was remembering the feeling of raw euphoria and letting myself unabashedly want that, as outrageous and impossible as it is, for a 20 minute ride home.

And isn't that the goal? To want something so much that it literally tears you apart at the thought of not being able to do that thing that you believe drives you, makes you who you are?

I don't think you'll see me on Broadway, but that little red-headed girl is back, just waiting to break out when I find her something to do. You bet your bottom dollar. 

Party like a Post Grad

Above was how I ended my Halloween weekend. Now let's start from the (more social) beginning.

No surprise, this past weekend was Halloween. Or, as so many have cleverly put it over the internet, "Halloweekend."  I was curious as to how this weekend would play out, and by curious I mean desperate for any sort of social stimulation with people my age plus or minus 4 years. I was also worried I was losing my college going-out stamina, if you could call it that: the Saturday before I was so indecisive and apathetic that instead of choosing between one of two equally appealing social events I remained in my pajamas watching "Paranormal Activity 1" with a following showing of "Dear John". If that doesn't get you motivated to make better plans for the next weekend, I'm not sure what does.

I wasn't exactly sure what Halloween would be like after college, but apparently being a postgrad means returning to any sort of University-setting to celebrate. The general idea for our "Halloweekend" was to leave early in the afternoon on Saturday, travel down to Champaign to our friend's apartment to go to their Halloween party for the night, and then leave the following morning. Simple enough.

When we arrived the party prep was in full swing. People were hanging decorations on the ceiling, putting out loads of food, and clearing out the main areas of furniture. I was of minimal help in this set-up process and spent the majority of the pre-party pre-gaming pumpkin mellocremes.

The party proceded like any other college Halloween party. There was a plethora of too-soons: the Brett Favres and Jets Girls, as well as a Michael Jackson, a Rocky and Bullwinkle, and even the famous Ale-Alejandro.

A few hours into the party I found myself in the kitchen, the only place that wasn't pitch black and kept lit with glow in the dark cobwebs. After a few minutes of standing by myself and (I'm sure) looking out of place, someone presumably took pity on me and struck up a conversation.

"So, what are you?" I turned to look at who the question came from. A guy maybe my age or a year or two older stood in front of me in some sort of suit. He looked like an 80s businessman. Sweet. I love the 80s.

I responded how I had learned to all night,  "Do you watch 'It's Always Sunny'?" The guy immediately launched into his love for the show, especially his favorite character Charlie, when he stopped mid-thought,

"Are you okay?" He asked.

Apparently I didn't hide my feelings well. I really never have. A friend of mine once dubbed my inability to hide my disgust for things I don't like as the "Curry Curse."

"Oh - uhh - yeah. I'm fine. I gotta go to the bathroom sorry." I guess I could have used a better, if not less vulgar excuse. But the fact remained: this guy had Poo Breath. 

You know what I'm talking about. And in whatever the context, I think we can all pretty much agree it's a deal-breaker. What I find both puzzling and terrifying is that the offenders seem to have no idea they themselves have Poo Breath. They'll talk as much and as close to your face as they please, while you're concentrating on holding your breath and simultaneously not passing out from both the odor and asphyxiation. It's kind of funny, because in the last three weeks I've met three people with this exact hygienic handicap, and while I'm asking myself why they don't notice or do anything about it, I'm sure the majority of people who they've encountered do exactly what I did: leave awkwardly to avoid anymore time spent within the same three foot radius.

It was then I decided I needed to sleep. I couldn't risk running into Poo-Breath again and it was way past the time that I'd usually call it a night. However, the party didn't seem to be coming to an end at all. In fact, when it would slow for a few minutes, another wave of new people would enter and things would pick up again. I thought my best bet was to check out the host of the party's room, where he told me that I could sleep anywhere but his bed. Great, I thought. Except when I got to his room the only other piece of furniture was... a desk chair. What made perfect sense to me, then, was to lay on the wood floor in a pile of coats and bags.

 

The sleep I was trying to get never happened. Between the host of the party changing into six different costumes to me trying to take funny pictures of myself in a pile of coats to text to other people, I hardly settled down enough to sleep. At that time my friends returned and asked if I wanted to go to another apartment where there would be no party going on and where we would hopefully have places to crash.

And what a sight we were as we settled into bed that night: a passed out frog, two guys on a pull out couch, a couple on an air mattress, and myself in another pile of coats in a lazy boy chair. Three hours later I woke up to a still pitch black living room. It smelled like hot dogs and urine, and I held my breath as I made my way to the bathroom. Flicking on the light I looked in the mirror and thought about my previous Halloweens. Instead of Illinois, I would have been in California. Instead of an apartment, I would have been in a parking garage. (Yes, a parking garage). I had missed my college life before but never as intensely as this moment. I think partially it was the holiday I hadn't spent apart from my suitemates for the past four years, but also that it was finally sinking in that this wasn't just an extended summer vaca. This awkward postgrad thing was it, this was real life. It's sad to have to finally close the chapter where my biggest problem was "Room Draw" and where "Snack Concert" meant something. My college did a great job of sheltering us from what it meant to be an adult. And though I don't hold a grudge (very much on the contrary), standing in the bathroom and thinking about walking back to my pile-of-coats-bed strangely enough reminded me that I am, in fact, a graduate. 

The next morning we heard that a guy we drove down with woke up in a bathtub with pants.... sans boxers. And although most weekends I'd be just as happy staying in and watching Sex and the City 2 in my lazy bones pajama pants, it's good to know I still have a little bit of college-esque rally left in me.

So long, Pink Razr. It's been real.

It didn't really occur to me just how outdated my phone was until my mom decided I was now an "adult" and would be paying for my own cell phone bill. I had had the pink Motorola Razr since I was a senior in high school, a solid 5+ years. Now, if anything, I'd say it was a testament to the Razr's strength and durability that it held up as long as it did. It went with me to college, lived with me in Scotland, and even started my first real job with me. I'd become attached to my little pink flip phone. It could text, it never dropped calls, and it refused to break upon being repeatedly dropped (even in a puddle outside Nordstrom Rack during a pre-Holiday shopping frenzy). It was my little rosy confidante.

Or so I believed.

About a month ago I was invited to a global 5C happy hour in the city. At this point in my post-Pomona life, turning down a social invitation was (and is) not an option. No matter how far, I was without a doubt hauling ass to the city for the chance to mingle with people my own age. If I was lucky, maybe I'd be able to reminisce with someone about the glory that is Pub and the joy only fellow Pomona-ians could know when they check mymail and know they've received an email security alert warning them of flashers or flying tortillas.

The trip to the city was simple enough. I got turned around walking from the train to the bar but only overshot it by a block. And the happy hour was pleasant and worth the $4.50 L fare. I saw some old friends I hadn't seen since May and the beer only cost me $2.00. Overall, I'd say I was coming out ahead.

Now before we get any further, let me fill you in on a not-so-secret secret of mine: I love taking the "L". Where other people may have thought it exciting and grown up half a decade ago, the novelty still hasn't worn off for me. Perhaps this is where things took a turn for the worse. Over-eager to get back on the gritty train, taking Chicago's public transit by storm, heading north towards Suburbia, I got on the Red Line around 8 PM, which should have taken me North and back home in under an hour.

I chose a seat towards the back of one of the cars and pulled out the latest issue of Cosmo, scrolled through my iTunes to Willow Smith, and waited for the train to leave. I glanced up a few times in between articles and noticed that the train was traveling along the highway. To anyone else even remotely aware of the geography of the city of Chicago or of the CTA's routes, this should have been wholly alarming. I, on the other hand, chocked it up to a change of routine. I figured we had to be going North (though on what basis I believed that, I couldn't tell you), and went back to reading. It was only after about twenty more minutes and the lack of white, underaged hipster-looking Northwestern students on the train did I realize that I was horribly, horribly mistaken. At that moment, the train came to a stop and four college-aged guys entered all wearing Sox gear. Oh, sh*t.

I was at Comiskey.

For those of you who don't know, or who are not from Chicago, instead of heading North I was heading very, very Southwest and to not the friendliest of areas. While silently panicking, I gathered up my things and bolted through the doors before they could close. There I found myself standing, in what I now decided had been poorly-chosen bright pink high heels, on a raised platform in the middle of a four lane highway. All of the stranger danger lessons I had been taught in the first grade came rushing through my mind: don't get into strange cars with tinted windows, only go to houses with the happy McGruff dog in the window, don't eat the homemade Halloween candy! Crap, clearly my knowledge would be a waste here.

Then I realized I had my phone. Whipping out (and flipping open) my pink Razr I was immediately filled with a sense of impending doom. In my time of desperation, my phone could provide me with literally nothing. The most it could do was call 911, but with my obscenely poor sense of direction, how would I even be able to tell them where I was? And that's when I realized: I had been abandoned. Left in the cold to fend for myself, my phone was no asset to me. Texting my college roommate wasn't going to save me from my inevitable kidnapping that would occur if I stayed on this platform much longer. I looked down at my pink Razr, the phone that had been with me through so much, the phone I had refused to believe was useless when everyone was telling me to upgrade, and I whispered,

"You little bitch."

This past weekend, I got the new iPhone. And it has Google Maps.

Top 5 Reasons Why Fall is My Fav Season

1. aka Autumn

It has a formal alter-ego, how bada** is that? In my book Fall (or Autumn..) runs along the lines of James Bond or other things that society has deemed "cool" and I'll go along with but don't really know all that much about.

2. Football

Now, there are few sports I know less about than football. To me, football seems like just a bunch of huge men pushing against each other and not really ever getting anything done. Terms like "3rd down" and "1st and 8" mean absolutely nothing to me, so it might seem strange that football is in my top 5 list. The very simple explanation? Football jerseys. They're cute, on guys too, but especially on girls. And let's be real, I'm 23, so trying to look cute is like the second thing I think of when I wake up in the morning... Though I have yet to buy myself a jersey.

Go bears.  

3. Pumpkins

And here is where I begin to let on just how far my obsession goes. Pumpkins are great. I love them. If someone said to me, there's this vegetable that we carve funny faces into and then make into delicious pies, of course i'd be smitten. This is why it continues to be very important to me to obtain a pumpkin every Fall in one way or another. Since this year I was home for October for the first time in four years, I thought it a great opportunity to spend some quality time with my mother at a pumpkin patch. The suggestion went something like this:

"Mom, don't make plans for this Sunday... We're going pumpkin picking!" I waited for her response, what I assumed would be elation, an exclamation of joy, laughter, glee..

Instead I received nothing less than a blank stare. Was she even listening?

"Mom... did you hear me? Can we go to a pumpkin patch this weekend?" At this point I think my mother realized she was no longer dealing with a sane almost-adult, but rather an 8 year old trapped in a 23 year old's body.

''... Okay honey, we can do that.''

"Mom, get ready to MAKE SOME FAMILY MEMORIES!!" I shouted, fist pumped, and skipped off to my room.

Sunday couldn't come soon enough. When we arrived, I could hardly contain myself. Every time I looked around I saw something better: Cows! Roosters! Gourds! A HAY MAZE!!!!!!!!!! I almost wet myself. After 20 minutes of going in, out, and back in the hay maze again, my mother suggested we move to the pumpkin patch and away from the hay. Was it worry I heard in her voice?

And there it was, in all its glory: The Pumpkin Patch. It didn't even phase me that this "pumpkin patch" consisted of only about five dozen already-picked pumpkins in three piles, which were located in what seemed to be a gravel driveway. No, I didn't care. there was no longer anything standing between me and those orange orbs of love (....). Well, actually, there were - there were others as ruthless as myself and as deadset on getting the perfect pumpkin.

...Yeah, I was a bit out of place. And yeah, I may have beat the jealous looking biddy to the right to the best pumpkin of the bunch. But at the end of the day it was mine, and that's all that matters... to me.

4. Things that are scary

One summer when I was going into sixth grade I decided that it would be my goal to watch every horror movie in Blockbuster (dream big, kids). That said, it's no surprise that I like things that are (or try to be) scary. Really, any attempt is appreciated. I'll be first in line at a haunted house (if they weren't so GD expensive) and Stephen King may or may not be one of my favorite authors. It's a little ridiculous, this obsession. But I have fond memories of the first time I saw the heartwarming slasher-thriller... Scream.

5. Halloween

The final and most obvious of all is Halloween. Second only to Christmas, Halloween is the one day a year when you can dress up as whatever you want. Traditionally, the costumes are supposed to be "scary" creatures: witches, ghosts, zombies. And no, I'm not going to say Halloween is an excuse for me and my friends to skank it up (though I secretly have always kind of wanted to buy one of those "adult" costumes in a bag - how conveniently slutty!) On the contrary... there's a tremendous amount of pressure to have, all at the same time, an original, cute, funny (and girls can never REALLY be funny... think about it), charming costume. 

For years, the pressure has proved to be too much. I've been part of group costumes since high school, and although we have high hopes of choosing the perfect group theme and outfit, it almost always looks - for lack of a better word - disgusting. Let's take my senior year of high school, for instance. Now, I have no idea how we got this idea in our heads but we definitely did NOT want to be slutty but we NEEDED to be ... manly. Assuming we could wear boy-ish clothes and look cute, we decided to be the characters from the Sandlot. Really an adorable idea, right? 

.

Wrong. 

In our baseball tees and denim hats (of which mine seems to be incredibly too small) we resembled moreso an offensive word for stereotypical female field hockey players than the endearing boys of The Sandlot. Other years have proved to be even less successful: construction workers, "fighters", robots... But the magical thing about Halloween is that there's always great anticipation and hope. Hope that your undoubtedly unflattering costume doesn't make you look as masculine as the year before.

Not Another Teen Blog

Okay, I admit. It is – although I’m no longer a teen (and haven’t been for four years) and I am new to this whole “blogging” idea. I tried it briefly when I studied abroad during college but it got tedious and boring. So the idea for this blog is to do just the opposite: not be tedious and boring.

As a post-grad myself, living at my mother’s house, moments after eating a meal she prepared for me and sitting in my childhood bed, I’ll keep you updated as I try to make sense of this thing I’m apparently living in… better known as “the real world.”