Today I didn’t feel so alone, but rather
the glass was half-full, not half-empty.
And my best friends became even more of the best,
as unexpected visits and laughter go –
These people are my world,
filling my life with contentment and reason.
I am blessed.
I THOUGHT, ALL DAY I THOUGHT of how I could put my current life into words.
Frustration. Confusion. The pursuit of lifelong ambitions followed by a screeching halt; far and few believe in me, it seems. These don’t even scratch the surface.
It would be so easy, so terribly easy to stop in my path and let go of my objectives. Give up. I cannot honestly think of anything more temporarily gratifying at the moment. I am trying my best to stick out my college days, sauntering and haphazard currently, but it’s difficult when those I look to for direction cannot even pretend to take me seriously.
What do you want me to say, when I’m asked what I want to do with my life? Is there even a logical or respectable answer to this inquiry? How can you know?
On a flight from Dayton to Fargo this past fall, I sat next to an older man who gave me some of the most reassuring, unforgettable advice I’ve ever been given. I had just changed my major at the time, and when he asked me what I was studying, I explained to him my situation with much unease.
When I’d finished the long, bashful utterance of my debatable future, I ended with the final words of, “I don’t really know what I want to do with my life.”
He paused, only for a moment, to gather his composure.
“Listen,” he said sternly, “when I know what I want to do with my life, I’ll be the happiest man in the world.” He sat back in his chair and stared straight ahead before making a closing remark. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” I knew he meant business.
It’s one thing to hear these words from someone you know, but it is entirely different coming from a complete stranger. He was right — don’t worry about it. Too often I get carried away tormenting myself about the future that I completely dismiss the now.
I have raised myself with the mentality that individuals graduate high school, pursue a chosen major, earn a degree, and advance themselves into a perfect box containing a job suitable of their studies.
I am sadly mistaken.
And now I know these said boxes are no more, and no less than a niche we so desperately want to conform our careers to, specific molds that we sculpt ourselves to fit as best we can. I am trying to chisel my education to my liking, only to find that I have repeatedly been carving erroneously. Nothing fits. My life feels off-kilter, obscure, and of tune.
I am worn out, exhausted of asking myself where I belong. I persistently seek a path to something greater, but time and time again have been stopped in my tracks. Advice from faculty has been nothing short of circular and hindering. I am a no-name face without an ounce of credence to my existence. To them, I am just another.
Just another student with a camera and a college ID card. Just another student here for the party. Just another student aiming for a less-than-satisfying degree, only to get it done and over with and begin a less-than-desired career. Just another.
I am tired, so excruciatingly tired of being ‘just another’; I want more.
And more is what I will aim for. Because I never want to find myself standing before my advisor as I did today, listening to her words that labeled my aspirations nothing short of impossible, and shooting down every grand career plan I summoned as I humbly held back tears. Never.
I am, and I can – and I will.
Going the distance,
jc
I BELIEVE THAT EACH DAY AS I SIT DOWN TO WRITE the nonsensical blurbs and randomosity that I post, I secretly hope that someday, someone will read them and it will miraculously change their life.
Pish posh. I am no superhero of sorts, a goddess nor demon. I cannot read minds nor jump from burning buildings, and I most certainly cannot fly (though my brother tried this on Christmas day in the mid-90’s and landed in the emergency room). The extent of my valor may very well have been the conquering of several largely vertical waterslides, saving my sister from an inflatable raft that incidentally sprung a leak in 4 feet of water, and showcasing myself on the karaoke stage at the North Dakota State Fair whilst belting out various raunchy tunes with such lyrics as, “Baby got back” and “I love you in your big jeans, you give me nice dreams, etc.”.
I am pleased to announce, ladies and gentlemen, that as of today these are no longer my greatest acts of spunk.
I saved a life today, maybe two, possibly ten. But there were no burning buildings, nor damsels in distress. I didn’t push a car out of the path of an oncoming train, nor set zoo animals free from captivity, send food to hungry children in third world countries, or stop genocide in Darfur. No, no, and no.
I gave blood. A whole pint of beautiful, healthy, HIV/AIDS/malaria/[insert any blood-related disease here] -free blood. I’d never given blood before, and for lack of a less cheesy description, it was a powerful experience. I feel good about it.
My intentions in telling you this are not to appear smug, but rather to encourage you to donate. The United Blood Services did not send me out of their Bloodmobile demanding that I advocate their cause and recruit fellow people with blood (that’s you!), but they did give me an Oatmeal Creme Pie, a sweet bandage, and a reason to come back. People out there need my blood more than I do! WHOA!
Though I’m not eligible to donate again until the end of March, I plan on doing so. It is easy for me to dream of making a difference through these silly posts, or to stop global warming. OR I could simply take a needle for the team and hand over a pint of sweet, sweet vital fluid for a greater cause. I think yes.
Ya-woo.
[Postscript: If you have had sex for money even once since 1977, you are unfortunately not eligible to donate. UBS does not support you or your tainted blood. Sorry.]
DURING A RECENT TRIP TO THE LOCAL TARGET, I dished out $54 on necessary toiletries. I’m very particular about my products. I’m the lady you see at the store in the hair product/facial cleanser/body wash aisles, sampling and spraying, sniffing and testing for hours until I’ve finally found a suitable commodity.
On this particular shopping adventure, I even went to the lengths of purchasing a loofah. I don’t know your feelings about these things, but until I purchased one they always seemed like another thing the world could do without, like reality shows, war, and reduced fat Oreos. It seems like everyone and their cat has 18 loofahs lying around from various holiday gift exchanges, the loofah fairy paying visits every so often and leaving loofahs under children’s pillows, or even the dreaded loofahnami (similar to a tsunami) that yields such disastrous effects as wiping out entire communities with – you guessed it – loofahs.
[Please take this time to scour your house for any loofahs that may have accumulated over the years in order that my point be proved and I won’t seem like such a nut job right now.]
Back to my purchase. So I took this B.A. (a term that I have coined from my residents, also convenient since I gave up swearing) loofah for a test drive in the shower this morning, and my! I’ve never gotten so many kicks from a $1.49 piece of fluff. It’s one of those things that you don’t know how you lived without for 20 years (this also applies to pints of Häagen-Dazs and Andy Rennich).
To take it down a notch, I’m reading a book right now – yes, a book! It’s called The Perks of Being A Wallflower, and you can probably guess that it attests to my current screen names. Truth be told, I am a wallflower (sometimes I feel like wallpaper even). I finished chapter one last night before going to sleep, and the very last line couldn’t have been more perfect:
“and at that moment, I swear we were infinite.”
I don’t know about you, but there are several particular times in my life that I have felt infinite. They come, far and few, and almost as soon as they come, they are gone. They can be anything from a kiss, to winning a tennis match, to riding around with nine girls in your car, to giving a speech at graduation, to wearing your favorite shoes. Infinite is a difficult word to grasp, but when you have the feeling, you know. You just know.
I could sit and ponder for the right words to describe the most pivotal infinite moments in my life, but none could ever elucidate those times. How could I ever describe the view from the top of the Sears Tower, or late nights looking at the stars from the golf course? Where do I even begin to explain the feelings sustained from New York City, or driving through the night on a secret escapade? How would you ever understand ten girls screaming the Bloodhound Gang at the top of their lungs without experiencing it first (Caution: this is not for the weak of heart)?
Someday I’ll have this life to look back on, this quiet, eclectic, and semi-charming life that I lead, and I’ll realize that it’s not so bad after all.
Sigh.
Now go acquire a loofah, and be amazed.
Loofahnami + infinity,
jc
AFTER WATCHING MISS AMERICA PAGEANT RERUNS for the third time since it aired live last night, I came to the executive decision that it was time to pack my bags and head to the trusty library.
Here I am – but there is too much on my mind to write a speech, or a paper, or even do anything that’s one-quarter, three-fourths, or semi-constructive; I just want to write. It’s not even that I have anything of significance or relevance to write about (really, do I ever?) but for you, audience (are you there?), I am willing to scrape together my freshest random thoughts from the cauldron that is my mind.
Lately I have been very aware of particular aspects of my personality that I may have previously been oblivious to. For example, I am not a team player and, come to think of it, I don’t know that I have ever been. Put me in a group of people and I will crawl into the nearest crevice, pull the zipper closed on my mouth, turn the lock, throw away the key, and proceed to slap a fat piece of duct tape across my face. In the meantime my head will be filled with a explosion of ideas, suggestions, and input that I am too stubborn and frightened to apprise. On the flip side of things, put me to work alone and I can possibly move mountains and create earthquakes measuring 10.0 on the Richter Scale. I feel invincible. I feel the urge to lasso universes and solve outrageous differential equations. I feel the urge to go to the library and scour the creative writing section for just the right book. I feel the urge to build submarines and visit other continents and walk a million miles, just for the sake of walking a million miles. I feel like a nerd, I feel like I can work harder, I feel like I can win. When I work alone I am, and I can.
But that is simply just one of my recent self-discoveries. It is unfortunate for me to admit that I am also a flake. Making plans and breaking them is something I have come to be very ashamed of as of late, and it’s no wonder that people have given up hope on calling, inviting, etc. me into their lives. I push a lot of people away because at the moment, it seems more “convenient” for me to be alone. I am becoming more and more like a hermit every day, and it’s really not a pretty pathway. What’s a girl to do.
I went to grab some coffee the other day – solo – and after sitting down, decided to call up several people whom I hadn’t spoken to in a while. It is almost a sense of relief when you hear their voice, to know that they still remember you and/or have that one crazy birthday card you gave them a couple of years ago, or can recount the times you worked together at such-and-such a restaurant, or even recall where you’re at and why you’re there. It’s those details.
And I can’t tell you much about the big picture, but I can tell you details. I can tell you that when I pulled into the parking lot of Starbucks, there was an ‘Obama ’08’ sticker on the bumper of a car. A man inside was wearing a very nice scarf, and the ceilings seemed a little too high, or the space too empty (one of the two). I can tell you that there is still Pennsylvania mud caked on the bottom of my running shoes from a service project in Harrisburg last spring, and that my locker combination is 4-26-14. I can describe to you what my favorite scent is, but not the name of it. I can relay to you every lesson I’ve learned from ‘What Not to Wear’ and describe every hair on my best friend’s head.
I could tell you all of this, but it doesn’t mean much to you; merely a collective mush of irrelevant constituents of my life. I can tell you, however, that I am a detail junkie with little idea of where my life is going but every good intention of getting to Whereveri’msupposedtobe. Someday.
PS. My postcard didn’t make today’s Sunday Secrets.
And with that, I will put an end to this randomness and encourage you to carry on with your day, perhaps this time with an extra bounce in your step.
xo
jc
I finally saw Juno – hooray for that film! I have a newfound crush on Paulie Bleeker (aka Michael Cera) and a sudden urge to drink Sunny D.
I WAS SITTING IN MY INTRO TO MASS COMM CLASS TODAY, minding my own business and naturally, attempting to learn a thing or two about book publication and censorship.
To my left was the exit, ever-so-tempting yet, I like learning about media history. I find acquiring a knowledge of these types of origins strangely fascinating, and tuned in to the instructor’s discourse.
To my right sat none other than SweetPea McGee. No, that isn’t literally her name, but it very well could have been. SweetPea was your quintessential Mass Comm major, the kind that roam in a pack of girls wearing fur coats and sleep with their flatiron. The majority of these pleasant young women have a minor in Baby-Mama Drama and apply lipgloss religiously. You may find them going to the restroom in pairs (to talk about boys) and their weekends are consumed by late nights and early mornings of beer pong, followed by a hung-over Sunday afternoon workout session (the price paid for two consecutive nights of getting “fuggggged uuup”). SweetPea may or may not have met the majority, if not all of this criteria, respectively. I will have you know that these are not pre-judgments, but rather a gathered opinion from SweetPea’s actions. Today she decided to push my buttons.
In the midst of learning about the wonders of the media, I was disrupted by a hasty and familiar clicking. To my horror I glanced over at SweetPea, who was hunkered down in her chair and attempting to conceal her SuperMegaGinormousTextPhone 9000 beneath the desktop. She was texting at a Nascar pace –– nay –– make that lightspeed, and completely tuned out all lecture material and notes presented by the instructor.
I am not one to have a cow, pig, baby, etc. about situations like this, but this instance is an exception. In light that I have given up cursing as part of the bible that is my New Year’s Resolutions, I will rephrase my reaction to this situation: WTF. Seriously. WTF.
I’ll be the first to admit that I, too, have texted during class, but no more than an, “I’m in class right now, I’ll call you later” type of deal. This SweetPea was literally typing volumes upon doctoral thesises upon entire J.K Rowling’s series worth of text and who-knows-what. As my anger escalated I couldn’t help but wonder, what on earth was she texting? “Thirsty Thursday tonight, you going to [so-and-so’s] [scummyhouseablockawayfromcampus] to [drinkuntilwepassoutand/orfindsomeonetotakeustotacobell]?”*
*Slightly paraphrased exaggerations that are possibly not exaggerated at all.
Whatever it was, it was rude, disrespectful, and ridiculous. Not only that, after a while she gave up hiding SuperGinormousMegaTextPhone 9000 beneath her desk and just straight up set it on the tabletop, then proceeded to “flip” it open (an acclaimed feature of the SuperTextPhone 9000 series) as if it were a mini computer and go to town once more.
[Insert SweetPea here, with a single finger in superspeed motion, typing up another super-epic text].
I was obviously agitated by this time and pondered wether or not to confront the situation. After nearly an hour of attempting to scrape together a semi-polite phrase (“Hey, SweetPea, do ya mind? I’m tryn’na learn here”), I decided to altogether let it slide and sit a little closer to the front next time with the overachievers and teacher’s pets. At least then I could focus on 75 minutes of debating if Harry Potter should be banned from schools.
And I won’t even bust out the “I’m paying to learn, not to watch you text” line.
Eeeey yey yey.
[Ranting subsides as I quietly step down from my carping pedestal, only to hover into the nearest corner and proceed to live my passive-agressive life].
Muchlove to all —
jc
“Hey, how are you today?”
I twirled around and plunked down in a seat next to a familiar face. “Good, good,” I replied in response to his small talk.
He is my first, and perhaps only friend in the Mass Communications department. The transition from the art section to the more businesslike and insipid communications division was nearly as difficult as I’d envisioned, as I left my accustomed classmates behind and ventured into a new building scores of unfamiliar faces. A brand-new beginning, indeed; a brand-new, lonely, and frustrating beginning.
But my new acquaintance was never shy nor afraid as I’ve seen others react to me in the past, and we engaged in a short and superficial discussion on the first day of class when we simultaneously agreed that our instructor reminded us of a carnival worker as he heckled us to congregate to the front of the classroom. We have spoken each class period since.
He is a good type of friend, though he is unaware of this thought of mine. We sit next to one another and whisper undirected questions about the class material, back and forth until we reach a conclusion (which is usually just laughing followed by shrugging our shoulders).
I once noticed that amidst his notes of the impact of books and media conglomerations, he had meticulously sketched several athletic shoes and Nike ‘swooshes’. Each was detailed and I could almost see as he drew, his subject matter was something he was very passionate about. I later learned that he works at FootLocker while studying part-time due to financial reasons, and has future aspirations of one day owning his own shoe store.
For me to tell you this story is one thing, but it really does no justice to my friend’s passion. Many students – often myself – look at their education and, to a large extent, are uncertain of where and when it will all add up. Personally I feel that I am a long ways off from knowing my future destination (and as a spontaneous person, is it any wonder?), and am certainly on no “Four-year plan” that the majority of college students envision. “Finishing college in four years is like leaving the party at 9:00”, a friend once told me; if that is the case then folks, the party is just getting started and I’ll be there all night.
Enough about my foreseen endless college years! That is not the point of this story. The point is, the astounding admiration I have for this young man and his dreams cannot be put to words, but I will say that I can only pray for as much bearing to come upon me and point me down the right trail. May determination come over me enough so to conquer each day with certitude.
“See you soon,” he said as he egressed from the classroom.
“See you soon,” I replied, and walked on behind, silently thankful for his friendship.
He is the beginning of my beginnings, and an inspiration to my prospects – and he will never know.
approximatelyes.com 