Turn Signals and Boxes

This is a rambler, folks.

My life is like a TV show.

There are 2 kinds of tv shows out there: the kind that have arch stories that take place over many episodes (like Gossip Girl, Once Upon a Time, or Grimm), and those that have stories that are completely contained in one episode (like Gilligan's Island, Hey Arnold, or Green Acres).

My life is like the latter.

No matter how hard I try, I feel like nothing really changes in my life. There are things I would really like to change, too, like: living in an apartment, not having and children, or eating cereal for dinner. I get to critical points where I get excited and think: "yeah, now things are going to really get shaken up around here!" but alas, I lie to myself every time. By the end of the episode, I am always back to square one: living in a box, alone, and eating LIFE even though I'm not living it.

At least, that's how I feel sometimes. But in another light, my life is ALWAYS changing.

Of the people who I see on a daily basis, I met none of them before August, 2012. I have a dog now. I don't share my bedroom with another lady, and! I have a REAL job!

I don't know if it's good or bad, but there it is. When changes DOES happen, it rarely happens with warning. I feel like almost every change that I anticipate in life goes a different way than I thought it would, and changes that I think I'm making happen just don't happen at all. There is no point in using your turn signal if you're already in the next lane, nor if you're not actually going to make any turns.

It all feels so pointless and dolor.

Do you remember The Truman Show? There's this one part where he tries to get out of town, and every road out is blocked by something. At the end of the day, he has to go back home. Do you ever feel like Truman? Like everything is fake?

Sometimes, when I'm in a room with florescent lights, I feel like I am not in reality, but rather in a painting or a dream. It just doesn't seem real. Then I wonder, what is reality, anyhow? How can I be sure that I'm in it? Have you ever asked yourself that question?

Sometimes I think, "I just need a new hobby," or, "it's this weather!" but then, at other times, I realize: I live inside a box. That just isn't natural.

Then I go outside for a little bit. I might even take a drive out into the mountains or to the river. I sit outside for a little bit, and things start to fall back into place.

We just weren't meant to live in boxes.

Buckets of 42

There are a couple of things that I really want to do with my life before I die. Here is my actual bucket list:

1. Own a horse.
2. Own a dog.
3. Write books.
4. Own a farm. (These are obviously in no particular order).
5. Be on Conan O'Brian's show as a guest.
6. Meet Tina Fey.
7. Run a half marathon.
8. Hike the Appalachian trail.
9. Go to Germany.
10. Have a baby.
11. Learn to play a string instrument.
12. Fall in love one, last time.
13. Get a photograph into the National Geographic.
14. Be the voice of a cartoon character.
15. Have a vegetable/herb garden or greenhouse.
16. Have an orchard.
17. Learn to speak Spanish REALLY and fluently.
18. Learn to speak German, too.
19. Have grandchildren.
20. Die laughing.

Heidi Has a Happy Hippo

Just in case you're wondering, this post has a lot to do with religion.

When I was in fourth grade, I was invited to participate in the program, Oddyssey of the Mind. In our radically eclectic skit, my character was a puzzle peice named "Happy." I thought it was fitting, seeing as my first name is Heidi, and like Stan Lee, I'm a sucker for a good alliteration, especially when it comes to names. "Happy Heidi."

A little while after that, Stephanie drew these little illustrations of animals for each of us. They had adjectives, too. We each had a different animal. Well, mine was a hippo. A happy hippo. I didn't like being associated with a hippo, but I really liked being named "Happy" once again.

I don't have anything especially exciting to report. My life is pretty routine. I go to work, I go home. I go to church, I go get groceries. I look forward to the weekend, and I don't love Mondays.

But, I am happy.

Sometimes, when I kneel beside my bed to pray before I fall asleep, reflecting on my day and my life, I am overcome with a sense of happiness. I am surprised by it. It is not fleeting. It is constant. I am truly, deeply, actually happy. (No matter how much I wish it were different, the only thing I really feel in the morning when I pray is sleepy. Oh well).

I'm not really sure how long I had been deeply unhappy, but I can tell you: I was. I was so busy with college, and dating (I figured it out. Since I was 21, I have had only 10 months of "singleness," 6 of which have been the last half year. That's exhausting, and admittedly, a little unhealthy), that I really wasn't keeping my self in check. And I wasn't happy. To be honest, I wonder if I was ever really happy at college.

The summer was a little strange for me. I felt sad, but I enjoyed it. After all, I have a right to be sad, . Being sad is a part of the human experience, and a blessing. I am thankful for ALL of the blessings that my Heavenly Father allows me to have.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't wallowing: I've done that before, and it isn't productive. No, this was a productive kind of sad, and sad might be the wrong word for it (maybe contrite? But nobody uses that word anymore). Anyhow, being sad helped me think about my SELF and who I am, and most importantly, what makes me happy. (Leave a comment if you can think of a better word for this. I just can't think of one).

I started reading more again. I used to read quite a lot for pleasure, but at school, I couldn't really choose what I read, because I was reading, reading, reading what the professors assigned me to read. I love the way I grew as a reader and a scholar during school, but there was something missing, too. So, here I was at home, and wanting to read, so I went to the library and brought home a stack of books, all picked by ME. Then I read them. Then I took them back. Then I got a new stack of books. Which I read. It was awesome.

I started painting with watercolors, too. I'm not very good, because I'm a beginner, but I enjoy watercolors. I like to play with the colors, and mixing, and trying to get the shapes and textures on the page the way I imagine. I think of myself as an artist these days. My work with markers and color pencils is, in my opinion, inspired. When I paint or draw, I feel a sense of peace and trainquility.

I re-evaluated my relgion. This, to me, means I re-evaluated my relationship with God and His Son, Jesus Christ. I'm not saying that I re-decided whether or not to have this relationship, but that I decided to change the way I related to Them. I prayed more. I studied the scriptures, my patriarchal blessing, and my journal to re-discover the many tender mercies I am showered with constantly. I changed my journal writing to focus on them, and describe them, so that in the future, when I come to a similar place in life, I will have more material to study.

I worked in the garden. I hope I helped my Mom, working in the house. I made new friends and I made new plans for myself.

Being happy is fantastic. I don't have to be at a party or playing a game to feel it; that's not the same kind of happiness I'm talking about. I don't even need to be dating someone. It's a feeling of deep satisfaction with who I am, and knowing that God is also satisfied with who I am, too.

I have this theory about cycles: everything is a cycle. Life is a cycle. Each day cycles in and out, each week, each year -- and so, too, do our lives, in a way, through a cycle of self examination and self acceptance:

1. First, we lose ourselves, and become a stranger with the person we are.
2. Then, we re-discover ourselves, or discover our new selves for the first time, again.
3. Then we learn to accept and adjust to who we now are.
4. Finally, we change again, becoming a stranger to our selves once more, starting the cycle over again.

I don't think that's deep or profound, but it's beautiful, and I don't have anything deep or profound to say, except that I am happy. I may not be the same little girl with a painted, plywood puzzle peice costume dancing on a stage singing "Happy, happy ha-PPY!" but I still am (or rather, am again finally) "Happy Heidi."

A Plea From Hell

I wrote this poem originally in 10th grade while reading The Inferno by Dante Alighieri and studying the romantic poets of Great Britain. I recently found it and made a few small revisions for rhythm and rhyme (considering the content, I felt that an ontology was required):

We've fallen underground
the sounds of Hell around
The pressure and the strain,
the fire and the pain
The gnashing of the teeth
the stench that from us seethes

It's endless torment;
We're in Hell.
the relief we seek
we know well
is never to come
we won't die
though how our souls will
Always try
I can only start
to tell.

It's Label Time!

I am not white.

Neither am I "Caucasian."

I am an American of (mostly) European heritage.  There are lots of reasons why I "should" feel short changed in the PC department: I am a woman; I am a "Mormon;" (and here we get a little far fetched but it's true), I am an exile of Scotland, and my native American ancestors' culture is completely deleted from me.  If it weren't for "white" men, my life would, hypothetically, be a lot happier (at least, different, and somehow different is always happier, right?)

Part of the problem is that it's all chalked up to the "white people."  I hate it when people say that I'm white.  It's not true.  I'm as white as any African American is black, or an Asian American is yellow, or a native American is red. That sounds rude, doesn't it? It is rude, and calling me "white" is just as rude as calling anyone else any other color.

I'm not Caucasian, either.  That's one of the most ridiculous terms ever to be applied to me: it refers to a people of northern India.  They were slightly less dark than the south Indian peoples, so they were "white," ---but they were less white than I am, and I don't have any recollection of being told that my family history traced there....ever.

If "blacks" get to be called "African American," then I get to be a "European American."  It's only parallel.  And if they want to be called "people of color," then I'm a "person of color," too, because there is definitely pigment in my skin (which is peachy), my eyes(which are brown), and my hair(which is also brown).  And if they want me to stop "being racist," then they need to stop being racist, too.

My family is not racist. We celebrate diversity, and part of the proof is the apple of our eyes: my youngest sibling is adopted, and he is not of the same racial makeup as I am. I love him just as much as my biological siblings, and I hope for him all the things that I hope for my biological siblings. I think I might love him better than I did some of the older ones when they were his age, just because I know better now how to value a sibling. I feel comfortable saying that my whole family feels this way.

It is unfair to us for anyone to judge our thoughts according to what our demographic predecessors thought and did (which does not include my ancestors, incidentally. I've done quite a bit of family history, and it seems they were all very poor, never owned slaves, were servants themselves, and fought for the north in the civil war), just like how it's unfair  for the African Americans to be judged by their racial background, or for the Scottish to judge me by the dishonorable actions of an obscure, Campbell ancestor, or anyone to be judged by the race they are a part of.

Isn't it about time we all moved on?

. . .And it's "European American," please.

Persuasive Writing

For my persuasive writing class, I need to write a paper (I know, right? So weird). After watching this video clip done by CBS news on anorexia, I think I've found my topic of choice (well, the wide topic, at least).

When I was in middle school, I decided to brush my teeth every day after lunch. So, I would excuse myself from my table of friends each day, go to the bathroom, brush, and then come back. They noticed the pattern, and decided to ask me, out of kindness, if I were making myself throw up after eating. I explained that I just brushed my teeth, and they were cool with that.

What amazing friends I had. If I actually had been bulimic, I swear they would have saved my life that day, and only because they cared enough to ask. I think everyone should have someone in their life who cares enough to ask, and who they care enough about to ask. Part of asking is being around them enough to know what to ask, and being enough of a friend to be able to ask in a way that won't offend, but only show how much you care.

Thank you Alicia and Holly, for being that kind of friend to me.

Adventure(less)

One of my greatest fears is that my life, upon completion, will have been completely devoid of adventure.

Adventure: An exciting, unusual experience.

Sometimes I balk at the sudden realization that there is a slow, intrepid deletion to my previously unabated magnetism for vivacity. I am, as all living things are, slowly dying. For some reason, most unusual experiences are at first not exciting, but annoying, and I have to talk myself into feeling "adventurous."

What is the difference between an adventure, and a cumbersome, superfluous task? I don't know, but I think it has more to do with the individual than with the task and, for some reason, the number of cats/figurines/other collectible items you own seems to be a part of that difference.

Shame.

"You must be the change you want to see in the world."
-Mahatma Gandhi

Today when I was walking to work, I heard a woman sobbing.

I turned and saw here, crying passionately on the phone, and I wanted to do something to help her. I hesitated, and then went inside the building, deciding that she would be embarrassed to know that I knew that she was crying. At least, that's how I would feel, so I assumed that's how she would feel, too.

I stopped once inside, and stood there, struggling stupidly with my decision to ignore her. I changed my mind, and went out to help her, but found she was already gone. I felt ashamed.

I pray every day for opportunities to help other people, and I feel happiest when I can do just that. Is that not the essence of the gospel of Jesus Christ: finding joy in service to others? I don't always miss the call to action, but so often I miss my chances, and deeply regret my hesitance.

We all have our walls. Once I was boarding a plane in the JFK airport (or rather, the we-are-bugs-in-a-bottle airport), and I saw a man trying to communicate with two flight attendants. He was deaf, and neither of the attendants knew sign language, so the communication was laborious and frustrating for all three. I know sign language. Once again my desire to help struggled against my aversion to embarrassment, and I did not help.

The deepest regret I have of all is when one of my girls at efy was sick, and the health counselors, busy and inexperienced, didn't think that it was serious. Like Miss Clavel, I kept on saying, and feeling, that "something was not right," and I asked them to come visit her multiple times. I did not, however, insist upon further action. I wanted to, but I didn't want to make a "big deal" about it if I was wrong. So I didn't push. On the morning of the last day, she collapsed in the hall, and was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where she was diagnosed with type I diabetes, a condition I have myself suffered more than ten years. Why did I not insist?

There are many things to regret in a life; these are mine. Of course, they all are excusable, none of the woe or frustration in these situations were ever my fault. The woman this afternoon was a stranger, so was the deaf man, and my efy camper insisted she was fine along with the health counselor, and after all, I did make sure she was seen every day that she felt sick by the health counselor.

I just think I could do better.

Are We Ennui? A Post of Three Parts (Just Like a Nucleotide!)

Part: The First: My English Nerd Self = On


"Do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of." 
-Benjamin Franklin
-Twelve Oaks Plantation Entrance (the Wilkes' plantation in Gone With the Wind)

squan·der/ˈskwändər/Verb

1. Waste (something, esp. money or time) in a reckless and foolish manner: "entrepreneurs squander their profits on expensive cars".

2. Allow (an opportunity) to pass or be lost

I squander time frequently. In other words, I allow material essence of life to pass or be lost. How can that not be depressing? And, what is to be done?

Read?

I have a short reading list this summer, because frankly, books are not people.  These are the books I have read:

1. An Abundance of Katherines by John Green

2. Austenland by Shannon Hale

3. Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

4. The Fellowship of the Ring by J. R. R. Tolkien

5. The Crucible by Arthur Miller

6. Silent Spring by Rachel Carson

Here is my to-read list:

1. Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austin
2. Rebecca by Daphne DuMaurier 

3. The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

4. The Abolition of Man by C. S. Lewis

5. The Help by Kathryn Stockett

6. Testament of Youth by Vera Brittain

7. Bread Givers by Anzia Yezierska

It's a very female summer, frankly.

Part: The Second: My Intrinsic Humanity = On

I want to make something. Something of my own choosing and design, something that will be finish-able in the time that I have until school starts again, but will challenge me within that time frame. i don't know what it is yet, and I have been desperately trying to think of it for some time. 

I am open to suggestions. And by suggestions, I mean useful-yet-ambiguous guidance. Otherwise, it would cease to be my own, correct?

I've been thinking of writing something, or doing an art project, or a science project like making batteries out of potatoes, but I don't know.

Part: The Third: Basic Frustration = On

I hate formatting on blogger, and formatting on blogger hates me.

Hello, Life. Welcome Back.

Why does the end of the semester mean endless hours upon hours sitting, sitting, sitting in the library: writing, writing, writing? In the last two weeks, I've written over 100 pages of academic research. That's 8 pages a day. Don't think that's a lot? Do you know how much reading, outlining, and revising 8 pages of research writing requires?

It's ridiculous.

That being said, I'm starting to get some of my grades back. All the 4pm to 2am torture sessions of sitting and writing and reading and sitting and writing and sitting have come to some fruition, and I believe I have been pretty successful.

Yes, I am bragging.

The semester is practically over. I have three finals left, and ample time to study for them and take them without sacrificing sleep, exercise, and human relationships in order to marginally finish within the time period I have been given. I feel relaxed. I will soon be completely done, and then: summer. Freedom!

FREEDOM!

Life Is an Adventure.

Luke Skywalker bothers me.

Sometimes, in life, we are required to rapidly shift our paradigm. I do not believe that Luke thought, "Oh, I'm going to set in motion a journey today that will radically change the political surface of the galaxy, as well as infuse life into a dying religion and reunite me with my lost twin sister." And yet, that Tatooine morning, he went to buy androids from the Jawas, and the day after, never did get to the Tosche station to pick up those power converters. He didn't need to.

His paradigm shifted.

Welcome to life, Luke.

I could understand giving Luke a reasonable amount of emotional space in which to mourn the death of his aunt and uncle who raised him --- but he doesn't do that. Instead, he spends a quantifiably huge amount of time complaining about how hard his pursuit of Jediism is, and how he "just doesn't understand."

No one understands. Heck, Obi-Wan obviously doesn't understand, either. You don't hear him kvetching incessantly. He's been living a happy little hermit life (let's be honest, hermits have it made), and suddenly some punk kid shows up and roots him out of his comfortable little hut in the golden age of his life. Luke had been obviously angsting up the moisture farm for some time, desiring a radical change, and yet, he is so resistant to that change when it comes.

Perhaps we are all a little like Luke, but you don't see George Lucas making a film about me, either. Yes, life is fluid: in flux (I seriously love that word). As Gandolf puts it, in response to Frodo's lament of "I wish none of this had happened!" (a reasonable exclamation, considering the circumstance): "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

Similarly, The Book of the Dead inquired of Lirael (In Garth Nix's novel by her name): "Does the walker choose the path, or the path choose the walker?"

We make choices all the time, but how consciously do we choose how we deal with the choices which are made for us? Perhaps that is the real difference between those who are happy, and those who are --well-- miserable. I'm not sure that there is a middle ground. We pass through times of trial and stress, constantly. We pass through times of happiness and joy, only upon our deliberate choosing.

The Coraline Corollary

I would have to say that I am a fairly functional adult-type. As an adult-type, I:

1.) pay for my own food,
2.) shelter,
3.) clothing,
4.) phone,
5.) transportation,
6.) and school.

Also,

7.) I have a job (I have two jobs).
8.) I do not embarrass myself in public (often. Also, I do not wear sweatpants in public.)
9.) I can carry a delightful conversation about various culturally significant topics of our day, including feminism, Distopian societies, global warming, and online shopping.

So why do I feel like a failure?

1.) The food I pay for is mostly ice cream.
2.) I live in an apartment styled after a college dorm.
3.) I am, as a preservice English teacher, destined to dress like this:





. . . which is one step up from the Renaissance fair. But that's not saying much.

4.) I frequently misplace my phone. Once I misplaced it in the refrigerator.

5.) I have no car,

6.) I have been going to school for a loooooong, long time. I will never escape the vortex.

7.) My jobs are temporary,

8.) I often trip and/or fall without apparent cause except gravity,

and

9.) I know nothing about politics (except that although everyone wants everyone to be happy, no one is).

10 Things I Will Not Miss When I Am No Longer a Student

1. Phenomenal academic power . . . itty, bitty living space.
2. 80 hour weeks, split 17 different ways.
3. Reading thousands of pages per week.  At gunpoint.
4. Oh, you want to go somewhere? Forget about it. You can't afford a car, fool!
5. Feeling guilty for not doing homework after 11pm.
6. Forgetting to eat.
7. Ten different teachers with ten slightly different policies about class.
8. "You must write an academic paper about something to do with this class. You also must feel passionately about it. If you do not feel passionately about your thesis, which must be completely unique and your own (despite the fact that yes, Shakespeare has been studied for centuries, and no, there is no possible way you can look at Shakespeare in a unique, passionate way, but I do require that, so if you can't, you fail, and yes, you absolutely can't, because like I said, it has literally (HA!) all been done before), then you must allow yourself to be publicly ridiculed at least eight times, preferably at the beginning of class, so we can make it last all two hours."
9. Your body is not your own. You have surrendered it to academia. You may think you can eat well and exercise all semester long, but the truth is, there is no freaking way you can manage that. So get used to the fluff, peach. And the gross feeling of being habitually sedentary, because that is not changing. No, ma'am.
10. WHAT DOES "MLA" EVEN STAND FOR?!

How to Get Ready for the Day in 17 Minutes or Less

For those of us who hate waking up, getting ready for the day in the morning can be a real chore. Personally, I hate it, especially if it happens before 8AM.

Getting enough sleep can be very difficult for busy people. I value sleep above personal appearance, though not hygiene. You're about to see how:

The Night Before
Step 1: Hygiene. Shower at night, because showering in the morning takes massively more time (I am so slow in the morning. Every motion is a dramatic, slow dream sequence, except that I'm awake, not sleeping still), and it also makes you wet/cold first thing in the morning. Ick.  Also, this way you don't get your bed all gross with the day's sweat. And! This way your hair will dry over night, and not only will you save time by skipping the hair dryer, you also will cause less damage to your hair. (Split ends are ugly. They also lower my self esteem).

Also, apply deodorant at night. This way, it has time to clog your armpit-pores and keep them from getting smelly. I'm serious, that's how it works!

Step 2: Decide what to wear the night before. It takes longer to make simple decisions in the morning, so deciding the night before means you take a lower absolute value of time deciding altogether, and no time whatsoever in the morning.

Step 3: Pack your backpack, including lunch, before going to bed. But not dairy products. They belong in the refrigerator. I'm very serious, that's so gross.

Step 4: Set alarm. What a pity not to wake up in the morning, now that you don't have to wake up until much later!

The Morning
Step 5: Wake up when your alarm goes off. Don't set it for fifteen minutes, or half an hour, or especially an hour or two hours before you actually intend to wake up (Can you believe that people do that?!). Why would you do that? To feel like you slept in? Don't be ridiculous! You just robbed yourself of that much more sleep you could have enjoyed! Interrupted sleep is more tiring than being awake, so just grow up and convince yourself that when your alarm goes off, you wake up. It's as simple as that. Just a little adult-like resolve, and BAM. More sleep.

Step 6: Hygiene. The most important thing to do before leaving in the morning is to brush your teeth, so do that first. Don't wait until after you've eaten breakfast, because then you might forget. Also, your mouth is disgusting, why would you want to swallow that? Wash your face and style your hair, and you are hygienically prepared to step out that door.

Step 7: Put on the clothes you set out. Don't change your mind about what you're wearing, just wear it, okay?

Step 8: Put dairy products from fridge for lunch into bag.

Step 9: If your 17 minutes are up, leave.

Step 10: If they aren't, eat something.

Step 11: Then leave already! You're done!

Step 12: Seriously, what are you doing still in your apartment? There is not reason to stay here! Out there is where the world is, go meet it!

Step 13: Carpe diem!

Step 14: I can't have 13 steps to get ready, that's just wrong.

That is all.

I Have a DREAM Today!

"I have a dream: a fantasy,

To help me through reality

And my destination makes it worth the while,

pushing through the darkness,

still another mile.

I believe in angels, something good in everything I see

I believe in angels.

When I know the time is right for me,

I'll cross the stream; I have a dream.

-ABBA

One day, when I'm grown up, things will be different.

I'll have a long, tall bookshelf, with all of my books out. They'll be easy to find, take, and read. It will be lovely.

I'll have a mudroom where I hang up all of my coats, jackets, sweaters, and scarves. It'll have a place for my boots and hats, too.

I'll have a kitchen with plenty of counter-top space for all of my appliances: and I will have appliances. Specifically, I'll have a kitchenaid (I mean, what's the point of getting married if you don't get a kitchenaid? Isn't that the whole purpose of a reception, for the kitchenaid?)!

There will be room in the fridge, and the freezer. And all of the food in it will be mine! ...and my husband's, I guess, except really it'll be mine, because I'll be the one to get mad when I catch one of our kids drinking orange juice straight from the container.

...Apparently I'll be married.

I will have a pantry, too. More than one shelf, that is. And we'll have all the cereal I could ever eat, which is a lot really!

I'll have a walk in closet, where all my shirts, skirts, dresses and shoes will have a place to stay. Also, I'll have enough room in my underwear drawer for all my underwear. and socks.

There will be windows, and new carpet. And efficient insulation (meaning the doors and windows and walls won't leak cold).

The lights will not be yellow.

And I'll have a garden! There will be herbs, flowers, and fruit trees! I want apples, and pears, and cherries. Also, grapes and tomatoes. I'll have days when all I do is can fruit, sweat, and talk to my Mom on the phone (unless she comes over to help, then we'll talk but not on the phone. And we'll probably have to tell Toby to stop bothering Fizzgig, the dog, cuz Toby's gonna be young forever, and Fizzgig will be easily teased, but it's okay, because I'll have kids by then, too, and they'll play crazy games in the woods about being chased by witches, and we can talk about raising kids, and Mom will give me advice about potty training, and I'll complain about the school district, and my kids will be super happy about having Uncle Toby over, but then they'll break a bone or something, and then on the way to the emergency room I'll tell them that Grandma won't come over for at least a month, and even though they'll all know she'll be back next week, they'll be sorry for what they did).

Also, I'll live in Pennsylvania! Obviously. How else could my mother come over to help me make applesauce?

The Sinister Australian Redback Spider!

When I was younger, I had this theory. It's one of those things that I look back on and laugh. Why? Well, actually living this part of life is so much different than I thought it would be, theoretically, and that's why it's comical. I had a lot of bogus theories like this one. Then again, maybe it's not such a bad idea...

Theory: I should marry an ugly man. Why? If he's uglier than I am, then he will never leave me. Could he do better than me? No, are you kidding? What kind of a lucky miracle was it that I agreed to marry him in the first place?

If you think this is a good idea, read this link for some help:

How to fall in Love with Someone Who's Really Ugly

Oh, and proof that I'm attractive enough that someone, somewhere, is less attractive than I am (just in case you were wondering. Because frankly, I wonder):

Why I have so many sisters (I have nine sisters).

And if you were wondering if spiders really are creepy, just read this, and you'll never need to ask again. Don't ask me how I found this. I don't want to talk about it.

Purposeful Living

Lately, I've been contemplating my life, how I live it, and wondering what I can do to calm down a bit. I'm anxious. I'm stressed. I hate it.

So, as a transcendentalist, I've decided to take some advice from Thoreau. Here is a little list of how to make my life simpler:

1. Deactivate facebook. It is pointless, meaningless, and time consuming.

2. Kill my texting plan. It is distracting.

3. Watch no television.

4. Quit taking long, hot showers.

5. Cook all my food/stop buying food from vending machines/Papa John's.

6. Quit playing solitaire.

So far I have done #1, resolved to do #2 to a certain extent and #3 during the week, #4 not at all, #5 I've been trying to do with some success, and #6 is gonna be hard.

Here's hoping.

To Run, or ...?

Multiple times weekly, I make myself feel nauseated. That's right; I run. Why? Well, there are multiple health benefits that I could describe in detail, but they are not the ultimate motivator -- not when it comes to me, and running. No. It's something else.

About the time that it begins to be necessary for me to suppress my gag reflex -- usually during the third mile -- I experience something sublime. Rivulets of electricity begin to dance along my skin in waves of flight hormones, and I begin to find myself mid-air. I'm running faster now. Yes, although my sneakers continue to deliver the sidewalk a corporal punishment, the rest of me is transcending this world, all care and stress delivered to the sublime ecstasy of purposeful living. I feel the graceful, powerful expansion and expulsion of my lungs and air. My heart sings with intense rhythmic clarity. My arms pumping, my legs stretching and reaching, my feet whisking through the air like arms on my Mom's electric beater -- I feel, I do, I am.

I am living in, and of, that exact moment, trembling on the lip dividing its birth and death. I will still exist when the moment is gone, but I will only experience that moment once. And what do I do with that moment? If I refuse to look at it, and know it, and experience it, am I not already dead?

What is more important than understanding life? What is more important than running? Is it not worth the price of nausea?

Also, I Forgot to Title This Before Publishing.

Sometimes I amaze even myself with my genuine absentmindedness.

Take the past two days, for example:

I am currently procrastinating a paper that I forgot about, which is due today, which is supposed to be about 5 pages. Brilliant, I know.

This morning, I remembered my work schedule as being in the farthest booth from the police station. I’m actually in the 2nd closest booth, but I didn’t remember that until I actually arrived at the farthest booth. Genius, I can hear you thinking it, I might as well say it.

Yesterday morning I had to leave work early for a guest lecturer, visiting from Calvin college, an author who we are studying in one of my classes. I have been excited for this lecture all week, but I totally forgot about it until my phone’s alarm went off 15 minutes before the lecture was scheduled to begin. I was still in my uniform and everything! So I rushed back, and made it just in the nick of time.

After class yesterday, I stayed on campus in the computer lab to do some work. I stayed there for about an hour when hunger finally overcame me, so I headed home. When I got there, I realized with a jolt that cleaning checks were tonight, plus the temple trip was tonight, and there was only an hour before take off! So I scrambled to do my cleaning (luckily our apartment is actually super clean, and the work needed for cleaning checks is basically a sanitation process that may or may not be visibly noticeable), changed into temple appropriate attire, and met for the carpool on time.

I ate something, too, but apparently not enough, because I got a low blood sugar while in the temple, which is not exactly embarrassing or anything.

I’m too young for Alzheimer’s disease, right?

Waves

Waves

When all I long for

are deep, deep roots.

Passing me from shore

to Shore,

like a coin from

patron to vender,

again and again -

waves upon waves.

This sea is endless.

I'm sick of remembering

the precious things

of my past,

which now ride waves

of their own.