Sorry family, not back to Cincy: I'm moving to a new blog address!
From this point forward, I will be blogging on my new blog address:
http://www.citygirlcansurvive.blogspot.com/
I feel a change in name will suit me quite nicely and will match my current persona.
Please re-arrange necessary parts of your life to accomodate this inconvenience.
That is all.
XOXO,
Emily
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Hope Floats
“Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.” – Shawshank Redemption
I think of myself as a pretty hopeful person; I’m always hoping for the best in others, hoping for a positive outcome and hoping to hear good news. I hope for success, hope my work is appreciated and I really hope I don’t trip down the stairs in my 4-inch heels.
Hope can truly be the cornerstone of life; when all else is lost and crumbling around us, all we have left sometimes is our ability to hope. But, when we let ourselves rely solely upon hope, are we doing ourselves a disservice?
A few years ago, I started seeing to a therapist. It felt weird at first; I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t have some horrendous disorder or experience I was trying to work through: I was just a regular person with real person problems. I needed a way to talk about my issues (however small they might be) and work through my own head. There tends to be a stigmata attached to therapy; people like to think that something major must be wrong for you to reach out to a trained professional for help. Actually it’s just incredibly cathartic to talk about your problems to someone other than yourself.
I’m no longer attending therapy, but the experience taught me many valuable lessons along the way. I think I just needed someone to tell it to me straight, which is exactly what she did: after a year, she told me I didn’t need therapy. Huh? Turns out I just needed to get out of my own head.
Worrying about every minute detail of your life is always a recipe for disaster, she would constantly explain to me. I worried about everything, and then worried about how much I was worrying. That way, I made sure I never had the chance to stop worrying. It was beginning to take a toll, until she asked me to do something every day that scared me: make myself uncomfortable. I was so stuck in my ways, rigidly concerning myself with making everyone happy, that I was making myself unhappy. It was frightening and exciting, all at the same time.
Of all the things I learned in that experience, just one stands out above the rest: the concept of hope. I used to talk about how hopeful I was, how often I wished for things and really hoped everything would be perfect. I’ll never forget the look on the therapist’s face when she processed what I said, stopped scribbling on her yellow legal pad and responded:
“At what point do you stop hoping for everything and start doing something?”
It made me laugh; it was so obvious, but the thought had never crossed my mind that my hope was actually holding me back. Critically ill people don’t hope they start feeling better—they go to the doctor and get treatment to (hopefully!) save their life. Hope is a wonderful, fabulous thing. But, when you allow it to replace the actual work required to make your dreams come true, you might as well walk through life wearing a blindfold. It’s sort of like making a mixed drink: you combine two ingredients in the perfect combination to make something that tastes good and is an enjoyable experience. Hope and work are the vodka and cranberry of life: you must always hope—always—but never let it stand in the way of doing the work to get what you hope for. It’s all about balance.
I remember hearing a beautiful story on TV once of a man who was in a concentration camp during World War II. I don’t remember when or where I heard it, but it’s always stuck with me. He began to describe the horrible conditions, the nauseating sights and smells he remembered from the awful experience in the camps. His children, his wife, all of his possessions were stripped away to never be seen again. Each day, he watched people around him die and he recalled feeling hopeless. With anger and tears in his eyes, he looked up during the interview and, with finger pointed, said:
“They took everything from me. There was nothing left of my life. They could have those things, they could have it all. But, they couldn’t touch my mind. I still had my hope, my thoughts and my dreams. They would never have those things.”
It’s so beautiful to think that we will always have something to hope for, no matter what is thrown in our path. But, it’s our feeling of hope that propels us to take action to chase our dreams, wherever they may lead us. We don’t just hope—we DO. The moment we refuse to allow our hopes to become anything more than a simple feeling is the first moment we accept our failure
I think of myself as a pretty hopeful person; I’m always hoping for the best in others, hoping for a positive outcome and hoping to hear good news. I hope for success, hope my work is appreciated and I really hope I don’t trip down the stairs in my 4-inch heels.
Hope can truly be the cornerstone of life; when all else is lost and crumbling around us, all we have left sometimes is our ability to hope. But, when we let ourselves rely solely upon hope, are we doing ourselves a disservice?
A few years ago, I started seeing to a therapist. It felt weird at first; I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t have some horrendous disorder or experience I was trying to work through: I was just a regular person with real person problems. I needed a way to talk about my issues (however small they might be) and work through my own head. There tends to be a stigmata attached to therapy; people like to think that something major must be wrong for you to reach out to a trained professional for help. Actually it’s just incredibly cathartic to talk about your problems to someone other than yourself.
I’m no longer attending therapy, but the experience taught me many valuable lessons along the way. I think I just needed someone to tell it to me straight, which is exactly what she did: after a year, she told me I didn’t need therapy. Huh? Turns out I just needed to get out of my own head.
Worrying about every minute detail of your life is always a recipe for disaster, she would constantly explain to me. I worried about everything, and then worried about how much I was worrying. That way, I made sure I never had the chance to stop worrying. It was beginning to take a toll, until she asked me to do something every day that scared me: make myself uncomfortable. I was so stuck in my ways, rigidly concerning myself with making everyone happy, that I was making myself unhappy. It was frightening and exciting, all at the same time.
Of all the things I learned in that experience, just one stands out above the rest: the concept of hope. I used to talk about how hopeful I was, how often I wished for things and really hoped everything would be perfect. I’ll never forget the look on the therapist’s face when she processed what I said, stopped scribbling on her yellow legal pad and responded:
“At what point do you stop hoping for everything and start doing something?”
It made me laugh; it was so obvious, but the thought had never crossed my mind that my hope was actually holding me back. Critically ill people don’t hope they start feeling better—they go to the doctor and get treatment to (hopefully!) save their life. Hope is a wonderful, fabulous thing. But, when you allow it to replace the actual work required to make your dreams come true, you might as well walk through life wearing a blindfold. It’s sort of like making a mixed drink: you combine two ingredients in the perfect combination to make something that tastes good and is an enjoyable experience. Hope and work are the vodka and cranberry of life: you must always hope—always—but never let it stand in the way of doing the work to get what you hope for. It’s all about balance.
I remember hearing a beautiful story on TV once of a man who was in a concentration camp during World War II. I don’t remember when or where I heard it, but it’s always stuck with me. He began to describe the horrible conditions, the nauseating sights and smells he remembered from the awful experience in the camps. His children, his wife, all of his possessions were stripped away to never be seen again. Each day, he watched people around him die and he recalled feeling hopeless. With anger and tears in his eyes, he looked up during the interview and, with finger pointed, said:
“They took everything from me. There was nothing left of my life. They could have those things, they could have it all. But, they couldn’t touch my mind. I still had my hope, my thoughts and my dreams. They would never have those things.”
It’s so beautiful to think that we will always have something to hope for, no matter what is thrown in our path. But, it’s our feeling of hope that propels us to take action to chase our dreams, wherever they may lead us. We don’t just hope—we DO. The moment we refuse to allow our hopes to become anything more than a simple feeling is the first moment we accept our failure
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
I am what I am
Sometimes, I feel as though I have an endless supply of pet peeves. A lot of things that other people do really annoy me, including: asking inappropriate personal questions, feeling entitled, not having any manners, laziness, etc. I could really go on forever, but I’ll spare you the misery of my overly critical nature.
Of all the many pet peeves I possess, there is but one that tops the list: cheesy, open, public displays of gratuitous affection. One of my very favorite examples of this phenomenon is an episode of Seinfeld that we all know and love, titled “The Soup Nazi.” In said episode, Jerry and his girlfriend are “that” couple, opening calling each other “shmoopy.” It’s the classic “No, I love YOU more!” concept that makes most of us gag. Other examples include baby talk, constant hand-holding and putting your hand in your significant other’s rear pants pocket.
Don’t get me wrong: I love my husband very much. I enjoy affectionate exchanges, but I don’t need to tell the world our loving pet names for one another. No one cares, no one is interested and I’m pretty sure the earth is a better place without that part of our lives on display.
Strangely, though, this leads me to a candid confession: when no one is around I am THOSE people I despise so much. Seriously, if you were a fly on the wall at my house, you would vomit all over the wall from all my crazy baby talkin’. I don’t know how it began, but my weird baby talk cheese ball train is dangerously close to derailing.
Personally, I blame the dog for all of this. She makes me want to talk to her like a baby; I swear she enjoys gratuitous baby-talk as much as cheese flavored Beggin’ Strips. I’ve never been in a mine field before, but talking to your dog is pretty darn close: one minute I’m going about my business, then next BOOM! “Rudi doggie, do you want mommy to throw your towely-poo?”
For those of you who do not know, towely-poo is an old towel, tied into a knot that is Rudi’s most favorite toy, second only to shirty-poo, which I’m sure you realize is an old shirt, also tied into a knot. Is this really what I’ve become?
Growing up, we didn’t have a dog. I had a guinea pig, but that really isn’t close to canine territory. So, it’s quite impossible to know the origin of my sheer craziness in regards to our poochie-poo. I know: again with the crazy addition of “poo” to everything I say. But, she likes it!
The funny thing about all of this is that, at no point, did I take a step back and try to stop the inevitable progression into crazy dog owner territory. I mean, when talking to my dog I openly refer to my husband as “daddy” and I’m of course “mommy” and we have no children. I sing to my dog. I let her lay on the couch. I openly invite her into my bed. I talk to her. I chase her around the dining room table. I monitor her poop schedule. I let her lick my face. I brush her teeth with beef toothpaste. I scratch that special place behind her ear.
It’s like I have no regard for my personal dignity when I think no one is watching me act like some deranged mother. I mean, as long as I’m not acting this way in public it’s OK, right?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Who are you?
It’s a simple question, one that we’re asked quite often by strangers. Someone asked me this the other day, and after telling them my name the look in their face made me realize they wanted to know much more. Who am I? Well, I’m a wife, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a PR director, a runner, a blah, blah, blah. I’m a lot of things to a lot of people, as we all are, but who am I really?
It begs a deeper question that goes beyond our name: deep down, who are you? I’m not talking about your identity; I’m talking about who you truly are at the core of your being. When the makeup comes off, the jewelry is put away and you lay in bed at night just like every other human being, what makes you your unique self?
So often, we use our makeup, our clothing and our “things” to create a persona for ourselves. We think we’re fooling others by adorning ourselves with the most expensive this or the best that, but are we really fooling anyone? If all of our things were gone tomorrow, what would we be left with?
I sometimes feel like I spend too much time worrying about what I am to everyone else, rather than working on who I really am to myself. When it comes down to it, it really and truly doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. Why must we have such an overarching desire to fit in or to make others think we’re perfect and fabulous at every second of the day? It makes me tired just thinking about the work involved in achieving the impossibility that is perfection.
We sometimes hide who we truly are because we fear it will ruin our lives or make others dislike us. I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again: I love Ellen DeGeneres. I love that she’s strong, self-deprecating and unabashedly herself, regardless of what others think. (That’s also why I love Lady Gaga so much, but that’s another post for another day.) Ellen has been very candid about the impact that truly being herself had on her career at one time: when she came out in 1997 on a Time magazine cover, she went without work for three years.
Yet, through it all she remained true to herself—even when it meant her career might be over. These days, she’s doing amazing things with her life. In the end, staying true to herself has paid off. That's the way it should be.
More than anything, I love Ellen’s message to the world. In a recent interview with Katie Couric for Glamour magazine, she said this:
“Find out who you are and be that person. That’s what your soul was put on this earth to be. Find that truth, live that truth, and everything else will come.”
*SWOON* Isn't that fantastic?
So often, we hesitate to truly be our authentic selves for fear that others will judge, criticize or dislike us. I'm just as guilty as you are. How frequently do you say what you think someone wants to hear, simply so you can keep the peace? Do you just go through the motions, doing what others expect of you because it's easier?
I distinctly remember feeling so overwhelmed at age 18 when I had to choose what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Seriously, how on earth can a teenager possibly make such a life-altering decision?
What if I make the wrong decision, I lamented to my parents for months on end. What if I choose a path and I spend the rest of my life in misery, ruing the day I ever made my choice? It was, to say the least, the biggest decision I've ever made in my life. Looking back, I know in my heart that I made the right choice. My life isn't perfect, but I know that I'm right where I should be, living out my life's passion and doing something that I love. I made the right choice because I knew, in my heart, that I wasn't an accountant or a lawyer; I was a writer, a talker and if I didn't allow myself to be those things, I would be miserable for the rest of my life.
So, who am I?
I'm head over heels in love with writing
I always follow my heart, not my head
I never follow the directions
I don't think it could happen to me--whatever "it" is
I love deeply and quickly, but hold grudges endlessly
I worry--a lot
I'm clumsy, but only because I quickly rush through everything
I always believe that there is still hope, even if it's impossible
Here's some unsolicited advice: figure out who you are now, because if you don't, you'll spend your life being what everyone else wants you to be.
Monday, February 22, 2010
You Run Away
"Do not spoil what you have by desiring which you have not, but remember that what you have now was once among the things you only hoped for."
I love analogies. I also love running. So, naturally, I truly love when running can be used for an analogy on life. I run because it makes me feel good and sometimes, it’s the only way I can feel better in general. The benefit my body receives from the physical activity is just a bonus, really.
So, I often ask myself on these treks: what are you running from?
I run for a lot of reasons, but some days it feels like I’m really only running from the one thing I can’t avoid: my destiny. Ever notice how much time you spend avoiding something, only to find it waiting for you, right where you started? It’s like a sick joke that everyone else finds to be hilarious, and you force yourself to laugh along so they don’t realize it makes you want to vomit. It’s as though the universe laughs at all the time you waste, and rewards you with what you deserved in the first place for all your hard work in avoiding it.
I run from what I know, deep down, is my destiny because it scares me. It’s not where I thought I would be, so I like to pretend my destiny doesn’t exist. It’s just so much easier that way. Or, I like to pretend that it’s in my power to change it entirely. It’s so much easier for us to live our lives with our head in the clouds than our minds in reality.
It’ll happen, just relax, don’t worry, take a vacation—that’s what people like to tell us when we fret about the things we cannot control. But, at what point is it really OK to worry, justified to freak out and when do we acknowledge that well, it’s just not going to happen? Not right now and probably not ever. Oh and where do you recommend that I should go on that fabulous vacation? Do my troubles know how to get to Fiji?
I don’t know the answers yet, so I just continue running because it feels better. Running is easier than facing the dread that seems to chase me wherever I go. Running is a hell of a lot easier than waiting for the answers, because a month or two seems more like a year or five. Maybe if I stay just a few paces ahead of the unknown, it will never catch up with me and become reality. Coping skills at their best, right?
To fill my time, I find myself starting to compose e-mails and then save them as drafts, telling myself that I’ll come back to them in a few days. A month later, they’re still waiting for me to write more than the word “Hi, ” Or, I begin to dial a phone number and hang up on the first ring like some deranged prank caller. It’s like I’m slowly trying to drive myself completely insane.
That would be giving up on my dream, I tell myself. I’m not ready to give up, not just yet. But when am I allowed to give up, I wonder? Will I know? Will someone tell me when I can give up, or do I just give up whenever I choose? Does Amazon.com carry the book, “Giving Up on your Life’s Dream for Dummies,” or do you recommend I write that book myself? Just dare me; I'll do it. Swear.
Or, should I continue to exist as my own stubborn self, refusing to give in to common sense when it feels like the deck is stacked against me? Sometimes, I think it’s my own inability to admit defeat that keeps me afloat, continuing to run through the motions. At face value, it seems impossible. In practice, it's the easiest thing you'll ever do.
So, I'm going to leave you with my confusing, vague description of what I'm running from. When I stop running, maybe I'll be strong enough to admit defeat out loud. But for now, I'm going to keep running.
The question is: what are YOU running from?
Barenaked Ladies "You Run Away"
I love analogies. I also love running. So, naturally, I truly love when running can be used for an analogy on life. I run because it makes me feel good and sometimes, it’s the only way I can feel better in general. The benefit my body receives from the physical activity is just a bonus, really.
So, I often ask myself on these treks: what are you running from?
I run for a lot of reasons, but some days it feels like I’m really only running from the one thing I can’t avoid: my destiny. Ever notice how much time you spend avoiding something, only to find it waiting for you, right where you started? It’s like a sick joke that everyone else finds to be hilarious, and you force yourself to laugh along so they don’t realize it makes you want to vomit. It’s as though the universe laughs at all the time you waste, and rewards you with what you deserved in the first place for all your hard work in avoiding it.
I run from what I know, deep down, is my destiny because it scares me. It’s not where I thought I would be, so I like to pretend my destiny doesn’t exist. It’s just so much easier that way. Or, I like to pretend that it’s in my power to change it entirely. It’s so much easier for us to live our lives with our head in the clouds than our minds in reality.
It’ll happen, just relax, don’t worry, take a vacation—that’s what people like to tell us when we fret about the things we cannot control. But, at what point is it really OK to worry, justified to freak out and when do we acknowledge that well, it’s just not going to happen? Not right now and probably not ever. Oh and where do you recommend that I should go on that fabulous vacation? Do my troubles know how to get to Fiji?
I don’t know the answers yet, so I just continue running because it feels better. Running is easier than facing the dread that seems to chase me wherever I go. Running is a hell of a lot easier than waiting for the answers, because a month or two seems more like a year or five. Maybe if I stay just a few paces ahead of the unknown, it will never catch up with me and become reality. Coping skills at their best, right?
To fill my time, I find myself starting to compose e-mails and then save them as drafts, telling myself that I’ll come back to them in a few days. A month later, they’re still waiting for me to write more than the word “Hi, ” Or, I begin to dial a phone number and hang up on the first ring like some deranged prank caller. It’s like I’m slowly trying to drive myself completely insane.
That would be giving up on my dream, I tell myself. I’m not ready to give up, not just yet. But when am I allowed to give up, I wonder? Will I know? Will someone tell me when I can give up, or do I just give up whenever I choose? Does Amazon.com carry the book, “Giving Up on your Life’s Dream for Dummies,” or do you recommend I write that book myself? Just dare me; I'll do it. Swear.
Or, should I continue to exist as my own stubborn self, refusing to give in to common sense when it feels like the deck is stacked against me? Sometimes, I think it’s my own inability to admit defeat that keeps me afloat, continuing to run through the motions. At face value, it seems impossible. In practice, it's the easiest thing you'll ever do.
So, I'm going to leave you with my confusing, vague description of what I'm running from. When I stop running, maybe I'll be strong enough to admit defeat out loud. But for now, I'm going to keep running.
The question is: what are YOU running from?
Barenaked Ladies "You Run Away"
Friday, February 19, 2010
So happy together: A belated Valentine post
I have a confession: I think Valentine’s Day is a dumb, fake holiday. I’ve never been the sappy type, so a day devoted to expensive gifts and red foil covered chocolate makes me want to barf. I think my husband should be sweet to me all the time, not just on one designated day a year. OK, so perhaps the day of my birth and our anniversary are exceptions to that rule; he should always be really sweet to me on those days.
This is why my super fantastic Valentine’s Day post is 5 days late. Here’s what I wrote on V-Day, but didn’t get around to posting until today:
Some experiences stick with you forever; the moment I met Adam is one of those moments for me. I still remember every vivid detail. It was the early fall of my sophomore year of college, circa 2002. My friends and I went to the University of Dayton for a party, but primarily because one of my friends was crushing hard on a guy on their football team.
I still remember what I was wearing: a horrible faux shredded jean skirt and an adorable black tulle-like tank top from Express with my favorite black platform Steve Madden sandals. My really short, really blonde hair was flipped out in my favorite wing-like pattern, which I seem to recall taking an extended amount of time to perfect.
We headed up north to Dayton and enjoyed cans of Beast before heading to a (no lie) “Mexican Prison Party” in someone’s apartment with my friend’s crush and a group of his male friends. The throwers of said party didn’t care much for us, so they continually asked us to stay in a bedroom because they were worried the noise would get them in trouble. I remember being annoyed and I remember scoping out the guy situation, that’s about it. In my mind, all I recall of Adam is that he was lounging on some sort of beanbag chair; I don’t remember thinking he was cute or fantastic. I still remember what he was wearing: a deep maroon colored t-shirt, holey jeans and sandals.
After the Prison Party was a bust, we went back to a dorm room to play drinking games with more disgusting beer. My extreme lack of a filter and searing sarcasm got the best of me and I began aiming my insults at Adam. He later told me that he thought I was a miserable human being until I caught his eye and smiled at him; which I do not recall. Then, he found me to be quite witty and charming and assumed I was hitting on him. I don’t think I was, but I don’t have the heart to dash his former hopes. He also later told me that he had an eye on one of my friends and thought I was too stuck up. It must have been my flippy hair.
As the night wore on, he and I began talking and hit it off. Our friends, in true peer pressure style, convinced me to go back with him to his dorm room. I did, and that’s when we realized one important unifying force in our soon to be relationship: Bob Seger. I remember the look on his face when, sitting on some disgusting dorm room hand-me-down sofa, I told him that the first concert I’d ever been to was Bob Seger. I fully expected him and his roommates to laugh me out the door; instead he quickly ran from the room. He returned seconds later with a handful of Bob Segar CD’s, shoving them into my lap. After asking me a few times if I had snuck into his bedroom and saw the CD’s, and made up the story to impress him (I didn’t) he began talking about his love for classic rock.
After sending me back to Cincinnati the next morning, we saw one another a handful of times before that winter. We’d only known each other for a few months, but our relationship had quickly blossomed, save one small problem: he was engineering major at the time and was headed to Washington, D.C. for a co-op for the semester. I attended his going away party (I wore a black American Eagle cable knit sweater turtleneck, in case you were wondering) and after the night had concluded, we decided that we would have a casual relationship while he was away.
That lasted roughly a month, until I called him crying and asking if he would be my boyfriend. The rest, as they say, is history. Adam proposed to me in 2006, we married in 2007 and I stopped using a curling iron to flip out my hair. That horrible jean skirt is long gone, but I still keep that Express tank top. It makes me smile every time I walk into the closet.
This is why my super fantastic Valentine’s Day post is 5 days late. Here’s what I wrote on V-Day, but didn’t get around to posting until today:
Some experiences stick with you forever; the moment I met Adam is one of those moments for me. I still remember every vivid detail. It was the early fall of my sophomore year of college, circa 2002. My friends and I went to the University of Dayton for a party, but primarily because one of my friends was crushing hard on a guy on their football team.
I still remember what I was wearing: a horrible faux shredded jean skirt and an adorable black tulle-like tank top from Express with my favorite black platform Steve Madden sandals. My really short, really blonde hair was flipped out in my favorite wing-like pattern, which I seem to recall taking an extended amount of time to perfect.
We headed up north to Dayton and enjoyed cans of Beast before heading to a (no lie) “Mexican Prison Party” in someone’s apartment with my friend’s crush and a group of his male friends. The throwers of said party didn’t care much for us, so they continually asked us to stay in a bedroom because they were worried the noise would get them in trouble. I remember being annoyed and I remember scoping out the guy situation, that’s about it. In my mind, all I recall of Adam is that he was lounging on some sort of beanbag chair; I don’t remember thinking he was cute or fantastic. I still remember what he was wearing: a deep maroon colored t-shirt, holey jeans and sandals.
After the Prison Party was a bust, we went back to a dorm room to play drinking games with more disgusting beer. My extreme lack of a filter and searing sarcasm got the best of me and I began aiming my insults at Adam. He later told me that he thought I was a miserable human being until I caught his eye and smiled at him; which I do not recall. Then, he found me to be quite witty and charming and assumed I was hitting on him. I don’t think I was, but I don’t have the heart to dash his former hopes. He also later told me that he had an eye on one of my friends and thought I was too stuck up. It must have been my flippy hair.
As the night wore on, he and I began talking and hit it off. Our friends, in true peer pressure style, convinced me to go back with him to his dorm room. I did, and that’s when we realized one important unifying force in our soon to be relationship: Bob Seger. I remember the look on his face when, sitting on some disgusting dorm room hand-me-down sofa, I told him that the first concert I’d ever been to was Bob Seger. I fully expected him and his roommates to laugh me out the door; instead he quickly ran from the room. He returned seconds later with a handful of Bob Segar CD’s, shoving them into my lap. After asking me a few times if I had snuck into his bedroom and saw the CD’s, and made up the story to impress him (I didn’t) he began talking about his love for classic rock.
After sending me back to Cincinnati the next morning, we saw one another a handful of times before that winter. We’d only known each other for a few months, but our relationship had quickly blossomed, save one small problem: he was engineering major at the time and was headed to Washington, D.C. for a co-op for the semester. I attended his going away party (I wore a black American Eagle cable knit sweater turtleneck, in case you were wondering) and after the night had concluded, we decided that we would have a casual relationship while he was away.
That lasted roughly a month, until I called him crying and asking if he would be my boyfriend. The rest, as they say, is history. Adam proposed to me in 2006, we married in 2007 and I stopped using a curling iron to flip out my hair. That horrible jean skirt is long gone, but I still keep that Express tank top. It makes me smile every time I walk into the closet.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
An inexplicable number of things I hate about you
Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, which marks the beginning of Lent. Every year, this Holy Day rolls around and I find myself scrambling to find something to live without for the next 40 days. Usually, I strive to make things as excruciating for myself as possible. You know, because that’s what Jesus wants.
A few years ago, I gave up alcohol. It was torture and made everyone think I was pregnant. Annoying. Before that, I gave up my much-beloved pretzel addiction. It brought tears to my eyes—less salty than normal due to the lack of salt intake, natch. I honestly have no idea what I gave up for Lent last year; it was that memorable.
As a child, however, I spent most of the Lenten season jumping from one resolution to the next. I’d give up desserts until one was in front of me, quickly changing to something else to give up instead. I probably lasted 3 days, tops. Looking back, I realize that it was just easier to act like I was doing without something than actually doing without it. I do that a lot; working so hard to act like I’m doing something, instead of trying just a little less to actually do it instead.
That got me to thinking about all the things I could change about myself, not give up, over the next 40 days. In contrast, not eating or drinking something seems so inconsequential. So, for the sake of Type A decision making: I have compiled a list of my negative qualities up on the chopping block for Lent.
My least flattering attributes
Bitter sarcasm
Rash decision making
Clumsiness
Compulsive shopping
Harsh, constant judgment of others
Excessive reality show viewing
Excessive question asking
Referring to myself as “mommy” in reference to the dog
Wearing the most inappropriate shoes possible at all times
Laughing uncontrollably in uncomfortable social situations
Paralyzing fear of confrontation
Taking 2 hours to get ready for anything
Building mountains out of mole hills
Overanalyzing everything
Worrying about things I cannot control
Crying about things I cannot control
Crying over spilled milk
Feeling annoyance for people who read while using the bathroom
Trying to please everyone
Inability to keep plants alive
Trying on numerous outfits before leaving the house
Rage-o-holic behavior behind the wheel of a car
While all of these things are stupid and I’m sure annoying for anyone who spends roughly 5 minutes in my presence, I couldn’t possibly rid myself of all these demons in 40 days. Plus, let’s be honest: the fact that I think it’s really dumb that you read a book while pooping is never going to change. Not even I can touch that one, people.
OK, so let's get to my point: I'm giving up something I don't like about myself for 40 days in a feeble attempt to, in some way, become a better person. I'm going to attempt to rid my life of compulsive shopping, overanalyzing everything and trying to please everyone.
Everybody OK with that?
A few years ago, I gave up alcohol. It was torture and made everyone think I was pregnant. Annoying. Before that, I gave up my much-beloved pretzel addiction. It brought tears to my eyes—less salty than normal due to the lack of salt intake, natch. I honestly have no idea what I gave up for Lent last year; it was that memorable.
As a child, however, I spent most of the Lenten season jumping from one resolution to the next. I’d give up desserts until one was in front of me, quickly changing to something else to give up instead. I probably lasted 3 days, tops. Looking back, I realize that it was just easier to act like I was doing without something than actually doing without it. I do that a lot; working so hard to act like I’m doing something, instead of trying just a little less to actually do it instead.
That got me to thinking about all the things I could change about myself, not give up, over the next 40 days. In contrast, not eating or drinking something seems so inconsequential. So, for the sake of Type A decision making: I have compiled a list of my negative qualities up on the chopping block for Lent.
My least flattering attributes
Bitter sarcasm
Rash decision making
Clumsiness
Compulsive shopping
Harsh, constant judgment of others
Excessive reality show viewing
Excessive question asking
Referring to myself as “mommy” in reference to the dog
Wearing the most inappropriate shoes possible at all times
Laughing uncontrollably in uncomfortable social situations
Paralyzing fear of confrontation
Taking 2 hours to get ready for anything
Building mountains out of mole hills
Overanalyzing everything
Worrying about things I cannot control
Crying about things I cannot control
Crying over spilled milk
Feeling annoyance for people who read while using the bathroom
Trying to please everyone
Inability to keep plants alive
Trying on numerous outfits before leaving the house
Rage-o-holic behavior behind the wheel of a car
While all of these things are stupid and I’m sure annoying for anyone who spends roughly 5 minutes in my presence, I couldn’t possibly rid myself of all these demons in 40 days. Plus, let’s be honest: the fact that I think it’s really dumb that you read a book while pooping is never going to change. Not even I can touch that one, people.
OK, so let's get to my point: I'm giving up something I don't like about myself for 40 days in a feeble attempt to, in some way, become a better person. I'm going to attempt to rid my life of compulsive shopping, overanalyzing everything and trying to please everyone.
Everybody OK with that?
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